This will be the last DEAD RINGER post for bit, so I figured I’d go out with a butt.
It will come as no surprise to you that I love a cocktail party almost as much as I love a cocktail party outfit. I also think you’re well aware of how significant this whole DEAD RINGER book release has been to my life/career/self-worth/ability to sleep at night. And so the outfit that I might wear to the (very small) cocktail party marking this (very major) life event was no doubt well-considered. I started trying things on before I decided to have a cocktail party. I bought a capelet. Do you know how practical a capelet is if you’re not Florence + the Machine and/or a Game of Thrones character? Not.
I had decided on a long, vintage skirt in a sparkly purple/pink/red/black/gold pattern paired with a black cropped top from Forever 21. To me it was very Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman Does Disco or in other words, perfection. I bought it at Una Mae‘s in Los Feliz way back in July but hadn’t quite found the right occasion – so I made one up.
Just so we’re clear on the ceremony surrounding this evening, I watched the Sex & The City book party episode (“Plus One Is the Loneliest Number”, Season 5, Episode 5) on my laptop while getting ready – moving it from my bathroom for make-up application to my bedroom for outfit application – while drinking a class of champagne. Fine two.
Then I did something in the bathroom mirror that resembles an adult version of this:
I have rarely felt happier than I did jumping into that Uber en route to meet R for a pre-drinks drink.
“Are you Jessie?” Frank C. in the silver Nissan said. “Yes,” I said, “Yes I am.” Then I spent the next 20 minutes trying to goad him into asking where I was going so I could tell him COCKTAILS FOR MY BOOOOOOOK, but he didn’t, and I magically found myself above just telling him.
Maybe it was book launch bliss that distracted me from realizing what was going on around my waist, thighs and butt as I stepped out of my chariot and onto one of the busiest boulevards in all of Los Angeles? I’ve blacked out the moments surrounding and only remember the moment of realization. I’m cold… My butt specifically… Let me discretely touch it to find out why… WHERE THE %&#! IS MY SKIRT?!
The answer: around my ankles. The reason: its Dr. Quinn-era zipper fell apart.
Ladies: you know when you’re debating whether to wear the beautiful black lace underwear that doesn’t quite smooth out those last five lbs or the nude-colored Spanx thong that you’d never even let your husband see you in? ALWAYS GO LACE.
I hiked up the skirt and held it closed with one hand while I ran across the street to R.
“Hi. How was your day? I need to go buy a new dress right now!” I said.
R thought I was overreacting until he saw my butt, literally. Then like the gentleman he is, he walked directly behind me all the way across the street to closest clothing store (bless you Melrose Blvd.). It either looked like we were in a massive fight or that he was my butler.
“Hi, I need to buy a new skirt right now!” I said to the shopkeepers already staring at me when I walked in the door.
Word to the wise: always say that when you walk into a store. I had a shopgirl pulling adorable options in a variety of styles faster than they usually point you toward the skirt section. She insisted upon a pair of leather hot shorts (screw you Melrose Blvd.) but I went with a red, flapper-inspired spaghetti strap dress with a very secure zipper. It caught my eye as I tore through the racks, and for some unknown reason I just knew it would be perfect. I had to have it.
In the end no one would have known that my #girlboss evening started out like a Marx Brothers sketch, until I told them…all (damn you champagne).
But what’s a pinch me moment without an actual pinch? Next time I’ll take mine in the arm please.
Special thanks to American Rebel Vintage for saving my ass. Yes, I know, I should really just buy new clothes…
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