Men of Marvel

            When I was growing up, my relatives liked to gift me with dolls or stuffed animals for birthdays and Christmases, because I was a girl and that's what they assumed young girls liked to play with. I would always smile and thank them for their gifts with genuine gratitude and excitement for a new toy to add to my collection. For about five minutes I would comb their hair, strip them of their clothing, examine what they looked like underneath, give them back their dignity, then place them gently on a shelf or in a neat pile with the rest of my neglected dolls and stuffed animals. For the next decade or so they would pretty much stay in that posture and apparel, gathering a light coating of dust that would get shaken off every now and then, if I noticed it. I never really felt quite comfortable playing with dolls because they had nothing to contribute back to me. With drawing or coloring, the result was a pretty picture. With video games, I got the gratification of receiving a high score and a little scene to watch for my efforts. With television, I was given knowledge and an understanding of the world outside of my own. Dolls were just pretty showpieces I liked to look at, very much like Uncle Scrooge with his collection of gold. They would just sit there, piling up in my treasure trove, never made useful and never allowed to be played with by anyone else. I was always much of a loner so I assumed to think my dolls didn't need much fussing over and pretended that they had enough company amongst themselves. In some ways, I suppose the way I treated my dolls was the same way I thought of children when I got older. The idea of having them always seemed like a plan that was set far into the future, something just sitting there on a shelf, dusty, but there if I one day I'd like to play with the idea. But it just never really felt like it was in the cards for me. The older I got, the thought of having children began to float farther into the distance and dusty to the point that it began to fade into the backdrop completely. However, when I'm surrounded by my brothers' children, the idea doesn't necessary get dusted off or come flying back to pencil itself into my agenda, but I get a kick of what might probably be called my inner maternal instincts and all I want to do is play and cuddle with the little kiddies and help to develop them into fine young men and women. That's the great thing about being an aunt though, I get to play like a child, teach them a thing or two, and vice versa. But the stress of providing for them, caring for their health when they're taken ill, changing diapers and watching over their every move, is none of my concern. If I was ever needed in that regard, if their parents couldn't care for them for whatever reason, I'd always be the first to scoop them up and act as substitute, but, thankfully, that is not the case and so I can have my cake and eat it too. I get to have the fun part of being a parental figure without having to be committed to the full time, hard part of being a parent.

            Over the previous weekend, I was home with my family and my brother Jason was visiting with his son, Aiden. That little guy equal part cracks me up and drives me crazy. He's only four years old and one of the smartest kids I've ever known. I could honestly sit down and have a deeper conversation with Aiden than I could with most of the adults I've come across in my lifetime. He even has the ability to question some of my own motives and decisions when I'm in his presence at times. However, as with the law of physics, with every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and with that being said, with his gift of keen intellect comes an over abundance of high energy. His little thirty-four pound frame can run circles around you until you're dizzy and ready for an eight-hour nap but lucky if you could get more than four with his early bird rise. I would be lethally underweight if I had to chase that little guy around on a daily basis.

            As I lay, a twisted frame, stretching the length of my parents' couch just after the break of dawn last weekend, I could somehow feel a presence hovering in front of my face while I was attempting to stay in my dream-like state. Unfortunately, it wasn't working, but trying not to commit completely to being awake, I only unglued one sleepy eye open to see what I sensed was in the room with me. Just two inches from my nose I found a dancing figurine of Spiderman with a tiny hand wrapped around its shiny plastic body.

"Are you awake now?" I hear what my closed eye cannot see and follow the sound with my one, bloodshot eye, landing on a pair of crystal blues looking back at me in wonder, "Yes, Aiden, auntie Marcy is awake. How may I help you?"

"Can we watch Spiderman?"

"Yes Aiden, we can watch Spiderman."

"Can we go watch him now?"

"We can't go now. You have to wait four more days. Spiderman is very busy man this week. I promise we'll see him on Friday."

"Okay, because I want to give him a big hug. I love Spiderman."

"I know you do buddy." I definitely know you do.

I've had my own obsessions over the years, some I still can't seem to shake, but it was another three years before I started with my fixations. This kid has wasted no time, but it's nice to know that I'm not the only one who can appreciate a good man in tights.

            Friday morning I was back in New York and found myself standing first in line for rush tickets to see the Spiderman Musical on Broadway. There was no way in hell I was going to be known as Auntie Liar because I failed to keep my promise to Aiden. So at stupid o'clock in the morning I made the trip to Times Square on two hours of sleep, in the pouring rain, to stand in line for three hours. Two of which, I busied myself doing the AM New York crossword puzzle and nearly finished it. One of these days I might actually complete one of those darn puzzles. The box office didn't open until ten a.m. but I was not about to pay $80-$150 to see a Spiderman musical so my only guarantee of paying rock bottom prices for the show was to be somewhere in front of that line when those doors opened for general rush tickets.

            September is considered a slow month in New York City. Most of the European tourists go back to their lives after weeks of vacationing in August, children are back in school and parents are exhausted from a long week of work by Fridays and resign to staying in before the weekend. So, to everyone else and those who live in the city, we get a nice break and some freedom to venture into what the city has to offer without a fight to do it. Broadway tickets can be snatched through a lottery before a show or purchased early in the morning while those supplies last with better odds. However, one must always be prepared for a fluke, so I set myself up in front of those doors and there I stood, alone, for two hours until my competition began to align themselves behind me for those tickets. At nine forty-five, my friend Erin joined me in line to score that third ticket because only two tickets could be purchased per person. At ten o'clock sharp, the doors opened and like we were entering the kingdom of OZ, Erin and I walked in, purchased our golden tickets and my promise was sealed.

            There's nothing like watching a Broadway show. I try to catch one whenever I can afford to and I've been curious about seeing this one in particular, mostly because of all the action involved in the production. Not to mention the publicity it's garnished because of its high accident rate. It's not that I want to see anyone get hurt, per say, but I would like to know what it is that they're doing in the show that has people breaking their neck's attempting to do.

            Two hours before the show, Jason and Aiden pulled up from their four-hour drive from Massachusetts where they were visiting with my parents and we head out for a quick dinner before the show. At a diner Aiden sat squirming like a fish in the booth with so much excitement I thought he would burst into flames. If there was ever a lull in conversation he was professing his love for Spiderman like the characters written in a Shakespearean play. With his crystal blue eyes glossed over with emotion, he would look at me across the booth with complete sincerity and say, "I love Spiderman. When I see him, I'm going to give him a big hug." He would say it in such a way that all that was missing in his declaration was the placement of the back of his wrist to his forehead while it was uttered in a faint. I couldn't help but chuckle to his reaction and look at his father beside him smirking back at me, trying not to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, I just think you're cute."

"You're laughing."

"Yeah, but I just think it's nice that you love Spiderman."

"I LOOOOOOVE him. I love him more than the Green Goblin."

"Oh, that's good. I'm glad you love the Green Goblin too, even if he is mean."

"Yeah."

"You're a good guy."

"Yeah."

