I was minding my own business Monday when out of the blue an intriguing offer landed in my in-box.  It was from an enthusiastic editor at a major daily paper who's building a roster of bloggers (actually faux-bloggers, or "floggers" — which is what we call real writers disguised as bloggers) for a new "Community Voices" section of the online edition.  He wondered if I might consider joining the line-up in some capacity.

I have to say, I was flattered.  I really was.  Completely bewildered, but flattered.  He was charming and sincerely excited about the project.  It was like being asked to the prom by a handsome stranger who had no idea what I looked like in drag (it ain't pretty, sister).  A delightful discussion ensued about the color of the dress and what kind of corsage.  It was just like Cinderella. 

He told me to send in a photo (a head shot, he emphasized) and a brief bio, and he'd get back to me when they were up and ready to roll. 

Oh. My. God.  I'm going to the prom! 

Prince Charming, and little ol' me? you say.  Well, dreams do come true in Boston after all, girls!   

I made myself beautiful, snapped a photo, and set straight to work on my bio. 

I got stuck at Miss Cherry Bomb Indiana, 1993.  And should I mention the fact that there's a dance named after me in Hungary?  How about my stint as Mr. Wednesday on Manhunt?  I mean, I didn't want to brag on myself.  I didn't want to outshine my colleagues.

That gave me the bright idea to actually turn to my esteemed would-be colleagues in "Community Voices" for clues as to what of my vast experience and professional portfolio to include.  That's when I realized these were not your average bloggers.  In fact, they're billed as "auteurs" in their bios. 

One had climbed Mt. Everest 37 times — 18 of them with the Dalai Lama on his back — and written 107 books! 

Another had graduated from the Sorbonne — twice!  Had figured out the ending to The Sixth Sense, like, two minutes into it.  And had slept with Stephen Hawking!  (Talk about an accomplishment.)

There was also a roller derby world champion with degrees from Brown, Columbia, Cornell, Dartmouth, Harvard, Princeton, the University of Pennsylvania, and Yale; a lead singer in the most famous zolo band in the world who had also counted to a billion (which took him 31 years, 251 days, 7 hours, 46 minutes, and 39 seconds); a novelist who had typed his latest — about a struggling astronaut's battle with deep-space bulimia — with his feet while standing on one hand and chain-smoking with the other; two Supreme Court Justices; a reincarnated Buddha; and a talking cat.

I would definitely have to bring my A Game.  So I pulled an all-nighter hammering out my bio... 

Mike Mennonno was born in 1969, and obtained his drivers license from the Indianapolis BMV, Broadripple Branch, in 1986.  In 1993 he won the title of Miss Cherry Bomb Indiana in a very tight contest.  The same year he won the Tuesday Night Tallapoosa County Wet T-Shirt Contest Honorable Mention, and got free wings for him and his buddies all night, a more than thirty dollar value.  After that there were several years of soul-searching, similar in some respects to Jesus's Missing Years.  In 1996 he turned up in a former Eastern Bloc capital, where they named a dance after him.  A lot of people don't understand how difficult it is to get a dance named after you in the former Eastern Bloc, especially as a foreigner.  But whatever.  After that there were more Missing Years, spent mostly in public parks and airport men's rooms.  Oh, did I mention in, like, 1990 he met Richard Simmons, who was promoting Sweatin' to the Oldies 3 at a Mall in Hoboken (NOT in the men's room, though)?  And last but not least, as recently as April 2010, he was Manhunt's Mr. Wednesday.

I figured I'd nailed it.

So I was surprised and a little chagrined when shortly after I hit the "send button" I received word that they were going to, um, "move on in considering others". 

And *poof!* so ended my Cinderella story, as quickly and mysteriously (even magically, perhaps) as it had begun just three days before.  Frankly, I feel a little bit like the girl who got invited to the prom as a cruel joke in one of those early '80s "After-School Specials." Or Carrie.


I don't know if it was the bio (did I overshare?), or if maybe someone just actually read my blog and decided it was not Community Voicey enough in the end.  Or maybe it was the head shot.  Oh my god, did I just sext you? 

Maybe I got punk'd (if so, I would really like to hear it straight from Ashton Kutcher — or, really, any other Ashton would probably work).

Whatever the case, short of a Betty White-style Facebook intervention, it looks like I'll be mopping up here at mennonno sapiens while the mean girls are giving blowjobs at the prom.  God, it's like high school all over again.