Our fearless Flack is in the thick of event season. Naturally, she’s doing her best to recover…
Dear Event Guest,
I hope you had a fanciful time at our A-list soirée. Wasn’t it a night to remember? I admired you from afar as you effortlessly glided through check-in, giggled with your flock, guzzled Moet and nibbled on tiny bites of tartare. The photos of you were amazing! No, I totally don’t mind calling the agency to ask them to take down the one that showed your triple chin. It’s all part of my job! Which I love, BTW! I, on the other hand, had a less fancy time, because I was dealing with the following:
- My client adding 25 names to the already well-over-capacity list 3 minutes after I had finished laying out all of the seating cards. I spent a solid 27 hours preparing that seating chart…so adding in one of the sponsor’s third cousins to Table A was nothing short of an act of God.
- Getting dressed 12 minutes after the event started. Pretty proud of myself for changing into my gown in a dark bathroom stall. Yes, I actually wiped my armpits with paper towels in a failed attempt to get rid of the BO generated by assembling the step-and-repeat.
- At check-in, an unknown actor who “allegedly” had a “small but memorable role” in How To Get Away With Murder bullying my check-in staff to the point of tears to gain access. Yes, he invoked the fail-safe rage tirade of “I swear to God the event hostess invited me, I just can’t find the email.” This pompous windbag managed to disrupt the whole check-in flow as he refused to be diverted to the “problem guest” holding area.
- That obnoxious toad from HTGAWM finally storming in, spending ample time preening on the red carpet to a crowd of couldn’t-care-less photographers and blocking the shot of the person I actually needed for my post-event release.
- Fixing the seating cards, YET AGAIN, after this bloated toad managed to place himself at Table A, right where Sponsor Third Cousin had been “effortlessly” squeezed in.
- Attempting to look glam while spraying WD-40 on a bathroom door hinge because my client proclaimed it was bothering her while she discreetly shoveled down her tartar in privacy. No big deal that I stained my knees and missed my opportunity to shovel down my own nibbly bit. I hadn’t eaten in two days, anyway; I can comfortably subsist on air at this point.
And what did I have to show for it in the end? A photo of me online looking red-faced and bedraggled behind a trio of college-aged bloggers who earn more per post than I made annually for the first 10 years of my career. I forwarded it to my mother to prove just how unglamorous my chosen life really is. Sadly, she’s blind to the torment I endure, and she’ll probably use the picture as our family Christmas card next year, or worse yet, will print it and frame it to display prominently on our mantel. Right next to the picture of me with a streaky spray tan standing behind a radiant Hugh Jackman at some film premiere, when I was still the lowly door girl. I give up.
Until the next one, guys,
Your Faithful Flack
