I’m Driven To Dress Up!

photo (14)Now that I’m divorced, I’m invited to so many fancy parties, I should belt out “Popular” from Wicked. Who am I kidding? It’s actually a phenomenon I’ve nicknamed “The Inclusion Illusion” where the Hostess with the Boastess surrounds herself with Plain Janes (like me) so she’ll appear totally hot in next day Facebook photos.

I have six kids (and the body to prove it) so why shell out big bucks for extravagant formal apparel worn only once? But hold the credit card! I’ve found something on the Internet that changes everything.

An online Dress Rental concept promising to save me mega bucks. Look out unsuspecting gal pals — a new and improved “Glam Me” will be on your next guest list!

Here’s a description of the 5-star gown I have my eye on from a site called “Frock On the Clock.”

2014 black, 2 Sleeve, V-neck, leather trim, 4-inch hem, anti-lock zipper, 30 MPH, shows pride of ownership.

30 MPH? I email to ask if I’m borrowing a dress or leasing a Porsche? Their response explains “Males Per Hour” means average number of guys guaranteed to check you out.

Next dress . . .

2013 silver, fully loaded, 4-button closure, ample legroom, clutch, comes with GPS.

Okay, this is getting downright absurd. I send another message questioning the clutch terminology and receive pictures of a matching tiny, beaded purse. Well, okay. But a GPS? (See I’m way ahead of you here, envisioning a dress that directs me toward employed single men who don’t snore.) Turns out GPS actually stands for “Gemstone Positioning System.” Tiny sensors beep when the correct combination of bling is achieved. I decide to go for it and fill out an application.

 Welcome To Our Closet!

(Please answer carefully before proceeding to checkout)


Date the dress is required, including exact time of return? I imagine having too much fun at a wedding, (not mine, of course!) and losing track of time. At the stroke of midnight, I stand in rags with a few mice scurrying about. Luckily I love pumpkin pie.

Please choose Pucci, Armani, Dolce, Garavani, Versace, Cavalli, Schiaparelli, Giannulli, Biagiotti or Lancetti? Pasta? No thanks. I gave up carbs to fit into this friggin dress.

Add on insurance? No! I’m actually hoping to collide into Mr. Wonderful or get rear-ended because I’m wearing your sexy dress. But I’ll sign up for a “Bump Her to Hump Her” warranty.

As long as we’re back to comparing dresses to cars, there’s a few more bells and whistles I’m gonna ask “Frock on the Clock” to throw in for me.

Fuel Injection System – – Allows me to eat normally while waistline seams automatically (and discreetly) loosen.

No Side Airbags – No more sitting between boring tablemates who talk my ear off about the latest additions to their wine cellar and golf handicap.

No Rear Spoiler – My dress looks as stunning backing out as it did entering.

Roadside Assistance – A man carries me to the parking lot when my 4-inch stilettos start to pinch my feet.

No Blind Spots – All body defects easily detected in rearview mirror. No rude surprises in bathroom stalls, overhearing catty women dissing my full-throttle chassis.

Shock Absorbers – His jaw won’t drop when I admit to having six kids.

Cruise Control – The ability to circle the buffet, taking in all my choices before shouting, “Fill ‘er up!” to the crème brulle.

VIN # — A system to track the history of this size 8 beaded Dior. Has someone gotten lucky in this dress or did they starve to death trying to zip it up? Was this the same gown worn to the Oscars by Jennifer Lawrence and now I’m destined to trip on the steps while accepting my award for most Original Writer?

I’ll keep you posted on my adventures in the fashion rental world. Meanwhile I’m thinking of economizing further by leasing a pair of low mileage Jimmy Choo pumps, then shifting into overdrive with four spritzes of Channel No. 5 at the local carwash. They just opened “Rent-a-Scent” you know.

So my dear Party Hostess, you better steer clear of me! Because at your next black tie gala, I’ll be the guest who cruises in from the pages of Vogue. Or maybe just the party “crasher” from Motor Trend magazine!

Hark! I'd LOVE to hear your remark . . .

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