Oh, what will this year bring?

Tis grand

Gretchen — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 14:46:39 +0000

In January, I received a summons for grand jury duty. I had been called for jury duty once before but was dismissed when the case suddenly settled out of court just as the jury interviews were to begin. I remember feeling grateful that, although I feel strongly about fulfilling my civic duty and felt initially excited about serving, making decisions about people’s lives is not something I feel comfortable with. I felt better about the grand jury since I wouldn’t have to make decisions of guilt or innocence, just whether the case had enough merit to go to trial.

Not regular jury duty that lasts for a week, but grand jury duty which is a 10-day obligation spread over a 4-week period. I look at the dates they needed me and I looked at my calendar. In order to satisfy the obligation, I’d have to cut short my vacation, cancel all my business travel for the month, and reschedule my colonoscopy. I could do it but I wasn’t very happy about it so I called to see what was involved in deferring my commitment. They were very good about working out a different set of dates for me and so, with a blank calendar in hand, we rescheduled for late May and June.

In preparation, I cleared my schedule and let my clients know that I had reduced availability or, at least, my reaction times would not be as fast during this period. I was obligated to be in court for 2 or 3 full days each week. Since I don’t get paid if I don’t work, that meant spending all day in court, then coming home and putting in a full day’s work at home. I mentally prepared myself for the mental exhaustion this would bring on.

My first day of reporting was on May 28. I dressed appropriately as the instructions directed. I packed up my laptop and book and latest writing project to take with me so I’d have plenty to do during long periods of waiting. I picked up a Starbucks coffee, and drove downtown to the Hall of Justice. I couldn’t predict how long it would take me so I arrived early, very early, but still I wasn’t the first one there. I waited with the others, and watched more jurors arrive, as we waited for security to open to check us for weapons.

At the designated time, we shuffled through security, then waited in the open hallway for more instructions. We were then herded into a courtroom where our names on small pieces of paper were tossed into a wooden box. The commissioner of jurors spoke to us about the grand jury process, why the extended demands on citizens’ time and how they realize that’s a burden for a lot of people, and asked about any reasons any of us should be dismissed. A few people were removed and the rest of us good to go as jurors.

The summons we had been sent separated us into two groups, A and B (my group). The commissioner cleared a seating area of the courtroom, then drew names out of the A box to fill 12 seats. I watched as people filled in the seats, some looked resigned, a few looked nervous, one or two looked pissed off. Then the commish cleared another seating area and started to call the B names. One by one, he drew small slips of white paper out and called the names of the jury. One after another, my name was not called. When he had filled the 12 seats, he removed the A jury and the B jury from the courtroom. They would make up the grand jury. The rest of us were not needed.

The commissioner gave us three choices: have our records marked as Service Fulfilled which would take us out of the jury pool for six years, agree to be called for grand jury duty again in the future, or ask to be put in the pool for regular jury duty which lasts one week (you call in twice a day to see if you’re needed).

The commissioner’s assistant called the names of the unselected. The first one asked for Service Fulfilled, as did the next one, and the next. They seemed happy about it, like they had beaten the system and were now free of obligation. After half a dozen people asked for Service Fulfilled, a man said he’d do grand jury again. He looked like he was retired and had the time to spare to serve. The assistant thanked him, then continued to call the unselected who picked up the pattern of feeling they had served enough already.

I thought about what I would choose. I have to admit I wasn’t eager to be called for grand jury duty again, to clear my schedule for another month, and to endure the loss of income during that period. It was a big personal commitment: the drive to downtown, paying for gas and parking out of my own pocket, stepping out or bringing my own lunch. A part of me was quite grateful to be dismissed. To request Service Fulfilled would make my life much easier.

The assistant called my name and I stepped up to the desk.

“I’ll take regular jury duty,” I said.

“Really?” she said. “Thanks!” She handed me a calendar to select the week I would be called. I chose September 8 - 11.

I chose those dates for a reason. It seemed fitting that I would serve that week, that fateful day, the same day that seven years earlier, Nick had told me that if there was a war, he’d sign up to fight. He was 15 and two years later, he signed his enlistment papers for the Marine Corps. He spoke an oath that he would defend the Constitution of the United States, with his life if necessary. His term of service was four years.

The justice system didn’t ask four years of me. They didn’t ask me to go to a foreign place for 6 months, a year, two years. They asked for a week, even then, they might not need me. They didn’t ask me to carry an M-16, to put myself in harm’s way. They asked me to make a decision of guilt or innocence. They didn’t ask me to defend the Constitution; they asked me to make it work.

