Saturday night is alright for fighting, Sir Elton once told us, and I'm certainly fighting the urge to close this laptop and head out to a late-night birthday bash for Gabriela Artigas somewhere in Hollywood at her sister Tere's place.
I met the striking Artigas siblings late one night, in what seems a zillion years ago, at Diamond Dogs, the too-fast-to-live, too-young-to-die nightclub at H'Wood in Hollywood, thrown by my pals Bryan Rabin and Kelly Cole. After an insanely fun night in my vintage leopard YSL with pals such as make-up artist Gregory Arlt and Dita Von Teese, at 3 a.m. or so I found I needed to make my way back to Silver Lake (mind you, this is before motherhood became a reality).
The Artigas, whom I'd only met briefly before, offered to wheel this crazy old lady in the red fox chubby jacket home. Enroute, I learned the trio split their time between their native Mexico City and Los Angeles. (Since then, I've also learned their uber-chic mother, Teresita, also visits now and again.)
When we arrived in front of my house, Gabriela turned to me and wrapped my neck with a fat sparkling braid of silver chain. This was like the one she made for the runway show of my friend J.C. Obando, she shared. She was a jewelry designer, and, I suppose this was one way to get my attention. It worked.
We now carry her collection in the store. Only her chain rings are online so far, but the rest should go up shortly since it's been such a hit. (Handsome brother Alex, who was behind the wheel of the BMW sedan that night, is a furniture designer. His pieces should finally be instore at A+R soon enough!).
So I mentioned Dita and Gregory specifically as my party co-horts that night because they are with me tonight, in spirit, and the reason why I'm at my desk at home. I'm burining the midnight oil to complete this manuscript for Miss Dita's beauty book. And so I must skip out on celebrating Gabriela's birthday.
Tonight's topic is red lipstick, whose transformative powers I first discovered on my last day of junior high… Admittely, I can't say that I feel too sorry for myself: I'm doing what I love to do. Write. And about one of my fave topics, no less.
My laptop is open. My wet hair is in a turban, while I sit here in a softly worn pair of Viktor&Rolf for H&M cotton men's pajamas, and at my left (because, I am left handed, after all), a glass of clean, silver agave tequila called Ixa.
Such is la vie of the writer on deadline, Dear Friends!
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