Live, from the Scene of My Catastrophe
The thing about being a writer is that I’m quite comfortable hiding behind a tall, wide bookshelf. So I was about as excited to be in front of a live audience as I would be for a dental cleaning. I have bad teeth.
I was told to be available on camera—thankfully from the comfort of my home—by 10 a.m., and that I’d be the second guest at 10:15. I’d locked five of my six cats in the kids’ rooms and prayed the door-opener was sleeping off her extra CBD snacks. The one I left out had never shown interest in my computer before, so I let her nap quietly in another room.
At 10:01, that cat decided it was the perfect time to learn how to swat my keyboard for the first time. She seemed to be having a blast, but the camera angle now offered an intimate view of my cleavage. I tossed her in the bathroom a few feet away and sat back down.
She shrieked like an injured hyena, then head-butted the door.
I glanced at the time—10:02. I grabbed the cat, stepped over the dog gate, and immediately tripped, crashing into the stairs. I didn’t kill her, but she wasn’t thrilled. I shoved her into the bedroom, stumbled down the stairs, and plopped in front of the camera.
It was 10:03. My hair looked electrocuted, my lungs burned, and my nostrils flared like they were auditioning for a nature documentary.
Five seconds later, the TV crew announced their first guest had gone missing.
I was up in three… two… one.
We were live.
Shit.
They briefly introduced my book—about the death of my mother—and although it’s been two years, it’s still raw for me. So there I was, nostrils dilated to double size, panting, while my tear-factory manager barked at my tear workers: “Stop crying; you’re on your mandated thirty-minute break!”
Somehow, I got through the interview. I have no idea how. I only hoped they didn’t catch my nervous tick of sticking a finger in my ear on camera.
When it was over, I crawled back behind the bookshelf and played with the dust bunnies.
They don’t ask questions.