Hundreds of thousands of Americans serve in the military. All of them have taken the same vow. If they are willing to risk their lives, especially for those who have given up their lives in service, I want to honor them, their sacrifice, and their commitment.

And all it takes is a week of my time.

Historic run

Gretchen — Thu, 22 May 2008 01:45:33 +0000

When I ran the Marine 10K last October, I caught marathon fever. I knew I wanted to run the Marine Marathon in 2008 and I knew I could do it if I worked up to it. I decided that a good interim goal to the marathon would be to run a half-marathon mid year and, as luck would have it, the Marines were sponsoring their first half-marathon in May. I decided to run the trifecta of Marine races: 10K, half-marathon, then marathon.

I followed a training plan from Runners World and set about logging miles, building strength and endurance. My long runs got longer, my short runs got faster, as I slowly prepared for the half-marathon. When I started running in 2006, three miles felt like the definition of impossible. As I pushed the definition to six miles, three miles felt like just a warm-up. It was hard to imagine that running more than six would be possible, but as I added mile upon mile, the new standard was 8, then 10, and when 11 didn’t feel any different from 10, I knew I could do 13.1. I was ready for the Marine Corps Historic Half in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

When I’m training, I run alone. And, since I’m not very fast and I’m logging 25-30 miles a week, that’s a lot of time running alone. So it’s a thrill to line up with 5000 other runners, all who are excited to run a 13-mile loop. It was a chilly morning and we huddled together. An older man and young woman behind me struck up a conversation. His son was in training for deployment, she was in Air Force Reserves. I turned to tell them that my son had just returned home from Iraq a week ago on Mother’s Day. I could see the worry on the man’s face over his son and I could only hope that running would see him through the months ahead as it has for me during my son’s two deployments.

When the starting gun fired, the crowd around me didn’t move although we knew that the elite runners who lined up at the starting line had taken off. In every race there are a handful who want to win, but most of us are there to follow our own definitions of winning: to finish. A small cheer went up when we started to shuffle forward, then a sigh of disappointment as we slowed to walk, then excitement as we picked up speed and crossed the timing mat. We were on our way.

It’s fun to run in a surge like that. Most of the runners are faster than I am and I feel carried along in their wake. I run faster than I would when alone. I know not to start too fast, that I’ll tire myself and “bonk” at the end — – I read that in Runners World — I’ve never actually had the experience because I’m too naturally cautious. But I like dashing ahead with the crowd so I settle into a pace that’s a little faster than what I normally run.

By mile 3, we’ve settled into pockets of runners. We’ve found a pace we like, although some fall off on the rise of a hill, others zoom ahead on the downhill, so the make-up of the group changes as the terrain. I’m running behind two tall 60-something men. They’ve having a good time. They call out “Good morning!” to the spectators and thank them for coming out. Where the Marines guard the intersections, they holler “Ooh rah!” and the Marines answer the same back. In the residential section of the route, an old man in a bathrobe stands in the front door of his stately home, picks up the newspaper from the step and sips coffee from a teacup. He’s not the least bit embarrassed to watch us run past, his pasty legs a bit bowed, his feet flat in his worn slippers. “Got enough coffee for us?” the pair of old guy runners call out to him. The old man lifts his cup and smiles. The crowd around me laughs as we run on.

A drum circle plays along the route. A church choir sings. A harpist plays. Around mile 9, a guy with a guitar plays rock tunes.

“Hurts so good,” he sings. “Come on, baby, make it hurt so good.”

It’s a funny choice to play for runners slogging through the streets of Fredericksburg. Running is not without its pain, but for me, the pain fades the farther I run. I have to run through the painful miles to get to the painless ones.

“Sometimes love don’t feel like it should, hurts so good,” I sing along with the rocker as I run.

The course was very pretty, both old village streets, residential roads where children sat bundled in blankets to watch us run. We passed churches and a confederate cemetery, then a long stretch by the river. There were some gentle rolling hills but I knew that the real hill was ahead — a long, steep climb between miles 10 and 11.

The beauty of running on a treadmill or to Podrunner tunes is that it forces you to run a very steady pace. Keep to the turning of the treadmill mat, or keep to the rhythm of the beats per minute of the music. My stride may shorten but the timing of my feet on the pavement never does. I knew I could take that hill.

