What is that smell? Don’t even tell me I left the Cacciatore in the trunk again.
Why, yes. They are spectacular. These girls got me six engagement rings and a rap sheet, thank you very much.
Those things can NOT be real. And how the hell did that chick not float away during the storm?
I don’t got no power yet, but my hair still looks pretty freakin’ awesome, right? Fuggedaboutit.
Oh. My. Gawd. Bronx Boyz are so hot. I would totally knife that so hard his knock-off Gucci shades’d fog up.
I’m like totally blind without my glasses, but even I can see that bitch is crazy.
So then I open the door, and it’s like…BAM! Mama’s gettin’ some tonight.
That was kind of a bummer.
Most of the Mob Wives were on clean-up duty this week as everyone tried to put differences aside and come together to help with Hurricane Sandy relief, and it’s always a bit of a downer when Reality TV is forced to stick its big toe into the flood waters of actual…ummm…Reality.
Remember the whole Russell Armstrong crisis over at Real Housewives of Beverly Hills when they couldn’t decide whether to address the issue face on or just replace him with a potted plant during dinner party scenes? How awkward it was when Russell was clearly edited out of conversations until someone could finally make a decision on how to handle the whole thing?
Well, it would have taken a lot of Home Depot topiaries to hide all the devastation unleashed by Hurricane Sandy last October, so the producers chose to just hit the streets with CNN and show us how bad it really was in their Staten Island ‘hood.
I’m sure that somewhere there was one shameless television executive in some corner office doing the Reality TV Gold Dance when this unscripted storyline came roaring up the East Coast, packing sustained wind gusts of 115 mph like a Sweeps Week gift from the Weather Gods.
Because you know there’s always somebody in the biz more concerned with show ratings than soup kitchen rationing. True dat.
But for the rest of us, Hurricane Sandy was real. And as it turned out…so are the Mob Wives. Who knew?
As Drita and her daughters packed up bag after bag of clothing to bring to shelters, it was a reminder that not only are these ladies actual real-life Staten Island residents, but that they also have way too many clothes in their closets.
Seriously. Way too many. The place looked like a HazMat holding area.
Either chill on the trips to the Woodrow Mall or start buying stuff in my size.
Karen and Ramona were doing their part as well, helping out a friend down the street dig through what remained of her home. These neighborhoods were leveled.
Meanwhile, Big Ang figured she should stick with what she knows best and got to cooking up a mean streak of Costco-sized Chicken Italiano Sumthin Sumthin for the local shelter while Carla wandered around the kitchen in the same furry boots that those Vikings wear in the Capital One commercials.
In my head I picture Big Ang’s basement looking like some gigantic walk-in freezer filled with nothing but deli meat and fur coats dangling from ceiling hooks, because she seems to always be able to get her hands on raw beef, chicken and a chinchilla muff at a moment’s notice.
She lost her brand new salon in the storm, but gained about a gazillion Twitter followers by putting out a plea to drop off hurricane donations at the Drunken Monkey. Single handedly she probably did more to rally Staten Island into action than all the TalkRadio stations combined. Mess wid da Island, you mess wid Ang.
If nothing else, we learned that only boobs that freakishly enormous could possibly contain a heart as big as Angela Raiola’s. We love you, Big Ang.
Down the road Karen did double duty and accompanied Looney Love Majewski as she tried to help out another friend. Everywhere you turned there was devastation. And cleavage. Lots of both.
Except in Miami, where Renee was getting close to finishing up her stint in rehab.
Since Renee refused to watch the news anymore, Ramona called with a progress report and all I could think of was the lucky VH1 camera crew that got the beach gig instead of hurricane duty when they drew straws back at the office.
Suckahs.
Renee’s phone must hold a serious charge, because the next thing you knew she was back on the cell again with Big Ang, letting her know that AJ was on his way down to Florida for a session with Mom. Ang was busy cooking even more Chicken Italiano Sumthin Sumthin as Renee gave her all the details, until the food came out of the oven and it was time to pack the trunk with another 97 tin foil casserole trays.
Nice talking to you, Renee, but my breasts are getting cold.
I really need to see that basement.
As time went on and the Staten Island clean-up progressed, there was a little more free time to get back to family business. And that meant Drita could discuss Lee‘s upcoming prison release with daughter Aleeya.
Aleeya. She’s soooo not gangstah.
She’s like a cross between Blossom and Urkel and the girl who always gets picked last for dodgeball. But we love her…and her Kids Week Jeopardy glasses…even though I can’t quite figure out if she’s just oblivious to some aspects of “The Lifestyle” or if she’s totally sly like a fox and knows exactly how the game is played.
Regardless, she has the best WTF face of all the little Mob Kids.
Like when Drita explained how Daddy Lee was a neat freak, and that when he comes home with nothing but a manilla envelope full of personal belongings and an OCD twitch the house better be spotless. Because you know how he gets.
And you expect me to clean it, Mom? WTF?
Love. Her. If this isn’t already a sitcom, then Jennifer Gravano better produce one asap, because I already have the first two verses of Aleeya’s theme song in my head.
Right about now we also had the weekly Mob Wives Head Scratch Moment as Drita explained that Lee’s Dad was killed by the Feds when Lee was only 7 years old. And that is why Lee probably turned out the way he did. And that it was all the Fed’s fault that Lee turned to crime. And that it had nothing to do with his own Dad and whatever it was that he was involved in that got him killed by the Feds.
