Another Brush with Fame

I don't pay attention to when the Red Sox are playing.
Because I couldn't care less.

Unless I'm trying to drive into Boston to see Jenny Lawson speak at a great little bookstore in Brookline. Because Fenway Park squats–like an angry, belligerent, green monster–in a direct line between my home and the bookstore. Generally, I am content to let baseball fans do their thing. But last night, their thing meant that I was stuck in miles of crawling traffic through Boston, a city whose drivers are known for their kind, considerate style.

As I sat in traffic, wishing a painful, bowel-emptying, sixth-inning case of Fenway Frank Poisoning upon every driver who cut me off and saluted me with one finger, I grew more and more anxious about arriving at the bookstore in time to hear Jenny speak.

Because I had a gift for her.

Because I am trying get her to write a review of my upcoming chapter book.

(Go buy it now!)

So I am bribing her.

I finally managed to find a parking spot a mere 3/4 mile from the bookstore. I parked and began running up the street, fighting against the swarms of people headed toward Fenway Park. I did happen to notice the dozens of available parking spaces located 100 yards from the bookstore as I careened around the corner and into the front door of the store, where I found myself at the tail-end of a long line of people snaking through a doorway toward the downstairs chamber where they hold author events.

This would, of course, be a great place for a detailed description of that sacred room, complete with meticulous detail, rich, vivid imagery, and sparkling wit. But I have no idea what it looked like because the room was full and they didn't let me in despite my pathetic wailing and crying and cursing.

While I stood there amidst a throng of disappointed customers, considering whether or not I should just go get a seat at the ball park in order to more fully appreciate my misery, a quiet, tinny voice crackled over the store's intercom: "We'll be starting our reading with Jenny Lawson in about 10 minutes. If you're upstairs, that totally sucks for you. Maybe there are still some crappy bleacher seats at Fenway, losers."

No.

Actually, the voice from the box informed us that they would be piping the reading through the store's speaker system, so we could listen from the comfort of the crowded aisles.

Which wound up being more awesome than I could have hoped for.

I desperately clawed my way over several orphans and wheelchair-bound old ladies to secure second place in the line for book-signings.

From there, I was treated to the double pleasure of listening to Jenny give her delightful, profanity-filled talk and, at the same time, watch the faces of all the unsuspecting people who were at the bookstore for some purpose other than to hear Jenny speak.

Like the guy who stood aghast in the center of the store, his face a mask of horror and disbelief as the disembodied voice twinkling through the air spoke glibly of Mickey Mouse-shaped tampons at Disney World.

Or the couple who both slapped their hands over their child's ears when that same voice described an episode of explosive diarrhea being used as a possible deterrent to being raped by a cat. (I'm paraphrasing, of course.)

Many of them raced out of the store, wondering what was wrong with the long line of people in the store, howling with laughter at the horrifying, deranged stories pouring from the speakers.

After she spoke, Jenny came upstairs to sign books. She was delightful and lovely and charming and I prostrated myself at her feet and bequeathed my humble, unworthy gift upon her.

It's a picture of The Bloggess Fairy, accompanied by a poem about her that uses many, many very offensive words. So I blurred it out in this picture. So if you are my children reading this, don't even bother trying to read the poem. Because I win. Ha.

And, if she didn't like it, she's a very decent actress. She asked if she could post it on her blog and I swooned a bit, but I think I said yes before I collapsed to the floor.

Then she left it out on the table so the rest of the people in line could use it as a coaster for their drinks when they had their visits with her.

If this bribe actually works for a book review, I sincerely hope that she doesn't include any of the words I used in the poem. Because then I won't be able to let my kids read my book.