At a third of the way up, a few runners dropped to walking. I kept plowing ahead but as we climbed, more walked. My stride was now not much more than a heel to toe length, but it was steady, left, right, don’t stop. More slowed to walk, I passed a man breathing heavily, another held her side. I ran on but I admit it was hard. I knew I wouldn’t walk up the hill but I wasn’t so sure what I would do when I reached the top. I hoped I wouldn’t fall to a recovery walk then, but I wasn’t so sure.

At the three-quarter mark, a big Marine stood by the side of the road. He had that big call of a drill instructor, a voice that really carried. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying until I was almost to him.

“That hill doesn’t know you!” he shouted. “It doesn’t know your strength! It doesn’t know your tenacity! It doesn’t know what you can do!”

He thrust out his hand and I gave him a slap as I picked up speed to complete the hill. It may sound silly now out of context but it was incredibly inspiring, exactly what I needed to hear. He was right. That hill didn’t know me, it didn’t see my running miles and miles on the canal path, getting sunburned on the hills of my neighborhood, or, when I’m working in Florida, running laps in a parking lot in the hours before dawn, 6, 8, 10 miles, then go to work. That hill didn’t know that I had not just survived but thrived through my older son’s service in the Marine Corps and his two deployments to Iraq. It didn’t know that I had stood by my younger son no matter what, even when I wanted to give up, and now, against the odds, he was about to graduate from high school. It didn’t know that I had endured 20 years of a difficult marriage, and now had a life of my own design that had been worth the wait and the work. That hill didn’t know me, it wouldn’t own me, not after all the months and miles I had trained, the life I have lived. I’ve taken on bigger challenges that that hill. I could take it, I could conquer it. And so I did.

I grabbed a cup of water at the top of the hill. It helped to cool me just a bit so I could start the flat ridge I had reached. After a hundred yards, I felt good, just two miles from the finish and I knew I would make it. I trotted along, happy to be heading to the finish without having had to walk any of the 13 miles.

I saw a young woman walking, about my size, cap pulled down. She was walking but she shouldn’t have been. The hill had taken it out of her and she couldn’t get going again. I jogged up beside her. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go get our medals.” She picked up her pace and ran with me.

I thought of my cousin Joni who ran the Marine 10K with me. She runs with a group and marveled over how I could train alone while I, so accustomed to setting my own distance and pace, puzzled over how she could run with someone else. I knew there must be something to Joni’s experience and so I ran with a complete stranger just as Joni runs with her friends.

We passed the 12-mile mark, coming into the crowded retail district where a radio station blasted music. Shoppers stood by their cars in the parking lots and cheered us on. The woman and I ran on together at exactly the same speed. I pointed to the traffic light that wasn’t far from the finish line.

“When we get to the light, we’re going to pick it up,” I said. “We’re going to finish big.”

“I’m not very fast,” she said.

“Neither am I, but we’re strong to the end.” She told me she’d do what she could, but that I shouldn’t wait for her.

At the traffic light, I took off. To anyone else, it might not look so fast but for me, it was flying. I was running hard for the finish. But the finish was a little further off than I thought and I started to lose steam. I could feel the ache start entering my legs and I wanted to stay fast but I was growing sluggish. I pushed myself, pushed, and pushed, and then, from behind I hear another runner thundering up behind me. I saw it was another woman I had passed a mile or so back. She was running full out and, in a rare competitive moment, I knew I could not let her beat me. I picked up the pace and ran in fast. I think she caught me in the last second but it didn’t matter. She had given me the push I needed.

As we cooled down in the walk, a Marine handed me my finisher’s medal.

“My son is a Marine,” I told him as I put the medal around my neck. I held onto the heavy metal with the Historic Half logo. “And I can out run him.” The Marine laughed and I did too.

I stood in line to have my commemorative picture taken. I recognized the woman ahead of me as the one I had run the last couple of miles with. She thanked me and said I had inspired her to finish. “I knew you could do it. You just needed someone to run with. You had it all along!” I gave her a quick hug.

I felt good. It was a good run. I needed to stretch and drink some water but I felt good.

Good enough to run a marathon come October.

And now I’m a half-marathoner

Gretchen — Mon, 19 May 2008 00:18:49 +0000

Just a brief post to say that the Marine Corps Historic Half-Marathon is over and I, not only completed it, but feel like I ran it as well as I possibly could have. I ran the entire thing, the only slowdowns were the water stops (just haven’t learned how to slurp on the run yet). The last hill was a killer but I got through it with a little help from a Marine. But I’ll tell story tomorrow.

