But as I recall, I promised you not harrowing tales from admin life, but ...
Return of the Geezer Patrol
As some of you know, this blog is on its way to print form, if all goes well. Last Friday I had to get 20 collated sets of all proposal stuff to my agent. On my scrimp-n-hope budget, this presented a challenge. Post-college copy rates run 10 cents page (I swear we used to have coupons for one or two cents a page; maybe I’m getting old or else the paper in A-Z is cheaper). Unwilling to pay the nearly $130 running off 1200+ pages would run me, I found a friend with a laser printer and a generous heart (I supplied the paper and the repartee).
This friend, it so happens, is well acquainted with that fairly Groovey Geezer, Geriatric Gent. I figured after his little growling event he’d long since torn me out of his fat black book (or wherever he writes all the young ladies’s digits). But no, in conversation with my friend, she assured me he’d just been busy.
“We’ll call him up,” she proposed. He was presently in London, but this presented little trouble to my cosmopolitan friend. Minutes later he was on the line, and a phone was in my hand.
Where does a girl begin for droll conversation but reports of her recent “fame”? I told him about the article, mentioning the picture.
“I hope you’re naked.” The banter sounded half-weary — an aging Hugh Hefner still hooked on sex but aware of all the work that getting off now takes? Well, perhaps on scant sleep my brain gets a little dramatic.
“No, not naked. But I’m the most-naked,” I offered helpfully. “And Jessica Alba’s nearly naked.”
He made some bored or distracted reply and promised he’d be back soon. Perhaps he’ll join the Harvard Lickwit in the line I hear is now forming to administer birthday spankings — and I hadn’t even planned on those as part of Monday’s attractions!
But well-worn banter with G.G. is not the extent of my geezer-greeting. Oh no. Perhaps they share biorhythms, these two. For the other day, who should email me, but Geezer #2, the Work Daddy?!! I hadn’t heard from him in months. Apparently with good reason (not often one has cause to worry if a suitor’s dropped dead ...):
ANNA,I’d send him flowers, but those aren’t in the budget.
YOU MAY OR MAY NOT WHAT HAPPENED TO WORK DADDY.
I FELL AND BROKER MY LET.
WAS IN HOSPITAL FOR TWO MONTHS AND SENT HOMEJUNE 30.
ON MY WAY BACK.
HOPE YOU SUCCEDED WITH JOB.
BEST TO YOU.
Before I sign off, a few of you are worried about my parents. One even went so far as to email me at my real address, suggesting I clue them in on my randy fame. Well, dahling, I appreciate your concern (if not your lack of introduction or explanation for this semi-stalking). And let me assure you, Rolling Stone got the facts a little wrong. My parents know of the blog, my mother even googled her way here. Once. (Don’t ask me how!) But luckily we have the sort of relationship where I can respectfully ask her not to read too often. I know she disagrees with some of the language, but I’m not writing for her, am I? And while I did consult her on the photo-shoot dilemma, not all that she disapproves may be wrong for me or displeasing to God. Bottom line? Broadway parentals not in the dark.
OK, last question before I dash off. Some others of you have lately pointed out the futility of dating the freaked-by-Jesus. Well, dahlings, I agree. In fact, if you read deep enough, you’ll see I started to reach that conclusion sometime last September. But you’re new here; I understand you haven’t followed my trajectory very closely. Besides, who’d want to read that much of Anna?
Oh, some of you would? Well, if the book sells, much of the “plot” revolves around this dilemma, and how I solved it. Stay tuned ...