The hubby and I returned this week from a much-needed vacation in California. We started and ended our journey in the Los Angeles area where I hoped to spot a major movie star.

I’m not one of those People magazine-reading, TMZ.com-addicted, ga-ga celebrity hounds. I don’t keep up with Perez Hilton or watch “Entertainment Tonight.” I’ve seen plenty of stars without makeup (OK, so I might log on to TMZ once in a while) and understand that celebrities are just people — like you and me — except for the millions of dollars in their 401(k)s and standing plastic surgery appointments.

For me, star sighting isn’t about actually spotting well-known personalities. It’s all about bragging rights. You know, having the best story.

There was a time when I had the best celebrity encounter tale of anyone I knew:

It was summer 1976. I was waiting tables at a resort in Brainerd, Minn. On an early breakfast shift in July, the maitre’ d approached me and, in his proper English accent, declared, “God help me, I’ve determined you’re the most mature waitress I’ve got. I’m seating Paul Newman at your station.”

My knees began to buckle. The breath caught in my windpipe. This was Butch Cassidy we were talking about!! Cool Hand Luke!! The Hustler, for heaven’s sake. My palms started to sweat but, outwardly, I remained cool as a cantaloupe. I was equal to the task and ready to prove it!

Minutes later, the biggest movie star in my lifetime strolled in, sat at the corner table with his pit crew (he was racing at the Brainerd Speedway) and ordered “two poached eggs on dry rye toast and coffee, black.”

My hand trembled as I poured his java. He smiled and pretended not to notice. I locked onto his azure eyes. Those two drop-dead gorgeous pools of blue! It was as close to an out-of-body experience as I’ve had, to date.

Best celebrity story ever, right? That’s what I thought, until my husband called me from a business trip to L.A. in the summer of 2000.

“How’s it going out there in Lala-land?” I asked. “Working hard?”

“Not really,” he answered. “We finished up early so I’ve been hanging out by the pool here at the Sunset Marquis. They upgraded us to the villas because the boss is a good customer. I’ve got a grand piano in my room, and a private pool.”

“A grand piano? Wow! Did you have the pool to yourself?”

“Just me … and some woman sunbathing,” he replied, nonchalantly.

“Was she a celebrity? Who was she?” My curiosity was piqued.

“Just a woman, sunbathing topless,” he replied, as blasé as you please.

“Topless? REALLY? And was the woman lying on her stomach or her back?” (We reporters are sticklers for details.)

“Her back, I guess.”

(He GUESSED!)

“And how far away from you WAS this topless woman?” I queried.

“I dunno. Three or four lounge chairs, maybe?”

Strange as it seems, I wasn’t upset. This was my husband’s first trip to Hollywood. I trusted him, and was glad that he would come home with a good story.

If I only knew HOW good.

Later that night, he called again.

“Still having fun?” I asked.

“Yep,” he answered. “We just got back from the Whisky. It’s a famous bar in the hotel. Billy Bob Thornton was there, giving a TV interview. Sat right next to me. He’s staying here, too. I hear we’re the only guests staying in the villas.”

It took me all of five seconds to put two and two together.

“Honey, listen to me,” I whispered. “This is critical. Is Billy Bob with anyone?”

“His wife, or girlfriend or whatever. Name’s Elvira Joleen, or something like that. I think they’re staying above me.”

“OH. MY. GOD!!!” I shrieked. “That was Angelina Jolie you saw by the pool! She won the Oscar for ‘Girl Interrupted!’ She and Billy Bob are a hot item. She’s gorgeous!” (Looking back, I guess I didn’t have to tell him that.)

“Never heard of her,” he replied, unconcerned and completely unaware that his topless-soon-to-be-über-star-sighting would become legendary, making him a hero among all the men we know.

Does my hubby’s celebrity encounter trump mine? I guess that depends on your point of view. Some (meaning men) would argue that “Angelina naked from the waist up” is the clear winner.

But, for my money, Paul’s pair (of eyes) will forever triumph.

— Cathy Hamilton is a 53-year-old empty nester, wife, mother and author, who blogs every day at BoomerGirl.com.