Like most teenaged girls, I used to occasionally babysit to make a few bucks. Because we lived in a lower-middle-class neighborhood very near a large Catholic school, there were plenty of kids around to keep me busy.
My mom worked at an answering service; do those even exist these days? Anyhow, her boss, Gwen, lived not far from our house. She had two small children, and she used my services every once in awhile. Now, Gwen's sister was our preacher's wife; her grandfather was a much-admired preacher in the Church of Christ known as "Brother Kepple. (We called everybody at church Brother or Sister so-and-so.)
But I digress.
Gwen's two children's names were Farsheed and Mimi. Her husband was from Iran, and he worked in some local film-making enterprise, in advertising, I believe. The marriage later ended in divorce.
The man's name was Reza, and if you google his name, you'll find out he's made himself rather famous over the past few years as a director.
That's about as close to a famous person as I'll ever get, I imagine, unless you count the time Cliff and I had our pictures taken with Jimmy Carter and his wife.
I wonder what ever happened to Farsheed and Mimi. They were a joy to babysit.