            With his Spiderman T-shirt, socks, hoodie and light flashing sneakers, Aiden was ready to impress the man himself, so we hopped on the subway and streamed down the tracks like a bullet to Times Square. I was probably just as excited to see Aiden's reaction to the event, as he was to see Spiderman--until he spotted the tight donning Spiderman taking pictures with audience members in the lobby. If idolatry was a superpower, Aiden was at maximum strength the moment he spotted the Marvel character in the flesh. It was all over. NOTHING else mattered. Aiden saw nothing in front of him but the space between him and the tall, spandex covered man he "looooooved". Gripped my hand with all of his strength he pushed through the crowd until he was right in front of him. While Spiderman was busy posing for a picture with a young boy in his arms Aiden stood by his feet in speechless admiration. When the boy in his arms was placed back on his feet, Spiderman spotted Aiden and stretched his arms out to him. The moment had finally come. Aiden flew into his arms like he was the south pull of a magnet and Spiderman was the north. When his little figure made contact with him, he wrapped his skinny arms around Spiderman's neck in such a bone-crushing bear hug I was worried it might have snapped the superhero's cervical vertebrae in the process. I was beginning to think that this was probably why the production had such high accident rates. With a flash, the photographer snapped a picture of the two in that very position and Aiden was placed back on his feet with a high five and a thumbs up for his keen taste in apparel. He was completely speechless and had no idea what to do with himself. He looked down at his hands for a second and noticed that he was still holding his ticket. With the only thing he had in his possession to give, he handed Spiderman his ticket as a gift. Touched by his generosity, Spiderman hugged the ticket to his chest and thanked him for the gift. I stood there with the widest smile on my face and such pride in my chest for his happiness. I thought I would burst. Watching someone else's dream come true felt ten times more fulfilling than making my own dreams realized. I wondered if this must be what it's like to have a child of your own. To see them thrive in the world. Aiden is just my nephew but I felt like I could fight an army for his happiness. What would I be like with my own child?

            When we got in the theater we found our seats at the very back of the orchestra section. Again, with back seats, I'm destined to always be sitting from the farthest point of any event, no matter what I do. However, it was better than sitting outside in the rain looking at the front door. When we made ourselves comfortable Aiden turned to his father and I with the saddest face, "I forgot to tell Spiderman that I loved him."

"Oh, that's okay buddy. I'm sure he could tell that you loved him. You got to hug him though, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

            When the lights dimmed to near darkness and the show started, Aiden crawled on my lap and clung to my neck in anticipation. As the lights lifted he was at the edge of my knees staring out with the attention of an owl in the night. Halfway through the first act a human sized spider, Arachne, began singing an operatic number with the eeriest tone. After a few bars were sung the woman wrapped a rope around her neck and knowing what was coming, I covered Aiden's eyes as she hung herself and dangled from the top of the stage in front of an audience half filled with children. What the...! I was peeved. What kind of a director prepares a show that's geared towards children and assumes that this is okay? I had nightmares for weeks as a kid when someone just told me story of someone found dead hanging from a tree in the woods once. What would that do for a child actually seeing something like that, even if it were pretend? That scene nearly scared the crap out of me and Aiden was clinging to my neck shaking like a leaf, on the verge of tears after that and he only saw the start of the action. Two thumbs down McKinley. What's wrong with you?

            The show had its redeeming qualities when it came down to the stunts in the second act. When Spiderman came flying out above the audience with the Green Goblin in an aerial attack, we were all at the edge of our seats debilitated with emotion. "I love him" was written all over Aiden's face. I spent more time watching his reaction than I did on the production itself. When the show was over we filed out of the theater, eyes peeled for another chance to see Spiderman because Aiden had hugs to deliver. Unfortunately, the man was done for the night and we made our way to the lights of Times Square. Aiden searched the sky for his friend hoping he would be swinging along the buildings heading for his home in Queens. Jason and I made a copy of the picture he took with Spiderman so that he could handle without damaging the original. He stared at that picture like an artist studies a painting. On the subway ride home he showed the girls on the train his picture with the proudest air and they smiled at his baby blues with sweet humor. For all of the sacrifices having a child can endure, it's moments like this that seem to bear the fruit of those labors. I can see how it would all be worth it when you get to be witness to those innocent wonders as they soak up the world for the first time and you are the one person they want by their side as they discover them. Those are the things that make life worth anything, kinship. I'm lucky to at least have a share in those moments. Who knows? Maybe someday I may get to see if I have the stuff mother's are made of, or, the battery life of the sun to do it. Who knows?

The sweet bread of life

            When my grandmother made her sweet bread it was a special occasion. I would watch her as she gathered her ingredients, enough for our large household, our close relatives and any visitors who came to the house. No one would ever leave without a large chunk or a small loaf if they came by after knowing she was baking her bread. In a big basin about two feet deep and just as wide, she would pour a cloud of flour and sugar making a valley in the center so that she could fill it with a pool of eggs, sugar and whiskey. With all of her ingredients meticulously measured and placed in their own time, with the greatest care and grace of hand, she would kneed and fold the sweet dough with her delicate hands. Her fingers danced with the dough as she stretched from the edges and plunged back into the center of the large mound. When the dough was the perfect consistency, she would then mark the height it should rise to at the top of the width of her four fingers. With a whispered blessing she would imprint the top of the dough with the sign of the cross and cover the basin with a cheesecloth and thick blanket, as if it were a sleeping baby, and set it aside. Only hours later would we finally find that the dough had grown to the height she marked with her four fingers and she would then begin the process of dividing the dough into a dozen greased pans. Watching my grandmother make her sweet bread was just as much fun as it was eating it. To me it was like observing a scientist conduct an experiment with expert precision and astounding results.

            My grandmother's sweet bread recipe was like no other version that I've never tasted in my thirty-two years of life. I've tried other varieties of the bread from relatives who have made it and bought loaves from local bakeries, but they just weren't the same. Her version was firm, but moist, with the slightest hint of lemon and whiskey that would pull all of the other ingredients together and melt on the tongue like warm butter. In the Portuguese culture this desert is a widely cherished and very popular food for both the casual consumption and considered a standard at any special occasion. It wasn't unusual for my brothers and I to wake up on Easter morning, trailing the sweet sent of freshly baked bread and find our own individual loaves baked with an egg nesting in the center, waiting for us on the kitchen counter. Our little hands would dig into the warm loaves that came out of the oven just a few hours before, baked while we were still tucked into our beds dreaming of the Easter bunny. We would excavate the eggs, crack them open and in one hand we would bite into the hard cooked egg and in the other, bite into our little loaf slathered in butter until they were completely devoured. It was something that was a staple with my grandmother and something I've missed very much since she passed away six years ago.

