Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (33 page)

The irony of having shown the entire audience my bra is how reluctant I was to putting a bra on the cover of the book in the first place.
Oh, no!
I argued with my publisher
. I can’t have underwear on the cover! I’m too modest!
Fortunately, my gaffe at the reading will be a one-time mistake. Before my lunch meeting today, I’m going right out to buy fashion tape.

Hey, guess what I didn’t know about fashion tape? Apparently the double-stick stuff
will
keep the neckline of my garment from gaping. However, if I peel my dress back even once to readjust, I’ll ruin the sticky bond, thus not only showing a generous swath of underwear but also large, mangled bits of tape. And this will happen when I’m shaking the hands of important people at my publisher’s office.

Then, if I buy stronger tape, it will be
too
strong, and when I peel it off I’ll take an entire layer of skin with it, leaving me with enormous tape hickeys.

I have one word for my next tour:
turtlenecks
.

Today is by far the high point in my professional career. When I look at all the reasons I might have had in becoming a writer, what I’m about to do ranks in the top five. I’ve known this was a possibility for an entire month, yet I didn’t dare to dream it could actually happen.

Where am I?

In the car, on my way to meet one of my all-time favorite authors, Candace Bushnell!

I’m so keyed up that the truffle oil fries I inhaled at lunch roil in my stomach. Or possibly it’s all the cupcakes.
²⁰⁸
A while back I wrote a blog post on cupcakes and I got more feedback from it than anything else I’ve written in my site’s five-year lifespan. Seriously, our nation is never going to be on the same page on issues like gun control, welfare, the economy, the environment, etc. I doubt we’ll ever come to terms on tastes great or less filling and hybrids versus Hummers, and there will always be Yankees fans and Red Sox fans, and never the ’twain shall meet. Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

Because of this, a number of people in cities with great bakeries wrote and offered to bring treats to my events. My response?
“Cupcake up, bitches!”

After my overly enthusiastic reply, I began to have second thoughts. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m beyond neurotic when it comes to issues like “safety” and
The Gift of Fear
is like my personal user’s manual. Do I not have Homeland Security on speed dial? And live in a city where all the 911 operators recognize my voice?

Were I not temporarily made insane by the idea of a box of treats with my name on it, I’d have never agreed to people bringing me cupcakes. I asked myself,
“Really? You’re going to eat food from a stranger? Really?
No.”

Then I received cupcakes last night at my event.

Um . . . guess what?

I totally
will
eat food from strangers.
²⁰⁹

Right now, though, I’m probably feeling sick because Candace is about to interview me on her Sirius radio show. I’m about to have an actual conversation with my idol. Other writers dream of making bestseller lists, but me? I dream of meeting the inspiration behind Carrie Bradshaw.

Even though Carrie and her friends got me through a few rough patches early in my career, I must admit I stopped watching
Sex and the City
a few years before it went off the air. I got tired of hearing other women try to figure out which character they were, e.g.,
“Oh! I’m a Charlotte because I’m a good girl!”
or
“I’m an attorney so I am all about Miranda!”
or
“I’m a Carrie because I write!”
(Rarely do I hear anyone say,
“I’m a whore so I’m a Samantha.”
) And their romantic insecurities? I’d had enough.

The thing is, there are plenty of gals out there who have healthy self-esteem and solid relationships and they don’t waste all their energy fixating on whether or not he’s going to call. Rather, they’re of the mind-set that
“Of course he’ll call. Why? Because he knows
he’s fucking lucky to have me.”
These women don’t trawl the town every night. Sometimes they enjoy sitting at home with a partner (or they’re content to be alone), watching reality TV in their sock-monkey pajamas and good jewelry, drinking wine.

Point? Maybe you aren’t a Carrie or a Samantha or a Charlotte or a Miranda.

Maybe you’re just
you
.

Regardless, I’ve already decided that Candace and I will be BFFs by the time we’re finished with our interview because I’ll be a breath of fresh air. I’ll be different from all her New Yorky friends because I was raised in Indiana and because I have a pit bull named Maisy and because I get into fights with people at Target. She’ll appreciate my middle-class status and will consider me all brave and avant-garde because I buy my own groceries and spy on my neighbors for fun. I’ll call her Candy and she’ll still call me Jen because I have no other nicknames.

We’ll become thick as thieves and I’ll get to hang out at her summer house with movie stars and she’ll come and stay with me in my guest room and won’t mind when Maisy the love monster insists on sleeping under the covers with her and she’ll pretend to enjoy my husband’s cooking because she’s kind.

Of course, I’m pretty anxious to make a positive impression and I’m concerned I may freeze up on the air and lead to long moments of awkward silence on her show. She might not like me if I come in all panicky and wigged out. What if my mad respect for her causes me to make an ass out of myself? What if she hates boob tape?

I’m afraid I’m going to break into a
Wayne’s World
“we’re not worthy” at her feet the second we meet. Oh, God, what if I accidentally try to be funny and adopt a cornpone accent and tell her, “Ah’ve seen your stuff on the tee-vee!” After all, turning into a babbling idiot is what I do when I meet people I admire. I was at a book fair a few years ago and Augusten Burroughs was giving autographs. When it was my turn to say hello, I completely lost my shit. There I was in my twinset and pearls and pleated skirt and the one thing I could think to say to him was, “Ha, ha, I’m from Indiana, where everyone likes NASCAR! Wouldn’t it be funny if I asked you to autograph my boob? Like at a NASCAR event? Ha, ha!”

