“10 seconds, move, move!” the stage manager said. I dashed across The Early Show set so fast that I didn’t notice that I’d scurried within three feet of Rick Springfield, let alone have enough time to lick him. I was so focused on reaching the white chairs that I tuned out all 80’s pop stars and heartthrobs in the vicinity. Then I tried to smile cutely for the camera, pretending I didn’t have an odd electronic device stuck in my ear, as they did a live tease of me before my segment. Then the delightful Maggie Rodriguez was interviewing me and I can’t even remember what I said, though I noticed both Maggie and I were wearing black tank tops and I FINALLY got to say the name of my book on national television. CBS is kick-ass when it comes to Half-Assed, and I mean that in a good way. Then the interview was over and I wandered off stage as Rick Springfield stuffed “Jessie’s Girl” in my head and left it there for the rest of the day.
Rick and his band also hogged the green room, so I was sent to a conference room downstairs instead where I watched six televisions as I prepared for my interview. The odd thing about waiting to go on TV is that someone will walk down the hallway, wave hello to you, and then wander onto your TV screen, as if they turned the corner, ate a shrinking pill and crawled through a secret passage behind the entertainment center.
The most unexpected thing about the experience is that I forgot to bring my fat pants. This is why you should not pack 6 hours before you’re leaving for the airport, especially if you’re spending 3 of those hours sleeping. I considered buying a similar pair of pants in New York to wave around for the cameras (being sure to say they were not the actual pants, just a pair in the same size). However, this idea only occurred after 9pm and I didn’t know anywhere to buy size 32 pants late on a Wednesday night. They don’t sell fake fat pants on the street next to knock-off designer bags.
It’s just as well, because I had a great time at Swizz instead, the fondue and wine bar, where I met some readers, signed some books, and dipped plums, marshmallows, and apples in chocolate. (Vacation calories don’t count. Note to self: Stop going on vacation unless you’re willing to buy new fat pants for real.) I have such smart, funny readers. It was great meeting all of you: Barbara, Errin, Jeanette, and Rachel. Rachel Kramer Bussel is a fellow Seal Press author who wrote Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women, and blogs regularly at Lusty Lady and the scrumptious cupcake blog, Cupcakes Take the Cake.
(I have some pics from the event, but I haven’t gotten permission from everyone to post them yet, so I’ll put them up later.)
While I was in New York, I also sampled Tasti D-Lite and Jamba Juice, and knew exactly how many calories I was consuming because of New York’s new law about putting calories on menu boards. Now they just need to add how many blocks I need to walk to burn off that Orange Dream Machine.
I took a car to the airport and ended up detouring through Queens because of a wreck near the tunnel. All I could think was, “So this is where Ugly Betty lives,” as if she were a real person. When I arrived at my terminal, I discovered the first leg of my connecting flight was delayed and I would miss my connection at Dulles. So, they put me on a direct flight instead. Yay!
Alas, the direct flight was departing from the 6th layer of hell. Un-yay.
Delta Airlines, please hire more TSA screeners. I tried to speed up the process by using the kiosk and then getting in line to check my bag filled with my dangerous, 12oz-size, shampoo bottle that was obviously a threat to the safety of us all. Instead of getting in the “Kiosk baggage drop-off” line I was in the “Please take 10 minutes to fix our plane tickets and make everybody else wait” line. As I passed through security, I got singled out for super special bonus screening and got to stand in the machine where they look at me naked. I finally reached the terminal, where I plugged my laptop into a dead socket. But at least I had a free T-Mobile prepaid card from the BlogHer convention, which I was able to use to check my email and feed my new Twitter addiction. When I finally got on the airplane, some acronym wasn’t working (CPU, APU? Maybe the FU?) so the air conditioning did not work on the tarmac. It was only when the engines took over power in the air that the air came on.
It’s a loooong wait to take off from JFK.
Finally, I got home, stood at the wrong baggage carousel, and made my way out to long-term parking. Thankfully, my car was not one of the 6 that was lit ablaze while I was gone, much to my mother’s relief. She had sat at home the following night, watching the news footage, asking my brother, “Do you see a red Saturn?” The parking ticket specifically said they could not be held responsible for theft and fire, but I didn’t realize they were serious about that.
Then it was back to work on Friday, where I couldn’t stop humming “Jessie’s Girl.”