Reality TV: Made in Chelsea is Better Than Dental Surgery

This morning, I’m at the dentist. Or, periodontist. Or whatever he’s called. Suffice it to say, I’m at a place where a man is going to shoot needles into my gums and then proceed to cut at those gums. I’m not happy about all this.

dentist mask

Thanks to the excellently neglectful childhood dental care I received, I have receding gums and have to have a gum graft. This, to put it mildly, sucks. Not only is it probably painful (I say ‘probably’ because I’ve been staying away from internet research on this one), but it also means eating won’t be such an enjoyable experience for at least a few days.

Gums don't give up

But you know what makes me feel better about my deficient gums? Examples of British dentistry. After all, they’re supposed to have the worst teeth ever over there. So, today, while I’m lounging on my plush divan trying valiantly to distill enough calories from bland yogurt and strained soup to keep a grown woman upright, I’ll be catching up on a fabulous British ‘scripted reality’ TV show called “Made in Chelsea.”

miC cast

Surely, you must know it. It’s on the Style network, the same Emmy-award winning network (no, seriously. They’ve won a few daytime Emmies) that brought the world “Big Rich Texas” and “Jerseylicious.”

It’s truly wonderful. It’s full of gorgeous characters with swishy, shiny hair (both male and female). They have ever-so-posh, nasally accents while they mumble their feelings. They have sorta-jobs that don’t ever seem to interrupt their hectic social schedules (that’s pronounced “shed-duwuls” for all you Americans). They freeze their fake tanned skins in gorgeous, glittery evening gowns to ever-so-windy events held on boats, and docks, and polo fields.

Honestly, it’s like looking at my life in a mirror. Except, the opposite in every single way.

miC 2

And none of them use their full names. Instead, they all have super-British nicknames like Caggie, Binky, Cheska, Millie and Ollie. Their real names, by the way, are Catherine, Alexandra, Francesca, and Camilla. Ollie doesn’t appear to be short for anything.

The show is all about their dating lives and who-likes-who. It’s quite complex, as all great dramas are. But the clothes are very pretty, so I keep watching. It’s very similar to “The Hills” meets “The Only Way is Essex.”

The teeth are a bit of a mixed lot.


This guy’s my favorite. His name is Mark-Francis and he’s very flamboyant and fabulous. He’s also loaded, and descended from Russian royalty. Take that, Anna Karenininininina. Anyway, he shows all his teeth when he laughs, which, since he’s loaded and has not a care in the world, is quite often.

ollie with feather

This guy, Ollie, is a close second on my favorite scale. He’s also flamboyant and extremely happy. He loves a fake tan and is confused about his sexuality (unlike the rest of us). He used to date underbite homegirl down below.

gabriella teeth

But they broke up. Maybe because she was suspicious of his sexuality.

gabriella suspicious

Let me tell you, I’m only at the beginning of season two, but underbite girl up here is not taking the whole breakup well AT. ALL. She needs to move on already. I bet she’s just ticked off that Ollie took half of her wardrobe with him in the breakup.

The cast also cry. Like, a lot.

gabs crying

hugo crying

caggie crying

I mean really

For reals. I guess sometimes life in a scripted reality series just gets too dang real.

Dentists and Doctors and Splinters and Such

At the risk of drawing criticism for “whining about things you could change,” or whatever (still cracks me up), yesterday was quite the medically trying day.

It started with minor (and highly unsuccessful) self-surgery yesterday morning. Actually, it started the night before. At some point in the evening, I noticed that there was a very tender spot somewhere on the ball/runner’s callus of my left foot every time I took a step. After self-examination, I didn’t see anything amiss, so I carried on, hobbling around the house and avoiding putting any pressure on my mysteriously sore foot.

Yesterday morning, SHOCKINGLY, the pain was still there. Looking at my foot under the bright sunlight streaming in through the bathroom window, I convinced myself I could see a teeny-tiny-miniscule dark dot. “AHA!” I told myself, and only myself since Petunia was still lolling around in bed. “I must have a splinter!”

But my personal nurse/splinter-removal expert XFE was in Las Vegas where he was winning butt-tons of money at Pai Gow.

I don’t want to define butt-tons on a public (and supremely popular – I mean, I have TENS of readers) blog, so email me directly for full gloating. Let’s just say it was more than some Turkish rugs, but less than others.

So, that left me to my own Florence Nightingale devices. (Dang, she looks a bit tired, no? Maybe she had to remove her own splinters?)

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