Imposter

In about 11 hours I’ll be on the road to Nashville.

I’d planned to come back home to Chambana the same way I left: In the car, with two of my pals. Instead, sometime on Sunday I’ll board a plane for Los Angeles.

A little ditty I wrote up over here in about 30 minutes last week caught the attention of some TV talk-show producers and they looked me up.

Today I spent a half-hour answering questions fired at me from an assistant producer for the Dr. Phil Show while I had my toes painted for Blissdom. Before we hung up, I took a deep breath and asked:

“OK, so here’s the deal,” I said. “I need to know if I’m coming out there or not. I need to pack and I need to arrange child care.”

He told me to pack as if I was going to LA — like a “good Girl Scout” — and he’d get back to me. Fifteen minutes later, he called back.

Sunday, I’ll land at LAX and make my way to an as-yet-decided-on hotel and my mom will meet me out there. The next day, we’ll be backstage. And then, I will be on stage.

To say I am freaking out is to say that Madonna has had a little work done on her face. I am FREAKING RIGHT THE FUCK OUT, PEOPLE.

And I can’t even think about that, because tonight I am too busy feeling tremendously sad that I am going to be away from my babies for five days. I’ve never been away from Henry at all, and only overnight from the girl.

It is so ridiculous — even as I shopped for a dress today, I felt like an imposter as the words came out of my mouth:

Why are you shopping today? How can we help you?

Ummm, I need something to wear on Dr. Phil?

Ludicrous! I don’t know how this happened to me. All I know is that it happened really, really fast. I just hope I don’t get whiplash.

Tagged as: daily, writing life