Vanderpump Rules Recap – 12/21/15

December 22nd, 2015 | No Comments | Posted in Vanderpump Rules - Season 4

I take a lot of things in my life very seriously and one of them is Secret Santa. Sure, currently on the corner of my desk sits a pile of essays about 1960s-style film antiheroes that I should probably grade and there are definitely recommendation letters I need to write so some of my students can get into good colleges and not eventually have to live on the street or get a job at SUR. I should also possibly carve out the time to call the parent of an eighteen year old in one of my classes who sits directly in my eye-line and picks his nose and then eats it. (This is something that really happens. The first time I saw it, I was quite certain that I was hallucinating. I was not hallucinating; the dive into the kid’s nose was real and it was not just a one-time thing. This event happens daily and I fear I might never be the same again. Also, should this kid’s final average turn out to be a 12, I am still passing him just to get him out of my sight.)

Anyway, with all of my actual responsibilities piling up, I made what I think is the very adult decision to prioritize that which is truly important – and this week I have decided Secret Santa is where I should place the lion’s share of my focus. I run the event. I sent out the “Who wants to play?” email a few weeks ago. Then I sent out a follow-up email because some people suck balls and therefore find it impossible to respond to a colleague who is just trying to make the workplace a little bit more festive. Once the players were finally in place, I sauntered around a huge building in five-inch heels carrying a small box that was loaded with names written on small slips of paper. “Here,” I’d say, shoving the box towards someone while he was in the middle of teaching eleventh graders about the recurring theme of solitude in Into the Wild. “Pick a name. If it’s yours or someone you hate, you can choose again.” There were a handful of times people tossed the original name they picked back into the box. There was also the moment I said to a good friend, “You pick first. Anyone you want in particular? I have no guilt in cheating here,” and his response was that he wanted me and that was quite sweet, though it also totally ruins the game by eliminating the element of surprise.

One person was signed up to participate by someone else. I was aware of that and I didn’t think it would be any sort of big deal, but what I didn’t know is that participating in a three-day Secret Santa is apparently against everything this guy stands for and, when I appeared in his room and thrust the box of names towards him, he began to shake and stammer like I had randomly decided to turn Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery into something real and he was singlehandedly choosing the name of the poor sucker who was about to get stoned – and not in the good way. I let him off the hook because horrified people tend to make very poor Secret Santas, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t still weirded out by the whole thing.

As for me, I didn’t cheat – and that’s a first. I randomly selected a name and I bought that person all kinds of presents and I wrapped them this weekend in festive gift bags that have color-coordinated tissue paper shoved inside to make them look extra pretty and I lined them up on my dining room table so I wouldn’t forget to bring them to work because the only thing worse than a Secret Santa having a nervous breakdown just by picking a name from a box is a Secret Santa who forgets to bring a gift. I’ve always taken gift giving rather seriously. I’m not a wait-until-the-last-minute kind of shopper and I keep lists in my phone throughout the year of maybe-presents to buy certain people. And though the person whose name I picked is not someone I’d really qualify as my friend, I respect my role as her present giver. As such, magnetic poetry featuring the words of Charles Dickens, her favorite writer, is coming her way and she can affix all sorts of fragmented sentences about Dickensian poverty and misery to her refrigerator all vacation long. I hear she’s also a Fifty Shades of Grey fan and I did consider getting her some Christian Grey magnetic poetry too, but it is the holy season after all and she’s kind of religious so maybe it would be unseemly for her to create sentences out of words like “c*ck” and “fisting” this week. I settled instead on the Dickens gift and a few ornate picture frames and some chocolates and the most gorgeous handmade soap you have ever seen. And I only hope my own Secret Santa – whose identity was compromised before the f*cking game even started – puts as much thought into his gifts for me and finally gets me that baby otter I have always wanted.

With thoughts of mistletoe and candy canes and Christmas morning running like reindeers on crack through my mind (which makes perfect sense and all since I’m Jewish), I can’t help but consider which gifts I’d choose for my favorite Vanderpumpers had we all participated in a raucous game of Secret Santa together – which, I’m imagining, would take place on the most frigid day Hell has ever seen. And while I’d probably open anything some of them give me with sterile gloves just as a precaution, I do love receiving presents and I’d look forward to unwrapping whatever it is that Jax was able to steal from SUR to bestow upon me, though I really hope it’s a half-burned candle and not one of the place’s illustrious and not-at-all discerning hostesses he’s convinced to get shoved into a box.

If my Secret Santa recipient turned out to be Jax, first I would (obviously) curse the universe at large. Then I would buy him twelve sessions with a tattoo artist and I would insist that each and every tattoo be either a picture of his own face where his nose is swathed in a filthy bandage or some of the words that have fallen from his mouth over the years like poetry that committed suicide. I want quotations like, “Whatever…nobody died and nobody got pregnant” tattooed across his temples forever like he’s Mike f*cking Tyson. Merry Christmas, Jax.

As for James, I would happily hand him an envelope that contains a round-trip ticket to Siberia! I have given this present a great deal of thought. While I realize that tickets to the Russian wasteland will not come cheap, I have enlisted Sir Andy Cohen to chip in with me for the gift – and he was happy to kick in some cash after the repulsive way James behaved on Watch What Happens Live. For the record, my first suggestion to Andy Cohen was that we hire a hitman to take the DJ out, but he talked me out of it while muttering something about how his contract includes a clause that he must not participate in the murder of any cast member on any of his shows. Legalities are so confining. Anyway, our new plan is that the return ticket from Siberia will be counterfeit so nobody will allow James on a plane to return to the United States. Of course, it’s incredibly hard to outsmart George Michael’s godson (who will have Faith that his Father Figure with help secure his Freedom), so should the d*ckhead burrow his way out of the snowy plains, at least the debilitating coldness he had to experience for a while might finally encourage him to slip on a button down or a hoodie or one of my own fucking bikini tops or really anything besides one of those awful tank tops he wears, all of which show off more cleavage than I do on a Saturday night.

Then there’s Kristen. What do you get for the girl who has everything? (Oh…important note: the word everything now means having unwavering alcohol-induced envy, limp hair, and the kind of bravery that allows you to continue to insert yourself into situations with people who have told you directly to your face that you are the single worst person who has ever slithered free from the depths of the underworld.) Since she’s already so blessed, I am going to go simple with Kristen and buy her a nice leather journal so she can record all of her thoughts and feelings and hopes for her future plans. I believe this journal will work twofold as it will one day undoubtedly serve as excellent evidence in her murder trial while also offering her just a tiny bit of momentary catharsis.

I’m going to bestow upon Katie a list of wedding gown designers who refuse to make dresses that have crop tops because I worry that her new bond with Scheana might cause her to contemplate wearing a two-piece on her big day. I will also gift Katie with a mirror that she should gaze into daily in an effort to remind herself how good her hair looks right now so she will never again snap or lose consciousness or do whatever caused her to dye her hair that terrible shade of orange a few seasons back that still haunts me in my darkest dreams.

I’m giving Schwartz my phone number.

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