About a week ago I got an @reply on Twitter from Anne Wheaton, the spouse of Mr. Wil Wheaton, aka Sheldon Cooper’s former mortal enemy turned good friend, aka Wesley Crusher, aka Fawkes, aka “the one kid from Stand By Me that nobody remembers.” This @reply was one of the highlights of my modern life (seriously sad) and got me all caught in a hurricane of happy for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Wheaton sort of has a Twitter addiction, but that’s cool with me, as she tweets about interesting stuff like spray butter and her pajamas and hookers at the bank.
Oh, and there’s that minor detail that SHE’S MARRIED TO SOMEONE WHO USED TO BE THE PRETEND SON OF GATES MCFADDEN. IN SPACE. I mean, who the hell is YOUR spouse’s pretend mom? I’ve never even heard of her. She sucks.
Our exchange started off like this: (by the way this is long and ridiculous)
@AnneWheaton: It’s my own attic for cryin’ out loud yet I am totally freaked out every time I have to go up there. #mm…irrational.
@cryanathus (yeah that’s me – follow it): @AnneWheaton: I haven’t been in my attic in 3 years. I understand. There’s things I want up there, too. I just can’t do it.
It was at this point that my heart was beating ferociously. What if she was swept away by my incredible wit? What if she sat down to dinner that night with the man and said “Hey Wil, check out this hilarious guy from the Internet!?” I was legit nervous. I had to make a good impression. You know the feeling – like when you have to call someone on the phone and order a pizza.
Wait. You don’t get nervous doing that? Christ, you’ve got balls.
Anyway… much to the chagrin of my heart palpitations, a few minutes went by, and right when I started to let my guard down and assume our little adventure had run its course, she REPLIED!
@AnneWheaton: @cryanathus Maybe take a buddy. What attic creature would attack someone in pairs?
At this point, I was totally going around pounding my chest because the wife of one of my idols sent me a message. ME! THIS GUY! I was becoming somebody quicker than I could comprehend. I pocketed my enthusiasm long enough to type another message. (BTW, it’s also cute she thinks I have buddies.)
@cryanathus: @AnneWheaton: Well its just a hole, no ladder or anything. What if my head is already bitten off before they’re through? Messy for the buddy.
And then, she spoke again! This meant that the past 90 seconds of her life were, at least to some degree, focused on me.
@AnneWheaton: @cryanathus: Now that’s a serious concern. I say, go in with helmets on & light sabers to fend off attackers & have 911 on speed dial!
This was it. I was on my way. I had just launched this new blog that week, and a big batch of the inspiration to can my old site and reboot with a new format came from this woman’s husband. And now, just a few days later, a sentence that I typed was appearing either
1) In his home
2) In his wife’s pocket on her phone
3) On the main viewer, magnification 20x, hailing frequencies open.
Regardless, I was getting pretty sure of myself. Communicating directly with a woman who married a guy I really think is rad was a giant first step to launching my career as something other than my current career, and becoming world famous. Or at least niche semi-famous. Or known by more living beings than my dogs and the fat lady next door who shouts at her lawn and burns pieces of her above ground pool in her fire pit.
I had to tell someone about this. I started an IM chat with a female friend of mine:
Me: Hey guess what
Female Friend: hm?
Me: You’re talking to a guy who just had a 2-line, 140 character conversation with a certain former galactic ensign’s spouse
Me: That’s right
Me: I just got an @reply from Wil Wheaton’s wife
Me: Who the fuck are you and what have YOU done today?
Female Friend: lol
Me: That’s what i thought
Female Friend: damn
Me: I know
Female Friend: I was going to send you a link to something that amused me, but now I feel inadequate
Me: This is pretty much my finest hour. You are inadequate. Your link will not impress me.
Female Friend: Exactly
Me: I talk to Anne Wheaton for Christ’s sake. Grab a mop, peasant.
All of this happened on the same day that Mr. Wheaton was visiting Seattle for a little something at Elliot Bay Books. Seattle happens to be where this Female Friend of mine resides, so I asked why she wasn’t down there watching him. After all, if he ever made the long journey to Pittsburgh, I’d be there. Naked. With a bowl of something vegetarian.
Female Friend: Working
That was her answer. I know, right? The face you are making right now is the same one I made. I reprimanded her for dispensing such a garbage excuse. I was also working at the time, which I barely felt was a legitimate excuse for why I wasn’t there. And I live 2,200 miles away.
Then she tried to send me that link anyway.
Me: I dont have time to look at your link right now. Despite what you’d assume, it turns out people who speak to Anne Wheaton still have to work for a living. I just logged into my bank account and still don’t have any money, and my Klout score hasn’t gone up a single point.
Female Friend: What!?
Female Friend: That’s bs.
She was clearly patronizing me at this point. A little tip from me – that’s a trait you should avoid as a person. It’s rude and comes with an element of deceit. It’s a Ferengi way to talk to people, quite frankly, and it’s disgusting. It also breaks Wheaton’s law.
The conversation was obviously in need of repair, and I wasn’t about to let Anne Wheaton’s image be scraped across the concrete like some rusty old prison chain. I started to stretch things at this point… (Wil, if you read this, don’t hate me. I’m married, too. And I’m pretty sure you still talk to Michael Dorn and that frightens me.)
Me: Yeah well, Anne and I are pretty much in love. She tweeted something about dog farts right after her last reply to me, which is obviously a signal. Like a doe putting out its estrus. She wants my attention. At minimum.
Female Friend: Right
Me: I don’t think you’re taking any of this seriously. We are going to be a couple. I’m glaring at my screen, but really it’s at you. Know that.
Female Friend: I totally am taking it seriously. jeez… just because I’m not married to Wil Wheaton…
Me: You say that like every woman doesn’t want to be married to Wil Wheaton. Every man, for that matter.
Female Friend: I’m still coming to grips with the idea that he’s still relevant.
That was it. If there were capital exclamation points, I’d have used one of those.
Me: I see what you’re doing here. You’re trying to make yourself feel better for settling for less than Wil Wheaton. But dear, you’re a great person, and this really isn’t becoming on you. You’ve just made some bad decisions.
That was the last I heard from my friend that evening.
The next morning I made my work buddy (also a Wheaton fan) pour my coffee for me and informed her I would need addressed as “Mr. Saporito” henceforth. The latter part didn’t happen.
This was also the last conversation I had with Anne on Twitter, despite sending her at least five @replies since then. She’s so coy. (You know where to find me.)
Enough. I’m off to see if I can get Genie Francis to talk with me about raking leaves.