Getting a Dress Down Inside the FOXhole

Our ballsiness was out of control. This was not the type of reception we should be trying to get in.

We had gotten so complacent with our ability to sneak into receptions we didn’t blink an eye when the only option that evening was off-campus.

Its stuffy location, The Capital Grille, smelling of rich mahogany or the four bat signals lighting up the D.C. skyline, or even the red carpet couldn’t kick our cocky hubris to the curb.

Same routine: The Congressman sent us in his apologetic absence. It was our usual kill shot, and like the times before and after, it worked. I never could have done this with a girlfriend. For some reason, having both members of the opposite sex gave credibility to our story.

To be fair to those irresponsible enough let us in, Fox News had only been launched two years earlier in 1996, and they may never have encountered anyone who voluntarily wanted to crash a party of old white conservatives.

While appropriately dressed for work in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform kind of way, I wasn’t dressed for this. Sipping on passed champagne in an empty room, we stood out like sore thumbs among the few dark suits that had arrived.

After an unpleasant bite of Beluga at the caviar station, I avoided the other serving stations in fear. I kept drinking of course. I wasn’t that intimidated.

Peter pointed out that Dick Morris was behind me at the bar.

“Who?”

“He was on the phone with Clinton one of the times Monica was blowing him.”

Oh. This made him an important person indeed.

More embarrassing than my empty stomach/drunk talk, I was dressed worse than the tuxedoed help. Peter couldn’t stand my bitching about it any longer. The quartet in the corner started another song, and Peter grabbed me and started to slow dance, in the middle of the crowded room, at the Mr. Fancy Pants Fox News party.

Dancing had no place among the conservatives and their caviar.

“What the hell are you doing,” I hissed. Giving a head nod to one of the many watching this train wreck, Peter ignored the question and spun me around.

“See. Are you embarrassed by your outfit anymore?”


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