I met Betsey Johnson. Like, in person. That is obviously the most important part of this post ostensibly about her house, because excuse me, fifteen-year-old me was FREAKING. OUT. (OK, 38-year-old me was freaking out, too.)
My first impression of her was as she rolled up to me in, of all things, a golf cart. Her ponytailed hair was piled with blue extensions, she was wearing something that was a cross between a surfer-girl look and pajamas, and her tiny wrists and fingers were piled - absolutely piled - with jewelry. All this at 10 o'clock in the morning.