When I tell non-Angelenos I live in Los Angeles, nine times out of ten their first question is, “Do you see a lot of celebrities?” The other question being, “Oh my gawd, how can you LIVE there?” — which is not so much a question, but rather a quick way to see my tight-lipped smile.
I did indeed spy quite a few stars when I used to frequent a certain Coffee Bean shop on Sunset Boulevard. This is the Coffee Bean where many of the celebs in dire need of an espresso fix come down from the Hollywood Hills and grace us with their size-zero presence.
This is also the Coffee Bean where I once saw the saddest sight, a sight that haunts me to this day: a wife beater-clad Vin Diesel “casually” flexing his arms and chatting on his cell phone outside the door for at least thirty minutes, clearly hoping upon hope that somebody would recognize his gun show and approach him. But alas… he continued to stand there all by his lonesome, holding the phone in one hand and nonchalantly flexing with the other as customer after customer simply stepped around him to get inside the store. Vin Diesel’s ignored cry for attention may have been even more tragic than the loss of his shirt’s sleeves (R.I.P.).
We eventually bought a townhouse almost exactly one mile away from our former residence, however, and my lazy ass decided to start walking to a slightly closer Starbucks instead — yes, I’m a caffeine whore — which has significantly cut down on the star sightings, much to people’s chagrin. Once upon a time, we would see the likes of Drew Barrymore, Johnny Depp, Harrison Ford and Melanie Griffith.
“I saw Cindy Williams at the car wash!” Mr. Candy told some folks the other week. “You know… Shirley? Of ‘Laverne & Shirley’?” he added when he noticed their confusion.
CINDY WILLIAMS, people. My husband is bragging about seeing Cindy Freakin’ Williams. The drought is THAT BAD.
So imagine my relief when Will Ferrell walked into my pediatrician’s office today. It’s no Brangelina sighting, I know, but it sure beats seeing Shirley get her Ford Taurus waxed. It was hard to miss Will in the small waiting room. Almost all of the seats were taken, so he (with his baby and the stroller), his wife and one of the grandmothers had no choice but to stand on one side of the room, basically all up in Skye’s and my bidness. The grandmother tried to chat up Miss Skye, but my daughter responded with her blank-stare-mouth-hanging-wide-open routine, which made Grandma Ferrell lose interest quickly. Go figure. Little did Grandma know Skye was trying to communicate with her eyes: “Sure, your son(-in-law) may have made a career out of playing the same dumb, egotistical character with a heart of gold over and over again. And, yeah, sure, your son(-in-law) may have been in some truly terrible films lately. But my crazy mom SURE does love her some Ron Burgundy!”
As a fan of exactly one of Will’s films (and, okay, a closet fan of Blades of Glory… shut up!), I did what any good fan would do: pretended I didn’t see him. I kept my eyes averted at all times — something I tend to do with all celebrities — and, as such, kept bumping Skye’s stroller into HIS baby’s stroller when the nurse finally called us in.
“Can you get around us?” he asked. Embarrassed, I kept my eyes down and flashed a tight-lipped smile as though he’d just asked me, “Oh my gawd, how can you LIVE there?”
BOOM! I bumped into his kid’s damn stroller yet again.
“It’s like a parking lot in here,” Will joked.
The entire waiting room erupted into laughter. Like it was the funniest joke they had ever heard. EVER.
“And I’m like a drunk driver,” I retorted.
No! I kid! That was the retort I should have said, the retort I thought of exactly ten seconds AFTER Will tried to break the ice — when it was TOO LATE to say anything. Of course. Instead, I blushed and giggled/grunted and gracefully tripped on the carpet as I rushed out of the room.
Now we know where Skye gets her clever conversational skills from.