November 08, 2007
I don’t do fancy often. I rarely mess around with makeup, and if I wear a skirt to work, it’s only because all my jeans are dirty. It’s not that I don’t like to primp; it’s just that preening makes me nervous.
So, this past Saturday, getting ready for a benefit for Imua Family Services at the Hui No Eau was a big deal. The process began at the Queen Ka‘ahumanu Center, where I was on the hunt for a dress to wear.
I have a ton of dresses in my closet, but I pretty much hate them all. They’re either too boring, “hippie” or short for an event labeled, “Evening Aloha Attire–Black Tie Optional.”
As we were driving to the mall, the hubby gave me the run-down of his outfit, just in case I wanted to “plan around that.” He likes to match. I do not. Matching is for old couples and twins, which I am half of neither.
About 15 minutes into “the hunt” I loudly declared in the Junior’s section of Macy’s, “I fricking hate clothes shopping!” My husband gave me a pat on the rump and mumbled something about this being one of the reasons why he married me.
I didn’t want to ruin our moment of camaraderie by explaining that part of the reason why I hate clothes shopping so much is that I have expensive tastes–the only dress that I found even a teeny bit attractive in Macy’s was $138. I didn’t even try it on, because–like naming a stray kitten–it would only make me attached.
While I have lavish tastes, I’m also a complete cheap-ass and ended up buying a dress at Forever 21 that was on clearance for $7.99. This greatly pleased the husband, who is even more of a cheap-ass than I am. The problem was that, since it was on clearance, it was the last one and one size too big in the (surprise!) boob department.
I checked the tag, which labeled the dress cotton and warned that if I washed it and put it through the dryer, unspeakable things would happen. And by unspeakable, I assumed they meant, “shrink.”
Back home, when it came out of the dryer, it was a little smaller but not quite small enough so my sister-in-laws expertly folded and tucked, then used three gargantuan safety pins to secure everything into place. It worked.
On went the black eyeliner, red lipstick and fuck-me pumps.
“Wow,” said the Hubby. “You’re gonna be the hottest chick there.”
It would have been a fantastic compliment, if he hadn’t sounded so surprised.
The event was beautiful and just as fancy as I assumed, but a lot mellower. The wine was flowing and the food was delicious and the majority of people seemed to be having a lot of fun by the time the live auction came around.
Ahhh, the live auction. It was like watching a cockfight or a power-lifting contest, but with money. These people were crazy! It was totally awesome and way more entertaining than I had dreamed possible.
I literally had to sit on my hands because I was so overcome in the spirit of splurging ridiculous amounts of money to support a worthy cause that I couldn’t trust myself not to raise my hand and yell something like, “What the heckl, I’ll go 5,000 and 50 dollars!” to which everyone would clap and hoot their approval, right before my husband guts me with a butter knife.
After the auction, the Barefoot Natives performed. It was the first time that I had ever seen them live and was seriously impressed with the whole thing. Plus Willie K is kind of hot, even if I can’t figure out why.
Starr Begley is searching for the elusive money tree, the fountain of youth, and her Gucci sunglasses. MTW
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