My night at the Roxbury

Where was I at 1:30am Tuesday night? I was in Dallas, at what just may be the world's most horrifyingly cheesy nightclub. It was in a strip mall, along the the second-floor balcony above--I don't know--a nail salon and a mattress discounter, I think. The parking lot was full of valets and idling SUVs, each one a clown car from which stiletto-shod strumpets spilled forth.

We had bottle service, which basically means we paid $300 to mix our own drinks and lounge on a black futon as the most hair-gelled, bleached-blond and spray-tanned residents of Dallas paraded past. I was wearing the same cotton Boden sundress I'd been in all day--and yes, our trip to the bar came after 12 hours of focus groups and a leisurely seafood dinner. It's not a frumpy frock, but the hemline, which reached just past my knees, was at least a foot and a half longer than anything anyone else outside our party was wearing that night. I mean really, when your dress resembles something Grandma wore to the pool, you might want to invest in an extra couple inches of fabric. Or just tramp it up wholesale, like the cocktail waitresses. They were wearing--I kid you not--push up bras, boy shorts and fishnets.

I was relieved and a teeny, tiny bit disappointed that my mom dress, suede pumps and giant laptop bag rendered me invisible in the midst of such bow-chicka-wow-wow. I'm only turning 33 this month, but I felt old. My certifiably hot coworker Holly did only slightly better: as we were beating our way to the exit, a guy asked her for her number. "I'm from out of town," Holly replied. "Well I wasn't going to call you anyway," he shot back. Huh? Is that what passes for flirting in this town?