Last night, I attended a soiree at a swanky hotel in the Meatpacking District. For those that don't know, the Meatpacking District in New York used to be just that - a place where meat was packed (hence the name - no one said it had to be creative! LOL) and distributed around the city - basically, a market of wholesale butchers. But with New York being the ultimate higher power in the game of reinvention, it has now become this uber-trendy, celebrity partying, used to be a butcher’s freezer but now its a million dollar apartment hot spot. I've actually seen paparazzi lurking with those gi-normous telescopic lensed cameras, waiting for their rent-for-the-month money shot. The soiree was a birthday party for a woman I recently met, and in true sisterhood, she has adopted me and taken me under her wing. The invitations called for all ladies to wear their hottest stilettos and Beyonce-esque black 'freak-um dress". For over a month, I've been waiting for this event. Between the location (did I mention it was in the lounge in the Penthouse????) and the attire request, I was psyched. As my friends know, I am a shoe whore and had the perfect gold, "you wanna fuck me don't you?" stilettos eagerly waiting in my closet. Something about those shoes, whenever I put them on, I strut my best runway, red carpet, sexy diva strut. Not one of those conceited, I think I’m all that struts. More like one of those I’m confident, and it’s okay to watch me walk across the room struts. Unfortunately, the weather in New York is as uncooperative as a man taking up 2 seats on the subway. So the shoes and the original boobilicious dress went in the back of the closet, and out came a black pencil skirt, black sleeveless top, black chunky belt with gold buckle, paired with black knee-high books with gold buckle accents on the side (“You gotta coordinate!” LOL) Once hair and makeup were done, I thought I looked pretty good. Not the original plan, but the substitute was cute.

From the moment I arrived, I felt like I had entered Oz. From the doorman, to the guy who pressed the elevator button for me (what’s his job title??), to the coat check girl who actually assisted with the removal of my coat, I was given a glimpse into a world I only knew from watching Access Hollywood or reading InStyle magazine. Sure I’d gone to posh events before (I think it was on the curriculum at my elitist high school), but nothing quite this celebritous (yeah I made it up). As I walked off the elevator, I looked around and stepped into a Brooks Brothers meets United Color of Benetton commercial. Only in the ‘common area” of the bathrooms, coat check, and area by the bank of elevators was there any co-mingling. Black folks (dressed beautifully I may add) were in one section, white folks in another, and Europeans just hanging on the periphery. It was as if the KKK had set up velvet ropes clustering each group with their own. Maybe I was reading too much into the scene. I was there for a black woman’s birthday celebration, after all. Maybe, some white person there had a celebration for one of their white friends. Who knows? And honestly, it didn’t have any impact on my time at this event. As I sipped my passion fruit martini (sipped because I was paying Hollywood prices), I glanced around the room, and thought to myself: “This is niiiiiiice! I could get used to this!” As the photographer came around taking posed and candid shots (SIDEBAR: this woman knows how to party!! I am so happy she adopted me!! LOL), I tried to imagine myself as the celebrite du jour. The “It” girl being photographed with other “It” people, toasting the night away in some designer you paid how much for this outfit. Walking to the ladies’ room, I made sure not to stumble or misstep. Who needs implications about falling off the wagon in tomorrow’s Page Six, or next week’s US Weekly?? I mingled and played the classic Negro Game, ‘Do You Know??” You know the game. “Oh you went to Hampton? Do you know (fill-in-the-blank) from West Bubblefuck, Mississippi? He/She is (fill-in-the-current –description which is nothing like how they looked in college..lol)”. I chuckled at the right times, walked around with a smile plastered on my face just in case the paparazzi were watching. Can’t ever let them get a bad shot. I networked and took business cards with promises to “do lunch”. As the crowd began to dwindle and the music became less recognizable, I decided it was time to leave. I gave hugs and air kisses with promises of ‘we must get together soon”. I wafted over to coat check on a celebritous high (I’m hoping the word catches on). When the woman returned with my coat, a white man waiting behind me helped me with my coat. Yes, you read that right – a dashingly good looking white man helped me – ME- with my coat. Before my celebrity trip into Oz, I’ve rarely encountered white men who were so courteous, who actually treated me like a lady, and not some mutated ghetto creature that they don’t care to understand. This celebrity life works for me. I could really get used to this. I graciously thanked the elevator button pusher man (what else can I call him), as well as the nice doorman who complimented my choice of tweed coat on my way out. I walked out of the hotel lobby with the strut of a confident woman who had just taken the celebrity world by storm, who knew there would be nothing but favorable tidbits in the celebrity sightings column in tomorrow’s gossip pages.

But reality came crashing at my stilettos when the homeless man by the train station told me to “move the fuck out” his way while he’s eating. As I sat on the train, I delighted at the thought that at least I had a taste of the celebrity pie, even if it were only a sliver. But one of these days, I will have a bigger piece. I’m destined for it.