            About a month ago, I told my mother that I wanted to attempt making my grandmother's sweet bread with her. It was decided that we would do it in September when I could come home for my next visit, between her birthday and my grandmother's. I don't like to celebrate my own birthdays but I hate the thought of my parents not celebrating theirs, even if it's with just a hug and a small cake. It's never a big deal to them, but I like for them to know that people care, that I care. This year I also wanted to memorialize my grandmother's birthday, which takes place over the following weekend, in the best way my family knows how to show their love–through food.           Frankly, my mother doesn't believe I know how to cook. Unless it was boiling spaghetti or stirring the concoctions she made so as they wouldn't burn on the stove while she did other things, I didn't get to do much when I was growing up. Where I learned to cook was not just from watching the Food Network, but first and foremost from my mother, my grandmother and even my father. While I should have been doing my homework, I was really, spending that time watching them chop this, stuff that or sauté, fry, bake or boil all kinds of edible arrangements. But for this occasion, my mother invited her greatest ally to join us, her cousin Donaria. Donaria is my mother's first cousin, which made her my second. She was always more like an aunt to me, as she is older than even my own mother. I never felt comfortable calling her a cousin because that word was always reserved for snot nosed kids, like myself, and her children, whom my brothers and I grew up with. They were my cousins, not their mother. Calling her a cousin felt like I was calling my mother or father by their first names. Someone older, with more authority always had a title reserved for a higher hierarchy, so I would just call her Donaria or Tia Donaria. As I got older and began to match the intellectual level of my seniors, then I began to give her the title that made us equals, and so she was now Prima Donaria. For this experiment, three heads were certainly better than one, and with my head still drowsy from the long drive home and my mother being heavily medicated with treatments for her Lymphoma, Donaria's clarity would not only ascertain a better result, but her presence was a testament to the bond we three shared with my grandmother.

            Saturday morning I got home just in time to see the sunrise and my parents up and at it with coffee in hand and a welcoming smile on their faces. I didn't bother to even take a nap because I didn't want to waste time. So I stayed up the full thirty-six hours and finally crashed later that night. But, before I knew it, the intercom was buzzing and Donaria was at the door, arms hugging the largest bowl I had ever laid eyes on, and a five-pound sack of flour surfing the center of the saucer. Operation sweet bread was underway.

            After gathering what we thought was all of the necessary ingredients it seemed we had forgotten a key ingredient, the whiskey. Oh dear. I hadn't even had my coffee yet and I was already heading to the liquor store. One glance at the clock told me this wasn't going to be a comfortable experience. Had I known of any other liquor stores to go to without having to pull out my GPS to find its location, I would have gone there instead, but I just wanted to get this over with and pulled up at the nearest store located just down the street from my parents' apartment. In a big city it would not phase a soul to walk into a liquor store at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning for a nip of whiskey, but for a lone female to do it in a quiet suburb located next door to a high brow Christian church–you are judged. When I pulled up to the store, the clerk was just unlocking the door when he saw me with furrowed brows, exit my car and walk up to the door. Two large men followed me in, bee-lined to the location of their beverages of choice and were already in line behind me before I was able to spot the nips behind the counter. l tried to make it seem as though walking into a liquor store was the most natural thing to do, like I was at a grocery store buying milk, but when I got to the counter and asked for a nip of whiskey my voice suddenly sounded very small and cracked between "whis-" and "key" like I was a pubescent fourteen year-old boy. The man asked me which brand I wanted and I just threw out "Jack Daniels" like I knew the difference. I could feel the heat on my face beginning to burn blisters on my skin when the clerk asked for my ID and I noticed the eyes of the men in line behind me ogling my purchase and one of them smirking at me like I was a regular at his AA meetings. It took the clerk with judgmental eyes a good two minutes to finally hand back my New York State ID with some reservation. When I handed over my payment I didn't even wait for a bag or my twenty-five cents. "Keep the change." I just grabbed the nip, threw it in my purse, and walked out of the store. Outside I ducked into my car and drove away like I was hiding from the police or mob of paparazzi.

            Back at home, Donaria and my mother took one look at me as I entered and started laughing at my indignation. They didn't say a thing when I left, but when I got back they didn't seem the least bit hesitant on expressing how awkward it was going to be for me to run this errand. Thanks guys, so glad you had yourselves a good laugh. I suppose it was no big deal and probably just very old fashioned of me to think that anyone would really care what my drinking habits were this day in age, but I still live in the land of Little House On The Prairie at times and I don't particularly cherish the idea that people in this town might be judging me or my family over the thought that I could be an alcoholic. They do enough talking here as it is.

            With all of the ingredients finally present and accounted for, my mother began to sort out measurements according to the list. The thing with my grandmother's recipe is that she had her technique down to a science, but she never wrote that part down. It was something that she cultivated with time and through trial and error and there was no need for her to write it down. It was all done by memory and she just kept a list of ingredients and rough idea of the measurements as a checklist. Now it was up to the three of us to figure out the technique by conjuring up the eight year old memory of the last time she made her sweet bread. I was with my grandmother that very last time she made it, from the beginning to the end, but again, that was eight years ago and I didn't think that was going to be the last time I was ever going to witness the marvel. While the yeast was fermenting in a bowl, my mother called out the ingredients and I handed Donaria the sack of flour, she poured it in with the sugar, pushing the pile to the sides of the bowl to make the valley in the center where my mother cracked the eggs into its center. After the butter was melted and the peel of a lemon scraped, they were slowly added in increments to the center of the bowl with the nip of whiskey. While Donaria had the job of mixing the ingredients to form the dough I wondered with uncertainty whether the order we used to mix the ingredients might not have been quite right. There was something that seemed off with our timing and I was not satisfied with its consistency. If my memory served me right, I remembered the process taking much longer when my grandmother did it but I couldn't put my finger on what it was that we were missing and I was afraid to verbalize it to them because they looked so pleased with the results. I could clearly see my grandmother's hands massaging the sticky dough, stretching it with a pull of her fingers like a massive wad of freshly chewed gum. This dough looked drier and slightly frangible, which worried me. I finally questioned my mother’s accuracy in transcription of the ingredients from my grandmother’s list, which was originally written in Portuguese, and if maybe she forgot to write down milk as ingredient. Her reaction to my question was not exactly what I expected. Suddenly she became almost threatening when I questioned the memory of her own mother. If this were an episode of Ally McBeal she would have sprouted horns, a tail and I would have fallen victim to her fire breathing abilities. Let's just say that no more was said on that topic and I just shut my mouth and smiled assuredly. It's very rare that my mother gets in that state. I was sure it was because she wanted this to work just as badly as I did, and making it seem like I knew my grandmother better than she did must have felt like a slap in the face to her, so I just let it be.

            Four hours later we peeked at the dough and it was far from rising. I only had to voice the opinion once before I was shut down by my opinion. Again, I remembered the dough taking many hours to make its full ascent but it was always a very noticeable rise after four hours. This was less than half an inch bigger. By five o'clock there was probably a one-inch rise and at this point my mother and cousin found some validity to my observation and decided to add a little milk and mix the dough another turn. Three hours later the dough had risen another inch and was separated into their individually greased pans and left to rise a little more. I think my mother began to trust that I had some valid cooking experience and that my memory was a little more astute than she gave me credit for. It was never my intension to discredit her ability but it was nice to be accepted into the clan that seemed reserved for the old world cooks of previous generations.

