“Could you be more dramatic?” said Miss Xaxa.
Picture it. On account of our work—yes, possums, lilies of the field though we are, even we must toil and spin to earn our daily pain Poilâne—we were near the Los Angeles location of Tom Colicchio’s restaurant, Craft. We were in the lobby, on the cell phone, in the midst of a v. v. important call, but staring off into the distance, when all at once we saw a cloud, a host of—
Well, not daffodils. Of Top Chef, rather, for it was none other than Padma. Fucking. Lakshmi. Making straight for us.
Our mind raced and reeled. We felt like Ebiatchnezer Screwge. Was this the Ghost of Bitchmas Past or merely an undigested bit of potato?
But no, ‘twas She, clad all in black, and moving smoothly toward us like an avenging angel, a great Hindu goddess of destruction. And in that moment, the warp and woof of World Wide Web was rent and ripped, and a small frisson of the apocalypse overcame us.
“Oh, lighten up,” said Miss XaXa. “She was probably just coming back from lunch with Tom Colicchio at Craft, on her way to see a lawyer or an agent.”
But really, possums. We wondered if our rather broad brow would suddenly act like the news crawl at the bottom of the screen on CNN, broadcasting our thoughts. Did she know? Could she know? Would she know she was in the presence of half an Amuse-Biatch?
Our eyes locked but for an instant. As a creature of flesh and blood, she was more beautiful than as a pattern of pixels on a screen. Would the eyes betray us, tell her all, confess our biatchy, blogging sins? Was that the slightly resinous scent of guilt trapped in our nostrils?
“Jesus Christ!” said Miss XaXa, “Catholic much?”
But, fortunately, the only look we detected on her face was that of someone who has been recognized. Such is the price of fame. She walked past us and toward the elevator, and we were once again safe—safe to biatch, safe to blog, safe to be.
And so, possums, hey, hey, the Biatch is back.