Imaginary Socialite

In the town of Newburyport, Massachusetts, there is a Marshalls. Yes, you heard me correctly, a Marshalls. And here’s what’s inside:

*a pile of Lilly Pulitzer skirts, $40 each
*Coach heels, slingbacks, and sandals, most without that tacky C print, about $60
*BCBG dresses from the Spring ‘05 runway, $90
*Tahari twill blazers, $120
*Kenar print circle skirts, $19.99
*Rafe apple-print slides, $75

What are you waiting for? Go go go go!

[SOPHIE KINSELLA - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Back from my first weekend using “summer” as a verb, and among my piles of mail, I find this:

Dear I.S.

I just interviewed with the lovely Ms. Gruppo for the Anna gig… [info about this lovely girl that you don't need to know]…Thanks for the tips, my dear I.S.!

Rock on, huh?

[AMY LAROCCA - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

My new crush is Mark Hunter. Here’s why:

The Cobra Snake

and a hot ad campaign

Pretty hot, yes?

[ANNA PAQUIN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Apparently, people actually read this site.

Wow.

Hello, out there.

Whomever you are.

xoxo The I.S.

[STRAWBERRY SAROYAN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

“Dear Imaginary Socialite,

Please try not to be so self-conscious (it shows in your writing). You are probably a very nice young girl so forget the judging eyes of fashion.

-John.”

well…hmm… um…

Dear John,

I’m not sure I’d be a good socialite if I weren’t so self conscious. And I’d definitely be a terrible imaginary person. But I’ll try and be more aware of that when I write.

Also, “you must be a nice young girl?” Clearly, we’ve never met.

xoxo The I.S.

as for the rest of you; keep it coming: am.i@imaginarysocialite.com

[BRET EASTON ELLIS - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Last Night we went to Churascarria Tribeca, which looks an awful lot like “chiarascura,” meaning “the pleasure and the pain.” Right.

Waiters circled the table with an endless repertoire of roasted meat spits, and while The Seeker forfeited his usual toast/speech in favor of instructions on how to eat the most, The Countess grabbed my hand.

“I don’t like those girls,” she announced across a glass of merlot, nodding at some Vogue interns, shiny and thin and dazed. “They go to the bathroom too much for my taste.”

I couldn’t help it; I put down my sirloin and smiled. The Countess continued, “cocaine is no way to stay skinny.”

No, in fact, eating piles of beef on sticks is the only way to do that.

Probably because he is the youngest of five siblings, Boxer enjoys charming adults even more than he enjoys seducing women. After wolfing three pounds of lamb, he hopped from Baby Boomer to Baby Boomer with his gameshow smile, courting the dean of Columbia college, Boxer’s mother, Patricia Kluge, the architect Zaha Hadid, and a German priest before setting back into his usual rounds - a cluster of girls from Calvin Klein and Target ads lounging in the corner.

As usual, he got bored and came back to the table 5 minutes later, right as The Seeker dropped tiny roast chicken hearts on our plates.

“Eat up,” he commanded, spearing my portion on a shrimp fork. “They’re magic.”

Behind us, someone smashed a bottle of champagne. I bit into the smoky heart, surprised at how good it tasted, wondering if chicken had souls, as The Countess leaned over the table once again.

“You must be very special,” she said, politely flicking her own chicken heart under the table, “if The Seeker wants you to sit by him all night.”

“She’s incredibly special,” replied The Seeker, kicking my chair with a pair of black Adidas trainers. “Haven’t you noticed? She’s the only girl here who isn’t a model!”

Boxer grabbed a bottle of pinot and filled three glasses to the rim. We toasted, our hands on top of each other, our smiles wicked and exclusive, as The Countess stared and a small file of girls fled to the bathroom once again.

[MARTINA BASABE - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Boys, you are awful.

Awful awful awful.

And it’s because I hate you so much that I pretend not to clutch my little silver cell phone 24/7, waiting for one of you to call.

But, of course, I do.

Love,

The Imaginary Socialite.

[KATE HUDSON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Our beloved webmaster, once known as The Steve, will now be called Damiano. Unless after tonight he wants to be called Anakin or The Sith or whatever, in which case we can rechristen him again. But he’s not allowed to be Yoda because that’s my dad’s nickname (no joke).

[KIERA KNIGHTLY - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Today The Seeker graduates from college. Since the end depends on the beginning, I figured I’d take a moment to tell the tale of how The Seeker and I met.

Once upon a time, at a bird sanctuary in Massachusetts, there was a great forest fire. As sparrows fled to 18th century eaves, The Seeker and I stood awkwardly, as teenage strangers do, at the edge of the flames.

We eyed each other; to each the other was ridiculous. The Seeker was clad in a three-piece silk-stamped suit, complete with an ascot and some sort of derby hat. I wore jeans, boots, and a 1971 sheepskin shearling coat, complete with embroidered yellow flowers, and Clinique Almost Lipstick.

“Great fire,” The Seeker finally said. I’d never heard him speak before; his voice was lower than I expected.

“I’ll hop the fence if you will,” I responded. The fire was licking closer; we could smell the thick blue flames of the seared wood and hear crackling - I hoped from birds’ bones, but I suspect from leaves instead. It was a stupid idea, we both knew it, so we climbed the fence easily, together, and walked further into the smoke.

After a few long steps and a few long looks at each other, we could almost see the fire full-on. We waited in silence as the tops of trees collapsed into ashes and the sky turned from blue to olive brown from smoke.

A branch fell, flaming, to the floor. The Seeker touched my arm.

“Let’s go back,” he said. I was thinking it, but somehow I was frozen, too. We walked, quicker than we’d admit to anyone else, back to the wire fence. We climbed it in silent panic, and hit the dirt ground on the right side with a thud of relief.

“Are you going to dinner?” he asked, meaning dinner.

A pride of sophomores, The Seeker’s friends, came into view. He waved; I turned and walked the other way, all the way home. Two weeks later, I saw a badly photocopied snapshot of The Seeker and Gwyneth Paltrow, holding champagne glasses, smiling real smiles.

After the fire, we didn’t speak for 7 years. Then during a hail storm, we both escaped to Boxer’s apartment, ate barbecue, and invented our futures. He wrapped me in a scarf so the hail wouldn’t smack my cheeks. We taunted Boxer endlessly. We threw snowballs. And we realized that 7 years is no time at all.

I’m still jealous about that Gwyneth pic, though.

So a toast to The Seeker: watch out, world; he’s already figured you out. He’s dead handsome, too, a dangerous trait for a guy in a flight suit.

[CONGRATULATIONS MR. SEEKER. WE LOVE YOU.]