Today, I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off. A large part of my job is event planning, and while I love the creative nature of it, it can often be hectic with lots of last minute fires to extinguish. Since yesterday, I’ve been working on a ladies birthday luncheon for a client – a purple party – that is taking place this afternoon. The theme conceived itself with exquisite May purple sweet pea and lilac floral arrangements. Using purple as a springboard, I purchased diminutive, exquisite mother of pearl and tortoiseshell compact mirrors and wrapped them in precious shagreen patterned boxes tied with a purple satin ribbon. Proper ladies love to have petite compacts so that they can check their flawlessly – or not so flawlessly – applied lipstick. Next came the seating cards made from bespoke purple stationary cards cut into perfect, stylized hearts. I whipped out my calligraphy pen and started to dip the quill into the snowy white ink to execute impeccable 18th century style Copperplate calligraphy. As I left the office last night, I was quite pleased with my pretty purple party so far. I was in good shape. Everything looked pristine. And pretty. And purple.
Until this morning. When I realized that I forgot all about a fucking birthday cake. You kinda need a fucking birthday cake for a birthday party. I called all the amazing bakeries in my rolodex but nobody had a plain, simple fucking birthday cake within the next two hours that I needed it. I really should stash sneakers under my desk for mornings like this, but I didn’t have any. Instead, I had my pretty Bordeaux purple Manolo Mary Janes on and I dashed out the door knowing that I’d probably run off the little rubber heel protector as I ran through the streets looking for a fucking birthday cake. I dashed into Magnolia Bakery and what do you think I saw? A pristine, perfect, purple cake. I SHIT YOU NOT. You see, some days, things fall magically into place and you can have your cake and eat it too. And not trash your Manolo’s in the process of putting out a fire.
Manolo Blahnik, Bordeaux suede Mary Janes pumps
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