Props to Glark for filling in for me last week. This is the longest break I've ever had during the regular season. I wonder if I still remember how to write a recap. Well, we'll see.
Previously on The West Wing: Babish and C.J. ran down the many ways in which Abby broke laws and contributed to the MS coverup.
We're outside the First Bedroom looking in the window through a gauzy curtain. Jed's sitting in a wing chair reading a newspaper. He's wearing a tuxedo, but his jacket's off. Abby's bustling around the room in a long brown satiny gown with translucent sleeves in a gold mesh-y fabric, which, unfortunately, doesn't suit her very well. It's a gorgeous dress, but it emphasizes all the wrong aspects of her figure; it could probably only be carried off by a much taller and probably thinner woman. I'm sure it was meant to make her look movie-star glamorous, but instead it comes off as matronly. There's too much fabric, (especially swaddled around her butt), it's cinched and pinched in all the wrong places, and it just does nothing for her. I think it's supposed to be all very John Singer Sargent but the effect is more Elizabeth II. Her hair is straight, but it has a rough, straw-like texture and line to it that is not fetching. ["She's got that same intentionally-split-endy effect going on that Amy's been saddled with, like, it's not 1981, and neither of them is Joan Jett, so put down the razors, hair people." -- Wing Chun] I don't get it, because I think Stockard Channing is very attractive and I've seen her look fabulous many times, but it's almost never the case on this show for some reason. And I'm not inclined to blame the costume people, because they usually manage to make Donna and C.J. look stunning in evening wear on this show. What gives? Anyway, Abby asks Jed if he likes her earrings; like any man who's been partnered with a woman for more than a few minutes and who has two brain cells to rub together, he replies, without looking, that he does. She, of course, would actually like him to look at them. He ascertains, without looking up, that they aren't new, she's worn them before, so he loves them. She abandons the typically fruitless female endeavour of soliciting worthwhile fashion input from her husband. (Believe me, I've been down this road with Professor Frink many a time. And I'd complain, but how can you complain about a guy who genuinely thinks -- however misguidedly -- that you look perfect no matter what you're wearing, and therefore has no useful critique to offer?)