But when it comes to people I truly, genuinely admire, I've always had at least a rough outline -- talking points, if you will -- of the things I'd want to say if and when that glorious day ever arrived.
Turns out, the glorious day was Tuesday, and if I'd ever thought about what I would say for one second you would have never known it since I managed to sound like someone out on a weekend pass from the funny farm. I guess me "preparing" to meet a famous person is like me "preparing" for a tornado -- when the storm hits, no amount of preparation will prevent the inevitable slew of swear words that will escape my mouth or decrease the chances of me soiling myself.
I should probably back up here. Tuesday evening I ventured way downtown to Barnes and Noble in Tribeca to attend a reading/book signing by Heather Armstrong, notable Bartlett High School grad and world famous proprietor of the web's most popular personal blog, Dooce.com. I've been reading Dooce since 2003, and though I can't pinpoint when I decided I wanted to be like Heather when I grew up, I can tell you that her writing and her success have been the singular most important influence on my blogging philosophy, and my belief in blogging as a writer's platform.
I look up to her for a plethora of reasons, the foremost of which that she is one of the most naturally witty writers I've ever come across. Of course, it also doesn't hurt that she's from Memphis, and that whenever she posts videos I can hear her accent peeking out from behind her education in the exact same way mine does from time to time. So when I headed downtown Tuesday night for the reading -- and to purchase and have signed a copy of her memoir, It Sucked And I Cried: How I Had A Baby, A Breakdown And A Much Needed Margarita -- I had a mental game plan but was also prepared for it to fly straight out the window like a wad of gum on the freeway.
The pressure was on Tuesday night, because immediately after the signing I had to head straight back uptown to a gig I was covering for The Tripwire (an experience I'll post about soon), and I knew I didn't have much time. I had to be out of the building by no later than 7:45, and the reading didn't start until a few minutes past 7. Worried I wouldn't be able to hang around to get my book signed, I had to come with an on-the-fly plan B.
My initial Plan B had something to do with crowd surfing and punching an old lady to get to the front of the line, but it became a genuinely on-the-fly situation when the reading was followed by a Q and A that I had not seen coming. This was it. This was my chance to say the things I wanted to say, just in case I didn't have another chance. There were two biggies I had to work into the question: 1.) being from Memphis and 2.) having the same alma mater.Now, I didn't want to be that douche who says, "Hey, I'm from Memphis. How do you feel about animal testing?" I was not trying to hometown-drop. So like any good little nerd, when presented with a Q&A I sent my brain into mental acrobatics to come up with a good question that made the tie-in. I must also mention here that I earnestly do not believe I have ever once asked a question during a Q&A that I actually just had. Like floating in my head, just waiting to be asked. Something I actually wanted to know. Instead, I am an overachiever and asked questions for brownie points.
Anywho. With about three more questions to go, Heather called on me. My heart was racing. I told her I was from Memphis, and that I graduated from Bartlett. Her eyes got a little wide, and she asked what year. Knowing she'd left BHS in 1993, I felt a little silly telling her I graduated in 2003. She laughed good naturedly and said I was just a babe. I asked her then how a girl from Bartlett, Tennessee deals with/processes the notion that she's now a national opinion leader on motherhood, that women from across the country look to her for advice and thoughts and humor and see her as a friend, but also an expert. It was a great question, and even though I blacked out a little bit during her answer from sheer adrenaline, I do recall her saying something about not having been back to Memphis in five years or so, and me shouting out something about how she could stay with me. And then somewhere, my name showed up on a "persons of interest" list in a law enforcement database.
In the end, I was able to surreptitiously skip a few lines (with the blessings of the very lovely women sitting around me) to make sure I could get my book signed before I had to run. And I did, in fact, leave the building at exactly 7:45, at which time I called my mother panting like a jogger on meth-amphetamines to excitedly recount the entire story.But of course, before I could do all that, I had to actually meet her. I had to stand in front of her table while she signed my book, bringing about the very moment I had been mentally prepping for all this time. With the most important information already in the open thanks to the Q&A, I was free to enter into an easy conversation with Heather about Memphis, or BHS, or how much she wants to be my friend and read my blog. You will all be shocked and utterly beside yourselves to learn that this is not, in fact, how it went down.
Because what really happened is I took one step in front of that table (while the Barnes and Noble lady gave me the stink eye because she totally knew I played cutsies with her precious line system) and had an honest to god out-of-body experience. I stood there while she signed my book, totally mute. She said something about Bartlett, and about how much it must've changed since she left. "What's that place like now, anyway?" she asked.
"Ooooooh, you know," I squeaked. "It's Memphis."
And then it was over. Another person's book needed to be signed, and I had to go. And as I floated above myself and watched this entire idiotic scene play out, I could her my inner voice screaming, "Say something intelligent you stupid bitch!"
For a person whose blog I have been reading for almost six years, whose videos I have watched and child I have seen grow up, whose dogs' names I know and husband's favorite shoes I loathe, it is deeply disturbing to me that I could not put together a coherent thought when finally meeting face to face. I shudder to think what I will do when I finally meet Ben Folds, or christ on a bike, Bob Dylan. I don't think you can conduct an interview with someone when you've just peed yourself.
It's a shame I wasn't more eloquent, but it was an experience I will cherish nonetheless. And who knows, maybe soon when this blog starts growing to the heights of Dooce-worthy, I'll meet her again and sound less like an idiot. Or maybe next time I'll just have a stiff drink first.
cheers,
elizabeth
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