SOCKS IN A DRAWER

JC was going to be inducted into the actors' Hall of Fame at 8 p.m. After working on his speech, he'd rushed off to check the microphone, calling, "Don't be late."

I fingered through the hangers in my closet, finally picked a black simple something, and elegant boots. It took an hour to dress, do hair and makeup. Then I took out the 5 white cotton socks in which I keep my jewelry. One of the socks is for rings with gemstones. The cotton protects them from getting scratched or dusty.

I picked the Amethyst, left hand, Emerald on the right. It had been a chilly day. I slipped on my red-orange-yellow knitted coat -- it wasn't a warm coat ... gee, where was the event?

Only then did I realize no limousine had been arranged, and I wasn't sure of the address.

Off with the rings, back into the sock, socks back in the drawer! Our top floor loft (where we live in Manhattan), is reasonably safe. The fact is, I'd let the insurance policy lapse when we were living in our Malibu log cabin.

In California, I'd worn my rings to a Hollywood party that was given in my honor by a friend, when "The Woman" was sold. (It never occurred to me that publishers could change their minds.) I'd worn jewelry to meet the agents at ICM, but the literary agent I wanted to work with, last-minute canceled.

Sometime later, I'd worn my very best, most expensive jewelry at the Christmas party given by a writer who was turning "Cordelia," into a TV series. Though the show didn't happen, my rings got a few ohhs and ahhs -- the host's fabulous home got my ohhs and ahhs.

We'd chosen a log cabin "simple" life -- loved living on top of a winding hill, with a driveway you couldn't find unless we faxed you a map. That's why I put jewelry in socks. I had an abundance of socks -- writing and my daily excursions to the gym were my full-time job.

Anyhow, JC's Hall of Fame night wasn't a occasion where my jewelry would be noticed. Also, the rings are too large to wear with gloves, too spectacular to wear on the street if you don't have a limo.

When I finally got to the theater by cab, finally figured out which of the entrances to use for the gigantic complex that houses the Gershwin, I managed, finally, to find a manager who told me which of the many stairways to use. And got to the entrance -- found an usher, who said there were no seats left. With a "shh," the usher opened the door and pointed. JC was on the stage in a spotlight. I heard applause as I edged my way in. By the time I sat on the folding chair the usher arranged for me, JC was introducing the next honoree.

Whoops! Oops! About a week later, his manager told me that his speech, thanking producers, directors, agents, and managers, had started with a long, detailed, touching tribute to me.

Wow ... Will I ever learn that the fuss you make over how you look is not as important as the moment -- being there -- on -- in -- at the moment itself?

Is How-You-Look fussing a fatal female flaw? Is this something we can blame on our mothers? On movies? On red carpet nonsense? My friend S, having been invited to a party at Buckingham Palace for Camilla, Prince Charles' wife, bought a new dress, new shoes, new bag, and a hair cut, hair style at a fashionable London salon. Last minute, rented a hat. It was raining when her taxi arrived. The veil, the brim, the whole thing dripped and drooped. S couldn't bring herself to go in and join the tea-sipping festivities.

Oh dear ... . yes, I was corrupted, confused like S and ... oh dear, my case history is worse ...

Enough of this ramble! Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about me and my Elizabeth Taylor syndrome. I'm off to play the tape of JC's tribute that his manager gave me!