On Monday, February 1, I received the second message via Twitter that I'd been nominated for special recognition. The first time was nearly a year ago when one of my Twitter posts had been selected for the funny-tweets-compilation Twitter Wit, but this was completely different. COMPLETELY different.
Apparently I'd been selected to be a Memphis Hottie.
Yes, you read that right. Stop laughing.
Some (as yet anonymous) person had graded me like a piece of meat and determined that I was USDA Prime, although not because of the rich marbling, for once.
Tuesday was the phone interview, a whole bunch of softball questions that you can read in the article. Wednesday was the photoshoot at Ernestine and Hazel's a former brothel that's really a great (and appropriate, considering) location for portrait photography. Photographers normally contort me into awkward positions that make me feel self-conscious, and it shows in photographs, but I was pretty comfortable, and I think the portrait turned out well (folks have said as much).
Then I got to wait a week and not tell every single person I know what was going to happen--although I couldn't resist telling a few odd folks. The article came out
, a handful of folks offered congratulations and notes of surprise (including an administrator at the school, just a second ago), we had a nice party at the Hi-Tone, and I have a lanyard badge certifying my hotness.
After the article and the party, I got an email from Mom, who apparently had gotten the news from my sister, which read:
Congratulations on being a Memphis Hottie. I've always thought you were a hottie. Just be careful; don't believe "hot" women when they say they are disease free and on birth control. Often, they lie. Smile.
And with the awkward squickiness of that, the universe was restored to its proper balance.