Elizabeth Hasselbeck: "It's An Emotional Time"

Cosmopolitan editor Kate White threw a book party of sorts at Michael's today? The hostesses, who—for the record—didn't look too abused, asked why I was there. "For that book thing whatever," I said. They pointed me to the bar. The first thing that caught my eye was Elizabeth Hasselbeck. She was still wearing the harlequin dress that merely hours earlier had weathered the heat of battle with Rosie O'Donnell. Her face was still unnaturally tan. And one long deep wrinkle, as if she had traded in all the little ones for this one, perfectly bisected her forehead.

Above that, her intimidatingly blond hair kept watch over the restaurant: A landscape of leisurely publishing types whose underlings would be at work late into the summer night. She was talking to some reporter who was recording her answer on a black iPod, about her altercation with Rosie. "It's just so hard to process," she said. "But, these days, it's par for the course. I mean, it's an emotional time." Nearby, HuffPo gal Rachel Sklar was just sitting down, her plunging neckline catching the eyes of not a few old men. She was waiting for Vanity Fair's David Friend.

Nearby a camera crew tailed Kate White, the author of a book that claims the dubious distinction as being the only one we know of that's derivative of a Reese Witherspoon movie. She clucked about, gathering her brood of old white blond ladies. But when the business end of a camera almost took her out, she swiftly booted the crew from the restaurant. The assembled broads made their way to a circular table, completely off limits to the few media members who had decided to stick around after it became apparent "Join Us For a Pre-Publishing Luncheon" meant "Watch Us Eat Lunch While You Wait Around Awkwardly." Kim Cattrall was at the table looking really really old. Scarily, Carolyn Kepcher was the most attractive woman at the table. Copies of Lethally Blond were perched on the sill.

Well, I thought. I'm kind of in publishing. If I can't eat with these bubbes at least I can sit at the bar and eat lunch. My, how wrong I was. Despite the bar being completely empty, each seat had an annoying placard that declared it reserved. And so, back I pushed open the glass doors, plunging into the sweltering heat and leaving behind a circle of old white ladies who are neither mysterious, lethal or blond.