I am a whore for any form of celebrity and glamour, including any uptight schmuck gracing a society page. I will position myself at any event so as to be photographed as much as possible and on the rare occasion that I actually worm my way into a party of any societal significance, I will instantly recognize a myriad of people simply by having read about their fabulousness in those back sections of local magazines and newspapers where they write about anyone with money as if they’re rock stars.
I am desperate to be one of those uptight schmucks, and if they refuse to have me, (which they appear to be doing) I’ll have to revert to instinct.
If you can’t join them, mock them.
First of all, it’s not like any of these people actually care about the issues they’re fundraising for. Like Anne Getty’s ever heard of land mines or abortion or trees. Second of all, there’s a pathetic genius to the self congratulatory party photo-op, their bizarre hyphenated names listened beneath themselves like we’re actually supposed to know who they are. Finally, whenever I encounter them in real life, it’s always a let down.
However, there’s one gal who’s graced the San Francisco society pages since the beginning of time, the grande dame in fact, of anything important, fancy and hoity toity in all of our fair city. I have met Charlotte Schultz twice and both times, she was appallingly delightful. Honorary Roomie even worked for her at Gavin’s office a couple of years ago, and had nothing to report but glowing reviews (other than the fact that you couldn’t drink water out of bottles. It always had to be in a glass.) I was allowed to accompany HR to one of Charlotte’s fabulous soirees and as we watched her give a speech, sitting jealously at the open bar, we both agreed that we completely aspired to be this flawless demonstration of class, clad in Chanel and being nice to dishwashers.
So you can imagine my dismay this afternoon, when flipping through the Nob Hill Gazette (Luxury, Legends and Loquacity issue) and read the following quote from Charlotte, referring to the President (of the United States) arriving early for a party she was throwing him at her Stanford home.
“I dropped everything, ran up to the third floor, grabbed my suit and pantyhose, putting on the pantyhose running down the stairs. It wasn’t easy. I think the Secret Service men know me better than my doctors. So they’re helping me fasten my pearls, I’m carrying my shoes, putting on earrings, the cars pulls up and the President gets out while I’m still zipping my skirt. My lovely Filipina lady goes outside, walks right up to him and freezes. “Come on.” He says to her. “Let’s get a picture taken. You look wonderful.”
Calling her lovely doesn’t make it okay to call her yours.