Nighttime. Just as Trishelle mentions that she wishes Traci were there, Traci shows up. It's like magic and Traci's a fairy princess with fake boobs and an attitude. Erik's shooting pool on a leopard-skin table, but stops long enough to greet her and point her in the direction of the pool area. Traci says she loves the house. Glen Campbell stumbles out of a closet and swears he'll be gone in a minute -- just let him pack his bags and he's gone. He promises. Erik's telling Traci what's been going on, and calls Trishelle "Tricia," which must make Trishelle feel like a million bucks. Traci scopes the place out and glumly tells Erik that she was expecting the house to be more of what stars of their magnitude are accustomed to. I'm guessing she means a crackhouse with no windows and gaping holes in the floor. Erik agrees with her.
Traci goes to unpack her bags in the bedroom she's sharing with Trishelle and Ron -- or, as I like to call it, "STD Central." She's brought lots of Bratz dolls, because she thinks they look like her. Yeah, except they're made with just a little less plastic than she is. At this point, Traci smells something rank. Something foul. Like there's either a Taco Bell nearby or something has expired in Ron's bag. Traci admits that she's a girly girl, and that Ron's bag smells like a rat died in there. I'm sure that's not the first time Ron's been told his bag smelled like a dead rat. She gets Ron to sniff the inside of his bag, and he says he can't smell a thing. I feel sorry for Ron here, because it comes off like a cheerleader picking on a dumb nerd for being smelly. Traci feels as if she's going to throw up. She then gets a gander at the raspberry-colored bathtub and announces that she can't take a bath in it: it's too small, and the color clashes with her skin. I can totally relate, because I refuse to bathe in pink bathtubs coated with stray pubic hairs. One of the other castmates tells her to deal with it, and she says she doesn't like being told to "deal with it" or "play with it" or "trace your tongue up and down it." She admits that she has no problem with the shower, but concludes with a snap snap and a neck rotation that the bathtub has got to go. Traci admits in a confessional that her behavior can sometimes be overwhelming, but dammit, this is her life, and it's the little things like bathtubs that aren't raspberry-colored that she's accustomed to. You know, as if Glen Campbell hasn't suffered enough blows to his self-esteem, now he's got some has-been bimbo critiquing his choice in bathtub colors. It's amazing that this guy hasn't had an impromptu conference with Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson by now. Trishelle slurs in front of everyone that she doesn't ever want to be so spoiled that she feels the need to throw a fit over a raspberry-colored bathtub. This causes me to yell at the television, "You bettah step off, sistah!" while showing it the palm of my hand. Erik tells Traci that she's coming off as a plant to bust their balls. He thinks she's the mole. Sorry, Erik, Celebrity Mole is yet another show that wouldn't hire you. Trishelle and Traci argue over Traci's diva-ness. Traci says that Trishelle is young and immature. Traci pulls some pillows off the sofa and goes to sleep on the floor, in a snit. A raspberry-colored snit, at that.