I can tell it's almost baseball season: Tonight is the 28th annual Sun Baseball League draft.
It started with five and grew to 12 and now there are three original guys left. (Or so they say, but that math isn't working for me as I look around the room) But six of the 12 go back as far as I do (or did) to the late '80s.
I don't play anymore. I moved away, and moved out of Sports. And, frankly, these guys are damn serious about their league. And it doesn't even involve money. Most fantasy teams involve money these days -- but not this one. These guys play for pride.
It used to be all sportswriters. Then at least all journalists. But now, there are six working journalists who play. A PR guy or two. Two unemployed writers. A lawyer. Even still, all the others used to be sportswriters at one time or another.
And for a lot of them, it's the social event of the season. (And I'll bet Paul blogs about it, too. Dennis is live blogging, here).
It's also an all-boys game these days. Not because they wouldn't let the girls play; I played, Cindy played, but that was pretty much it. No, the guys are just way more into it. In the old days, there were no wives or girlfriends who came. Probably because we held the draft after the paper closed, about 1 a.m. (Although I seem to remember my Dad going in my place to draft my team when I was in D.C.) These days, the girls go just to say hello, see the baby pics of the newly married guy(s), trade stories about way back when. We tend to man the big board of picks, and I feel like an aging ring card girl.
So I'm sitting here doing the math and I've known the old guys -- the original five by my count -- for 27 years. Since I was 17. (I'm trying to decide which sounds more dramatic. I think the first). And the lawyer for probably 25.
The lawyer loves this game. I don't think he does very well, but he plays all the same. One year he was visiting me in Paris, and he stayed up all night so he could draft from France. This year, there are three absent players: one in Dallas, one in Seattle and one in Arizona (covering ball). We're getting technologically more savvy ... everyone is texting and e-mailing. I expect eventually everyone will use his laptop.
Someone picks, someone else trashes the pick. Someone else still can't resist turning a comment into a double entendre. There's not much work talk these days ... it's become a bit of a dark topic, and this night is for fun.
We've been at it two hours, and we're not even a third of the way done. And Paul calls out "JP up, Vic on deck!" and the picks continue.
April 1, 2009
March 28, 2009
What a Way to Make a Living
I'm still not totally sold on this whole 9-to-5 business. (Even though for me, it's 8 to 5) For so many years I had irregular hours (even when I worked "days" it wasn't until 11) and that's a hard habit to break.
The worst thing isn't having to get up early -- I'm adjusting to that. The thing I dislike most is having to go to bed early. In fact, having to go to bed at a specific time. Being in bed by 11 (and 10:30 is more accurate) is a ridiculous concept to me. And it's not that I'm not tired -- I absolutely am -- but it's the idea of a forced bedtime.
Because I'm one of those people who does better with more sleep than less, I try to aim for 8 hours, minimum. And because I'm one of those people whose cat owns them, I don't always get a good 8 hours. Sidney hasn't adjust well to my new schedule. He likes going to bed early, but then wants to eat at 1, and it's hard to wake up just 2 or 3 hours after I've gone to sleep. (Well, not hard to wake up so much as hard on me). Then I get another wake up call from him at 4:30 or 5. That part I'm used to -- I've always gotten up to feed him at some point in the morning. But twice? That's just too much. Luckily for me, Paul stays up later and often is awake to feed him the first time.
But then that puts me on a different schedule from Paul. The whole thing is rather disconcerting and disruptive to my sense of timing.
On the bright side, I have found that I am incredibly productive in the morning. I attribute that to the fact that it's the beginning of the day, and not morning -- and if I started work at 3, I'd still be incredibly productive the next four hours.
Maybe next I'll whine about how it's impossible to get anything done when you work regular hours. Stay tuned.
The worst thing isn't having to get up early -- I'm adjusting to that. The thing I dislike most is having to go to bed early. In fact, having to go to bed at a specific time. Being in bed by 11 (and 10:30 is more accurate) is a ridiculous concept to me. And it's not that I'm not tired -- I absolutely am -- but it's the idea of a forced bedtime.
Because I'm one of those people who does better with more sleep than less, I try to aim for 8 hours, minimum. And because I'm one of those people whose cat owns them, I don't always get a good 8 hours. Sidney hasn't adjust well to my new schedule. He likes going to bed early, but then wants to eat at 1, and it's hard to wake up just 2 or 3 hours after I've gone to sleep. (Well, not hard to wake up so much as hard on me). Then I get another wake up call from him at 4:30 or 5. That part I'm used to -- I've always gotten up to feed him at some point in the morning. But twice? That's just too much. Luckily for me, Paul stays up later and often is awake to feed him the first time.
