We no more than pull into the circular drive at the entrance to the monolith that is our hotel, than we are flanked by a smiling bellman at each of our three doors. I hit the automatic unlock, and the men in red-and-gold jackets – a bit like marching band participants, but that’s okay – offer each of us the crook of their sturdy arms.

        I notice that Jane immediately gives her young boy goo-goo eyes and a blatant, greedy squeeze of his bicep, followed by a rub across his unlined cheek. He melts my heart by freezing an indulgent smile at the perverted old bat.

        No tip could possibly be big enough compensation for his having pulled the short straw as Jane’s attendant.

        The bearded, inky-eyed bellman whose arm I’m holding asks, “Are your bags in the trunk?”

        I smile and nod, and he gestures toward my key fob. “May I?” All I’m missing at this perfect moment in time is elbow-length silk gloves and a diamond tiara.

        A fourth bellman is already waiting in front of our trunk, beside a hefty golden baggage trolley. “Um, may we have one more trolley, please?” I ask him with a big, warm smile. Pointing like a prosecutor at Jane, I say, “Because she’s not actually with us.”

        “Certainly!” the trunk monitor says and disappears through the revolving door.

        Gretchen gapes at me. “How will I be able to go back to life on the Outer Banks after THIS kind of pampering?”

        “You two are such PEEEEEEEONNNNNS!” says Jane. “Every day of my LIIIIIIIIIIIIFE is like this!”

        “And doesn’t that just explain SOOO very MUUUUUUCH!” I hear myself retort before I have a chance to put a filter in place.

        Inky Eyes takes Gretchen and me to a special elevator and, as the doors swoosh together, he swipes a fob past a digital reader. Gretchen gives me a quizzical look, and I return a mischievous smile.

        It takes a bit, but finally the doors swoosh open, and we step directly into our penthouse suite. Twenty-two floors up, all we can see through the non-stop windows is blue skies and frothy white clouds. Not even one bird is up this high.

        “Nooooo!” Gretchen gasps. “What?”

        “I saved when I was young so that I could splurge when I was old,” I say. “That’s now.”

        Inky Eyes wheels our bags toward the bedrooms as Gretchen meanders the expansive hallway toward the living room. An enormous white stone fireplace is the focal point, offset by sleek white couches on three sides. A low slate coffee table, topped with champagne glasses, a bucket full of ice and a magnum of Dom Perignon beckon.

        “Shall I?” asks Inky Eyes as he extracts the bottle and wipes it off with a flourish.

        “Please!” I say.

        After an expert popping of the cork, he hands us each a flute and pours. We toast our arrival and savor the bubbles as they tap dance their way down the hatch.

        “Come choose your room,” I say to Gretchen, and she all but skips down an even more expansive hallway that leads to the two ballroom-sized sleeping quarters. She points right. “I call shotgun!” she says, and we both erupt like eighth graders at a slumber party as Inky Eyes gives us an indulgent smile.

        He rolls our suitcases into their respective rooms then gives me a slight nod to indicate his job here is done. “If there is anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Hargis, please do not hesitate to call me.”

        He hands me his card, and I give it a quick glance.

        “Hector, you are superb at this. Thank you,” I say and palm him a twenty as I shake his hand.

        As the elevator doors close with Hector inside, Gretchen says, “Let’s not go to the cocktail party and awards dinner.” She pours herself another glass of champagne. “You know I hate big groups…and strangers…and unfamiliar places. Let’s just stay here and watch movies – just the two of us – and order room service and schmooze and play cards!”

        “No deal,” I say. “You told me you wanted to stretch yourself by going to this convention. Stop being a little low-class Dixie chick!”

        We smirk at each other.

        I pour more champagne for myself and say, “Besides, I thought of a way to start you off with a small group get-together so that the convention won’t seem so full of strangers.”

        “I’m listening,” says Gretchen. She’s now parked herself on a bar stool in front of a platter of crackers-and-brie that’s perched atop the granite island in the kitchen.

        “Let’s invite a bunch of people we like over for a fashion show before we all head downstairs for the festivities.”

        “Oh, yeah!” says Gretchen. “Fashion! That is SO up my alley!”

        “No, but we can do it in a really fun way, and it’ll be like an ice breaker. We’ll call it a red carpet spoof! Writers love nonsense. I guarantee that they will go for this in the biggest way.”

