Gloria and Julia

Disney made her famous in a movie about a hooker with a heart for Richard Gere and a mighty mane of hair. Oh, the irony! Playing a sweetly tragic figure amidst an all-star cast of strong Southern belles garnered her first Oscar buzz. She began a love affair with American audiences, revealing her vulnerability and charm - and that throbbing vein which appears in her forehead during moments of extreme emotional duress - in a series of romantic comedies. But, she would fight her way past a murderously abusive husband, beyond great pizza and a waitress gig back East, through a notorious crowd of John Grisham bad guys, over Peter Pan's head, and land smack-dab into a water-filled Wonderbra before nabbing the golden dude and triumphantly raising him high overhead, her trademark grin and hearty guffaw traveling 'round the world in the blink of the television's eye. It was a night to remember. And, I do, proud as I was of her. (I actually clipped the photo of her win from the newspaper the next morning and taped it into my address book. I see it just about every day . . . there's quite a few cards and letters leaving this house with my handwriting on the envelope.) You know her. Most of you love her. Of course, it could be none other than Miss Julia Roberts.

Now, I'm not a rabid fan. Not an obsessed stalker of all things bright and wonderfully Julia. I do, however, find her entertaining, enchanting, and enjoyable. Put her on a magazine cover; chances are good it'll end up in my living room Advertise her newest film; I will buy a ticket. She won me over with that girlish smile; those teeth not Hollywood perfect but perfect for her full mouth, her expressive eyes, her wonderfully wavy tresses. From the beginning, her lanky grace gave me permission to feel comfortable even as I admired her slim figure. There was that faintest trace of awkward hovering at the edges of her beauty, something which said, "I know you think I'm pretty, but I've got flaws just like anyone else." It made her all the more endearing.

Fast forward to the present. This Georgia peach shines in her roles of wife and mother to three, including twins. Appearances on 'Oprah' and multiple other TV interview forums not withstanding, she continues to give off a slight vibe of discomfort with the process, preferring to remain at home with her family, her sunflowers, her knitting of myriad items for friends and relatives. She has homes in New Mexico and New York. Running keeps her fit. The movie roles she chooses stretch her beyond the four walls of the 'America's sweetheart' box. And, she can more than afford to be selective. Her interests have matured with experience as one would hope of any sensible and interesting adult role model in the spotlight. Recycling, concern for wildlife and people worldwide, and energy conservation are all high on her list of values she desires to pursue and pass down to her children. All admirable and resume worthy characteristics. In fact, I could create a fine resume if ever she found herself in need. (I won't wait for that knock at my door.)

But, really, my connection to Miss Roberts extends in an altogether different direction. For reasons which to this day yet elude me, people have looked into my face and found a bit of the familiar there . . . specifically, a bit of Julia. This movement sprouted wings with the release of 'Steel Magnolias.' It took flight when 'Pretty Woman' hit the big screen, BIG TIME. I even cut my long hair somewhere in between but the comparisons continued. Of course, there was never any offense taken. How could I not enjoy the mistaken, er, identity? I often conjectured that there was some element of my behavior, a facial tick or physical quirk, which triggered whatever connection people formed between me and the woman who dated bratty Benjamin for a splendid moment in time. (Is he not a superb example of the human adult male species?) That had to be it because our features, taken individually, bear no uncanny resemblances. Though I possess brown eyes not unattractive in their own right, and my dazzling array of perfect-for-my-pucker teeth does more good than harm, I'm simply not, nor have I ever been, a reasonable facsimile thereof!

I must confess that this sameness game, this kinship of the familiar, has been rather amusing at odd moments. The very best example played out while I was in hard labor with my third child, Zachary. My husband, of Hispanic origins, compact and broad-shouldered with a good layer of muscle, dark hair and deep brown eyes, was my constant companion as the time drew ever near for the birthing portion of our program. Two maternity nurses staffed the department; they just about beck-and-called me to death. There was a memorable moment whereby a second urine sample was requested right about the time my contractions ceased to be pleasant reminders of the miracle of child birth and became annoyingly intense reasons to call the whole thing off or let daddy take the wheel. This duplicate was needed to replace the first specimen, the one collected when I could actually walk and pee without accidentally releasing additional items from my nether regions. Why? It spilled. When I think spill, I think milk, juice, tap water. How does one knock over a capped container holding the contents of my bladder? But, I digress.

One nurse in particular was gifted with more personality in her diminutive form than was probably reasonable. Our very own dynamo, ready to work and get it done - and all with a smile and a good word. Several good words. Words that we often did not quite understand as she was of Asian origin and spoke with a strong accent in rapid bursts. She darted in and out of our birthing room, checking my progress (is that what we call it now?) via multiple pairs of latex gloves - the loud SNAP as they went on and off her hands a sudden distraction in the midst of my focus and visualization (you try to picture the constricting band of pressure and pain bearing down on your uterus as a wave over which you are floating as you systematically release tension in each digit and extremity). Twice, she entered the room looking a bit perplexed as she gazed intently at the both of us before leaving just as quickly. The third time, she swept in, breathless, victory evident upon her broad friendly face. Pointing at me - the me who is sweating profusely and deep-breathing through a rather aggressive squeeze of my midsection - she exclaimed, "I know! I know!," she paused to inhale, "You-u, Julia W-o-berts," she turned and aimed the same self-assured finger at Jimmy, "but he no Lyle Lovett!" We looked at her, stunned, unsure how this could be happening, right here and right now, as she beamed at us, pleased at solving the puzzle which had so obviously plagued her, and turned on her size 5 crepe-soled shoes to hightail it out of there. That was almost fourteen years ago. I can't recall the exact time our son entered the world (to be fair, the welcome shock of delivering a boy overwhelmed my senses - my husband had spent the entire pregnancy gamely trying NOT to wish for a man child, knowing three was our cut-off point, tubal ligation here I come) but the J.R. story remains crystal clear. In retrospect, what's so terrible about resembling a glamorous movie star while bearing down?

Now, suppose I told you I actually went toe-to-toe with Julia Roberts? Just suppose my husband and I took a trip for our 20th anniversary to New York City in March of this year. Further, suppose my daily write-in request for seats to an already capacity-crowd taping of 'Live With Regis & Kelly' paid off with a surprise call from a rep at the studio who promised us seats on March 18th, the day of our anniversary. Supposition reaches a critical point when I ask you to suspend your disbelief as I present you with a scenario whereby my sweet spouse calls one afternoon before our trip to inform me I will never guess who is making her first ever appearance before King Regis on March 18th with us in the audience. Talk about your six degrees of separation! Happy Anniversary to me!

What transpired next is a tale of extreme excitement and willful woe. And, it, along with you, must wait for the next installation. Until then, may your car corner on a dime and you laugh until you pee your pants!