You are never going to believe...

Ok, so I get to the signing and I'm still pissed that they don't even have any copies of my book even though I tried to meditate away all the bad thoughts I had in the cab. I'm supposed to read a few paragraphs for the good folks, blah, blah, blah and then sign for a couple of hours. But they set up my reading in the back of the store, in the kids area!

I told the manager, "you must must be fucking kidding me! If you think I'm going to stand at a podium and read from my chica lit book Make Him Feel Good in the goddamned kids section while people sit in those kiddie chairs you're out of your fucking mind."

I know it sounds a little rough, but what's the point of being a famous best-selling author if you can't throw your considerable weight around a little bit and step on some little people? I'll give her this much, she saw I meant business and quickly set out to correct the situation. They finally set me up near the little cafe they have in the store.

I swear to God at 8:00 PM there were 400 people waiting for me. They literally had to close the doors to the store because of the fire code or something. Is that ridiculous or what? I mean what are the chances of a fire? And if there was one, what better way to die than helping enrich me?

So I go through with the reading and then begin to sign books for the people who were pushing and shoving their way to try to get to me. You know what gets me about these types of events? It's the people that don't know the protocol. I mean you are supposed to get in line, come up get your book signed and be on your merry way. But there's always some jackass that wants to stand there and bullshit with you. I usually listen politely for about 15 seconds and then loudly yell NEXT!

So I'm signing 8 x 10s (thanks B&N!) and signing and this cute guy comes up and I ask him if he wants a special inscription, something I don't do for any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along (well maybe Dick. Lol!). And he says can you write this "To Pepe, sorry about your father."? and I ask "What happened to your father?" and he says "He was killed at La Cabaña by a firing squad ordered by your idol, Che Guevara." I literally wanted to hurl my smoothie all over his face (I love Jamba Juice). I just started shrieking, "Get the fuck out of my face! You fucking nazi!"

What nerve these goddamned Cubans have. Don't they know that you can't make an omelet with breaking a few eggs? Well you can't have social justice without spilling a little blood either. Besides tonight was supposed to be about me. You hear me you little piece of shit, I know you are reading this, me!

So now I'm back in my hotel room raiding the mini-bar (remind me to tell you how to make an oreo cookie martini) trying to console myself and forget about this miserable trip to this god forsaken hellhole.

Part of me even wishes I wasn't a best-selling author and one of Time Magazine's 25 most influential Hispanics. Part of me wishes I had just married rich.

Oh well, tomorrow is another day and I am the dirty reina of chica lit. I have that going for me and no right-winger will ever take that away from me... Which is nice.

Hugs (except for you, you skinhead bastard).

Not Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez