Month: April 2022

Showtime’s Yellowjackets has been a huge hit this winter, and fans are already desperate for more. The good news is that the show has already been renewed for season 2; the bad news is that they still have to film it, so it might be a while before we get to see what else happened out in the woods.

In the meantime, this is all the info we’ve gathered about season 2 of Yellowjackets so far.

Will there be a season 2 of Yellowjackets?

Yes, Yellowjackets renewed for season 2 in December, and the show’s Instagram account posted a fun announcement with one of the mysterious postcards reading, “Season 2.”

They captioned it, “Those girls were special. They were champions. The #Yellowjackets will return for Season 2!”

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“Yellowjackets has been an unadulterated sensation for Showtime,” Showtime entertainment president Gary Levine told The Hollywood Reporter. “We are overwhelmed by both the acclaim and the audience response to our series, including several ‘Best of 2021’ lists, a 100 percent score on Rotten Tomatoes and snowballing viewership. Clearly there is a hunger for originality and audacity, and our incredible showrunners Ashley, Bart and Jonathan, along with their pitch-perfect cast, have delivered that and so much more. I can’t wait to see the surprises they have in store for us in season two.”

Will there be more seasons after?

Yellowjackets creators Ashley Lyle and Bart Nickersonn also told THR in an interview for their TV Podcast that they have big plans for the series.

“We pitched it as a five-season idea,” Nickerson said. Then at the Vulture Festival panel for the series, star Melanie Lynskey mentioned that Nickerson and Lyle have already talked to her about a longer run, all the way to the end of five seasons. Long live Shauna!

When will season 2 of Yellowjackets come out?

Production on the first season was delayed by COVID-19, but with fans hungry for more of Showtime’s big hit, it seems likely they’ll push through to release season 2 soon, but an exact premiere date hasn’t been confirmed yet.

What will season 2 of Yellowjackets be about?

That may hang on who survives season 1. With one more episode to go on January 16, it feels like more death is imminent. Right now, the show is exploring the repercussions of the team’s 19 months stuck in the wilderness, the possible supernatural forces holding them there, and the interpersonal relationships that are keeping people hooked. That timeline starts in 1996, but it looks like we’ll be seeing more of the Yellowjackets survivors in modern times.

Especially our favs played by Juliette Lewis, Tawny Cypress, Melanie Lynskey, and Christina Ricci.

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Fans are still trying to figure out the big mysteries, though they have some theories about them: like that Lottie is the Antler Queen, that Jackie is in the pit and on the menu, and that Adam might still turn out to be more than he appears. And don’t forget that Misty has that investigator chained up in her basement and we still don’t know who killed Travis and took his money. So, probably more of those questions will be answered next season, though definitely not all of them.

Who will be returning for season 2 of Yellowjackets?

Unless a whole bunch of people die in the season 1 finale, probably most of the cast, both the younger and older counterparts. In addition to Lewis, Cypress, Lynskey, and Ricci, the gals playing them in the woods will have to stick around, which means Samantha Hanratty, Sophie Thatcher, Sophie Nelisse, and Jasmin Savoy Brown. If the Antler Queen is Lottie, we’ll be seeing Courtney Eaton and if that is Jackie in the pit, Ella Purnell will be back as well. And hopefully Liv Hewson as Van will continue to defy the odds and survive as well.

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When my husband and I decided to start a family, we knew from the jump that we’d need help. Decades of anorexia had left me without a period as I entered my thirties, and I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get pregnant. Still, we gave it a go. Several times a week for nearly 10 months, I’d ride the 2 train from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side to see my fertility doctor, doing treatment after treatment until, lo and behold, I was pregnant. Throughout it all, I’d only paid a pittance of co-pays.

By the time we decided we wanted a second child, our circumstances had changed. We’d moved to the other side of the country and had different, much worse, insurance—with zero fertility coverage. As I write this, we’ve paid thousands of dollars for three cycles (it took seven last time), and while we await the results of the last one, we’re staring down an unanswerable question: How much are we willing to pay for a baby?

We’re not alone. In the U.S., 12 to 15 percent of couples struggle with infertility, and an estimated 10 percent of women report that they or their partners have received medical help to become pregnant, including the many LGBTQ and single individuals who need to avail themselves of fertility treatment to have a baby. These numbers are growing, too. Use of in vitro fertilization (IVF) has increased steadily since it was introduced in the U.S. in 1981, as has use of fertility drugs in general—a change that could be attributed to the fact that people are waiting until later in life to become parents, as well as potential lifestyle or environmental factors that can contribute to infertility. And all of this costs money.

Our first time around, the treatment that worked for us involved pills to induce follicle growth, a “trigger shot” to prompt ovulation, an intrauterine insemination (IUI), and countless ultrasounds along the way. We were blissfully ignorant of the price of any of it. But this time, I’m painfully aware: each ultrasound is $450; each IUI, $600; the trigger shot, $110; the follicle-inducing pills were only a couple bucks, but when my body stopped responding to them, I shelled out $900 for a more potent injectable version. We’ve paid more than $7,000 so far.

Courtesy

Costs for fertility treatment vary widely, but there’s a ballpark. One round of IVF can run around $25,000 when you include medication; egg freezing can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $20,000, plus an annual storage fee; and surrogacy comes out to a whopping $100,000 to $150,000. What’s more, fertility treatment often don’t work the first time. Most people need to try multiple treatments several times to end up with one successful pregnancy, meaning that you’re multiplying all of these sums by some unknown figure.

Of course, these are the raw costs; what people end up paying depends on their insurance coverage. But, as anyone who has run the gauntlet of fertility treatment knows, that coverage is often pitiful and hard-won.

Whether or not fertility treatment is covered also depends largely on where you live. Only New York requires Medicaid to cover fertility treatment, but 17 states have passed laws that require certain insurers to cover infertility diagnosis or treatment, while two states require them to offer at least one plan with coverage. Even if you live in one of those 19 states, though, it doesn’t mean your treatment will be covered. Most plans have a mountain of requirements and restrictions for coverage—you need to do X IUIs before they’ll cover IVF; you need a specific diagnosis; you must try conceiving for Y years before anything is covered—and certain states specifically exclude IVF, one of the most expensive treatments. These barriers can be particularly daunting for LGBTQ people, who may not meet an insurer’s criteria for an “infertility” diagnosis or may be disqualified from certain treatments because of gender-affirming care.

There’s also the looming threat of the lifetime max an insurer will pay, which is often less than one round of IVF. Candace Wohl, a social media director who lives in Virginia and has blogged about her decade-long struggle with infertility, remembers sitting on the floor with her husband, scrutinizing every insurance plan offered by their respective employers looking for one that covered anything. The plan they chose had coverage, but with a lifetime cap of $10,000. “We learned quickly that $10,000 was just a small drop in the massive cost that it would ultimately take,” she says.

It’s important to note that self-funded, employer-sponsored plans—which account for 61 percent of all employer-sponsored insurance plans—aren’t subject to state mandates. They can do whatever they please when it comes to infertility coverage, which can be a good thing or a bad thing. Among the biggest employers, a full 77 percent offer some sort of fertility benefits, and their coverage for expensive treatments like IVF and egg freezing increased significantly from 2015 to 2020. But as employers get smaller, the numbers begin to fall off. Only 32 percent of small employers offer any fertility coverage.

Given all this, it’s not shocking that many populations are priced out of fertility treatment completely. Most women who seek medical intervention to get pregnant are white, over 35, higher income, and are privately insured.

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Infertility is a diagnosable medical condition, and covering expensive services like IVF would likely increase monthly insurance premiums by a few dollars, tops—so why is it like this? The answer is one that seems not only obtuse but cruel when offered to people who have emptied their savings trying, with increasing desperation, to build a family: Fertility treatment is not considered “medically necessary.” It’s often put into the same elective category as cosmetic surgery.

This all means that those who can’t conceive naturally might have to spend a lot of money for a baby.

“The out-of-pocket costs we incurred were unfathomable,” Wohl remembers. She and her husband spent close to $80,000 on IUIs, IVF, and surgeries before she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and the door to future treatments closed. When Alex Fiorillo, who lives in Denver and works at a social impact behavioral design firm, made the choice to become a single mother via IVF, she financed her treatment with the savings that she’d been accumulating to buy a new house.

For those without savings, covering fertility treatment often requires getting creative. A number of companies and organizations, like Baby Quest Foundation and Future Family, provide fertility-specific grants and loans. There’s also crowdfunding, which has become a common stopgap for our country’s abysmal healthcare landscape. After Wohl’s diagnosis, she and her husband turned to fundraising—along with donation garage sales, a side hustle on Etsy, and more financial sacrifice—to finance their adoption and surrogacy journey.

Since fertility coverage is often location-dependent, there’s also the option to move. When Tammy Brown found that the cost of IVF in the U.S. was “prohibitive,” she began traveling to Panama for treatment. By doing embryo transfers and purchasing medication and donor eggs abroad, she estimates that she saved close to $10,000.

When I hear these women’s stories, it feels silly for me to fret over a measly $7,000. Still, that’s a sizable chunk of change, one that’s prohibitive for many, financially taxing for most, and stressful for all. But when fertility treatment results in a healthy baby, the number of dollars spent—no matter how high—becomes justifiable. Despite everything Wohl endured, the “decade of heartache and financial devastation,” she says it was all worth it “to finally hear the word ‘Mommy.’” Fiorillo, whose little girl is due in September, says that she looks at it as an investment in her family’s future: “You can’t put a price on family and love.”

But for some people, those for whom the financial weight of fertility treatment is just too great, there is a price, and when that price is reached, they must accept the reality that money will prevent them from having a biological child.

After Brooke Martin, who works at the University of Nebraska’s Medical Center, completed three IUIs with no coverage, she knew that she couldn’t afford to go any further. “It was excruciating. I’ll never heal from the loss of the baby I never had,” Martin says. “I wish I could have found a way. It’s a shame that cost prevents so many women from experiencing the most beautiful, life-giving opportunity. Why should she get that chance over me? Because her insurance says so?”

To those who haven’t been through the process, it might feel crude to have money determine whether or not you have kids. But money, just like a baby, is a very real thing, and hemorrhaging it indefinitely has very real consequences. I have one amazing daughter, and there is certainly no way to equate her worth to a dollar amount. But when faced with the endless unknown of fertility treatment, many are forced to put a price on their theoretical child.

So how much more are we willing to pay for a baby? I don’t know. We find out in a few days if our last IUI worked, and I just hope the results save me from ever needing to answer that impossible question.

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When Luma Mufleh took a wrong turn and found herself in a parking lot in Clarkston, Georgia, on a spring day in 2004, she didn’t expect to meet and become a soccer coach to a group of young refugee boys. She didn’t expect that getting to know these boys—and the ways the educational system consistently failed them and their families—would lead her to start the nation’s only network of schools dedicated to refugee and immigrant education. And she couldn’t have predicted that in 2022, the same year she’d release her book, Learning America: One Woman’s Fight for Educational Justice for Refugee Children, her organization Fugees Family would receive a $10 million gift from MacKenzie Scott to expand its model to school districts all over the U.S.

But for Mufleh, this has been healing work. A Jordanian immigrant, she understands what it’s like to leave your home in search of a safer place. Mufleh applied for political asylum in the U.S. as a senior in college, aware that returning to Jordan as a gay woman would be extremely dangerous. Overall, it was a harrowing process, and one of the many ways Mufleh says the United States need to change to better support refugees and immigrants. Below, she tells her story in her own words. As she says, “I feel like if people knew, they would be outraged.”

In some ways, I had an idyllic childhood. I had a very large family—lots of cousins and siblings, never had to worry about anything—but we were surrounded by war. At some point, every bordering country had some kind of conflict. My mom’s family fled Syria in the ‘60s during the first Assad regime. Her mom packed up her five kids, pregnant with her sixth, and drove to neighboring Jordan. My grandfather thought it was going to blow over—there were attempted coups and the drumbeats of war all the time—and decided to stay in Syria. He ended up joining them two months later as his factories were seized by the government, and his two brothers were arrested, never to be seen again. In Jordan, the language was familiar. It was a Muslim-majority country. Yet my family was treated as outsiders. They had a hard time adjusting, but they always reminded us to be proud of our Syrian identity.

At a very young age, I knew I was gay, I was different, even though I didn’t have the language for it. I knew those things could not coexist in Jordan, and the one place I knew it could was the United States. If I wanted to live, that’s where I had to go. I busted my butt to make sure I was on every team, every activity, worked really hard in classes, so I could get out of Jordan, and I was very fortunate that my parents sent me to the United States for college.

From the minute I arrived, I knew the clock was ticking. I had four years of college, plus potentially two years of grad school. So what were my options to stay? You can get married, you can get company sponsorship, or you can apply for political asylum. I wasn’t going to get married; gay marriage wasn’t legal, and I wasn’t going to lie. Back then, the U.S. included being part of a social group as a protected class of people, which meant if you were gay and had a well-founded fear of persecution, you could apply for asylum. So I started that process.

