"I'm not fancy."

I was lured into an event last night by a friend who taunted me with "Robert DeNiro," "Meryl Streep," and "Marissa Tomei." I don't pay particular attention to any of them, in theory, and as it turns out, none of them even showed up. I say I don't pay attention to them, "in theory," however, because once a celebrity is in my presence I can't stop staring. Yes, I'm one of those. I give my self some credit, though, I'm not obvious about gawking. I just look over and sneak a peek every now and then.

The people that did show up: Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon and Jesse McCartney.

The event was a charity one at some $8 million condo in SoHo (the equivalent in San Diego would be $2 million. Indiana? $500,000). My web designer from the magazine days does work for the company sponsoring the event. He got four tickets and invited me as a guest. I saw the invitation, which lacked shame: $250 for the cocktail reception (this included an open bar and appetizers BUT the appetizers consisted of chips & salsa and green mango with chili salt) or $1,000 for the "VIP dinner." We got the dinner. It was good, but it wasn't a $1,000 dinner. Since it was for charity, though, it didn't have to be.

Little girls and even a few sideway-capped boys somehow got upstairs to where the dinner was being held to straight out ogle at Jesse McCartney. That has to get old, but what can he do? They pay his bills. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

I assume that the reason Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins showed up is because their sons were in a band ("The Tangents"), which played following dinner. Their show preceded the main event, which was an auction featuring black and white photographs of celebrities. Muhammad Ali's daughter showed up as her father was featured in two of the photos. I told her that her father actually held my sister when she was a baby. "Babies and pretty ladies - he loves them," she responded.

Susan Sarandon was wearing brown sweat pants and a flannel; hair up in a bun. I couldn't help but think that this is exactly the outfit I would wear to these events if I were a celebrity. I imagine you'd get sick of attending these things pretty quickly. I simply wore nice black pants and a snug black top; heels. Sweat pants though, that is class.

And, speaking of class, the night basically consisted of me repeating my favorite mantras, "I'm not that classy" and "I'm not fancy" as excuses for the facts that A) I devoured every last speck of my dinner (none of this leaving a bite on the plate for the sake of manners stuff); B) I didn't seem to mind when someone warned me about the toilet that wouldn't flush ("I'm going in!"); and C) we took the iPod out of its dock and switched up the music (a $1,000 dinner should have some good tunes playing, right?) Plus, it gave me some leeway. No one expected anything from me given the disclaimer. I could just down the drinks and act like a fool, which is pretty much my protocol at these things anyway.

The girl who was with us seemed to get tired of my mantras. Kind of in a, "Yeah, I get it, you're not classy" kind of way. I only think that this is because she was classy, though. Pity. Seems like I had a lot more fun than she did.