I’m waiting for the times to be posted on the Results page (bib 3342) – not that it matters (the goal was to finish) but I’d still like to know.

One quick story: Around mile 8, a woman near me said to her two friends as they ran, “Boy, a marathon sure sounds like a bad idea about now, doesn’t it? This is enough! Running a marathon would be crazy!”

Crazy, you say? Nah, at that point, it seemed doable. Still does. Even sounds like fun. I can’t wait for the Marine Marathon in October. Bring it on, baby!

Yep, I’m that crazy.

UPDATE: The results have been posted. My time was 2 hours, 24 minutes, and 55 seconds. I wanted to be under 2 hours 30 minutes so I’m happy with that. Also, my pace was 30 seconds a mile faster than when I ran the 10K last October so not only did I run farther, I ran faster. Gotta be good with that!

Author

Gretchen — Wed, 07 May 2008 23:58:51 +0000

Gretchen Stahlman is a writer living in upstate New York. She has two sons: Nick, a Marine and newlywed who is finishing up his second tour in Iraq and Paul, a high school senior who is planning on pursuing his dream of being a cagefighter.

Gretchen currently makes a living as a technical writer. Her company, The Write Angle, provides documentation services to both large corporations, such as Kodak, Xerox, and Thomson Publishing, and smaller companies such as ForHealth Technologies. Visit her company website at www.WriteAngleOnline.com.

When she’s not writing user manuals, Gretchen writes essays, often about the experience of being the mother of a young Marine who is in harm’s way. She is a member of the Blue Star Mothers of America, Inc. She also writes about the antics of her younger son who doesn’t just march to the beat of a different drummer, but instead foxtrots to the beat of a different rapper. Never a dull moment.

Currently Gretchen is training to run her first half-marathon (the Historic Half sponsored by the Marine Corps) and her first marathon (Marine Marathon). She will be running on behalf of the Semper Fi Fund.

In August 2008, Gretchen will start the MFA in Writing at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington. Her writing can only improve through this great program.

Gretchen has a story coming out in the upcoming A Cup of Comfort for Military Families. Watch for it at your local bookstore.

Run!

Gretchen — Wed, 07 May 2008 23:57:23 +0000

I have two running goals in 2008: run the Marine Historic Half-Marathon on May 18 and the Marine Marathon on October 26. I’ll be running to benefit the Semper Fi Fund. I appreciate your donations!

Posts about why I’m running:

Always Extraordinary

Gretchen — Wed, 07 May 2008 01:43:05 +0000

Have you seen me running?

I’m the one trudging along the path, eyes straight ahead, moving slowly but steadily.

Have you seen me running?

I’m running on the shoulder of the road, watching you driving towards me, then feeling the rush of wind as you pass me.

Have you seen me running?

I’m jogging on the sidewalk, left and right on the streets of town, up and down the hills.

Have you seen me running?

I bet you have. But you don’t remember me. I’m too ordinary to recall.

But last October when I ran the Marine 10K in Washington, I saw a runner I’ll never forget.

We were about a mile into the race and the runners had spread out as we settled into our paces. I plodded along, as I always do, when I found myself running behind and to the left of a tall runner. He had a lopsided gait as he worked his arms to keep his balance. I don’t think he’d had his curved running leg for long. He ran as if he was worried that he might take a misstep, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, he kept going. A Marine always, now running 6.2 miles on one leg of muscle and bone and one leg of metal.

I don’t know how that young Marine lost his leg, or when or what his life was like before his injury. Chances are, he was just an ordinary guy living an ordinary life. When he lost his leg, he ceased to look like the other Marines, or like the boys he graduated from high school with, or like most of us. He would never be the same.

When we take an unchosen path, we have two choices: hide from the new life we’re presented with, or embrace it and make the best of the situation. When that young Marine left his leg behind, he left the ordinary behind too. He laced up his running shoe, strapped on a metal blade where his leg had been, and became extraordinary.

That runner wore a singlet for the Semper Fi Fund and when I got home, I looked them up on the web. They have a program, Team Semper Fi, that provides coaches, specialized sporting equipment, entry fees, and travel expenses for the wounded team members. I decided that I would run the Marine Half-Marathon (on May 18) and the Marine Marathon (on October 26) to raise funds to support this (and other) programs.

So I’ve been trudging the paths of my town, running the road’s shoulder, and sidewalk jogging in training for the half-marathon. Don’t worry that you don’t notice me. I’m ordinary. But I’m running mile after mile so others can be extraordinary. If you’re ordinary like I am and want to help, please make a donation.

