Ahhh . . . Mad Men . . .

Last night was the season premier of Mad Men, one of TV's best clothes shows. The stories ain't bad, either. You can read a synopsis of the episode here.

And after one episode, I:

1) Hate Betty even more than I hated her last season;

2) Love Betty's new mother-in-law;

3) Can't decide whether Don Draper's blind date was played by a lousy actress or the character was supposed to be that phony;

4) Still wonder what the hell the other senior partners in Don's advertising firm do;

5) Still wonder how Sally, Betty the bitch's daughter, will act out when the time comes? (Are you going to San Francisco, baby? Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair: clothes optional.)

6) Want to see some Mod fashion;

7) Want to see more Joan;

8) Don't want to see some ho riding Don Draper (Jon Hamm) like he was a rocking horse while slapping him around; I want to do it my own damn self.

Carry on . . .

The rich and famous travel different from you and me . . .

The Fug Girls recently posted this picture of Victoria Beckham in an airport, just off a plane and looking like she had just stepped from her dressing room after 8 hours of sleep and 2 hours of intense grooming. (Her new figure, sans ridiculous breast implants, is incredibly chic, no?) Anyhoo, Jessica attributed her remarkably fresh appearance upon deplaning to some kind of uniquely "Posh" magic. But based on my experience, I think that, as in most things, being rich and famous goes a long way way toward allowing one to rise above the messy and uncomfortable.

About a month ago I was waiting in line at customs in the glamorous Newark Airport. I had just flown in from Munich, an eight hour flight in economy class on a packed Airbus (a uniquely uncomfortably aircraft). It was 95 degrees in Newark. I felt like crap, no doubt I looked like crap in my wrinkled, bland-as-possible middle-aged lady traveling uniform. The people around me also looked tired, wrinkled, and crabby -- except one, who stood head and shoulders above the crowd and whose golden head gleamed in the florescent airport light. It was Gwyneth Paltrow.

Her hair, worn up in a topknot of curls, looked like it had just been done and her skin glowed (fyi, she's prettier in person). There wasn't a wrinkle in her striped oxford shirt. As she walked away I could see that she was wearing grey skinny jeans, the kind that make me think "yeast infection," although I'm sure that the pH balance of Ms. Divinely Macrobiotic Paltrow is never disturbed by anything as common as tight pants. I couldn't see her shoes, but they had to have very high heels because I'm not exagerating when I say that Gwyneth stood a head taller than everyone around her, and according to IMDB, she's only 5'8" tall. (Me? Well, I was wearing loose flat sandals over elastic stockings to counteract the effect of eight hours of economy immobility.) Gwyneth may have been carrying a handbag (her minions, who must have flown economy as well based on their appearances, had closed in by that point) but she certainly wasn't schlepping assorted roller bags and trying to juggle passports and paper like the rest of us peasants in line.

What's the lesson in all this? Just that all it takes is enough money to afford a first class ticket, hairdressers, facialists, nutritionists, what ever you call those people who do colonics, designer clothing, minions and more minions, and you could look hot getting off a plane, too. No magic involved. Easy.

And speaking of Gwyneth Paltrow, one of the best TV moments of the year was on The Real Housewives of New York, when Kelly Bensimmon, in the middle of her meltdown, screamed at Bethenny Frankel: "Why would you attack my friend Gwyneth?" And Bethenny replied, "Gwyneth who?" Yeah, Bethenny couldn't believe that Kelly knew her either . . .