I'm not worthy...

The shoes

Wendy is TOUCHING me!

Is that my MOM dancing with Wanya?

I am still fumbling around in my post-Wendy fog (and post-K visit depression), making this Monday particularly difficult. Where, oh where do I begin describing my experience at The Experience*, dear readers? Do I begin at four forty-five in the morning, when I arose to start meticulously blowing out my hair and putting on enough makeup to make the kind gentleman who held the door for me at Starbucks later that morning think I was coming off my night shift on the local street corner? Do I detail my wardrobe crisis, trying decide between several cute sleeveless tops, which wound up being an exercise in futility, as the studio was so cold and I had such bad flop sweats I wound up wearing the frumpy sweater I had grabbed as an insulating layer for the long wait outside the studio in the arctic cold? In any case, K, Chrissy and I arrived at Wendy's studios at the bright and early hour of seven thirty, primped, dressed and caffeinated, ready to meet Wendy.

My first objective was to find Kemar, the lovely, gay production assistant I had been speaking to over the phone. After being told the production people would find us, I spotted a fabulous little black man entering the building and told my sister, "If that's not Kemar, you're straight" and at this point decided I had better change into my Wendy-appropriate foot gear. I had determined that between the sub-zero windchill and the skyscraper height of my heels, I was sure to wind up with painful frozen stumps for feet if I wore the pony shoes before the show and had schlumped around Manhattan in my flats with the ponies hidden in my handbag. So using K for support, I climbed into my shoes before Kemar could get one look at my Payless ballet flats and say, "Um, just, NO."

The suspected-Kemar came traipsing down the street moments after my wardrobe change and as he passed us I trilled, "Excuse me? Are you Kemar?", and after he answered in the affirmative, I screeched, "I'm Mary!!!" to which he screeched, "Hey girl!!" and gave me big hug. No mean feet as I was a good two feet taller than he in my stilettos. Oh, how I enjoy flamboyant gay man love. I was checked in and my next step toward getting Wendy face time was to obtain the green light from the producers.

We were finally let into the waiting room of the studio where we were surrounded by hot pink walls and purple benches. It seems my purple top was, indeed, the right choice. I ran to the restroom to check hair and makeup and the stability of my flop-sweat absorbers. As you all know, I sweat like a man, which only gets worse when I am unnerved, and to prevent making a fool out of myself on national television, I had slapped two pantyliners under each armpit to absorb any wayward perspiration, which I would remove right before the cameras rolled. Hair? Good. Makeup? Still slutty. Pits of shirt? Still dry.

After emerging from the bathroom, K, Chrissy and I were herded into a holding area for "Ask Wendy" guests. I was introduced to a David Arquette-looking producer who asked me about my question, checked me out for obvious signs of crazy, as I flashed my best " nice white girl who can expand your demographics" smile, and was told in the final five minutes before the show my name would be called - or not. The suspense was killing me. But before I could dwell too long on the horror of possibly making it this far without seeing my idol, yet another producer grabbed the three of us for a "rehearsal".

If I hadn't mentioned it already, the guests for the show were to be Margaret Cho and 90's R&B sensation Boyz II Men. We were beside ourselves with anticipation of great gay comedy and Caucasian-beloved R&B. Sadly, Cho canceled, but the rehearsal we were pulled into was for BIIM. We were seated in two rows of chairs placed right in front of the stage, I behind an empty seat. Initially excited by the prospect of such close proximity to fun music, we quickly learned that this would be the "Slow Jam" portion of the performance, with all the vocal acrobatics and finger waving that entails. Wondering how we would keep interested faces on for the cameras, the three of us were told to return to these seats when called. But who was the empty seat in front of me for? WENDY. Huzzah! Even if I didn't get to speak to her, I would at least be able to touch her weave. Back to the waiting area we went.

Five minutes to show time and Kemar gets all five feet of himself up on a chair and starts calling names. The names of the chosen. "Please pick me, please pick me", I chant in my head and behold, my name is called, and we are ushered in to be assigned our aisle seats. And let the flop sweats commence! Upon entering the meat locker of a studio, my sweat glands were not daunted, and despite my best efforts, my pits were becoming a veritable Niagara Falls of perspiration. It seems the frumpastic sweater was going to have to stay. Not even the distraction of watching K participate in, and win, a pre-show dance contest was enough to calm my nerves. Then David Arquette shows up again and wants me to pretend he's Wendy and ask my question. He starts tweaking it, telling me to introduce myself to Wendy, make sure I tell her I have three small kids, not just "kids", and don't call my sister "gay", say "how you doin?", did I have all that? Could I do it again? Aaaah!!! Stop freaking me out and go get Courtney more Botox!!!! After screwing up three of four times I finally got it down, but could I really do this? Sweat, sweat, sweat. God, help me!

Two minutes to air and nothing exists but the words Arquette wants me to say. I rehearse them again and again in my head. But then the lights go up, the music pumps, the doors open, and there she is - WENDY! For those of you who didn't watch, the look on my face and the uncontrollable flailing of my arms is akin to that teenage girl they always show as The Beatles stepped onto the tarmac at JFK. All thought of my nerves vanished and I just started to have fun. We danced, we laughed, Wendy even told me she "loved my shoes" on one trip up our aisle. I sat behind Wendy for that tortuous slow jam, and controlled myself, her weave none the wiser as to how close it came to being molested. And as the Boyz left the stage Wendy tosses out, "After the break? ASK WENDY!!!" Cue wave of terror.

Arquette shows up to rehearse me again. Gah! Leave me alone! But I nail it this time. I am instructed to stay standing as the rest of the audience is given the two minute warning and told to take their seats. My heart races, my legs start to shake and knees lock and all I can envision is my going down like a sack of potatoes and snatching Wendy's wig off as I try to break my fall. I decide the only way to stop from passing out is to dance and get some blood flowing. So I start breakin' it down like the white girl I am, looking like I'm having the time of my life, when all I can feel is panic.

How do I describe that minute and a half? It was pretty much like Ralphie speaking to Santa in A Christmas Story, all foggy and strange. I manage to get my question out, adding in an redundant "small children" halfway through (happy now, David?) and then did not listen to any of Wendy's answer. Everyone told me afterward I looked so serious listening to her, but really I was thinking to myself, "Please stop talking Wendy, so they can get this camera off of me", feeling my face heat up, knowing I am turning the shade of the walls - my other favorite nervous reaction. After watching it at home I guess I didn't do too badly, despite some people claiming I spoke with a heavy Jersey accent (you know who you are).

So once that part of the show was over I really started to enjoy myself. I laughed at other people's questions and during the commercial break I had to tap Wendy on the arm and tell her how much I love her. After thanking me, she pointed to my thyroidectomy scar and asked, "Do you have thyroid issues?" After affirming this, she says, "That's a good cut!" (shout out Dr. Cusamano!) After showing me her pit sweat (ironic, no?) I told her, "pantyliners!", but then she told me they fall down and you look like you have four boobs. Now do you see why I love her?

To close out the show, Boyz II Men came back out to sing their greatest hit "Motown Philly" and, unbeknownst to us, were going to be singing in the audience - right next to us! - which we realized when Wanya (pronounced Wan-YAY, apparently) popped up in the aisle with a microphone. Watch me get down with my bad self as I revel in music I danced to in fraternity basements almost twenty years ago (shout out Phi Delts!). I really could not look whiter as I sang along, "Boyz II Men, ABC, BBD!!!" and did the white girl shuffle. PS, I now dance like my mom.

So the show wraps up, Wendy thanks us all for coming and we find ourselves out on the street in the harsh light of day, holding a free Boyz II Men CD, feeling like we've been spit out by a six foot tall, wig-wearing, hot pink tornado. The real world seemed so drab, so quiet, so devoid of peppy soundtrack. At least we had the added bonus of getting to relive it all once we got home!

Two hours later, K, Chrissy and I are back home with Italian heroes (OK, maybe I am from Jersey now since I didn't call them wedges), remote in hand, ready to see our TV debut. For those of you who missed it, it was seriously ridiculous how much camera time we got. Almost every audience reaction shot includes us. Or perhaps it's our shining whiteness. Even if the majority of the audience hadn't been African American, our almost-lavender-paleness paired with the red hair turns out to be a magnet for the eye. I also came away with some observations. You know how you watch talk shows and you think the audience in the shot is looking up at themselves on the monitor? They're not. They're reading along on the teleprompter. I didn't even see a monitor where I could check out if my flop sweat was apparent, even if I wanted to, but I do look like I'm checking myself out. Also, if you go to a talk show, be aware you will never know when you are on camera. Evidence? I had no idea I was in the closing shot of the show, the caffeine and adrenaline had worn off and I had a decidedly sour, I-need-a-nap face on. Not attractive. In other news, I really do have my father's nose, and I should have worn my retainer more often since two of my teeth are visibly recessing.

So other than hard, televised evidence of my physical flaws, this was one of my top ten days of all time. Possibly top five, after the kids' births and the day H and I married. I have watched this episode numerous times, not because I want to watch myself, but because I want to relive the feeling. Now if only my real life could take place in a hot pink room with a leopard print floor where fabulous shoes are a requirement. If only...

*The name of Wendy's former radio show.