I promise I’ll run extraordinarily hard for you. And for Team Semper Fi.

UPDATE: Thanks so much to everyone who has so kindly donated to the Semper Fi Fund. I am truly impressed and touched by your generosity.

I had my last long run on Sunday (11 miles) and it went well. I’m not fast but I get where I’m going! I just have short maintenance runs this week that are really feeling like fun. I’m leaving soon for Virginia and can’t wait to run on Sunday. You can check my time at http://www.marinecorpshistorichalf.com/site7.aspx. My bib is #3342.

UPDATE: May 16, 2008. I arrived in Virginia yesterday to spend a few days with Tom before we head to Fredricksburg on Saturday/Sunday. I had my last run today (about 6 miles) and Tom said I really look like a runner. It felt fantastic and left me wanting to do it again so I’ll save up that eagerness for Sunday. I’m ready to run!

Six weeks

Gretchen — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 02:30:10 +0000

I’m just six weeks away from running the Historic Half, the inaugural Marine half-marathon. It’s time to get serious.

It’s not that I haven’t been working out and training. I have been, but not all of it has been running. Frankly, it’s a lot easier to run when I’m in FL and can run outdoors than when I’m home and have to run on the treadmill. No matter how good the music or book is on my iPod or how fascinating the televisions are above the treadmill, it just gets boring after awhile.

[True (stupid) story: I was waiting with another woman for yoga class to start, so we got to talking about other workouts. “What do you think of the treadmill?” she asked. “Oh,” I replied, “it’s OK for the first hour but the second hour is pretty tough.” It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I quickly explained that I’m training for a half-marathon. No one in their right mind would spend more than an hour on the treadmill (right?). ]

So, in addition to running on the treadmill, I mix it up a bit with cycling classes or the elliptical or yoga. It all helps, it all works, and the variety has been good. But now it’s time to focus on running.

I have a training plan that I generated at RunnersWorld.com. Since I train by myself, it’s the only guidance I’ve got (besides my Running for Women book). (Eventually, when the weather is good and I’m not otherwise engaged on a Saturday morning, there’s a local group I’d like to run with, but I’ve been saying that since December.)

Sunday is my day for a long run. This week was 9 miles. I’ve run 10 before so I knew I could do it. I just had to figure out where. I discovered MapMyRun.com which has a great tool for drawing a route which it automatically calculates the mileage. Plus, I can use maps that other people created. I searched through and found this one:

http://www.mapmyrun.com/run/united-states/ny/fairport/210933415

I love running on the canal path and I knew this route, it was sunny and warming up in the 50s — perfect!

I planted a water bottle laced with Gatorade at a point a third of the way from the start, then I drove to the village and parked. I tucked a wad of tissues in the pocket on the back of my shirt: when my legs run, my nose runs. I plugged in my headphones and took off.

I was pretty slow but I plodded along. Sure enough, a mile or so in, my nose was running like a faucet. I reached in the back pocket and pulled out the tissues. I cleaned out my nose, returned the dirty one to my back pocket and put the clean ones in the front pocket of my jacket for easy access. I kept running until I reached the water bottle, had a few sips, and felt in my pocket for the tissues to clear my nose again but they were gone. My whole pile of tissues gone and I still had over 6 miles to run. I forged ahead, snot nose and all.

Sorry to be gross but I had to keep sniffling the entire way otherwise I was going to have an even more disgusting mess on my face. And I was not about to put one finger on a nostril to close it off and field-blow the other one. I was raised better than that. So I sniffed and snorted the miles away. Here’s the really gross part: eventually some of the snot dried in the wind. And not demurely up into my nostrils. By the time I finished the run, I pulled off my fleece hat to reveal damp hair either matted to my head or standing up on end. Sweat had dried in salty white patches on my face. And I had caked boogerpalooza going in my nose. And, of course, no tissues in the car.

But in spite of my less than cover girl appearance, I felt triumphant. I have to admit it was a terrible run, very slow and I just plodded along. At times I thought I must be nuts for trying the half-marathon, even crazier for considering the marathon in the fall, but in the end, even though it wasn’t pretty, I finished it. And that’s really what running these races is all about for me. It’s not really a race of winning times for me, it’s certainly not a beauty contest, it’s just an expression of the will to do what I say I know I can do. Snot nose and all.

