Shit dude. I think I’m still dealing with aftershocks from mi Miami vaca. It was that disturbing.
The rain, fine. I dealt. Even when I was up to my ankles. It gave me the opportunity to blog in Starbucks – something which, believe it or not, I’ve never done in the Big Apple. And I suppose my skin was grateful for its lack of sun exposure.
But my mind, Miami, my mind – that is what was corrupted. My poor, innocent, virginal, pure little mind.
Sure I’ve seen people who’ve had plastic surgery. Boatloads. I can’t avoid seeing them – what with Miss Heidi Montag splashing her appallingly puffed up bod on the cover of rag sheets every single week.
Hell, I’ve even been up close and personal with huge fake titties – back in my Bloomingdale’s days. One old biddy forced me into her fitting room cause she “needed my opinion”, then proceeded to drop top and trou asap. ‘Twasn’t pretty, believe you me.
They didn’t move.
In fact, methinks I’m a bit scarred from that. That must be the root of my over-the-top holy shit viewpoint of the unwonderful world that is plastic surgery.
Now, I’m not saying I’m the picture of modesty. Well, maybe I am. I can’t even manage to get completely naked in front of people at the gym. (There’s one woman at Printing House who weighs at least 250 lb’s. She walks around in her birthday suit like a prize peacock, proud as can be. Makes my acid reflux kick in, full throttle.)
So fine, so maybe I am modesty personified. But I’m also self-conscious and have very simple, very divey taste. Therefore I hate to be seen anywhere sceney. Which is why being in the midst of Miami during Super Bowl week was a bit of a nightmarish ordeal.
I think I saw enough fake boobs, stilettos, sugar daddies, old ladies who truly believe they were 22, and bleached-blonde-extensioned-Britney-wannabes to last a lifetime.
Miss Cobb, Mr. Golembiewski, and myself resided at The Sagamore – mere steps from the (shockingly chilly) cerulean waters of South Beach. It was glorious and breathtaking – the view, that is. I would go back to the beach in a heartbeat. The clubs and the people, however, I could totes do without.
It was a Tuesday night – aka Ghostville any other week of the year in every city everywhere. But this was Miami and football’s biggest week. Supa Bizzowl, yizzo! Where’s the party at? Everywhere, apparently.
The Bud Light Hotel was front and center. And while kitschy and novel, it seemed to attract a superfluous amount of riff raff. I daresay my palpitations would have been exacerbated there.
We opted for something more...classy. Well, classy is obviously not the right word. But the Bud Light Hotel? ‘Nuff said. So we walked to The Delano. The ridiculously long line deterred us and we passed by – my companions with a sigh.
I could not get over the sense of dislocation. Of circa 2004 déjà vu. We were NOT bridge and tunnelers. We were NOT in the Meatpacking District. This was NOT NYC.
But it sure as hell felt like it.
Smarty Pants Cobb came up with a way to bypass the seedy looking doormen and their slick little suits. She made reservations for 11:15 at Blue Door (the restaurant inside The Delano). We were in. And my oh my, the floodgates of fakeness were open.
I couldn’t shield my poor little eyes from the influx of plasticine queens. My baby greens darted around the room, unwillingly honing in on everything from D’s to triple E’s. Good lord the silicone on the scene!
Especially this lovely lady in pink. (I wish I coulda snapped more pics of lassies like this...but I somewhat feared for my life. Never know what a dude on roids will do to protect the honor of his plastic princess!)
Faces so full of Botox there was not an expression to be seen; eyebrows raised to such an inflexible and unbendable point they looked positively dubious; lip injections were commonplace. But more omnipresent than anything else were the boobs. The boobs, boobs, BOOBS. Never have I ever been in such close proximity with so many fake, faux, inflated breasteses.
I now feel certain that plastic surgery – namely of a mammary augmentation nature – is a prerequisite for Miami-ites. 9 girls out of 10 had fake ones.
And they sure knew how to flaunt them.
I felt shamefully under-dressed in my white linen sundress – so did Kelly (though she looked adorable per usual), in her simple grey tank and white pants. We stuck out like sore thumbs. Hillbillies. Hicks. Yokels. Country bumpkins trying to hang with the big kahunas in the big expensive hotel.
I just kept reminding myself that I live in New York Goddamn City and (tried) to ignore the stares and glares of judgment. Judgment for my not-skanky-enough duds, my two-seasons-old Target sandals, my extremely unplastic (albeit a little too sunkissed) bod, my beer. Hold the phone – god forbid a girl drinks a BEER.
Some people were so shameless I couldn’t help but blush crimson for them – though I’m sure my feelings of pity and self-consciousness were wasted. They didn’t seem to mind. They paraded their bodacious, silicone-stuffed bods about without a care in the world.
The dresses these chicks wore – or should I say the lack thereof – was unnerving. Mere scraps of acrylic fabric (they simply had to match their nails, duh!), joined together by nada but a few strings. The shoes – well, to call them hooker heels would be the understatement of the century. I would have loved to see at least one of these Chiquitas fall flat on her medically sculpted ass (undoubtedly it happened to at least ten of them).
The makeup, the martinis, the extensions, the excess, the lack of cellulite and abundance of celluloid. Miami, ay dios mio. I heart your beaches, but hate your wannabe “babes”.