America's Birthday (not the 4th of July one)

Considering I'm from Aumsville, Oregon, it's surprising how many brushes with fame I've had.

My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.

We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.

The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.

Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!

Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.

It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.

Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.

Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.

However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?

At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.

Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.

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