Celeb Coming Through…

California, amongst its many hallmarks, is home to a plethora of celebrities. On any given day, you may spy an FP (famous person) on the street or in a restaurant. Mostly, they are much smaller in real life and have over large heads for their tiny bodies. And they are impossibly thin.

San Diego, mecca for those of us who live on the surface of the sun, beckons. For a babysitter. Middle Chicken and Lawyer Boy are co-officiating the wedding of friends. Can I stay with Grand Bear 4, better known as Mr. Eyelashes?

Point Loma offers up its charms and the answer as to why people put up with all that is California becomes clear. Charming? Check. Cute houses. Check. Ocean. Check. Great coffee shops. Check. Cute little breakfast place. Check. Paper straws melting after one sip remind us where we are and why so many of them are exiting to live on the surface of the sun. Go away. You don’t know how to drive and you’ve artificially inflated our housing market. Does someone have my fan?

Instructions are clear. Since Mr. Eyelashes is still amongst the nursing set, I will visit the shops (so cute) and galleries (oh my) and have dinner (yummy) while the ceremony is going on, meet with Middle Chicken to feed the babe, and walk back to the hotel–yes, on the water. It’s a hard life.

The bride requests everyone dress in black–all black. We label Lawyer Boy Johnny Cash and Middle Chicken’s gorgeous LBD features a cape; she is known as Batman. We crack ourselves up. On our walk to the site, people are staring. Is my dress amiss? I am wearing sneakers (gasp) with a dress but I’m the only one that labels that blasphemy.

At the wedding venue, situated in the center of the quaint shops, there is open staring. Up and down staring. At me. “Why is everyone staring?” blurts Lawyer Boy.

The answer comes to Middle Chicken. Lawyer Boy leads the way, in his all-black suit. I follow with Mr. Eyelashes and Middle Chicken is behind, the wind blowing her smashing cape just a bit “Mom! They think we’re your bodyguards!”

Lawyer Boy, instantly in on the joke, puts a hand to his mouth, sending a secret signal to the ether and says, “Coming through,” to no one in particular.

Rounding a corner, a woman stops, openly appraises me, her mouth agape. Who she thinks I am, pushing a stroller in my dress with tennis shoes, we’re not quite sure. When the restaurant hostess asks if we’d like a private area, we burst out laughing. What a great relationship I have with my bodyguards. Me, all famous, and still so approachable.

I’m just as nice as I knew I’d be when I got famous.

Once my bodyguards leave to officiate the wedding and I’m meandering the shops and galleries, there are no stares. Fame is a fickle friend. Pfft.