Let he who is without sin cast the first stone…

I like Cashmere Mafia. There. I said it. Point, jeer, get all Project Runwayish and question my taste level. I can’t help it. Yes, Caitlin’s the worst lesbian in the history of ever and no, I don’t buy that Alicia would let her off the hook for sleeping with a dude. And Juliet? I’m fully aware that she’s a porcelain robot trying to understand these foreign things called “emotions.” But I kind of love her for warming her frostiness up to a comfy 72 degrees around her unhappy teenage daughter. Sure, Lucy Liu prances around like she’s going as Carrie Bradshaw for Halloween, but she’s just as gay for Jamie as Frank and Liz Lemon. How can I hate a show that took 30 Rock’s used cougar bait and gave him a job as a manny? I can’t. And I can’t begrudge Zoe the scared glint she gets around her suddenly tangible work husband. Because it’s Max Medina. And she probably never got over Lorelai Gilmore dumping him either. What’s more, I buy their friendships. Even if the rest of their candy coated existence is beautifully foreign to me, I understand the bond between our four supergirl careerists.

That’s something I can’t yet say for Lipstick Jungle. That’s right; no Cashmere Mafia discussion would be complete without a little Lipstick Jungle pontification. Lipstick hasn’t had as long as Cashmere to reel me in, but so far I don’t understand how these women became friends. And while Cashmere is pure gloss, Lipstick looks almost Friday Night Lights-realistic in comparison. I mean, Nico has a piece of exercise equipment in her bedroom. Everyone on Cashmere Mafia appears to have been granted killer bods by the perfection fairy. Normally I would praise such realism, but let’s be honest; these shows are not a reflection of true life. Cashmere seems to accept that it’s lifestyle porn (thank you, Tim) while Lipstick has a strange patina, like reality (or maybe just the ‘90s) trying inexplicably to push its way to the surface.