"Oprah Fail" Part 3

I had just gotten out of the shower and it was a day when The Good Doctor had come home early or was post-call, so he was home too.

My phone rang with a "blocked ID" number. Note: If you are ever expecting an important call and your phone rings with a blocked ID, some people say you should let it go to voicemail so that you can compose yourself and call back when you're prepared. I had not heard of this technique, so I breathlessly ran to pick up my prehistoric Palm Centro, hoping with all my hope cells that it would be someone from OWN.

Turns out, it was a CASTING DIRECTOR from Mark Burnett's company. He of Survivor, The Apprentice, Shark Tank, and basically the Father of Reality TV.

Him: "Hi I'm calling about Your OWN show."

Me: Jumping up and down, running in place, hand on my chest, gasping for breath, "Hi, yes, this is Vicky."

Him: "Don't get too excited, now. This is the first in a series of steps. I just need to confirm some things."


He then goes over some basic info and asks me a few more questions about my application and my show idea. He confirms my availability for a week in July. He tells me he's sending me an email with some more info and that I need to send back a couple headshots. He will then have to pitch me to someone who will have to pitch me to someone.

Me: God Bless America. "Thank you very much, I will get those photos to you right away."

The whole time, I am pacing and jumping and trying to pump my brakes. The Good Doctor is playing Scramble2 on the iPad and mouthing "Calm down" in between words.

Meanwhile, Emmy is still napping and I'm blathering away and trying to make sense of what I'm saying to the nice man on the phone who says, "Really, don't get too carried away. I'm not that big of a deal. People think I'm a big deal but I'm really not. My mom thinks I'm pretty special, though."

The conversation ends. I tackle The Good Doctor and freak out for a couple more minutes while hyperventilating and smothering him and writhing around like the Spirit done possessed me. It was not cute, but necessary. Mind you, I'm doing all of this in a whisper and pantomime because Emmy is still sleeping and God forbid you interrupt that child's afternoon nap. That gets real ugly real fast.

I calm myself before I harm myself and try to stay focused. I remind myself this is the beginning of a "long process" as the man said, and I try not to float into outerspace on my cloud of endless possibilities. I mean. We're talking Oprah. The Queen. She who can turn poop nuggets into gold nuggets that poop platinum nuggets. To meet her, work for her, HOST A SHOW ON HER NETWORK...these are the things dreams dream of.

Poor Good Doctor. He'd already endured weeks of what-iffing about thousands of possible scenarios.

"Dude, what if Oprah invites the contestants to her house to watch the premiere?"

"What would you do if Oprah and Gayle showed up and wanted to meet the spouses of the contestants?"

"How does it feel to be married to the next host of a show on the Oprah Winfrey Network?"

Oh it was "Fantasy Football: TV Host Edition" in full effect 24/7 around here.

Another week went by. This time, a woman called.

To Be Continued.