I feel like a big fish in a little pond. Not to be confused with a fat guy in a little coat. That was Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. He was very good at what he did, which was make people laugh. And apparently, I am good at that as well. Take a gander at this:
Yep. Don't mind me while I shine my fingernails on my coat lapel. Not a little coat. A regular coat. My head is rapidly expanding with pride. It is fast becoming a humongous, overinflated, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade float kind of head. Hang onto those guide ropes. Steer me out of harm's way. We wouldn't want a Woody Woodpecker accidental deflation like the one that befell Mr. Pitt, Elaine's boss, after she won him that rope-holding gig by naming big band songs on the radio.
The basis for my sudden craniogigantism is the fact that I WON A WRITING CONTEST!!!
Yes. I am not Miss Congeniality, not a runner-up, not second place with the responsibility of fulfilling the winner's duties if the winner is unable to do so. I am the WINNER! Pardon me while I calm myself. I have known this for a couple of weeks now, but kept it secret. Loose lips sink ships. And loose fingers promote premature har-bringers, as my son might say.
Now the word is out. That cat is soundly unbagged. I have been outed as a writer for all the world to see. Well, all the world that reads Anne Mini's blog, Author!, Author!, or checks out her Facebook, or pops into her page at Publishers Marketplace over the next couple of days.
To bring my gargantuan noggin back down to earth, I insert myself into the movie Coyote Ugly, where Bridget Moynahan tells the rest of the gals, "She won the memoir section of an online writing contest. Let's not start polishing the Nobel Prize for Literature."
I need to be grounded on occasion. But without inflicting deflated Woody Woodpeckerness on unsuspecting parade-goers.