Because it’s always the Feds’ fault.
Now I’m gonna have to ask Aleeya for clarification, but I’m fairly certain that the Feds don’t actually kill you unless you do something pretty bad. And when I was 7 years old I couldn’t figure out which shoe went on which foot, much less decide if I wanted to turn to a life of crime.
But every week one of the Wives has to blame something on the Feds, so at least we got this one over with early.
WTF Mom?
Finally, we got some comic relief when my new mob crush Looney Love went dog walking. In red leather pants. And a fashionably silk screened coordinating top that featured dueling red pistols fighting it out on her substantial Majewski Jewels.
Like that PBS Battle for the Alamo documentary. But in IMAX 3D.
Gah. I can’t get enough of this chick.
Love was taking pudgy Winston out for a tinkle as she talked with ex-boyfriend Joey on her iPhone, and I’m pretty sure the dude just put this show way over it’s Joe Quota.
Joey (…not to be confused with Joe or Jo Jo over at Carla’s place…) is Winston’s Doggie Daddy, as well as a previous recipient of the business end of Love’s L.L. Bean army knife. And he has the scar tissue to prove it.
Yeah. She stabbed him. In front of his Mutha. Hand to Gawd. In front of his Mutha.
I can’t even do the conversation justice. Bitch is just cray cray.
She’s also been engaged six times to a collection of car thieves and home invaders and robbers and attempted murderers. Can you even imagine her Match.com profile?
But no matter how many times you’re always a Bridesmaid and never a Bride, it’s all good if you can laugh about it. And she did, until I thought her two pistols would ricochet off a mailbox and take out a streetlight.
Then, in case you missed any of that hilarity due to DVR issues or bathroom breaks, Love met up with Drita to retell the whole Mutha story one mo’ time.
And yes, I was once again captivated. Especially when Love was late because a pair of brass knuckles fell out of her bra and chipped her pedicure before she even left the house.
Hand to Gawd.
I had to rewind to the Hurricane Sandy part again just to remind myself this show was really about actual people. You can’t make this s*** up.
At first I wondered why anyone would keep their iPhone in their bra cup, but then I remembered that Ramona is the one with the brass knuckle cell phone cover. Love just stores plain old phone-free knuckles in her DDs. Then it all made sense.
It turned out that Joey and Lee have a history, too, if you can call a baseball bat to the face history. Back in the day, Lee tried to hit one over the fence so hard that the bat broke when Joey’s face got in the way. But it’s all good if you can laugh about it. And the girls did.
Joey…not so much.
Back in Miami it got heavy again as AJ arrived for his session with Mom and her therapist Vernon, who was a quirky little guy who could totally have been a stand-in bartender on The Love Boat if he was wearing a different shirt.
AJ has always had some issues with his Mom’s addiction, and in a Gangland PSA Moment he stated that there is no reason to do drugs. Ever.
I think AJ and Aleeya should go to lunch, because I’m starting to think that they both have the same outlook on The Lifestyle. AJ is definitely mopier than Aleeya. Maybe rightfully so given all the wire tap drama last season. But he’s pretty on the ball when it comes to what Mom has been up to over the last year or so, and it surprised Renee to hear him blurt out some zingers.
Then she lost it.
You know someone really loses it when the Honey Boo Boo subtitles come out.
AJ forgave Renee for the hot mess she’d made of everything over the past two years and they hugged it out like champs, though I’ll never understand how a kid who shares the same emotional car wreck DNA never even flinches under pressure. It’s like he’s either born without tear ducts or has just gone numb.
Remember Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation?
AJ’s like that. But with Prada glasses instead of a brain chip. Google it.
Back up north in Staten Island, an 18 wheeler full of hurricane relief and hair gel pulled up to the Drunken Monkey and Big Ang couldn’t have been more excited.
The Bronx Boys all showed up in a trailer packed to the roof with enough supplies to rival the Red Cross, all thanks to Ang’s Tweeter.
Yes…she called it Tweeter one time, and now I can’t get it out of my head. She’s not a big fan of punctuation when she twats, either. Just sayin’.
But how much did you love The Bronx Boys?
I can’t.
Even in a blizzard the dudes were all rockin’ sunglasses and major league DJ Pauly D hair. Like I always say, whatever product those boyeez were using to spike their hair should immediately be sent to NASA to keep the shuttle tiles attached, because that was some serious freeze shizzle fodizzle.
And shouting “Fuggedaboutit “ every time they tossed a box of baby wipes from one truck to another pretty much gave me life. GTL, you freakin’ grenades.
Then we made one last trip to escape the snow and headed back to Miami for Renee’s graduation, where all her group buddies got to stand up and say a little something before she headed back home all new and improved.
The Renee 2013 Model just rolled off the assembly line, bitches.
Then everyone screamed one last time.
Back on Staten Island, like any good soap opera, there was just enough time for the Friday cliffhanger. Except it was Sunday. But you know what I mean.
With Carla and Big Ang hanging on her every word, Drita tried to explain how she had just returned to her house and opened the front door and…wait for it…saw someone inside her house. And do you know who it was? You’ll never guess.
Wait for it…wait for it…
Give up?
Lee! Lee was (bleepin’) in her (bleepin’) house and she almost (bleeped) herself!
Now what?
Be here next week and find out.
Same Mob Time. Same Mob Channel.
Thinking of DVRing it and watching it later?
Fuggedaboutit.
