Wednesday,
February 20, is quite possibly one of the most surreal
days of my life. Things get off to a wacky start when
my cabdriver—I am barreling toward JFK at some ungodly
hour—insists on calling me “ma'am” throughout
the journey. In an effort to generate a bit of respect,
I tell him the purpose of my trip. “I'm off to L.A.
today to interview Madonna,” I say in a manly, confident
kind of way. “That's nice for you, ma'am,”
he replies in a skeptical tone revealing that he believes
me to be not just a woman, but a thoroughly deluded woman. |