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!
Showing posts with label NYC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NYC. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
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!
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!
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