Friday, September 15, 10:30 p.m. "Right hand, please." The bouncer takes my hand in his and brands me with cold, wet ink. "RED," it says, in, of course, blue. I groan, knowing that when I wake up the morning, I will show up at my office (read: Starbucks) with "DER" printed across my forehead like a barcode or a bad birthmark. Over the course of the night, I and six other women will have collected an assortment of other letters and symbols—we do have quite the itinerary planned.
For my company, I sought the assistance of a special sort of wingwoman: the Public Relations Female (aka PR Chick), a unique breed—young, savvy, beautiful and possessing a bottomless cup of energy that lets her pump out press releases by day and party by night while still finding the time to be fashionable, in the know, and recently showered. Our itinerary is ambitious: can seven women survive a trek through every Pure Management Group venue in one evening? Can we stay unified without losing troops to wine, men and song?
It begins innocently enough. We figure we're saving time by pairing appetizers and cocktails at Social House with Tangerine for dessert, as the two are both located at TI. Everyone agreed that starting the night at a restaurant was advisable, as we gently introduce our stomachs to the first drinks of the night. I begin with the smooth Lycheetini; others go for the exotic Rising Sun Martini with its odd little momoberry, a Japanese dwarf peach lurking at the bottom; and some go straight to the gin. But we mistakenly under-order the food and we leave still feeling a bit peckish. I botch my exit by missing the last step down to the bar and nearly take a flying leap into the hostess stand.
At Tangerine's gates, we submit to the RED stamp and an additional happy face that grants us access to a white-on-white VIP pod, our home for the next hour as we sit back and watch the next table where male tourists are romancing female tourists with the subtlety of Dobermans mounting poodles.
Our third stop is New York-New York's Coyote Ugly where our toast is "to pure estrogen!" as we slug down uber-sweet Washington Apple shots. A bouncer helps us onto the stage with a few gropes, where we dance, take blackmail photos and generally embarrass ourselves and everyone who knows us. It's rather liberating, especially if you don't mind a roomful of men looking up your skirt while you smack your own ass.
Next is Pure, where we push our way to the front of the line, making friends along the way (not). A group of seven local ladies being the most desirable item for any club, we are thankfully plucked from obscurity. We hit every room at Pure but eventually congregate on the windy patio and talk about—what else?—boys. I mean men. I mean boys. Like so many girls' nights out, that's when things start to unravel. Long drinks and short attention spans take effect and ladies start to stray from the herd. It's inevitable, so I feel no guilt when I give kisses all around and hop in a cab back to TI. My emergency estrogen fix will keep me good until the next crisis or cause celebre comes about.
Early the next morning, doing the requisite damage control, I go over the incriminating photos, check my texts and calls for drunk dialing, and send out a hearty thank you to the PR chicks who are no doubt already buffed, polished and productive at their desks with not the slightest traces of gin hangovers. As for myself, waiting for my tall, nonfat, pumpkin spice latte, I'm at a loss when my barista asks, "Miss, why does it say ‘DER' on your chin?"
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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