Last Friday I was in the Admirals Club at O'Hare, freaking out over giving a keynote address, eating breakfast, and glowering at these two:
Not pictured? Acres of freckled cleavage and handbags that cost more than my first year of college.
I tried to be all stealthy, holding my BlackBerry in one hand and my coffee in the other, so the shot's not terribly clear. I'd hoped to capture the fact that it was 7:30 AM and these two Real Housewife-types were splitting a bottle of wine.
And because it bears repeating, it was 7:30 AM and they were drinking a whole bottle of wine.
Appalling.
Delighted to have someone to judge so I could be distracted from my speech-giving panic, I happily took my flight down to Nashville for the BlissDom 09 conference.
By the way, how do you know you're in Nashville? Because this is the art you'll find on your hotel room wall:
Willie almost looks like a religious icon here, doesn't he? Which is why I started calling this picture, "Jesus, The Outlaw Years." (And yes, his eyes followed me, prompting me to change in the bathroom.)
As much as I laughed at the art initially, I figured with Willie on my wall, I couldn't NOT have fun at this thing. He's like the patron saint of good times, you know? I guarantee it's a party when Willie shows up. I gazed into his soulful eyes and I could almost feel Him willing me to unclench.
Basking in His heavenly presence - or perhaps in His residual contact buzz - I joined the other attendees, where I immediately met my evil twin. While everyone else ate lunch, she, too, thought it was a grand idea to begin swilling vodka. With our sippy cups full of Absolut Cape Cods, what would have been interesting and informative panels became THE BEST SESSIONS EVER.
Normally, this is the point in the day/story when I'd earn myself a stern lecture for ducking out to get more drinks. But because the benevolent Saint Willie was smiling down upon me, I have to believe what happened next was nothing short of miraculous.
I'd just sneaked up to room 704 for another round when divine inspiration told me to turn on my phone. I'd switched if off hours before when the sessions started. (Drunk? Perhaps. Rude? Never.) As soon as I did, I received a number of increasingly panicked messages from my entire publishing team to call The New York Times.
Apparently a reporter was doing an article on the Shopaholic book and movie and wondered if I might have a moment to share an opinion.
Did I have an opinion?
To share with the Times?
In an article about that which is my all time favorite book?
Which then Sophie Kinsella might read and thus know I exist?
Yeah, I was pretty sure I did.
(Granted, having a drunken interview is more Bridget Jones and less Becky Bloomwood, but it still counts.)
The reporter asked me questions about books and shoes and he told me about shopping with Sophie herself, all while I sipped pink drinks.
I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn't Heaven; it was Nashville.
Anyway, the article came out today in the Styles section and you can read it here. The Times even included my book title!
* * *
As I staggered up to my room last Friday to pass out after an entire day spent woofing down drinks, I realized that the only thing that separated me from those women in the Admirals Club was an Egg McMuffin.
Well... that and Saint Willie. Praise be!
(P.S. I was sober Saturday and my speech went fine.)