The lazy-ass blogger returns.

OK, it seems that I actually have some fans out in the blogosphere who crave my naughty asides and gimlet-eyed view of the world (does that mean you picture a gimlet cocktail when you shut your eyes? I certainly hope so, with extra pearl onions, please!). Well, in my attempt to write the great American novel, I think I will start writing sketches that will motivate something larger. So here goes...

A Night on the Town

Millie stepped out of the cab, attempting to stuff the taxi receipt into the pocket of her bag, and assessed the situation.

The party was glittering, much-hyped, certainly the party of the week. And this was no regular week. It was Fashion Week, after all.

Millie and Gloria, the beauty editor who manned “Product Central,” the beauty closet, compared invites regularly, weighing which would have the best cocktails (Millie preferred a nice white wine, anything but the ubiquitous Chardonnay, while Gloria kicked back anything sounding foreign—caparinhas, especially), possible dates (the boys were always gay or bored husbands with their super-shopper wives), and most tricked-out goodie bags, the type that might include a handbag or watch and certainly not shampoo or a gift certificate or foundation or magazine. Gloria had eyed tonight’s invite, and clucked, wondering how Millie, a lowly assistant editor, had scored the E-ticket ride to Fashion Week before turning on her Blahnik heel to organize her Kiehl’s products by SPF and Chanel eye shadow by quilted shade or something.

This invite might have been the Golden Ticket, but Millie wasn’t feeling especially Charlie en route to Oompah-Loompah Land tonight as she tucked her streaked hair behind her ear and coughed. Onwards and upwards, Millie, thought, onwards and upwards. It’s been a long road from Tampa, Florida after all, and she wasn’t one for giving up.

The sidewalk was barricaded, of course, thought Millie, so the little people—the ones who buy the fragrance and coin purses that actually keep the place in business—couldn’t get past the headset-wearing PR bitches.

Ah, but the night was young, and the world was her goddamn oyster. (Or at least that's what this month's horoscope in Cosmo told her, but then it also suggested kinky sex with a whip, so who could be sure of the veracity, right?)

Millie took a deep breath. Here goes nothing...