Its 12:05 and the Good Morning America folks still haven’t arrived. My poor mother has practically glued herself to the kitchen window (she’s keeping watch for any sign of the film crew), and I feel like a high school senior stood up on prom night.
“Maybe they’re not coming?” I venture.
It has, after all, been several days since I’ve spoken to the producer. I thought we’d settled on Tuesday at noon but I was so busy setting things up for a photo shoot with The Inquirer that I didn’t realize the weekend had come and gone with nary a word from Good Morning America.
“I should have called them to confirm,” I continue. “But I didn’t even think of it until this morning!”
“It is what it is,” my mother says, “these things happen. And you can’t even get mad because then you’ll never get another TV appearance.”
I decide, as I always decide when faced with such matters, that I’ll add it to the list. Not the list of desirable qualities in a mate, but the list of humiliating anecdotes that I’ll eventually work into a speech someday, once I’m truly an accomplished writer and am asked to give a key note address to a crowd of young hopefuls.
“Back when I was 26,” I’ll tell them, “I got a call from one of the producers at Good Morning America requesting an interview for a segment on ‘single bridezillas.’ I spent four hours ironing my grandmother’s wedding dress and practicing my very best sound-bites. I dragged my poor mother to every Produce Junction within a thirty mile radius and spent a fortune on flowers so that the producers could film her making mock centerpieces. I bought a brand new cashmere sweater to wear for the shoot and woke up at the crack of dawn to do my hair and would you believe it? The bastards never showed.”
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.
“I see cameras!” my mother exclaims. “They’re here!”
And so begins the slow process of transforming Casa Richter into a bone fide film set: cameras, lights, tripods, microphones, more lights, more cameras… I can’t quite believe how much stuff there is.
Nor can I believe how many people are involved. There’s the camera guy, the producer (who’s nearly eight months pregnant) and finally “the talent,” a highly made-up blonde who puts my own attempts at proper eye shadow application to shame.
They seem to think I know what I’m doing, probably because I’ve got my very best “Development” face on (thanks to my days in the fundraising office at the Walnut Street Theatre) and I’m offering everyone tea and coffee like I do this sort of thing all the time but really, I’m scared out of my wits and I’d really like somebody to tell me what’s going on like the producer for last month’s CNBC shoot did.
Before I know it, I’ve got a microphone up my sweater, hooked onto my necklace, and I’m holding a white piece of paper towel in front of my face.
“Closer” the camera guy instructs.
I move the paper towel closer.
“Closer!” he says again.
The blonde, who’s to conduct the interview just smiles, but I can tell what she’s really thinking. She’s thinking “Jesus Christ! This girl doesn’t have a clue!”
At last, the white balance (or whatever it’s called…) is set and we’re ready to roll.
Three hours later, we’ve finally made it to the finish line. And I’ve nailed it.
At least I think I’ve nailed it.
Who knows what the editing process will entail—I’ll probably end up looking like a complete lunatic on national television and The Wedding Date will decide that he wants nothing to do with me, but I’ve agreed to finish watching Star Wars with him on Friday and I am, despite my previous aversion to all things intergalactic, quite curious about the ending, so let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
PS: I believe the segment is scheduled to air on Friday… will keep you posted!
- And Now the Producers Want to Talk to My “Boyfriend” (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- Blogging and Boyfriends Do Not Mix (fieldworkinstilettos.com)