Crazy Crap Item #160: The part where Eamon and I attend an "affair"

Recently, Eamon and I received a thrilling invitation. A formal party, the invitation read. "Top hats, evening gloves, and dancing shoes encouraged." The invitation came by way of Pam Demic, one of the referees for the Windy City Rollers, where Eamon serves as head of Rules and Regs/Stats.

Of course, we RSVP'd with a breathless "Yes, indeed!"

But this left us with a dilemma: What to wear?

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a passion for costumery. There is nothing I love better than cobbling together the semblance of some other identity using stray odds and ends that come to hand. All without the aid of any skill in stitchery (which I sadly lack).

Eamon is of the same mind, so, as you can imagine, our house is literally stuffed to the rafters with ensembles from days past, including get-ups approximating an Olympic torchbearer, an old-timey carnival strong man, a witch, a wild west prospector, a native islander, a robot, a Thanksgiving turkey on skates, Salvador Dali (mustache only), Pumpkin Head and a Bearded Lady, a dubious Frenchman, a creepy gym guy, and a seemingly innocuous table.

And thus began the quest for the perfect outfit. I will not report on Eamon's endeavor, as it consisted mainly of saying, the night before the party, "You know, Kohl's has tuxes, and they're pretty cheap..."

Life is not so easy for we ladies. Our finery is infinitely varied, and subject the whims of taste, budget, and availability. Nonetheless, as soon as saw the invitation, a vision began to form in my fevered brane. Ginger Rogers-esque. But where was one to find such an ensemble? And what to do with one's drab, layered, non-descript hair?

Well, as luck would have it, two weeks before the affair, I had to have a tooth crowned, which put me in the vicinity of Elliot's Consignment Store, located a few doors down from my dentist. So it was that, numbed and woozy, I wandered in to browse the used clothing within. On the ground floor, nothing. Standard-issue little black dresses, appalling woolen affairs, racks of denim. So it was only on the slightest of whims that I decided to answer the call emblazoned on numerous placards to head downstairs for "basement bargains."

The combination of "basement" and "bargains" was not promising, but in my fevered, post-crown haze, I figured, why not?

It was there, nestled amonst some truly appalling prom dresses and bridesmaid gowns, that I found something that looked, surprisingly enough, promising. A floor-length gown. A sort of retro, empire-waisted affair, it was sleeveless, and sported a bodice emblazoned with black bugle beads in remarkably good condition. The skirt consisted of a heavy silvery cream fabric with an overlay of black chiffon shot through with a silver shimmer.

I checked the price tag. "$35" was slashed through with not one, but two lines. This could be, as I said, promising.

So into a drafty changing room I go, and what to my wondering eyes ... the dress is almost a perfect fit. The straps need shortening (per usual for a girl with a legenadarily short torso), but the length is perfect, as is the curve-hugging silhouette.

But what would Eamon think? As I contemplate the potentially rock-bottom price, I think, who cares? Dresses like this come once per decade.

I slip back into my jeans and woolly sweater, and toddle up to the register.

"That's a cute one," says the clerk. "Did you want to buy it?"

"Sure," I say. "How much is it?"

Dear friends, there are times in life when even I, as blessed with verbal puissance as I am, fall short of the expressing the wonder of life. Words simply cannot express the enormity of her response. There is no way I can prepare you for what follows. So I'll simply record it here, unvarnished.

"$10."

Done and done.

As she preps my purchase, I nab a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings as well, for the low, low price of $8.

The rest of the outfit comes together with remarkable thrift and serendipity. After dropping off my dress at the dry cleaners for alterations ($10), I stop into Payless Shoe Source (musing that I could pay more, but why?), and pick up some strappy silver sandals ($8) and a bangly clutch ($8). Kohl's rock-bottom jewelry sale reaps me a fishwire-and-faux-diamond necklace for $5. And at Vogue Fabrics, my big indulgence, a diamond headband for the exorbitant price of $20.

And now, the hair. Given the empire-waist silhouette and my alabaster and ebony complexion, I decide Ginger Rogers is not the best muse. Audrey Hepburn, I think. A la My Fair Lady.

I dig deep into my once robust hairstyling skills (yes, friends, I once played a 1930's-era private secretary in an execrable production of Annie. I know how to do my own hair), and manage to craft a dreamy concoction of bobby pins, hairspray, and stardust.

And when all is done, I'm truly impressed by the sheer volume of bargain glamour we Dalys manage to muster.

When we arrive at the party, held at the hosts' lovely Printer's Row loft, we discover we were well advised to evoke some personal glamor. Our hosts have crafted a truly elegant 1930s-inspired party backdrop, complete with a sparkly mirrored ball suspended beneath of white chiffon canopy backlit by twinkly lights. They hired a bartender, who offers seldom-seen gimlets and old fashions as well as a menu of signature Old Hollywood-inspired cocktails. A DJ spins vintage jazz. At one point, we're entertained by a duo tap-tap-tapping to "Putting On the Ritz."

Ginger never had it so good.