The Kitchen Shrink (26 page)

I tried to just visualize him accepting my apology, maybe shaking hands, and lesson learned. What was my lesson again? Oh, yeah. I do have pretty good instincts about people, and I always thought Sam was one of the good guys. I should have gone with that.

I was going to take Daria’s advice. Besides, if it went terribly wrong, as in I ended up being even more humiliated than I already was, I could blame her for making me call him. However, being the cowardly lion I am, I didn’t trust myself to go through any awkward ad lib phone conversation. Email was my efriend.

“Dear Sam.” Or maybe just “Sam.” I went with just “Sam,” which took me ten minutes alone. “I just finished watching The Kitchen Shrink and thought your work on the show was…” Oh great. What was his work? Exciting? No, that was my reaction to his work. Well, at any rate, I told him I thought his work was amazing and thanked him for not making me look too terrible. “Sorry again for my misunderstanding.” This stinks, I thought. I sound desperate. Besides, I did apologize to him already. If he was interested, he knew where to find me. I was too old to be playing games like this. No. I did not want to save this message.

You’d be surprised how many people watch reality TV. I’ve become somewhat of a mini-celebrity. The paper boy, who was an elderly Chinese woman, wanted my autograph. I graciously gave it, knowing that this year for sure, I’d have to give her a Christmas present. Even the deli lady, at the grocery store, who could and would ignore me for up to ten minutes, suddenly was my new best friend. I didn’t let it go to my head, because it’s not like I was famous for being a hero or anything. I was pretty much a sideshow, that I imagined made people feel better about their own sorry lives. Although I did graciously accept free samples of the sliced salsa turkey. Suddenly, the fact that my life’s most embarrassing moments were going to be dragged out on national TV during prime time over the next few weeks didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

The show was nearly over. The ratings were OK enough that they didn’t cancel it, a mixed blessing, I guess. And I still haven’t heard from Sam. Oh well. Life goes on, says the cliché churner in my brain. I was keeping busy, interfering in my kids lives and repainting the entryway for a woman from my bunco group. I couldn’t wait for the last show to air, and then hope for Paris Hilton to become a dolphin trainer or something for The Kitchen Shrink show to become yesterday’s news.

The kids didn’t even want to watch the last show, but I made them. I tempted their royal hineys with bowls of ice cream and made them hang out with me. At least we were together. The show was nearly over and I was beginning to feel as if I could finally let go of what felt like a five-gallon can of ugly paint I had been carrying around. I was even fantasizing that maybe Sam would finally get in touch with me after the show was over. Maybe they had some rule about not dating the contestants or something. Visions of Sam were dancing in my head. I would like him here or there. That Sam-I-Am, that Sam-I-Am. I think I’d like him anywhere.

I stood up to take the kids’ empty bowls into the kitchen when I heard the tease for the last segment, something about me looking for love. And then I heard it. The most horrendous noise possible. Me singing. Oh no. This wouldn’t be good.

“What was that?” Ryan asked me. It had gone by so fast, maybe no one noticed. It was hard to understand.

“I don’t know,” I bluffed.

“Were you singing?” Nicole followed up, beginning a pity party for me.

“I can’t remember what that would be.” I slunk down in my chair. How in the world?

The show came back with a vengeance. Since a camera hadn’t been on me at the time, the producers thoughtfully dug up the most humiliating video of me they could find, editing together shots of me with messy hair, fugg boots, dopey looks on my face, along with Elgin saying “Is our Lisby hoping for a love connection with our very own cameraman?” And then it hit.

I heard my voice, on tape, singing. I hadn’t even remembered singing out loud, right after Dustin replaced the batteries in my microphone pack. I guess I must have felt secure since I had been upstairs in my bedroom with no camera pointing at me. But, obviously, the sound had been recorded.

 
“My kids smoke dope, my ex is one,”
I warbled on screen.
“I said nope, when I wanted to run, into your arms.”
I covered my face with my hands and folded over in my chair.
“And feel your lucky charms...”
the screeching noise continued.

“Mom,” both kids screamed in unison. “We don’t smoke dope,” Ryan said, followed by a disgusted, “Geeze,” from Nicole.