            By eleven o'clock the bread was in the oven and rising to a golden brown. The familiar sweet scent of my grandmother's bread permeated the apartment and our mouths were swimming with saliva for that first bite. Less than an hour later we were pulling the bread out of the oven and Donaria cut one of the loaves in half. Beautiful. It was slightly denser than my grandmother's and had a slightly darker shade on the crust, but it was the best sweet bread we've eaten since my grandmother's passing. We had a few kinks to work out, but we now knew what we were doing for the next time. With each of us holding a piece of the warm sweet bread in our hands we kissed each other on the cheeks and with a whisper of gratitude for our beloved grandmother, mother and aunt, we took a bite of the bread and smiled with satisfaction.

            My Grandmother's sweet bread was something that many of us looked forward to every year that she spent living with us, between the time she was hopping between her two homes in America and in Portugal, she always brought her traditions with her where she landed. Her last homecoming was in March of 2006 and just two months later, one of the most tragic things that I had ever experienced had happened with her passing and with that her sweet bread was never consumed since. This year, I was determined to bring back the practice, celebrating the two women in my life that have meant more to me than the very air I breathe and with the fortitude of two generations we made a third generation recipe with a whole lot of love guiding us. My only regret was that we should have done this sooner. How many loaves of sweet bread could we have enjoyed between those six years since my grandmother's passing had we made the commitment sooner? However, what better time than now to begin the tradition again?

In the majors

            If there were ever two people less interested in watching a Mets game yesterday, then it was my crony Erin and I. It was like pulling teeth to get myself out of the murk of my apartment, after hibernating in its bounds, contemplating the direction of my life for two days. But, I literally paid for these tickets with my blood so, dang it, we were going to this game and we were going to make ourselves enjoy the stupid thing if it was the last thing we did. Erin was on her way from work and we were cutting it close to game time but we had our rendezvous down to a science. From the 7-train heading to Flushing, Queens I met Erin at exactly six thirty in the first car at the 61st Street, Woodside stop. I could see her sitting in front of the window as the train pulled up, trying to grin excitement, but I could tell that she was just as thrilled as I was to be anywhere but hiding under the sheets of her bed. And not just from the game, but from her life as well. Apparently, I wasn't the only one in hibernation over the weekend, we just happened to be in two different caves at the same time. Between our matching blue hoodies and forlorn faces, we looked like a pair of decrepit blueberries on a train ride to a Mets game. My hope was that if at least Erin was in a good mood I could somehow pull myself out of this funk that I've been in and try to enjoy what was left of my weekend off. Yet, I would have probably resented her slightly, if she were in one of her rare, overly excited and uncharacteristically optimistic moods. There was no way of my reaching that kind of an octave of happiness from the key I was currently in. It would have just made me feel worse than I already felt to be alone in my misery. I had been looking forward to seeing a game all season and just a week ago I was feeling excited to have something to do on Monday. Then a long week of work later and too much time to consider all of the things I want out of life while time felt as though it were slipping through my fingers, I found myself knee deep in despair with my options.

            Erin and I hadn't gotten together since our outing at the Rachael Ray show, so we spent the entire train ride to Citi Field talking about what woman talk about best—our feelings. We were so immersed in the psychology behind our thoughts that we didn't even realize we were at the game until we were about to sit in our nosebleed seats and realized we forgot to grab a bite to eat at concessions. Two orders of wavy fries drenched in ketchup later we sat ourselves four rows from falling off the edge of the stadium. I wasn't sure if I was seeing smoke from the concessions stand below us or if it was a stretch of low clouds wafting over our heads. When I actually took the time to focus on my surroundings instead of the thoughts roaming in my head, I saw the stadium was beautiful and the night had that perfect chilly feel of Fall that I love so much. I felt good to be wrapped in a sweater and sitting outdoors under a clear night sky. We were both looking at the game but we weren't really watching it though. Every now and then we would notice the bottom of an inning and R. A. Dickey come out to pitch a few knuckleballs at a Phillies player. I would clap and cheer for Dickey, not because I'm particularly a big fan of his, I just really liked yelling "Dickey!" as loud as I could (my meaning entirely esoteric from its true essence) without looking like a complete loon. I fit right in with the crowd there. Outside of the field I'd have just been yelling profanities in a cutsie way and to no one in particular and looked like—a loon.

            At least two-thirds of the seats in the stadium were empty of fans. Had they not given away tickets for this game, to my fellow blood donors, their guests, and myself I doubt there would have been more than five people watching last night's game. If this were Monday night at Fenway Park, the stands would have been packed. What gives New York? Where's your patronage? Sheesh, where's Wally when you need him? I think the Mets need your help buddy, Mr. Met is not keeping it together here. However, while Erin and I were still going strong with our laments on life at the top of the seventh inning, about five rows below us was a very loud and overly excited fan that was making Mr. Met look like a chump. She was on her feet yelling and cheering loud enough to not only embarrass her teenage daughter hiding in shame beside her, but had every head in a fifty foot radius watching her cheer instead of game half the time. I was ready to throw a fastball of honey mustard at her head by the third inning and by the seventh Erin and I were reaching for our shoes, deciding they would be worth losing if it meant getting her to shut up for five minutes. Our dual instinct to throw our shoes at her had us rolling in laughter though. If anything, I suppose we should have thanked the crazy fan for making us laugh—even if it was at her expense.

            We kept our shoes on but we left by the bottom of the eighth, seeing as the Mets were down by two and we were not in the mood for witnessing another disappointment. I'm glad I went to the game nonetheless. It got me out of the apartment; I saw the inside of the stadium for the first time and finally got to watch a live game this season. It also reminded me that I'm not completely alone in the big apple. There was a reason I was such good friends with Erin and that we've held on to our friendship for over seven years. We were two and the same and there are not many people in the world I can be miserable with and feel like I have to keep entertained in my company. We can just sit somewhere together, wear our frowns any way we want to and not have to say a world to each other. All the while, much more was always said than mere words could ever give justice to in those moments. If for nothing more, the game made me grateful. Thanks Erin. 

