Glenn and I went to the Regional Medical Center’s gala tonight. An annual fundraiser with a “costume-y” dress code, this year’s event was a “Roaring 20s” affair.
Last year’s “Take Me To Morocco” party was a nice event, in part, I suspect, because only a few brave souls made an effort to dress for the occasion. Those who did, interpreted the theme to mean wearing jewel-toned scarves, gauzy dresses and lots of gold.
I didn’t try to look like a Moroccan. I wore a long, dark purple dress and called it a day.
This year, I tried a little harder. I picked a dress with sequins and a dropped waste. And I felt like I had a reasonable almost “roaring” clutch. It had an extra long braided rope strap, a velveteen flap with tiny pleats, and a thin, straight, rhinestone broach — it worked, kind of.
Dakota liked it too. Quick as she saw it on the corner of the table, she snipped the rope with her razor-sharp teeth and ran off with her prize, a 12″ length of it snapped right from the middle.
“Oh, Geez! I need that.”
She ran away as fast as she could — I expect she realized that this was not her problem — she got what she wanted. She was happy.
I was fine too. Instead of having a semi-20s-style purse hanging from my shoulder down to my hip, I held the knot in my hand all night.
Nobody knew. I was defiant — not gangster-defiant, mind you, but a bit of rebel, nonetheless.