Glamourous

There is a distant ringing that wakes me from my sleep. As I pull down the Frette sheets, I lean towards the console and pick up my special edition Dolce & Gabbana Razr. The display shows the letters CA.

When I press the listen button, she begins to sing Happy Birthday. How she manages to turn a 30-second song into a 5-minute aria of vocal riffs is beyond me. She ends the call with a medley of Ain’t No Other Man and Beautiful. I thank her, and she tells me to come backstage when she's in town on tour.

As I hang up, I slowly get out of bed. This is the beginning of the day, and it’s going to be a busy one.

After getting ready and out of the house, the driver takes me to the set where I’m filming a bit part in for a 2008 summer blockbuster. It doesn’t take too long to film and I’m rushed out as quickly as I went in.

The traffic is getting heavy and I tell the driver to step on it because I have to get to the studio before 10 a.m. My sunglasses protect my eyes from the glare of the sun, and I sink down into the leather seat of the Maybach.

At the studio, all of the movie makeup is removed and it’s redone, along with my hair, and a quick mani/pedi combo. I change into a Dior Homme suit and get in place. David Sims is behind the camera, doing a fashion spread and a profile in a major men’s magazine.

It’s almost 11 a.m. and I tell him I have to get going. He understands and says if he needs additional shots, he’ll contact me ASAP.

Nearby is a recording studio, where I’m about to listen to a couple of tracks for the comeback of a certain blonde divorcee. They’re amazing. But, there’s something missing, says one of the producers. Before you can say American Idol, I’m in front of a large microphone, laying down a background vocal. The track is complete and is being considered as a single.

To make my appointment at the Versace flagship in New York, I take a short drive to the airport (always carry a passport) and catch a flight. First class. The hour is spent with me reading Details magazine.

When I get to the store, Balthazar sends over some food to eat, and three Brazilian models strut around the private room for me to select a few pieces from their resort collection. My mind wanders about fitting in a quick facial at the Estée Lauder spa.

The Razr beeps, there’s a message. I have to get to Cipriani, STAT. I thank the people at Versace and they promise to pack and ship the clothes back home. You get service like that when you live the life I do.

The Maître d’ at Cipriani waves his arm to the side and tells me to go to the back room when I walk in. As I pull apart the large doors, there’s a crowd of A-list, Oscar, Grammy, Tony, Pulitzer, and Nobel Prize winners – all applauding and taking the occasional photo. The only thing I can think of is that Paris Hilton isn’t there and I’m elated.

Behind me, a large cake gets rolled out into the middle of the floor. Mimi writhes out of the top in a white dress, gets a little frosting on her bittie, and sings Happy Birthday. She doesn’t do her bird calls. Maybe she’s afraid of shattering too many champagne flutes.

Before I sample a piece of chocolate ganache, Mimi takes me by the hand and tells me there’s a special surprise, but will only show me if I put on a blindfold. I agree. I mean, I have put on a blindfold for her before when she wore those slutty costumes on her last tour.

We’re driven to the airport and take another flight. The only people on the plane are the pilots, one attendant, me, Mimi, and two large inflatable objects. We harmonize to We Belong Together and Hero. She senses my jitters, holds my hand and tells me it's going to be fabulous.

The plane lands on the tarmac, and we’re swept away in another limo. The liquor cabinet is stocked, but I don’t touch a thing. There’s still two glasses of bubbly in me that have to get out.

The limo stops at a marina. We’re escorted to the end of the docks and then I realize we were standing in front of Diddy’s private yacht. The music is playing, Naomi Campbell is arriving when we get there, and the invitees look like Oprah’s Legend’s Ball, only with more rappers and ‘hos.

Mimi and I are both escorted to private suites to freshen up. There’s a complete ensemble (Sean Jean isn't my style, but the threads are tailored to my body specifications, natch) lying on the bed. In a small wooden box are two knuckle dusters and a Piaget watch, encrusted with diamonds.

The music stops as Diddy calls me out. There are a bunch of hey, ho, hey, ho chants. I do a little jig and prove that I’m blacker than JT during a power outage. The party goes on for hours, Cristal is being brought out by crate, but I say I can’t stay too long. Diddy offers me his helicopter and private jet to take me where I need to go. I ask where should I drop off the bling, and he tells me to keep them – he can get more.

As the chopper’s propeller begins to whip, I thank everyone, air kisses barely touch anyone’s face and I jump inside my ride. The party will go on until dawn. While I’m flying, a fireworks display decorates the sky in the distance. They’re beautiful.

By the time I settle in one of the private jet’s seats, it’s almost midnight. Even though I had so many people wishing me the best of love and luck, I never got to do to that for myself. So, I reach over to the polished walnut table where there’s some Cristal chilling, pour it into a flute and toast my 25th+ birthday.

Glamourous.

Ooh, the flossy, flossy.