On Sunday, my boyfriend and I drove out to the Hamptons for a fundraising event for his job. We tooled around in this really adorable red Mini Cooper and sang along real loud to Alicia Keyes “No One” out on Montauk Highway. Then we had to talk to people. Talking to people out in the Hamptons—wait a second. I’m going way too fast. Let’s start with the fight about what a sundress is.
Right there, I was feeling uneasy for a number of reasons. Number one: my boyfriend knows what a tunic is. Only gay men and Phyllis Diller know what tunics are.
Two: there are only three categories of things I can wear. Seems a little rigid.
Three: I’m reminded that every girl in Murray Hill is wearing a long dress down to her ankles and that something normally ethereal and a delightful rare treat is right now an overplayed standard.
“Okay, so I’ll wear my J Crew linen sun dress.”
“Yes, except that’s not a sundress.”
“What?! That is too a sundress.”
“No. A sundress is cotton and has straps.”
Now I was getting angry. He clearly had something against the J Crew dress. Why not just say what his problem is with the Crew dress?? But I didn’t say this. I went to the internet and looked up “sundress definition.” Eventually, I found a definition that made me think that a linen strapless dress is too a sundress.
OH! OH! Before I forget. So we have this fight. He seems not on board with the linen dress. I fume around Manhattan and part of this involves running to an open mic in my wonderful but totally ancient (2004) and about to fall apart Calvin Klein gladiator sandals and what Greg R calls the Hiawatha dress. Well. Around the Montrose stop, the Hiawatha dress—which is I should mention pretty much SEE THROUGH--began to fall APART. Ripping at the CHEST. Not good. But a girl can carry on. If a wind doesn’t blow, and I’m not carrying a backpack, the chest piece lays flat and covers my boobs. But then, I get to Union Square where I get off the L to transfer to the F to get down to Comedy Corner, which I should say is run by a smart Russian dude Bad Slava who maintains a fantastic, accurate weblisting of open mics. (He also interviewed me for his great website wherein he does even MORE service work by interviewing comics.) ANYWAY, back to my day of horrors: as I am walking off the train, my foot gets stuck on what is presumably a wad of gum. MOTHERFUCKER! I yell to the long gone Neanderthal who once thought it was okay to put gum on the ground. I look down and what I see is my bare left foot. What the hell? I then look back, and there is my Calvin, totally Kleined. My sandal has been ripped in two by a subway rivet. It got caught and when I kept walking, part of it flew off. I go back and grab the pieces of my sandal and then begin TO WALK BAREFOOT THROUGH NEW YORK. (“Folks, I’ve heard of Barefoot in the Park but not Barefoot in the Subway, okay!”) A new low. Luckily, there is an Urban Outfitters right up at the intersection. I walk in, yes, left-foot barefoot, and prance down to the shoe section. Whereupon I grab some $12 blue canvas shoes. Like what a retarded person would wear in the 70s. Or a retarded person in 2009 if her shoe broke off.
So while I am at Urban (I know: annoying. I hate it when people call it that), I decide to peruse the sale section. If you are going to walk around barefoot in a long flowing see-through dress, the basement of Urban is the place to do it. THIS IS REAL PEOPLE. I AM NOT MESSING AROUND. I am an artist and I am poor and I am crazy. Deal. I am the package you are trying to buy.
Okay, not really but let’s pretend. So I am looking at the—ugh. This is boring me. Bottomline: I buy an adorable blue SUNDRESS with straps that my boyfriend later declares too small for me. Well. So there you have it. Through it all I tried. Tried to wear a dress with straps that would distract from my armpit wrinkles.
So before we go to the Hampton’s garden party, we decided to eat food. Never good to arrive at a garden party famished and just stuffing your face with upscale potato salad for the first half hour. So we go to grab some breakfast sandwiches.
Let me just say that you have not seen a line for breakfast sandwiches until you have seen a Sunday morning Hamptons sandwich line. People were wearing pink shorts embroidered with lobsters, waiting in line for lobster breakfast sandwiches. These people knew how to live. With an abundance of lobsters.
Let me assure you that preppy fashion is alive and well and not even in an ironic way. It looked very serious, the preppy hanging out in that breakfast line. But it was 20 people deep and we were hungry. We kept walking until we found Southhampton’s other breakfast sandwich place, which was not nearly as crowded. We got two breakfast sandwiches and when the total came to $18 I yelled out “Jesus Christ!” Which I really hadn’t intended to do but it just sort of happened BECAUSE TWO BREAKFAST SANDWICHES CAME TO $18.
At that deli, lots of ladies were prancing around in skinny tan bodies wearing drapy silky beach gowns (?) and high heels. Here’s the thing: when the milk’s gone bad, the milk’s gone bad. Aint no way to make it not smell sour. You can put on all the high heels and lotions you want, but you’re still 37.
That was mean. But seriously. This world is cruel. I am 33 and I might as well start packing up. We could be just months away from a gray pubic hair.
ANYWAY, we got back into the car, where I just wanted to stay and play Beyonce’s Halo over and over while he did his work stuff.
Here’s the thing about Hamptons parties. Luckily no one wanted to talk about what they did for a living because it appeared that some people did NOTHING for a living. Which is actually a lot like being a receptionist at a dying non-profit. So I found I had a lot in common with these people. Also, luckily being the daughter of Bill Buller has adequately prepared me for William F Buckley-based conversations, and that proved to come in quite handy.
A problem: the hedges. They really like their hedges. So you have to slow down quickly when you come to a break in the hedges to get a glimpse of the homes. A borderline dangerous game.
There was a woman selling jewelry in the pool house. The pieces started at around $3000. I mentioned to her that I had been trying to sell my Tiffany gold (ON CRAIGSLIST. This part not mentioned.) She said I shouldn’t sell it. I should expand the hole in the disc and get a chain with DIAMONDS so that it really pops. The way I had it now, she said, it just got lost against my skin. The diamonds would stand out nicely. My bf and I nodded in agreement. The diamonds would really help.
DIAMONDS.
I went back to waiting in the lemonade line.
Here’s something about rich people. Everything is always nice. “This weather is amazing! Perfect day for this event!” No it’s not. This weather is terrible and I want to go inside. I am sure the inside of your giant house is air-conditioned. I am sure you have a nice plush basement where we can go hang out and play video games and drink lemonade. Not sure why we are standing around a pool outside in garden dresses when it is 98 degrees out. Also, doesn’t anyone have pot? Why aren’t we smoking pot.
After four hours of being at a garden party (!) My bf and I got back in the car and drove back to Manhattan. It seemed like most people at the party split their time between Manhattan and the Hamptons. I feel that’s really the most practical way to do it. It was annoying having to rent the car and drive back the same day. If my bf and I had property in the Hamptons, we could have just stayed the night.
On the car ride back I made all sorts of disparaging comments about money and people with money. I think at one point I think I even said “Give me Bushwick anyday” by which I meant “I am insane.” Yes, it’s nice to have things “real.” To be in touch with the common man. To sit on the L train with America, to know that we aren’t supposed to use the words “cripples” and “negroes” anymore. But would it kill me to make some money? To actually take some solid actions towards earning serious money? Probably not. I would be able to buy a non-see through dress and have my Calvins re-Kleined.
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