Kitty Power

Call Me Ms. Fancypants

I'm horribly tired. I've spent too much time out and about. After a nap, I shall spill all about it.

Meanwhile, I'll leave you with this morsel: how bad/sad/funny is it that when I was practically shoved aside to get to the lovely Claudia and my wit alone couldn't get a guy to give me the time of day, all I could think was: "wow, it's like being back at Wes!" (And for clarification purposes, being ignored wasn't the bad/sad/funny part in question, my thought was.)

Okay, I've left y'all hanging long enough...

Claudia's been my ace lately. We've been thrown back together just like it's 1998 and we're in gym class passing time gossiping instead of running the mile. We've been talking constantly since having a dinner reunion a few weeks back. Early last week, she called me up with an invite to a party thrown by a PR firm here in town that I might give up my first born and few of my friends' to work for. To say I was stoked would be the understatement of this short month hands down. Plus the party was open bar, my favorite kind. In the middle of this excitement, I get a call from my agency to set up an interview for me with a magazine starting with V and possessing so much cache in the world of things fashionable that it needs to be a sin. To say the least, I was a happy camper going into the night.

At the party, we made the rounds and I spotted people due to spending too much time reading Paper Magazine online. The most fun one was two certain Top Model judges (bottom 2, kids), one of whom I accidentally insulted. They're a lot taller and better looking than you'd think from watching that show, for real. Claudia tangentially knew Mr. Photog and they were chatting before I was introduced. I said to him, "I love you on that show. You look great, the lighting or something makes you look so...old on television." He scoffed, "I am old" before turning away. Whoops! Ah well. It's not the worst thing that could happen. Upstairs on the balcony still strolling about, I spot with my 20-20 hawk vision this super hot guy walking the opposite direction towards us. He passed and I checked him out (total guy-like cruise look. Am I an overgrown tomboy or what?) before steering us over to where he stopped around the corner. I see girls taking pictures with him and I pull Claudia as I ask the cameraman and the guy for a pic. I resisted the urge to grab his ass and we walked away as it was over. A little man comes over a minute or so later and grabs Claudia after a few words. I raise an eyebrow and follow.

He's dragged her over to our photo buddy and his friends. The circle closes as I walk over and I'm like "hmm...this is interesting." I tap them on the shoulder and introduce myself as "Hi, I'm invisible. How are you?" No point in losing my sense of humor. I tried to strike up a conversation with the friend standing next to Claudia and my fantasy, but it was like pulling teeth since I'm obviously too short and fat to be of interest to someone like him (just being bitterly sarcastic, don't mind me). That was when I had my thought of being back, oh, at ages 12-21, but dude, I spotted him and my friend was chased by a fucking male supermodel. That's still awesome as far as I'm concerned.

Also at the party, I ran into a fellow Styleaholic who I haven't seen in ages. She let me know that E, dear friend who I also lost track of for a while there, was having her b-day festivities downtown. When Claudia and I split, I made the trek to a place I'm going to have to check out another time. It was great seeing everyone and catching up. It was funny to me that everything was almost going full-circle with them. I guess I'm just destined to run into them somewhere unexpected every six months or so.

The next month, I dragged my semi-hungover carcass out of bed and made myself super spiff for my interview. I arrived at the familiar building and made my way up to the 12th Floor. The hall was superdim like mood lighting, or a cave. The poor receptionist must be nearly blind for sitting in that all day. I was eyed cattily by a vaguely Eastern European model sort while I waited. I wanted to be like "fuck off, bitch. My boots are high, I'm not tall. But, if I had 4 inches, you better your ass I'd take your job, you fucking androgynous coat hanger." *ahem* I observed the uniform of the staffers. In the two months I've become a civilian again, slouchy sweaters and loose hair have replaced the boatnecks and swinging ponytails. Bootcut slim jeans and stilettos are still choice. The interview went swimmingly, but I found out later that I didn't get it. Color me totally unsurprised. They probably reached their black woman quota for that floor. I don't think the building is allowed to have more than 2 per floor.

As I got on the elevator to go back to the real world, the older lady on it already asked me surprised what floor it was. I told her and she laughed. "It's so dark there," she said and I replied, "you know how they are, they have to be special" and she laughed again. "Well, I'm going to Gourmet. They're not so special there. It should be all bright on that floor." And as she got off, we saw she was right.

Posted by Candicissima at February 5, 2004 02:22 PM