I somehow found myself at presidential candidate Mitt Romney's La Jolla beach house last week.
I can't really explain how it happened. I get this baby shower invite in the mail a while ago for a girl whose name I don't recognize. Facebook sleuthing revealed it was a nice, beautiful, pregnant girl from my ward with whom I've had one actual conversation. I assumed it was a hey-let's-make-the-newish-girl-feel-welcome gesture, and I was happy to take the bait. I got a little gift and couldn't find an attractive box to wrap it in, so I ended up sticking it an empty garbage bag box before wrapping it up with paper and ribbon, figuring it would do the job and get a laugh when she unwrapped it. The day of the shower I looked up the address on Google Earth, figuring it would be somewhere in the ward boundaries. The satellite image revealed a mansion in a neighborhood full of mansions with the La Jolla beach as its backyard. I start feeling like maybe I should've gone with the empty Cheerios box instead.
I park the car a few blocks away thinking I'll be able to navigate the narrow streets better on foot. As the sound of the ocean crashing into the beach gets louder, the houses get bigger, and I'm seeing other girls with gifts approaching. Really beautiful girls. In dresses. And I'm starting to sweat pretty bad in my battered canvas Airwalks and wishing I'd gotten a haircut so that my do was less reminiscent of a 13-year-old boy miscreant, which is coincidentally also sort of how I had dressed for the affair.
I walk in with one of the beautiful guests and tuck my trash bag box gift way back behind all of these adorably wrapped gifts that undoubtedly contain the most en vogue onesies anyone has ever beheld. The house is spacious, though not the enormous mansion you might expect, and lovely and filled with family photos I don't take much notice of. What I do take notice of are the millions of beautiful girls that I do not know. Finally I spot a familiar face, another girl from the ward who whispers to me, "Do you know whose house this is?" Suddenly the patriarch's face in all the family photos jumps out. Sure enough. It's our pal, Mitt. And let me tell you, this guy's got a sensational view from his back patio. But the faucet in his guest bathroom is a little tough to figure out.
In case you don't believe me, as I expected you might, I took a couple of sneaky photos with my phone.
You always wonder how you will react to a brush with fame. Turns out I'm one of those creepy people who takes sneaky photos and posts them on the Internet. Did we expect anything more from me? Mitt's two super-chic daughters-in-law who were hosting the shindig probably saw me take them and thought, "Ugh. Why did we have to invite these plebeians? She probably wrapped her present in a trash bag box."
Isn't it great when stereotypes are right?