vituperation

Many thanks to whomever nominated this entry for a “best comedic entry” Diarist Award, it is apparently a finalist.

Unless those Diarist people are messing with me, that is.

Hi! it read, My news director sent me your message about your weight loss. I’m doing a story tomorrow on weight loss surgeries, and would love to do your story as well for a sidebar. Are you available this Wednesday? I was hoping we could follow you as you take your food to the Food Bank. Let me know by calling me at XXX-XXXX. Thanks!

I received this email last night, at a little after six. Tomorrow, it said. Tomorrow as in, well, tomorrow. No warning, no nothing. I did what any rational person would do.

I freaked out.

I tried to call the reporter several times to no avail. I hemmed. I hawed. I called Robyn, panicked, and she tried to calm me down. Actually, she succeeded in calming me down, at least until I went to bed.

To bed. In the dark, the mind’s most fertile playground, where everything that can go wrong does. When I woke up this morning, I’d decided I didn’t want them to do the story, because I didn’t have enough time to prepare. I’d look stupid, and that was something I didn’t want, didn’t want at all.

But then I lifted weights and had my shower, and saw things in a whole new light. You can help people, my mind said, and pimp your book. My mind has a particular clarity about it once it’s in the daylight.

I decided to call her, despite having awakened with a zit the size of Milwaukee on my cheek.

After I made my breakfast and lunch, I loaded my food pile (the one mentioned in that newspaper story I posted here a while back) into the Jeep and went to work. I called the reporter around 8:30 on the number she’d provided, and reached her at home while she was getting ready to go to her office.

“Is there any way at all,” she asked, “that you can deliver your food today? I’m doing a story about weight loss surgery and this would be great right alongside it.”

Even when I haven’t emailed her in a while, the Nance factor is still in effect in my life.

“Sure,” I said, “Matter of fact, I brought it to work with me today because of your email.”

“Oh,” she replied, sounding crestfallen, “I was hoping we could get some footage you loading the food into your car.”

“That’s no problem,” I said, because in addition to being approachable, I’m easy-going and accomodating, “I can just meet you at my house and unload everything for you to do what you need.”

“Really?” she asked, getting excited, “That would just be great!”

We agreed to meet at my house at ten, and after getting directions from me we hung up so I could panic for the hour I had before I needed to get going. My wife, as is her way when I really need her, was nowhere to be found, and as of this writing still knows nothing about today’s adventures.

I called the food bank to get directions. Let us call the woman I spoke with “Donna”.

“Food bank, this is Donna,” she said when she answered the phone.

“Hi Donna,” I said, “can you tell me where I need to drop off food for a donation?”

She gave me detailed instructions, then I dropped the bomb.

“I need to warn you,” I said, “I’ll probably have a news crew with me, and…”

I apologized for the short notice and explained the whole thing. We commiserated over the gall of the media and their no-warning emails. I told her that I wasn’t sure if the reporter would want a comment from the food bank or not, but that they probably would. I told her the whole story about the food pile and its significance.

She asked me how I lost so much weight, and I told her. There was an uncomfortable silence, then she told me she could stand to lose a few pounds, that she was at “that age” where people start to spread out.

We hung up.

I left for home at about 9:30 so I could pick up and make the house presentable for the news crew. I’m a bachelor this week, you know. Believe it or not, I got the house cleaned up - all the dishes put away, the floor swept, the guest toilet clean, the trash out, the popcorn maker washed - in record time and without getting all sweaty and shiny. I brought the food in from my Jeep and positioned it all on the kitchen table and tried to get the dust and cat hair off it.

Then, without warning, there was a loud knock on the front door.

to be continued…