Last week turned out to be a little crazy around the Hatfield household.
On a whim, I sent out a bunch of press releases about the Farm Girl to a variety of newspapers and publications, not expecting to hear back from anyone – at least for a few weeks.
I immediately received an email from a newspaper located in Pendleton, Oregon, where my Pendleton Petticoats series takes place. They wanted to write an article about my writing and asked to come to the house to do the interview.
At that point, I was both elated and panicked.
Housekeeping has rather gone by the wayside the last few weeks as I focused on two big writing projects and paid multiple visits to the dentist (I’ll share about that another day).
Begging Captain Cavedweller to help me whip the house into shape, we both jumped in and got everything spit-spot in time for the interview the following day.
Under the assumption the reporter would most likely want to take a photo despite how much I’d rather they not, I wrangled myself into a pair of Spanx. If anyone were to witness the spectacle, it would be like watching a hippo squirm into a string bikini. Now that you can’t get that image out of your head, I’ll move right on to eyelashes.
You won’t ever, ever have to worry about seeing me with fake eyelashes. As I applied my tenth coat of mascara, flinching with each one, I realized I would not make a good candidate for feathery fake beauties since I act like someone is trying to drop flesh-eating acid into my eyes anytime I need to use Visine. Contacts are also definitely out of the question.
Anyway, after spending approximately an hour lounger than my usual five minutes getting ready, the reporter arrived and let me know the photographer wouldn’t make it until another time.
Fast forward to the next day when I received the email stating the photographer would arrive around noon. My morning bore striking similarity to the previous one – Spanx, mascara, hyperventilating both from the Spanx and the thought of having my photo taken. I can’t express enough how much I hate having to pose for the camera. I never fail to look like a weirdo goofball (mostly because I am).
While my hair turned out perfectly and my mascara looked wonderful the day the reporter showed up, evidently asking for two days in a row was too much. I finally gave up and decided to just go with it. Then the photographer called to let me know he was running late.
He arrived along with a strong wind, but we headed outside to do the photos. Turns out, I shouldn’t have worried about styling my hair because by the time I stood outside for two minutes, it looked like I hadn’t bothered to comb it at all. As I stood with a glare in my eyes and the wind whipping my hair in my face, he snapped several photos.
Still rattled, I had to run into town for an appointment where I promptly parked my vehicle in a row of four others of similar shape, size and color.
Thoroughly distracted with thoughts of the article, photos, and my book projects awaiting me at home, I stood beside my vehicle pushing the button trying to get it to open. And pushed. And pushed. Deciding the battery was dead in the auto opener, I resorted to inserting the key in the lock, only to find it wouldn’t fit. Strange…
Yes, it took me that long to decide it wasn’t my vehicle.
Then I glanced around hoping no one noticed the crazy woman in the parking lot trying to key her way in to a car that wasn’t hers.
A few days later, I happened to see a Facebook post from a friend who took a photo of the article that just came out in that afternoon’s paper.
Here is a link to the story. Just don’t laugh too uproariously at the goofball in the photo.