My first time interacting with a celebrity (if you don't count the time in London I asked Annie Lennox to please not breast feed while wearing the top she was trying on) was a colossal disaster.
It was a balmy spring night on the increasingly disgusting Granville Street and I had arrived at the Vogue Theatre with time to spare. En route to the ladies room I practically tripped over David Sedaris and his signing table. On my way back I realized the line for book signing was not unreasonable. I dragged myself up the stairs to the ends of the earth (line) and stood semi-patiently. I knew I was being set-up for failure when the producer of the show singled me out. (Thanks brand new luminescent velvet t-shirt.) He said that he was tasking me with telling people that tried to queue behind me to scram and that I was literally the "end of the line". Not his words. He was much kinder. I told him he was making a big mistake and that I couldn't be trusted.
Long story short - I did a mediocre job and only pissed off one person in line. And that person was in front of me. From there it went from awkward to awkward as ass.
You know how you feel when you talk to a crush? The sweating, the garbled speech, the utter nonsense that vomits out of your face . . . That was me when I finally got to the front of the line clutching my dog-eared copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day.
I slapped down a piece of paper with my name written on it.
"Hi, my name's a nightmare, here you go" (gracious opener right?)
He asked where the name originated (like everyone else on the GD planet). I replied Latvia and he said, "Oh I've been to one of it's neighbours."
*useless agreeable nodding "I hear it's beautiful there. But Hitler did call Latvia's capital city Riga, "the Paris of the North . . . . . . . so . . . . "
Mr Sedaris silently handed me my book.
I threw up on him and scurried away.