So, I was interviewed on tv...

I'd been putting this off for a year.  The local PBS station wanted to interview me, in my home, about my writing.  My carpet has needed replacing for a year now.  And I have this weird aversion to cleaning...

I am not saying that my house could appear on hoarders.  I'm just saying that it doesn't look like houses on tv.  I can be interesting and write books, or I can have a spotless house.  I cannot do both.

So anyway, they really, really, really want to do the interview and I acquiesce.  I wonder briefly aloud whether or not we can have the carpet ripped up and replaced with ceramic tile in 48 hours.

My husband's head explodes.

I work over the weekend - getting the living room/dining room ready and blocking off any other rooms.  And I'm nervous.  Now, I've done interviews on tv, radio, etc. for the various nonprofits and causes I support - no sweat.  Those don't give me one moment's pause - I'm totally comfortable with that.

It's just promoting me - that's where the problem begins.  I think it comes from being a woman and told most of your life, "Don't brag dear...it's rude and alarms people."

So, twenty minutes before they arrive, Mr. Assassin traps the cats and basset hound in the basement and puts the guinea pigs in Meg's room with the birds.  The other animals are to be put into my room just before the cameradude arrives.

Five minutes before, the cats are throwing themselves bodily at the basement door and hissing.  The bassett is whining weirdly and the sound travels from the basement like we have a really sad ghost with hemhorioids.

New plan - all dogs go outside and I close the curtains to the sliding glass door.  The cats are liberated - they would probably just hide anyway.

Two minutes before they arrive and I spot several stray eyebrow hairs in the mirror by the door.  I manage to run upstairs and grab the tweezers, plucking to the point I start bleeding.  Great.  Blood is running down my eyes.  I stash the tweezers in the basket where the keys go and mop up the blood with a crumpled up newspaper.

The doorbell rings.  The cameradude comes in and suddenly, my super shy - never around cats come out of nowhere like the children of the corn and start climbing all over him. 

I inform him that he is not allowed to film the carpet.

One and one-half hours later - it's over.  I survived it.  I don't really remember it except for one question they asked, "What was the hardest lesson you had to learn in life, ever."  I think I said, "When I realized I couldn't fly."  Not sure that's what they were looking for, but how can you answer that question?

One bottle of wine (and twelve minutes) later - I feel fine.  In fact, I'll let you know how it goes when it airs, sometime in October.

Maybe by then I'll have forgotten about it.

Maybe...

The Assassin