SMI-YUL-AH!

After a jam-packed Saturday afternoon, I agreed to meet up with MicHELLe at party for Maxim magazine.  It’s a little known fact that MicHELLe used to work for some department store (Sears?), and she claimed that she needed to make up for not getting me to any Fashion Week parties.  Not that it was necessary, but I did rush to get my tailored shirts cleaned for these alleged Fashion parties (when the cheap dry cleaner was closed, so I had to go to one where the guy didn’t know the difference between dry cleaning and laundering... I had to pay over $10 [cash!] for 3 shirts).  So it was good to have an excuse to wear a couple (at the same time).

Anyway, I knew very little about the party in question except that it was being thrown by a gay friend of a friend who knew fabulous, pretty girls.  MicHELLe texted me that she wanted me to meet him at 9.

Me: Can we do 10?

HELLe: …I don’t know for sure that I can get you in later, but we can definitely play it by ear.

Um, play it by ear?  To me, that sounds like me showing up at 10, and MicHELLe being like "sorry."

Me: Is this at a club?

HELLe: A restaurant, but they’re going to be running a door.

Me: Oh my. 

So it’s that kind of party.

I arrived a bit after 9 to find that the party was open bar!  And very close to empty.  I would have said something, but it was open bar.  Like servers were walking around the party with trays of cocktails and not taking tips!  I was too busy sipping and munching to compain.

“Okay, everybody!  SMI-YUL-AH!”

What the fuck was that?!  We turned around to find a 4’11” woman in 8” heels and a black mini dress with an exposed metal zipper.  The look was very Aubrey O’Day with Audrea’s hair (you know, the Latin one from Danity Kane).  

MicHELLe: “I love your dress!”

Aubrey O’No (overjoyed): “Oh, thank you!”

MicHELLe turning to me as Miss Thing walks away: “I hate that dress.”

Me: “Thank you, Regina George!  I thought it was cute; I just wish it were patent leather.  And she were carrying a whip.”

Of course, we start singing the chorus of “Circus”. 

The host of this party was from London and loaded, and one could definitely tell from the lavishness of the party.  He had a whole crew of glammed-up, jet-lagged girls with accents.  We made friends and did the whole gay-meets-girl thing (i.e., loudest corner in the party) as we gulped down drinks and chased down the servers with the soy-chocolate mouse appetizers.  

This guy was by far my favorite of the night (the werewolf, not Missy Elliot).  He's single-handedly eliminated the need for pocket squares!  I later got him to unbutton a bit, and MicHELLe had to practically scrape me off him when I got a glimpse of his Persian rug chest. WOOF!

The rest of the Crew was down in the financial district having drinks at Frat Boy’s 50^th-floor apartment on Gold St (and she looks all shocked when I call her rich).  Around 11:30, MicHELLe and I were on our way to meet them, but Bottomless Pitt texted that everyone else was on their way to Posh.  He had ditched them for Pieces.

MicHELLe and I left the party with a friend of his (we always love a black girl with a British accent) for Posh where we stayed for about an hour before MicHELLe and his girlfriend ditched without seeing the Crew.  I was over it, so I jumped on the train down to the Village.  

Bottomless Pitt?  Not. At. Pieces.

It wasn’t even 2, which was around the time that I got Urban Sprawl's text telling me that everyone was at the Ritz (thanks!).  I had no intention of having such a fabulous night sputter down into such disappointment, so I left for Chi Chi's. 

Did I mention I ran into a guy I dated briefly and ended up at the Hangar’s late-night happy hour before scarfing down a 2300-calorie diner breakfast the guy treated me to?  Yeah.

I didn't make it to Chi Chi's, but click here to check out the time I took the whitest guy I know.


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