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A Festive French Christmas Party
Jet black. Leather. Lace-up to the knee. Pointed
toe. Stiletto heel. Silver buckle in the back. 530 Euros...All I want
for Christmas Santa will find in the Dolce & Gabbana window on Rue
de Rivoli.
Unfortunately, there are ten days till Christmas, as illustrated on the advent calendar sent to me by Laura with the pictures of male models' buttocks reminding me that I'm single and celibate this holiday season; these particular boots are vital for updating my recycled holiday dress that I'm hoping still fits-- post pastry, baguette and cafe crème--for Laura's chi chi company Christmas party tomorrow night, promising cute boys and spiked egg nog.
I wipe the window with my glove where my breath has fogged my view of the most beautiful pair of boots I have ever seen. My heart is beating fast as I desperately fight my urge to go into the store. I know that once I open those glass doors it's all over and my stipend for the month is finished and I will be forced to eat chili con carne out of a can.
530 euros. What do they mean to me? This month's grocery money; tickets to see Love Actually for the second and third times; a plane trip to New York to see my best friend, Malia, who forced me to go camping with her family five years ago, when I fell off a log bridge into a swamp with my silver lamé train case containing six Chanel lip glosses and an essential collection of Kiehl's skin- care products; a new cell phone that allows me to make phone calls and retrieve messages (mine does not, as it dates back to the late 80s); approximately 173 cafe crèmes.
I lean my forehead against the window. It is time to say goodbye. I turn to go, but as I wait for the light to cross the street to the Concorde métro station, I am reminded of an Angela Lansbury film where she comes to Paris to buy a purple dress that she cannot afford. How romantic, I remember thinking, how French. Shoot--now I have the theme song from Murder She Wrote stuck in my head. But nevertheless, if Angela did it, so would I.
I bought the boots without even trying them on. The decision was simple: they were the perfect boots for a fabulous party.
The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn and out the door by 9:30, determined to get to the stores by 10 to avoid the Christmas crowd. Sephora: for red lipstick; Le Bon Marché: for sexy black stockings to go with my amazing new boots; and the Pharmacy: for Actifed in case of hang-over tomorrow morning.
By late afternoon my errands were finished and it was time to prepare for the party. I was to meet Laura in front of the République métro stop at 6:30 p.m. She needed to stop by her office briefly on the way to the party, which was being held at a club a couple of blocks away. By 5:30 p.m. I was showered and dressed and it was time to put the finishing touch on my outfit.
I sit on my bed as I slide my foot into the soft leather--perfect fit. I feel like Cinderella when she tries on the glass slippers for the first time--though, if Cinderella had had this pair of boots, she wouldn't have left one on the steps of the Palace.
Once the boots are on, I can't help but admire myself in the full length mirror for a couple of moments; five minutes later, I'm going to be late. I grab my purse and cheerfully descend my seven flights of stairs, taking extra care to avoid any scuffing on the boots against the ancient wooden spiral steps.
On the métro I notice people staring at my legs, admiring the Dolce & Gabbana, work of art. Yes, I am pleased with my purchase...I pat myself on the back and try to ignore the creeping hunger pains. I hadn't eaten all day as I can no longer afford food—well, at least not for the next couple of weeks. I'll be sure to fill up on caviar and foie gras at the party.
When I arrive at the métro station, I am shocked that Laura is on time and waiting for me when I reach the exit. She wears her newspaper boy hat, blue jeans and an eggplant wool city coat from Zara. I feel extremely over-dressed and hope that Laura plans on changing when we get to her office. I regret my extravagant purchase.
Laura and I walk about a block, shivering in the night air with a wind chill factor of about -4 degrees Celsius, to her monstrous office building. We proceed to the 9th floor where it appears that almost everyone has left for the party except for a short blonde girl in a pink cardigan with silver sequins on it, leaning over her desk whispering to somebody over the phone and a man wearing a blue arm cast in the copy room attempting to lay out his papers on the machine with his left hand. He drops his stack of papers as we pass a mass of cubicles towards the back of the floor, where Laura tells me her boss needs to see us in his office. I am confused my her use of the word "us." Why does Laura's boss need to see me? Does he need to approve me for entrance of the party or perhaps he needs help carrying down some Perrier or something?
