Due to a long week away from home, when I got home from work Wednesday, I washed Zoe’s sheets for her. She simply couldn’t praise me enough. Today, at work, my co-worker hollers across the office, “Beth. Zoë’s on the phone.”
“Hey. So I’m going to make up the sheet washing to you. What are you doing tonight?”
“I can be doing nothing, why?”
“Want to come to a human rights gala at the Palace Hotel?”
“Sean Penn will be there.”
Mere hours later, I found myself dressed to the nines at Table 14 with a fabulous array of socialites and hobb-nobbers, all of whom care deeply about Human Rights, much like myself.
Whilst enjoying an endless glass of wine and some chicken on a bed of risotto, I befriended those around me and listened intently to impassioned third world speakers, all of whom made me feel incredibly guilty about my worrying how to afford premium cable. During dessert, I excused myself to the ladies. Upon my return, I neared the ballroom and heard a familiar voice at the podium.
Shit. It’s Spicoli!
Many stood at the door politely unwilling to interrupt this Oscar winner from his sermon.
Not me. I marched through 400 people right back to my front row table, pissed I’d missed a syllable much less a sentence of his talk. Turns out, it didn’t matter. Sean Penn stood 10 feet from me and I could barely understand a word he was saying. Nor could I determine the reason for his disheveled appearance or John Waters moustache.
I am a complete celebrity whore and a profound lover of the talents of Sean Penn. And I, of all people, was unimpressed. So disappointed, I debated approaching him with the highly inappropriate, “You were hilarious in ‘I Am Sam.’”
Oh, relax. As much as Richard encouraged me, I wimped out.
Worse, the soiree ended at 9:45.
I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I believe that no announcement was made inviting everyone to a fabulous open bar somewhere. Which is why I find myself sitting at my home computer in a very fancy fucking dress at 10:15 eating Kettle Korn and debating adopting a third world orphan…