Learning America: One Woman’s Fight for Educational Justice for Refugee Children

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I hired an attorney, and my classmates became my research team. My college president wrote a letter. I had all this access, but the hardest part was telling my story. The asylum interview, which was more of an interrogation, was brutal. You’re assumed guilty. You have to prove you have a right to live, and asylum officers are playing god. I had to keep explaining what would happen to me, the things that’d already happened to me, in Jordan over and over again. And I had to prove I was gay. My entire life I hid it, and now I was out and being told I had to prove it. At one point during the interview, I stormed out, because I was so upset. I felt like the interviewer didn’t understand everything I was losing. Why would anybody lie about leaving their home and their family?

Thirty days after the interview, I found out I got asylum. It was the saddest and happiest day of my life.

Years later, I thought, would it have turned out differently if I didn’t have a lawyer, or if I didn’t speak fluent English, or if I wore hijab? There were so many things that worked in my favor. It’s not a fair system; it’s about those who have access and means. And people don’t know. They get their information from bits and pieces of the news. They see all these people at the border trying to get asylum. But do you understand what that process is like? Do you know what they have to go through? I feel like if people knew, they would be outraged.

Going forward, we have to humanize the refugee experience. Right now, we treat people as numbers. “I have to give you three months of housing, get you a job, check, check. We’re done.” What if it were like a Disney experience where everybody’s excited to see you, everybody’s there to support you? What if you weren’t forced to make choices or decisions that you can’t comprehend, because you’re still in a state of trauma? Why can’t it be kinder and gentler, instead of transactional? There’s no respect or dignity. We look at it like, “These people are a burden. They need so much.” But what if you were in a similar situation?

We also shouldn’t prioritize one atrocity over another. We’re mobilizing for Ukraine, but there are still millions of displaced Syrians around the world. We got 70,000 Afghans evacuated, but what about the millions we left there? I feel we try to do it to alleviate some of our guilt, instead of looking deeply at these issues. The responsibility of living in a democracy that has the ability to solve a lot of the world’s problems is that we should do what we are capable of, not just the bare minimum.

In order for us to create change, we have to create a coalition. Refugees are everywhere. We are in grocery stores, we are working in restaurants, we are in schools, and that’s a good thing. Refugees and immigrants are going to be your most patriotic citizens, because they know what it’s like not to have freedom. And when you get a taste of freedom, you will do anything for it.

Fugees Family

Fugees Family

With my work, I hope we radically change the way this country receives and empowers refugee and immigrant kids and sets them up for success. I hope this country sees them and their families as assets, not deficits. I hope there’s no need for our schools in 10 or 15 years, that the system has changed to be more welcoming and celebratory. Imagine if we embraced every kid in our schools and set them up in environments where they could live up to their best potential—this country would be unstoppable.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

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Sam Asghari is looking forward to welcoming his first child with Britney Spears, but don’t expect the couple to be sharing a gender reveal any time soon.

In a new interview with Access Daily‘s Mario Lopez, the actor opened up about becoming a father and explained why he doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby beforehand.

When asked if he plans to be a “hands-on” parent, Asghari replied, “Absolutely, man. Hands-on as much as possible. This is my first baby.”

He adds that identifying the sex of the baby is ultimately in his pop star fiancé’s hands, though he prefers to not know.

“That’s up to her, I don’t want to [know],” he told Lopez. “That is something I want to wait for…if it is a daughter it is gonna be the most spoiled princess ever. If it’s a son, it is going to be the toughest son ever.”

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The couple announced that they are expecting their first child together in an Instagram post shared earlier this month.

“I lost so much weight to go on my Maui trip only to gain it back 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️ … I thought ‘Geez … what happened to my stomach ???’ My husband said ‘No you’re food pregnant silly 🤪 !!!’ So I got a pregnancy test … and uhhhhh well … I am having a baby 👶🏼,” Spears wrote.

She also elaborated on her previous pregnancy experiences, in which she say she had perinatal depression. “It’s hard because when I was pregnant I had perinatal depression … I have to say it is absolutely horrible 😔,” she continued. “Women didn’t talk about it back then … some people considered it dangerous if a woman complained like that with a baby inside her … but now women talk about it everyday … thank Jesus we don’t have to keep that pain a reserved proper secret 🤫 😬😬😬 … This time I will be doing yoga 🧘‍♀️ every day !!!”

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Spears already has two children—16-year-old Sean Preston Federline and 15-year-old Jayden James Federline—whom she shares with her ex-husband, Kevin Federline.

