No, Really: What Would Emily Post Do?

So while I'm sorting out the absolute melodrama that is my life at the moment (too many damn women involved in this current crisis. Just Too. Damn. Many), I'll regale you with this tale that happened while I was away from these here blogging parts:

So a few months ago, I threw an event for Emily Post's great-great granddaughter. Like my truly evil former best friend from high school that should be nowhere near a mirror lest her lack of reflection freak out the standers by, I should really be nowhere near anything related to Emily Post. I'm from Jersey. I don't really like people (except for you, of course). I think during some round of, ahem, medicating, during my college Grateful Dead years, I think I took a few too many hits of truth serum, because I have somewhat permanent foot-in-mouth disease.

And oh, my karma: not all that stellar.

...none of which occurred to me when coming up with, pitching, publicizing and implementing this event.

So the morning of the event, I was picking up the aforementioned honorary hostess at the airport. Life was a bit crazy, I was in a complete mad rush for the days leading up to the event. So at 10:54 for a flight landing at 11:05, I jumped in my car and raced down to National.

I pulled into the garage, pulled the key out of the ignition, then remembered the words of my BFF E, who uttered, eyebrows a bit raised, "You are going to clean out your car before this weekend, yes?."

I looked down at my console: crushed Cheerios from a 3-year old's temper tantrum the week (okay, the month) prior. Floor: a myriad of gingerbread caramel wrappers, press releases, and, well, dirt. Windshield: a lovely shade of grey. Construction paper art projects (and their leftover glitter) in every crevice. To say nothing of the probably case of empty water bottles littering the seats.

Crap. Literally think "What the EFF would EP do???".

So first: haul all bottles to the trunk. Next: find a napkin and some water and try to get the dirt off of, well, everything. Not too much luck.

Head to baggage claim. Meet the hostess. Who is kind and lovely and charming and warm. Phew. Though she still hasn't seen mi coche.

Head to the car. Give her somewhat fair warning.

Head out of the garage, chatting it up all the while. Get to the gate. Reach for my wallet. Which isn't in my purse. Or in the console. Or in the backseat. Or...rifling through trash now...in the trunk.

"So, um, so thank you for coming. Can I borrow four dollars?" Yes, I had to borrow four dollars from Emily Post's relative to bail us out. So. Not. Cool.

By the end of the day, I asked her if Emily Post would take off her 5" heeled boots when the event was just about over if SHE was 6 months pregnant. She said Emily would approve.

The end.