On Tuesday night Bill Murray told me I was robbing the cradle. Wait just a minute, methinks I should rewind a bit...
Hubby and I were at Shea Stadium for a Mets/Cubs game. My charming Uncle Dan is friends with a Chicago Cub and arranged for us to have seats behind home plate. It was fantastic! After our crappy week it was nice to unwind and see how the other half lives. This was especially lovely for me, since the only times I've ventured into the nice sections of ballparks things have usually ended...not well. (As in, can I see yours tickets, please?) This time we were actually legit.
It was the perfect night for a ballgame. There were waiters taking orders and bringing food and pinot grigio. (Well, in the upper deck I'm embarrassed to drink wine but I really felt I had the green light to do so in these seats.)
Around the eighth inning I noticed a familiar face over to my left. Although I don't experience NY celebrity sightings all that much, when they do happen it's entertaining. Like a couple of months ago when I saw Brian Dennehy walking down Fifth Avenue toting a tiny suitcase on wheels. Out of respect I kept my mojito-hole shut, but a small part of me desperately wanted to scream, "I loved you in Tommy Boy!" Because truly, I did. (Though I'd be hard put to find the person who didn't enjoy that fine film.)
I wasn't always so reverent, though. Years ago in Boston I was an extra (though they didn't end up using us) on a film with the guy from Pete and Pete. These were in my bright-eyed Conservatory days and as I stood near him I heard myself utter, "Hey, it's Pete." I received no response to this awkward statement and instantly felt like a dink. Let's face it, that wasn't the proper way to address Nickelodeon royalty, or anyone, for that matter. But live and learn, no?
Back to the familiar face to my left, who was none other than Mr. Bill Murray. I know Oprah has said the only thing different about being famous is that more people know who you are, but...
Fueled on by copious amounts of pinot grigio and the burning desire to have an engaging tale to relate to you, Dear Reader, I tentatively approached Mr. Murray and said the following:
"Mr. Murray, would you mind very much if I took a picture* with you?"
"Oh, that makes me feel so homesick!" He replied. "Nobody ever just says hello, or introduces themselves..."
Woops. I answered that, well, on an obnoxious scale from one to ten this was definitely a nine and then proceeded to introduce myself. This led him to ask where I was from, what I did, and what I used to do. He was extremely nice and down to earth. I told him I loved The Life Aquatic and his Star Wars song was my favorite SNL skit of all time. (Even as I said it I knew I was being awful and lame, but white wine tends to have that affect on me.)
Today my friend posed a valid question, one that I've already kicked myself for not asking, which is what the eff did he whisper into Scarlett Johansson's ear? Alas, in the hustle and bustle of the celebrity meeting, this worthy question did not come to mind. I desperately wish it had, though, since the ending to Lost in Translation disturbed me greatly.
"So who's your photographer?" Bill Murray eventually asked. "Oh, my husband," I answered.
"He's your husband? What is he, twelve? You're really robbing the cradle!"
"He's older than me!" I retorted, slightly annoyed. I should tell you my husband is sometimes described as having a baby face. (Albeit a handsome, blue-eyed baby face.) He looks young, his Dad is 51 and looks incredibly young, and I suppose there are far worse problems for the two of them to have.
Although, what the frigg am I, some ancient, cradle-robbing old crone? I'll have you know my husband is a whopping 49 days older than me, Mr. Bill Murray!
"You're robbing the cradle!" He said it one more time.
What the? Was I getting dissed by Bill Murray? And should I feel bad about this? And does anyone actually say dissed anymore? I'm not sure I've ever used that word in a sentence.
Hubby, a huge baseball fanatic, started to talk baseball with Mr. M. "Are you going to buy the Cubs?" He asked.
He said it's something he'd thought about, to which my husband replied, "Well, if you're looking for a business partner, I can put in five hundred, six hundred bucks..." You've got to love that baby faced man. I know I do.
Before we knew it, the game was over. As we exited the stadium, laughing to ourselves at what a random evening it had turned out to be, Hubby spotted Mike Starr from Dumb and Dumber. Seriously, is this what normally happens in the good seats? We were dorks and snapped a picture* with him, too. This Queens native was also extremely friendly. (And my Brother in Law was totally impressed that we met The Gas Man.)
I had forgotten this, but Hubby reminded me that we've already been in the presence of Bill Murray over five years ago, when the restaurant we worked at hosted the NY opening party for the movie Shallow Hal. There I was, serving up tuna tartar, chicken sate (those damned sticks!), and dying a little inside. All I really remember about him was that he was wearing a bolo tie. For some reason John Kerry was also at that party, and I can still recall the image of my ass-kissing ex-boss genuflecting to him and saying, "Senator, it's a pleasure." (My old boss was an actor, they bow and stuff.)
So Bill Murray may think I look older than my husband, but I did not genuflect or say, hey, it's Pete! At least I have that to hold onto.
All in all, it was an eventful evening. Thank you, Uncle Dan! And thanks to Matt Murton for giving us those fabulous seats. What a nice guy.
Happy weekend to one and all!
~The Ancient Broad xoxo
*In an effort to maintain my secret identity, and keep my lovely job, and not make my parents worry about their youngest born putting her image on the internet, I have refrained from posting said pictures. Please use your imagination, Dearest Readers. I do not look old, by the way.
PS: My Parent's neighborhood have officially resurrected their annual tractor races...they're on for this Saturday. Crazy kids and their wild parties!