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I’m burnt out. I know this is not an original or even particularly illustrative statement to make in 2022, but it is the truth. The news is bleak and often unwieldy. In the U.S., reproductive rights are crumbling, the LGBTQ+ community is being attacked in state legislatures across the country, a new wave of COVID is upon us, all while a devastating war plays out in Ukraine and climate change looms heavy, tucking itself into every corner available. It’s not a time that is particularly rife with hope—which is why I was so surprised to find it in an auditorium at Barnard College this Tuesday.

The evening’s event, titled “22 for ‘22: Visions for a Feminist Future,” was a global gender equity summit put on by media company The Meteor and Gucci’s Chime for Change, and will be broadcast virtually on May 9. The speakers were an intergenerational cohort of activists, organizers, journalists, and artists—people working on some of the most urgent issues of our time. Some were names you’ve heard (actors Busy Philipps and Amandla Stenberg); others have just penetrated the public consciousness, like Chris Smalls, who recently organized Amazon’s very first U.S. union at a warehouse in Staten Island. The question at the heart of the summit was: what should the future look like for women, girls, and nonbinary folks? But the reason we were really there, the underlying probe, was a bit more complicated. Even if we can imagine it, how do we even get to that future? How do we keep up the momentum until that future finally arrives?

At times, people asked this directly. When Smalls took the stage alongside legendary labor leader and co-founder of the National Farm Workers Association Dolores Huerta, he asked her about how to care for your mental health in the midst of labor organizing. Huerta recommended reaching out to people who support you and celebrating “a lot with song and with music and with friends, so that it doesn’t get so burdensome that it crushes you.” Philipps asked Paula Ávila-Guillén, a human rights lawyer and activist who’s worked to decriminalize abortion across Latin America, what the U.S. can be doing to fight against the upcoming Supreme Court decision that’s expected to overturn or gut Roe v. Wade. It’s frustrating, Ávila-Guillén said, “when I see what’s about to happen in the United States, and I don’t see people protesting every day.”

When asked offstage about the upcoming five-year anniversary of the “Me Too” movement this fall, its founder Tarana Burke said that it’s imperative to focus on what the movement’s work has made possible, as opposed to specific successes and failures. “I could run you a list of the laws that have been passed and the legislation and who’s gone to jail and who lost their jobs and all the rest of that, but all of that is fleeting,” she told ELLE.com. “For example, Harvey Weinstein got however many years; Bill Cosby got let out of jail. Imagine if that was our gauge. It’d be like watching a tennis match. And our hope would be attached to that. Imagine trying to live like that. Imagine trying to steer a movement like that.” Instead, she said, the conversation should be about how “Me Too” shifted the culture and created space for “an international dialogue we couldn’t have had five-and-a-half years ago.”

That doesn’t mean there isn’t more work to do—there’s a “shit ton,” to use Burke’s words. She is keenly aware that the fire won’t always burn bright. “There’s already a complete drop in interest in sexual violence—look at this fashion show that happened the other day,” she said, presumably in reference to Alexander Wang’s return to the runway in L.A., his first show after being publicly accused of sexual assault. “You can’t get even people to be mad about it. You can’t get people to be shamed about it. And I’m not going to make a fight about it, because that’s not the fight…I care more about the people who came out and courageously spoke out about what he did, what they feel. I don’t want to shame the people who attended that thing, because they have to live with their decisions. But what I thought about really for days and days [is], what are those people who came forward feeling? That’s our fight.”

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Of course, the speakers also addressed that original question—about what a future that’s inclusive and equitable and safe and feminist might look like. “I would love to paint a future that has a few more shades in the film space—a few more shades and sizes,” Janicza Bravo, the co-writer and director of Zola, told ELLE.com backstage. “One of the first times I was at Sundance with work of my own, I remember reading this story,” she continued. “There was a director who’d made a small, independent film who was now getting a chance to make a huge movie. Part of the story was that the opportunity he was handed was because he was sitting across the desk from this very established white filmmaker who was like, ‘I just looked at him, and I saw myself.’ I remember reading that and thinking, that’s never going to happen to me. No one’s ever going to sit across from me and see themselves. So how do I get to do that thing? I would love in 10, 15, 30 years to sit across from a young person who looks like me and tell that story: I saw myself, and I was able to make this opportunity for them.”

Because even amid the horrors and defeats, the night’s speakers still had hope that this kind of future is possible. More than one person at “22 for ‘22” suggested that perhaps the reason the country feels so fragile right now is because we are nearing the end of a time when exclusionary, bigoted behavior is deemed acceptable. “Sometimes I think about these anti-LGBT legislation attempts as kind of a death rattle,” actor Amandla Stenberg told writer and activist Raquel Willis during the final panel. “It’s more and more apparent that we’re having these critical conversations about gender, about expressing gender beyond the traditional binary that we’ve internalized. So while it is so disheartening, I try to recontextualize it as actually just a death rattle in response to the fact that things are radically changing.”

