First, I have to tell you, when I asked Ginger to blog for me, I sure didn't think she was going to blog about ME! It's a little embarrassing, mind you. My blog is usually about someone else. LOL Anyway, Ginger is a great lady who never fails to make me laugh. She remembers the details of our first meet, I just remember I made a great friend that day. So with no further ado, please welcome my friend, Ginger:
Imagine me, Ginger Simpson, making an appearance on Cheryl St. John’s blog. That’s like a local priest waving from the balcony at the Vatican. Everyone below is saying, “Who the heck is that? It sure doesn’t look like the Pope.”
Okay, so I’m not a mainstreamed published author, and you can’t find my books in stores along with Cheryl’s, but you know what? That doesn’t matter to her. Shoot, I wish it didn’t matter to me. Even though I really like her a lot, I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at her on the pedestal where I’ve put her. *smile* I’m more excited to say I’ve met her than I was to sit next to Clint Eastwood in a neighborhood bar one day.
Yep, it’s true. I remember it like it was yesterday. My then husband and a bunch of his off-duty police buddies had stopped for a drink. I got this frantic call from my husband. “Guess what? Clint Eastwood is here. You should come down.” So I did. I pawned the kids off on my neighbor and raced to the pub to see what this big celebrity looked like in person.
Mr. E sat at the bar with a friend. Actually, he looked pretty much like he does in the movies, but, in my opinion, my husband was much better looking. The guys wanted to buy Mr. E a drink but all were afraid to ask, so I volunteered.
I sauntered over, sat on the stool next to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Eastwood?”
He turned at scowled at me. “No autographs, please.”
I’m sure my brow furrowed into ruts. “I don’t want YOUR autograph,” I snapped.
Hell, I’ve never been impressed with a piece of paper with someone’s name on it. How do you prove who wrote it. Seems silly to me. How dare he assume I wanted him to scrawl his name on a napkin?
His jaw dropped. “You don’t?”
“No. What would I do with your autograph? Now if you want to sign a check…” I chuckled then pointed across the room to the group of guys with their mouths gaping. “Those fellows are part of the local police department and would like to buy you a drink.”
Mr. E. smiled and waved at them, then shook his head. “I’m afraid if I took them up on their offer, they’d stop me on the way out of town and ticket me for driving under the influence.”
His weak laugh and failed attempt at humor left me cold. After that day, I never watched another Clint Eastwood movie, although I’m sure he never gave me a second thought. So, now that I think about it, comparing Cheryl to him wasn’t such a compliment, but I think you get my meaning.
My meeting her was much more impressive. We met at a Romantic Times convention. I was a new author, published by a small Internet company, and to say I felt out of my element was an understatement. I’d never been to a gathering of authors, let alone one so big and impressive. I’m not a shy person, but I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t know anyone, but found myself impressed by the Mainstream names I recognized there. I sat in the reception room and mingled, put my promo materials alongside everyone else’s and tried to blend in.
Although we were all there for networking and fun, there were those who liked to look down their noses at what I believe they felt were ‘underachievers’. “Oh, you’re an Internet author,” is something I heard several times. If you picture a jumbo jet questioning a gliders ability to fly, you might understand how insulting it was. My books are available…you just have to go to a little more trouble to buy them. Some people actually think I’m worth it. *smile*
But back to the point. Cheryl and a group of her friends were in the lounge. I can’t remember exactly how we introduced ourselves, but I was impressed with her genuine friendliness, humor and how she made me feel welcome. She doesn’t realize what a big deal it was, but it’s something I won’t ever forget. She’s a role model but she doesn’t know it…she’s famous, and she doesn’t show it, and she’s one of those people who would probably say, “We all put our panties on the same way.” I’m not sure; I’ve never watched anyone else put on their panties. Do we?
I keep getting off topic. What I want to say is Cheryl is tons nicer than Clint Eastwood. Although I didn’t want his John Hancock, I do have Cheryl’s in one of her books. I can’t prove it’s her handwriting, but I was there when she signed it and that means something to me. Clint Eastwood has nothing on us. Heck, some people have even asked for my autograph, and now I see a whole lot more value in them. *grinning*
I really appreciate Cheryl for allowing me to blog today. In case you didn’t comprehend my rambling, the point of the post was to say how glad I am that Cheryl is my friend. And…any friend of her’s is a friend of mine. I’d be most honored to have ya’ll (that’s a Tennessee word) visit my blog at http://mizging.blogspot.com, and if you’d like to see what kind of work an ‘underachiever’ writes, please stop by my website at http://www.gingersimpson.com. The welcome mat is always out.