The phone was ringing, and though I’m no psychic I knew it was my ex. I might as well get it over with.

“Thanks a lot, Lisby,” he exploded over the receiver. “How could you call me a dope on national TV? You were singing! You! On TV. What were you thinking? Nice job.” Click. Good thing he hung up, I had no rebuttal.

The show made me look like some love-struck hussy. It ended on what I guess they would call a cliff-hanger, as in, did the crazy lady hook up with the cameraman? Then they encouraged viewers to watch the live finale. Ugh. Why did I sing? Why did they air it? The tiny bubble of hope that maybe Sam would call once the show was finished, popped. Why do I do such stupid things? Why did I even agree to be on this show? When does wisdom set in?

We had to go to LA for the live finale show after the voters voted. They even had us on the stage at the Kodak Theater where they shot American Idol.

The host was a gorgeous woman with an Australian accent no less, named Jenny, who pronounced it Jenn-aye. They introduced her as a carpenter but by the looks of it the only things she ever hammered were pints of Tooheys and strapping lads who looked like Russell Crowe.

I couldn’t believe how nervous I was. The show kept going to so many commercial breaks I tried to figure out how much money they were making. Elgin told me that reality shows were so popular because we were all a bunch of scum sucking voyeurs who loved to catch people with their pants down. He said since they were also cheap to produce, networks were thrilled to oblige. When you think of the salaries of actors for scripted drama shows, the budget for one show was in the millions of dollars, versus a piddling $50,000 grand prize and free ‘actors’ starring in a reality show like The Kitchen Shrink. Even when you add in production costs, travel and lodging for the crew and construction expenses, it still made economic sense. If they could produce a show for under a million, even if it was a stinker, their commercial revenue would pay off. Even I could figure that out. And I round out my checkbook and topped out in 4th grade math when my kids tried to ask for my help. I had an unflattering flashback of myself screaming at Ryan when he was only about ten years old, “just be smart enough to be able to afford your own damn CPA when you grow up.”

So, in terms of production costs, reality TV was here to stay. TV bosses could plug viewing holes with all sorts of reality fanfare, rake out their money from the advertisers, and if the ratings weren’t good, quickly replace it with something else. I could see why networks were able to roll them out.

And we’re back. Live. Yikes. I swear, for as much as I knew I wasn’t going to win the prize, the live show producers had the crowd so whipped up I felt like a contestant on American Idol, convinced I was going to be the next shining star. With all the tension building, flashing lights and booming music, I hoped I didn’t hyperventilate.

Jenn-aye was getting to the specifics of the voting. Wow, 15 million viewers called in, who knew? That’s three times the population of Denmark. True, it was less than half of the votes American Idol gets, but they were going for an older audience. They did a recap of the previous night’s show ending, where they updated all of our characters and what we were doing and how we had changed.

Mary in Michigan lost a total of 30 pounds during her kitchen renovation on her condo. Mary was great. She was still a little chubby, but had these huge dimples, with a great laugh and just a great spirit. Her kitchen was a little too country kitsch for me, complete with roosters, but it worked for her. She loved it. She says she’s cooking healthy lunches for all of her friends in her new kitchen, and collectively, they’ve lost 80 pounds in the last couple of months. I clapped as hard as anybody.

Mark from Florida was so weird. His claim to fame was that he exorcised a devil from his basement. Riiighht, as Dr. Evil would say. I told my kids they should probably still be checking in that basement for dead bodies or something. Mark was married to a normal enough looking woman and even had three cute kids. If my kitchen was modern/contemporary, and Mary’s was country, Mark’s kitchen was totally indescribable. Don’t get me wrong, I like rustic crosses and Spanish/Moorish artifacts as much as the next person, but his kitchen looked like the only thing that got burned in there was incense. Mark had changed by saying he found the Lord, but the question was, did the Lord really want to be found by Mark?

