I stood there, surrounded by mounds of flavored icings paying homage to traditional and classic sweet treats, the warm comfort of baking an alluring presence, unable to savor the moment. For a month, my fantasies of New York included at least one visit to a famous bakery for a cupcake adventure! Now, cupcakes, bedecked in yummy goodness, practically shouted my name as I congregated with our little group in front of the glass display counter at the 'Magnolia Bakery' on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We were mere blocks from the ABC studio where earlier the flavor of my day had gone decidedly sour. My husband selected two thick peanut butter cookies and asked after my needs. Numb to the matter at hand, not fully aware of where my trudging feet had transported me, I pointed a heavy finger toward a grouping of mini-cheesecakes, willing him to get the pumpkin. Directing his eyes to a spot further down where Red Velvet screamed bloody murder from under a white cap , I sighed, "I guess one of those, too." I won't eat them for hours and by then they'll be warm and soggy. This, however, will NOT deter me; I will thoroughly lick the creamy filling and crust crumbs from my crimson-stained fingers, having recovered my dignity . . . or at least a decent portion of it. But, I've ventured ahead. Let's back up.
My date with destiny ala Julia Roberts began with a hurried but exciting early morning subway ride, moving efficiently from the business district to places up north. Jimmy and I scanned the line waiting outside the studio on 67th and Columbus Avenue for Cousin Jody and her family. We were thrilled to discover they had found their way to the head of the line! Kids 10 and older were allowed. Her teenage son fit the bill, no question; her little girl, though smarter than most 10-year olds I know, was decidedly under age. But, they wanted to try and slip her in. (The staff rep from LIVE was very gracious with us, offering extra tickets if we had more in our party; this was serendipitous as we learned via Facebook that our relatives were also vacationing in the 'City That Never Sleeps.) They hated to break up the family, and their daughter did know how to mind her p's and q's. Plus, the little miss had her business DOWN. She reviewed her litany of credible information, "I'm in 4th grade. I was born in 1999," just in case questions came her way. However, her delightful smile and sparkling energy charmed the two older gentleman screeners and she was through with a flash of teeth and girlish giggles! Somewhat of a stickler for the rules, I nonetheless deferred to their judgment on the matter of a little white lie. (I smuggle my own popcorn and dark chocolate into movies; there are gray areas.) If it went down badly, I'd ask security to go easy on them. After listening to the young one's rendition of her false bio once again, I looked her dad in the eye and asked, "We're going to hell for this, aren't we, Matt?!" Per his usual response to my amusing over-reactions, he just grinned and rolled his eyes.
My carefully chosen wardrobe option - a guileless June Cleaver-type dress, with buttons up the front and a narrow turned-down collar, which skimmed my waist and flared fully to mid-calf, done in tiny white polka dots scattered over a background of navy blue, just missing the pearls and modest heels - betrayed my nerves as a deeper shade of blue took hold in my armpits. Lovely. Thank the Lord we wouldn't be clapping with our hands overhead! I did a mental scan of my own story to tell - the amusing one which was sure to elicit that famous throaty laugh from the super-special guest o' the day. I felt a twinge of uncertainty, unsure how best to convey our oft-mentioned resemblance without coming across as conceited or somewhat stalkerish. (It SHOULD be a word!) There was no way around it; the birth-story would fall flat without a touch of background.
We made it into the studio - first catching a glimpse of Leann Rimes, almost too thin in her slinky green mini-dress - and hurried to our seats. Though the camera boom interrupted our line-of-sight, our location put us close to the action. The lawyers and producers ran their spiel; the almost entirely adult audience practiced clapping (yes-s-s we did!); the music cued; and, the king and queen of morning television swept into the studio. Regis was every bit the venerable gentleman as expected. Kelly was even smaller than she appeared on television. My not-so-very-tall and quite lean 13-year old son might have a few pounds on her. They executed their co-banter, cracking jokes, chatting up the St. Patty's Parade, bringing down 'the wheel' and calling one lucky viewer for the question and prize segment, and finally paused for the commercial break before the first guest. Heck, let's be truthful, before the ONLY guest in my book! (My husband, excited as he was for me, was ready for Ms. Rimes. He's a fan. It was amazing how that particular episode, on our 20th anniversary day, managed to round up the two guests each of us would love to catch sight of - though it turned out Leann came not to sing but to promote a Hallmark Channel romance movie!)
And then . . it was time. Gelman, Regis' go-to guy and executive producer of the program, not to mention the butt of a good many amusing stories, whipped us - the live audience - into a frenzy, signaling the all-important double-clap. The man cracks a long whip with his yoga-trained body. Back on the air. The all-important intro signified that their famous guest had entered the building as the camera panned stage left. Finally, without so much as a spotlight, Julia made her premier entrance on the most famous of all morning shows, all coltish legs, highlighted hair, and bedazzling teeth. Clever girl, she wore a dark pants suit over a cream-colored shell, set off by bronze heels which seemed sculpted to her feet (she chose them in honor of Kelly - the true shoe maven) She waved to us, arms raised high. No dark stains to report. There was absolutely no need to cue the crowd to double clap!
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