        Gretchen sighs heavily and downs another helping of brie.

        “It’s a way to become acquainted with each other in a more informal setting than a ballroom,” I say, sounding even to my own ears like a used car salesman.

        Now my roommate looks at me over the top of her glasses. “What’re you – Jaaaaaaane?” she says. “The penthouse suite is your idea of an informal setting?”

        “Be quiet, you low-class Dixie chick!” I tell her.

        “That’s never going to get old, is it?” says Gretchen.

        “Nope,” I say, and we both double over.

        At my request, Hector has brought in five more magnums of champagne, a full bar set-up and four more trays of fruit, cheese and crackers. They stand like an army on a roll-out banquet table, accentuated by crystal champagne flutes, shot glasses and a low tower of Wedgewood dessert plates. All my childhood delusions of grandeur are materializing before my eyes.

        I provided a list of guests to Hector so that he could issue them each an elevator fob to our suite. Then, I sent each guest the following text: 

Roses are red

Violets are blue/

Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof

Won’t be as fun without you!

See you at 5:00.

Xoxoxo

Rachelle and Gretchen.

PS – Wear a name tag.

        At 5:00 on the dot, the onslaught begins. Thankfully, the elevator’s size is in proportion to that of the penthouse, so everyone has managed to squeeze comfortably in together.

        Lyenochka exits first in a rich burgundy dress with a beaded purplish scarf that she has draped stylishly at a vertical/diagonal angle. Shyly, she follows Gretchen’s and my Vanna White pointing-pose toward the white couches and munitions.

        The crowd behind her cheers, “Go, Hel-EN! Go, Hel-EN!” and she gives them an embarrassed-but-amused smile over her shoulder.

        LJButterfly is next off the elevator. She announces, “This is a Michael Kors number that I bought in Manhattan.” She then thrusts herself into her assignment, flawlessly rocking the Model Strut, in her royal blue floor-length sheath with a center back slit and short sleeves that flow perfectly with each plucky step.

        The elevator patrons hoot and cheer.

        “YO! This is taking FOREVER!” shouts the vertical stretch-limo of a guy in the back. “I want snacks!” Humpwhistle. He’s as big a rabble-rouser in person as he is in his posts.

        “Do I have to recite the ‘Patience’ poem to you?” I use a playful warning tone.

        “No, Teacher,” he says, and the crowd laughs.

        Wayne Fowler, in a ball cap, a jacket with a turned-up collar, shades and a tv remote that he’s pretending is a ray gun, steps out next, then offers his arm to Dolly.

        Never since Oscar Madison and Felix Unger has there been an odder couple. Dolly is the quintessence of absolute class and breeding in a fitted, full-length gold-sequinned dress, gold stilettos, a cream-colored fur shrug and dangling gold diamonte earrings. Her hair is in an elegant up-do with a matching diamonte hair slide.

        I feel the need to bow.

        The couple extend their free hands to do The Queen’s Wave as they head toward the bar.

        I sneak a look at Gretchen, who is smiling with full dimples now. ‘Withdrawn’ is no longer a word that can be used to describe her. Rather ‘fully engaged’ is all that applies.

        “MAKE WAY!!! MAKE WAY!!” the next couple shouts. Out gallops Jim Wile, sporting his Masters Golf Tournament green jacket and taupe pants, as Lea Tonin, on his back, crooks an arm around his neck while pretending to horse-whip him with the other.

        She is clad in a clingy, ankle-length, shimmering black silk dress that slits to the knee. Her thick and gorgeous mahogany hair hangs loose and alluring.

        The crowd goes wild for this upped-ante presentation. The wild rumpus has definitely begun.

        “Oh, you are NOT stealing OUR thunder!” shouts Wendy G, in full Pull-Out-All-the-Stops mode.

        She has paired a close-fitting, scoop-necked black top with floaty black pants adorned with diagonally cut layers of sequined chiffon on them that are ruffling in the breeze caused by her exit from the elevator. She knocks hips again and again with Gypsy Blue Rose, as they bend and straighten their knees rhythmically toward the awaiting crowd.

        Gypsy has a Stevie Nicks kind of vibe going with her fingerless gloves, long-sleeved open-front tunic that’s layered over a cobalt blue midi dress and knee-high brown leather boots. She shimmies her cascading ripples of lovely blue-streaked locks, making me anticipate her belting out “Landslide” any moment now.

