After a strenuous semester during which I battled moderate-to-severe senioritis, I presented my mom, Sandy, with the idea of a mother-daughter vacation. Perhaps Miami, I’d suggested. Somewhere warm with a beach and a Dash location.

Sandy responded by booking a trip to L.A., which actually does contain both a beach and a Dash. And though I knew it would be cold at this time of year, I was happy to turn in my bathing suit for a jacket, because I’m just an appreciative, easygoing daughter like that.

The weather was very cold. It was especially cold when we rode in an open jeep on a pilgrimage to see the high cement walls and bushes hiding various celebrity homes.

“Does everyone see that tiny orange dot in the distance?” We all stood out of our seats and squinted. “No? Well, anyway, trust me, it’s there. That’s the roof of a house that’s two doors down from the one Katy Perry almost bought.” This truly is only a slight exaggeration of the tour we went on. I can tell you first-hand, those celebrities really do build up a lot of walls. I guess that’s why so many of them go to therapy.

Anyway, there we were in the jeep. Top down, the wind sending chunks of my hair into my mouth every time I oohed or aahed at the sight of a movie star’s garage or recycle bin.

The journey really took me back to my Oregon Trail days (the computer game, not the real expedition), shivering under the blankets we grabbed from the stow-away cabinet, taking turns nibbling at the few snacks we brought. And of course, there was our guide, Bill, a real modern day Lewis, distracting us from the horrible conditions with celebrity gossip as he struggled to get our wagon over the hilly terrain.

“I’ve seen Justin Timberlake drive into his garage many times,” Lewis boasted. “He comes and goes, you know, as we all do.” Though I’m relaying this quote in mockery, in reality, I would probably have a pretty significant asthma attack if I even saw Justin Timberlake’s ex-girlfriend drive into his garage.

Because it would be Britney Spears!!!

We saw no celebrities on this tour, none driving out for errands, or watering their enormous mansion-masking plants. In fact, my mom and I only saw one celebrity on the whole trip. And technically, I’d first spotted her in New York when we were boarding our plane at JFK. I was taking my time walking through first class, admiring the spacious cubicles. Why is it that these luxury boxes are always occupied with toddlers whose feet don’t even extend past the edge of the seat?

As I passed the last cubicle, I caught of a glimpse of a gray hairstreak and did a double take. Sure enough, there beside me was the fashion guru herself, Stacy London. And, I must add, looking very stylish in a red checkered flannel. “Mom!” I whisper-yelled. “That’s Stacy London!”

“Who?” she replied, unable to grasp the whisper-when-whispered-to rule.

“The host of What Not To Wear, that show I wanted to sign you up for!”

Obviously, as soon as I got to my seat, I texted all my friends, loosening the definition of friend for this brag-worthy occasion. Nearly everyone responded as my mom did. “Who is that?” But their ignorance didn’t get me down. I was determined to get a picture with Stacy London.

I have absolutely no chill around celebrities. Once, when I was fourteen, my dad took me to a Knick game at Madison Square Garden and the celebrity camera showed that Mary-Kate and Ashley were sitting courtside. I freaked out and demanded my dad take me down to the floor to snap a picture of us on my beloved Chocolate phone. He refused, insisting we were there to watch basketball, not take pictures. I begged and begged him until finally Mary-Kate and Ashley got up and left.

I know, terrible. Where is this disgraceful father today, you ask? He is being served justice by public humiliation on the Internet.

As you can see, I take the A-list very seriously, along with the D-list in both Stacy London’s and Kathy Griffin’s case.

When I got off the plane at LAX and noticed that Stacy walked right out the doors to ground transportation, not stopping at the carousel, Sandy encouraged me to go after her. See that, Dad? Mom encouraged me to literally chase my dream, not to sit around and wait for the dream to walk up to my section.

No one else recognized Stacy, or they did but were trying to let her live a normal life void of interruptions from annoying mortals. Regardless, the coast was clear for me to go talk to her.

I walked right up to her and said what you say when you’re a huge nerd. I told her I was a fan and asked her to take a “selfie”, immediately regretting my usage of the word. She thanked me and said, “Ugh, I was just on a flight and I have no makeup on, but we’ll make it a fresh face Friday!”

“Er,” I said. Oh no! Stacy didn’t have makeup on! She is feeling self-conscious. Do something, you idiot! “I don’t have makeup on either!” I let out. Phew. Now Stacy London could rest easy knowing that I, too, would be going au naturel for this photo.

I scoped out the plane on the way back to New York, but it seemed the flight was celebrity-free. I was a one-hit wonder. But I can’t honestly say that I was surprised. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d traveled somewhere and hadn’t seen the city’s claim to fame.

When I was younger, my parents took my brothers and I to Banff and Jasper National Parks on the west coast of Canada. We were warned about seeing elk and bears, so my mom was prepared with a bottle of bear spray as we hiked through the Rockies. We didn’t so much as smell the shit of a bear, let alone see one.

And while one may consider this lucky, I truly feel that we missed out on part of the experience. The dramatic spraying of the spray, the desperate cry for help, the voting on who to sacrifice as the distracter while the rest of us got away. All of our pictures are just us smiling on mountains. Yawn.

The day after I got home from L.A., my dad took me to a Knick game, where I was finally able to do some stargazing. A handful of celebrities sat alongside the court, where I’d once seen the true heroes of my childhood—not just one, but both Michelle Tanners.

Okay, Dad, now I’m over it.