It's Christmas Time in the city! I've been looking forward to this since the day I first dreamed about moving her. Christmas is a magic time in New York City, I was convinced. People rush around with carrier bags from all the best stores, wearing darling, brightly-colored, matching hat and scarf sets with their lovely double-breasted 3/4 length coats and supple leather knee-high boots with heels that never made anyone take a nose dive into a snow bank after slipping on a patch of ice. No matter how many times I found this happening to me back in the midwest, I was certain that New York had some sort of magical force field around it which kept everyone upright no matter how horrendous the weather and the slippery the sidewalks.
Then I moved here and learned that the magical force field had a name. That name? Hollywood.
Sure, it's easy to stay upright when your filming on a soundstage in sunny LA. Oh, wow, yes, I am freezing, but my darling little pink peacoat is plenty warm enough (Don't fall for that one. Some girl in my office showed up convinced that she was going to make it through the winter with just such a coat, because that was what she'd seen on TV. Oh, honey. Much as I'm generally not a good person and don't mind seeing idiots get what's coming to them, she was so earnest, I couldn't let her go. I just pointed her in the direction of the Century 21 winter wear department and tried not to laugh.) Oh gee, look at all this slush on the sidewalk that will never be shoveled or removed, but that won't ruin my shoes or soak the bottom third of my trousers because I have Production Assistants pretty much carrying me around this soundstage to keep me looking just as pretty as a picture!
In real life? I soak my foot in a puddle just leaving my apartment buidling. Great, now my socks are wet, despite the winter-guard I sprayed on my boots (waste of $8.50, right there. Thanks a lot, Duane Reade.) I nearly slip and have to grab the handrail for dear life climbing wet, slushy stairs out of the subway. I walk underneath the ONE tree on Seventh Avenue just as it decides to let loose all of the water droplets that have been building up on its leaves. I stop short to avoid narrowly trampling a group of asian tourists giving the peace sign in front of the Empire State building, and wind up wearing a lovely splash of my morning coffee on the front of my coat (thank goodness it's black! No pretty colors for the smart midwesterner!) By the time I get to the office, I look like I've trudged through Opposite-Day Hell (you know, where everything is reversed and Hell is cold and snowy and full of slushy sidewalks, and fire and brimstone are actually starting to sound pretty nice by comparison.)
And yet I'm supposed to relate to pretty little Carrie Bradshaw in her weird pink tutu and feel camaraderie as she gets splashed by the bus in the opening of SATC? No thanks. I know the truth about those Production Assistants there to help her stay cute. And until I get my own PAs, I'll just continue to say "No thanks, Hollywood, you lying, lying liar."
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