One of the better things I've done with my existence in the past 48 hours, besides sort my socks, is create a "Dream Date" list on Twitter.
Some are more obtainable than others - Tom Ford is lost to women, even though he is very, very good looking, and Mark Ruffalo is lost to his stupid wife. She's stupid. Then we have Andrew "Andy" Samberg. He is the trifecta: funny, cute, and celebrates the festival of lights.
Since he is on the rocks with his lame-sauce harp-playing (who plays the harp?) pale girlfriend, I figured we should go out on a date, and he acquiesced.
In my mind.
Andy was initially supposed to pick me up in a Hummer limo, with blinking rims. He was going to pop out of the sunroof like in Never Been Kissed (but only in the wonderful version, not the awful and tragic 1985 flashback). However, given both of our fame levels we decided to be more subtle. As we got onto the back of his Vespa, I encountered a problem. My custom couture Chanelgown that my good friend Karl had given me during a rousing match of bocce in St. Tropez snagged in the rear. Ooops, $20,000 down the train. Karl wasn't going to be pleased.
I held on tight to Andy's strong midsection anyway. Like a boss.
I should mention that we're in Los Angeles, because we decided the weather would be better for our falling in love and wedding in Malibu. We're at Katsuya, obviously, because those big glass doors were made for photographing. Anyone who says they're going there "to get some privacy" is a big, fat, size 2 liar.
The conversation was wonderful. I'm ribbing him about Laser Cats because I really always thought the concept would be better with Meese, and he's wondering how my date write-up is going to go and how much crap I'm going to give him for making me go to Katsuya instead of Nobu. As I'm making headway into my yellowtail sashimi, I realize that the snag is getting larger and larger. Oh well. Even though the dress now extends about 1.5 inches past my hoo-ha, this is LA. At least I'm wearing pants, unlike most people these days.
We're finishing dinner, and then I see them. The swarm of paparazzi, edging closer to my nearly-exposed ladybits. I have to make a game-time decision. Will I walk out into the flashing masses literally FLASHING the masses, or do I ask Andy to lend me his pants? Andy declines, saying that he realized Bruce Willis "was dead at the end of the Sixth Sense," rendering his pants "soiled," if you know what I mean. Crap.
I decide to grin and (bare) it all. It could have been worse, a job at Kinko's straight flippin' copies. As we walked out hand in hand into the swarm, I realized something that would distract the paparazzi off of my wardrobe malfunction. I darted back into the side left table for a second to ask a favor of an old friend.
"Britney," I said, "remember that you owe me from when I defended your hair extension overuse? I think I need to use that chit right now."
She looked dubious, but understanding. "Yeah y'all?"
"Remember that thing you were going to announce but were waiting for the right time? I really need you to do it now."
"You know I was waiting for my trip with Kate and Sarah in the wilderness, but I guess I will if it means that much to you. I know what it's like to have your poon photographed."
Britney and I strode out of the restaurant, Andy gazing in awe and admiration walking first holding my hand. I put my head down, and then Britney said it while the Valet had his mouth agape.