April Snow Showers

In a prime example of either global warming, weird weather conditions in general, or really bad luck for choosing a good time to move to Seattle - our "little weather system that could" served up a delicious fat-free helping of snow and hail last night. Now Santa Feans, let me tell you: there is snow and there is snow. It has been well-documented that I do not like to drive in the mass of white and ice. No, no, I do not like this, Sam I Am! However, even I have to admit that the fairy tale snow of Santa Fe - falling softly over the adobe rooftops of the City-ette like the wonderful last sentence of that James Joyce story The Dead - is lovely. The bluest sky, the whitest ground, O how the Tourists Revel. It's a little different around here, where the color palette is gray with a tiny helping of green, if you see my meaning.

So an April snowstorm around here - falling on a Friday evening and on Passover, no less - was hailed with the same enthusiasm as say, another plague. ("Wait, you said that the death of the first born son was the last one. Okay, not pleasant but we dealt with that, but snow? Snow? God  I don't like to get on you, because I know, I know you have your mysterious ways and all - but that is just going a little too far. Seriously, Dude. Not cool.")

Dogs need to be walked as birds gotta fly, so I took the beasties out into the muck yesterday. As I was crossing over to the Lake, a car stopped to let me by with two frattish looking boys in front. They actually shouted at me out the window: "Nice ass!" Let me ask you friends, what is up with Seattle? There is nothing more startling than having a frat boy shout nice ass at you in your calm, residential neighborhood. So if you're reading this, Mr. Frat Boys - thanks, I do have a nice ass. It is also encased in jeans older than you.

You know that painting Christina's World? No? You can look it up.

Which brings me to my current obsession: the sadistic TLC show "Ten Years Younger." Since I've been under house arrest this week, I've spent many feverish evenings watching this incredible program, usually thinking: "Am I hallucinating? Are they doing this for reals?" Apparently they are. Here's how it works. The victim is placed in a sound-proof box in what looks like Times Square. Crowds of tourists walk by after enjoying their delicious Hard Rock Cafe chicken wings, and sprout off about the age of the person in the box - who is standing there in the dumpiest clothes on earth, looking as if they were about to sit through Cats or face a firing squad. But they don't just say "52" and then walk on to the half-price TKTS booth. Oh no. First they give a detailed explanation of why the victim is looking rode hard and put up wet. "The teeth are yellow," the helpful tourist in their Kansas JayHawks sweatshirt puts in. "They have wrinkles. The hair is blah." (At this point, I always want the sound-proofing to fail, and the poor elderly-looking victim to spring from the booth and ask rather legitimately in my opinion: "What the hell do you know? You're wearing a pastel sweatshirt.")

After literally 100 people get to say how decrepit you look, the victim is released from the box and sent to the Table of We'll Make it Better. A "stylist" with the most maniacal curly hair I've seen since a high school production of Annie, tells the poor fool that the average age guessed was....much higher than their real age! Shocker, I know. Then, in my favorite moment, the curly haired satyr asks: "How old are you really?" There is a breath and a pause, as if the victim has to really think about it. (How old am I? Hmmm.) I'm.....(pause. breath. tearful look)...32.

32, the stylist repeats as if he had no idea. Why people guessed your age as 40. 40! (Does quick math). Why that is 8 years older than you are. How does that make you feel?

Wonderful, the victim responds. I love that a bunch of random strangers walked by and commented on my wrinkles and bad taste. Let's do it again!

Then the victim tells the sad story that got them to that horrible point of (gasp!) looking older, because apparently you can get the death penalty in California and Manhattan for this. Usually it's a combination of having children, no money and no time. There you go. Kids and poverty, friends. Sell those kids now and save your looks. That's the hidden message of this program.

At any rate, victim is dashed off to have a combination of botox, fillers, peels, makeup, new clothes and - for some reason I have yet to understand - veneers and Zoom whitening. What is this fascination with super-white teeth all of a sudden? Teeth are not supposed to blind. At the end of all this futzing around, the victim - who typically is dolled up to look like a downgrade version of a Dancing With the Stars contestant - is once again placed in the box. But now they are - looking younger! Yes! The guessed age is perhaps 33 and not 52. Mission accomplished. No clue as to how they keep up with the botox and peels and highlights after though.

How much do you want that free botox to stand in a box on Times Square as part of a fun family outing on a trip to New York while strangers insult you? You'd have to want it pretty badly, wouldn't you? In the most cynical fashion, the show confirms that beauty and youth are just things you can buy if you want it enough. Speaking as someone who has (at least in the past, I don't know about now) always looked a little younger than I am, I think it has a lot more to do with sunscreen, not wearing mommy jeans and using a touch of mascara.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back into the box.