>I woke up sore in really weird places. That’s always a sign of a good time.
It was hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch but 100 (or more!) people didn’t let that stop them from trekking out on a Monday night to hang out in the basement of Siberia. Big thanks to Tracy Westmoreland for the use of his perfect multi-purpose party space. [Read my clients’ full report complete with pictures.]
I was in my Manhattan office yesterday, so I had to have a car take me crosstown. Rather than take a chance on hailing a cab during rush hour (*&#@!) or hiring a private car ($$$), I made nice with the doormen next door at the Waldorf Astoria and asked them to save me a cab around 5:15. The plan worked like a charm and I had a stress free trip to set up the event.
After assembling 60 gift bags wearing my best slacks and silk sleeveless sweater, I was as sweaty as a homophobe in a Turkish steam bath. So I slipped into a tank top and mini skirt and threw my soppy hair into a pony tail. With my PR duties done, Tracy and I hung out and swapped our dads-in-jail stories. He invited me to his super secret club this Friday. Not knowing what to expect, I asked him how I should dress. He said, “Like you are now. You just might want to brush your hair.” He he he, well, um…yeah…like I said, sweaty as a homophobe.
Despite my general languidity today, I forced myself to the gym and now am as tired as a turtle on a treadmill. I thought working out was supposed make you feel better.
Sorer than a squatting cowboy wearing spurs.