Priced to Move

The best part of the shopping frenzy? Miss Mona insists on charging it to the network’s American Express card. I usually hit either Marshall’s or Filene’s Basement for my designer fix, so the number of zeros on the bills leave me gasping.

Then, bright and early the next morning, they drag me back to the studio. Just shoot me.

Miss Mona’s camera people subject me to multiple screen tests, makeup makeovers, and manicures. If the extreme shopping hadn’t worn me out, I might’ve enjoyed the beautifying spree—I do have my well-developed girly-girl side.

On the other hand, I do get to plan my shows, to choose gemstones, jewelry pieces, and diamond semi-mounts for shoppers to mix-and-match according to their individual taste. I even get to choose my backdrops, which is too cool.

It’s all about the gems, right?

Hah! Not by Aunt Weeby’s reckoning.

“There’s millions a’ single men out there, sugarplum,” she says on the way home after the remake Andie dog- and-pony show. “You have to look good. You never know when you’ll catch one’s eye.”

I did tell you she’s nuts. “On a women’s shopping channel?”

“Their mothers shop, don’t they?”

Oh goody. “If these men are still at home watching Mommy’s shows, then, trust me, I don’t want ’em.”

“So, there you have it, sugarplum! You’re plumb too picky for your own good.”

“Discriminating. I’m sure if God wants me to marry, he has a great guy out there for me.” I hope.

“Ah . . . so you’re waiting for the perfect hottie.”

“Yuck! I hate that word. It’s tacky. And I’m so not looking, or waiting, for a guy, any guy.”

No matter what I tell her, she can’t believe I’m not the rosy-glowed romantic she is. Maybe I am, but would rather wait for my Prince Charming than stalk him down. But don’t you dare tell her.

Then again, I’m not the driven executive Miss Mona has become, either. Who’d a thunk? Once upon a time these two were just small-town matrons with a weird thing for flea markets. Now one’s the female Ted Turner of cable commerce, and the other one? I’m not sure what Aunt Weeby’s really up to these days.

At least I get to work with nice people. There’s Allison, my makeup artist. She knows her business, and can erase under-eye circles and create cheekbones where the Lord forgot to put any. But when it comes to me, the dangerous duo fights to hijack her color choice every time—toward the pink spectrum, you understand.

Then there’s Julie Tuttle, Miss Mona’s retired military rent-a-cop for the vault. She’s the proud mama of twin girls. Every time I go check out the product, she talks endlessly about those sweeties and their daddy, her eyes full of stars. I’m jealous. And the owner of a ticking biological clock. Forgive me, Father.

The other hosts—Tanya, Marcie, Wendy, Karen, Danni, and Rosemarie—are okay, but usually too busy to pay much attention to me. Well, all of them except Danni Sutherland.

The dainty blonde has an Alaska-sized chip on her petite shoulder. The moment Miss Mona heard I was coming home, she yanked Danni from the weekly jewelry and gemstone show and stuck her with a couple more underwear—er . . . lingerie shows.

Eeuww! Can’t say I blame her. Tell me, would you like to look into a camera and tell the whole, wide world how much you loooove your underwear and why?

Nuh-uh. Not me.

Which makes me wonder. What kind of woman buys bras and panties off a TV screen while the whole world watches? Beats me, but there must be gaggles of them out there, since the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network sells truckloads of the frilly, stretchy, cottony, slimming, or colorful things.

Something tells me I’m soon going to know those TV shoppers pretty darn well. My on-screen debut isn’t too far off.

Heaven help me.

5⁰⁰

It’s D-day. Debut day.

So here I finish hair and makeup, my palms sweat, and I can’t force down more than two sips of java, no matter how delish the fumes. It’s not Starbucks, but when a woman’s desperate, she copes.

But today there’s just no coping going on, capisce?

As I walk from the green room—Hey! I know what that is now. It’s the room where stars and lesser beings like me wait for our cue.

Where was I? Oh yeah. As I walk from the green room to the set, the list of product I’m scheduled to offer in hand, I try to tame the buzzards crash-landing in my gut. But they’re so into their own thing that they pay me no attention. And a woman who talks to imaginary, carrion-eating raptors is certifiable, which I must be, since I agreed to this TV host gig in the first place.

What was I thinking?

“There you are!” Miss Mona says in a loud whisper.

I hurry toward her, but shoot a glance at the set. Danni is still on, a pair of puce silk panties in her hand. “Is something wrong? Did I miss something? And why are you here? I thought you were interviewing someone for a camerawoman position.”