The Scene: The check-in table at the annual Jefferson Awards to-do.
The Players: Me and two young women I used to work with at The Chronicle. [I say "young" because I am old enough to be their mother, if I'd gotten knocked-up as a teen-ager.]
The Time: A bit after 5:30 p.m., or more than 30 minutes after the festivities were to start.
The three of us are handling last-minute stragglers. A nice looking man walks up. He looks familiar to me, but I don't know why.
Miss J.: Hello, could I have your name please?
Mr. L.: Ronnie Lott.
Miss J: (Having misheard the name and looking for whatever name she thought she heard) I don't see it.
Me: (Knowing exactly what the name is and grabbing the name tag) Here you go.
Mr. L.: Thanks.
After he walks away, I say, "Duh, you idiot. That's Ronnie Lott. The football player."
Miss J. immediately jumps up, smooths down her skirt and pushes up her bosom -- okay, not really the second part -- and races after him to ask him if he's expecting Mrs. Lott to be joining him. Ronnie indicates there is no Mrs. Lott.
I tell the two women how sad he must be that the only one who recognized him was this old woman, while the two young hot women hadn't a clue who he was. What an ego crusher.
Once the show is over and the awards have been dispersed and the reception is in full-swing, she is on him. As people come over to shake his hand, many ask for pictures with him. Miss J. becomes his personal paparazzo. She is so all over him.
I can't resist the opportunity to start pretending she is famous and saying things like, "Oh, Miss J., can I have your photo?" I laugh myself silly. A good time was had by all.