Fancy Ladies

The Thinking Fashionista was at a chi-chi event a couple of weeks ago and she and a friend were talking about the women that seem to be under every rock in this part of the world -- the ones who've made their deal with the devil and have artificially unlined faces, size 0 wardrobes, and houses that look like they fell out of Architectural Digest. The friend calls them Fancy Ladies, and I was at a Fancy Lady's house last night for a Fancy Lady party.

The house was gorgeous inside and out, and overlooked a mountain range. Everything in the house was white or beige, with artfully antique cabinetry and chandeliers. It was fabulous. It also looked like no one lived there. This particular FL has two children in elementary school, so I wonder where they live, as every stick of furniture (though stick seems an unappreciative term) was generously upholstered in spotless cream silk/linen something. She did mention they had built two guest houses, so maybe one was for the kids.

Anyway. The women at the party spanned the range from other FL's to those I like to call Normal People (i.e. me) so it was an interesting bunch.

The Thinking Fashionista posits that these women who marry millionaires and have the artificial enhancements are actually precariously positioned. They marry for money, the men marry for beauty and/or they both marry for connections, not so different from medieval Europe, but (possibly) with fewer tapestries. A change in fortune, a change of whim, and these couples crumble like the Southwestern sand their bank accounts are built on.

It's amusing to me, in my own personal disloyalty, that I'll sit in these houses and wish they were mine. I'm not sure I could take the strings that come with these relationships, but I'd still like a surfeit of cream silk sofas in my travertine living room with cream plaster walls. I'll covet the lifestyle just a bit, and feel intimidated for a while, and then something will happen to snap me back.

Last night what brought me to reality was watching this impossibly well-maintained woman, who was very clearly anorexic (trust me, BTDT) talk about how hungry she was as she urged us toward the dining room. I realized as I walked through this dreamlike house that the only spots of color were clear glass apothecary jars of brightly colored candy. Tootsie roll pops, and Smarties, and Skittles, and peppermints, all behind glass, all just out of reach.