Week beginning 3/31: Total miles 21.67

Flat Earth

Gretchen — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 12:50:33 +0000

In honor of my decision to give the decade of my 40s one last swipe before moving on to bigger and better things, here’s a link to Flat Earth, a video where I’m credited as a contributor.

http://www.thomson-craighead.net/docs/flmov.html

Here’s the “back” story:

In an old blog, I posted this story:

I’ve been experiencing some lower back pain this week. Couldn’t figure out why. I thought maybe it was from not stretching enough after my morning walk. But the more I think about when it first started, the more I think it is a result of Jill’s ringtone on her cell phone.Every time someone calls her, her phone plays

I’m Bringing Sexy Back by Justin Timberlake. And I feel obligated to stand and do a booty shake.

Jill laughs, Nick groans, Paul rolls his eyes, and I get a backache.

It ain’t easy bringing sexy back.

A month after I posted that, I got an email from Alison Craighead, an artist in England. She had this request:

I am an artist based in England, and I would like to use a small section of your blog to be spoken on the soundtrack for a four minute animation I am making called, ‘Flat Earth.’ The animation is being commissioned by the Arts Council England and is a non profit project. ‘Flat Earth’ will be constructed completely by data found online, so that the narrative is from blogs (like yours) and imagery is from maps and satellite photographs also found online I am very happy to cite your name in the credits and to send you a quicktime or similar once the work is completed.

Of course I said yes and had a good laugh (and a blog entry) from it. Then promptly forgot about it until I received an invitation to its premiere and although I wasn’t going to be in London that weekend, I appreciated the invite. Since then, Flat Earth has been shown on television in England, at a video exhibit in Amsterdam, and in a gallery in London. I am really shaking my booty all over the place.

I have to admit I hadn’t watched Flat Earth until last week. I think it’s funny that the voice of a young woman is used for my blog line. It gives it a completely different bent, so trivial in its meaning, than when uttered by a middle-aged woman who is laughing at herself. Interesting!

On the show

Gretchen — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 23:44:08 +0000

At the Hotel Mela, we emerged from the shiny, black SUV limo. I was wearing my sunglasses, Paul was looking adorable — we looked like we just might be celebrities and who were we to argue with that? We checked into the hotel and the desk clerk saw that we were with the show and asked us our topic. Paul explained that he wants to pursue being a fighter instead of a college student, then he and the clerk launched into a discussion of types of martial arts.

Meanwhile, being familiar with the size and layout of NYC hotel rooms, I asked if there were two beds in our room. No. Did they book two rooms for us? No. I love the kid but I am not sharing a bed with my 18-year-old son. Can we have a room with two beds? Sure, I’ll give you a complimentary upgrade. Great! Can we have a room as high up as possible? We were in Times Square and the street noise really carries. Sure! He gave us a room on the 16th floor with two twin beds overlooking the street. Gosh, this being a celebrity is pretty good!

We checked into the room, hung up our show clothes, and hit the street. We’ve been watching Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre Foods on the Travel channel and he’s always claiming that the street food is the best so we decided to put his statement to the test. We had some great food including some things Paul had never tried before, but that’s a story I’ll tell another day.

We were back in the hotel room around 6. I love NYC but it wears me out. We flopped on our beds and I closed my eyes while Paul channel-surfed. Finally, he reduced his choices to a basketball game and Shrek (the 1st and only one I’ve seen). I opened my eyes for Shrek, closed them for the game. By 8 o’clock, the street food had worn off for me but Paul still wasn’t hungry but agreed to go down the street to the deli with me to get something to eat. I brought a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a bottle of water (total $7) back to the room. Paul ate the crackers and teased me by pretending he was going to eat something from the mini-bar which made the deli look cheap in comparison.

I ironed our clothes so they’d be ready in the morning. We made a plan to get up at 6:30, I’d shower, Paul would shower and shave, we’d pack up our stuff, a limo was coming to pick us up at 7:45. We went to sleep around 10, woke up at 11:30 to loud noise on the street (it must have been really loud on the lower floors), and I woke at 4 full of nervousness and worry. I finally fell back asleep at 5, then, at 6:30, we put our plan in motion.

Surprisingly, once I started getting ready, I was no longer nervous. I can’t say the same for Paul. He tends to get very quiet when he’s nervous and he was uncharacteristically silent. He showered and dressed and he looked good. We had our bag packed and ready to go to the lobby to wait for the limo when the driver called to say she was waiting for us.

