Debbie Does Drivel

CLOSER I AM TO DORKDOM

So I love the Indigo Girls.
You should read their lyrics if you like to write. They are poets. They will inspire you and make you jealous.

I went to their concert last night and was determined to get back stage. Plan A failed, so I quickly improvised with Plan B: hang out at their tour bus until they board for their next gig.

There we meet Chris -- a gay man who followed his lover to Alaska, then had enough cold put on his skin and in his heart, so moved to San Diego. He is from Philadelphia. He writes marketing copy.

We talk. We smoke. I have my pen ready for the inevitable autograph request I am planning in my head. I fish a piece of paper out of my purse that I received at a writer's seminar. It has words on it designed to get your mind going and to stimulate creativity and get you writing. The words are "dark, mountains, shoes, something outrageous that happened and a taste." I want the Indigo Girls to sign the back of it.

I have to go to the bathroom. I couldn't sacrifice the valuable time to go looking for a bathroom should the Girls come to the bus before I return, so I pee between 2 cars by the bus. I come back and ask Chris for a leaf. He doesn't have one.

So then, I can't find my pen. I realize I must have lost it while peeing, so I quickly run back to the spot and see my pen lying in a pool of urine. Ah well, I think, it's my urine and I won't tell the Indigo Girls. No one's the wiser. I pick it up and head back to the bus.

After one hour, I am tired and want to go to my car. My friend Michelle talks me into staying and good thing too because the Indigos just walked to the bus at the moment I almost went to my car.

We pop out in the dark behind a shrub and may have scared the living crap out of the entourage. At any rate, they recover, Chris says "Hi Girls!" and I say "Will you sign my writing prompts? Will you sign my writing prompts?"

Seriously, I thought they were going to bolt. And no one asked me what the hell a writing prompt was, which I thought was weird.

So Emily regains her game face, takes my paper and pen and asks my name. I tell her and she says, "So it's spelled 'Deb..." And I go, "Yeah!" over enthusiastically, but also lamely. And she is staring at me like..."OK, can you spell the rest stupid ass?" And I just keep nodding my head maniacally and she slowly starts adding add'l letters like "b" and "i" and "e" and I'm like "yeah! yeah!"

So then she passes the paper to Amy, who quickly signed and moved on to Chris. Then they're like "How long have you been waiting?" And Chris says "since 1989," because he's tried since then to get their autographs.

At that point, I'm trying to be witty because I think they'll like me and want me on board their bus to crack them up and stuff or at least have pizza. And so while Amy is starting to sign Michelle's paper, I say "You don't even have to spell her name right! She won't care!" (Meaning she loves you guys that much, just your signature thrills us and we don't need you to actually write our names correctly.)

Amy says, "But I want to spell it right." (In the key of "You just diminished your friend's identity. We are all important. Every one of us, like a blade of grass." Because she is very pro-humanity. Read her lyrics.)

I'm like, "I'm so lame."

I do that. When I get overexcited (or over drunk), I get annoying like Reese Witherspoon in "Election." I do it at book club a lot. Because I get overexcited about books. I also did it once in the sixth grade when I said that the students in Group C weren't as smart as the kids in Group A (my group). Mrs. Segersten got really irritated with me. Now I don't blame her, With all the "No Child Left Behind" stuff especially.

So then we tried to make conversation with the Indigirls, but it was forced and cliche and soon Emily goes "Thanks y'all!" and we skunk away.

I slept with the autographed writing prompt and hope it will be magical and make me write as good as the Indigo Girls.

Also, I am very much hung over today and just ate a while pan of Cook 'N Serve vanilla pudding and might heave.

So I can only write this story matter-of-factly and in sort of a list-like fashion.

Seriously, I'm going to puke now.

OK, I'M JUST GOING TO TELL YOU

I am trying to get pregnant again. I've been trying for several months now. And I think I have secondary infertility. Nothing is happening!
This is when I go to the Internet. I discover it could be a postpartum infection, clogged fallopian tupes, old plumbing, bad auras.

I was eating a lot of sugar-free foods due to the South Beach diet, but I've given that up. Aspartame may be bad for fertility and good for brain tumors. I've had well-timed intercourse. (Aren't you glad I told you that? But I made it sound clinical, so it's not as gross.)

Has God decided I'm not a good mother after giving me a go at it with Alexa? Is he like, "yeahhhh, OK, let's see: she puts Alexa in front of the TV, feeds her hot dogs and over-kisses her feet. Pass on secondary motherhood for this one. Blight her ovaries."

People, I am 36.5 years old. I don't have much more strength left in these old bones for pushing. I need to get this thing done.

There's other things I need to get to: write a Harry Potter-type book in coffee shops while rocking my newborn and feeding Alexa hot dogs to keep her quiet. But I need the newborn for this scenario.

Where's the newborn?