Hobnobbing with celebrities and goggling what hobnobbing means.

So you guys know how I like to hang out at only the most exclusive clubs in New York that are known for their mystery, intrigue, and discretion, right? Wait, that doesn’t sound like me at all? You are correct. However, that was totally me last night because I was rubbing shoulders with the exclusive A-listers who haunt this club nightly. I mean, that’s just how I roll and quit looking at me like that, guys, it could totally happen.
 
But ok, to be fair, I didn’t actually rub shoulders with celebrities. But I absolutely sat in the same leather booths that I’m pretty sure, like, P. Diddy and George Clooney have sat in. And in my mind, that means that I’m now friends with the entire cast of Oceans 11 and finally George and I can realize the love that’s been there all along. I’m just guessing, here, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it means.
 
Also, apparently some big time PR person was in the mix, though when someone said to me “every remotely social person in this town knows her,” I just nodded and smiled and wondered if they could tell that I wasn’t remotely social. And that it’s possible that Beth and I may or may not have once hidden in the bushes in Central Park outside of Tavern on the Green during the red carpet event for Michael Jackson’s birthday party. For two hours. In the dark. Like homeless and/or crazy people.
 
But whatever, we totally saw Michael Jackson and Liza Minnelli and Samuel L. Jackson and Starr Jones before she got skinny and kicked off ofThe View. It was awesome and we weren’t at all ashamed. Which, let’s get real, shouldn’t surprise any of you. 
 
Anyway, back to the party. It was an interesting mixture of people, many of whom I’d probably not run into at my local hangouts of CB’s apartment, my living room with my cat, or the Chipotle that just opened down the street. And when I walked in, I was pretty sure I was going to stick out like a sore thumb, stare at my phone a lot pretending to get texts from people who were just as remotely social as I, and hopefully be home in time to watch The Mindy Project. However, I was pleasantly surprised that pretty much everyone was incredibly warm and friendly.
 
I mean, there was definitely the guy who had a five minute conversation with me, shook my hand way too hard to the point that I thought I maybe let out a little yelp, and then winked at me and clicked his teeth as he walked away. I mean, yes, of course that guy was there.
 
But there were also just super normal, friendly, funny people who didn’t seem to notice or care that I spent less on my entire outfit than they had on the drink in their hand, and a few of them reminded me of people I actually would spend time with outside of pretend going-to-the-club-on-a-Tuesday-night world.
 
Also, while chatting with a guy about what we do for a living and other random stuff that you talk about when you don’t know someone at a dark club, I mentioned that I heard that there would be models coming later. He said “I heard that, too. I just assumed you were one of them.” To which I think I actually snorted from laughter and spilled my water on his shoes. And shockingly, he didn’t ask for my number.
 
But whatever, I’m totally a model and Giselle and I are so annoyed by how the Patriots never support her husband in crunch time and we talk about it all the time over fake-lunch.
 
So don’t be surprised if you see me in the society pages of the New York Times in the coming days, people. Also, bonus for the Times, they won’t even have to search around to find out who that new “it” girl is because they totally already have my info from that one time I photo-bombed the New York Times photographer's pictures while he was doing a somber photo story about Hoboken in the wake of Super Storm Sandy.

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