Laura knocks on the door, and gives me sort of a half-smile, though she avoids eye contact. She has been awfully quiet since I met her at the métro--she didn't even comment on my new boots, which is totally unlike her. Even if she hated the boots or thought that the buckles in the back were a little too much, which I could understand, she would tell me that she hated them...strange. A very tall man in a black suit wearing a red tie patterned with reindeer opens the door. I have to strain my neck upward in order to look him in the eyes...which are brown. He's about 40, brunette, and looks divorced. He shakes my hand and welcomes me into the office. I follow behind Laura.
"I just can't thank you enough for doing this, Christine," says the tall divorced man in the reindeer tie with a thick French accent. My name is Kirsten, but I don't correct him though I'm slightly annoyed. I look at Laura who is standing to my left, but she will not look at me. What is going on?
Laura's boss reaches under his desk and pulls out a huge Bon Marché shopping bag and hands it to Laura. Maybe he thinks that I helped Laura on some sort of project and now he's rewarding the two of us with presents! "I hope these fit. You can change in here. See you two in a few minutes." He grabs his full length single breasted coat and leaves.
"Ooooooh, I wonder what's in the bag?" Laura does not seem so excited. I reach below the paper filling and pull out something very green. I unfold it. What the--two avocado green leotards. I reach back into the bag and pull out two pair of matching avocado green tights. "Ew! What is this?!" Laura looks nervous.
"Laura, what's wrong? Are you okay? Laura?"
"Mmmmmmm, yeah I'm fine..it's just...ughhh..."
"What? Talk to me. You're acting weird."
"Ummmm...okay, well, I sort of, ummmm…"
"Yes?"
"Yeah. I kinda of told my boss that you and I would dress up as elves for the Christmas party." Laura jumps back as quickly as she can, she's afraid that I'm going to hit her. I really want to.
"You what?!!!" I'm ready to kill her. I really am, I'll hide her body in the Bon Marché bag under the matching avocado green leotards and tights and leave it on her boss's desk . "I SPENT 530 EUROS ON D&G BOOTS!!!"
"I am sooo sorry. Kirsten I didn't have a choice. My boss asked me to do it and I didn't want to--"
"Obviously...but you thought I would?"
No, I just, please help me...everything is going really well here, please---I know you're mad."
"Yes Laura. I'm mad."
"Please, Kirsten, please."
What was I supposed to do? I grab the Bon Marché bag and begin to undress. I squeeze into the avocado green elf costume made out of a cheap material that I am clearly allergic to, as I have had it on for 30 seconds and cannot stop scratching myself. I itch all over the place and look like a green monkey. Laura puts on her green monkey suit and we place our clothes (including my 530 euro boots) in the Bon Marché bag.
There's just one more thing," Laura walks slowly over to the gray file cabinets on the left side of the office and opens the top drawer. She pulls out two pair of avocado-green velvet slippers lined with white faux fur that curve upward, coming to a pointed toe with a gold jingle bell at the tip and two avocado-green velvet cone hats that have some sort of white ear muffs attached--vital accessories for the avocado green elf suits. I cannot believe that this is happening. I grab my elf feet and my cone hat and head towards the elevator with my boots in the Bon Marché bag under my right arm.
I do not speak to Laura in the elevator or on the short walk to the club. A hairy homeless man missing a few teeth points and laughs at us while his brown dog lurches towards me, barking at my cone hat as we near the entrance to the club. I am humiliated as I remove my coat and check it and the Bon Marché bag at the door and now have "All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth" stuck in my head.
Laura and I are greeted by her boss, who commends us on how festive we look in our elf suits. This makes me want to vomit all over his stupid reindeer tie. We follow him down a long hallway, where there appear to be some private offices, probably for the owners of the club, and through the kitchen where the caterers prepare their trays of foie gras and caviar, which I would certainly not be eating. Oh wow! One of the servers is totally cute, he looks like a model with his intense blue eyes and pouty pink lips--I mean he is hot. Eighteen, but hot. I start to smile as we pass by and then I remember that I am wearing an elf suit and cone hat.
Laura's boss leads us to a table where there is a stack of about 500 forms that are supposed to be filled out by the people at the party. At the end of the night there will be a drawing, and someone will win a free trip to Italy. He goes on to tell us that we are to stand on the raised stage area and for every 20 entries we perform an "elf jig" where we jump up and down three times pulling our elbows up to our chest, jingle our right toe, jingle our left toe, feet together and bow.