Houston, we have a problem

            There's just something about flight attendants that I've always found very glamorous and sophisticated. I don't know if it's an overuse of starch that they might put on their uniforms, but they seem to have the best posture and look as proud as peacocks to be wearing them. It's apparent in the way that they carry themselves through the airport, walking with purpose towing their matching luggage behind them, heads held high. The men with their crisp, clean navy blues and blacks, their golden wings pinned to their chests. The women with their knee length dresses and panty hosed legs, fresh makeup on their faces and perfectly groomed hair, like they just walked out of a salon. Even today, when I'm on a flight I notice that they still look like the pictures from the 50's, like professional Stepford wives. I'm not sure if this is an image that was put in my head because of my mother as I was growing up or if this was something that I conjured up later, but for as long as I can remember I have been intrigued by the their occupation and their lifestyle. How amazing it must be to fly all around the world for a living, traversing to places that you never even knew you wanted or could afford to visit. My mother used to tell me the story of the time when she was a teenager back in the 70's, when she and her cousin once went to an interview for a flight attendant position together. They were ready and willing to do the job they were offered with that same dreamy idea about the life of a flight attendant that I envision myself. However, before they made their final decisions, destiny intervened and my mother met my father. They fell in love, got married, had my brothers and I, and the rest was history. I always liked imagining her at that age, young and carefree, the whole world at her fingertips, before life's tragedies and responsibilities began to sink their teeth into her easy spirit. Whenever we used to take a flight somewhere or drove by an airport, she would look dreamily at the airplanes flying by and whisper in my ear how much she wished she could have been a flight attendant. She would always correct herself when she realized whom she was talking to, throwing in, "But I'm glad that I didn't though, because then I wouldn't have had you, and I couldn't imagine my life without you in it," so that I wouldn't feel hurt by her wish and, therefore, my nonexistence. Hearing her say that would always make me smile but I knew better, her dream was to be in that profession and travel the world, even if it was for just a little while. When I was entering the end of my junior year of high school, I was considering the idea of joining the air force more and more everyday. At the time, I liked the thrill and action packed excitement behind being in the Air Force versus being just a flight attendant myself. Before the end of the year I had gone as far as to take the ASVAB test to see if I even had the mental aptitude to do it. I didn't really know then where the pull inside me to do it was coming from, but now I think that my interest in aviation may have been sparked by my mother's idea of the lifestyle. I passed the test and the recruiters were on my tail like white on rice, but like my mother, I ended up meeting my high school sweet heart shortly before making a commitment and the rest was history. However, the desire to be around planes never left me.

            Rewind to April: Now here is where this desire hit me like a ton of bricks again. Feeling the itch to spread my wings and the need for a life less ordinary, I began to contemplate a different path for myself than the one I was on at the time. Spending my days taking the odd film job here and waiting tables in between there, just wasn't exciting me in the least anymore and I wasn't getting any younger. So I decided to apply for a flight attendant position. I sent my resume to several airlines, took the required assessment tests and waited to see what would happen. I wasn't expecting to hear from anyone any time soon, but I waited through April, May, June, then just dang forgot I even applied. About a week ago, United Airlines contacted me and asked if I was still interested in a position as a flight attendant. I thought about it for a minute and felt—this had to be a sign! I was not so long ago worried about how on earth I was going to pull off visiting all of these places I've put down on my bucket list, without having the kind of money I would need to get to those places. Then this opportunity practically fell on my lap. Not only would I be able to fly anywhere United went in or around the United States free of charge, but also, my parents would finally be able to travel the way they always wished they could. Through this, I would not only be able to fulfill many of my dreams, but theirs as well. So, of course I said yes and Monday afternoon, United Airlines flew me to Houston, Texas!

            When I got to the airport, I was ready to impress and dressed for success. I looked as formal as my possible future colleagues the minute I went through the dreadful gates at the terminal. As I waited patiently for an hour to board my plane, which never showed up, they canceled the flight. The interview wasn't until the following morning but I needed to check into my hotel and get some zzz's first or my lack of sleep would be my undoing later. While standing in line at customer service to catch another flight, I was talking to a service agent on the phone, hoping to get the process rolling sooner than later and secure the next flight out to Houston. I never mentioned anything to the agent on the phone about my reason for going to Houston but I was assured a seat on the five o'clock flight. However, I was put on hold before I could get a confirmation and before I knew it I was next in line. When I got to the already agitated agent at the counter, a twenty something with slick dark hair tied tightly to the back of her head, I told her that I had a space on a five o'clock flight, she told me the next available flight wasn't until seven that night. That was five hours away and then over three hours of flight time later. This was not going well. Something inside of me told me to keep my cool though. I'm usually a very patient person, Zen-like even, but I was nervous as hell and on edge all day because of this interview. I was about to snap some attitude back at the girl but somehow kept it together. It was a good thing too because less than five minutes later she looked at me with some curiosity when something seemed to pop up on her screen and she asked me, "are you going to an interview?" I looked at her like she was Harry Houdini for a second, then confirmed. A few quick taps of the keyboard with her long red nails later, I had a five o'clock flight non-stop to Houston. I could get used to this. Having what I want for free and everyone being so complacent because I roll with United, sounds good to me. I was a little paranoid after that situation though. If this chick knew what I was doing on this flight, then maybe they ALL knew. They're watching me like a hawk. Big brother is everywhere. I was afraid to even slouch after that. Who knows what they'll tell the big guys out in Houston? This girl has bad posture. Toss her file guys, she's a sloucher and she's not smiling enough.

            On my flight I was oddly wedged between a monk on my left, who seemed to be sleeping in the most perfect state of bliss and a middle-aged southern bell on my right, who had me sneezing from all of the hairspray she had in her hair. She was sweet enough and offered me her Oprah magazine, but she could not stop talking the entire flight. Luckily she had her husband next to her to pour her thick Southern drawl onto. I was too nervous to do anything but listen to Elvis on my headset. Elvis makes everything better. What was supposed to be a three-hour flight ended up being nearly four hours because of plane traffic. As I sat in the plane circling Houston I realized that it was September 10th, not quite the 11th, but it was close enough that I began to get a little apprehensive about the delay. Finally we landed at the George Bush International Airport, free and clear, and I was able to grab my shuttle outside of the terminal before last pickup. My friendly driver made small talk the instant I sat inside. He seemed a little thirsty for conversation after sitting alone in that van most of the day. The first question he asked me, which once again threw me off guard, was "are you here for the interview?" How does everyone know this? Apparently, he was a very intuitive and recently retired cop from New York City who had decided to just jump in his big ol' SUV one day and drove cross country to see what the south of America had to offer his pension plan. He had already been through the Carolinas, Mississippi, Louisiana and just a few weeks ago landed himself in Houston. So far he has hated every single state he found himself in. It seemed that he was looking for a place to call home, someplace away from the life he had always known and buy himself a big house to settle down in his retirement. He was looking for something that would probably cost as much as the home he has in the city but that could easily crush its small stature with the likes of a Texan home. He had been in Houston longer than any of the other cities or states he's traveled through so far, not because he particularly liked Houston, in fact he couldn't wait to leave, but because he needed to make a little extra money for his gas guzzling SUV to get back to New York. He liked Houston well enough though, the land, the houses and the people, but one look at the downtown area at eight-thirty in the evening, which looked like a ghost town compared to New York City, had him spinning his tires back to his hotel with plans to leave the next day. He was about to head back when the clerk at the hotel offered him the shuttle job for a few weeks and he took the opportunity to make the extra income. When you've spent most of your life in the city that never sleeps and you find yourself in a city that likes to take a lot of naps, it's not surprising that he reacted to Houston the way that he did. I myself don't think I could ever live comfortably in a suburb again, not without a good reason anyway. It's always nice to visit, but to live in a place where everyone just sits around a television all day for fun makes me depressed just thinking about it. Day in and day out, go to work, go home, watch TV, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. My life is not much different on any given day, however, I love the idea that I can just walk a few blocks from my apartment and there are rows of clubs, bars, restaurants and cafes open until four in the morning, some open twenty four hours a day and I can just grab a book or my laptop, if I can't sleep and just sit in a diner, sipping some coffee or tea and read, write or just people watch if I want to. Most of my friends are up as late as I am and we sometimes spend all hours of the night just socializing. I never got to do that in the suburbs. Although, I'm glad that they do exist. There is something comforting in having a place where families can grow safely. I'm grateful for having been brought up in a place such as that. The city is wonderful for adults, but I would never raise children there unless I had the money to put them in a safe home with a doorman and private schools.

