I'm Really Not a Stalker

Before October, I had a 2 to 3 hour daily commute since the beginning of time. During those years I became well acquainted with morning talk radio. One of my all time favs was The Adam Carolla Show. I enjoyed Adam's pessimistic humor, but mostly I enjoyed his sidekick, Teresa Strasser. She's way more subtle and not an asshole. I followed her on the radio for years, and when she left radio briefly, I followed her podcasts online. Teresa is also the author of this blog, and subsequently this book by the same name, both of which I love. So when I found out she was doing a book signing, I decided I had to go. I'd never been to a book signing before, and she's kind of a hero of mine, so off I went. Alone.

On the car ride to the book store, alone, I had lots of time to obsess over how I thought the the evening might go down, because this is what I do. One of the reasons I love Teresa is because, like me, she is totally neurotic and therefore makes me feel like less of a freakshow. If she can be successful, there's hope that I can be, too.

I considered just stopping in to buy the book and then spying for a minute through the window at the signing, but skipping the personal exchange part, because wtf would I say? Hi, I think you're the shit, and she'd be all yeah, I know, that's why you dragged your ass down here on a school night to meet me, and I'd be all like I suck and you rock and...(whistling)...

Then I thought what if no one shows up but me? It IS a school night and this IS Laguna Beach and her fan base is probably mostly in LA. What if I get there and she's like thanks for coming, you wanna grab a pizza? Then I imagined a whole hour long dinner during which we drank shots of Jameson, ate fatty carbs, and said fuck a lot. I hope the fact that I know this is completely delusional precludes me from having mental illness, but this is what I do. This is what I have ALWAYS done.

When I was six years old, I would lay on my top bunk bed surrounded by stuffed animals, and while all the other neighborhood children were riding their bikes up and down the block, I was thinking about what the universe would be like if life was never created. No plants, no water, no people, no God, no sun. Just a white canvas of nothingness. My ears would start ringing from the silence of the room and the bleakness of my thoughts, and I'd get so totally freaked out that I'd leap off the bunk bed and run outside shaking my head looking for a normal kid to play with. That's a fucking weird 6 year old, but this is who I am. Believe me, it hurts/annoys/bores me more than it does you.

I finally arrived at the book signing. It was at a charming bookstore that oozed artistic wit and estrogen, like a carton of Soy Yummy. I was one of the first to arrive, which gave me extra time to fixate on whether or not I'd be staying or leaving. I purchased the book from a stoic sales girl in bright red lipstick and decided I'd stay. I took a seat on an outer chair in one of the six or so rows of seats. KABC talk radio banners (promoting Teresa's current gig) lined almost every inch of the white walls in the long, rectangular industrial chic event room adjacent to the book store. I thumbed through the book, recognizing stories from the blog, and watched as the room filled, totally squelching my dream of a spontaneous dinner date.

Then I heard a voice from the back of the room that I recognized from years of listening to it. It was Teresa. She looked beautiful. Like objectively Hollywood beautiful. I mean I knew she was pretty, but I was wowed. She'd just had a baby, and there she was, tall, thin, wearing an orange silk minidress with a blue belt, lush eyelashes, lip gloss poppin' and looking gorgeous. Orange and blue! I know! Awesome! Right?!

She was introduced to the crowd and walked to the front of the room, confident and graceful. When she started speaking, I got a little verklempt, like a mother watching her child's first preschool performance. In a way, I felt I had been on a journey with Teresa from a first time radio try out to millions of people's favorite radio news girl, from a single woman to a wife and mother of a sweet little boy. I was proud of her. I was inspired by her. She began reading a chapter I recognized from her blog entitled "My Mother, the Rabbi and a Bag of Crap" about her son's circumcision, the first time she had seen her mother after more than a year of being estranged from her, and a post C-section dump that almost ruined the whole day. It was poignant and witty, at times making my eyes well up even more, and then interrupting my tears with laughter. It's the kind of stuff I live to read.

