"Oh, my ex husband must have checked that out on my card," I stammered.
The librarian stared at me, unconvinced.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, looked down at my shoes and whistled. "So, um, how 'bout them Cubs? You think they have a chance this year? Ahem."
Honestly, after that scene, I felt a little embarrassed asking the librarian if she'd be interested in having me speak there. But I asked anyway. I told her the title of my newest book, You'll Lose the Baby Weight (and Other Lies About Pregnancy and Childbirth). She asked me if it was a book about weight loss. I
wet my pants, may have snorted laughed until I was doubled over with cramps.
The librarian maintained her no-nonsense expression. I straightened, cleared my throat, and asked, "Do you want it to be a book about weight loss? It could be a book about weight loss. I do tons of exercise I'd be happy to talk about. I do toe touches every day to stay limber and flexible. I pick up shoes, coats, granola bar wrappers, gummy bears, potato chip crumbs, socks, games, cheese, videotapes, pennies, tea cups, crayons, remote controls, Barbies, turtle food, those stupid plastic bracelets, Matchbox cars, and the occasional wombat.
And just today, I washed all the bedding and made the bunk beds. That's a workout worthy of any triathlete. Seriously, have you ever tried that? Balancing on the rungs of the stupid ladder alone takes Herculean strength, flexibility, and the ability to get along with no feeling in the bottom of your feet for the rest of the day.
The librarian still stared at me, unmoved.
"Um no, no it's not a book on weight loss. It's just funny stuff about pregnancy," I meekly admitted.
I don't need to call her; she'll call me. Next time, I'll use the eye patch and say, "Ahoy! I be needin' t' speak about me new book at yer library." That ought to do it.