Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Kim Cattrall won’t talk to me.

Of course Kim Cattrall has no idea who the hell I am, so it’s no sweat to her at all. But to me, it’s akin to having every single hair picked off my head, one by one.

I freelance write on the side. Not only does this keep my sanity balanced with my typing job, but I hope to make the “on the side” into “all the time” as soon as humanly possible.

So imagine my surprise when the quarterly, 8x4 inch, full colour but not fully glossy body enhancement magazine I work for assigned me a story on sex and beauty based on the erotic picture book Sexual Intelligence, written by none other than Samantha Jones herself.

Now, Body Enhancement means I’ve gotten to write stories on Botox, laser hair removal, and fat arms. Wonderful though they were, I’ve been craving something a little more oh, I don’t know, satisfying?

So just imagine my adrenaline rush and screams of happiness (in the middle of a crowded bookstore on a Tuesday) when my editor calls with the surprise news: I get to do a story about sex, with the celebrity sex icon of our times.

I’m thinking, what gigantic penny fell from the sky and hit me on the head today? It’s my lucky day, this is going to be incredible, this is going to make things happen!

A few weeks, dozens of phone calls to her PR firm and endless frustration later, I have gotten the confirmation that Kim will not be doing this interview. And I should understand, because she’s tired from touring Europe for two weeks.

Being a typist for the deaf and wanting to make changes in my life, ten minutes of Kim Cattrall would have been heaven sent. It’s the part where you’re sending samples of your work to bigger, better places and you put the A-list interview right on top. It was supposed to make things happen.

I don’t know if Kimmy herself refused this or her publicist, but what really pisses me off about the whole thing is, girlfriend, don’t you remember what it was like to be at the bottom? When you were acting for food, and just eye candy on Porky's? Don’t you remember what it was like to hunger for more?

I’m trying to make myself feel better about all of this, but only one of two things will do it. Either I have to accept that this wasn’t my brass ring and wait for the next one, or, I call her people back and harass them ‘til they’re blue in the face.

Hey, you never know until you try, right?