"Pull Yourself Together Trump Doesn't Like Being Around A Bunch of Drunks"
BTS of Donald Trump's Annual Super Bowl Party
Four days living inside the high tower at Trump's exquisite estate in Palm Beach leaves one stocked with plenty of fanciful musings—enough to write a short novel if I had the time and patience, really. But let's start first with the Super Bowl party invite.
Toni Holt Kramer, "Mrs. Palm Beach," with the 39-carat diamond ring that Donald Trump spent 3 minutes complimenting the night before, proud owner of a mini version of Mar-A-Lago in Palm Springs, and vibrant hostess of the dazzling Trumpettes event that brought me back into town, made sure I had a seat at Trump’s annual Super Bowl party at his famed golf course. She suggested I arrive by 6:30. Dress code was unclear.
"In some photos, Melania is in a formal cocktail gown; in others, she's wearing a sequined jersey. It's hard to know," a woman on the patio told me when I asked for wardrobe guidance.
With MAGA, when in doubt, I've learned it's best to go flashier than instincts tell you. In liberal circles, less is more. In Trump circles, more is better. Regrettably, I spent too much time at the pool that day to make smart wardrobe decisions later. We can all blame Ramona Singer for that. Then, my makeup guy ran late because he had a tough time getting through security tiers, so I had no time to construct a themed sports "look" by the time my "face" was complete.
I could definitely improve on my approach to patriotic pageantry. I ended up in a conservative navy blazer and a polka-dotted blouse by BODE with lashes that weighed my eyelids, making me look questionably more sleepy than glamorous.
"I want you to have extra length for added drama this evening," Max, the makeup artist (and part-time drag queen) I befriended in Florida on our first visit, decided.
His dad loves Trump. He has warmed up to him thanks to ongoing conversations with Lynne Patton, a senior advisor to the former President, whose makeup he does regularly. "She’s helped open my eyes to him and his family," he told me. "She really cares about people," he explained, adding that her respect and compassion for Trump is ultimately what made him view him less harshly.
The Lago staff didn't love Max’s clunky makeup wagon entering the confines, though. Admittedly, he looked out of place. His four-wheeled setup didn't help matters much. It made him look like he was secretly trying to move himself in. And as you can imagine, this club is not a fan of stragglers.
Because the club is closed on Sundays and Mondays, Denise and I were trapped inside Mar-A-Lago after the lobby staff left. Realizing how late we were, we went sprinting across the front lawn like two teenagers rushing to make curfew, frantically looking for a way out, extended lashes all a’ flutter, when a lone staffer drove by us in a golf cart, flipped around and scooped us up, high-tailing it to the front gate where an irritated Uber driver had been waiting at least 25 minutes for us.
"We are coming down from the tower, but we have to find a way past the big iron-white gate," I warned him in text, sounding accidentally like a delusional Disney princess trying to outrun an 18th-century villain.
(Mind you; this happens when you stay there: Reality dissolves. It’s a weird but blissful surrender. It all happens so quickly. Everything becomes very Gatsbyesque in its gorgeous glowing grip.)