Oh my goodness gracious.
WHAT IS HAPPENING, INTERNET.
So I don’t know where the fine line is between having an obscure internet blog and getting tweeted (twatted? Twote?) at by celebrities is, but apparently I have crossed that line. Because guess what internet. I have been twoted by Marc Summers.
If you follow this blog at all, you will perhaps recall that I went to a food festival in Puerto Rico called the Saborea at which I was hoping to encounter Marc Summers. I did not meet/ see/ interact with him at all during this event and I wrote a blog post detailing my disappointment at not having met Marc Summers. That’s where the whole situation was put to rest, and I promptly forgot about the entire affair.
Skip ahead to last week on Thursday. I checked my Twitter early Thursday morning right before teaching a yoga class, which turned out to be a terrible idea. I do, in fact, have a twitter. I am also terrible at Twitter. I probably only check in to Twitter about once a month, maybe. I do not know what compelled me to Twit that morning.
Imagine my immense surprise to find, then that Marc Summers, THE Marc Summers, DOUBLE DARE UNWRAPPED MARC SUMMERS AKA MY CHILDHOOD IDOL, had TWOTE AT ME not once but TWICE.
TWICE. I WAS TWATTED TWICE.
The first twit (sorry. Deep apologies. Do you live there?) had taken place 6 days prior, the second (can I call you?) 4 days days, exactly corresponding to when the True Story of How I Didn’t Meet Marc Summers parts one and two were released, and after a little sleuthing, I discovered that Past Me had apparently linked my WordPress and my Twitter to tweet every time a post goes live. So I guess that explains that.
I should not have to explain the mental strain and excitement this put me under. I was, quite literally, speechless for a period of about ten minutes, which, while understandable, is unhelpful if you are teaching a yoga class.
Quickly, however, the excitement turned to panic. How do I respond to a celebrity on Twitter? I am not one of those super smooth people who can just tweet at my idols like it ain’t no thang. I am not suave. I cannot restrain my excitement to 140 characters (I mean, obviously. I do have a blog for that.) If I was a celebritwotter, Masaharu Morimoto and Alton Brown would never have empty inboxes.I mean, they probably don’t already, because they’re super famous people. Also if they tried to contact me I would figuratively keel over and die (reasons why I’m single #25- I’m a stickler for the proper use of the words literally and figuratively).
Anyways, my Gran was over that day, and I told her about the whole thing, and she asked me why I was getting twote by a man who was far too old for me who was probably a creeper on the interwebs like the type she saw a thing about on the news the other day.
And so then of course I was all like Gran, Marc Summers isn’t a creepy stalker, he is a national treasure, but she did have a point about it probably being a bad idea to put my phone number on the internet, so I tweeted him my email instead:
Anyways, I haven’t heard from him since, but my fingers are crossed.
So there I was, wandering drunkenly around a beautiful food festival in Puerto Rico trying to find Marc Summers. Every once in a while we sat and watched people make food. Those people were not Marc Summers.
Every once in a while we stumbled upon a stray fashion model who had apparently gotten lost and in the wild and, bewildered, was playing possum the only way it knows how – by posing.
I tried out being a fashion model, but it didn’t turn out as well.
I resigned myself to eating without finding my third favorite Food Network television host and ate vast quantities of delicious, delicious food. There was a zesty tilapia ceviche, several varieties of steak, chips and dips and energy drinks, a malanga root soup, chicken on a stick, and the enormous, spicy, and wildly seasoned paella. I had a cheesecake made from avocados and a delicate quesadilla filled with pork. There were a lot of things that I ate without the slightest clue what they were (I do not speak a lick of Spanish, unfortunately). Mostly everything was delicious.
Still, internet, I was secretly searching for Marc Summers, with a plastic fork in my hand like a sonic screwdriver and an ever-growing bag full of cheap goodies, and with every new cocktail, I was growing more and more despondent. He was nowhere to be seen, neither high nor low, drunk nor sober. I kept getting annoyed at everyone I saw who was not Marc Summers, which turned out to be 100 percent of the people (minus the bubbly lady serving sausages. She was a rockstar).
Was I wrong in wanting so badly to meet Marc Summers, the voice of my childhood, the smiling face from Nickelodeon and Food Network, the kindly man who answered all the questions about Twinkies and Jellybeans I had not thought to ask? The frequent visitor of that mysterious diner with the all-encompassing menu? The ultimate darer of dares? In retrospect, even if I had met the guy, I have no idea what the hell I would have said to him, beyond “Hey man. What’s cracka-lackin’?”.
I was dispirited. Yet my salvation was nigh, people, because it turns out there was totally a dessert section. And while I did not find Marc Summers, I did find chocolate, which is essentially the same thing.
I did not meet Marc Summers today, internet. Which, in retrospect, makes this day somewhat indistinguishable from all of the other days that I did not meet Marc Summers, which is all of them. All of the days. I’ve never met Marc Summers, is what I’m saying.
Let me back up a bit.
The thing is is that today I was actually fairly certain I would meet Marc Summers, because I’m in Puerto Rico and we went to this crazy food festival thing today where Marc Summers was supposed to be and where Marc Summers was, conspicuously, not.
We first learned about this food festival on the beach yesterday where we where just sort of lazing around getting sunburnt and Madre happened upon some article in some magazine about this crazy food extravaganza and she was all like, we should go to this and I was just like, mhmmmm, because let’s be honest I was already a cocktail or four deep at this point and I probably would have said yes to dying my hair pink and dancing la bomba with a kangaroo (full disclosure – I am currently a cocktail or four deep and that absolutely sounds like both a plausible and fun situation).
Anyways, we went to this food festival. It was called the Saborea, and it was wild and exotic and very, very different from all of the other food festivals I’ve ever been to.
The trouble, however, was that we looked it up before hand and discovered Marc Summers was going to be there and this deep, aching longing I never knew I had welled up inside me, and that longing was screaming I HAVE to meet Marc Summers. I Had to.
It was a set-up for failure.
There were many things that made the Saborea different from other food festivals I’ve been to, the first and most notable of which was the alcohol. The copious, copious amounts of alcohol. I’d been to other fairs and whatnot where you could buy a beer or two for a separate fee. Not at Saborea. No. Not only did they have an entire tent devoted to alcohol of various types, every other food vendor was hawking their own type of shot or cocktail or wine or beer or whatever. They were pouring beer into their freaking food, for frak’s sake.
In our little swag bags, they even gave us our own wine glasses to pour liquid ambrosia into.
Oh, on that note, yeah, we got swag bags, and it seemed like every four feet people were giving us freebies. Little sunscreens and fans and bottle openers and coupons and individual servings of salad dressings. I spent at least three minutes trying to track down someone handing out the most pimpingest orange sunglasses, but then there was someone handing out sangria and I got distracted.
Oh, also this was happening.