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free food and liquor they’d wear nothing at all.
    The Eye Street Observer wasn’t known for its welldressed staff. Reporters, especially in Washington, D.C., tend to believe what they write is far more important than what they wear. Lacey tended to agree, but she regretted that her colleagues at The Eye set the style bar so low.
    For day, blue jeans or khakis with polo shirts were a typical male reporter’s choice, along with that rumpled blue blazer if he had to cover something on the Hill. Getting tuxedoed up for the Christmas party wasn’t a reporter’s favorite official duty of the year. A few of the female reporters appreciated fashion and dressing up, but many considered it grossly unfair that dressing up was so easy for the men: Tuxedo? Check. Santa cap? Check. Ready to party, dude! Lacey recalled some odd and entertain ing female fashion choices from last year’s party. She hoped her coworkers would hit similar heights this year.
    Who knew it was possible to find a floorlength black velour turtleneck dress? Lacey visualized this as a cocktail party dress for a bohemian exnun. At least it contrasted nicely with the “retreads,” the ancient bridesmaid’s dresses pulled out of the closet once a year. It’s long, it’s satin, it’s a weird color, it’s in my closet: Hello Christmas party! Or as one young reporter in a fluorescent neon green departure from good taste that posi tively screamed BRIDESMAID DRESS had confided to Lacey, “I wore this in a wedding! Wouldja believe it? It totally doesn’t look like it, does it?”
    Another told her, “My sister made me buy this stupid dress for her stupid wedding. Why buy something new every year when I’ve got this? Merry Christmas!”
    There would, no doubt, be several varieties of the velvet peasant sack dress, a dressedup hippie look: Laura Ashley goes
     
    to the Renaissance Fair. But at least it was usually colorful. Burgundy and purple seemed to be the popular choices.
    Another current female reporter favorite was the amorphous and practically colorless New Age offspring of this peasant sack dress, in ecologically correct hemp and cotton. The tax re porter at The Eye had several. Her black and gray and beige of fice attire came entirely from earthfriendly online catalog sites. Clad last Christmas in yet another shapeless, structureless, earthtoned, naturalfiber sack that might have held organic po tatoes in an earlier life, she had boasted to Lacey how these fit her every time, even though she always ordered through the Web. “It’s so amazing! Smithsonian, you should write about this in your column!”
    Lacey hoped there would be some delicious fashion disas ters at this year’s party, but she could never write about them. Too dangerous. She grabbed her garment bag and tote bag full of essentials and dashed into the ladies’ room to transform her self for the evening before heading for the National Press Club a dozen or so blocks away. It wouldn’t do to have the fashion reporter show up looking less than fabulous, or at least what passed for fabulous at The Eye . But before she could make progress on her fabulous look, her cell phone rang. The number looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Hello?”
    “Smithsonian. This is Wentworth.”
    Lacey groaned. Cassandra had been gone for all of three minutes. “Cassandra. What a pleasure. Now what?”
    “We’re not through with this. I’m taking your egregious piece of junk journalism contradicting my editorial and every thing I stand for to the managers’ meeting on Monday.” Cassan dra was technically some sort of minor manager, although she didn’t appear to Lacey to manage much of anything, least of all her emotions. “We need to speak with one voice at The Eye .”
    “And that would be your voice?”
    “Are you mocking me?” Cassandra’s voice lifted an octave. “The managers’ meeting will deal with this! This isn’t over!”
    “Knock yourself out, Cassandra. This call