Teresa describes her mother's parenting style as a cocktail of "ambivalence and benign neglect." I think her mother and my mother may have been separated at birth, like some sort of bastardized version of the Bobbsey Twins...the Crappsey Twins. My mom was less Carol Brady and more Roseanne. Although I can thank her for a number of trial by fire lessons in survival skills, my cutesy, nurturing glass is empty. She wasn't very maternal, to say the least. Before she died, I know she loved me and was proud of my achievements in her own special way, but I have no Hallmark cards or scrapbooks to prove it. No birthday cupcakes baked for my school classes, no Sunday morning pancake breakfasts, no help preparing for prom, no advice on love, on marriage, or on how to balance a checkbook.

Even though I have no mother, I have Mother Teresa. She's like the cool, wise big sister I never had. She's done everything first: gone on bad dates, had terrible boyfriends, got married, had a baby, and despite her fears, turned out to be a wonderful mother. Until recently, I had given up on the idea of having a baby, because, like Teresa, I was terrified that I wouldn't know how to love it right, that somehow I'm missing a necessary mommy gene. Her story gives me hope that one day I'll surprise myself by rockin' the booties off of motherhood. She's the Grand Marshal of motherless daughters, and I look up to her for her career success, her strength as a daughter and a mother, and her kick ass style.

After she read the chapter and answered some questions from the audience, it was time to sign books. I made my way to the front part of the line, because I didn't want to lose my nerve. I was nervous. Legs shaking, heart racing. Not because she's a radio celeb or an Emmy Award winner, but because I really admire her. I also knew she was a total stranger and our meeting would probably be totally inconsequential , so I checked myself and marched on to meet her.

I chatted with the girl in front of me in line for a few minutes. She asked me to take pictures of her and Teresa, so I took her camera and started shooting away, but totally failed to get a shot of Teresa hugging her, because I was all OMG Teresa just hugged her and forgot I was supposed to be taking pictures. (Sorry, Sara from Dana Point!)

Then it was my turn, and I was all of a sudden painfully aware that I had just come from work (AKA Frumpytown) and was wearing a boring knit sweater, business casual pants, and sensible flats, like a middle-aged model for Coldwater Creek. To top it off, I had my dirty hair in a ponytail, no make-up on, and was wearing a scarf in 75 degree weather at the beach like a lunatic to hide this. But I couldn't focus on this, I was on in 4, 3, 2, 1.

It started out OK. "Hi, my name is Amberella. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Then my inner dork busted out like freakin' Kool Aid and I totally lost my shit.

"I heard you on the Parent Experiment hinting at plastic surgery, and please don't touch your nose, you have a beautiful nose, I mean really, you're a gorgeous lady and I totally love you, and OMG I feel like I'm on a first date..."

WHAT?! What have I done? I couldn't help it, it just came out. I sounded like a crazy lesbian stalker. Crazy, sure. Lesbian stalker, no. The last time I was this star struck was when I ran into Katherine Moennig from The L Word at the Abbey in West Hollywood (true story), which totally makes me sound like an even bigger crazier lesbian stalker, but I assure you, I'm just a girl who watches too much TV and listens to too much radio.

Even after I creeped her out with my Patchouli scented hair and psychotic jabbering, Teresa agreed to take a picture with me, which I'd totally love to post, but can't because she looks like a glamorous cover girl and I look like a four foot tall troll. Damn, that picture is so bittersweet! Also, I noticed Teresa's beautiful yellow diamond ring while I was talking to her but couldn't be all let me see your ring, so I came home and Googled "Teresa Strasser wedding ring" and do you know what I found? A picture of my own damn hand wearing a ring my sister bought me from the San Gennaro Festival in New York City that I posted on this very blog, so be careful what you post kids (especially you, Miley Cyrus!). The Internet is a very small place. Post wisely.

She signed my book, and I floated off half gleeful, half completely mortified. I didn't stay to see what happens after the books are signed. Maybe people with more balls than me stayed to chat with Teresa about more meaningful things, or to walk her to her car, I don't know. But like Teresa's long time friend, facilitator of the evening's Q&A session, and author of this blog pointed out that night, writers write so they won't have to talk to people, so here I am.

I walked back to my car recounting the events of the evening over and over in my head, obsessing about what I should have said, what I should have worn, and whether or not I should have stayed longer. I flipped through the pictures on my phone, back and forth and back and forth. Then I called my sweetie and began, "OMG she was so pretty and so funny and you're never gonna believe what I said to her, I mean it started out OK, but tell me if you think this sounds creepy..." BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I DO!