            Sitting on the shuttle next to me was a United pilot that we picked up on the way to the same hotel. I was excited to see that she was a female pilot. It's a rare thing to see, even in these days. Apparently, this wasn't the first time the driver had picked up this particular pilot, because they knew each other by name. The three of us talked about United and my pilot friend was nice enough to give me a few pointers. She told me that she once applied to be a flight attendant with TWA before she became a pilot and they turned her down. Well, look at her now. TWA eat your heart out. That made me feel better, knowing that she was passed over and made a better life for herself in turn, gave me hope that all will not be lost if United turns me down too. I won't be the first or the last I'm sure. With her shiny golden wings glistening against the headlights of oncoming traffic, I sat there soaking up all of her stories. I was completely fascinated by her and she had grown to be a hero in my eyes in less than fifteen minutes.

            As I was checking in at the hotel, I asked the man at the front desk for a shuttle in the morning. Before I told him where I was going he already knew I was there for THE interview. I didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone. He just knew. I booked the hotel on my own and it had nothing to do with United. How did everyone know this? Was it written all over my nervous face? They MUST be watching me! Straighten your back Marcy. Are you smiling? Are you smiling like you MEAN it? They probably have analysts studying my every move with thermal vision cameras. Stop freaking yourself out woman! Relax. Once I pulled myself from my imagination gone wild, I wished the pilot luck on her fourteen-hour flight to Tokyo in the morning and she wished me the same on my interview. Then I was off to my room to panic. I think talking to my newfound pilot friend made me even more nervous than comforted. Before that conversation I was very much at ease about the whole situation, nervous, sure, but it was just a job I didn't necessarily need because I have one. I thought that if I got the position, great, if I didn't, that was great too. I would have had much less to stress about without the job anyway. However, after our dialogue I decided that I REALLY wanted the job, the benefits, the uniform, the luxury, the freedom, the PIN. It just sounded all too wonderful through her eyes. Oh man, I'm in trouble. Whenever I want something too desperately, I mess it up. I put too much pressure on the situation and it just blows up in my face. I would have been better off not ever talking to the pilot because my lax-a-daisy attitude about it before is what would have won my position. Now that I want it so badly, I'm certain not to get it. I once applied to McDonald's when I was just about to turn sixteen, and because I was so desperate for the job I made myself so nervous, they turned me down flat. I can never eat another big mac again I'm so dejected. Wonderful, this may ruin aviation for me forever. I may never want to fly again.

            In my hotel room, I paced back and forth for about two hours trying to get my story straight. Who am I? Why do I want to be a flight attendant? What would I do if this happened or if that happened? Nothing that came out of my mouth sounded right. I wish I could just write them a blog post and have them read it to themselves and not have to utter a single word. I have the right things to say, I just have a very hard time expressing them verbally. I'm doomed.

            The next morning, September 11th, I was sad for my fellow New Yorkers. I was thinking of those who were on United flight 93 and tried to imagine what it may have been like to be on that plane. What would I have done? What could I have done? They were helpless. At the United Inflight Training Center, where my shuttle dropped two others and myself from the hotel, going to the same interview, we had a moment of silence for those who fell that day before anything was started. To think, it could have been any one of us, had we chosen to apply for the job back in 2001 instead of now. In the room of about seventy other possible candidates, all dressed to impress and most of them seeming slightly older than myself, I sat as happy and as confident as my acting capabilities could stretch. We watched a short video introducing the company and then a line of about eight interviewers called out the names of the first round of people. The rest of us sat listening to a senior flight attendant as he talked to us about the job and answered questions. I listened like my life depended upon it while my pulse was banging savagely against my eardrum. I'm pretty sure that it was visibly throbbing down my neck for the guy next to me to observe with wonder. I was beyond nervous enough to sweat. There were so many nerves and arteries working overtime between my head and my heart that there was nothing left for my sweat glands to do but sit still in my body, confused by what was going on everywhere else. I was dry as a bone and pale as a ghost. If they hadn't called my name when they did I think it's possible that I would have probably passed out from the stress. Oddly enough, if someone's life was put in my hands, someone tried to attack me or one of my loved ones and I had to make a life changing decision on the spot, I'm on top of my game. In that sense, I'm without a doubt great under pressure. Everything just becomes clear and focused, my mind and body pump the perfect amount of adrenaline and I am the go to person everyone can depend on and usually turns to for leadership when there is a problem. However, I am strangely the opposite when it's a matter of getting something I want for myself. When the thing that I desire is in the hands of someone who has the authority to snap it from my reach, only because of what they assume to think of me, that is when I fall to pieces. I put so much pressure on what I think they want of me instead of who I really am, that I become the very thing that I don't like and they don't want. In a perfect world, HR people would just train the amount of people they need for a job and through their work ethic, they could then judge their abilities to do the job well or not. A position until proven unworthy, I say. Only in a perfect world, I suppose.

            Listening to the senior flight attendant at the front of the room for some time began to put me a little more at ease. He was pointing out all of the negative things about the position that made my desire to get the job seem less dire. The sporadic, last minute on call days that first hires have to live through for up to two years, the reality of traveling on days off within those two years, and the unpaid training, which I thought was only three weeks, is actually four and a half weeks did not seem very glamorous when he put things in that perspective. I was then also that I realized that the next training session fell on the first week of October. Houston, we have a problem here. That would mean that for the entire month of October I would not only be out of paid work, but I'm supposed to be in Peru from October 27th to November 4th. How can I possibly be in two places at once? My trip is nonrefundable and a high priority on my list of things to accomplish this year. What is a girl to do now? I pushed this thought aside for the time being. With my luck I probably wouldn't even get the job anyway. There were seventy other people in this room and I doubt half of us were going to get a position. With that thought in mind, just before I was called to my interview, I fell back into my lax-a-daisy self and just let it be as it should. I leave it in God's hands now.