I laugh at this funny joke until I realize that Laura is not laughing and that it is not a joke at all and that he really expects us to do an "elf jig." I am now less concerned with punishing Laura and am frightened by the fact that her boss has actually developed an "elf jig."
I downed four glasses of champagne before Laura and I went on stage. I don't know how many jigs Laura and I performed that night--I lost count after number 12. I don't know who won the trip to Italy nor do I recall the drawing. And I don't remember the name of the 18-year old model that I made out with in the stock room, while Laura was flirting with a lawyer in a Santa Claus hat, or if he was a good kisser or whether the fact that he was into the elf-suit meant that he was gay or French?
At 2 a.m., sobered up, Laura and I go to retrieve our coats at the entrance of the club. Laura and I hand the middle-aged woman with the short red hair our claim tickets and wait while she disappears behind the black curtains. She returns with Laura's Zara eggplant wool city coat and a red pea coat that she hands to me. This is not my coat. Where is my camel cashmere Calvin Klein coat? Where is the Bon Marché bag?
The red headed coat checker looks for 20 minutes before Laura and I join her behind the black curtains, where we search desperately for our belongings and my boots! They are nowhere to be found. The bag is gone. Our clothes are gone. My Dolce & Gabbana boots are gone. We leave our contact info with the red-headed coat checker and step out into the cold all in avocado green. Laura, feeling guilty, as she should, offers me her coat, which I do not accept.
Laura and I jingle all the way to the bus station as we are harassed by two fourteen year-old boys and one drunk Santa Claus who tries to steal my cone hat. We stand at the bus station is silence for two minutes before we both burst out laughing. If we weren't laughing we would be crying.
On the way up my stairs to my studio, I walk carefully because, I don't want the noise from the jingle bells on my toes to disturb my neighbors, and I mourn the loss of my boots. I wonder if Cinderella was this depressed when she lost her glass slipper? But then in the end she got the Prince... I wonder if there is a man out there that I could love as much as my D&G boots? And if so, would he love me enough to buy me another pair at 530 Euros?
Dear Santa, this year rather than leave my presents under the tree, could you please send my D&G boots care of a 6'3" package with: brown hair, medium length, a nice build, strong shoulders and hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. Merçi beaucoup!
--
Unfortunately, there are ten days till Christmas, as illustrated on the advent calendar sent to me by Laura with the pictures of male models' buttocks reminding me that I'm single and celibate this holiday season; these particular boots are vital for updating my recycled holiday dress that I'm hoping still fits-- post pastry, baguette and cafe crème--for Laura's chi chi company Christmas party tomorrow night, promising cute boys and spiked egg nog.
I wipe the window with my glove where my breath has fogged my view of the most beautiful pair of boots I have ever seen. My heart is beating fast as I desperately fight my urge to go into the store. I know that once I open those glass doors it's all over and my stipend for the month is finished and I will be forced to eat chili con carne out of a can.
530 euros. What do they mean to me? This month's grocery money; tickets to see Love Actually for the second and third times; a plane trip to New York to see my best friend, Malia, who forced me to go camping with her family five years ago, when I fell off a log bridge into a swamp with my silver lamé train case containing six Chanel lip glosses and an essential collection of Kiehl's skin- care products; a new cell phone that allows me to make phone calls and retrieve messages (mine does not, as it dates back to the late 80s); approximately 173 cafe crèmes.
I lean my forehead against the window. It is time to say goodbye. I turn to go, but as I wait for the light to cross the street to the Concorde métro station, I am reminded of an Angela Lansbury film where she comes to Paris to buy a purple dress that she cannot afford. How romantic, I remember thinking, how French. Shoot--now I have the theme song from Murder She Wrote stuck in my head. But nevertheless, if Angela did it, so would I.
I bought the boots without even trying them on. The decision was simple: they were the perfect boots for a fabulous party.
The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn and out the door by 9:30, determined to get to the stores by 10 to avoid the Christmas crowd. Sephora: for red lipstick; Le Bon Marché: for sexy black stockings to go with my amazing new boots; and the Pharmacy: for Actifed in case of hang-over tomorrow morning.
