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Oct 5, 2002

On the way to the Tex in the City party last night, I was in a rush and anxious to get to Serena as it was drizzling and humid and I had plenty of pre-party business awaiting my arrival. Umbrella in one hand and cell phone in the other, I was the classic picture of a New York entrepreneur. Then, woosh! Down I went. “SHIT!” I screamed without even thinking. My right hand, still clutching my cell phone, landed in a potted plant filled with damp, fresh soil. It’s what saved me from real disaster. Instantly I hopped up, unfazed, dusted off my phone and resumed talking, “You there? Sorry, just fell. Anyway, I’m on my to Serena…”It wasn’t until I recounted the story later that I thought how ridiculous I must have looked to the dozen or so witnesses to my spill. They all looked quite concerned for my well-being, but I couldn’t be bothered or slowed down in the least. ‘Tis just a flesh wound!Just where was I going in such a hurry? To a party, of course!

Tequila was free flowing from 6:00-7:00, so the crowd came early. These three party guests (left) live in Austin and were here in NYC for a long weekend. They heard about our party and came to check it out. Excellent! Jason promised me some CDs compiled with all Texas music and even taught me how to two-step. For the record: I’m the world’s worst dancer. Oh, I can shake my groove thang alright, but when it comes to having a partner and moving in step with another human, well, that human had better be wearing some steel-toed boots.

Prior to my dance with Jason, I had only one two-stepping experience to reference.
Flashback to 1987 when I was a 15 year old sophomore dating football player and senior, Brad Booth. As my escort to the annual football banquet, Brad gave me the first and only corsage ever which I still possess. Dead, dried, petrified, pressed between two pages of a scrapbook, packed in a box, stuffed in various closets for 15 years, the once pink and pretty thing takes me back.

Richland High School alumn Gary Morris was the surprise guest banquet speaker. At the time, he was Country Music’s Artist of the Year, was set to star in the Broadway version of Les Miserables and had scores of my teenage classmates drooling at his feet that were decked with the gawdiest high top sneakers. Not that I was a trendy fashionista. Oh no. No, no, no.

So, to cap the evening off right, the announcer informed us that Gary was to select a *lucky* girl to dance with him to the sounds of his current #1 hit to which everyone present in that Texas banquet hall knew the lyrics except me. While all the older, beautiful, rich cheerleaders held their breath in anticipation of being picked, I was praying, “Please, please, please, not me, not me, not me.”By now, you know who Gary picked. Ah, yes, he chose me. Headbanging, big haired, Ozzy loving me. And I have never two-stepped since.

(Note the orange streaks in my hair that were painted on with a color stick and Gary’s high tops. Very avant garde. Very chic. Oh, and, umm…yeah that’s my mother’s dress. Lord knows I couldn’t have gotten a new one for my first real high school dance. There’s those wacky mutton sleeves making their zillionth comeback. P.S. This is a photo circa 1987 which is not to be used for press as noted in my August 18th entry. Thank you.)

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