            My interviewer was a lanky man with pimples dotting his young face. I was glad for this. I feel a little more at ease around men that I'm not particularly attracted to. Some of the women who were doing the interviews looked severe with their stoic faces and tight buns attached to the back of their heads. I think I would have cried if they just looked at me the wrong way. My lanky interviewer led to a room squared off by dozens of cubicles the size of cattle pens. I could hear the voices of the other interviewers travel between the mid sized walls as they squirmed like veal in the five by five spaces around me. I sat in my seat, aware of my posture at first but then lost track of where my backbone was meant to be shortly there after. My interviewer shot me the typical questions I thought I was prepared for. I answered everything as truthfully as I could, or gave them the answers I believe they wanted to hear while I pretended to have to think about them, when in reality had them all memorized in advance. I was glad that he was too busy scribbling away my responses on my resume and not looking directly at me most of the time. I threw in a joke here in there and he cracked a few times, thank God. Then before I knew it, my twenty-four hour journey was over in fifteen minutes and I was led to the front entrance. I don't think I got the job though. I believe the interview went well enough but I had read, through doing some research prior to the interview, that if a candidate were chosen, I would have been led to a second interview immediately. This didn't happen and it didn't happen for the other five people who joined me outside for a shuttle back to the airport. At least I wasn't alone in my misery. However, there's still a possibility that I could get it and this could very well change the course of my life forever. I'm not positive what my final decision will be if I happen to get this job, but I believe that this opportunity has presented itself to me in a time of great change in my life for a reason. There is such a vast need in me to discover the world that I live in and who I am in it that not taking this opportunity would be like slapping the hand of God. I think that if I am offered this job, I will take it. But, for now, it's just wait and see.

A little Ray of sunshine

            After months of sending out e-mails to producers, PR reps and web site sign-ups requesting audience admission to Rachael Ray's CBS morning talk show, I finally received a reply. When I clicked on my inbox a few weeks ago, I found that I was not only invited to the filming of one of the new season's episodes of the show, but that I was invited to THREE upcoming episodes! Ask and you shall receive. Also, the invitation not only allowed myself in, but it extended for up to three other guests to join me! My cup runneth over! However, says the fine print, I may only attend one of the three episodes for this season–so they can keep the audience fresh and new, and give others a chance to experience the Rachael Ray show as well. But, I had the choice of any of the three I wanted. Fine. I'll just go this once, but I might be back next season Rachael Ray, you haven't heard the last of me. Of the three dates I was given, I chose today's noon taping and sent my reply the minute I finished reading the e-mails.

            This morning, after being stuck on the downtown train for thirty-five minutes, due to a signal malfunction, I met with my guest of choice, Erin, the only person who I could think of that could stomach my giddy, over the top excitement without wanting to punch me in the face. After a slow ride through Manhattan we finally made it to the CBS studios with an hour to spare. Erin's a good sport–not quite a foodie like me–but she can certainly appreciate good food when she eats it. While standing outside in the inferno of summer's last stand for an hour, trying hopelessly to keep our perspiration from getting out of control, we basked in the happiness of having a Friday off and of finally seeing a live taping of Rachael Ray. In line I noticed that of maybe a hundred people, including us, most of the audience members were middle-aged woman with a sad handful of men. Two of which were definitely dragged by their governing wives. Poor guys. In our very carefully chosen outfits, in accordance to the guidelines of the producers' meticulous dress code, we all looked like a box of crayons melting in the heat while waiting patiently to go into the studio. For the past few weeks we've all been sent reminders of the dress code until they were practically drilled into our heads. They were being as tough on us as nuns at a catholic school. We weren't allowed to wear sneakers, flip flops, sequins, (Really? No sequins? Dang it!) ripped jeans, khakis, capris, hats, T-shirts, white or off-white clothes of any kind. Jewel tones only. Sheesh, Rachael, you're killing my wardrobe. Did they forget that the show was based out of New York? The color scheme for a typical New Yorker's wardrobe consists of probably 70% black, 10% dark blue, 10% white, 8% gray matter and 2% bright red for those sultry, look at me nights. I had to dig deep for the outfit I had on and Erin almost had to make a trip out to the middle of Queens to search through her storage unit.

            At noon, the line shuffled like a herd of cattle into the building and went through a tight security check just inside the door. My first thought when I took a look at the dreaded metal detector and three guards was, why on earth would Rachael Ray need this kind of security? Unless...it was the special guest on the show who needed the extra security measures. How exciting. None of us were told who the special guest was going to be, probably for the purpose of keeping the element of surprise as genuine as possible for the cameras and to keep the unwanted visitors during the filming. Hmm. Once through security we filed into another line for mug shot-like photos. Here, everyone in the audience stood one-by-one against a wall, smiled for the camera, then took a seat in the waiting room when they were done. While I was standing in line to take my own picture, I couldn't help but think that this felt like being in a science fiction movie. I imagined that we were probably smiling for a photo that would later be used against us in case of an escape. Our fictional characters thought we were just going to a talk show, but in reality, it turns out to be a cloning experiment that goes awry and we all take off running for our lives and the "hosts" of the show begin hunting us down, one-by-one, and because of those dang pictures we took of our stupid smiling faces that they plastered all over the city we had nowhere to hide! Deep Breath. Awkward smile. SNAP. "Next!"

            The waiting room looked something similar to an emergency waiting room. In front of us was a flat screen television broadcasting CBS's daytime television for our entertainment. But, instead of the vending machines that you would typically find in a waiting room, we had a craft table consisting of Sara Lee muffins and bottles of water to keep us satisfied. I wondered, isn't that a conflict of interest? Don't they want people to bake their own muffins instead of buying the pre-made and highly processed variety? I suppose I was expecting something freshly baked from one of Rachael Ray's many recipes. Something we could actually test and venture to make ourselves. Odd choice. How disappointing.

            Just before being led inside the studio, the audience applause generator, (as I like to call them) who went by the name of Joey, came into the room announcing himself with a booming voice, snapping us out of the trance of day time television and focusing our attention on him. Joey's very job is to do this. His sole purpose there was to let us know when to clap, how hard to clap, when to "Oooh" if something is exciting, "Mmm" when we believe something tastes good and when to laugh at Rachael's silly little jokes, so she's not alone in her attempt at humor. I remember watching episodes of I Love Lucy with my parents when I was still very young, before my little brain could understand some of the humor.  I used to sometimes listen for the giggles of the audience off screen to cue me when to laugh so that I wouldn't seem so out of the loop with the jokes in front of the adults. Most of the time I would laugh at genuinely funny moments, but sometimes there was nothing particularly funny happening but one giggle from an audience member in the show would cue me to spurt out in laughter and confuse the crap out of my parents. They would look at me like I was either crazy or in amazement that I got something that they didn't. In reality, I had no clue. Joey was great at his job. His energy level was at a 10 for sure, while the rest of us were hovering between and 7 or 8 in the beginning. However, a couple of minutes later with Joey and a little extra push, we were reaching a level near 9 before we were led into the studio in the next space.