But then that puts me on a different schedule from Paul. The whole thing is rather disconcerting and disruptive to my sense of timing.
On the bright side, I have found that I am incredibly productive in the morning. I attribute that to the fact that it's the beginning of the day, and not morning -- and if I started work at 3, I'd still be incredibly productive the next four hours.
Maybe next I'll whine about how it's impossible to get anything done when you work regular hours. Stay tuned.
March 22, 2009
Le Week-end
Went to Le Creperie last night for dinner, and it was cool. French food! I was tempted by the savory crepes, even though they were American-style, but ended up with the Moules Mariniere (mussels).
Oh how I miss those garlicky mussels in a wine broth, dipping baguette in and sopping up the sauce. They had skinny frites, too, and it was a nice reminder of Paris. Although I must say, the mussels here were much more plump even though the portion was much more tiny.
And then today, on the train, I heard three young women speaking French. I struck up a conversation with them -- it's been at least a year since I've spoken French -- and they seemed thrilled to speak French with someone. So we were all happy.
A little Francophilia to round out my weekend.
Oh how I miss those garlicky mussels in a wine broth, dipping baguette in and sopping up the sauce. They had skinny frites, too, and it was a nice reminder of Paris. Although I must say, the mussels here were much more plump even though the portion was much more tiny.
And then today, on the train, I heard three young women speaking French. I struck up a conversation with them -- it's been at least a year since I've spoken French -- and they seemed thrilled to speak French with someone. So we were all happy.
A little Francophilia to round out my weekend.
The Other Side of the Tracks
You know that saying about living on the wrong side of the tracks? After taking the Blue Line up to downtown L.A., I'm pretty sure there isn't a right side of the tracks.
It's an interesting trip, one that Paul has made before but I have not. It takes an hour to go the less than 30 miles, which is a lot, but Paul had the car this weekend and I needed to be somewhere. The price is right; it's 1.25 each way. The train is clean and it deposited me at 7th and Figueroa, a very convenient downtown location.
I was interested to see what was along the tracks. A surprising number of churches, for one. Really, dozens. And it was interesting to see the neighborhoods change from Latino to African-American to Latino -- just by looking at the signs and the shops. I think the most interesting shop I saw sold Stetson's. I wouldn't have thought you could find one in that corridor.
When Paul first started to take the train, I asked him if it was scary. But what I wanted to know is was it suburban white guy never gets on public transportation scary or mentally ill and gangbanger scary. He said, at the time, a little of both. To me, it was a working-class crowd just trying to get somewhere. Nobody was rude or had the music on too loud or took up too much space or felt menacing. But I was traveling on Sunday, so it wasn't just people going to work.
I think if it didn't take so long, I'd be more keen to take it, but it's awfully slow.
I'll have to be content knowing I did my tiny part to help the environment, keeping another car off the road.
It's an interesting trip, one that Paul has made before but I have not. It takes an hour to go the less than 30 miles, which is a lot, but Paul had the car this weekend and I needed to be somewhere. The price is right; it's 1.25 each way. The train is clean and it deposited me at 7th and Figueroa, a very convenient downtown location.
I was interested to see what was along the tracks. A surprising number of churches, for one. Really, dozens. And it was interesting to see the neighborhoods change from Latino to African-American to Latino -- just by looking at the signs and the shops. I think the most interesting shop I saw sold Stetson's. I wouldn't have thought you could find one in that corridor.
When Paul first started to take the train, I asked him if it was scary. But what I wanted to know is was it suburban white guy never gets on public transportation scary or mentally ill and gangbanger scary. He said, at the time, a little of both. To me, it was a working-class crowd just trying to get somewhere. Nobody was rude or had the music on too loud or took up too much space or felt menacing. But I was traveling on Sunday, so it wasn't just people going to work.
I think if it didn't take so long, I'd be more keen to take it, but it's awfully slow.
I'll have to be content knowing I did my tiny part to help the environment, keeping another car off the road.