By late afternoon my errands were finished and it was time to prepare for the party. I was to meet Laura in front of the République métro stop at 6:30 p.m. She needed to stop by her office briefly on the way to the party, which was being held at a club a couple of blocks away. By 5:30 p.m. I was showered and dressed and it was time to put the finishing touch on my outfit.
I sit on my bed as I slide my foot into the soft leather--perfect fit. I feel like Cinderella when she tries on the glass slippers for the first time--though, if Cinderella had had this pair of boots, she wouldn't have left one on the steps of the Palace.
Once the boots are on, I can't help but admire myself in the full length mirror for a couple of moments; five minutes later, I'm going to be late. I grab my purse and cheerfully descend my seven flights of stairs, taking extra care to avoid any scuffing on the boots against the ancient wooden spiral steps.
On the métro I notice people staring at my legs, admiring the Dolce & Gabbana, work of art. Yes, I am pleased with my purchase...I pat myself on the back and try to ignore the creeping hunger pains. I hadn't eaten all day as I can no longer afford food—well, at least not for the next couple of weeks. I'll be sure to fill up on caviar and foie gras at the party.
When I arrive at the métro station, I am shocked that Laura is on time and waiting for me when I reach the exit. She wears her newspaper boy hat, blue jeans and an eggplant wool city coat from Zara. I feel extremely over-dressed and hope that Laura plans on changing when we get to her office. I regret my extravagant purchase.
Laura and I walk about a block, shivering in the night air with a wind chill factor of about -4 degrees Celsius, to her monstrous office building. We proceed to the 9th floor where it appears that almost everyone has left for the party except for a short blonde girl in a pink cardigan with silver sequins on it, leaning over her desk whispering to somebody over the phone and a man wearing a blue arm cast in the copy room attempting to lay out his papers on the machine with his left hand. He drops his stack of papers as we pass a mass of cubicles towards the back of the floor, where Laura tells me her boss needs to see us in his office. I am confused my her use of the word "us." Why does Laura's boss need to see me? Does he need to approve me for entrance of the party or perhaps he needs help carrying down some Perrier or something?
Laura knocks on the door, and gives me sort of a half-smile, though she avoids eye contact. She has been awfully quiet since I met her at the métro--she didn't even comment on my new boots, which is totally unlike her. Even if she hated the boots or thought that the buckles in the back were a little too much, which I could understand, she would tell me that she hated them...strange. A very tall man in a black suit wearing a red tie patterned with reindeer opens the door. I have to strain my neck upward in order to look him in the eyes...which are brown. He's about 40, brunette, and looks divorced. He shakes my hand and welcomes me into the office. I follow behind Laura.
"I just can't thank you enough for doing this, Christine," says the tall divorced man in the reindeer tie with a thick French accent. My name is Kirsten, but I don't correct him though I'm slightly annoyed. I look at Laura who is standing to my left, but she will not look at me. What is going on?
Laura's boss reaches under his desk and pulls out a huge Bon Marché shopping bag and hands it to Laura. Maybe he thinks that I helped Laura on some sort of project and now he's rewarding the two of us with presents! "I hope these fit. You can change in here. See you two in a few minutes." He grabs his full length single breasted coat and leaves.
"Ooooooh, I wonder what's in the bag?" Laura does not seem so excited. I reach below the paper filling and pull out something very green. I unfold it. What the--two avocado green leotards. I reach back into the bag and pull out two pair of matching avocado green tights. "Ew! What is this?!" Laura looks nervous.
"Laura, what's wrong? Are you okay? Laura?"
"Mmmmmmm, yeah I'm fine..it's just...ughhh..."
"What? Talk to me. You're acting weird."
"Ummmm...okay, well, I sort of, ummmm…"
"Yes?"
"Yeah. I kinda of told my boss that you and I would dress up as elves for the Christmas party." Laura jumps back as quickly as she can, she's afraid that I'm going to hit her. I really want to.
"You what?!!!" I'm ready to kill her. I really am, I'll hide her body in the Bon Marché bag under the matching avocado green leotards and tights and leave it on her boss's desk . "I SPENT 530 EUROS ON D&G BOOTS!!!"
"I am sooo sorry. Kirsten I didn't have a choice. My boss asked me to do it and I didn't want to--"
"Obviously...but you thought I would?"
No, I just, please help me...everything is going really well here, please---I know you're mad."
"Yes Laura. I'm mad."
"Please, Kirsten, please."
