Lunch with The Donald

As I’ve mentioned before, BR and I spend the winters in Florida.  Coincidentally, this is where BR’s business partner lives.  I’ll be referring to him as “Lance.”  This is very convenient for them because they get to hang out and talk about business all the time while we’re there.  And not only are Lance and BR business partners, but they are also BFF’s.

Lance has a very beautiful, very lovely wife named “Charlotte” who has also become a good friend of mine. In fact, she’s the only person I know who can truly relate to what it’s like to live with one of these “Masters of the Universe.”

Lance and Charlotte are members of an exclusive Palm Beach club which is owned by Donald Trump.  BR and I do not belong to any such clubs, but this is more by choice.  We’re both a little socially awkward and we value our time at home.  BR’s gone most days playing polo and I like hanging out with the dogs at the beach.  Also, BR outright refuses to go anyplace where a dinner jacket is mandatory, or where he’s not allowed to wear jeans.

So we’re not on the party circuit, or the charity ball circuit, or a social circuit of any kind really (although occasionally we do go to polo parties).  In fact, I usually tend to find these events far more stressful than enjoyable, and I don’t do well with social pressure of any kind (which is where the vodka and anti-anxiety medication comes in handy).  Although I must say, whenever I do go to these events, the people-watching is awesome.

But of course with this kind of lifestyle, sometimes these social obligations are unavoidable.  So I have to put on my fancy big-girl shoes, and suck it up.  Unfortunately BR rarely gives me any appropriate notice, never gives me enough time to get ready, I can’t even pick a fancy big-girl shoe let alone dress myself, and because I’m so stressed and rushed I always end up sticking the mascara wand in my eye.  Which at that point I have no choice but to zip up my party dress, chug a martini, and literally hope for the best.

BR: Is that what you’re wearing?

Me: Yes, why?  You don’t like it?

BR: The dress is a little long.

Me: It’s not long, it’s appropriate for someone my age.  I’m not twenty.

BR: You’re not?  I’m breaking up with you.  Why don’t you change into something shorter?

Me: Because I don’t want to look like a prostitute!  And now you’ve made me all self-conscious and I’ve already changed five times and you know that I get really stressed out about these things and I can barely dress myself and why can’t you just say I look nice like a normal person?!  AND WHERE IS THE ATIVAN!

One day Lance was talking about his club and asked me if I wanted to come by and meet Donald Trump.  I was like, oh sure, I’d love to meet The Donald.  Because what are you supposed to say, no thanks I’d rather not meet him because I get really nervous and awkward in social situations with famous people?

So I didn’t think much of it until a few days later when we were invited to spend the afternoon at the club’s pool.  I would spend time with Charlotte while BR and Lance talked about business.  And again BR gave me no notice, so all I could do was throw my hair in a pony tail and quickly shove some stuff in a beach bag.

Now, the club pool is not just a normal pool.  It’s fancy.  There are skinny blond women in teeny tiny bikinis, very large diamonds, and high-heeled sandals traipsing around, uniformed waiters offering you all sorts of beverages, old rich men sunbathing… all in a spectacularly lovely setting by the ocean.

Let me be blunt: I was not properly outfitted for this occasion.  I looked like a poor, dishevelled tourist.  I didn’t have time to fix my makeup, I had already managed to spill iced tea on my non-designer bathing suit cover-up, and the excessive wind was starting to make my hair look like a bit of a nest.  Plus I stupidly slathered suntan lotion all over the bottom of my feet (which made my feet really slippery), so each time I tried to take a step in my high-wedged flip-flops, I looked severely inebriated.

So I spent much of the early afternoon hiding on a lawn chair under a large umbrella, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.  Until it was lunchtime and I had to walk up to the outdoor grill/buffet to get some food.

I managed to walk up to the grill without too much embarrassment, although once I was there I did get a nice bright yellow blob of mustard on the front of my cover-up.  Awesome.  Finally I had my food and I was just about to take it back to my lawn chair when Lance called me over.

Lance: Blondie!  Come on over to the table, we’re eating over here.  With Donald.

With Donald?!  As in, we’re having lunch with Donald Trump??  Nobody told me he was here!  And I can barely walk like a normal person, I’ve spilled a bunch of crap all over myself, my hair is a wasps nest, I’m not wearing any makeup, and I am totally sober!

I could feel my heart start to race and the panic set in, so I took a deep breath and walked towards the table with a very forced (and probably really demented) smile on my face.  I was just about to sit down in the seat farthest away from The Donald, when BR loudly suggested that I come and sit right beside him.  He even held out the chair for me.  And what are you supposed to do, say no thank you, I’d rather sit way over here because I’m having a socially-induced anxiety attack, and I probably look like someone who’s been allowed out on a day-pass?

So I walked over.  The Donald was very gracious and polite.  He held out his hand for me to shake and then gestured for me to sit down.

The Donald: Hello, it’s very nice to see you.

I guess he has to say “see” you instead of “meet” you in case he’s already met you but can’t remember.  I managed to squeak out a hello.

The Donald: No wonder you’re so skinny, you don’t eat very much.

I actually do eat a lot, just not when I’m nervous.  But regardless, The Donald was not only extremely friendly, he was also trying to make small talk.  With me.  I really wanted to be able to say something witty and polite in return, but all that came out of my mouth was a weirdnervous, agonizingly long, high-pitched laugh.  Shit!

I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even look in his direction, let alone talk to him for the rest of the lunch.  Which lasted an entire hour.  Lance was mortified.  He kept trying to draw me into the conversation, while every few minutes giving me the wide-eyed “what the fuck’s wrong with you” stare from across the table, but it was useless.  I was completely speechless.

Then finally The Donald just got up and left.  No goodbye, no nothing, just got up and walked away.  But can I really blame him?

Lance: Blondie, what the fuck is wrong with you!  I’ve never seen anything like that in my life!

Me: I don’t know what happened, I panicked!  You can’t just throw me at The Donald like that, I need at least 48 hours notice!  And makeup!  And a proper outfit!  AND ALCOHOL!

BR: Couldn’t you have said something?  Like you like his show or… something??

Me: But I don’t watch his show and I don’t want to get myself trapped in an awkward lie.  That would be worse.

BR: So you instead you ignored him for an hour.  That’s an awesome way to make an impression.


So that was that.  I’ve been back to the club a few times since then as a guest, although I have not had the pleasure of meeting The Donald again.  Hopefully next time I’ll be prepared – and witty and fabulous and, let’s face it,  properly medicated.

And hopefully he won’t remember me.

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