Well, hello, Mrs. Fancy Pants.

My mom and I decided to go to a book signing by an author friend of hers on a rainy Tuesday night, at an art gallery on Palm Beach. Worth Avenue to be exact. She dressed in a fabulous frock with pashmina and hip silver jewelry, while I tossed on my lacy mini dress, denim jacket (from Goodwill), pink chunky jewelry, brown purse ($3 at a garage sale) and cowboy boots. We are who we are, and nothing, not even a Palm Beach address, was going to stop us from representing our true selves.

We hop into my dad's Audi TT (cause we wanted to look good driving up) and get to the art gallery. It's filled to brimming with posh, snooty Palm Beachers who are oozing disdain and pretension all over the Andy Warhol screen prints hanging on the walls. It's a very Botoxed event, and Mom and I bee-line for her friends from her writers group, in the hope that there would be safety in numbers. One of the ladies is wearing jeans, and thanks me for showing up in denim. As we stand there, my mom mentions that I am involved with the theater. The author, thinking he was doing me a favor, very sweetly grabbed me and told me he knew someone else who was in the theater at the party. He made his way through the masses to a tall, gaunt woman in a red, floral pantsuit with close cropped silver hair and glasses. He said, "You're both in theater. Talk." And then he walked away. I awkwardly offer my hand to the woman, introducing myself. Instead of a name, she utters, "I'm actually not in theater. My husband owns an Off Broadway theater in NYC. I'm in dressage. But what have you done?"

Here is one of many reasons why I feel I will never be famous. I cannot bullshit with strangers for the life of me. I answer that I just got done with a three week run of a musical at a theater in Ft. Pierce. She looks at me, questioningly, as if in her realm of existence there is only New York and Palm Beach. I say, "It's just a small place, really. I used to work for the Atlantic Theater in Jupiter...(she squints at me)... I'm an improviser, singer....blah, blah, blah." Realizing, I am losing my subject (who had spinach in her teeth, I'd like to note) I change gears, and ask her about dressage. "So, you must really like horses, then." She lightened up at this point, as narcissism is always fun, and I get into full Buffy mode. "Well, I am going to the polo match next Sunday, darling, and it shall be a smashing good time. We're bringing a hamper." The woman actually claps her hands like a school girl, gushing about how glorious it will be, and that it's so lovely to be served champagne and ice cream. I quip, "How could you go wrong with that combination?" and she falls silent again.

Both of us stood there, longing for an escape route, when the other author sidled up next to us, obviously a friend of tall and gangly. T and G asks, "Have you met our author?" and pawned me off on the other woman. I awkwardly look down at the stack of books on the table, and said, "Oh, you wrote this....impressive cover." I feigned interest in the jacket as author lady swept the horse lady away. I knew I had been brushed off. And I had never been happier.

I moved back to join my mom and her gang, and we headed for the Pellegrino. Sipping on bubbly water, we started to actually look at the artwork. The gallery owner, noting our interest, swooped in to tell us the tale of the print we were looking at, which was signed by the artists father and would have to be questioned if signed by the author himself. Mom and I looked at each other over our plastic flutes, and started laughing. We plunked our glasses down on the refreshment table, waved goodbye to her friend, and hopped in Dad's car, peeling out of there. We laughed the whole way home about our brush with society, and ended up curling up in our PJ's, making a quick dinner, and watching "Despicable Me." Ah...that's the life!