Another black SUV. We could get used to this (although I did feel guilty about all the gas the thing used to move us around). We arrived at the studio and a security guard escorted us to the stage door. We passed a line of people who I suspected was our audience. I admit it was kind of fun to have them stare at us to figure out who we were.

Here’s the first big scoop of the day: the green room isn’t green. It’s brown. Kind of a milk chocolate brown. Very calming. There was a little seating area with a TV screen so you could watch the show as it progressed. The seats were filled with women and when we came in, one of the producers asked me if I was there for the weight loss segment.

“No,” I replied, pointing to Paul ”I’m here because he’s not going to college.”

We hung up our coats and stashed our suitcase in storage. By the time we finished, our producer CJ appeared and introduced himself to us. Over the previous week, he and I had talked several times a day on the phone making the arrangements for the filming at the house and our appearance on the show. At one point, we had talked so many times that day, he announced himself as “Hi, it’s CJ, your new best friend” on one call. It was nice to finally meet my new BFF in person. He showed us where the food was: a fruit platter, a tray of pastries, juice, water, and coffee. Paul said he didn’t want anything but I helped myself to the fruit, a tiny roll, and a cup of coffee.

We waited and watched the goings-on: producers dashing around, the weight loss women being escorted one by one into hair and make-up, more show guests coming in, a lot of hustle and bustle. Just as I finished eating, Sabina, another producer I’d spoken to, arrived to prep us for the show. She went over what the procedure would be: we’d be on after the weight loss segment, we’d go onto the stage during the commercial break, Paul would sit closest to Juliet (he didn’t complain about that), then me, then Daniele Wood from Education.com. They’d show our taped piece, then interview us, break for a commercial, then return for more interview. She took us into the studio so we could see what it looked like. It’s so much smaller in person than it looks on the air. The studio audience is particularly small (maybe 30-40 people). The stage area was brightly lit and really, it didn’t look very intimidating. I knew we could do this.

Sabina prepped us on what questions Mike and Juliet might ask, then I got whisked away to hair and makeup. Wow. As soon as I sat down and took off my glasses, the hair stylist swooped a gown over my clothes, then squirted down my hair with a spray bottle. The makeup artist applied lip balm, then quickly studied my face and got to work. She issued instructions as she applied makeup to my eyes: open, close, open, look up, look down. The hair stylist worked at my hair with a blow dryer and brush, pulling it straight and smooth. The makeup artist told me to close my eyes and she spraypainted my face with foundation. Fast, cool, so glad she wasn’t a graffiti artist. She told me to smile and applied blush and anti-blush to my cheeks. Then she applied a lip balm that kind of stung.

“It puffs up your lips,” she explained.

I had an image of Goldie Hawn in The First Wives Club with her grossly swollen lips, and I feared all the make-up might make me look like Nora Desmond, but when I opened my eyes and put on my glasses, I was amazed to find myself looking 10 years younger.

“Oh, I’m so glad I still look like a PTA Mom and not a hootchie mama,” I said to the makeup artist and hair stylist as they ushered me out of the room.

Meanwhile, Paul and Daniele had had their hair done too and had met with Sabina about their parts in the show. The show had started so we settled on the couch to watch the ladies of the weight loss segment. Daniele and I talked about writing books and Paul just stared at the screen silently. Eventually, he and Daniele were called in for make-up, I dashed off to the restroom to pee, and then shortly after, we were wired for sound (the mikes clipped to our clothes and the wires ran to a wireless transmitter hooked on the back of our clothes).

“My lips burn,” Paul said.

“That’s the price of show biz,” I informed him.

We waited another minute and then it was our turn on the set. Sabina ushered us in, introduced us to Juliet and Mike, and settled us in our seats. She told Juliet that my last name was wrong on her note card but that it was correct on the teleprompter. She told Mike that I have an older son who is in Iraq. He made a note of it on his card.

And then, we were on. The music swelled, the audience applauded, and Mike and Juliet introduced the segment. We watched the edited video they had made of us at home. It was pretty good. Funny to see myself like that. I never see myself speak. Does my face really go like that when I talk?

After the piece, Mike and Juliet asked Paul a question or two, then asked me one, then Daniele, and then it was time for a commercial break. During the break, Mike pretended to spar with Paul. Juliet wiped her nose. I pointed our Juliet’s amazing shoes to Daniele and she said she had noticed them right off.

After the break, Mike and Juliet had more questions for Paul and more for Daniele but most of my job was to sit there and look motherly. Being a TV star really isn’t that hard.