I'm So Embarrassed
More than a month since I've blogged ... how awful. And herewith a rambling, somewhat on-topic post:
Generally speaking, I don't do anything in moderation. More often than not it's all or nothing. I read hundreds of books when I lived in Paris and I'm quite certain I haven't read a dozen since I've been back.
I've always been a pretty good reader. I don't know what the problem has been other than I just haven't felt like it. Some of it is the narcotic lure of television, without a doubt. The rest, I suppose, is that for the last year my job has been reading for hours at a time, and my brain was tired.
This weekend I was invited to join a book club and I hope to change all that. The group does not place unrealistic demands on me -- just one book every six or so weeks. But I think I'm ready to get back in the groove. When I'm reading a good book -- and I just finished the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society -- I'm one of those people who hates to put it down. Who reads a page in a spare moment, or reads while walking to work or stays up too late in the hopes I can find out whodunnit or whatever.
This group is based in L.A. and the Valley, and my cousin Azar invited me. I was worried that it would be too high-brow for me. Her mother has a book club, and the list of books for that club is daunting. And I am pretty low-brow. Not so low that I think Sandra Brown belongs in a book club (true story, circa 1997) but low enough that I hope to avoid non-memoir non-fiction and Holocaust books. And books I should have read in college (ie Dickens).
I like that a book club is more than a book discussion. It's a group of women who get together for brunch and just chat. If everyone likes the book, the conversation morphs into all sorts of things. If they don't like the book, well that's fine, too -- more to discuss. This meeting had an attorney, a Montessori teacher, a social worker, a county health worker and an ex-journalist. Yes, I think I will always define myself that way.
I haven't gotten together with a group of women (who aren't all related to me) in a very long time. I miss it. I might not have a lot in common with these women (yet -- I just met them) but reading the same book is a start.
Our home is filled with books. Most of them are Paul's, because mine from before Paris are packed up (in the garage, I hope, of my fabulous sister-in-law) and mine from during Paris didn't make it to California. That being said, we have four large book cases that are full, and will likely add more as needed.
On the way to getting myself to the book club, I had to find the book. And two visits to the bookstore and one to the library later, I had it. But I also rediscovered, for the umpteenth time, how many goodies there are to read out there. I love browsing at the bookstore. Love love love it! And I found Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" on the bargain table for $6.98. (And, as it turned out, I had enough money on various BN cards in my wallet that the book cost 44 cents)
I suppose I've been a bit frugal lately; buying a book feels like a bit of a luxury. And if I'm not flying somewhere or going on vacation -- neither of which is happening anytime soon -- it definitely feels indulgent. But the new library card will take care of that.
When I walked into the library, which is halfway between my home and my work -- that is to say two blocks away!! -- I felt happy. I haven't had a library card since the '90s and it was time, I think, to go back. I filled out the form and they will mail me my card.
So my very late New Year's resolution is to read more and read more often. To turn off the television (or, more accurately to put away the laptop) and pick up a book.
Wish me luck.
Generally speaking, I don't do anything in moderation. More often than not it's all or nothing. I read hundreds of books when I lived in Paris and I'm quite certain I haven't read a dozen since I've been back.
I've always been a pretty good reader. I don't know what the problem has been other than I just haven't felt like it. Some of it is the narcotic lure of television, without a doubt. The rest, I suppose, is that for the last year my job has been reading for hours at a time, and my brain was tired.
This weekend I was invited to join a book club and I hope to change all that. The group does not place unrealistic demands on me -- just one book every six or so weeks. But I think I'm ready to get back in the groove. When I'm reading a good book -- and I just finished the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society -- I'm one of those people who hates to put it down. Who reads a page in a spare moment, or reads while walking to work or stays up too late in the hopes I can find out whodunnit or whatever.
This group is based in L.A. and the Valley, and my cousin Azar invited me. I was worried that it would be too high-brow for me. Her mother has a book club, and the list of books for that club is daunting. And I am pretty low-brow. Not so low that I think Sandra Brown belongs in a book club (true story, circa 1997) but low enough that I hope to avoid non-memoir non-fiction and Holocaust books. And books I should have read in college (ie Dickens).
I like that a book club is more than a book discussion. It's a group of women who get together for brunch and just chat. If everyone likes the book, the conversation morphs into all sorts of things. If they don't like the book, well that's fine, too -- more to discuss. This meeting had an attorney, a Montessori teacher, a social worker, a county health worker and an ex-journalist. Yes, I think I will always define myself that way.
