Me: (While twirling in front of mirror, wearing newly purchased Anthropologie dress) What do you think of this dress?
Sam: It’s beautiful! And, if you jumped out of a plane, you could also use it as a parachute!
Me: Um, that’s not exactly the look I was going for . . .

I am competitive. Sam is not. Apparently, he inherited his laid back, Type-B personality from his father.
George: Tomorrow’s your big soccer game! Remember the three rules. One, have fun.
Me: Two, win.
George: Two, be safe.
Me: And, three, kick butt!
Sam: Mom said a bad word!
Me: Butt isn’t a bad word. Is it?
George: Yes. It is.
Me: Really? Butt is bad? Huh. I thought that was the PG version of the old saying. Anyway, I stick to my original advice: kick some serious butt out there.
Sam: Mom said butt again!
George: And, three, do your best. We don’t care if you win. We just want you to try hard.
Me: But don’t be afraid to throw a few elbows. Look, all I’m saying is that you have possession and a kid runs at you, and your elbow goes out — just a little, because you don’t want the ref to see — then, boom, you keep the ball.
George: And, four, ignore your mother.

This is what I really, really want for Christmas:

But at a cool six grand, I have to admit it’s a tad overpriced. And, as George pointed out, like all of the furniture in our house, it would become yet another pug nest.

So I have a feeling Santa will not be stuffing this chair down our chimney this Christmas.

If we had a chimney.

Which we don’t.

George and I have an ongoing conversation before we go out on the weekend. It goes something like this:

Me: What should I wear?
George: Clothes are always a good option.
Me: Don’t be a smart ass. What I meant is: I don’t have anything to wear.
George: You have a closet full of clothes.
Me: (staring mournfully into said closet) Nothing. I have nothing to wear.
George: Oh, no! You’ll have to break out the potato sack!

This conversation never ends well. I usually end up muttering about just what I’d like to do with the above referenced potato sack and George ends up shocked at just how salty my language can be.

But now that the holidays are here, I’m back to the same old question. What does one wear?

We’ve been invited to a number of holiday cocktail parties. Which is good. I like the holidays, and I enjoy cocktail parties. So putting the two together is a fine combination.

But what is the correct sartorial choice? We live in a beach town, where no one ever wears cocktail dresses to cocktail parties. Cocktail dresses are reserved for the rare and elusive black tie event. (Black tie is never worn, unless one (a) lives on Palm Beach, and (b) has had at least three face lifts.)

Cocktail parties here require something more than jeans, but less than short, strapless dresses. Black doesn’t work, but Lilly Pulitzer shifts have become a cliché.

What to do, what to do?

I’m waiting for George to break out his potato sack commentary. Because this time, I’ll have a snappy return in the form of the Anthropologie charge on next month’s American Express bill.

{Insert evil laughter and the obligatory villainous mustache twirl.}

Here’s what I’m hoping to find in my stocking this Christmas: