I Put Cinco de Mayo to Shame

When I was younger, I promised myself I wouldn’t lead a boring life. My life is far from boring; actually, I would define it borderline bipolar most weeks. Being a writer gives me access to all kinds of events—fashion events, charity events, and on a blue moon real estate parties. I was invited by a friend to attend a charity comedy/auction event sponsored by a cancer organization at the Metropolitan Pavilion on West 18th street. 

My friend is a morning talk show host for a radio show here in New York, and was covering the event for his show. I was invited to cover the fashion and drink a lot of cocktails. “I’m meeting Julianne Moore,” is what he texted me the day prior, hoping I would accept the invitation with that plan in mind. I said I would go, not because Julianne would be there (who cares?), but because I was expecting to see some great fashion.I had been to the Met Pavilion on a number of occasions during fashion week in February, and was excited to go back now that the weather was in my favor.

Prior to the event, I had called my panel of judges to help me get ready: my ex roommate and my gay best friend. My roommate curled my hair while my gay criticized my bra for not doing its job properly. Long story short, I looked pretty damn good for a charity event. I wore a Rachel Roy mesh shoulder dress, grey stilettos, and a structured jacket with a black vintage belt with silver hardware details around the smallest part of my waist. (I didn’t put my heels on right away; for those of you who don’t know, Dr. Scholls has these roll up ballet flats that have saved my life (feet) on many occasions. It’s the best $9 I’ve ever spent.) 

We arrived at the event at 6 p.m., at which time I looked around the room (NOT looking for Julianne Moore) and realized this was where the Odilon and Park Choon Moo Fall/Winter 2011 collections were presented during fashion week.  There has to be at least one person in this room I can profile on my blog, I thought to myself. I stood there as my friend checked us in, looking around the room. Usually when I go to an event, the first thing I notice is people’s shoes. That is usually a good indicator of whether I am in the right place or whether I should stay no longer than 10 minutes. Were we at the wrong event? Not one heel was over two inches! It’s okay, at least I’m the best looking here, I tried to persuade myself. I looked around and made eye contact with a guy who looked like a balding long-grey-hair-tied-in-a-ponytail Terry Richardson. Without hesitation, I made my way over to the open bar.

Thoughts aside, the fashion was atrocious, but the cause was worth it; so I stayed. We were seated in the middle of the room on a small round table for four that was set up with plates, silverware, and appetizers. I punched my friend in the arm, There’s FOOD here? Why did you TELL me? What’s wrong with you? He told me he got word that Julianne would not be there as she was filming in Baltimore, but Chelsea Handler’s people were there, along with Mad TV people and Seinfeld writers. This is not my industry; therefore the amount of crap I give is none. I wanted to see glitter and glam and jewels and some drugged up drunk socialites walking around. What did I care about Mad TV? I don’t even watch television!

He mentioned something about the two other people who were sitting on our table. “I hope they’re not crazy or anything,” he said. We seated ourselves as the first comedian was getting ready to take the stage. I was nervous to see who we were sitting with as well, and began to eat my Mozzarella balls while everyone began taking their seats. The lady came first; she sat in front of me and mentioned that her husband would be there soon. She was mid-50’s, very kind, and looked a little drunk. As I picked up my fork and knife to slice the pickled red peppers, I was interrupted by a slender man taking a seat next to me. “This is my husband, Ray*.”

My hand was halfway to my mouth when it stopped. I looked up and saw Terry look-a-like with his thinning hair in a low ponytail. This WOULD happen to me. The creepiest man in the entire room was sitting next to me. I took a big, long gulp of my Frenchy.He didn’t speak. Not one word to me or his wife the entire time, but he did shake my friend’s hand. We introduced ourselves (his wife doing all of the talking). She asked me where I was from. “I’m originally from Armenia,” I said, “but my parents live in CT and I live in Long Island.” She picked up her glass of white wine and screamed, literally screamed, “WELCOME TO AMERICA! THE BEST COUNTRY ON EARTH” as she toasted me. I’ve been here for 15 years, but thanks! I obviously didn’t say that out of fear of embarrassing myself further, so I took a bigger gulp of my Frenchy, staring at her statue husband from the corner of my eye. This is so weird, I thought.  

The next hour consisted of the comedian, who was hilarious, and a video about where all of the proceeds from the event will go, which made our drunk lady friend cry. Her sister had passed away two months ago from nursing home neglect, and of course seeing her cry made me want to cry. The live auction had just started, and she really wanted to go on the trip to Africa they were auctioning off. She got her paddle ready, and as she was getting ready to bid, her husband leaned in, and whispered something to her. Whatever he said must have ticked her off, because she screamed back at him “YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING! SHUT UP! SHUT! UP!” He whispered something again, and she screamed some vile words back at him, took her paddle, and hit him on the head. She HIT him on the head with her paddle. Hard. The whole room was staring at us.

She kept screaming at her husband, who didn’t blink. What the hell? Who would let someone hit them over the head with a paddle in the middle of a crowded room and not say anything, I though. You couldn’t imagine how red my face was.She finally calmed down after not having won the Africa trip and proceeded to sip more wine.

I was more concerned, however, with my concurring chest pains and my inability to breathe properly. I excused myself from the table, took my purse with me to the bathroom, and took my bra off, all the while cursing my gay in my head. I had a slip underneath, so that had enough support to keep me from looking like Courtney Love after a bad trip.  The event ended an hour after, and I made my way over to a bigger table (so the tablecloth would shield my legs) and changed my shoes back to Dr. Scholl’s. I don’t care who sees me at this point,I thought. I left with a free copy (or two) of Gotham magazine and a little less dignity than I had walked in with.

*Names have been changed.