If all goes according to my plans, at this time next week, me and a “special guest” will be boarding a plane for an all-expenses-paid trip to sunny L.A.

 

Let’s face it, times are tight, airfare ain’t cheap, and this land-locked old gal hasn’t seen the horizon in an epoch. So I sold my soul to the political/corporate machine for a shot at a little R&R.

 

See, when I started getting barraged with emails about winning a trip to party with George Clooney and President Obama (or “Geobama” as I like to call them), I was reluctant. But then Michelle stepped in, really upping the celebrity ante, so I caved. That’s right, in full disclosure, the woman who is so thrifty that she washes out her Ziplock freezer bags (much to the disdain of fellow kitchen users), threw down $15 on the chance to attend an exclusive dinner at Clooney’s Hollywood pad. While there, I will presumably bide my time gawking at new advances in plastic surgery and hob nobbing with the prez and George. (Or do whatever it is that presidents and celebrities do these days, since I’m pretty sure hobnobbing went out in the Eisenhower era.)

 

Yes, it seems times have become so desperate that presidents are shamelessly using movie star clout to lure in the bucks from desperate, foolhardy stargazers such as myself. Even if it means having to endure an evening with the likes of some unwashed heathen from the hills whose idea of a big night out is Texas Tacos and an ice-cold Miller.

 

Besides, it sounded way more fun than the Romney-Nugent affair, where it was rumored everyone had to hunt their own Alaskan black bear for dinner. And with my luck, I’d get stuck sitting next to Callista Gingrich (at least there’d be a good chance of snagging her dessert.)
Yes, I know I talked about Johnny Depp last time, and now George this week, and you’re probably thinking that maybe it’s time for a People magazine intervention. But in all honesty, I only read that stuff at the dentist’s office, although come to think of it, they do find it strange that I show up months before my appointment.

 

But did I mention this is not your average run-of-the-mill “grip and grin” P.R. sesh. No, we are talking a $40,000-a-plate dinner. For that much, you should be guaranteed a personal attendant to cut your manhole-cover-sized filet into tender, bite-sized morsels, prechew it and feed it to you on a gilded fork while angels sing. I say “should” because we all know George is way too hip and socially responsible to do something so ostentatious. In fact, screw the dinner. Who needs a side of beef when there’s an open bar to be had and an olive at the bottom of every martini glass? Plus, knowing me, I’d only eat dinner to unknowingly spend the rest of the night with spinach in my teeth (or maybe that’s where the personal attendant also comes in.)

 

Besides, I’m not expected to believe that anyone, other than Michael Moore, eats at these star-studded affairs, am I? Having never actually worn an evening gown, I can only guess that there’s not a lot of room for snarfing down canapes and beluga caviar on toast points. Which is why, upon landing at LAX, my first order of business will be a trip to the Spanx store.

 

Of course, I’m going to need to pace myself if I’m expected to hang with George till 3:45 a.m. like he recently did after the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. Sure, to do so might mean cutting back on a bottle of Cristal or two, even though I’m pretty sure that would only make me smarter, and funnier. (Speaking of which, wait’ll Obama hears the one about the two Canadians who walk into a bar.)

 

Plus, I’m going to need to stay sharp if I’m expected to smuggle out flatware and George’s dirty napkin to sell on E-bay without raising any suspicions. And I don’t want to be slobbering drunk when I make polite conversation with Obama about how he recently patronized my former CU stopping grounds, The Sink, where many a bleeding heart hippie liberal spent their formative years swilling away their parents’ money.

 

Of course, like any good dinner guest, I promise not to talk politics, you know, like how the ozone is screwed and how I’m going to get stiffed on social security and how it costs $500 to go to a doctor just get a prescription for Xanax for all the anxiety that comes with ozone and retirement fund depletion. Or how one chandelier in George’s massive marble foyer could probably cover my mortgage (which I am unable to refinance) for a year. Or how I am obsessed with re-using plastic bags because I am worried sick about the Texas-sized plastic island in the Pacific. Or how disgusted I am with Wall Street CEOs who skate on taxes while hard-working stiffs like myself get saddled with the tab. Or the irony  of wasting untold billions on technology to try to squeeze oil from a rock while we still can’t manage to come up with a hybrid Subaru wagon or put a solar panel on every roof.

 

Yeah, I guess like most Americans, I can be bought, and fortunately, I just so happen to be a cheap date (although they may want to Scotchgard the carpet before I arrive). Promise me a glitzy dinner, a shwanky hotel and some rich folk, and I’m easier than Julia Roberts.
But when it comes to my vote, you better show me the money.

 

– Missy Votel