Wendy here, continuing with my report on the Leverage Wrap party. First, though, a note on Carolyn’s most recent post:
While I am somewhat saddened by my blogmate’s attempt to pull the wool over our reader’s eyes attention whore, I can, I suppose, understand where she is coming from midlife crisis and forgive her this single aberration pattern in an otherwise eminently sane menopause descent into madness.
Carolyn, I love you, sweetie, but please–George Clooney posing with a pug? PIG. He likes pigs. Can we admit right now that your picture was photo shopped? Maybe you were feeling a little, oh I don’t know…sick with envy? But I can’t help that my life has turned so freaking glamorous.
For those of you not eaten alive by jealousy….
My Fifteen Minutes of Someone Else’s Fame, Part Two
Okay, so Tim and I got out of our car at the Governor Hotel. On the way in, he pretended to pick more dog hair off my butt. [He’s such an animal. Obviously my 10 Minutes-A-Day To Firm DVD has been working wonders.] We took the elevator to the fourth floor, where two very nice normal-looking girls put paper “Leverage” bracelets on our wrists. They were the last normal-looking people we saw for four hours.
Feeling giddy, we walked into the party, where lights created giant “flames” that licked the walls beneath the word LEVERAGE. Images of the cast and crew were projected on a large screen, an incredibly complete bar was set up, and tables of food lined either side of the room. I get the reason for the bar, but why bother with food? The place was packed with young actors and actresses. No way were they gonna eat anything remotely resembling a calorie. Apparently size zero actually exists. I had no idea people could look like that without being airbrushed. Flawless. And that was the men. The women? Remember I told you that my husband sat in the makeup chair next to Elisabetta Canalis? Well, he kept pointing her out to me at the party…except that it was never her. Elisabetta Canalis is otherworldly gorgeous; Google her if you don’t know what she looks like. Several of the women at this party looked like her.
The Leverage Cast stood right in front of me during the blooper reel that was shown. I could have pinched Timothy Hutton’s tiny bottom. (I didn’t; I was saving myself for George.) They seemed like a very nice group of people.
Tim (my Tim) and I drank orange juice instead of dirty martinis; the babysitter could only stay until 11:30, and I had to get up early for work the next day…and, anyway, alcohol gives me a hot flash. We had a great time talking to people, but I noticed that the young uns (the would-be actors under forty) had short attention spans. Even as they spoke to us, their eyes never stopped roving. I guess they were looking for someone more important or more helpful to their careers or perhaps just more glamorous to talk to.
I didn’t do that…much.
Okay, yes I did, but I had a good reason: I’m in menopause. I’m going to be 49 in 2 months. I get a new wrinkle every day. The women in my family don’t live that long after menopause. If I wait any longer to meet George, I could be dead. Or really, really, really wrinkled. I need to meet him NOW.
So I had to keep looking for Elisabetta–hopefully towing George. By 11 pm the clock was ticking on the babysitter. Tim and I took one last tour of the room–which was really dark except for the licking flames–and finally ran into the dialect coach, who is a friend of Tim’s.
“Where’s Elisabetta?” he hollered on my behalf over the music (he said it was on my behalf).
A big smile broke out on the dialect coach’s face. “Oh, do you want to meet her? Lovely girl. So sweet.”
Oh yeah, oh yeah–if she’s sweet, she won’t mind my taking a picture with George. Or possibly getting a little drool on him.
Knowing I was mere moments away from meeting George, I leaned into Tim and whispered, “Nosebleed?” our little code for when he’s supposed to check my lip line to make sure the lipstick isn’t following the fine wrinkles up to my nostrils. Not quite like the old days when I readjusted my cleavage, but that’s menopause for you.
“You’re clear,” Tim reassured without moving his lips. That’s my boy.
“So, um, where is he…she? Where is she? Elisabetta,” I asked the dialect coach. My heart began skipping beats. (See one of the 35 menopause symptoms–irregular heartbeat; I’m sure it’s on there.)
“Elisabetta,” she nodded, smiling. “Lovely girl.”
“Had to go home to Italy. Earlier today. Too bad.”
Too bad? That’s it–“too bad”? No, that is an understatement, madam. And you do not want to see me upset (See The 35 Symptoms of Menopause–Irritafreakinbility. ) I couldn’t believe it; it was over. The party, meeting Georgie C. I went to Bi-Mart and bought line-erasing makeup for this?
Oh, well. There are a lot of disappointments in menopause. You have to learn to roll with the punches, I guess. It’s just I’m certain George and I could have had an awesome conversation. We’re the same age, give or take. And to him, at least, I would be a novelty…special: He’s never seen a fifty-year-old woman. They don’t make them in Hollywood. Yes, reader, the more I think about it, the more certain I am George’s eyes would not have strayed.
George, if you’re out there, call me. We’ll do orange juice. (Please don’t call Carolyn; she’ll hold it over me the rest of our lives…and as we’ve already established, I may not have much longer. Please phone, e-mail or friend me on Facebook now.)
Missing George aside, we had a good time and went home happy. Our feet hurt, our backs hurt…we were probably the only couple ready for sleep rather than bed. Still, when you’re menopausal and a mother, if you stay up past eleven p.m. for any reason other than night sweats or a pressing need to wash your daughter’s underwear before school the next day, it’s been a pretty decent night.
Wendy…off to dream a new dream….