Julia Takes The Cake Pt. 2

Normally, I'm able to master my nerves when I'm called to center stage. No, I can't help that I sweat like a wildebeest being chased by a pride of lions. (I sang at my best friend's wedding, er, no Julia-reference intended, but was perspiring so profusely beforehand that my husband had to wipe me down. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and followed me to a small back room just off the front of the church stage. I proceeded to reveal the areas in need of dabbing as he went about his appointed rounds. The priest was a bit taken aback when he opened the door to his private quarters and chanced upon me, my bridesmaid gown up around my head, with my husband bent down, absorbing my excess moisture!) But, I suck it up, inhale, focus, and lose myself in the task on the exhale.

My nerves, however, had never met Julia Roberts, Regis and Kelly, and the high-strung, hands-a-constantly-flappin' Michael Gelman - ALL simultaneously! My nerves never had to contend with commercial breaks and time constraints. My nerves . . . well, they just never!

The famous trio, perched on their chairs, positioned just so for the cameras, talked just as they should on a 'talk' show. The subject matter escapes me. I could review the tape but I won't. Eventually, the music swelled and LIVE was off the air. Descending into the audience to mingle with us commoners, they posed for pictures and made polite small talk with various folks. This was the moment to speak. "Julia!" There. It was done. Heads turned, including hers, and my eyes beheld her countenance. Everyone went silent. I noted Gelman in my peripheral view, constant in his holy vigil of the clock, and suddenly realized my rendition was too long. I felt the pressure of his eyes as they bore into the stars of the show. And then I spoke. I'm not clear on exactly what I said. What I do know is that I flubbed my lines in very hasty fashion. Somewhere in there was the grain of the story, mixed, mashed, and messed. I called my husband my son, making it sound as if I birthed my own spouse. I chickened out on the Asian accent which was crucial to the humor. I hesitated over mentioning Lyle Lovett because she was now married to Daniel Moder. I failed to mention the lookalike factor. Though I had reeled off this anecdote countless times to the amusement of every attentive ear, including my church pastor, I fell flat on my face before the very person I'd always hoped to tell.

I watched in horror as her face transformed from friendly smile to confused frown to an expression which told me I'd lost her. My tale stumbled and mumbled to a pitiful end and the words hung in the air for a moment. The merest of painful moments. Then, true to her training, Julia filled the void with a wide-eyed look at my fellow spectators, "I didn't understand a WORD she said. Did you?" The crowd laughed and Regis exclaimed, "Me neither, Julia. Let's kick her OUT of here!" The 'out' carried the emphatic thrust, that well-known and well-loved mid-sentence shout he does so often. A flurry of activity followed as places were taken for the return of the live feed . . . and I was left to bask in the red-cheeked glow of my mortification. A quick glance to my left revealed pity in the eyes of both my husband and our cousin. Their well-meaning attempts to alleviate my humiliation might as well have been stones thrown at a concrete wall. I pasted a smile on my face and spoke around the ball of cotton which seemed to have manifested in my mouth. Julia bade a friendly farewell as her interview wrapped up. She had survived her big challenge of the day, unwittingly at my expense. But, I knew her offhand remark intended no harm, no foul. She merely did her job. From what she says, public appearances are not her favorite activity to begin with. I was one of thousands of strangers who peppered her with requests and stories every day of her public life.

The rest of the taping was a blur. Cousin Jody parlayed a couple of shout-outs to Kelly and Regis into great exchanges, ribbing him about his use of 'roids (cortico-steroid injections for pain) and praising her for sporting 'big guns' (her arms rock, r-o-c-k). The big guy even caught my eye and exclaimed, "Oh, don't ask her anything. She's trouble!" When our petite blond hostess declared she could execute more push-ups than most women, I didn't even bother to accept the challenge. I was utterly deflated. A human crepe. Wile E. Coyote after the anvil dropped. My chest without a padded bra. You get the idea.

I spent the remainder of our day with the cousins in NYC trying to be of good cheer. I waded through my regretful 'if-only' scenarios: if only I had merely stated that today was our 20th anniversary and there could be no better present than to see Julia Roberts in the flesh and in the company of Philbin and Rippa. She could have gone on smiling, issued a thanks, and the audience would have 'cue-less-ly' ooohed and aaahed. If only! If only she had sent out an assistant to escort me back to her dressing room so she could properly hear the telling of my charming tale. I'd be rewarded with that whooping laugh she's unleashed on Oprah and David Letterman. If only!

We wandered for hours in the cavernous endless halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We sought and found the popular 'Gray's Papaya' hot dogs, wolfing them down with Regis' blessing (he mentioned them numerous times on TV), before returning to our respective hotels to dress for dinner at 'Tavern on the Green.' By then, my mood and objectivity had settled considerably. Learning that Cousin Matt had wanted to pop America's Sweetheart for embarrassing me went a long way toward improving my attitude. Not that I wanted him to accost a movie star on my behalf, but what a sweet convoluted thought. Our conversation and outstanding wine selection made for a superb close to an odd big-day in the big city; the food was just average, especially for the premium cost. But, that was in keeping with the tone of the day, too.

Later that night - interpreted in New York as 2AM - as I released my tensions and sank into the best hotel mattress, heck, the best mattress, with which I've ever had the pleasure to acquaint myself, we rehashed our experiences. It was much easier to reveal how awful I felt over the Julia fiasco in the darkness of our suite. My husband for one-fifth of a century, my loving man, my baby, pulled me to his chest and murmured against my hair, "I felt so sorry for you when she said that. It made me feel terrible knowing you were hurting over it. I know it was important, and IT IS a good story, a really good story. Just remember, you had the attention of one of the biggest stars on the planet. She looked at you and listened to you. Who cares if it didn't come out as planned," he hugged me tightly and I could actually HEAR him smile, "Not many people can say that. It's a story, either way. You talked to Julia Roberts."

And, you know what? He's right. I did.

Maybe another rare, providential, planetary-alignment-type occurrence will crash onto my path and once again lead me to intersect with Julia in the future. You can bet I'll tell her the entire story . . . because it is a really good story.