I’m trying to mix it up. As an actress, I’m told that I “need” to be seen as young, hip, and very different from the uptight matronly character I play on The Big Bang Theory. So when Perez Hilton–who has never been mean to me and even has had me on his website in a pretty flattering interview–“personally” invited me to his 33rd “Blue Ball” birthday party this past Saturday night, I accepted.
The dress code was blue, only blue. Fantastic: I had three blue dresses from which to choose, all of them theoretically appropriate.
The party was set to begin after Shabbat was over and after the boys would be in bed; sounds good.
I chose to bring a girlfriend who has a great sense of humor (and a father who is gay…and trust me, that helped at this party), and she also didn’t mind going out and buying something blue for the occasion.
I even understood the vulgar reference in the title of the party.
I was ready to go.
Cut to Friday night. I get hit with a hellacious cold, a weak, scratchy voice, awful sore throat, post-nasal drip–everything, you name it, it was happening in my sinuses. And I knew the boys were next on this sick train, since my husband was sick too. My plan was all of a sudden not so smooth.
I almost didn’t go. I almost called my friend to tell her not to come, but my distaste for using the telephone on Shabbat helped me stick to the plan, layering a little extra foundation around my red nose, swollen with inflammation, using a little more under-eye cream to cover the dark circles that a cold delivers, and deciding that the kids will be okay. They’re not sick yet, and going for an hour wouldn’t kill me.
So I applied 76 coats of lip gloss, threw on that little navy blue dress and a big-girl bra, and painted only the toenails that showed out from my open-toed stilettos: ink blue, of course. A breath strip cleared out my nasal passages and a light drizzle fell as I entered the “blue carpet” in Hollywood. I posed as best as I could, praying that some photographer didn’t catch me mid-blink or teetering on my four-inch heels. Inside the party, blue drinks were passed out on trays (very yummy, I must say), and there was a dazzling table of blue candy that I couldn’t eat (I’m vegan and kosher, you know how it is).
There were opportunities for face painting (no thank you) and a bouncy castle (in a short dress? I don’t think so). There were some amazing musical performances, including a dude singing opera dressed like Amadeus Mozart. And a lot of manicured attractive gay men, if you go for that sort of thing.
I didn’t see any other celebrities except for Melissa Rivers who I have met several times and even did a live interview with online last year, but she didn’t seem to register that she knew who I was. Oh well. Time for a second blue drink.
I went up to Mr. Hilton, who was wearing a denim blue mechanic’s playsuit of sorts with an enormous afro wig. He was super soft-spoken and very sweet, and we took a picture together (I forgot to put down my coat for the photo so I look like a dork holding my coat with Perez Hilton). He asked if my dress was black, since the rules were only blue. I reassured him that it was navy and that I follow rules well.
Then we left and I erased my make-up and threw my hair into a bun and had a really nice nasal irrigation session. Fred was asleep on Mike’s lap, and all was fine. I see online after the fact that many actors, porn stars, and reality stars arrived after I left the party in various permutations of extremely short and very revealing dresses, sparkly make-up, and pouffed up hair. There was also bull-riding on a stage, and a woman in pasties on aforementioned bull. I don’t know that I would have enjoyed that so much.
So all in all, it was a success, I suppose. I made it to the party, I did my best to look good, and I got home to no one screaming or crying for me.
Who says it sucks to be blue?