Oh Conan, where art thou?
My sister, who lives in a suburb of Chicago, got to spend this evening in the audience at a taping of "Late Night With Conan O'Brien," which is doing its shows there this week. Later I will go home to my TiVo'ed ep and see if I can spot her in the crowd of approximately 12 billion people.
And yet, this is still an example of the occasional-yet-basic unfairness of the universe. She is not the one who wishes very much to marry Mr. O'Brien, I am. And I told her so. And so she called me back from waiting outside the theatre to gloat that she was waiting outside the theatre. (This is what we do.) I told her that if she had any contact with Conan at all, to tell him that if he ever decides to take up polygamy he should give me a call. (Big Love is making it okay to talk about these days, after all.) This will undoubtedly come across as the looniest message ever to be relayed in the history of messages and will probably give Conan not only NO desire to meet me but a very avid desire to AVOID me, but what else can I do? I'm not able to be there to give the message the right cute, saucy, ironic spin so that he will know the coolness of me. I have to rely on my sister instead -- who in actuality does a pretty mean cute, saucy, ironic spin herself, when she wants to -- and just hope that the universe will someday desist in this petty silliness of keeping me and the C-Man apart. (By the way, this entire post should be read with as many cute, saucy, ironic overtones as can be mustered. Poor C. Monks has been writing hilarious fake letters to Star Jones for a while now, totally in saucy ironic mode, then once went in for a job interview and found that the potential employers had Googled him, found the letters and quite seriously thought he was a stalker crackpot. Not correct, for Mr. Monks nor myself. Even though, if someone WAS going to be a crazy stalker type, it would certainly be him sooner than me. I'm just not like that.)
And so I wait for the news of how it went. And shake my little fist at the sky. Or rather, the ceiling here at Starbucks.
Speaking of Starbucks, I was considering how I was, instead of hobnobbing with the NYC late-night elite, sitting here in said chain coffeehouse with my unruly hair tied into two pigtails and under a hat -- a 38 year old unshowered single woman wearing pigtails in public, get that stick ready to fight off the guys -- when the wise spirit of L.A. saved me by sending in a filthy, ten-times-more unshowered MAN wearing his hair in two ponytails to save me from my own imaginings. Ah. Perspective is everything.
And yet, this is still an example of the occasional-yet-basic unfairness of the universe. She is not the one who wishes very much to marry Mr. O'Brien, I am. And I told her so. And so she called me back from waiting outside the theatre to gloat that she was waiting outside the theatre. (This is what we do.) I told her that if she had any contact with Conan at all, to tell him that if he ever decides to take up polygamy he should give me a call. (Big Love is making it okay to talk about these days, after all.) This will undoubtedly come across as the looniest message ever to be relayed in the history of messages and will probably give Conan not only NO desire to meet me but a very avid desire to AVOID me, but what else can I do? I'm not able to be there to give the message the right cute, saucy, ironic spin so that he will know the coolness of me. I have to rely on my sister instead -- who in actuality does a pretty mean cute, saucy, ironic spin herself, when she wants to -- and just hope that the universe will someday desist in this petty silliness of keeping me and the C-Man apart. (By the way, this entire post should be read with as many cute, saucy, ironic overtones as can be mustered. Poor C. Monks has been writing hilarious fake letters to Star Jones for a while now, totally in saucy ironic mode, then once went in for a job interview and found that the potential employers had Googled him, found the letters and quite seriously thought he was a stalker crackpot. Not correct, for Mr. Monks nor myself. Even though, if someone WAS going to be a crazy stalker type, it would certainly be him sooner than me. I'm just not like that.)
And so I wait for the news of how it went. And shake my little fist at the sky. Or rather, the ceiling here at Starbucks.
Speaking of Starbucks, I was considering how I was, instead of hobnobbing with the NYC late-night elite, sitting here in said chain coffeehouse with my unruly hair tied into two pigtails and under a hat -- a 38 year old unshowered single woman wearing pigtails in public, get that stick ready to fight off the guys -- when the wise spirit of L.A. saved me by sending in a filthy, ten-times-more unshowered MAN wearing his hair in two ponytails to save me from my own imaginings. Ah. Perspective is everything.