Who's Stalking Me Now?

Snap, snap, snap, everywhere I go. It's such a nuisance, you have no idea. I can’t even leave my house without someone taking my photo. I go about my day, I hear that sound embedded in my brain. Click, click. I look around, I know they’re there, somewhere, hiding in the bushes, lurking behind shopping carts, balancing from telephone polls, hoping to steal a shameful shot of me, maybe make a few million bucks in exchange.



I don’t blame them. I’m fair game. I'm the SJG. I asked for it. I wanted to be a glamorous public figure, and with pseudo fame comes a price. So I’m a target of envy. So just about everyone wishes they could be me, if only for a day. So I get mobbed in shopping malls, accosted in restaurants, ridiculed if I go anywhere without my face on, as my dear mother used to say.

Still, can’t I retain just a little bit of dignity? Must I go through life, looking over my shoulder? Is nothing in my life sacred anymore?  I admit I’ve learned my lesson after one or two embarrassing interludes. Take the recent twelve-car collision I allegedly caused, but we know who’s really at fault. There I am, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, crawling down Ventura Boulevard, singing at the top of my lungs with the windows open. The wind toys with my stylish ’do. I begin to warble. “Because I'm all that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble..." In the midst of my private reverie, I hear it, the sound I’ve come to dread. Snap, snap, snap. I look to my left. I look to my right. I’m surrounded on all sides by stalkerazzi. They’ve caught me again, this time  howling like a coyote in heat. I swerve to get away from them, but I can’t. In horror, I slam on my brakes, causing a chain reaction of crunching automotive parts and shattering glass. By six o’clock, the SJG is all over the Internet, starring in my own YouTube musical disaster.

Dare I mention the nude showering debacle? In case you missed the headline splashed across the Enquirer last week, it went something like this: “Short Jewish Gal Takes Regrettable Shower.” I drop my towel, I forget to close the bathroom blinds, and see what happens? I suppose I'm partly to blame. I told my agent, “Get my stuff out there, dude.” And did he ever. Just not the stuff I had in mind.

Now when I go out, I wear sunglasses, huge ones; bigger than my face, in an effort to remain in cognito. Hubby thinks I’m a little paranoid. No argument there. I’m pleased to report that so far, the disguise is working, more or less. On Friday, I walked my dog and no one bothered me. Although I’m fairly certain my Vera Wang gown caught some neighbors off-guard.  I heard a few disparaging remarks. And yes, the term "major butt accentuation" floated in my direction, along with isolated cackling.  But hey, if I’m going to venture out in public, I plan to look nice, people. Next time I make the Enquirer’s fashion spread, I prefer to land a caption that doesn’t snarl, “What Was She Thinking?”

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