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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
But they broke up. Maybe because she was suspicious of his sexuality.
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.
For reals. I guess sometimes life in a scripted reality series just gets too dang real.
(We interrupt our Spain reverie for a very important issue)
I recently went coat shopping, which is sounds like it’s no big deal, but of course, for me, was a very, very big debilitating deal.
I had to undertake this dreaded exercise because 1) I live in a cold place where I have to wear a coat for at least 96 days of the year; 2) one of my winter coats was six years old and looking a bit beat; and 3) apparently, all my clothes shrunk while I was in Spain.
OK, it’s not fair to JUST blame Spain. Turning 40 has made me slightly more Rubenesque. (Seriously, I do not know where my metabolism went, but the day after I turned 40, it packed up it’s little “Flirty Forty and Feeling Fine” suitcase and said, ‘see you on the flip side, loser.’)
Anyway, my six-year-old winter coat was feeling tight, especially over my multiple layers of sweaters and blazers.
(Just the other day, I was in the bathroom stall at work – I swear, this isn’t going down the TMI path – and caused the automatic flusher to go off five times while I organized my various layers of tights under slip, shirt tail over slip, skirt over shirt tail and slip, vest over skirt. It was a seemingly endless and complicated outfit for a Thursday, and quite typical of my winter workday outfits.)
I have, obviously, more than one winter coat. I actually have three. And I’m not even getting into the myriad of fall trench coats, leather jackets, capes and other accoutrement necessary to navigate the five miles between my house and work and all the activities in between.
No, for winter work navigating, I just have a mid-thigh black coat to wear with pants, a colorful longer coat to wear with dresses, and an incredibly warm, but slightly casual-ish duffle coat for really cold days and weekends.
It was the colorful coat that needed replacing, which caused this whole extra area of consternation. Here’s a taste of the internal dialogue running through my head:
“What color should I get? Maybe I should go with a plaid? I like this hot pink Cole Haan one, but I can’t really wear hot pink with my red hair without looking like a Muppet or something, and isn’t that just a bit obnoxiously bright for DC, where one is surrounded by a metro platform sea of black and gray? How long do I need it to be, exactly? My last coat (a nice, non-obnoxious olive green) was just past knee length, but maybe I should get something a bit longer; ie: warmer? Oh wait, there’s quite a few of those mullet coats (longer in the back, shorter in the front). How does that work? What size am I now? Should I get a wrap coat with a belt so I don’t have to worry about sizing at all? I definitely need some sort of waist definition, but would an inset waist be enough? What kind of collar do I need? These funnel collars seem nice, and I wouldn’t need a scarf, but they swallow my face. But I have a weak chin, so maybe that’s a good thing? This one has a very glamorous fake fur collar, but maybe it looks too cheesy? Why are all these sleeves so incredibly long on my tyrannosaurus rex arms? And tight! Why are these sleeves so tight? I’m not even wearing a sweater today! Why didn’t I wear a sweater today? How am I supposed to wear a sweater under these tight sleeves? Maybe I should come back on a day I’m wearing a sweater. What’s the deal with these buttons? They look kinda cheap. Maybe I should get a coat without buttons….sort of like some muumuu cape thing. What material should the coat be made of? This one says 60% wool, this one 70%, this one 80%. Which one will be warmest? This one is mostly polyester….that doesn’t breathe, so maybe that will be warmest? This one doesn’t feel very heavy, does that mean it won’t be warm enough? I’ve been trying on coats for two hours now and I’m sweating, so how am I supposed to tell which one is warmest? Maybe I should wear it outside the store first. They won’t mind, right? Is this blue or purple? I can’t tell under these lights! I’m getting lightheaded….”
Shopping for a bathing suit is actually much easier: Does this sufficiently cover my bits for a period of approximately four days around total strangers I will never see again? versus: Does this keep me warm and professional looking for a period of approximately three months around people I see every single day at work or on the subway or at the coffee place?
Finally, I found a beautiful coat that I liked. It was a lovely shade of not-too-bright teal, with adorable little gold toggle closures (instead of large cheap plastic buttons), an inset waist and a small rounded collar (but not too small). It was the perfect length, the sleeves ended where they were supposed to, and it was, I think, the right amount of wool (I honestly couldn’t tell after all those hours of trying stuff on at two different stores).
But did I leave the store with said perfect coat? No. Why not, you might reasonably ask? And to which I have a very unreasonable answer: Because it was a Jessica Simpson coat.
I know it seems ridiculous. But honestly, I would have been too embarrassed to wear the coat. Which is how I know that now, in addition to having short arms and cartoon character hair, I’m a total elitist snob.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate J. Simps or anything, (although I do think getting pregnant again just moments after giving birth to your last baby is a pretty lazy way to get out of your multimillion dollar Weight Watchers agreement). It’s just that I think she’s kinda stupid and famous for dumb reasons, and therefore, I just don’t want to give her any of my money. I can just imagine if someone asked me if my coat was from J. Crew or Kenneth Cole, and I’d have to mumble under my breath, “Uh, no, it’s from that world famous fashion designer and tastemaker aka lover of mom jeans, Jessica Simpson.”
I just couldn’t bite the bullet. So, I went with my second runner up: a navy-but-in-certain-lights-purple, mullet-skirted, funnel-collared, sleeves-just-slightly-too-long, suffocating-ly-warm, belted Steve Madden number. Which I hope, I won’t be too embarrassed to admit I own.
(Addendum: I saw a few online reviews in the last couple of days that suggests that the J. Simps coat would not have been warm enough for a DC winter anyway. Bummer).