ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and always, my biggest thanks go out to my readers. Because of you I have a job where I dont have to serve coffee anymore and that makes me incredibly happy. You guys rock and Ill do my best to return the favor.
A million thanks to everyone at NALKara Welsh, Claire Zion, Craig Burke, Melissa Broder, Sharon Gamboa, and the rest of the ass-kicking teams in editorial, sales, art, publicity, marketing, travel, and production. I sincerely thank you for everything you do; I know how hard you all work. (And, Kara C., I miss you!)
For Kate Garrick and the rest of the crew at DeFiore, thank you for keeping this ship afloat in the stormy sea of my own neurosis. (Im not easy but its adorable that you all pretend I am.)
I need to thank my writer friends for all their support, particularly Danny Evans, Caprice Crane, Allison Winn Scotch, Karyn Bosnak, Tatiana Boncompagni, and Stephanie Klein. Thanks for being there! And many thanks to Melissa C. Morristhe worlds a more gracious place for having you in it.
I feel very lucky to have had this project bring me closer to some of my best friends in the world. Mad love and pink drinks to Joanna, Gina, Tracey, Angie, Carol, Wendy, Jen, Poppy, and Blackbird. Everythings a party when you guys are around!
Big, huge thanks go to Stacey Ballis, who is not only a frigging encyclopedia of high culture, but also, like, the funnest person I know. (Yeah, I quoted Romy and Michelle. What of it?) I could not have done this with out you. Team Stennifer rules!
Many thanks to the folks at the East Hampton Library for letting me into the fancy party, thus giving me the best ending I could possibly imagine. If you have me back, Ill bring Baldwin a belt.
Endless love, devotion, and unbreakable promises to pick up dry cleaning go to Fletch. Technically this book was more fun for him than the ones in which we were broke or I was dieting, but still. I can be difficult during writing season and he remains steadfast. I love you so much I wont even tell everyone how you accidentally backed my new car into a burrito stand because you were ignoring the parking sensors. (Oh, wait.) And P.S., everyone realizes youre not gay.
Finally, an enormous round of thanks goes to everyone on my television who ever ate a bug, flipped a table, married a stranger, made out with a roommate, spit on a competitor, took a bubble bath with Flavor Flav, or had a bitch get beer in your weave. I might not be tuning in quite so frequently anymore, but Ill still be watching.
OTHER TITLES BY NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JEN LANCASTER
Bitter Is the New Black
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Such a Pretty Fat
Pretty in Plaid
CHAPTER TWO
(Not My) High School Reunion
Beyond the gracious picture windows, snow falls gently, glistening in the halogen glow of the streetlights. Weve reached the point in winter when city snowdrifts turn grimy and sharp, held together primarily by a strata of dirt and salt and crumbled asphalt. But tonight, perhaps in honor of the authors special event, big, airy flakes drift down, forming a thick buttercream blanket that softens the edges of Halsted Street one story below.
This is the perfect place from which to witness the gathering storm. The windows reach from floor to ceiling, but the room is warmed by incandescent lighting and plush rugs. Rough wooden beams span the ceiling and the walls are exposed brick, providing an elegant contrast to the minimalist animal-print chairs and sleek, low tables. Artfully scattered candles twinkle around the room.
Inside the party the guests are equally radiant, as many are glitterati in their own right. The private event is full of important people, most of whom seem to have stepped out of the pages of Chicago Social Magazine to gather in celebration of the authors newest tome.
Some of the men have come straight from the office and wear finely tailored suits in muted shades of black and gray. Other guys, perhaps the more artistically minded in the crowd, sport high-concept shirts and jeans by designers like Dolce and Gabbana, topped with beautifully battered leather coats.
As for the women, their looks varythey run the gamut from couture cocktail wear to bohemian chic. The author herself oozes glamour in a crimson wrap dress that appears to be both couture and vintage. And despite the absolute certainty that all the women here will have to trudge through snowy streets later, their shoes are of the open, strappy, and impossibly high variety.
The thing is, tonight isnt just an event for people who look beautiful. The authors invited revelers are decidedly academic. Their repartee sparkles just as much as the weighty diamonds on the womens necks, wrists, ears, and hands.
Throughout the room, snatches of Important Conversation can be heard on a variety of highbrow topics: this season at the Lyric Opera; a new piece of surrealist art by someone named Claude; and the best vintage of Mouton Rothschild. Guests discuss amending sections of Chicagos municipal code and the risks commercial paper carries because theres no collateral behind it. The author holds court in the corner by the bar, detailing the ways in which the Italian legal system differs from our own.
At this point, it should be fairly obvious that Im not the author in question, and this isnt my event. I mean, my last book release party was held around my tiny kitchen table and in my microscopic living room with everyone drinking Two Buck Chuck, eating bricks of cheese from Aldi, listening to the GoGos, and playing Scattergories. At some point in the evening, I went upstairs and changed into my lightest pair of pajama pants because I got sweaty.
So this here? This tonight? Is so not my scene. My friend Stacey, another writer (but not the host), invited me. She keeps encouraging me to mingle so Im not bored while she says hello to other guests. Unfortunately, small talk is not my forte, unless it involves my hair or a solid rehashing of that time Pumkin spit on Miss New York in the first season of Flavor of Love. (My academic summation? Them bitches be crazy and shit!)
I quietly slurp my Diet Coke and contemplate what Ill say if Im asked a direct question about any of the topics floating around in here. I get superanxious when Im put on the spot about subjects I dont know much about. What am I supposed to say about municipal code? Its good? Its bad? Its Dan Browns new book? I have no freaking clue.
As for opera, the extent of my familiarity comes from Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places saying, La Bohmeits an op-er-a. Perhaps I should interrupt the surrealist conversation dudes to let them in on my theory that all contemporary art is a huge scam? I mean, last time I went to a museum, there was a barbell sculpted out of Vaseline. Seriously. You think a piece like thats going to make the curators at the Louvre go all, Ooh, lets put the greasy barbell next to the Venus de Milo! Maybe we can even build out her stumps with Vaseline! Right.
I notice Stacey nodding encouragingly at me from across the room, so I steel myself. Im determined to at least try... so then I can quit legitimately. I start grinning awkwardly at the people around me, attempting to catch their eyes and be invited into a conversation. But no one bites because Im pretty sure I come across as desperate and freaky as the chicks at an open-casting call for Rock of Love, minus the boob job and inflamed downstairs lady parts.
This would be so much easier if I were drinking. A little social lubricant would go a long way to make me feel more at ease. But Fletch is joining us later tonight, and I lost the rock-paper-scissors on whod be the designated driver. Why do I perpetually remember too late that the bastard
