This weekend was full of dining, decorating, and dancing. When I took this job over the summer, I imagined attending numerous cocktail parties and finally having someplace to wear my sheath dresses and pencil skirts, but the particular details of what I was in for were always elusive. Saturday evening's holiday party, hosted in a private residence in Matinecock, Long Island (Great Gatsby comes to mind) was one for the record books. If my trip to the Queens Mall last winter represented a low point (in terms of self worth as measured by one's loathsome surroundings and the realization that such cultural ideals exist in today's world) this party signified a height of sorts (fashion, food, and all around fabulousness).
I knew I was in for a treat when one of the hosts greeted my husband and me decked in a red plaid Brooks Brothers vest. From there I took in several sequin mini dresses, patent pumps, Essie A-List red nails, Harry Winstons, and just the right amount of velvet. (My husband tugged at my elbow and I saw his eyes light up at the sight of the 5-tier raw bar with everything from oysters to king crab legs, but I asked him not to distract me from the fashions, which, unlike raw fish, I could actually savor.) The 12 piece band played to the background of clinking ice and vodka in crystal martini shakers (another pang as I sipped my club soda), and the ice sculptures picked up the reflecting sheen of many precious stones. (A limited edition Chanel clutch circa 2008 nearly stole my breath, but if I held it in too abruptly, I risked rupturing the seam of my non-maternity size 2 cocktail dress I insisted on wearing.) Tis the season!