Here’s what I was surprised/impressed by with Mike and Juliet: they are both so warm and easy to talk to. Juliet, in particular, feels like a very caring person. During the breaks, they’d chat with the audience, joking around. Although in the interview, Mike appeared to think Paul’s pursuit of fighting was a bad idea, he wasn’t like that at all during the breaks. Both were actually quite supportive. And they were both very professional, skillfully controlling the time and knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Their smoothness made it easier for those of us who were novices.

And then, it was over. We shook Mike and Juliet’s hands, they thanked us, and wished Paul the best of luck. We left the studio. Paul looked considerably more relaxed. We unhooked our mikes and Sabina said we had done well. Paul nodded and watched the monitor. Danity Kane was on. I had no idea who they were but he did and he thought they were pretty cool. And tiny. He remarked that they all looked so much smaller in person than they did on TV. He spoke to one or two of them and was thrilled.

Since we had time before our flight home, Sabina suggested we visit Nintendo World down the street. So we got in our limo and were chauffeured to Nintendo World in our show dress and makeup. Oh baby, we felt like da shiznit.

At the airport, we changed into our normal clothes and grabbed lunch. We waited for our flight home, and then we settled in our normal lives. We watched ourselves on the Tivo and talked about the adventure, so glad that we had this opportunity to, for just 24 hours, play star.

Just so you’ll know we didn’t develop big heads over this, I discovered the tags were still inside my skirt when I changed into my jeans. Yep, I Minnie-Pearled my new Ann Taylor skirt in my national television debut. And Paul? He served a detention the next morning for being late to school so many times. So much for our 15 minutes of fame.

Super Stars!

Gretchen — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 01:21:59 +0000

Our flight for NYC left at 1:45 pm on Sunday but we had a lot to do before then. On Saturday, Paul went shopping with our family fashion guru, cousin Simon, to get a pastel button-down shirt (no black, no white, no stripes, no patterns, the producer had told us) and pants (no jeans, the producer had also said). They returned with a light blue shirt and a pair of khakis. The shirt fit perfectly, but the pants were too long, too baggy, too old-man. I tucked under the length and they didn’t bunch up so badly, but still, well, not good. Paul and Simon headed back to the store and exchanged the pants for a pair of black pants, picked up black socks to go with the pants and his black dress shoes, then stopped by Gramma’s to hem them up. When Paul returned, he had his clothes all set for the show.

Meanwhile, I tried on the pants I had planned on wearing and they didn’t look good. I decided I’d rather wear a black skirt with my pink sweater so I headed out shopping. I found a skirt I liked, picked up a pair of pantyhose, and a camisole to wear under the sweater. When I got home, I tried it on and showed Paul. Eh, he shrugged. I took that as approval.

On Sunday, I went to gym in the morning as usual. On the way home, I practiced the rant I was going to deliver to Paul when I got home, “Wake up! Pack your stuff. Don’t forget anything. Summon your inner adult and put him to work!” But when I got home, Paul was already up, showered, and working on putting his stuff together. I was impressed. I had to explain the 3 ounces or less in a one-quart bag several times, and then show him the difference between a one-gallon and a one-quart bag, but finally, we were packed up and ready to go.

At the airport, we checked in and headed to security. For some reason, Paul always has trouble at security and, sure enough, he got the one nasty TSA agent. Before he went through the puffer, he asked if he should take his belt off. The agent impatiently waved him through and, sure enough, the alarm went off. He said he thought it was his belt and the agent said, “If you knew it, then why didn’t you take it off?” I swear, I thought Paul was going to practice his boxing skills on the guy. Instead, he removed his belt and went through the puffer again. Meanwhile, the agent near me shook her head and whispered, “I don’t know why he has to be so mean. He made a girl cry last week. He said she’s in college, she should know how to go through security.” There’s your problem: Paul’s not going to college. By the time we left the security area, the manager was having a word with the agent.

Paul and I boarded the plane and landed an hour later in NYC. We deplaned and headed toward the ground transportation. And we saw him, our driver. Oh yeah, baby, we had our own driver. He took us to a huge, black SUV with a silky leather interior. Gotta tell ya, it’s a whole lot better than a spew-inducing, sickeningly vanilla-scented taxi ride. He took us on a round-about way through Queens, over the Queensboro Bridge, and into Manhatten. We wound through the streets to Times Square and he delivered us to the Hotel Mela.

To be continued tomorrow . . . (sorry, I have to go to bed!)