“Why are you dripping on my bagel?” Daniel Meade, editor extraordinaire if not just a lucky dude born into his job, asks a half wet Betty. Good thing her clothes most likely aren’t dry clean only. Before I answer the plaguing question of why, in fact, Betty is dripping on his bagel, I’d like to point out yet another one of Betty’s colorful, albeit, matriarchal outfits. Really if I showed it to my 87 year old grandmother, she’s say, “Mm. No thanks. Makes me look old and frumpy.” She’d probably swear a few times in there too, but I’m paraphrasing. This point is this: I worked in fashion. And I was definitely the fish out of water my first day, much like Betty. My carefully selected first day outfit could’ve given Betty’s a run for her money especially if you take into account the fact that my mom insisted I wear panty hose… under my open toe sandals. (I hear this look is actually in now, but the hose have to be opaques and the shoes? God help you if there aren’t chic and Chanel.) Also because my boss kept insisting I had to take a drug test which I was more than happy to do. Well, drug test never came so I brought it up and coworkers erupted in laughter while Sam (my real life version of Marc) says, “Honey, this is fashion. Drug tests consist of identifying by taste and smell.” But you know how long it took me to change my clothes, overcharge my credit card and burn my panty hose til I knew they were condemned to burn in hell for eternity for what they put me through? One day. One. But to be fair to Betty, my experience was a summer internship. Hers is hopefully a long running serial, and well a flower can’t bloom unless you plant the seeds first I suppose. And hence with that cliché analogy let’s get back to why someone tried to water Betty the seedling. My first instinct was to go all conspiracy theory on Mode and accuse the offices of being rigged with hidden cameras for just this kind of situation. You know, chubby girl about to eat carbs. Red alert! Girl with bread! Sound the alarms, activate the sprinklers! Douse her and maybe she will melt! Turns out my theory was wrong… maybe this is why the Department of Homeland security refuses take my letters seriously. In reality a fire erupted upstairs in a trashcan, setting off the emergency sprinklers and soaking Betty, bagel, and all of Sophia Reyes’s NYW offices So Betty returns to Daniel, hands him the sopping bagel, wipes off her mascara- ridden face, drips, skulks, and squeaks away.
Just then Daniel spies a wet Sophia, and the effect is much more enticing than a wet Betty. Apparently her clothes are dry clean only because her shirt appears to have shrunk and popped a button with her mamarios perilously in balance. With the great carb-induced flood of ’06 (I still like this theory) Sophia’s team from NYW must move downstairs and invade Daniel’s conference room the way the Spanish invaded Portugal in 1820 (too soon?). And Daniel, much like the Portuguese, is not happy. Not make matters worse, Sophia wants Betty’s sagacious opinion on her newest article entitled “Sexaholic.” This is just an assumption, but I’m going to agree with Betty when she tells Sophia she doesn’t have the qualifications to give an opinion on this particular topic. I’m sure she could conjugate the sentences, find some excessive commas, but the subject matter? Probably Betty’s forte. Daniel is immediately jealous and beckons his assistant to come hither. And after some attractive and not so attractive pouting from Daniel and Betty respectively, Daniel decides to give Betty a real assignment! She’ll be reviewing the newest, trendiest, greenest-purplest-reddest hotel in Soho. She’s ecstatic in that bright eyed, bushy haired, Betty way. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that her hotel savoir faire is on point with her, ahem, sexaholic expertise. But knowing our Betty, she will shine like the tops of her metal braces (pre- blue rubber band application each morning of course.)
In other offices around Mode, Wilhelmina must woo the billionaire owner of Beau-Mart (can you guess the spoof? It’s a tough one!) in attempt to get advertising money. So she must trade in her St. John suits for the Beau-Mart garb that looks like whatever material it’s made of is highly combustible. But helpfully, Betty recommends the Kelly Clarkson line because all the waistbands are made with elastic. Ha! Wil looks like she is going to die, but not before she kills Betty in a sordid high fashion- low prices murder- suicide. She meets Ted Labeau, the good ol’ Texan with advertising money oozing from his spurs and oil wells. And for all of her and Marc’s attempts at faux Texas affinities, (my favorite being Marc pretending to have gone to UT and giving the “hang loose” sign as he says, go Texas!), Ted and Wil bond over their troublesome teens. I think the WB, er, CW, is attempting a spin off as we speak.
Hilda is still hell-bent on getting the money for her father’s lawyer, so he can naturalize to the states. And she decides to get it from Santos, Justin’s rogue, but really good- looking father. He takes out a rolled up wad of cash, half the amount Hilda needs and tells her he’ll give her the rest when he gets to sees Justin. Hilda has no choice but to agree.
And as these story lines weren’t enough to fill your Vegas sized buffet appetite, Daniel and Sophia finally get to know each other better, in the biblical sense. He studies up on her after presuming her “Sexoholics” article was about him. So they do what any two editors would do in this situation of miscommunication: Ride off on her hog, play a game of seduction in the form of billiards, and have sex in the photo booth after Sophia confesses the article was about her. Match made in heaven!
