Of all the throngs of Fruit Fly fans that are out there, one stands out as my biggest fan; Grace Kelly from the Minnesota Progressive Project. (Not the one in the photo to your right: That particular “Grace Kelly” kicked the bucket back in July, 1802.)
The other day, “MPP Grace” (as I like to call her) left a comment in one of my blog entries stating that she would love to meet me – perhaps for a cup of coffee! …perhaps for an interview.
I was floored and shoeless.
I get calls from curious semi-professional journalists from around the world all of the time. It’s ridiculous and it’s out of control:
“Fruit! Ohmygawd! Is it really you!?!? I’ve waited so long to hear what you sound like! Can I buy you a latte’ and talk??!!”
This goes on all of the time. My publicist added a second cell phone as a trunk-line so that if he’s on one cell-phone and someone else calls in – the second cell phone will ring.
“Omygawd! Is this Fruit?!?!”
No God Dammit, this isn’t Fruit. Go to Hell!
It’s my publicist. What can I say? Answering two cell-phones and he’s only got one arm.
I received the comment from Ms. Kelly and my head began to throb with another stress-headache. I decided to shut down the entire Fruit Fly operation. I rented the Minneapolis Target Center and called an emergency corporate-wide staff meeting (Yes, I have that many people on my payroll. And while I”m thinking about it – I just realized that I forgot to get rid of 600 jobs in the email-room by tomorrow.)
I’m meeting Grace Kelly tomorrow!!
That’s like… Someone saying they’re going to sit down for lunch with Barack Obama! Or like saying; “I was in the Ladies Room yesterday and I shared a moment with Hillary Clinton!!”
I left my cell-phone number in a reply email that I sent to her people. I was specific to my staff: “Treat her with white-gloves,give her my private cell number, Send her three dozen white roses and a small lock of my hair, Goddamit!!!” I sounded very Jewish at the moment. There was a distinct Yiddish accent by the time I was dictating the roses and the hair-thing.
Well, tonight – our food service staff served up a delightful Argentinian steak with a fragrant chimichurri duet when my cell phone interrupted Yo- Yo Ma and his stringed quartet in the other room. My husband life partner slammed his caviar fork down and cursing the interruption. I decided to err on the side of Safety by ignoring the incessant ringing phone.
Embarrassed, I waved timidly towards Yo-Yo encouraging him to continue his aria and I quietly whispered to the service staff to put the phone on mute.
Immediately after we enjoyed the Baked Alaskan, I was thumbing my cell phone’s buttons digging up the mysterious caller. (I think tonight’s Baked Alaskan was named “Dave”, but I’m not sure.)
It was her! I knew it! “MPP Grace” dialed my private cell phone!
“Oh my Goddess!!” I thought. “This is bigger news than when Janet Jackson’s boob fell out of her football pass and Tiki Barber caught The Clap!”
The number on my cell phone was a Six-Five-One area code and that could only mean: “St Paul Caller”! I fought my horrible nervous tick, sighed a nervous moment and clicked “SEND” to dial the number back. My brain racked inside my skull: “You! You are dialing The Grace Kelly!! And not the Grace Kelly who kicked the bucket back in July of 1802!!!!”
It rang the first time, I nibbled on a petulant thumbnail. The rang a second ring time; horrific thoughts entered my terrified brain: “What if she doesn’t answer?” – “What if she’s really a Dude?!”
She answered the phone on the third ring and it was like all of the air in my lungs was pulled out of my chest by a giant tow-truck!
It was ** THE ** Ms. Kelly!
OH! MY! GAWD!!
I now have Grace Kelly’s phone number on my Speed-dial #97252431105!!
She said “Hello” and I tried to swallow the remainder of Dave on my dessert plate….stumbling for an adjective…desperate for even a verb!
She talked to me like I was a resident in an Assisted Living complex and I didn’t finish my cherry Jell-O pack. While I stammered, she causally finalized the details: 1:00PM @ O’Gara’s, An awesome little Irish Pub. (The owner and I used to have sexual affair, so my lunch will probably be comped.)
I need to update my security detail and notify my driver.
Kelly came back at me by trying to describe herself. We’ve never met, of course; and since she doesn’t have a cell phone: How will I know that she’s really … she?!? How will she know that me is really me…
There was that one picture I posted of myself here in the Fruit Fly blog when I was in the world famous Lavender magazine. I had to take the blog entry down because my driver and my security detail couldn’t manage their way with the throngs of people who recognized me!
For example; I had a meeting with Taro Aso, the current Prime Minister of Japan two days after I had posted my picture on this blog. My driver had to deal with one crazed fan who decided to lay down in my driveway as if she was in Tiananmen Square and we were a giant-sized military tank.
I knew then that I had to take my self-portrait off my blog with the simple hoped that could reduce the number people who would be killed by my limousine livery service through the future.
So, to avoid any more embarrassment, this is what I look like:
See you soon, Grace!!