ballgowns and downtown

It was impossible to sit home with all of DC (and most of the Lower 48, it seemed) out and about on Tuesday night to celebrate the inauguration of the 44th president. Four years ago, when I moved to Washington just after the 2004 election and first heard that the public could attend inaugural balls, I decided then and there to fanangle my way into one at some point in my Washington career. So, when tickets to the Pennsylvania State Society Inaugural Gala went on sale this year, I was ready with check in hand to make aspiration a reality.

With tickets and date secured, my next step was to indulge in some primping and preening. Borrowing some wisdom from Steel Magnolias, “There is no such thing as natural beauty,” I accordingly – somewhat out of character – jumped into an estrogen cloud and tanned, waxed, exfoliated, and got freshly outfitted with a dress, new makeup, and impossible heels. And then I was at last ready to make my grand entrance (via metro) to the Ritz Carlton.

In spite of the preparation, I went into the event with no other agenda than letting the evening unfold as it may. And unfold it did, in some truly unexpected ways. Sharon Stone’s rambling welcome speech, for one. The sudden disappearance of the dinner buffet, leaving my date and I pretty much dependent on creme brulee and alcohol for our caloric intake that evening. Stepping out of a cab at 1am and seeing the Capitol Building silhouetted against a clear night sky, and still, after all these years in the city, having a breathtaking moment.

We wavered between the trivial and the disarmingly substantial. Chatting over our plateful of dessert, we veered into the territory of past relationships and from there, into the shaky ground of breakups. Turning to me, he said,

“And then you start to wonder about yourself, and wonder why you’re not married.”

To hear this from a man – a funny, attractive man with a JD and an MBA – was enough to put the moment in freezeframe. It was an unexpected moment of candor in an evening given, in part, to celebrating the cache of just showing up and projecting an aura of unruffled success. And I had to wonder, “Are the sexes really that different after all?”

After making a commiserating reply warning of the dangers of such slippery slope thinking, we moved on to happier things, like champagne and mini-cheeseburgers. And then, not content to let the evening end at midnight when the gala was officially over, we cajoled a taxi driver into taking us to Capitol Hill, where the festivities continued in somewhat less opulent surroundings, where I was only too happy to down a pint of Yuengling in a ballgown.

The evening, as it turned out, wasn’t any one thing. It was making an appearance. It was getting past appearances. It was black tie. It was a dive bar. It was as complex as Washington, and just as hard to pin down.

with the band

Last week, my new year karma got a kickstart with a surprise call from Mix 107.3 announcing that I’d won their contest to meet Buckcherry in NYC. After the requisite on-air shrieking (and after the shock wore off) I immediately set about finding a friend who could be coerced into blowing off work for two days. And who could do it on really short notice: the call came on Tuesday afternoon, and we were Big Apple bound on Thursday.

With that sorted, I was free to devote my time to strategizing for my upcoming meeting with the band. I mean, meeting a rock star or two or five is every gal’s dream. I read through everyone’s bio on the website, listened to tracks from the new album, and fretted over what to wear. Being in PR, I debated whether I should prepare talking points. As the time for our appointed meeting drew closer, I found myself second guessing everything. Funky red glasses, or contacts? Lots of black eyeliner – or minimal makeup? Jeans or skirt?

At last we arrived, and, in spite of a prime location directly above Penn Station, the radio station where the band would be playing was pretty unassuming. We took our seats, Josh and Stevie D. from Buckcherry played a couple acoustic pieces (including “Sorry,” which might be the best song for getting a girl back…ever) and then it was off to line up to get our pictures taken. Smile. Click. Done.

I did get to shake hands with the guys, which was cool. In fact, Stevie D. had a two-handed grip that would make any politician proud and, when I thanked him for coming, looked me in the eyes and said, “No, thank you – you - for coming.”

You gotta hand it to ‘em, the guys are smooth.

And if there’s a moral to be gleaned from all this, it’s not to overthink things too much, because chances are, once you’re in the thick of it, all your carefully laid plans will no longer be relevant.

So what do you say to a rock star? Not much, because you won’t have time for more than “hi.”

5 people you’ll meet at your high school reunion

Last weekend, Heels on Friday attended her 10 year high school reunion in the flyover state where she spent the first 18 years of her life. The timing of the reunion, coinciding closely with Christmas and New Year’s, offered another chance to measure how far (or not) the past ten years had brought us. But no amount of philosophizing could prepare me for the real deal of slurping chicken wings and cheap beer at the local VFW while reminiscing over the top pop hits of 1998. Armed with only curiousity, these are five people I found at the reunion:

The Crush (Who is Now Gay)
Everybody’s got one. The cute, witty guy or gal you pined over in high school. There was an aura of the unattainable about them. And now we all know why: they are battin’ for the other team. At least there will be one person of the opposite sex you won’t be afraid to get drunk around.

The Family Man
The sight of wedding rings and pictures of children was a bit of a shock to the system, especially after several years in a committment-phobe city like Washington. I got a bear hug from my first boyfriend (in the 5th grade, who won my heart by picking daisies and mailing them to me), now the proud father of a 4-month-old son and married to another classmate. They are adorable, especially the 4-month-old.

The Big Deal
Every class has one or two. It was interesting to see, ten years on, how the old cliques realigned. The preppies clustered together, the band geeks claimed a table in the far corner, and the smart kids, now smart adults, gathered to talk about graduate programs and the cities they are now living in. Some things really don’t change, and I’m not sure if it’s an indication of the Big Man’s charisma, or something in the Class of ‘98, that people are still flocking in his wake. And why I was still gratified to get a hello.

The Ex
Maybe you broke his heart your junior year. Maybe she left you stranded for a date right before prom. Whatever the case, there’s bound to be an encounter with a little blast from the past. But really, compared to all the drama of college and early adult relationships, whatever happened back in the 11th grade is more likely than not pretty lightweight. So take satisfaction in the fact that both of you have satisfactorily moved on. Or if not, nothing better than seizing the moment while you’re both in bouts of nostalgia to see if the home fires are still burning. In my case, not so much.

The Wildcard
Just when I thought I had the reunion and everyone who was there pegged, one of my classmates appeared at my shoulder and said, “Hey, I didn’t get a chance to say hello to you earlier.” Unlike some of the attendees, this guy hadn’t married or put on 80 pounds since graduation. It was unexpected and sweet and made me kick myself for not swapping email addresses. He is, after all, in a band. And if there’s one thing about the Class of ‘98 that is true, it’s that we still have as much potential as we did when we crossed the stage at graduation.