            The set was beautiful and very much like Rachael Ray. Everything was bright and dressed in the typical Fall color scheme and our jewel toned outfits fit the decor perfectly. Nice touch. Although, I did enjoy her retro kitchen set on 30-Minute Meals more. When everyone was settled and we saw that no one else was coming in behind us, many of us began to look around in confusion as to why there was still a gaping whole beside me, where thirty-one seats remained unclaimed. Do I smell? With some consideration, I came to the assumption that they were claiming these seats for guests appearing on the show. While that thought was still roaming around in my head, Rachael Ray herself, the mistress of ceremonies, popped out from back stage and sat in a seat right beside me. Oh, snap, Rachael Ray...is sitting next to me. Bringing her 5'3" self to our level on the stands, she sat and had a conversation with the audience confirming my assumption. She explained the gaping hole she was in the middle of and let us in on the itinerary for the first half of the show. The first set-up was a fashion sequence where one of Rachael's frequent guests on the show came up with a bit having to do with mixing and matching seven different outfits to get thirty-one different looks that could stretch over a thirty-one day month. Hence the thirty-one open seats in the audience that were reserved for the models. The outfits consisted of different, generic designs, that anyone could pick up at a local retail-clothing store, like Target or Walmart, and do the same mix and match at home. I'm not exactly a fashion guru but the outfits were not exactly the greatest choices for mixing and matching for a solid month. However, it was interesting to see the thirty-one variations they could come up with that were thrown on these very inexperienced, but eager housewives and Rachael groupies. Joey was on set and had us clapping vigorously for every model as they stepped out of line to show us their outfit, to the point that our hands were beginning to get a little raw by the time the next set rolled around.

            The following guest on the show, let me rephrase that–THE guest star of the show, was introduced by Rachael as Marcus Samuelsson. Without cable television, I've been out of the cooking loop for nearly a year now, so Marcus may very well be a well-known and very established chef on the Food Network, but until today's show, I had no clue who Marcus Samuelsson was. Apparently, he gained popular fare for being the chef to cook President Obama's first state dinner in 2009. His spot on the show was to promote his new book called "Yes, Chef'" which has just recently been put on the shelves of bookstores nation wide. Marcus was an energetic, wirery man who had us drooling over a dish of grits that he spruced up with the season’s latest produce. Joey had us going back and forth mumbling our "Mm’s" and clapping passionately between the two cues that we began jumbling the two expressions to the point that half of the audience was clapping and the other half was "Mming." I think we were starting to annoy Joey a little bit. It was sudden waving of his hands to stop and pay attention to him instead of watching the action that was happening with Rachael that gave it away. Sheesh Joey. We came here to see Rachael do her thing, not act like sound effects the entire time. Between commercials he would try to motivate us to keep up with him by bribing us with prizes. Extra large t-shirts and books you could pick up at the Family Dollar for a buck. Err, thanks Joey, I always wanted to read that one.

            When Rachael was through with her guest, it was on to her own thirty-minute meal. Finally. I haven't been able to watch her shows for nearly a year now, so this was the moment I had been waiting for. She prepared a simple corn flake crusted, hand formed turkey burger with fresh herbs and topped it with fresh vegetables on a lightly toasted bun. Lovely recipe Rachael, if only I ate turkey burgers. Well done anyway. By this point Erin and I were starving, but the show had yet to go on and we continued clapping away and "Mming" our hunger to the sound department while wiped our mouths of drool for the cameras.

            By the next quick set, I could begin to see that Rachael's usually peppy attitude was beginning to give way to something a little more forbidding. I noticed little spurts of it earlier in her demeanor, when she seemed to forget she had an audience. However, when the models were recalled to the set to capture close-ups for the cameras, Rachael questioned, whom I believe was the assistant production manager, whether she and her fashion guru needed to go through their dialogue again or not. Apparently, the assistant production manager's response was not quick enough or articulated clearly enough for Rachael, because she pretty much ripped the guy a new one in a very passive aggressive way. It seemed as though it was a quick response that came from her slowly bubbling rage, because she appeared to have checked herself when she looked up at the audience and remembered that she had over a hundred pairs of eyes looking back at her. Maybe behind the scenes, this guy was actually the biggest egomaniac who ever worked for CBS and deserved a little ass ripping, I don't know. I guess I can't really judge anyone's motives unless I've walked a mile in their shoes, but he didn't look very full of himself in that moment. In fact, he seemed as though he was about to cry as he shuffled back across the set and scooted behind the massive studio camera, putting as much distance from himself and Rachael as possible. The audience didn't know what to do in that moment. We all just looked at Joey for guidance, but even he didn't say another word. In fact, he looked just as awkward as the rest of us. It was like watching a couple fight at the dinner table in front of you. While you can't really remove yourself from the scene, you just sit there, feeling awkwardly out of place, bow your head and shovel food into your mouth just to have something to do with yourself. However, being a part of the show and possibly caught on camera at any given moment, you can't be looking around the room and up at the ceiling to avoid the drama on set, you have to look straight ahead at the scene and smile, even if crookedly, for the camera while making it look as genuine as possible. Rachael did not seem very happy after that, although she was probably trying to keep it together. I don't understand it. Like any other job that you've done for so long and although as glamorous as it may seem, it will eventually begin to feel like any other job at some point. She probably comes in, grabs her coffee, goes to a production meeting, rehearses, blocks, films, films, films, cleans up, goes home with tomorrows homework in tow and then does it all over again the next day. Some variation will happen in between, of course, and after a decade of doing this along with the magazine that she puts out every month, including recipes she actually takes the time to put together herself, not to mention a husband to spend time with at home and the other ventures she has going on the side. She's entitled to get cranky. I get it. However, I've been that guy who she made to look small once and I'm sure she was in his shoes at one time or another too. So when the job begins to feel like pulling teeth and it's not fun anymore, maybe it's time to move on or let something go. That way you're not doing everything halfway and making yourself and everyone else miserable. She could probably quit everything now and still have enough residual income to live very comfortably for the rest of her life. I would certainly miss her quirky little jokes, her inventive recipes and funny word jumbles, but maybe it's time to take some advice from good ol' Seinfeld...and quit while you're still on top. That way you go out with a bang and you're always welcome to come back and do something else.

            After one last little set-up, with a one-on-one with Rachael and the camera, the show was over and Rachael thanked her audience for their support. Joey had been bribing us all afternoon with prizes and a surprise gift to take home with us, so we were all pumped to see what this surprise was going to be. When we walked out of the studio we were each gifted with October's issue of "Every Day with Rachael Ray" and then shuffled out of the building the way we came in. I wasn't expecting Oprah sized gifts like a week long vacation to Hawaii or a new car, but I was hoping to at least get a copy of "Yes, Chef,'" since the guest star was on the show was promoting the book. Geez Rachael Ray, what gives? Sarah Lee and now this? Meeting any celebrity I've come to admire, I'm always weary that they'll disappoint me by being cruel or unfriendly. I've seen enough of that to always have it in the back of my mind when I work with or meet an A-lister somewhere. However, I always remember that they're people who have bad days too and I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Some of my favorite artists were known to be tyrants. Take Charlie Chaplin for instance, one of the directors I probably admire more than any other, spent more time yelling at his crew and firing people on a daily basis than anyone I've ever heard of. Although, he was also under the immense stress of casting, directing, writing, producing, acting, editing and composing the music for nearly every one of his hundred or so films. AND, he raised eleven children all in that time! Tell me there isn't a fine line between genius and insanity and I'll give you Charlie Chaplin. So I forgive your cranky ways Rachael Ray, and I'll enjoy reading my October issue of "Every Day with Rachael Ray" and continue watching your shows when I can. All is well. Let's just hope her assistant production manager doesn't hold a grudge. You never know who he could be some day.