‘Security!’ the man shouted, tackling me and pinning me against the plushest carpet my face has ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. Can’t be sure, but I think I may have overplayed my hand tonight.
How did I get here? Let’s rewind to a bit earlier to see where I may have gone wrong.
7:34 p.m., West Hollywood. I’m standing at the gate separating me from access to Soho House, West Hollywood’s most elite members only private club and restaurant. This is the church of Hollywood royalty, if you will. Famous writers, producers, directors and actors can be found here at all hours lounging on couches and drinking steaming things out of copper mugs. In the tree-lined courtyard filled with thousands of tiny twinkling lights, Grammy award winning musicians are sharing plates of delicious things I can’t pronounce with Shia LeBeouf. You know. No big deal.
I learned earlier in the day that I’d been nominated for the One Lovely Blog Award. So clearly, these are my people.
I signal for a staff member to come over. He wears a permanent look of revulsion, like I’m going to try to sell him a box of Do-si-dos, or detail the perks of membership in my weird cult. Sure, we worship spatulas, sir…but it goes so much deeper than that.
‘You’re not on the list, as I’ve told you three times already’ he says curtly, no longer trying to hide his irritation. Sensing that any more attempts at the front door are going to be met with lead-pipe brutality, I head for the parking structure. Time for Plan B.
This place is sealed up tight as a drum. So I had no choice but to scale the wall of the parking structure, rappel down 2 floors, gain enough momentum by repeatedly swinging across the 10 foot open expanse of nothingness to my intended target, and shimmy up the fire escape.
It’s what anyone would have done in my shoes.
As I entered through an unlocked window, my face quickly became acquainted with the carpet. Now you’re up to speed.
My mother was kind enough to bail me out, but abruptly left me standing on the side of the road when I would not concede that what I did was ‘childish and insane’. Pffft. Mothers.
So if anyone happens to be in the area and can give me a ride, I’ll be the one on foot walking down West Sunset near the 101 with a foam replica of a Writer’s Guild Award I stole out of a nearby backlot.
To add insult to injury, a limo pulled up next to me and stopped. Jeff Goldblum leans his head out of the darkened window and says ‘I, uh, saw that whole thing go down back there at Soho, and yah. Listen, kid, it’s a blogging award nomination, not a Pulitzer, ok? Get your head out of your ass.’ And he sped away into the night.
So while I am humbled and flattered by your nomination, SpaghettiSam (arewestillhavingspaghetti.wordpress.com), perhaps next time it should come with a little better idea of the implied entitlements therein. This is not the glamorous end that was implicit in your nomination.
I may or may not have a felony record now. Just saying a heads up might have been nice.
The rules of this nomination in their entirety are found below. But basically, I am now supposed to tell you 7 random facts about myself and then nominate others whose blogs have rocked my world. I will happily do that and provide my own list of things to beware of. Consider me a walking cautionary tale from which to learn what not to do. Forever.
7 Random Facts About Myself:
I now know that if you intend to rappel down the edge of a parking structure at night, you should keep a change of underwear in your car.
Jeff Goldblum doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
I like to preemptively scare away men I’m not interested in by making them think I’m insane. All I have to do is walk up to them and say in the sultriest voice possible ‘Hi. I’m Genevieve with two k’s.’
I can’t be sure, but I think that if you cut my leg open there’d be, like, food rings of all the garbage I’ve eaten over time. Oooo, look! There’s a Cadbury egg ring!
One time at a Christmas party, my friend and I exchanged gifts and we’d both bought each other ‘Exploding Kittens’. It was like The Gift of the Magi, but with less altruism and more drunk people.
My daughter now warrants an entire folder of ‘ism’s’, because she says some pretty epic things for being 5 years old. Like the time we went to Jimmy John’s and were sharing a turkey and bacon sammy. I leaned over and said ‘You want me to put a chip inside your sandwich?’ to which she replied ‘It’s like you just GET me.’
My babies are my life. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
Bloggers I Nominate:
Rules for the One Lovely Blog Award:
Thank the person who nominated you and link their blog in your post.
Include the rules and the blog award image in your post.
Add 7 random facts about yourself.
Nominate other bloggers to this award (up to 15) and be sure let them know you’ve nominated them.
My Personal Rules/Reminders:
Do not break the law in an attempt to validate your perceived stardom. Or for any other reason. Ever.
I really do appreciate SpaghettiSam’s nomination. Thanks, girl! You clearly had no idea what you were in for when you did.
This post was all in jest. None of it really happened. It is fiction. I say this for that one reader who this fact will be lost on and who will post a flamingly hateful comment. Consider this a preemptive stupidity strike!
Jude Law is breathtaking up close. Had I not been tackled when I was, I could have snagged some clams casino from his plate as a keepsake of my magical night. We would have had shared memories, me and Jude. Remember that time we shared clams casino at Soho? This whole thought train screams ‘restraining order’.
Jeff Goldblum is hot. That is all.
I am both proud and disturbed. (Ha ha)
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This was just awesome. I loved it even before I realize that I too am now famous. I mean after all I was the “friend” that bought you exploding kittens. Ummm why the hell was I not invited to Soho? I could have junk punched the staff member and distracted him while you slithered past. And Jeff Goldblum while hot obviously was drunk when he said that to you….Duh!
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I can always count on you as my designated junk-puncher, can’t I?