It may not have been a night of honesty on The Real Housewives of D.C., but it was a night of intimate moments. Pony rides, penis size, recycled Crisco, Sunday supper and a champagne cork in the ass were just the start.

As the second episode unfolds, we don’t yet know enough about these women to truly tell how lively they really are. But the things they do are keeping us rapt.

So many children dream of opening their eyes to find a beautiful pony as a birthday surprise. Indeed, it was a little surprising and a little too revealing to see this fantasy play itself out with a 44-year-old birthday girl. After hubby Tareq Salahi offers Michaele one choice from an array of designer bags, purses, glasses and other treats, he leads her outside.

As she floats her perfectly coiffed and über-fake blond tresses out to their gracious yard, what is that coming around the corner? A gorgeous dappled gray horse? She names it “Sparkle.” Then she looks out to the horizon as if she might whip off her ostentatious beige wrap and ride, Lady Godiva-like, across the fair city and pose with the other monuments at the mall. The shopping mall, we mean.

In spite of a CIA presence, there’s a little too much information in McLean at the home of Mary Schmidt Amons, whose 23 year-old daughter has returned to the roost after a bad breakup bringing her bruised pride and an incontinent dog. Luckily, there’s hired help for multilingual Mary.

“Since Rosa doesn’t understand English very well, I speak to her in Spanish,” Mary confides, after referring to “mucho mess.” Thank goodness for Rosetta Stone. We can only assume they're soon to market a special housewives edition that includes “shampoo the carpet,” “scrub my walls,” and “pick up after my daughter’s hairy pooping dog.”

Stacie Scott Turner is hell-bent on testing out new acquaintances at an intimate Sunday soul-food supper at the house of her charming Aunt Frances.

“You get what you get. And you never know what you gonna’ get,” Stacie says of a meal with her family. Still, she has words of warning for at least one of her castmates. “Cat better not step out there with that English perceived-as-rude-but-trying-not-to-be mess because they will call her out in a second,” she snaps.

It’s clear how out-of-place Cat feels. Everyone wonders if she thinks she’s in a restaurant. Cat “sends back” a glass of wine, saying “I opened a bottle that looks like it’s been here for 100 years.”

Perhaps it occurs to her how rude this might seem. It certainly did to everyone else. But she has a unique perspective: “I wasn’t going to make myself ill by being polite,” she scoffs.

Perhaps being polite would be a risk for the often-rude Cat. Finally, she scarfs some collard greens and then bolts at the end with just a “yummy, yummy, right, I’ve got to hit the road,” before the door nearly hits her ass on the way out.

The men retreat to a basement decorated with rustic ceramic beer steins and a smart little cocktail tray. It’s all masculine but too tidy to be a man-cave. Stacie’s husband Jason shares what sounds like top-secret information: “I have a patent on the first piece of technology that uses volume to measure the size of different body parts.”

Haven’t we all been waiting for a device that might accurately measure our body parts? If only we knew the exact size of our ears, our fingers, our pinky toes. It turns out Jason has something more particular in mind when he announces his new invention is called the Penile Volumetric Measuring Device.

“Slippage is real,” he exclaims of ill-fitting condoms. With the right technology, now they can fit like snug shoes. We couldn’t resist surfing the web during a commercial break to find out more about this intriguing patent. Apparently, it employs a device filled with fluid (water, we hope) and has a place where you “put” the body part you want to measure. We’re thrilled to hear that it has water-tight barriers, clean-freaks that we are.

The patent application states also that, “in a preferred embodiment, the body part being measured is an erect penis.”

Lynda’s classy boyfriend Ebong says in a video diary that he’s a little uncomfortable to be talking with three men about the size of a penis. That’s strange-all the men we’ve ever met love to discuss that subject matter, especially when it comes to themselves. With Jason’s invention, they could finally obtain some quantitative data to support their claims.

Ebong isn’t buying it for his own personal volume, explaining, “We’ll ask Lynda and see what she thinks.” Mary’s husband Rich is odd man out in this little sit-down, and asks if now “is the time for the white men to leave the room.” It seems he doesn’t want to engage in such “small” talk.

Meanwhile, upstairs Southern Belle Lynda, who hails from southern Georgia, is extolling the virtues of recycling Crisco, in the kitchen at least.

After all this man-talk, it’s no surprise later in the episode when Tareq whips out a sabre to open a bottle of champagne at birthday bash for the sweet and stylish Paul Wharton. Tareq inadvertently pops Michaele’s frenemy Lynda in the posterior, and There was nowhere to go but down. In just moments the ladies are having one of those “Excuse me!” —“No, excuse me!” —“No excuse me!" fights about remarks Lynda made last week regarding Michaele’s weight.

We’re always hungry for another mindless squabble sponsored by Bravo, and this tiff hits the spot. But we’re still left wondering if this show isn’t lacking a little meat on its bones. So far another winning franchise, Top Chef, packs more of a punch in the capitol city. Next week, they’ll be cooking at CIA headquarters. What have the housewives done for us lately?

Is there a Danielle or a Kelly or a Kim waiting in the wings to seize the spotlight? Stacie and Mary name Bravo’s Bethenny Frankel as their model housewife. We love Bethenny, but this seems like a safe choice. We suspect real drama lies elsewhere. Early polling indicates that either Michaele or Cat is just a quick gallop away from really cracking up.

And we can’t wait.