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.

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!