That would be Me (reluctant finger-wave)

I have nothing to wear! Crap. And I wasn't imagining the smell of burnt plastic: my curling iron overheated, despite my using a converter. I pick it up and it wilts in my hand like a Dali clock.

A has invited me to accompany to her to a dinner her sister-in-law is throwing to welcome a new in-law into their family.

I hadn't exactly packed for attending a private party -- in fact, I try to dress as plainly as possible when traveling alone to foreign countries to avoid standing out. I throw on my darkest jeans and "best" long-sleeved tee. Of course, the only jewelry I've packed is a watch. I look like a camp counselor, for god's sake.

We pull up to a large house with several cars in the car park: a red Ferrari, a silver Hummer. And not the pansy, run-errands-in-the-suburbs, Hummer-Lite Hummer, mind you: I'm talkin' the '06 H1 Alpha male, big-swinging-dick model.         

N, our hostess, greets us at the door. She couldn't be sweeter. And, thank Allah, she's wearing jeans. Of course they're eighteen times cooler than my jeans, but they're jeans nonetheless.

I dream about houses like this. No, really, I do. Spacious, white, open, contemporary houses. The gracious N provides us with a tour of the place. One of the family rooms is outfitted in the orange Togo line, a modern classic from Ligne Roset. Abstract art lines the walls of every room. I examine the signature on one of her wall-sized mirrors. Starck. Figures. There's the front kitchen, and of course the back kitchen, bustling with domestic help. And the private theatre. And N is as down-to-earth as can be.

We join the other 30 or so women in the sprawling backyard. To employ a Tyra Banks expression (not that I ever would), Arabic women are fierce. Long, thick hair; dramatic eye make-up; jewelry up the ying-yang; and elaborate dress: sparkly Fendi sandals, gold Dior bags, flowing, BeDazzled™ gowns and tunics. And, I learn, Oman's most famous clothing designer (I had read about her recent fashion show in The Oman Observer last night) is among us. My Arabic is a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure everyone is asking WHO IS THAT DRAB AMERICAN DORK WITH THE BAD HAIR?

In a panic, I search desperately for the bar or a passing cocktail server, but the most potent drink served here tonight is watermelon juice.