Backstage, Burke told ELLE.com the same: “I really think the reason it feels so bad right now is because these horrible people, they see the end. They’ve seen the end for a long time, so they’ve been gearing up. They’re fighting for their lives, because it’s the last little bit of their life left. Their way of life is not sustainable, and this next generation just won’t stand for it.”

She continued: “I just don’t feel very worried about this next group. Because, my God, they’re so ready.”

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If you’ve already binged season 5 of Selling Sunset in its entirety then you’ll be well aware that TV’s most stylish villain, Christine Quinn, has gotten herself into hot water at The Oppenheim Group (again). But could Quinn really be leaving Selling Sunset after that dramatic finale?

While Quinn appears to have alienated herself from most of the other brokers at the agency, it’s hard to imagine Selling Sunset without her. So is Christine Quinn leaving Selling Sunset? Here’s what we know so far.

What happened to Christine in season 5 of Selling Sunset?

Christine Quinn spent the majority of season 5 with new agent Chelsea Lazkani, who became her closest confidante on the show. While Quinn was filmed at several group events with the other agents throughout the new season, most of her interactions with her costars were, for lack of a better word, tense.

Things came to a head in the finale when word reached boss Jason Oppenheim that Quinn had allegedly bribed one of Emma Hernan‘s clients. According to Hernan, her client reached out after Quinn offered him $5,000 not to work with her anymore. Understandably, Oppenheim was shocked by this news, but it was unclear what the consequences would be, as Quinn didn’t show up for her meeting with him. The finale suggested that she would have to face the music in season 6.

What has Christine said about leaving Selling Sunset?

During season 5, Quinn made it clear that she’s ready to break out on her own. “I want to work for myself, be my own independent boss,” she explained during a conversation with Lazkani during the ninth episode of season 5. “I’m not meant to be one of 92 people in the office. That’s just not for me. I’m one of one.” But does that mean she’s leaving?

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Quinn has been making comments about leaving The Oppenheim Group for years. Back in August 2020 during an appearance on Dear Media‘s Not Skinny But Not Fat podcast, Quinn accused Jason Oppenheim of favoritism, saying, “I mean, Mary gets every single listing, and Jason just doesn’t want to do work. So he just gives it to her. And it’s just so frustrating. He doesn’t give it to anyone else. So we’re all just, like, sick of it.” She continued, “And we’re all like, would you ever leave? Totally, like if this continues, if this favoritism continues we’d absolutely.”

And in October 2021, Quinn addressed claims she’d left the show after her costars posted pictures without her. In a since-deleted tweet (via Us Weekly), she wrote, “I’m SOOOOO tired of addressing this. I am in every single episode of season 4 and 5 of selling sunset. The girls intentionally leave me out of photos. I have real work to do besides sit on my phone and prove 24/7 that I’m filming a TV show.”

Replying to a fan on Twitter, Quinn doubled down on the fact that she was in attendance at the events in question, but that her costars didn’t include her in the photos. “I assure you I am at all the same events as them,” she wrote. “I just do my job and head back to my family. Don’t need a photo to prove anything lol.”

Has Christine left The Oppenheim Group?

Quinn is still listed as a Realtor Associate on The Oppenheim Group website. However, in an April 2022 interview with Forbes, the author of How to Be a Boss B*tch revealed that she has left the agency.

Quinn and her husband, Christian Dumontet, revealed that they’d launched a unique business together. The couple’s venture, RealOpen, allows anyone to buy or sell a home using cryptocurrency. As noted by Forbes, RealOpen is the “first company of its kind.” While Dumontet, who goes by “Christian Richard” on Selling Sunset, is CEO, Quinn’s title is CMO.

Discussing her new venture, Quinn revealed in an Instagram post, “It took over a year of hard work and tenacity to create this platform and patent-pending technology to revolutionize the housing market.” And as reported by Forbes, Quinn said “that part of her decision to leave The Oppenheim Group … is because the firm wasn’t forward-leaning and wasn’t a believer in crypto.”

While it’s unclear what Quinn’s new business means for Selling Sunset, we’re not surprised that the real estate mogul has begun forging her own path. Time will tell whether she’s left Netflix’s glossy reality show for good.

WATCH SELLING SUNSET SEASON 5 ON NETFLIX

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