Ricki, Don't Use My Number!

Our limo guy in the airport.

Catch up here. Ok, enough of this. It's not even that great of a story. But it does have an end.

They took us right into Makeup. I capitalized "Makeup" because that was the attitude of the Makeup People. That they should be capitalized, at all times, since it was they who decided who looked good, who looked great, and who should go home and crawl under a rock. And stay there. I wanted to know if my Makeup Lady did Ricki's makeup, too. She laughed. "Ricki has her own Makeup artist." In my mind, I slapped my own head. How could I be so stupid? In front of Makeup people? My Hollywood hopes of being discovered, possibly by this very Makeup person, were being dashed right before my carefully lined eyes.

"They" put us into a special room for all the "ex's." We were all separated into different rooms. The show was entitled "My Ex is Sexier Than My Current [Girl/Boyfriend]", and it was divided up into about 4 different 7-8 minute segments. Not quite my 15-minutes of fame. Thank you, God.

It was a large room, with a giant conference table, and "they" brought us, the special, made-up Sexier Ex's, whatever we wanted. Someone ordered Chinese food, so they got enough for 100 people. One person required Tex-Mex, done for 100 people. Someone was thirsty, drinks for 100 people. Ah, to be an over consuming American in the trash-tv heyday.

What am I doing here? Who are these people? No, I don't want $100 and Chinese Food! How would I escape, if I really wanted to? Would they chase me? That was a pretty maze-y hallway.

After what seemed an eternity, the show started, and we could watch it on a close-captioned TV. In the room with me, was a dude with a guitar, who had composed a love song to his long-lost love, with whom he was still in love. There was a feisty African-American girl who was sure she was gettin' her man back, and had a recent picture with him to prove his recent disloyalty to Current.

Seriously, where was the elevator? Would they really cancel my flight home, if I ditched?

My segment began, and as I was entering the door onto Stage Left (which I desperately wanted to Exit.. great album, but I wanted to do it for real), the producer told me to blow a kiss to the audience.

Um... NO.

I sat in the chair left of "J". On his right, was an empty chair. As I sat down, I realized I was PISSED OFF that I was in this situation. I nudged him, hard, with my elbow, as I sat down. The audience went crazy. We sit there, go through required chit-chat with Ricki, who is gorgeously made up. Her Makeup Artist and producer husband are, no doubt, glowing. My best friend comes out after a (3-minute) eternity, probably since the producers were glaring at me for being so "normal" and "quiet" and "not trashy enough."

My friend is a little feistier than me. She spices things up. Some dude in the audience stands up and points out that it seems as if "J" is still "sweating" me. I chuckle. This is kinda fun. As dumb decisions go.

Then, the Current (we can call her "Lucy") comes out. She sits down, makes herself comfortable. She's cute. (Not me, but cute.) Then Ricki comes out with it. "He's up here saying she's sexier than you are. What do you make of this?"

I then realize, all of a sudden, that "Lucy" is just finding out what this show is about. Nobody has told her why she was on the show. She was probably told she was winning an Oscar, and the limo was picking her up at 8:00 AM sharp. I'm disgusted, suddenly. But Lucy is a winner. Her response:

"Well, my Ex is a lot sexier than you are, but you don't see me going on a talk show to say that."

Audience goes WILD.

And that, my beloved bloggy friends, is pretty much the bitter end. A little more bickering, some stupid/silly "Sexymeter" at the end where the audience compares the two. They load us on the elevator, someone absent-mindedly asks when we're going to meet Ricki. The large bouncer security man who makes eight bucks an hour but gets to be The Man twice a day shuffling guests in and out answers in his gruffly NY accent, "we're taking you to her right now!" The elevator doors open, we're taken to the exit where our limos are waiting. Classy, Big Man. Classy.

And that's it. End of show, end of story, the flights were a little delayed and my sorority sisters were embarrassed. Was it worth it? It made a good blog story, right?

And, just because Steely Dan is in our heads anyways;

Rikki Don't Lose That Number

You don't wanna call nobody else

Send it off in a letter to yourself

Rikki don't lose that number

It's the only one you own

You might use it if you feel better

When you get home