It figures that the minute I finally have time to sit down and write a post, I can't remember what I wanted to say. Perhaps that's a by-product of spending the past four weeks speaking of nothing but myself?
Seriously, as much fun as I had going to interviews and doing events this past month, if no one asks me a personal question for a while, that'll be just fine. Also, given my recent schedule, I'm finally starting to believe that singers/starlets might not be faking it when they're treated for exhaustion. Granted, I wasn't doing rail after rail of blow while on tour, unless by "doing coke" you mean "inhaling room service french fries," but the fatigue is similar.
Anyway, I hate when I get out of the habit of writing because it takes such effort to get back into the swing of things. I always tell budding authors that the best way to be a writer is to write; the ability to write is a muscle and it's got to be worked daily. Presently my writing muscles are flabby and weak, chugging along at two point five miles an hour on a treadmill with no incline.
So what I have to offer you until I get the hang of blogging again is a photo with a little bit of back-story.
Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to appear on the Joy Behar Showas part of a pop culture panel. Other panelists included Carson Kressley and Daisy Fuentes. As this was my first national television appearance, pretty much my only goal was to not drop any f-bombs.
(Yes, I was on that one huge show once but since neither my last name nor the title of my book was mentioned, it doesn't really count. Also, I signed a very scary legal document agreeing to never write about said appearance, so if you're scratching your head right now... sorry for being cryptic. Maisy was on with me and signed no such nondisclosure agreement, but unfortunately she has terrible handwriting - no thumbs - and thus cannot share her recollections. If she could, she'd tell you how her mumma made the Queen of All Media laugh both hard and often, but she can't so we'll just have to move on.)
Anyway, the segment went as well as I could hope. Joy read the entire book title and they showed a big cover graphic. I was able to deliver a couple of profanity-free zingers and overall I was happy. I didn't do as well as Daisy or Carson, but they're both actual celebrities with years of media training whereas I'm someone who spends most of her day with dirty hair, talking to her dogs.
I can't describe how much I loved meeting Carson. You know how quippy and adorable he came across on Queer Eye? That's exactly what he was like in real life. He was sweet and genuine and fabulous. More importantly, he was nice to everyone in the room and now I'm a fan for life.
As for Daisy, she was friendly and pleasant, but that's not what I'll take away from having met her. Up close, she's completely stunning. Her skin's impeccable, her hair's a riot of chocolate and honey, and she's built like a 90s supermodel, back when they were allowed to digest. She looks like God used an airbrush on her, buffing away any imperfections, leaving everything flawless.
We did our bit on the panel and Daisy and I made our way back to the green room. (Carson stayed on set for another segment.) We had a nice chat about our respective books while I craned my neck up at her, shuffling along, taking two steps to her every one. Seriously, her legs ended approximately where my bra hits.
We got back to the green room and ran smack into Miss USA. I guess she and Daisy have met somehow through the Miss USA organization, as Daisy's previously hosted the competition. They laughed and hugged and immediately started taking pictures together. Now don't get me wrong, I'm never one for self-loathing. Aside from grousing about the occasional bout of frizzy hair or forehead crease, I'm happy with my appearance. I'm pleased with most of what I've got going on and I never shy away from a mirror. However, when I'm standing a foot away from Miss USA as well as the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, it's easy to forget that I rather like me.
Which is why I looked at those two and announced, "Hey! Let's all take a picture together so I can feel really good about myself!"
And they fucking thought I was serious, so they yanked me into the shot with them.
"One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong..."
I guess the good news is that superior physical genetics don't include the gene that detects sarcasm.
And yet somehow that doesn't make me feel better.
Anyway, I'm rusty, but I'm back, so thanks for being here!
