For those of you playing the home game, I am a huge fan of Chef Anthony Bourdain. Like huge. When I found out the Indiana Humanities Council was bringing him and his buddy Eric Ripert to do a talk here in Indianapolis, I started counting down the days. And when I discovered I was going to meeting them? I panicked. My memory wandered back to the “Sufjan Stevens Debacle of 2009,” in which I experienced complete social paralysis around the indie darling. (I mustered the courage to tug on his hoodie and gave a quiet, “hey..” and he was JUST about to turn around when someone called his name. I bolted, while everyone in a five-foot radius cringed.)

BUT NOT THIS TIME. NOT WITH TONY, I had decided. I took to social media to ask what my icebreaker should be. The number one answer? “Put a boob out.”

Nice.

Last night I headed to Clowes Hall on the Butler campus with Bess, a talented cook in her own right and a Ripert-lover. We were giddy, giddy schoolgirls. By taking advantage of the presale, we were able to get really great seats about five rows back.

The two sort of interviewed each other, sipped on local beer, and then opened up the floor to questions. My favorite was from a little girl who asked, “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

Bourdain: I wanted to play bass for Parliament Funkadelic.

Ripert: I wanted to be a Chef first. But I also wanted to be - how do you say - a Park Ranger?

I paid a little extra to gain access to the reception, which included a meet ‘n greet with the two Chefs. This is where I started sweating. I had spent the past couple weeks ruminating over WHAT I was going to say to such an inspiration to me. I watch No Reservations to escape to far-off places for an hour at a time, yes, but what keeps me coming back is his exquisite writing style. I would read his books and swear I could taste the food. On my daily commute, I’d listen to his audiobooks in my car and miss my exits.

When a woman handed me a post-it note and a sharpie and told me to write down what I wanted Tony to write, it came immediately:

Guys, this only slightly resembles my actual handwriting. A) I was literally writing this in the palm of my hand and B) I WAS SHAKING.

I took a deep breath and approached the table.

“Hi,” I said. “This is the one thing I wanted to ask you.”

He took the post-it and held it at arm’s length so he could read it better. (Only then was I reminded that this man who is on my Top Ten list is old enough to be my father.)

“It says To Jenn, with two N’s, and then write what is your one piece of advice for an aspiring writer.”

He took a pause, looked off into the distance, and put the marker to the page.

“If you can do that…” he trailed off, as he slid the book back over the table. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded, as if to finish, “…you’ll be fine.” Sincerely I mouthed, “Thank you” and I think we had kind of “a moment,” which probably only occurred in my head, but this is my blog so I don’t care.

After that, Eric Ripert is going to be a piece of CAKE, right?

So this happened:

Me: Lemme just WHIP THIS OUT HERE (I pull out his massive book from my purse. He begins to sign.)

Me: And I’m Jenn, with 2′ns. (You laugh, but after 27 years of being 1 of 2349823423 Jennifers, you learn that people won’t remember “Jenn,” but they will remember “Jenn with 2 n’s”)

Me: I am SO JEALOUS of your birthplace! (he had mentioned that he was born in between  Cannes and Monte Carlo, aka the French Rivera, aka, My Favorite Place on Earth Pretty Much. Prrrrobably could have articulated that differently.)

Eric: Oh yes?

Me: Yeah, I’ve been there a couple times. (as if to say, I know we’re among Hoosiers here, but I’VE been to EUROPE.)

Eric: …..

Eric: Yes, it iz very nice therr. Very beautifool.

Me: Yeah, not half bad, huh? (Oh my God, Jenn.)

Eric: New York Cittee iz nice, too.

Jenn: Yeah, I’m thinking of moving there.

Eric: Iz very nice.

Jenn: That’s what I’ve heard. (AWWWKWARRRD. Inner monologue: “You need to end this, now.”)

Jenn: HEY, would you mind taking a picture with me?

Oh well. At least we look good.

I went home and went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. It was very Audrey-Hepburn, I-Could-Have-Danced-All-Night. I kept throwing my head face down in my pillow and screaming, like the night of my first kiss.

“Blonde” is a fictionalized biography of Marilyn Monroe,  loaded with gorgeous prose and stream-of-consciousness. I just…got it. Got her. While my mother was not institutionalized, and while I wasn’t giving BJ’s under the desks of Hollywood executives, I did relate to that almost maniacal, “I-just-want-to-be-SEEN-and-LOVED” part of her story. And, you know, not so much the glamourous, breathy, Happy-Birthday-Mister-President part. Probably not alone in that.

That Summer, I went from not giving a damn about Marilyn to becoming OBSESSED with her, a fixation I held until I learned that Megan Fox was a Monroephile. My hatred for that vapid, fish-faced bitch runs so deep that I refused to share any common interests with her (besides a love for Brian Austin Green, but that was the 90s, and it’s too late go back and change that). I dropped my Marilyn fascination like a bad habit.

UNTIL I SAW THIS PICTURE, THIS MORNING:

OH, NORMA JEAN –

I’VE NEVER FELT CLOSER TO YOU THAN I DO RIGHT NOW.

(PS. This is from an AMAZING post - “Rare Photos of Famous People” from CrackTwo.com. Brought to my attention via the lovely Emily Abigail.)