I jetted out of work last night and raced over to an event with my mother and her assistant, Susan. The three of us stood around at this cocktail party eating the most wonderful risotto cakes ever created and being served wine by 12 year olds. I found myself cornered by a 47 year old spinster who attempted to convince me she was providing a glimpse into what she felt was my fabulous single future. It was like looking into a very depressing crystal ball.
I then raced over to pick up Zoe, bouncing with anticipation at the prospect of first dibs on miles and miles of fashion forward cheap apparel.
“Oh my god, I am so excited.”
“Oh my god, I’m more excited. The opening of H&M. How long have we been waiting for this?”
We neared the garage and noticed a crowd piled onto the red carpet in front of the store.
“Did you see that crowd, Zo?”
“We’re on the list. We’ll waltz in.”
“That’s true. Fabulous.”
“I know. So fabulous.”
God bless San Francisco and it’s valet parking garages. Zoe handed the guy our ticket as he glanced at Rhonda the Honda and her many love-dents. “What happen to you car?”
People always ask me this and I get tremendously defensive. I am not a car person. I mean, I drive a base model Civic with roll down windows and 3 radio stations. I get in accidents and cash out my insurance check to buy clothes and cocktails. Dents do not bother me. And if they don’t bother me, they shouldn’t bother you. Yet, my roommate decides to respond with, “Oh, we’re girl drivers. Oops! (giggle, giggle, giggle)”
Somewhere, Gloria Steinem is jumping off a bridge.
I kick one of her turquoise stilettos and we head down to H & M, marveling at the line. ”Suckers. We know Jason.”
Turns out, everyone in that line knew Jason. Or at least a Jason equivalent.
Some skank in scrunchy boots noticed our distress and pointed to the crowd of people as far as the eye could see. “Yeah, honey. This is the line for people who have RSVP’ed.”
Oh. Okay. We attempt to find the end of said line, walking further and further away from the front doors. As we rounded a fucking corner, we squinted down to the last soul, noting the end of this madness was a full 2 blocks from the entrance to our beloved Mecca.
We sucked it up and got in line.
Of course, directly behind us in line are 2 girls straight from Long Island, one of whom is proudly sporting sequins, the other of whom has over-lined her lips much to my immense and rude interest, directly behind them are two 12 lb. sisters, the kind of girls that have really loud conversations so that everyone is forced to listen to their thoughts on wedge vs. heel and the amount of “free hooch” available inside and of course, directly behind them is someone I went to high school with.
Kill me now.
Not only had seemingly everyone in San Francisco come out for this momentous event, but every bridge and every tunnel had been traversed by a vast array of fashionistas and gay sidekicks. With hundreds in line, sassy security guards would walk the 2 blocks, screaming, “Hug the wall. Y’all need to hug the wall.”
I remarked to Zoe that our extensive careers in not only show biz, but specifically musical theater, have exposed us to some of the gayest men alive. I can honestly say, last night I encountered gayness the likes of which I didn’t realize even existed. There should be another word for these men. The word gay cannot begin to describe the flaming nature of their essence.
“Hug the wall. Hug that wall, people.”
Yeah, we got it. Hugging pee-covered wall. People would occasionally answer a cell phone and go running out of the line, apparently having just received some hot tip on a quick way inside.
We received no hot tips.
Having been in line for 45 minutes, Zoe and I made a deal.
“We’ll give it till 9. Then, we’re going to Urban Outfitters.”
“I need to buy something.”
We’d already budgeted for shopping. Come hell or high water, we were spending money.
“What’s happening up there?” I asked as we rounded the corner.
“Beats me. Can you even see that far? Should I go investigate?”
“There should be some sort of informational liason, walking down the line telling us the scoop and offering us cocktails, or at least shots.”
Having somewhat of a different sensibility, Zoe lit up. “Or little things of lipgloss! And coupons.”
“Those would be nice, too.”
It was really getting ridiculous and I was moving into hour 14 of my heels. “I’m losing enthusiasm, Zo.”
“Damn me and my obsession with cheap pants. I’m all for persistence, but I give it 10 more minutes and then I’m done. This place’ll be here forever.”
With that, the security gal screamed at us again. “Didn’t I tell y’all to hug that wall? Damn, I know I told y’all to be huggin’ that wall.”
Okay. That’s my cue. We’re done.
We picked up and left, taking one last, long look at 500 over-dressed people hugging the wall and hoping against hope that sometime before midnight, they’d bust of out H&M with a $5 tank top and some free hooch…