Not so rich, and not so famous

I went to a fancy charity party last weekend. It was a party I had no business being at, but one of Jesse’s friend’s had a pair of tickets and couldn’t make it at the last minute, so he asked Jesse if he wanted to go. Jesse forwarded me the invitation, fully expecting me to give my standard answer, which is a horrified “God no!” and I almost *did* say no, but then I got to thinking about how we never do anything exciting, and I should say “yes” to more things in life. How many times will I be invited to a party where the tickets cost almost double my rent? So I said yes.

Jesse couldn’t believe I said yes. In fact, he tried to encourage me to change my mind, but Aunt Dani ended up being able to babysit – which is a very rare thing indeed! – so I took that as a sign that I was supposed to go.

I was interested in two things: the food, and seeing the house of the host. (I LOVE houses. I obsessively watch House Hunters and troll Zillow like a maniac. They don’t even have to be nice houses. I like to see how people live. Naturally, if I have the chance to see a multi-million dollar estate, Imma go check it out.)

After asking a few middle-class questions about etiquette, we were all set to go! Let me paint the magical picture for you, Internet:


We left Orange County at 5:22PM to be in Beverly Hills by 7:20PM. We had to stop for gas, and because we were running late, every pump was taken. after finally navigating around the circus at the gas pump, we hit the highway – I mean parking lot. Traffic was its usual sucky self. That meant I got to listen to two glorious hours of Jesse ranting about the traffic. Several times I pointed out to him the fact that we were looking out the same window, and I could see the traffic for myself. At one point I asked him, “If we get there on time, will you promise to never complain about traffic again?” Before I could even finish my question he said, “Absolutely not.”

You guys? We got there early. Or, rather, technically on time, but you’re never supposed to be on time to these things. Here is a selfie I took of how smug I was about getting there on time:


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You can almost see my dress! (Sorry, fashionistas – I got zero pictures of myself all dolled up. *sigh* Karis tried to take one for me, but bless her, she hasn’t mastered the whole FOCUS thing.)

Before I continue I should probably point out the fact that I was wearing heels. Me. And not just heels, but pantyhose too, which made my feet very slippery inside the heel, and the damn things kept slipping off my foot mid-stride. I closely resembled a newly born giraffe.

After giving our name to the secret service looking dudes at the drive, we were found to be “on the list” (Uh huh. It was an on-the-list kind of thing. Feel free to roll your eyes. Lists are pointless – they are designed to keep people like me out, and look how well they work – I stumbled my giraffe legs right on through.) and ushered toward the cutest red carpet I’ve ever seen. It was about six feet long with the sponsor board behind it and lights all set up. A row of paparazzi stood across the walkway from it. They could not have been less interested in the drunk-looking woman and her annoyed husband. Rather than risk sinking into the red carpet I navigated the walkway instead.

Once inside we were greeted by more secret service looking dudes that pointed us toward the silent auction table and the bars. I took in the house and was immediately disappointed. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a ridiculously beautiful house. I’m sure the furnishings cost a fortune, and everything was top-of-the-line, but it was modern contemporary – my least favorite style. I hobbled out the back wall (it was one of those glass walls that disappear into the regular wall so the outside and inside are seamless) and parked myself in front of a space heater. An infinity pool, complete with an amoebic pseudo-pod lap-lane stretched the length of the patio, and the beautiful lights of Los Angeles twinkled across a blanket of black down below.

Jesse was flabbergast at my disdain for the house. “This is a beautiful house!” he said.

*shrug* “Yeah, I guess.”

I think I don’t like modern contemporary houses because they are so clean and sterile, and you can’t really get a feel for the people who live there. The owner of this particular house splits his time between New York and LA and God knows where else, so it’s more a showpiece than an actual home.

We went to one of the bars and I asked for my usual – a lemon drop martini. The lady bartender made a face of confusion, and then the hottie bartender next to her stepped in and said, “I can improvise one.” And he did! It was a damn fine lemon drop. Kudos to hottie bartender guy.

In anticipation of what would surely be amazing food, I hadn’t eaten anything since before noon, and I was starving. I was sooo bummed to note there were no tables anywhere – which meant there would be no food. When they said “cocktail party” they meant literally just cocktails. *sad trombone*

As I was sipping my lemon drop martini from a tumbler and mentally scoping out a warm looking place far enough from the loud music to be comfortable, we were blindsided by a nice couple. “Who are you guys? What do you do?” was how they introduced themselves. They ended up being a delight. We talked for around forty minutes, and at one point they said, “The reason we came to talk to you was because you two looked like the least assholish people here.” I thanked them for the compliment and promised to have badges made up proclaiming us to have been voted “Least Assholish Couple.” I might have to make some sashes as well.

By the time the fun couple snuck away (They hate these parties as much as we do) I was officially drunk. Empty stomach + Lemon drop martini = Kristy talking too loud and nearly falling in the pool twice. There were a handful of minor celebrities there, and a bunch of model types. The catering staff were either in standard catering fare for the guys, or skimpy black dresses for the girls. I couldn’t eat many of the hors d’oeuvres – duck, lamb chops, ???, but I could eat the little endive fetta Barbie bites. I asked one caterer guy if he knew where the girl with the vegetarian stuff went. He gave me a sympathetic smile and a noncommittal, “She’s around here somewhere,” before leaving. Then five minutes later he came back with a tray just for me! I thanked him and took 3 of the little Barbie bites. Another win for the staff. Lemon Drops and special deliveries.

As luck would have it, we were accidentally right in front of the stage when the auction began. Don’t ask me why they were going nuts with bidding at what was supposed to be a SILENT auction, but there we were. We were in the most wrong place. We were trapped by the pool on one side, and the rich masses on the other. We had to maneuver our way through the drunken throngs to get away from the stage. It was time to go home.

I am calling the night a success, because despite getting my heel stuck in the track of the sliding wall window and needing Jesse to rescue my shoe, and offending an elderly woman in line for the bathroom by telling her that ignoring hearing loss can lead to dementia (SHE started the conversation, you guys. Don’t blame ME.) I didn’t fall in the pool, and I didn’t harass any celebs for selfies.

On the way home I insisted Jesse stop at In-N-Out so I could eat fries and a grilled cheese. I looked a bit out of place in my cocktail dress and slippers, but no one seemed to care.

Here I am, still drunk, thinking an In-N-Out selfie would be soooo funny. (I really don’t understand the selfie obsession in our youth. What’s the point of them? Is it just to say, “I was here!” or “Look how hot I am!”? Well, this selfie is saying, “I’m at In-N-Out! Look how drunk I am!”)


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I won’t say I regret saying yes and going to the party, but the next time an opportunity like that comes up I’m making sure they are serving food, and I’m wearing FLATS. Those are my terms, rich people. Take them or leave them. (And remember, I *was* voted Least Assholish Person, so I’m worth the concessions.)

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