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Tuesday, March 23, 2004

When my little sister and her friend Kate were in town last week we all went to the Benefit makeup bar to have a morning of beauty. Since the girls only had $1500 worth of NARS products between them (that is not an exaggeration), I figured they could use more cosmetics so we went to Benefit to load up.

Elizabeth and I spent most of our time at Benefit having a deep and meaningful discussion with the very personable gay makeup stylist about who was destined to be America's Next Top Model. I have incredibly louche taste in television and our entire household has been transfixed by this show about 10 girls desperately competing to win a modeling contract, definitely a new low in reality TV. Anyway, we debated at length the merits and flaws of each remaining girl: Shandi's rap sheet , Yowana's strangely loose skin, Mercedes' fortitude in the face of a potentially life threatening autoimmune disorder.

We marveled at Shandi's scandalous sexual indescretion with the Italian model, and all had a good laugh about how embarrassingly easy American girls are. One time a girl I met at a wedding who told me about how she was staying at a youth hostel in Florence before she was to begin her semester abroad. She met this other American girl and they decided to go to Rome. The girl seemed sane and friendly and they were having a good time together until they got lost in Rome and the girl approached a policeman to ask for directions. While her travel companion was getting directions my friend consulted her Lonely Planet, and when she looked up from the book she was startled to see her friend making out with the policeman on the steps of a church they were standing on, like they were all in some bad music video, a Mentos commerical, or a porno. My friend was shocked but she was sheltered and afraid to go off by herself so she tagged along reluctantly to dinner with the girl and her new police boyfriend. The two inamoratos were all over each other the entire meal, but the policeman thoughtfully brought along one of his friends for her, a middle aged, obviously married man, who spoke little English and stared hungrily at my friend while he made passes at her throughout the entire extremely uncomfortable meal. The girl then ditched my friend for the night to go off with the policeman and my friend sensibly got right on the next train back to Florence, and, now with her internal skank detector sharpened, became a little wiser from then on about her choices in travel companions.

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