Fancy Party Wear

by Roberta Durra

  
Caroline's Birthday Celebration      

Where: Malibu Cove Colony

When: Saturday, April 16th 6pm

Dress Code:  Party Wear

I received a birthday invitation to be held on a Saturday evening at an exquisite beachfront property in Malibu, CA. Guests will gather from the UK, Canada, Holland, and northern California for the event. It looks like it will be a lavish evening.

I don’t usually go to fancy parties. Some Saturday night's my husband and I go out to dinner at the Quizno’s next door to the movie theater and skip the movie because we are too tired. Most Saturday nights we skip BOTH the Quizno’s AND the movie, for the same reason. 

But now I have 8 weeks to to prepare for a gala event. As far as dress requirements go, you can see the invitation reads: “Party Wear”.

What is party wear? Mile high Christian Louboutin heals? A glimmery, shimmery L’Wren Scott gown with plunging back and neckline, $500,000 worth of borrowed Van Cleef & Arpels Jewels, and a Judith Leiber clutch? Three words come to mind…No Can Do.  I’m suddenly humming Hall & Oates, “I Can’t Go For That” and thinking Amy Winehouse’s answer to rehab…NO, NO, NO.

I ask a friend close to the party planning brigade to define “party wear” and she says, ‘It’s really just fancy cocktail wear” Ahhh…fancy cocktail wear! Let me say that what I’m wearing now and pretty much every day of my life is as far from “fancy cocktail wear” as Glenn Beck is from President Obama. Imagine a white t-shirt with a splattering of yellow from last nights curry, a touch of pink from pasta sauce the night before, and a dash of red from Tuesday’s tacos. My blue jeans are stretched to a new and unusual shape, and my sandals are made by one of those comfy brands that promise you a day without a ruptured disc. This doesn’t mean I don’t have a fancy dress or two waiting in my closet for a sparkling night on the town. But I don’t.

So I do what I do best when I am in a quandary. I ignore it. That is until Friday, the day before the party when I call my hairdresser and cry…

“April! Can you believe it’s been 4 months since you last cut my hair?  I look like Helena Bonahm Carter and Donald Trump’s love child. HELP!”  

I BEG for an emergency cut. And, God love that girl!! At 10:30am I’m in her house. After she closes her gaping mouth and reprimands me with “haircuts have expiration dates”, we do what women do. We tell each other (virtual strangers) our most personal stories while she cuts volumes of frizz off my head. She takes me from Russell Brand to something a bit more Katy Perry-ish! Sweet!

 I happen to know that the party’s guest of honor has been having a chichi designer whip up a one-of a-kind, belle-of-the-ball, aren’t-I-the-bomb, dress for herself. But I’m just a guest at this prom so I head off to Macy’s. They’re having a clearance sale! It’s like a trading scene from the "Chicago Board of Trade", only with polyester instead of corn futures…women knocking into each other and pulling dresses from the sale racks. I manage to pick 5 dresses, 4 of which look fabulous on the rack, and like hell on me. Number 5 is the charm. A beautiful, “Fancy Cocktail Wear” dress, a bit low cut for my taste, but nothing I can’t cover with a strategically placed wine glass.

Shoe departments are notoriously slow. Shoe departments having a “one day sale” can be like the DMV on tranquilizers. Bring a book. Bring a miniseries. You’ll get through both before an employee comes back with your shoe in green, the only color left, 2 sizes too small. Try it anyway. It could be months before the salesperson returns with another shoebox. I was lucky enough to choose such an UNPOPULAR shoe that I was able to try it on in sizes 7, 7 ½, and 8 before I decided to buy it in both black and blue. Walk to the beat of your own unstylish drum, and you’ll be richly rewarded.

I glance down... my hands, my feet.

It’s definitely mani-pedi time. I say this like it’s something I do often. I have made an occasional trip to the manicurist, but let’s just say I wasn’t surprised when they had to take out an extra garbage bag for my cuticle clippings. And my feet look like I have walked barefoot alongside Arthur Blessitt who's in the Guinness Book of Records for having walked 39,060 miles, through 315 countries for 42 years. When they finish buffing my callouses, my feet have shrunk 5 inches. I probably need different shoes, but I’m not going back to Macy’s.

I come home exhausted having been shorn, fitted, squeezed, massaged and painted. I walk in to see my husband ironing his shirt for the party tomorrow. I shake my head in judgment and righteously think to myself…why do men ALWAYS leave everything to the last minute?!