What was I supposed to do? I grab the Bon Marché bag and begin to undress. I squeeze into the avocado green elf costume made out of a cheap material that I am clearly allergic to, as I have had it on for 30 seconds and cannot stop scratching myself. I itch all over the place and look like a green monkey. Laura puts on her green monkey suit and we place our clothes (including my 530 euro boots) in the Bon Marché bag.
There's just one more thing," Laura walks slowly over to the gray file cabinets on the left side of the office and opens the top drawer. She pulls out two pair of avocado-green velvet slippers lined with white faux fur that curve upward, coming to a pointed toe with a gold jingle bell at the tip and two avocado-green velvet cone hats that have some sort of white ear muffs attached--vital accessories for the avocado green elf suits. I cannot believe that this is happening. I grab my elf feet and my cone hat and head towards the elevator with my boots in the Bon Marché bag under my right arm.
I do not speak to Laura in the elevator or on the short walk to the club. A hairy homeless man missing a few teeth points and laughs at us while his brown dog lurches towards me, barking at my cone hat as we near the entrance to the club. I am humiliated as I remove my coat and check it and the Bon Marché bag at the door and now have "All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth" stuck in my head.
Laura and I are greeted by her boss, who commends us on how festive we look in our elf suits. This makes me want to vomit all over his stupid reindeer tie. We follow him down a long hallway, where there appear to be some private offices, probably for the owners of the club, and through the kitchen where the caterers prepare their trays of foie gras and caviar, which I would certainly not be eating. Oh wow! One of the servers is totally cute, he looks like a model with his intense blue eyes and pouty pink lips--I mean he is hot. Eighteen, but hot. I start to smile as we pass by and then I remember that I am wearing an elf suit and cone hat.
Laura's boss leads us to a table where there is a stack of about 500 forms that are supposed to be filled out by the people at the party. At the end of the night there will be a drawing, and someone will win a free trip to Italy. He goes on to tell us that we are to stand on the raised stage area and for every 20 entries we perform an "elf jig" where we jump up and down three times pulling our elbows up to our chest, jingle our right toe, jingle our left toe, feet together and bow.
I laugh at this funny joke until I realize that Laura is not laughing and that it is not a joke at all and that he really expects us to do an "elf jig." I am now less concerned with punishing Laura and am frightened by the fact that her boss has actually developed an "elf jig."
I downed four glasses of champagne before Laura and I went on stage. I don't know how many jigs Laura and I performed that night--I lost count after number 12. I don't know who won the trip to Italy nor do I recall the drawing. And I don't remember the name of the 18-year old model that I made out with in the stock room, while Laura was flirting with a lawyer in a Santa Claus hat, or if he was a good kisser or whether the fact that he was into the elf-suit meant that he was gay or French?
At 2 a.m., sobered up, Laura and I go to retrieve our coats at the entrance of the club. Laura and I hand the middle-aged woman with the short red hair our claim tickets and wait while she disappears behind the black curtains. She returns with Laura's Zara eggplant wool city coat and a red pea coat that she hands to me. This is not my coat. Where is my camel cashmere Calvin Klein coat? Where is the Bon Marché bag?
The red headed coat checker looks for 20 minutes before Laura and I join her behind the black curtains, where we search desperately for our belongings and my boots! They are nowhere to be found. The bag is gone. Our clothes are gone. My Dolce & Gabbana boots are gone. We leave our contact info with the red-headed coat checker and step out into the cold all in avocado green. Laura, feeling guilty, as she should, offers me her coat, which I do not accept.
Laura and I jingle all the way to the bus station as we are harassed by two fourteen year-old boys and one drunk Santa Claus who tries to steal my cone hat. We stand at the bus station is silence for two minutes before we both burst out laughing. If we weren't laughing we would be crying.
On the way up my stairs to my studio, I walk carefully because, I don't want the noise from the jingle bells on my toes to disturb my neighbors, and I mourn the loss of my boots. I wonder if Cinderella was this depressed when she lost her glass slipper? But then in the end she got the Prince... I wonder if there is a man out there that I could love as much as my D&G boots? And if so, would he love me enough to buy me another pair at 530 Euros?
Dear Santa, this year rather than leave my presents under the tree, could you please send my D&G boots care of a 6'3" package with: brown hair, medium length, a nice build, strong shoulders and hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. Merçi beaucoup!
--
