Monday, June 27, 2005

OMG, Dahlings!

Yesterday I wore my “Country Clubs: Not For Everyone” t-shirt to commemorate my survival of my first – and last – Dallas society party. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean soiree. Words can scarcely describe this experience, so, to my great chagrin, I must employ numbers. And so, ladies and gentlemen, an index:

Average age of guests at the Cosmopolitan Club’s “Latin-politan Fiesta”: 65

Average number of plastic surgeries per guest: 2

Number of men in white suits: 13

Number of men in white suits who tried to dance with me: 3

Number of men in white suits who offered to sponsor me as an Irish-American Society Dallas “Yellow Rose of Texas” debutante: 1

Number of offers for debutante sponsorship politely declined: 1

Number of real estate agent encounters: 2 (read: two too many)

Number of business cards received: 4 (all after cardholders found out I was “the press”)

Number of times I was introduced as “the press”: 3

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit: 4

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit purchased at Target: 3

Number of times I was asked my age: 5

Number of times I was told I was “so young!”: 5 (someone even had the gall to ask my photographer if I was his intern. As if!)

Number of strange men by whom I was kissed: 2

Number of strange straight men by whom I was kissed: TBD

Number of people I asked about the origins of the Cosmopolitan Club: 8

Number of people who knew anything about the Cosmopolitan Club: 0

Number of people spoken to who admitted to be recovering from surgery: 1

Number of people spoken to who were probably recovering from surgery: 5

Number of times my shoes and the deck conspired to make me almost eat it in front of Dallas’ elite: 1

All in all, it was a pretty eventful night. I got to meet some actual P-Ho* People, which makes my job seem a little more real, and that’s always a good feeling. I even met some people who read the paper. Or at least, they get the paper. Which means they’re exposed to the design. Which is all that concerns me.

I also got to meet Maria Elena Holly, Buddy Holly’s widow, who’s lived in my parents’ neighborhood since I was a kid. When I was introduced, I was all, “Yeah, I went trick-or-treating at your house 10 years ago, and you walked to the door, saw it was kids, and turned out your porch light. Bitch.” OK, I didn’t really say that. But I wanted to. And I thought it. I was actually all, “Didn’t you used to live in Highland Meadows? Me too! OMG! Small world! LOL!” It was awesome.

Also, I was introduced to Carolyn Shamis, of Sheer Dallas fame. She told me she remembers seeing me at the hoity-toity doggy beauty pageant that was featured on her episode of the show. Funny, I don’t remember being there (and I’m fairly certain Target doesn’t do black tie). But… she drives a Bentley with a vanity plate, brought an “escort” instead of a “date,” ** and has been on reality television, so who am I to argue?

I’m sure after my glimmering performance at Saturday’s shindig, I will be invited to social extravaganzas of all sorts, will become a gal about town, and will have so many to-dos in my Blackberry that I honestly won’t be able to remember all the glamorous things I’ve done. But until then, unless you think you remember seeing me driving my hail-damaged ’97 Eclipse to Jack in the Box, I’m guessing you’re mistaken.

* That’s shorthand for Preston Hollow, one of our coverage areas, for those of you not in the P-Ho know.

** There were a lot of times during the evening when I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. The worst of these times was when Carolyn’s man-friend kept suggesting different Carolyn-only shots to my photographer, then asking “Did you get her purse in the shot?” and “Are you sure you could see all of her skirt? It’s very important we see all of her skirt.”