Squawk Radio
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Eloisa adds a Squawk Shopping trip to Geralyn's
A few days ago I got an invitation to a cocktail party in New York city, given by Jane Friedman. Now, for those of you who don't know, Ms. Friedman is the President and CEO of Harper Collins Worldwide. And the cocktail party is being held in a swanky 5th Avenue restaurant. YIKES!
"Honey," I call to my husband, "do you want to go to a cocktail party?"
"Do I have to?"
"Would you prefer to go to the square dance fund raiser at the kids' school?"
That settled that question.
I call the RSVP line. A kindly recording tells me that my invitation is untransferable, and I can't bring anyone with me. Oops. I guess my husband will be doing the dosey-do without me.
I call my editor but apparently editors aren't invited. James Rollins is, though. Anyone else read him? He's the only boy adventure fiction writer whose work I like--no, adore. In other words, top brass are coming.
Freak! I need something to wear! Something that will make me look like a powerful, successful writer who often goes to cocktail parties on 5th Avenue. I don't know about you guys, but the last cocktail party dress I bought was black and above the knee, and that was the 90's. I definitely don't want to show up at the party like the ghost of Barbara Cartland. I'll have to be the standard-bearer for all the squawkers. Plus, I'm going to have to enter that party alone. I find myself thinking seriously about Botox.
Instead of facial treatments, last night I headed out to New Jersey Gardens--home of the largest Neiman Marcus outlet store on the East Coast. My friend and I grabbed armloads of dresses. I struggled into one after another. Don't these people know that if you can afford a couture dress (albeit in an outlet), you're too old to want to wear spagetti straps and an a-symmetrical scarf hem? I tried on a black dress with pleating in the front that looked like nothing more than a vagina (I swear). I wiggled into a white square dress with weird cut-outs that displayed my armpits to the world. I tried on a green slinky 1940s number imprinted with Chinese hats.
Finally...finally (!) I found a beautiful brown dress--just below the knee, gorgeous little cutouts around a wide neck. And when I got up to the counter the woman said: "Oh, couture Carmen Marc Valvo (never heard of him)...30% off!" Came home in glory and read Artemis Fowl to child, imagining myself breezing into that restaurant in my couture Carmen dress.
Then I remembered that I have to walk into that party alone. And that I need shoes! More to come...
"Honey," I call to my husband, "do you want to go to a cocktail party?"
"Do I have to?"
"Would you prefer to go to the square dance fund raiser at the kids' school?"
That settled that question.
I call the RSVP line. A kindly recording tells me that my invitation is untransferable, and I can't bring anyone with me. Oops. I guess my husband will be doing the dosey-do without me.
I call my editor but apparently editors aren't invited. James Rollins is, though. Anyone else read him? He's the only boy adventure fiction writer whose work I like--no, adore. In other words, top brass are coming.
Freak! I need something to wear! Something that will make me look like a powerful, successful writer who often goes to cocktail parties on 5th Avenue. I don't know about you guys, but the last cocktail party dress I bought was black and above the knee, and that was the 90's. I definitely don't want to show up at the party like the ghost of Barbara Cartland. I'll have to be the standard-bearer for all the squawkers. Plus, I'm going to have to enter that party alone. I find myself thinking seriously about Botox.
Instead of facial treatments, last night I headed out to New Jersey Gardens--home of the largest Neiman Marcus outlet store on the East Coast. My friend and I grabbed armloads of dresses. I struggled into one after another. Don't these people know that if you can afford a couture dress (albeit in an outlet), you're too old to want to wear spagetti straps and an a-symmetrical scarf hem? I tried on a black dress with pleating in the front that looked like nothing more than a vagina (I swear). I wiggled into a white square dress with weird cut-outs that displayed my armpits to the world. I tried on a green slinky 1940s number imprinted with Chinese hats.
Finally...finally (!) I found a beautiful brown dress--just below the knee, gorgeous little cutouts around a wide neck. And when I got up to the counter the woman said: "Oh, couture Carmen Marc Valvo (never heard of him)...30% off!" Came home in glory and read Artemis Fowl to child, imagining myself breezing into that restaurant in my couture Carmen dress.
Then I remembered that I have to walk into that party alone
Eloisa James, 8:48 AM
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