I haven't gotten together with a group of women (who aren't all related to me) in a very long time. I miss it. I might not have a lot in common with these women (yet -- I just met them) but reading the same book is a start.
Our home is filled with books. Most of them are Paul's, because mine from before Paris are packed up (in the garage, I hope, of my fabulous sister-in-law) and mine from during Paris didn't make it to California. That being said, we have four large book cases that are full, and will likely add more as needed.
On the way to getting myself to the book club, I had to find the book. And two visits to the bookstore and one to the library later, I had it. But I also rediscovered, for the umpteenth time, how many goodies there are to read out there. I love browsing at the bookstore. Love love love it! And I found Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" on the bargain table for $6.98. (And, as it turned out, I had enough money on various BN cards in my wallet that the book cost 44 cents)
I suppose I've been a bit frugal lately; buying a book feels like a bit of a luxury. And if I'm not flying somewhere or going on vacation -- neither of which is happening anytime soon -- it definitely feels indulgent. But the new library card will take care of that.
When I walked into the library, which is halfway between my home and my work -- that is to say two blocks away!! -- I felt happy. I haven't had a library card since the '90s and it was time, I think, to go back. I filled out the form and they will mail me my card.
So my very late New Year's resolution is to read more and read more often. To turn off the television (or, more accurately to put away the laptop) and pick up a book.
Wish me luck.
February 20, 2009
Phew. Random Stuff
I'm well aware that I have blogged almost not at all since I started my new job. And I wish I could say it was a coincidence, but it's not.I'm just flat-out exhausted. I know how silly that sounds ... but being semi-retired for two-plus years gets a person used to a stay-at-home schedule. The new job is a thinking job, by and large, which uses different brain muscles than a deadline job, but leaves me weary nonetheless. I think, too, that a lot of it is about the newness ... jumping into something so out of my comfort zone and trying to learn a lot of new stuff with new personalities. But if my summer stint at the IHT in 2007 was any indication, I'll get used to it in another week or two. For the time being, though ... phew. And this was a four-day week!
So here are some things I wanted to mention but didn't get around to: On Valentine's Day (and there are pictures, so I'll try to post one) I got good and drunk. That's the short version. The nice version is Paul and I went down to Carlsbad to the Four Seasons hotel and had a lovely dinner with my cousin and her husband. But first we stopped at their place in San Clemente for a little wine tasting and a bottle of our wedding Champagne. It was just as good as we remembered, so that was nice. We were really in the spirit, so to speak, so we opted for the corkage charge instead of the wine list and had a fabulous Caravan Cabernet and another bottle of Champagne. I'm having brain fade now, trying to remember what label it was ... but it was a nice one. *Judging from the photo, it's a vintage Taittinger, yum!
Our meal was really nice. Normally, I don't like to go out for Valentine's Day because there's usually a special overpriced menu and too many people and expectations and all that. But this was a great dinner. The dining room at the hotel was lovely, the service was gracious and the food was delicious. The company was pretty darn good, too. I just love going out with Joanne and Scott -- we always have such a good time. It doesn't hurt that Scott likes to drink as much as I do.
So there's that. Valentine's Day. I had more to say the day after, but it's the 20th already, so my memory is pretty useless.
I tried to buy an umbrella last weekend, and realized that buying an umbrella when it's raining in California is like trying to buy a fan during a heat wave in Paris: Not gonna happen. And then today, walking home in the oh-so-nice evening, I tried to think when was the last time I actually used an umbrella in California and I couldn't remember. I've always been able to drive where I'm going, so never needed one. And even at the L.A. Times, it was easier to just run across the street from the parking garage to the office then to lug around an umbrella. So it's gotta be 15 years. I found that curious.
On the way to and from work I walk past a Civil War statue, and I thought that was really weird. I meant to ask Paul, because why would there be a Civil War statue in Long Beach? I asked my mother-in-law, Sally, and she said, "You mean the statue in Lincoln Park?" and then of course the light bulb went off. But still. I think it's weird.
The view I posted from my office ... well I make a point of looking at it as many times a day as I can, and after the recent rains, it's been just crystal clear out. Astonishing. I can see probably 40 miles away. That won't happen much once summer comes, but it is nice to see the snow-covered mountains that ring the valley I'm in.
And those are the only random thoughts I've had in two weeks. Apparently I only have room for extra thoughts on the weekend. Stick with me, though, I'm bound to get more interesting sooner rather than later.
