"Are you a...are you a..."
The man was so drunk he could barely get the words out. He shut his eyes and with fierce effort managed to splutter:
"Are you a wife or a prostitute?"
Ah, the glamor of inaugural balls! The intimate mingling amongst the thousands who have come from out of town for the sole purpose of getting ripped. The bon mots (see above). The divine dancing (I don't care if you're left or right: Have you ever seen two hundred policy wonks hopping to "Celebration"?!). The magical glimpse of the new First Couple ("Can you see them?" "No, there's this fat guy in front of me." "Wait--is that the top of her head? What's she wearing?" "I. CAN'T. SEE." "Ow, why the stampede?!" "I think the couple just left.")
Back to the drunken man. This was Bush/Quayle '88. Yes, I was there. Along with about six thousand of my closest friends at the Texas ball in the Air & Space Museum. Hot ticket. Best sight: Justice Scalia descending an escalator, bow tie slightly askew, looking like he'd rather be sharing a beer with Justice Kennedy than wandering through this nuthouse.
Like other wives and prostitutes in attendance, I'd spent the weeks in advance agonizing over my dress. Nothing I owned could be possibly good enough for a Presidential Inaugural Ball! And it's not like I had a closet full of ballgowns. I didn't even go to my own prom! But nor could I afford something really beautiful. I was positive every other woman would be in a designer dress. Because a ball like this had to be really exclusive, right? (We knew a friend of a friend of the Bush family, who'd scored the tickets.) The kind that is photographed for W and Town & Country...
I did possess one "nuclear" garment: A vintage full-length black beaded dress I'd bought for $100 at a flea market in New York. It looked like it had spent many years in a Park Avenue woman's closet before she died and her housekeeper hocked it at the market. Stunning. Sort of. But appropriate...?
What the hell, I had nothing else. Some fake diamond earrings pimped it up. And now this...humiliation...from the man about to vomit stars and stripes.
"Can't one be both?" I retorted. And before he COULD vomit, my husband, friends and I beat our retreat, out of that miserable place, to the nearest bar you could get to in high heels and with no hope of a taxi: The Willard. A round of champagne set us back more than we'd like. But at least we could drink it without the fear of someone knocking it all over us.
Thus, my sartorial advice to ball-goers (female):
1. Extremely sharp and pointy heels. Ignore the current fashion for the more rounded toe and clunkier heel. You'll need full force to get to the front of the bar, to the front of the dance floor--and to dispense with drunken louts.
2. A dress made out of recycled water bottles or some other impervious fabric: Think "champagne-resistant." Ask yourself: Will the drycleaners be able to get puke stains off it?
3. A North Face or similar all-weather, Primaloft-stuffed coat. Preferably one rated to keep you warm at the Arctic circle. You're going to spend a lot of time outside waiting to get into the ball. And since it's a Democrat Inaugural, you can't wear fur.
4. Pajamas. Probably the best choice as it means you've decided to skip the ball and to watch the events on TV at home instead.