Where's Serena When You Need Her?

I attended the Blumarine fashion show at the Sony Ericsson tennis village yesterday. Let's put it this way--that's three hours of my life I want back. Besides the fact that we ended up parking in the $20 lot (what, no valet? how un-fabulous is that?) and then had to take a shuttle from that overpriced lot to the tennis village grounds and then had to walk another half a mile (in 4-inch heels, no less) only to find there were no more bleacher seats (bleacher seats?) and then once we made a beeline for the open bar only to find that the champagne man was shutting down his station but luckily the Bacardi guy was still pouring a pink punch concoction from a pitcher only to politely allow an older woman who I swear was 187 years old to take the cup in front of me only to be told the bartender was out of cups (OUT OF CUPS?!). I almost grabbed the pitcher and doused myself with it al la Paul Giamatti and the spit bucket in Sideways. My friend and I looked longingly at the frosty pitcher of pink alcohol-infused sweetness and contemplated the sobriety we would have to share for the duration of this heretofore much-taxing event. We then assembled by the catwalk amongst the khaki shorts-wearing crowd and watched as the models strutted the Italian clothier's frocks whilst also shilling for the event sponsor as each model had to pretend to talk on a cellphone. And once again, it was another off-the-rack Miami fashion show where you'll see exactly what you can buy in the store right now. Great.