Last week, Elyse stole my haircut, and this week she's got a chokehold on my id. Sitting in a confessional booth from the red room in that episode of Twin Peaks the guy in the booth next to you at The Museum Of Television And Radio is always watching (it used to be me, but I have them on DVD now), Elyse wears a holiday-themed sweater far more festive than her mood and vents so hard I can't believe that tiny space isn't filling up with steam: "I really just want to get away from everybody right now." Go for it, Elyse. Vent away. You're taking the wrinkles out of my clothes and saving me an hour of ironing that I wouldn't do anyway because I don't own an iron and also because my entire wardrobe is made up entirely of Glarkware t-shirts and one pair of jeans. Go go go for it: "The other girls are just at this high volume, high energy all the time." A shot of Robin shrieking incoherently about a dress confirms this. "I'm so tempted to just sit in here and be away from all the noise." Cut to Ebony shrieking incoherently about a thong, an article of clothing now doomed to its own fashion Hell after having had girl-thong contact with someone who might have enjoyed it too much. Back inside the confessional, we hear Ebony's rant continue, so it appears that the conversation that irked Elyse was actually going in on real time, which is genius. Sigh. Sometimes the very best trick editing is no trick editing at all. Elyse wraps up, inadvertently casting herself as an essential member of the wider framework of the house. How so? Well, every religion needs its martyr: "All right, I'm gonna stay in here with the door locked for just a couple more minutes." Poor Elyse. She should totally just go hide in the attic of the house. But for the love of all that's holy (and, in that house, EVERY damn thing is holy), just don't say Beetlejuice's name three times fast!
Tyra Mail! Tyra Mail! It's another New York morning of nine coddled loonies never seeing what the inside of a subway car looks like (we're going to leave out the part of this discussion where I've only been on a subway once this month, but it's only because there's no underground transportation that takes me from my apartment to the Starbucks on my block, but believe me, if there were I would take it, okay?). Adrianne, the winner, sits in a confessional, hunched over and butch and all decked out in a camouflage do-rag like she's about to run off and referee a paintball tournament at a lesbian commune, drawling, "As always, I was the first one to wake up this morning." She clomps her size elevens through the living room, leaving enormous indentations on the floor like she was strolling across the surface of the moon, in the process killing scores of innocent and educational ants and leaving the hotel guests on the fortieth floor yelling, "Hey, Yeti, they're called tube socks, okay? Look into it." Adrianne notes the Tyra Mail and announces to no other awake person, "Ladies, we've got Miss Tyra Mail." I like how she shows such deference to the mail by assigning it a title. And good thing, too, before Robin had a chance to christen it "Reverend Tyra Mail." Everyone rouses from several different mornings to depict a comprehensive "group wakeup" (what'd they do, have everyone wear the same pajamas every night for continuity?), and the girls stumble into the living room as Adrianne slurs, "You're about to meet your first fashion expert, who will help you on the way to become America's Next Top Model. Be ready at 11:30 AM." Since that must mean the very next 11:30 AM that the New York (City Of Unrealistic Fashion Dreams) clock depicts on the kitschy wall of clocks that lets everyone know what time it is in her own bedroom, all of the girls scatter. From her perch on the couch where she had scant time to quietly celebrate sounding out all of those big words with an aplomb that even implied comprehension of the words she was saying, Adrianna PSAs, "Everybody don't exceed over fifteen minutes in the shower." So, don't exceed sixteen minutes, then?