In my role as journalista culturata, I was chasing a story last week about a Disney Channel documentary being shot around here. Since I write for money for a blog about television, I knew it could be a quick turnaround. Then I got a press release about it from Disney and, holy dorm key, Batman! One of the people appearing in the docu is my old college roommate, the slutty/pretty one about which I wrote a few posts back (scroll down to find it).
Her email address was included and even though we haven't been in contact for a couple of decades, I thought, hey, it will be an easy "get," as we journalistas say. I mean, we know each other. And unless she reads blogs (ahem, shifts in chair), there's no reason she shouldn't call me back.
A day goes by. Then another. And I get an email from someone writing on behalf of Roomie to say that Roomie will call me over the weekend. Roomie now has "people" who return her messages for her.
This cracks me to pieces.
So a day goes by. And it's Sunday and then Monday. Roomie never calls. I get an email from her "person" to ask if I'd "gotten everything you need." That's PR talk for "Can we scratch you off the list now? And could you go away?"
I've been blown off royally by someone I used to see in her underwear. I wonder if this ever happens to Anderson Cooper. It couldn't happen to Larry King because everyone he grew up with is dead. And has been for 20 years. And has he.
Now here's the funny part about my interview quest with Roomie--not ha-ha funny but odd-funny. Roomie's "person" passes along a message saying that Roomie had no idea I was "back in town" and working for local media.
No idea! And I've had a column with my name on it in a fairly prominent publication for the past six years.
Roomie doesn't read me, I guess. Or she's pretending she doesn't.
It is to laugh.
I forwarded all this to our other roommate, the one with whom I was recently on the phone for a long, giggly chat about old times. Here was Roomie Three's response: "Here's why she didn't want to be interviewed: She probably weighs 500 pounds!"
And thus we revert to our 19-year-old selves. Pass the Jiffy-Pop.