Me, Myself, and me, too.

It's been a few months since the last interview with myself and since I'm bored (you know, with the surplus of spare time that I just so happen to be imagining right now), I decided it's time for another. Inquiring minds (and my legions of adoring fans) want to know. (Wait, what do you mean I don't have legions of fans? You mean it's more like two? And my BFF Mel and The Husband do not count? I'm just going to pretend that I didn't hear you say that. Moving on...)

So here's the (already familiar) drill: We pretend I'm already a famous lit star and that this interview is one of many I've been dodging for months because I am *that* busy writing my billionth book and packing for a cruise to celebrate my gazillion dollar advance.

(My fantasy. My rules. And that means no pissing on my parade.)

Last time I was interviewed by the highly respected and totally made up Trashy Brainless Magazine. This time in a blatant attempt to get a boatload of new followers for my new twitter account dedicated to Me-the-author (as opposed to Me-the-write-mama), I think I'll have @aspiringmama get the deets from @baby_fphat on her life, her book, and why being a writer is probably the single remaining factor standing between her me, us and a padded room.

Fascinating stuff, yes?

(Also a rule if you want to play in my head...you must agree. Or at least pretend to and humor me.)

@Aspiringmama: That was a really long-winded and self-serving intro. Which one of us is going to claim responsibility for it? Please say it's you.

@baby_fphat: No way, princess. The blog is called Aspiring Mama, remember? This is all you. Consider this me, not taking one for the team.

AM: Damn it. I knew I wasn't going to like you.

BF: Are my feelings supposed to be hurt? Never mind. Don't answer that. More importantly, are you going to bother actually interviewing me? Because I have shit to do. And arguing with myself is not on my to-do list today.

AM: Well aren't we the prima donna.

BF: Well, yes...we are. First question?

AM: Because I can't spell it correctly, I'll just say "too-shay." Fine. First question. You're new to twitter. Why should people follow you?

BF: Because I'm funnier than you. And because my account name matches the book name. That's one. And two. Next question?

AM: Whatever. You opened the door so I'm just walking in. Have you finished the damned book yet?

BF: No, I haven't. Genius takes time. And I can't write any faster than the Gods allow my ass to shrink. That's the beauty and pain of writing a memoir in real time as I live the experience. Be patient. I'm trying to be.

AM: Right. So, what have been the highlights of the 17 completed chapters? And how in God's name did you manage to squeeze 17 chapters out of 11 pounds lost in seven months?

BF: I'm just that good. No, seriously, I am. Ok, ok, really seriously...I dived into writing Baby F(Ph)at with the intention of lighting a very public fire under my own ass in an attempt to motivate myself to lose the weight I've been holding on to since I squeezed Buttercup outta my hoo-ha. But I didn't stop to consider that my PCOS and Insulin Resistance were going to be major players in that little scenario and it's been a lot of trial and error. I can't fix the outside until I attend to the inside and I've finally figured that out.

I think.

Besides, I'm pretty sure that a lot of women will relate to the fact that I didn't just wish myself skinny(er). I've had to work hard at losing the little bit I've managed to so far, and I'll have to work harder to lose the rest. My readers will be cheering me on.

AM: And I'm glad those therapy sessions have addressed that self-esteem issue you were having.

BF: *grinning* thank you.

AM: Snark and manners. I like it. What other character flaws should I be aware of?

BF: I'm late. For everything. Ever vacationed in a time-share at Mexican resort and get pissed because nothing ever started when it was supposed to? Yeah. I didn't get pissed because I'm running on the same internal clock those Cancun and Mexican Riviera resort employees are. I think the scientific term is "Mexican time." The Husband has learned to deal.

Oh, and I second-guess everything. There's a rule The Husband likes to call "The Menu." No matter what it is I'm looking to buy, shoes, a laptop, a new bra, or dinner at a restaurant, the minute I say, "I think I'll try that..." is when The Husband Takes The Menu away. Because if he doesn't and I have enough time to say, "You know? This sounds good instead..." I always end up pissy and moping because  realize I should have gone with my first choice. I think it's a medical condition.

AM: Fascinating. So we're crazy?

BF: You decide. I just interviewed myself again.