Where to begin....
Naomi Ikehorn Orsini paused at the doorway of the formal event she had only very reluctantly agreed to attend. Very few people would have the panache, the pure Irish spirit to come to an event where everyone else was 5'0" and 90 pounds and tanned to a burnished peanut brown, but this was no ordinary woman. This was "Inky", who from birth had burst into the world and started exploring it almost as soon as she could toddle. The world was her Kelly bag, her Tiffany key pendant, her Balenciaga egg coat, and she had only to rest her lambent, serious eyes on something and it would be hers for the taking, or the leaving.
Dressed in an fitted 1960's inspired sheath of Yves Klein blue with a subtle arabesque design in black, her endless, lightly tanned legs ending in killer strappy heels with serious silver mirror Cuban heels, her Titian locks wavy and loose, she looked the kind of woman you catch a glimpse of in the hallway and promptly knock over a tray of champagne glasses while trying to get another look. The kind of Gilda, Rosalind Russell "dame" who didn't flirt with waiters, just gave them that look from those changeable sea green eyes.
Despite the 90 degree heat, the late start, and the company- enforced no drinking policy, the famously charismatic and shockingly wealthy iron and oil heiress was determined to have a good time.
Of course, it was a monumental hassle that her boyfriend, the beautiful, mercurial technical expert/ private plane pilot- he of the sharpest cheekbones and most kissable mouth East of the Bay of Bengal-- had been felled like a tree to a logger by a very severe cold just last week and was spending the day chewing on the bitter kalamansi fruit (the sure-fire cold remedy here in the colony) and sleeping, so she was going to have to champ it out solo.
Oh, wait, that's the Judith Krantz novel I brought to the Holiday Inn poolside bar. Heh. Uh, where was I?
Yes, babies, I had to go to company anniversary part sans date. Fine. And it was in the middle of the day. Fine. And the food was rice, cauliflower, peas, carrots, and broccoli, and sauce with chicken and roast beef. Fine. And there was no drinking allowed. Fine. (I recently cut the drinking WAY back to almost nothing anyway, no big deal, but if there was one event I'd like a glass of wine, this would be it). Let me just set the scene for y'all shall I?
I arrived on time, to a wedding like setting of daffodil chairs, lazer beams, pounding 70's music, a wide variety of "formal wear" (more on THAT later) already schvitzing like a schmuck and dying for water. The organizer, a tiny fey little thing we call "she" (at his request) called "Peachy" rustled up- would I please present the awards with Shah? (My guess is a combination of English skills and height---I'm the only one close to Shah's height that wouldn't be weird- an agent would be just too weird---colored his choice, so I said yes).
I wandered around, getting my picture taken with various people who barely cleared my shoulder, and when I sat down realizing I should have tested my dress in the dressing room. I mean, I recently lost quite a bit of weight and have a deep caramel tan, but still! The dress was *barely* clearing the runway, if you know what I mean.
A photo booth was set up and people were getting their photos taken. I sat down with Mike, one of my original friends, and tried to talk turkey, however, Filipinos, god bless them, are constitutionally incapable of gossip (at least in English, with an American), and it's not Mike's nature to "dish", so he was a pleasant but not totally Joan Collins firecracker table companion.
The clothes: the invitation specified "formal wear" which was supposed to be for men was dinner jackets in dark colors and for women full length gowns- movie premier stuff.
Well, children, the clothing ran the gamut from a breezy knee length sleeveless sundress and espedrills (Gemma) to what I would call "Barbie dresses"- short very poufy layered cupcake dresses in gauzy bright colors (that looked terrific on tiny little dark Asian ladies, would have looked like I stole it from a villager if I wore it) to a short sleeved plaid shirt and black jeans (Duey, one of my favorite agents) to gorgeous Amit and gorgeous Fitz fully kitted out in three piece dark suits and Windsor knotted ties to a white shirt and khakis and "good" sneakers (Nikki) to a black shirt, a domino mask, bolo tie and fedora (the tiny, impeccable Mark, one of those men who look like they're wearing guyliner even when they're not, they're just one of Nature's favored ones).
Roro rolled up late wearing a loose but spotless white shirt and dark jeans and aviator sunglasses, looking like he slept on a train, for all the world like a particularly glamorous castaway in that way some people have, the sleepy look that covers over the preternaturally alert stance of a seasoned gambler.
The first chance people had they changed into tee shirt and jeans that they had brought with them, clever dogs, and me, Nikki, and Anne were stuck in our formal wear. Oh wait, Nikki and Anne were wearing backyard barbeque clothing and I was stuck in full on Gossip Girl wear. Now, I did look hotttt but I also had to move verrrryyy carefully.
There were a few songs, (karaoke) and an AWESOME dance program by two male members of the retention team (LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, OUR ACCOUNT MANAGEMENTTEAM!!) to Justin Timberlake's "My Love" that managed to be sweet, odd, and as endearing as a 4th grade ballet recital. The support team (sme's and supes sang, very off key and sounding drunk despite being 100% sober) "Do you remember" by I think the Jackson Five?
Of course there were awards and all that, and a computer presentation that defies description. See my youtube account, naokelify, for vids that MUST be seen to be believed. However, don't tag them, please, I don't want to "out" people. (thanks, loyal ones)
About halfway through the program (before the food) I was outside trying to form a cabal (epic fail- everyone is sweet as they frantically edge away from me, desperate to get back to the Tagalog table- THE REASON I DIDN'T WANT TO GO, but whatever....) to afterparty somewhere (and not even really "party"-just grab a beer and some chat!) and when I came back inside there was a huge commotion of some kind- the male half of the presenters got on the mike and announced:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, due to the bubble machine, our hostess has slipped and fallen and hit her head, but she's okay! We're taking her to get checked out, but please continue the program!"
I *immediately* was struck with THE WORST case of the "church giggles"[when you can't stop yourself from giggling even though you really, really shouldn't be] TM that I've EVER had. I had to walk out and call Lindz gasping for air and wiping my eyes and tell her the deal. I mean, really it was not a laughing matter but "due to the bubble machine"? I mean, HAVE MERCY. I finally got it under control and joined the group but it did sort of put the finishing note of madness on the day.
Anyway, the day limped along until Niks got there, thank god, and gave me the first compliment of the day (well, aside from people jostling to get a picture with me) "I like what you're wearing!" He nodded at the outfit. As he's naturally gracious yet reserved, this is a high compliment from Niks, and I was happy. Anne finally rolled in, and we champed it out, then we had a beer at the bar after the event wrapped up.
Night finally dropped, as the guest straggled out and it was just us three at a table, under the fan and Roro, Jai and Mark at the bar draped over barstools with loosened ties, unbuttoned shirts, and lightly gleaming faces from the heat. I couldn't have PAID those guys to join us. That's the one thorn in my side from the whole night. It was a twisted rent in the fabric of the heart to know that even if Ives had been there and I had been at that table with him and his friends, I would have still been watching and listening, not understanding anything, as everyone joked and laughed, while I sat, the fleeing Diana turned to a tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment