Even Better Than the Real Thing

This post kicks off my official participation in NaBloPoMo. That being said, I have a shameful confession to make: Despite my proclamations of contempt for reality tv, I love, love, love Dr. 90210. That is all. If you haven't seen it, or have been living under a rock/in a garbage pail/sans cable tv and aren't familiar, here's the rundown:

The show tells the stories of the personal and professional lives of a number of Beverly Hills/L.A. plastic surgeons and their patients. The main doctors, Robert Rey, Linda Li (who works with her husband - he's an anesthisiologist) Jason Diamond and Robert Alter, all have slightly different 'takes' on how they approach their patients, and obviously really love their jobs. They do tons of boob jobs, nose jobs, liposuction on almost every part of the body, reconstructive surgeries, and all manner of other things. I invariably end up feeling sorry for Dr. Rey's wife, Haley - she's a tiny little thing with big blue eyes and a sweet smile. She seems weighed down with running after her two kids, a huge house and her ginormous implants, trying desperatly to get a scrap or two of her flamboyant husbands' attention. Between his obsessive workaholism to his pink ties, perfect highlights and daily martial arts, he doesn't seem to have the time or the inclination to be the husband she wishes he could be.

Oddly enough, I notice that the surgeons themselves actually seem to have very "plastic" personalities and interactions with their families, friends and clients. Every smile, every hug, every post-surgery "review" seems so carefully calculated to the last uncomfortable nuance. First the house is too small, than it's too big, first the implants were too big, now they need a lift. Perfection, it seems, is an endless race with the horizon as the finish line - never any closer, no matter how fast you run.

In real life, we've noticed that some of the people we know who've had "work" done seem to actually become noticeably fake and different in the way they talk, walk and act. It's really strange, and honestly more off-putting than if they'd settled for less-plush lips or smaller boobs or a few wrinkles. As with everything, moderation seems to be the key - and the ever more elusive Common Sense.

Personally, I'm not opposed to giving a little, tasteful help where heredity (thanks for the rectangle butt and hips the width of the Brooklyn Bridge, Ma!) age, early sun damage (don't worry Mom, you didn't know any better than to let me lay out with you for hours at a time) or gravity let you down. Provided, of course, you pay for it yourself, don't suddenly start shamelessly flaunting your new boobs around, and are getting the work done solely for your own reasons, not to make someone else happy.

Botoxing your forehead into a Kabuki mask, bleaching your...rear area, or buying your 92 pound daughter/girlfriend implants that are bigger than your combined brains do not fall into my personal criteria of "Good Ideas". Frankly, neither does planning an early C-section so that you a) don't get stretch marks in those last three weeks and b) can get right back to work on people's insecurities straightaway. However, that is just my opinion, and worth exactly what you paid for it.

Chiada and I always used to joke how I'd need a facelift for her wedding - this many years later, I think I'd prefer one for her anniversary. Her silver anniversary, provided that Dr. Rey is still running a practice in one of those gorgeous pink ties.

In other news: Remember the tree that ate my driveway? We were awoken at seven this morning by the dulcet tones of chainsaws, chippers and "Rapido! rapido!". I could just about kiss every Pedro, Jose and Ernesto over there - by this afternoon, we are going to have a mountain view. When I step outside, the air is redolant of pine sap and sawdust, a fresh aromatic scent. It smells like the real thing, and will be just to the right of this: