This Is a Post With No Title

About a month ago, the features' editor for a prominent Miami magazine called me and expressed her interest in interviewing me for the entrepreneur section.

I nearly tripped over my own words before I said "Yes!" trying not to sound too excited (as if this sort of thing happened all the time and magazines were just fighting over an interview with the oh-so-coveted Annah Rondon). Maureen promptly forwarded the questions and I stayed up 'til four responding with as much sophistication as an unemployed chick covered in dog poop can muster. I was pretty pleased with myself when I hit SAVE, only to have my computer freeze and delete the entire thing two minutes later. I'd promised the interview in by noon the following day so came morning time, I re-answered carelessly, ensuring there were no typos and leaving the rest up to the famosity gods.

The approval (or denial) of my interview would be in by Friday and needless to say, I couldn't bring myself to do anything but stress over it. I wanted to be productive. I did. But instead I remained glued to my couch staring at the house phone with bulging eyes. Hoping, praying, drinking for a miracle.

 

 

By Friday, my hair hadn't been washed in over five days, much less combed. Do you think I noticed? Not in the least. I only thought of impending famosity and what it would bring (unlimited vodkaseltzers, fridge full of groceries, trips to Spain and lots of shoes, of course). I also had a date that night but refused to shower until that call came through (which it did, at half past six).

Me: Hello?

Maureen: Annah?

Me: This is she. <--- Attempting to sound nonchalant.

Maureen: It's Maureen, from ________ magazine.

Me: Oh hey, Maureen. How's it going?

Maureen: Good good. Listen... The editors saw your piece and the blog.

Annah: And what happened?

Maureen: They actually loved it. You're in.

Maureen: ... But unfortunately the features' printing schedule is already booked until May of 2011, so your interview won't publish until after May's issue.

Me: No problem. There's no rush.

Maureen: Alright then, Annah. We'll be talking soon.

Yes. Soon. Seven months from now soon. By then I'll be dead under some bridge, Bruno and Mikey doing crack lines with the other homeless dogs whose owners failed at the famosity game. After hanging up and resisting the urge to drink an old bottle of rum I spotted in the cupboard, I decided against it and headed towards the shower. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and shuddered, Did I really look like Chaka Khan's crack cousin minus the tan? I grabbed a full bottle of conditioner and got ready for war with the tangles.



And that's how I ended up last Friday, bald and not a step closer to fame.

But then my date picked me up and after I told him my story he said "Fuck that magazine! You'll be famous before May" and I kind of smiled and patted my nearly bald head subconsciously, hoping he was right. Afterwards we watched a crappy movie but made up for it with a makeout session I probably enjoyed a little too much considering the celibacy vow. Then Saturday I met a new gay friend and he's all "Honey, you're already famous! Only nobody knows it yet."



Now, what do I do about this bald head?