But back to Betty, so just calm down, check your pulse, and pretend the thought of Salma Hayek taking off her shirt in a photo booth doesn’t turn you on. Betty gets to her geometric and brightly colored hotel room and seems instantly smitten. It’s not hard to see why, the room’s color scheme matches Betty’s clothes. But I love how the wardrobe team put her in a white robe for this, because otherwise the show would probably have to put some MPAA-issued warning in the opening credits or risk lawsuits from sudden seizures and blindness from the viewers. I mean, it’s like Tokyo and Vegas got drunk together, threw up, and out came this hotel. While she gets to work, and by that I mean checks out the hotel’s services in the form of Sven, the masseuse, Walter buzz kill boyfriend shows up to surprise her. And surprise! He starts whining immediately. All I can do is pretend Daniel and Sophia are still getting it on, Marc is trying on Wilhelmina’s clothes and shoes, and Justin is doing a tap dance routine from “Bring in the Noise, Bring in the Funk” just to get through the Walter scenes. But the scenes go on as Betty takes Walter to the hotel’s restaurant. Now, here’s where I have a problem suspending my disbelief. Betty knows well enough to make Walter buy a button down shirt, because his t-shirt will not be on par with this restaurant. But her prom dress from 1953 is perfectly suitable? Are her glasses not strong enough? Does she not see what other women are wearing around the water cooler? And then she carries her giant patchwork satchel as if it were a dainty subtle clutch that compliments her understated dress befittingly. Please. If Betty is as smart as we’re supposed to believe she is, this Cinderella on acid apparel would not be on her body. But I forgive the producers, writers, powers that be because America Ferrera is really damned charming, and I’m a sucker for charming. Even if it comes in powder blue puff sleeves.
As the food is served from the tasting menu, Betty and Walter are punished with air, foam, and gelee edibles. Let the whining resume! Betty, continuing her assessment of the hotel asks Walter his opinion of the food. “Would you say that ravaged your inquisitive pallet or induced an orgasmic explosion of scintillating sensations on your taste buds?” Even worse than hearing Walter whine is imagining any kind of orgasmic explosion from him. Of course he hates the food and wants a burger. This is when I go to my happy place and Justin beings his first number in A Chorus Line and Sophia and Daniel are making beautiful little future editor babies. Betty gets fed up with Walter (finally! I mean, if the cheating didn’t get you, something else close to your heart should! Food!) Walter whines, “I don’t like Betty from Mode, I like Betty from Queens.” And Betty tells him “Don’t be fooled by the braces that I got! I’m still, I’m still Betty from the block.” But what’s the difference, it’s still the same girl in the same dress! And he cheated! Sorry, my wounds don’t heal as quickly as Betty’s. Walter storms off and I say good riddance. Go get yourself Plinko’ed in Atlantic City where you belong! Now Betty can enjoy her lamb’s brains and courgette in peace… and blue taffeta.
Meanwhile Hilda waits for Santos to show. When he finally does, Justin is asleep and Santos is bloody… and hot. Now I shouldn’t say this because I don’t want the ramifications of illegal gambling (Santos’s vice of choice) to seem sexy the way smoking and underage drinking are, but boy is HOT. He tells Hilda the money he gave her was owed to his bookie. So Hilda invites him back over for Thanksgiving. (Thank you producers for making Santos more than a day player. I take back all, well half, the bad things I said about Walter).
Betty leaves the hotel and brings Walter the burger that he so sorely wanted. Of course it’s half-eaten, but I’m still proud of Betty. I think it showed a lot of restraint on her part not to eat the entire thing. gives Walter a burger half- eaten. They reconcile dangit and I’m left ruefully wishing Betty gave Henry from accounting the chance he deserved. (February sweeps, writers? Please?)
Back at the homestead, Hilda tells Justin she has a surprise for him and asks him to guess who is coming for Thanksgiving dinner. And best line of the entire episode, an exuberant Justin exclaims “Martha Stewart?! I won the contest!” Ha! Brilliant. Shows his future fabulousness and current naïveté all at once. Because we all know Martha ain’t going to Queens. I don’t even think Rachel Ray is going to Queens. Martha hasn’t been to Queens since Santa Claus has been to Jerusalem. But most importantly, this whole set up leaves me salivating for next week’s episode more so than the tryptophan-induced stupor I’m going to get from turkey next week.
The next day at Mode, Betty gives Daniel her article, chock full of Betty. And he loves it. But it doesn’t fit Mode. Their readers are not going for the every girl angle. Don’t worry Betty, I hear they’re taking applications at O Magazine. Betty takes it on the chin and retreats to the bathroom. Sophia, like the dues-ex-machinas that she was brought on to play, shows up and gives Betty a pep talk (and also asks to see her braces, which I really think she was being bitchily sarcastic about because she has to have some fun right?) And then she tells Betty she is running the article in her magazine, and gives her a nice smack on the ass. She wasn’t kidding about that sexaholic thing, eh? But yay for Betty! Oh, and Sophia tells Daniel she has a boyfriend. Yay for Sophia!
The episode was jam packed with hilarity, clichés, and tackiness, these are a few of my favorite things. But I still had room for more Justin and Marc who were sadly under used this week. However, fret not. Next week’s Thanksgiving episode promises to have more going on than on one of Betty’s blouses. So stay tuned!