I don�t have to dress up often � that�s the cool thing about being a writer: I don�t have to deal with any of the corporate dress code. No hose. No pumps. No starch. Everyday is casual day. I�ve even come to work wearing my pajamas. (The unitard that looks like cotton tee shirt from the top. But I�ve only done it once. I mean I can�t have been the only one to have seen it in that catalog�)

My point is that I don�t have a lot of practice wearing nice outfits. The ones that call for hose, pumps, starch, specialty lingerie, hair, makeup � decorum.

So for this wedding in Baltimore � conservative, traditional Baltimore � I�ve had to start from scratch. And well, I�m feeling a lot like a pumpkin who�s been told she�s going to the ball. Like a paperdoll who will be on display following the dressing-up game. Like I�ve lost a bet and am due to report to Expose for amateur strip night. You get the point.

And to all those who are thinking that nobody will be looking at anyone but the bride, I say to you: Get real.

I was getting emails from my friends months ago asking about what I was going to wear. And after I nixed all three of my sister�s hand-me-down Sunday dresses and the khaki skirt, I went shopping.

So now I have an outfit with all the bells and whistles. But I�ve only seen it on me in pieces. Andy-the-paperdoll in the skirt. Andy-the-paperdoll in the skirt and top. Andy-the-paperdoll in the shoes. Andy-the-paperdoll with make up. Bendy, twisty, dressable Andy. Get one for Christmas for your kids!

I�m sure it�s all going to be fine. Maybe. See whenever I get dressed up to go somewhere, I�m haunted by the strawberry incident. Here�s the story:

The U of H School of Communications was throwing one of those scholarship banquets dinners. Fancy affair. The guest speaker was Gunga Dan (Rather).

For an hour and a half, while Gunga and the assorted lettered men yammered away, I sat nervously at one of those gargantuan round tables with the couple that had sponsored my scholarship. But I was finally starting to relax. I was riding a streak of good fortune: my hose didn�t sag or run, my lingerie was staying where it was originally put, I hadn�t sent my steak flying across the table, and because Gunga and the others were flapping their lips on stage, I didn�t have to say much to anyone.

I felt so special in my fancy black dress at the fancy banquet in fancy company eating fancy food. Dessert was when everything went to shit.

It was cheesecake (my favorite!) adorned with whipped cream and chocolate dipped strawberries, which I�d never had before. It must�ve been the stick that threw me. See, everything else, I was careful to eat with a knife and fork � and not just any knife and fork, but the right knife and fork. But the strawberry had a stick in it.

Can you see where this is going?

I must have had a flashback to every country fair I�d ever been to: Sausage on a stick. Fried mushrooms on a stick. Cotton candy and candied apples on a stick. And just like I had at those fairs, I grabbed that strawberry (as big as a baby�s fist) by the stick and brought it toward my big greedy open mouth � only to have it fall into my d�colletage.

(Translation: My boobs. The damn thing had fallen into my dress and had headed south between my boobs.)

Jam a wooden dowel into a big, honkin� strawberry � no problem. Now, dip that same strawberry into melted chocolate (between 110 and 120 degrees) � problem. See, that strawberry will sweat. And get slippery. After which, it should only be eaten with a knife and fork (the teeny ones they bring out last). I know this now. Meanwhile, back at the banquet, things were getting worse.

See, my instinct was to jam my hand down the front of my dress and root around until I had found the errant strawberry to bring it back to justice � this is Texas afterall. My frontal lobes said, Please don�t embarrass us any further. Please.

I tried, honestly. I tried.

The plan was to stand up from the table and walk to the ladies room while Dan held everyone rapt with tales of his one semester of attendance at our university and then jam my hand down the front of my dress and root around until I had found the errant strawberry and brought it back to justice. But no. I got maybe halfway across the room before the melts-in-your-boobs strawberry found freedom and hit the carpet at another woman�s feet with an audible plop.

I hid out in the bathroom �freshening up� for a while.

And so now, with my fancy outfit packed and the appointment with the hairdresser made, I�m wondering what form the �strawberry,� a.k.a. disaster, will take this time? Will it come flying through the air on butterfly wings? (That�s another story.) Or will it be the embarrassing product of my own two hands as usual?

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