Three years have passed and I’m still cringing.

What if I accidentally manage to hold it together and she hates me anyway? Or what if I get to the studios and her producers say, “Yeah, we made a mistake. We don’t actually want you on the show.”

Normally I wouldn’t have so much insecurity and I’d be all,
She’s lucky to get to meet
me. But come on—this is Candace Bushnell. The regular rules don’t apply.

These thoughts race through my mind while I pass through the security checkpoints at the Sirius studio. I’m cleared at each level, so at least I can be sure that if I’ve been booted from the show, the producers haven’t yet spread the word. I find this oddly comforting.

My editor, publicist, and I are standing in front of the little pod where Candace is doing her broadcast. I can’t believe this is real. We just passed the studio where Howard Stern records his show and we’re catty-corner from Opie and Anthony’s broadcast hub. How on earth am
I
here?

I make Kara, my editor, confirm again that I’m well put together, but I’m not sure I believe her. Seriously, do you know how fucking daunting it is to pick out an outfit Candace Bushnell will see? The woman is known
worldwide
for her taste. (I end up wearing a gauzy purple dress embellished with little silver balls and a white cardigan. Unfortunately I terror-sweated all the style out of my do. I wedge a pair of sunglasses on top of my head so my messy hair looks intentional.)

The producers wave to us on the other side of the glass and motion that they’re about to wrap it up with the guest before me. While waiting, I toy with my buttons and chew all the lipstick off my bottom lip. I’m just about to hyperventilate when the door opens and a gorgeous black woman walks out. She smiles at me and says I can go in.

Hey.

I
know
her.

How do I know her?

Is she my cousin?

No, dumbass, you think every person who looks familiar is your cousin. I’m surprised you can even watch television without making Fletch crazy.

Television . . . television . . . wait! That’s right! Oh, my God, that’s Fatima from
America’s Next Top Model
!

My thoughts are spinning. Fatima! That’s so cool! I’m totally rooting for her! I love her even if she did make me do a terrible Google search when she discussed her ritual genital mutilation with Miss Tyra Banks.
²¹⁰

No, wait, that’s not Fatima. Can’t be. Her season is still running. I know this because I’ve got it loaded on my iTouch. Whether Fatima wins or loses, she’s probably not allowed to do any media yet. So, if she’s not Fatima, then how do I know this woman?

Wait a second . . . holy crap! That’s
Iman
! As in CEO of
Iman
Cosmetics! As in global ambassador for Keep a Child Alive! As in
Mrs. David Bowie!
I’m here standing face-to-face with a world-famous supermodel!
²¹¹
And I’m about to sit in
the very seat Iman just vacated.

I wonder if she thinks my dress is cute?

Does she notice my tape hickeys?

I wave good-bye to Iman. (At least
this celebrity
can see me wave.) And now it’s showtime. I steel myself and pretend to be calm when I enter the studio.
Come on, Jen. This is the big time,
I tell myself.
Save the squealing fangirl stuff for when you get back into the car. No one wants to be BFF with someone screamy.

I say hello and am warmly welcomed by Candace and her producers. Then someone offers me a glass of wine in a paper cup.

Oh, thank God there’s liquor here.

I sip my wine and adjust my headphones and, just like that, we begin to chat. We speak naturally and normally, even though I sort of blank out on the first ten minutes while we’re discussing my book. I’m totally overwhelmed that Candace Bushnell has actually read it. That’s like the Pope mentioning he saw you give mass. Or Frank Lloyd Wright remarking on the clean lines on the doghouse you built.

As our conversation progresses and I snap out of my haze, I ask Candace if she’s got anything coming out soon. She says yes, and I accidentally squeal. So much for my cool, collected demeanor.

“What else are you reading?” I ask. My hopes are she’ll say
Bringing Home the Birkin
, which I just read, and we’ll both agree on how much we loved it and we’ll have our first (of many) bonding moment(s).

Candace tells me she’s been all wrapped up in Baudelaire lately. I nod in agreement, vowing to Google “Baudelaire” on my BlackBerry the second this thing is over. Seriously, should I know this? Is Baudelaire a book? Is it a guy? Is he on
The Hills
? I have no idea. When she asks what I read, I agree that classics are best. I fail to elaborate that I consider anything by Helen Fielding to be a classic.
²¹²

Somehow our conversation turns to wedding rings and Candace mentions she hasn’t been wearing hers because she’s having a missing diamond replaced. She tells me it’s okay since her husband still wears his. “After all,” she says, “my husband’s ten years younger than me, he’s a principal dancer with the American Ballet Theatre, and everyone wants to sleep with him.”

My response?

“Really? My husband’s thirty-nine, he works for the phone company, and no one wants to sleep with him.” Candace laughs for the first time during our interview.

We chat and drink more wine and before I can even catch my breath, we’re done. Candace graciously allows photos (and hugs!) and then I’m back in the car, headed for the train station so I can take the Amtrak to Philly.