Desperation

When my sister and I were growing up, our next-door neighbors had a swimming pool, which both my sister and I coveted. Whenever we would hear them swimming, we would put on our bathing suits, go out on our side lawn, turn on the sprinkler, and run through it until our neighbors noticed us and invited us over. Of course, when we went over we would unconvincingly express shock about the chances of them using their pool at the exact same time that we were outside in our bathing suits for no real good reason. I mention this because that act of brazenness is nothing compared to my pathetic careful refilling of my juice glass yesterday morning when I noticed the Emmy Winner holding court at the buffet. This was a tactic I had unsuccessfully tried the previous night at dinner, but I really poured myself into this final desperate effort. She was sitting about twelve feet away as I pondered which glass I wanted to select, the precise amount of ice I needed to use, and then debated whether I was more in the mood for water or juice. All I can say is thirty years of consistent television work has given her a laser-like sense of focus where she can disregard a twenty-eight year old turning the act of getting something to drink into a modern day Sophie’s Choice. I did see a passenger approach the EW and ask for a picture, which the EW graciously declined. But she was very polite about it, so my efforts to turn her into a monster were unrewarded. I only have one final night to become good friends with her, but at this point I don’t see how it can happen.