Meeting the Octomom
To say that life is unpredictable would be an understatement.
I’m currently staying at the Embassy Suites Hotel in West Palm Beach, Florida. A complimentary breakfast comes with a nightly stay.
At 9:30 am this morning, I strolled through a nearly empty lobby — except for a bundled-up dark-haired woman who was sitting on a chair, alongside an older man squawking into a cellphone and another woman holding a clipboard in her hand.
Normally, three strangers wouldn’t capture my interest. But the woman who was seated suddenly glanced up, I couldn’t help but notice that she looked oddly familiar.
I kept walking, oblivious to it all.
Moments later, I ran into a colleague while standing at the elevator. My associate was excited and seemed almost out of breath.
“Did you see the Octomom?”
Who? The Octomom? What in the hell are you talking about?
That woman sitting out there in the lobby waiting! That’s the Octomom! Nadia Suley-whateverhernameis!”
What? You’re shitting me. You mean that woman that pops out all the pups and now does porno?
Yeah, that’s her — the Octomom!
No, I don’t think that’s her. Hell, five million people look exactly like that woman. Ten million if you include Mexico. A hundred million if you include all of Latin America.
Well, I’m sure that’s her. I’m certain. Go check for yourself.
Are you crazy? I’m not going to march back out there like some pathetic People magazine reader, and gawk at someone just because they’re famous. I wouldn’t be caught dead doing something like that.
* * *
I don’t care much for celebrities.
I’m even more against it all when it comes to celebrity worship.
But this case was special. It’s not like being in the same room with the Octomom is an everyday opportunity. I admit it. I had to return to the lobby and try to get a closer look.
Like some teen groupie trying to inch closer to heartthrob Justin Bieber, I found myself slinking back into the lobby and then coming to a complete standstill in the middle of the room.
How does one “stare” without actually looking like — you’re “staring?”
This is where a cell phone becomes the weapon of choice.
Fact: You can gaze around and pretty much get away with looking at anything, if it appears you’re talking on your cellphone. I suppose people feel that since you’re involved in a serious phone conversation, your mind is engaged elsewhere. So, you can spin around, look about the room, and even stare directly at people. The cellphone is that magical wand which provides an emotional barrier, yet is actually a springboard to being right in the center of the action.
Still unconvinced, I inched closer towards the woman and her two associates. By this time, she had the hoodie part of her jacket pulled up over her head. So now, my options were severely limited. I had to try more desperate measures to try and see her face.
That’s when I could hear the man sitting beside her talking. Pretending to be on your cell phone makes eavesdropping so easy. You just babble something every 15 seconds or so, and people around you will talk openly, figuring you can’t possibly be listening in to their conversation.
The retched man resembled what the old actor Sebastian Cabot might look like if he had a serious drinking problem. He looked every bit like some burned-out television producer, desperately hoping for one last hit show before retirement. I suppose he had few choices other than to latch his sunken career in the entertainment industry on a pop-culture phenomenon that’s been flickering for three years now and whose prospects are about as bright as a dead sun in another galaxy at the end of its celestial existence.
The other woman looked even more frustrated. No doubt, a twenty-something production assistance right out of the USC Film School who did her Masters in Fine Arts on the influence of Federico Fellini, she’s now stuck in a Palm Beach hotel lobby making preparations for a film shoot for a reality television pilot with the most reviled woman in America other than Sarah Palin.
But the real object of my attention was the woman sitting in the chair. Was it really her?
It took another five or six gazes around the room and perhaps two more minutes of faux conversation for the seated woman to finally look up again.
And then it happened.
She looked up.
It was her! It was really the Octomom!
Later — as I wrote this piece and did some websearch, I found out that the world’s most famous mother of eight declared bankruptcy.
Shocker. Imagine that — bankruptcy. I can’t imagine why, since she hasn’t worked in 12 years, has absolutely no job skills, has undergone tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery, and has a litter of hungry mouths to feed.
So, the Octomom did what any typical unemployed woman with eight kids would do. She turned to porno.
I’m not kidding.
I wasn’t about to subject myself to the shameful charade of train wreck media coverage by acknowledging her in any way. She wasn’t going to get a hello, a smile, or even a nod from me.
Then again, here I was standing in the middle of a hotel lobby staring at a complete stranger and an utterly repulsive role model for humanity, no less. Led by my insatiable curiosity and bonded to a fascination for the macabre, I had become nothing more than a freelancer channeling what’s shown on TMZ.
This is truly my moment of shame.
Now, can anyone please tell me where I can find Lindsey Lohan?