So Much Money For Diamonds, Such Bad Plastic Surgery

Last night Michael and I went to the San Francisco Symphony's 60th Birthday party for the conductor, Michael Tilson Thomas. We had no idea it was going to be such a scene. In fact, I somehow didn't notice the "black tie optional" notation on our invitation. Man, was I underdressed.

Michael was wearing a very dapper suit, and coincidentally, a nice black, white and silver tie. Sophie picked it out for him, and I swear to God the kid has some kind of fashion radar. At least he was appropriately dressed. Most of the men were in tuxes, but he looked stylish, and since the average age was about nine zillion, you could make an argument that that's what "the youth" considers to be black tie.

I, on the other hand, was wearing a fine and dandy little cocktail dress, which had I worn one of my dozens of pairs of high heels, would have been innocuous enough. Instead, I chose a pair of funky, casual John Fluevog boots. I felt like I had a sign on my head that read "tacky bitch." Although, why was the neon blinking over me? Why wasn't it blinking over the woman whose ball gown was decorated with little patches of rabbit fur shot through with sequins? I'm betting Easter is going to be a sad holiday around the Bay Area this year. I doubt she left a bunny unskinned.

That wasn't the most ludicrous outfit, though. That award goes to the ancient crone in the fuchsia ribboned and ruffled gown with the six-foot train. Rosie has a swath of fuchsia tulle she uses for dress up, and I swear to God that old broad was peeking through our windows and taking notes.

Michael and I felt like two guppies in a dry pond, gulping for air. When we saw two actual friends of ours, we fell on them, we were so relieved to see someone we had anything even remotely in common with.

The music was gorgeous. Really beautiful, and fun. FUN. MTT had his usual delicate touch last night, and he was genuinely having a great time. I know nothing about classical music. Bizarrely (and luckily for me) everything I know I've learned from hearing him conduct and getting mini-lessons either before or afterwards. Michael makes up for my ignorance, however.

But since I'm about as deep as a goldfish bowl, what I really want to talk about is the plastic surgery on display. What is with the bad plastic surgery? I mean, these women are dripping in diamonds, and their faces look like Easter Island statues. You know, that horrible stretched look, with the huge cheekbones and the weird lips? There are a few women I know who have had good plastic surgery -- one of them was sitting next to me last night. Obviously, it's possible to get a face-lift or an eye-whatever without ending up looking like you're standing in a wind tunnel. These broads have all the money in the world, and man, oh man, are they SCARY. Way to push all thoughts of a tummy tuck from my mind. I'll live with my flaws, thank you. I'd rather not end up looking like a Barbie doll that's been hanging out in a microwave oven.