This week on our favorite PBS documentary Rich Women Doing Things, the rich women did things. They went and test drove a $3 car for a brand that might have been entirely made up for the purpose of the show all because a hunky auto dealer told them it would be a good idea. They went to visit the editing room of their show on a network no one has ever heard of so that they could watch Alicia Silverstone act out important vignettes from their formative years. They somehow managed to not shriek in absolute abject horror as their doddering husband unbuttoned his shirt halfway so that he could let a tiny (and undeniably adorable) puppy they just rescued from the molding innards of a hoarder’s house nuzzle next to the turkey skin of his completely hairless chest.
That scene with Lisa and Ken at their dog shop is totally nuts. I don’t even care about this dumb lawsuit with the former owner of the Healing Spot or whatever the hell that animal shelter is called. I’m talking about how Lisa and Ken sit around and discuss cloning their dog, Giggy, and then decide it is too expensive in a way that many of us would have the same conversation about a new dining room table. Except theirs is about a legally sketchy, morally dubious, and scientifically unsure possibility of cloning an actual dog with more outfits than fur. Of all the things the rich women did, this was, by far, the absolutely most insane.
I did enjoy when Kyle came to have her dog, Storm (named after the X-Man, I assume), groomed and Lisa never bothered to book her an appointment. This was all so that Lisa could force Kyle to do the washing and drying by herself in a little Lucy-and-Ethel bit that reminded me why I fell in love with this show in the first place. I have a feeling that Lisa thinks that she’s better than Kyle and is doing a lot better job at “producing” this show, but Lisa is always at her best with Kyle. Lisa is like the rainbow sprinkles on top of Kyle’s sundae: Without her, you’d still have a sundae, but with her it’s better. Also, no one wants to eat just sprinkles. That’s grody.
Speaking of grody, I can’t even look at Dorit and her stupid blunt cut wig for even one more second. It just makes me so uncomfortable to sit there and listen to her high-pitched whine and not be able to make her go away. It gives me that awful sensation of being trapped. Watching Dorit is like when you’re being tickled as a kid and you can’t make it stop and you feel powerless and violated and alone. But instead of being tickled, it’s like I’m being force-fed cold dan dan noodles with boogers in them.
The whole being late thing with Teddi is absolutely awful, especially because Dorit has no idea how tone-deaf she appears. I agree with Dorit that Teddi calling and asking her to come early so they could talk is stupid. I mean, just talk on the damn phone. I also hate that Teddi is the kind of Housewife who does the “I don’t want to talk to other women about it, I just want to talk to you” thing. She has no idea what show she sold her soul to be on, now does she?
As for the content of their actual argument, who the hell cares? Dorit was late and won’t apologize and is attacking Teddi for stating the fact that she was late. Doesn’t someone have the email where they set this up? Isn’t there a text confirming the time? Isn’t there a PA with some sort of call sheet where we can just put this to rest and move on with our damn lives instead of fighting about just how late Dorit was? Someone has the receipts. Show us the damn receipts.
I only say this because the way that Dorit refuses to take responsibility for absolutely everything she does disgusts me. She gets in arguments with these women and then refuses to eat just a little bit of crow to make it go away. Then, when these women keep fighting with her so that she’ll take some ownership, she accuses those women of not being able to let anything go. Just look at Pantygate from last year, which would have ended very quickly if Dorit had said, “You know what, maybe I shouldn’t have bought you panties, I’m sorry.”
It was the same when she messed up apologizing to St. Camille of Grammer. She scurried over with her awful wig that is both too long and too short at the same time, like two mullets making the beast with two backs on the crown of her head, and managed to be a jerk while trying to apologizing for calling someone a “fucking cunt” at dinner. First of all, she should have waited until after Camille got her facial at Teddi’s “Glam Circle.” That way she would have been nice and relaxed and forgiving. Instead, Dorit interrupts and then somehow tries to blame her bad behavior on Camille being too sensitive or not being able to take a joke.
But the absolute worst of it all is Dorit getting all pissy about the glass that her rosé was poured in. I mean, Jesus Christ. Who the hell cares? Just drink your wine and shut the hell up. Yes, shutting the hell up also applies to not letting anyone touch your face at a facial party. Then she blames Teddi for the mis-pour, but the cater waiter Devon (I have a feeling his name is Devon) is the one who poured it. How is she going to shade Teddi for something that wasn’t her fault and for not correcting the staff because she didn’t want to embarrass the poor UCLA undergrad?
Dorit’s act of pointing out this mistake — at length and to multiple people — is the type of classlessness that poses as class. That, in one instance, is exactly what I hate about Dorit and her husband PK, a goblin wearing Shailene Woodley’s used Diva Cup as a hat. They want to come across as tasteful and affluent, but by shoving that down everyone’s faces, they come across as nothing but crass. That’s because anyone with real taste, breeding, or manners can see just how craven and misinformed their charade really is. Just wait until next week, when we have to look at PK in a tuxedo, like someone tied a ribbon around a turd and sent it off for its first day at boarding school.
Back at Teddi’s house, the aestheticians were folding up their tables and plugging their sonic steaming machines when a blonde in an ill-advised denim jumpsuit stumbled in on a pair of too-thick clogs. “Are you Josh?” she asked the gnome-like man in the Skin Lab T-shirt. “I was told to ask for Josh.”
“Actually, it’s Joshua,” he said, pronouncing his name like “Josh-oo-wah” and with a slight lisp.
“Am I too late for the facials?” she asked. “I had such a rough day on set, I could really use one.”
“Well, we were packing up,” Joshua said, slightly miffed, but then melted quickly, like a frozen pork chop held under warm tap water. “But none of the women did want our services, so I guess I can spare one.”
“Oh thank God,” she said, slapping her purse, which had three scripts packed into it, down into a chair with a loud plonk. She wriggled her way onto the table, jumpsuit, clogs, and all, and made herself comfortable. As Josh fingered her jawline with just his index and middle fingers, Eileen Davidson let out a giant sigh and felt like all of her weight settled into the table. She closed her eyes and let the mild blackness wash over her as she pondered just where everyone had gone and how the inside of her eyelids looked just like the night sky totally absent of stars.