Monday was one of those eventful-yet-uneventful evenings that can be summed up not by the hands we shook or the cheeks we air-kissed but by the number of calories we consumed. Kate and I arrived at Bar 675 for the Guest of a Guest redesign party (after sneaking into the Grey Dog Chelsea’s grand opening fete to sample very bad white wine); slammed margaritas; and shuffled out of a fray between potential reality stars cum socialites (during which I was more star-struck than I should ever admit).
We then took a three-dollar cab to the Standard; ordered (and demolished) way too much food including but not limited to two pieces of salty bread (each), babaganoush, fried potatoes and French fries, cauliflower soup, trout roe, and muddled cranberry cocktails; blathered about our love lives; waxed rhapsodic about our gang of girl friends; preached philosophical about the art of good hostessing; shared bedroom secrets (that we’ll never share again); pushed through another party; and said our goodbyes, at which point I flung myself in a cab and made tracks to my West Side sky castle.
A note on my ensemble: I came straight from the (new albeit temporary) office in a blazer and black shell and no-nonsense black pumps — and also black fishnets and torn cut-off jean shorts. This is the sartorial equivalent of a mullet: business on top, white trash on the bottom. All pieces and jewelry (except for the Abercrombie & Fitch denim) by J. Crew. Please ignore my zucchini-shaped cranium.
Oh! And also! I met Katie Bakes! We laughed awkwardly and said, “So, what’s been up since the last time I saw you on…your blog…”
