It’s official… I’m famous. For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff. The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing. After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.” They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth. Damn, oversight.
My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious. I love you . Have you ever heard of so and so?”
“No, does she live in Weston?” I asked, as if I were some hick who knows no world outside this microcosm.
“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her. You’re like a celebrity.”
The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.” You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy. Did I just compare myself to Angie? Well, so be it.
I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called. But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things. I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68. I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.” You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.
The price we pay. I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket. Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star. “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.” I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.
Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place. I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article. Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter. I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.
This reference to crack…
“Resolution 9. Become Addicted To Something:
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”
was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon. Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31. It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.
I was worth losing 10 grand over? I think that makes me infamous. Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place. Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache. Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.
So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Hazel and Finn. It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names. No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s. It’ll be okay. I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.
Next, the paparazzi traded the “crotch shot” for the “baby bump” — another adjustment I was willing to make. I loved being on baby bump watch with Access Hollywood and Us Weekly, even if I was looking at false alarms of bloated actresses who had just downed some salty Chinese take-out. Look, anything’s better than staring at LiLo’s firecrotch… again. Plus, let’s just say my Brazilian waxing bills were through the roof, as I never knew when someone would snap a surprise pic of my undercarriage while I provocatively exited a cab.