Let's make a deal...or no deal

Yeah, it's been a while. Since my last post, I've changed apartments, changed cities, changed cars, and changed my job position. With all this stuff finally behind me, I finally feel like I'm getting my life back to normal. Of course, normal is a relative term in my life, especially in the city of Los Angeles.

For example, now that I no longer have a hideously long commute every day, I discovered I have a lot of free time. More so than the average person, in fact. Which means I need to find meaningful, fulfilling hobbies-- or at least bizarre ways to waste time and entertain myself. But what to do? I'm not particularly athletic-- in fact, all my previous attempts at sporting hobbies have been met with bloodshed, bruising, and semi-permanent damage. Softball games left me with scarred knees (from a clumsy attempt to run, which turned into a VERY clumsy and unintentional slide-- face first-- into home plate), strained muscles and a black eye, which at the time I tried to pass off as a domestic violence incident to my busybody coworkers. My brief stint as a surf bunny resulted in a sprained back and neck and a firsthand account of what it feels like to inhale two pounds of sand. Hell, even a spirited bit of couch jumping once caused a sprained ankle and a severely bruised ego, so it was safe to say that my new prospective hobby would have to be free from anything that required things like balance, coordination or rapid motion.

So sports are not where my talents lie. Yet, I'm super competitive, so a good activity needs to involve some form of gaming. The first, obvious thing that came to my mind was gambling. It involves competition, some form of skill, and you can smoke and drink while you do it. Perfect. Except for the part where you need to use, and perhaps lose, actual money to participate. Someone like me, who just cracked open their childhood piggy bank to pay my TiVo bill shouldn't be undertaking any risky financial ventures right now.

Or should I? What if I could find a way to gamble, risk money, and entertain myself, and possibly millions of others, with my spasticity and enthusiasm, all without it costing more than parking fare and perhaps my self regard? The answer came to me with a phone call one night from my sister, and frequent partner in crime, Dana. I could go on a game show!

We were invited, by a game show producer Dana had met, to audition for a new game show airing on ABC this year. Other than high school plays, a few school choir competitions and a number of jobs where I had to pretend I gave a fuck about whatever it is they were asking me to do, I've never auditioned for anything. In fact, my sister and I are probably the only two women in Los Angeles who have never had a headshot taken, let alone stood in front of a casting director -- camera in hand -- and feigned emotion for monetary gain.

Well, we WERE the only two left. And now, LA is going to have to import some other showbiz naifs.

On the day of the audition, I stood outside the production studio in Hollywood for a few minutes, waiting for Dana to meet me. I noticed two paparazzi lurking outside the front gate, so I passed the time asking who they were there to see (Jim Carey, who had been inside for a while, according to the photogs), and how much they thought they could get for a pic of him doing something as mundane as leaving an office building (more than I had imagined).

We were shown in, we signed in at the desk and were taken to a small, white windowless room, where we were told to stand, next to a table and some chairs that were set up. From there, the inquisition began.

And I say inquisition because the experience was not unlike what I would imagine being arrested is like. I filled out a lot of paperwork (the application for the show was over 13 pages long, and asked prying, personal questions about my background, my associates, and what I would do if I came across an unexpected windfall). I held a card with my name and a number on it in front of my face as my picture was taken. I was told that being honest would only help me (never fall for that one). And I was asked to reveal personal secrets about Dana-- as my parner in the game show's plot.

And I totally folded under the pressure. I talked. A lot. I blabbed everything I could think of. My addiction to game shows and pop culture: revealed. The real story behind my accidental couch-based injury (see above): pridelessly blurted out. My short stint as a contraband smuggler (I had my mom mail 5 pounds of bubblegum to me at a summercamp for sugar addicts): made up to look good for the camera. I was shameless.

But then, it came time to demonstrate our excited victory dance-- how wildly and excitedly Dana and I would jump around in a frenzy if we won money on the show. Dana and I looked at eachother, looked at the floor, looked at eachother again, took a deep breath... and soundly refused to become every game show contestant we'd ever made fun of for jumping around like a moron.

The truth is, neither one of us dance, or squeal, or could imagine commanding people in the audience to "give it up" for us, as if they truly cared whether we won a million dollars or not. And we both tend to show our enthusiasm with a hearty "Fuck Yeah"-- with both feet planted firmly on the ground, rather than dissolving in an uncontrolled, emotional heap.

As we quickly realized, TV studios prefer the emotional heap. So when this new show appears on ABC this season, we will not be among the smiling, psycho-happy contestants. But we will be among the group of viewers who watch the show simply just to laugh at them.