Some day, I'll throw a party like Audrey Hepburn.
You know the kind. Other than that iconic image in Breakfast at Tiffany's, of her walking down an empty Fifth Avenue too early on a Sunday morning, just staring into the glitziest bling shop in the world, to my mind the very best dialog in that movie took place in that scene in which the whole world shows up to party in her tiny apartment: stews and runway models, aging lotharios, Hollywood agents, Brazilian playboys, and on-the-make Mad men wearing skinny ties. One guy even has an eye patch, and it isn't a Halloween party. Go figure.
The booze is flowing, the bon mots are flying. And Audrey is magnetic.
We should all be Audrey, at least once in our lives, even if our cigarette holder only blows bubbles.
Of course hers is really lit, which is why, in such a confined space, some woman's hat catches on fire.
My last "big" party was formal-- that is to say, filled with too many people not willing to let their hair down, let alone go up in flames.
That's alright. I've made a few faus pax myself: like the time half the guests ended up in the hospital with food poisoning.
This is why I'm not the chef in our family.
But I'm still a party animal.
