Did anyone hear that slight whizzing sound in the air? It began last night at Midnight. I was in bed eating a Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar and reading Jeanine Basinger's book "A Women's View: How Hollywood Spoke to Women 1930-1960", when suddenly my cat looked up and shook her head. I heard it too--vhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr. . .vhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr. . .It was the sound of a million retailers bracing themselves for a crap holiday season. It was the rustle of a housewife turning over in bed as she thinks of what the hell she can sell on Ebay for gift money. It was the clicking of a thousand knitting needles, the drawing out of millions of credit cards. . .the tearing open of millions of envelopes.
The Holiday Season 2008 has begun.
I have received 3 party invitations in the last week. Perhaps you would think it churlish if I mentioned that my response to each invitation is one of profound disinterest mingled with a sprinkling of resentment?
Why ever would you think that? Elusive D is usually the soul of social ease and access and-- oh, let's face it. That's not true and never was. The fact is, if I have a choice between putting on a dress, stockings, some rather fabulous Lulu Guinness shoes and taking a train to Park Goddamn Slope, OR staying home and watching the new Top Chef series while eating pumpkin bread, the decision is easy: Those Lulu Guinness shoes are ON in a New York instant, just before I cut a slice of bread and head towards the tv.
Cannot tell you how many nights I have watched tv in stilettos and sweat pants. It's quite a nice little look, in its weird way. And you never end up limping along a street, 19 blocks away from public transportation, wishing like hell you hadn't eaten that weird brown party dip.
So. . .the question is, to go or not to go?? Here are the three parties:
One: A dinner party in a restaurant. Setting: East Village. Cast: Restaurant workers, young urban professionals, people in the arts. The party is for my friend Courtney's birthday. She's dating a very much younger guy whose charms completely elude me, though she seems to think he's a charmer. Attractive men possibility: High, a possible mix of Harvard grads who went on to write books, and puppyish waiters who think they're more interesting than they are. This party would be fine, and perhaps even fun, if I were drinking.
But I'm not. I don't want to go.
Two: A cocktail/nibbles party in, again, the East Village. This is in the legendary building The Christadora, where Iggy Pop lived for years (his album Avenue B is about that time). This party is older people, ex-hippies, and might have some very amusing election related discussion. I will feel very young and slender, and be treated as someone without opinions. . .though that's easy enough to turn around. The food will be excellent, the seating non-existent, same with likelihood of attractive men.
I lean towards going to this party.
Three: The party in Park Slope. Cast: Unknown, but some of the players from Party #1. Setting: An apartment shared by two women, aspiring singers in their 30's. I suspect the food will be of the variety served in styrofoam bowls. The theme is good, though: Wear your Finest Recession Garb. You can only wear things that are already in your closet, and you must look as fabulous as possible. There might be attractive men here, of the deeply neurotic variety.
I do have some rather fabulous things in my closet, but there is no chance in hell that I am going out to Park Slope to watch relative strangers drink. I don't even know where Park Slope is.
Party #1 is the only one where people might be offended if I don't go, but it's also the only one where I'd be stuck at a table, watching people drink, for absolute HOURS--and then get stuck with a bill where I pay for other people's drinks. "Oh, just split it in 18". . .and if I bitch then I look like a complete asshole.
No, no, no. I don't want to go.
I used to love the holiday season when I lived in London. The glamor of that dirty town after dark, with dodgy over-priced train service adding to the mystery. Men in London are more attractive to me, simply due to their verbal dexterity and the fact that they actually really do try to impress you. Very sweet, that. I always liked them for it.
But NY men are too neurotic, too entitled. Or they're in AA and simply too damaged, like me.
But oh, it'd be fun to meet someone with a sillly sense of humor. . .unfortunately, everyone with the sense of humor I most love lives on a different continent. I suppose that's the definition of being, well, Elusive. And a bit dim.
But it makes me sad. How to meet a nice Brit in NYC?
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