Working for a major media organization has its privileges. For starters, a ceaseless stream of famous and fabulous people parade past my cubicle on a daily basis. Some of them even ask me where the bathroom is located. Those are the special days.

Earlier this month, I shared a soap dispenser with Regina Spektor. Yesterday, I casually thumbed through a newspaper while craning my neck to cast a sidelong glance at Brian Eno. And I’ll never forget the infamous silently-eating-sushi-while-gawking-at Neil Gaiman episode.

But having the opportunity to meet your heroes — as I am gradually coming to understand — is not always pleasant. In fact, it’s usually ultra-awkward.

Whenever I catch a glimpse of one of my musical / artistic / literary heroes, my basic impulse is the same: I wanted to look them squarely in the eye and say, “You inspire me. I dig your work. Thanks.”

Simple enough, in theory. But crafting The Perfect Moment to say the words without coming across as what you really are — an obsessed fangirl on the brink of a total mental meltdown — is trickier than it seems.

You want The Moment to be relaxed and informal, yet meaningful and memorable. The Moment has to be quick and expeditious — your hero has places to go, people to see! Ideally, The Moment includes a witty quip or two that sends your hero into ringing peals of laughter.

The Moment? It never comes. Maybe it doesn’t really exist. Maybe it’s impossible to convey everything your hero means to you — how her music makes you feel like it’s possible to fall in love again … how his compositions renewed your faith in the human race … how his writing helped you escape the dreariest winter of your life — in the span of 30 seconds. Maybe those feelings are better left unspoken.

Or maybe you’re just an awkward troglodyte with the social skills of a peat bog.

 
XO.
 

 

Letters. The hand-written kind. I adore ‘em. Possibly more than gay dramas on television. And that’s quite a declaration coming from someone who has seen every single episode of South of Nowhere, Sugar Rush, Queer As Folk (U.S. and U.K. versions), The L Word, Exes & Ohs, the second half of the sixth season of Degrassi where Paige and Alex hook up … and let me just stop right there. This is getting embarrassing.

So yeah. Letters. The only thing better than getting a letter in the post is rediscovering a letter that you put aside for all posterity.

I’ve been thumbing through some of my old letters, and boy oh boy, have I found a couple of keepers.

Take this one, written to me by a teenage boy named Fernando in the summer of 2001.

{ The Backstory }

I was fifteen years old, midway through a 6-week language immersion / community service program in northern Spain. My tour group traveled around on a large bus, stopping in various rural towns to paint murals, lay bricks, fill potholes and generally “prettify” the surroundings for the presumably grateful townsfolk. We spent several days in the Principality of Asturias, a region famed for its pungent raw milk cheeses.

Fernando — if memory serves — was a local goatherd. Tall and pleasantly-shaped, but with unremarkable features. I don’t think we exchanged more than seventeen words during my weeklong visit to el país de los quesos … but at the end of the week, as the tour bus revved its engines to depart, Fernando came bounding towards me. He shoved a simple white envelope containing the aforementioned letter (and a silver charm bracelet) into my hand … and while I’m afraid I didn’t share Francisco’s feelings, I have never forgotten his unbridled display of unconditional emotion.

{ The Transcript }

Editor’s Note: Fernando’s letter has not been edited for spelling, grammar or punctuation. But he spoke English way better than I ever spoke Spanish, so teasing will not be tolerated.

Hi Allie!

If you haven’t thrown out this letter (I hope it) then you will be reading it into the bus. I have written it to tell you some thing I couldn’t say you face to face. Firstly, I hope you aren’t embarrassed about me. ;-) I said you yesterday that you was a wonderful pretty girl and you know it is true. I an not so handsome nor I have a physical appearance I wanted but I think I am a nice boy and a good friend.

I needed tell you I have felt something about you that I haven’t felt for a long period of time, something difficult to explain. I have been in love with a girl for years but she doesn’t love me. I thought I couldn’t love anyone but you have shown me I can do it and it has helped me very much to forget her. Thanks. :-) Furthermore you have been a good frind because you haven’t hurt my heart. Thanks again.

I hope you don’t show this letter anybody [Editor's note: oops] and I hope you write me any e-mail. Lots of kisses for you. I will remember you.

~ Fernando

P.S. The bracelet is a friendship symbol. If you don’t wear it, keep it, please.

 
XO.
 

 

Lately, I’ve been hearing the phrase “first-world problems” bandied about quite a bit. Like when you have to wait in the doctor’s office prior to undergoing an expensive elective surgery for TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES and they don’t even have the latest issue of Teen People. That’s a first-world problem.

Or when you drive your hybrid automobile to go vote in a democratic election but the air conditioning inside the polling booth is just a tad too chilly. That’s another first-world problem.

I have first-world problems all the live long day. If you’re reading this blog, I’m guessing you do, too.

But last night I had the first-world problem to crown all first-world problems. It was possibly even a half-world, zero-world or negative-third world problem.

I was reclining on my feather bedspread, perusing emails on my laptop, when my hand slipped and I accidentally dropped a large dollop of caviar onto my keyboard. Yes, that’s correct. I spilled salted roe onto my personal computing device. Whoopsy-daisy! But then I thought to myself, “oh, never mind. It’s only lumpfish caviar from IKEA.”

Using the words “it’s only” and “caviar” together in a single, non-ironic sentence? That’s a first-world problem.