30 Pieces of Flare

(I couldn't resist an Office Space reference.)

I'm cheating and writing about an event that happened way in the past (almost two months ago, to be more precise). This blog didn't exist back then, so I'm catching up. The event is surely worthy of it's own post, however, as it was my first (vicarious) red carpet invite. Now that the band has finally, after 2 years of being signed, proven their mettle (ahem, they actually have an album under their belts), the label has been much more involved in "Project: Sweet Thing". It has its perks. They've been throwing invites our way to swanky Toronto to-dos, and while I'm not the gin-on-Wednesdays girl of my early twenties, I can't pass up an opportunity to wear heels and buy a new outfit, even on a work night. And, especially, if said to-do involves fashion and free drinks.

[ photo: Flare.com ]

In early November, Flare Magazine threw herself a 30th birthday party, of sorts; just a teeny-tiny affair involving a few hundred of her closest friends. EMI passed along the invite, and Alex accepted. Plus one, of course. Sure, we were only friends-of-friends, but I'm admittedly bit of a fashion-whore and have devoured enough pages of Flare over the years to warrant at least a martini or two on the house, right? OK, so I boycotted the publication in the early-90s Suzanne Boyd era, due to a bad run of uninteresting journalism and the magazine's slip out of touch with their average Canadian reader. Just sayin'. Under new leadership, Flare has pulled up her Chanel two-toned tights, though. I was genuinely proud to toast 30 years of Canadian fashion.

 

[ FLARE 30th @ the ROM, photo: BizBash.com ] 

I toiled over my outfit for 3 days. It was a fashion event, after all. I had to choose wisely. I suddenly wished I had one of those tell-it-like-it-is GBFs that only really exist on TV (my mother is currently consulting her English-Textspeak dictionary). But alas, I had to pass up "brutally honest man friend" for "politely helpful girl friends" and "careful-advice-giving husband". In the end, I trusted my instincts. Sure, they've failed me before. Read: self-administered asymetrical haircut. Oh and we mustn't forget (for fear of repeating past mistakes): patchwork denim. To be fair, it was the early-early 90's. Still, there are photos. Yes, we've all stumbled into a fashion victim moment (except maybe for my friend Philam, who staunchly and smartly avoids radical trends). Mostly, though, I think I can manage to pull together a pretty darn good 30th Anniversary fashion party outfit. And I did. 

Sheila suggested the lace tights, and I agreed. The rest? My CM off-white and black polkadot high-waisted bubble skirt, a cerulean blue bustier (think Wonder Woman), long black tuxedo vest, my Montreal-made Ophelie military-inspired hat (avec jaunty angle, of course), long gold rope lariat necklace (broken during too-enthusiastic dance moves), black and white cap-toe 30's-style heels, and an FCUK mustard clutch with huge art deco clasp. Ahhhhhhh. With 7 inches shorn from my head days earlier, I felt like a star. Only, of course, I wasn't. No matter - neither was the husband (yet), even though he did get a red carpet pic. I managed to forget my camera, miss the red carpet moment and escape the flash of pretty much every photographic opportunity. I guess the outift will have to make it's (re-)debut at another future event. 

 

[ the only (sorta) pic of me from the night - look center-left ]

 

[ My other "dates" - Owen, Tyler and Kate - were a little less camera-shy; photos: Flare.com ]

We're not much for "the scene" and boy, was this ever. But sometimes, you just feel a little better about your relatively peaceful domestic existence if you can just throw on some lipstick and strut around in heels for a few hours. Just to say that you did. Just so you remind yourself of what you're not missing. However, my low expectation for the evening turned out to be quite an underestimation. I was extremely delighted to see that while most guests were there to see and be seen, a small group of real people had actually created a sizable dance floor. The backdrop was gorgeous - the new wings at the ROM - and the music was surprisingly fun and unpretentious. I instantly forgot my disdain for snooty Toronto scene-types (and the height of my treacherous heels) and joined. Where there is a dancefloor, I will always be happy. Alex doesn't necessarily share my view, but he was a good sport. 

 

[ the ROM gets a makeover...again; photo: BizBash.com ]

The DJs were Andrew Andrew, an adorably cute duo from NYC who sported matching white suits and Clark Kent style glasses. I took a liking to them and secertly wished I could hire them to follow me around carrying my bags and giving me shopping advice. Again, only in the world of the fictitious Carrie Bradshaw. They eventually, with reluctance, played my song (Shoes by Tiga) and I was smitten. Considering the 6 martinis I'd probably downed by that point (we lost count), I don't think the feeling was mutual. 

[ photo: wired.com ]

The Thursday morning hangover was worth it. But, while I had a surprisingly good time, I've had my fill of lights, late nights and weekday drinking for a least a few months. In supportive bandwife fashion, I will don heels and sacrifice sleep for my man anytime, but luckily he doesn't ask it of me too often.