And finally, there was Edna from Idaho, who got engaged to the termite inspector. Poor Edna just looked like a woman who was going to beat somebody up, but in reality, she was very sweet. I was so happy for her. She couldn’t say a sentence without waving her left hand and its miniature engagement ring around. Her kitchen was called The Kitchen Pink. Everything was pink, but it worked. Her mother had just died from breast cancer and she was active in raising funds for breast cancer awareness. Her activism and her pink kitchen seemed to help her deal with her mother’s passing.

The audience really seemed to clap over my kitchen. The producers were kind in coming up with changes they said I had made in my life. And they made a big deal about wanting to know if I found true love. They even dragged that out over a commercial break. Elgin told me the producers begged Sam to ask me out so they could put it in the show. He wanted to know if Sam had called me. I was so sad. My feelings were hurt that Sam hadn’t called, even though I had to be glad he didn’t pimp it out for reality TV.

I smiled and shook my head as Jenn-aye asked the question “all of America wanted to know: did you and Sam the Cameraman hook up?” The audience groaned. With pity. For me. America was a sucker for a good love story, I guess. I know I was.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Jenn-aye was flapping her hands, trying to calm the audience. “Lisby’s doing just fine.”

Geeze. Maybe I should suggest a reality show called How to Blow a Date on National TV and Feel Like the World’s Loneliest Woman. “Since the show ended,” the host was saying, “Lisby has helped several women find their inner-decorating diva. She’s helped renovate an entryway and the kitchens of two other women, sparking changes in their own lives.” Polite applause. “Just so you know, Lisby,” Jenn-aye called over to me, “a lot of our viewers emailed in that they hope you redo your bedroom.” Ha ha. “Whatever blows yer hair back, right?” She said. Whatever that means.

The producers were right, though. A couple friends of friends saw me on the show and asked for help with their kitchens. We didn’t do major renovations, and after I got over my fear of screwing up, I really enjoyed helping them and giving them my opinion on what they needed to do. I really liked doing that and when I got back home I was scheduled to meet with another woman to help her with her bedroom. Maybe it would inspire me to tackle mine.

The host went on to announce the winner of The Kitchen Shrink…after the break. I didn’t know why I was perspiring. I didn’t think I won. I didn’t even think I deserved to win. My kitchen was enough. I was grateful for that. Just this show hyped everything up so much. I was pulling for Mary or Edna. If Mark won, so help me.

They came back from what must have been a two minute Dr. Pepper commercial and the crowd went wild as Mary won. Good for her. I was clapping my heart out, and not just because there was a giant camera in my face making sure I wasn’t having sour grapes or rolling my eyes or anything. Freaking Mark looked like he was praying and about to break out speaking in tongues or something. Thank goodness it was all over.

“But wait, there’s more,” the host boomed. “What about our designers? We can’t forget our talented men and women in the trenches, can we?”

The crowd screamed, “No!”

The host explained that viewers voted twice. “Once for the most improved winner of The Kitchen Shrink, and once for the best kitchen.” More applause. “Who’s it going to be? Who is our winning designer?” She ripped open the envelope.

“Elgin, come on down!”

My girlfriend was crying like a baby, or Miss America. I truly believed he was expecting a crown. He calmed himself, wiped his tears and grabbed the mic from the host and totally surprised me.

“I couldn’t have done this without Lisby.” He beckoned me over. Crap. I almost wiped out in my slippery heels as I hobbled over to him.

He took a half step in front of me, like I was going to hog his limelight or something. “Lisby is a winner in her own way.”

Gee, thanks, Elgin.

“We took a good person, lightened her up, her hair, her house, her style, her kitchen, and brought out the real Lisby, a beautiful woman inside and out. I think the viewers were wrong,” he babbled on. “Maybe you can’t see it, maybe she didn’t lose weight, banish Lucifer from her house or find a man, but she is the most changed. She is calm, confident and I call her my friend.”

He took my hand then and raised it high before bowing down. I went along with him, the front of my dress gaping wide. The music began playing, confetti and balloons fell from the ceiling and the crowd went wild. As he stood up, he whispered in my ear. “Seriously, Lisby. Have you ever thought about a boob job? I’m just say-ing.”

“You’re a boob job.” Of course, that’s the clip that played over and over the next day on E! TV. I could only pray it didn’t make The Soup.