        Like a 5-7-5 contest with the topic “Puppies,” the competitive juices in our Red Carpet Spoof have now reached a fever pitch.

        Bill Schott, in a tangerine blazer over a pea green shirt, forest green trousers and brown loafers, shoots out of the now-depleted elevator doing The Hustle with Saturday Night Fever-style moves that would challenge even John Travolta. As he dips down – his hands doing a Wheels on the Bus motion – his cider-colored tie peeks out from beneath his flowing gray beard.

        The crowd shouts things like, “Groovy, Man!” and “Right on, Brutha!”

        Judiverse and Barbara Wilkey join forces. Barbara quickly covers her head, hijab-style, with her lacy navy blue shawl, then holds the full skirt of her matching V-necked lacy blue dress out to one side.

Judi, in a knee-length pale blue two-tiered pullover dress with long sleeves and a matching jacket, hunkers down, balls her hands into fists at her temples, then extends her index fingers and charges toward Barbara-as-matador.

        Barbara twirls out of her way, her dress flaring out like a golf umbrella. She takes a victory bow to us, her cheering, adoring fans, and Judi promptly gores her in the ass.

        We all roar, Barbara loudest of all, and I see Gretchen wiping away tears of unbridled hilarity.

        Writers make the BEST party guests!!!

        Pam Lonsdale quickly settles the crowd back down. With a look of mock disdain, she exits the elevator in a zebra striped beach dress, oversized black floppy hat and sandals. She puts a hand on her hip and declares, “You people have ISSUES!’

        Laugher fills the room once again, this time at a decibel that, in smaller quarters, would require ear plugs.

        “Hey!” Humpwhistle shouts from inside the cab. “Pay attention out there! It’s time for The Grand Finale’!”

        The ever-burgeoning audience regains its composure and affixes its collective gaze upon the five remaining models.

        In black tuxedos – Roy Owen’s accessorized with a broad-brimmed hat and flip-flops, Robert Zimmerman’s with a gold sequined cummerbund and mahogany walking stick – the two silver-haired FanStorians exit the elevator and promptly kneel down on all fours.

        “You know we’ll never be able to get vertical again without everyone’s help,” says Robert.

        “And the grace of G-d.” adds Roy.

        “Shut up, you two!” shouts Humpwhistle. “We’re making ART here. There is no sacrifice too great!”

        Out come the three remaining guests. NeoNewman and Humpwhistle are both in black dress shirts. Neo’s is worn with black dress pants and skid-safe SAS shoes, while Humpwhistle – and his waist-length gray ponytail – pairs his with Wrangler boot-cut low-rise jeans, medium brown pointed-toe, stacked-heel cowboy boots and a tweed vest, replete with lapels.

        Between them, arms raised high as she holds the hands of her men-in-black, is the radiant Mrs. KT with her beautiful, deep-dimple smile on display.

        Her gauzy black dress with the full skirt and filmy black overlay fluffs out, parachute-style, as she is lifted up by Neo and Hump onto the backs of the moaning Robert and Roy. “Strike a pose!” she calls out and lifts one leg at a coquette angle while placing both hands flat beneath her chin.

        “UNNNNNCLLLLLLE!!!” shouts Robert, and the tableau dissembles as the crowd – yet again – erupts with uncontrollable laughter and applause.

        After many minutes – including a group effort to hoist Roy and Robert back onto their feet – Jim Wile says, “Hey! Wait a minute! Our hostesses have not done their red carpet appearance yet!”

        Without a moment’s hesitation, my once-reserved, solitary-loving Southern belle, decked out in a perfect-yet-understated black jersey dress, gold hoop earrings and black sandals, her hair up in a clip, enthusiastically links arms with me, her favorite New York redhead, despite my flashy ways and short, sequined emerald green dress with matching stiletto heels. We truly have become quite the dynamic duo!

        Just then, a tiny elevator that I’d never even noticed by the kitchen, whooshes open, and out steps Jane Babies.

        She is wearing my identical dress and shouts, “I can’t believe you left me OUUUUUUUUT of thiiiiiiiiis! I had to take the stupid SERVANT’S elevatorrrrrrrr!!! Me! Jane Babies! In the SERVICE ELEVATORRRRRRRR?”