The problem with having a social life...

...is that I get home too late to do a decent blog post. Of course, my social life isn't really a social life. It's more of an organization meeting life. Still, I got out the six inch heels again. I did so figuring I didn't have far to walk: I'd do valet parking at the hotel and just take the elevator to the event. Ha! The hotel parking lot was full. So I parked down the street and under a large tree. Amid the shattered remains of someone's windshield. Precarious terrain in those six inch heels. But I navigated my way to the party, stood in line for my vodka and tonic ($8.50) at the no-host bar and talked to people I didn't know. I'm good at that. I'll talk to anyone. I'm real fun in a supermarket line. But that is not the point of my story. The point of my story is that some of my new friends invited me to go to dinner with them. Sure, says I. We'll walk, says they. And walk we do--about six or seven blocks. Okay, I'm still not at the point of my story. Which is: on the way back from dinner, 'round about block five, my leg gave out and I started to list. Well, it was actually more of a stagger as I struggled to keep my balance. Fortunately, my new friends rushed to my aid, one on each side, and got me upright again. I did the rest of the walk in my bare feet--on the streets of Sacramento. And now I'm going to bed--after I wash said feet real good.

If I were twentyfive or thirtyfive, I'd just laugh it off. But at my age, I feel like an old lady that can't even stay afloat. Thus, I am going to tag this post accordingly.

All Dressed Up...

I was beSpanxed top and bottom, blown out and curled up (ever so softly). I wore a thin silk tunic and a shortsleeved tunic sweater just buttoned at its scooped neck. I deliberately chose not to wear my new killer 17" heels, so as not to intimidate. Instead I wore my black leather boots with the 3" heel. I was dressed for any meeting I have ever gone to in the past. But not for this one. This one, the other women wore arch-supporting walking shoes and bunion-enabling sandals. One man wore short shorts and a fanny pack; another wore a sweat suit. This was my first meeting of an organization about which I knew nothing, except that everyone was Jewish. And old. So old. No matter what their actual ages, I felt like I was sitting with my parents. And, really, not one cute person there. Yes, that's horrifically shallow and the fact is that I have zero, zip, nada interest in men these days, but somehow I'm still doing that kneejerk checkout for cute guys. Such a disappointment, all the way around.

What the hell was I expecting? I was expecting this meeting to be like the meetings I used to go to. Where the men all wore suits; where the refreshments were trundled in by bus boys; where the venue was a Hilton or its like. This meeting, this meeting was in the game room of an old age home. I don't mean to be shallow, but, jeeze, I got beSpanxed for that? I must go console myself with chocolate....

Seems Like Old Times

Tonight I went to a Reception (big R) for a group of Knesset members who are visiting the California Legislature. It was held at a nice restaurant, Spartaro's if you want to be specific, with valet parking and an open bar. I used to do this sort of thing all the time in Los Angeles. I had my dress up clothes--Tahari suits if you want to be specific--and once or twice a week I was out and about at this meeting or that reception. It was mostly part of my role as a Director of the British-American Chamber of Commerce, which was due in no small measure to my relationship with the Executive Director of the BACC. That is, I went to these things as his date, but soon enough my winning ways and stellar intelligence had won me an appointment to the Board. My fellow Directors were the President of this bank and the CEO of that, the head of Rolls Royce in the Western States and...well, you get the point.

My life in the years after I left the Board of the Chamber were a little lacking in glamour, albeit long in love. Getting dressed up then meant a clean pair of Wranglers, which was the only brand that a country girl or guy could wear. Boot cut, of course, and none of this sissy stone washed crap. Just jeans and a shirt and a belt and boots--.

I've moved on from that as well. My wardrobe is less, shall we say, regulated by the sartorial demands of the dominant culture (just slingin' the lit crit talk--because I Can). Tonight was the first time in a long time that I was out and about as in those Cocktail Party days in LA. My Tahari suits have gone the way of the rest of my size 10 wardrobe, but in honor of them I bought myself a pair of Tahari shoes (when did they start making shoes?) I've been lusting after some Really High Heels and these must be five inches at least. (Actually, this photo doesn't do them justice, but it's late, and it'll have to do.) I started out to write a post about the Knesset reception. I mean, Knesset! Israeli Parliament! Think of the political stories I could tell. Instead I'm doing a fashion report. Where's my sense of seizing the moment, of working the world? In the back of my closet, I guess.

Home Again...

I'm back. I've driven over a thousand flippin' (I'd say the other, but I'm watching Barbara Walters special on the Queen and it's made me a bit careful about my p's and q's and f-bombs) miles, what with the trip to LA and back PLUS the many, many tours from the South Bay up the 405 to the Westside. You've heard no doubt that one never wants to be on the 405 at 4:05, but that has now extended to...whenever. I'm exhausted. Good night.

Score of the Day

Mah New Boots
Originally uploaded by ByJane

Guess what I found at the back of some crummy old store, just one pair and in my size. Rain--c'mon back...I'm ready for you now.