Let me just say, I looked good. Really fucking good. I’m waxed, I’m manicured, I’m covered in Banana Republic’s latest. I was at the gym at 7am, the tanning salon at 8am, blowing out my hair by 9. Pencil skirt, cashmere sweater, designer stilettos…one more time; I looked good.
So, it is with heavy heart that I inform you a downtown explosion kept Gavin from lunch. 60 of us sat in the private dining room of the North Beach Restaurant, downing wine and beer, lamenting the fact that had we known the mayor would be otherwise engaged, few of us would have shown.
Instead of Gavin speaking, the group dove into a political discussion on foreign policy, my father and Greg thrown into a frenzy of Iraqi war crimes and oil conflict. Quite frankly, I couldn’t have cared less, although I certainly pretended to, because I was seated next to a very well-dressed and wedding ring-less young real estate developer who wouldn’t stop pouring me Pinot Grigio.
After much buildup, dad decided Gavin had probably read the blog and chickened out. I can’t say I blame him.
But shit. Nothing’s sadder than wasted cashmere and lipgloss…