February 11, 2009
This .... Is .... Jeopardy!
Well, not yet.
Today I auditioned for the game show Jeopardy! (That exclamation mark is included, by the way. I'm excited, but not that excited. In fact, by the time I got there I was mostly nervous and ill at ease.)
From the beginning.
Paul was on Jeopardy! in 1988. We watch it pretty much every night. I took the test with friends when I was in my 20s and didn't do very well. As I recall, we had 10 minutes to answer 50 questions at the TV studio and I didn't come close.
I took the online test about a year ago, before we moved to Long Beach. I got an e-mail in July notifying me I had passed the test and was invited to audition in August. As it turned out, I ended up going to Beijing, so I sent back an e-mail asking if I could postpone. They said they'd put my name back on the list. Then, in early January I got another e-mail inviting me to an audition in February.
So I took the morning off and drove to a hotel near LAX for my Jeopardy audition. The e-mail said I would have to take another 50-question test, play a mock version of the game and be interviewed. There were 20 people there, not all of them local as I had assumed. Four were women; the other three were older than I. A few men were under 30, and none appeared over about 55. About half had tried out once before. The youngest appeared to be a law student at the University of Washington.
I thought it would be a lot of fun, but as it got closer I started to wonder, "What was I thinking?" I mean, I don't like to speak in front of people, I'm shy with people I don't know, I'm not a rah-rah game show person and I could, conceivably, make a monumental fool out of myself. All of those things trump being on TV, as a concept. Even on Jeopardy!
The people in charge were really excited. Trying to get our energy up. "This is a game show tryout! Have some fun!" It wasn't a fun crowd. They talked about the show, and we all played a quick mock game, raising our hands instead of pressing buzzers. They wanted us to be sure to wait until they finished reading the question.
Then came the 50-question test. I don't know for sure how I did. There were six questions I didn't know the answer to. Couldn't even guess. I probably guessed at another six, and I know I got at least two of those right. I'm guessing I didn't do any worse than 40 right, but probably not better than 42. I don't imagine I'll ever know.
I didn't study for the test. One guy said he'd talked to an ex-Jeopardy champion (and the prospective candidates seemed to know a lot of ex-Jeopardy champions) and the guy suggested he study up on rocks. So he went to the Museum of Natural History.
They asked that we not discuss the specifics of the test with anyone. I guess they use the same test each time, although that doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? If, as they say, they get a thousand-plus candidates each season and only 450 or so get on, that's a lot of people who might talk.
Then we played the mock game, in threes. To practice calling the categories and answering in the form of a question and ringing in properly. That's a big one. You have to wait till the lights at the side of the screen light up (and Alex -- or in this case whoever is talking -- finishes the question) before you ring in. Then, you're supposed to press the button continuously. I didn't do too badly at the mock game. Answered wrong once when I rang in. The category was Broadway shows and I said Pajama Party instead of Pajama Game. I don't remember what the clue was -- there was something tricky about it; it wasn't straightforward. But that was another lesson: Don't correct yourself out loud or your neighbor will surely get the answer when it's his turn.
After that, the interviews. This, to me, was the most disheartening part. Not watching the other players answer or wondering how they did on their 50 questions. Nope, it was listening to their interviews and discovering just how many interesting people there were in that room. A physician who specializes in infectious diseases. A dozen lawyers. A handful more with advanced degrees. People who have traveled to much more exotic places than I. A man who hopes to spend his winnings on an expedition up Mount Everest. A sportswriter who used to be in the Peace Corps. And I was the 17th person interviewed. I'd already heard about the dozen or more people who had big cats (a lot of cat people ... interpret that as you like), people who had visited exotic places, people who had funny or embarrassing stories. And while I was sitting there hearing those stories it dawned on me how I should have written on my information sheet (how hard would it have been to work in the fact i'd been in Hong Kong the last several months?) ... but it was too late.
So I don't think I embarrassed myself. I don't think anyone was saying ... how did she get here? I do think they were thinking -- hmmm, she could have a more interesting life.
Isn't that funny?
Next, I wait. They said it could take up to 18 months to get called ... or not called. That's how long a prospective contestant is on the list. If I get the call, I'm on the show, this much I know. And I'll cram on presidents and Shakespeare, avoid science and poetry, and hope for the best.
Today I auditioned for the game show Jeopardy! (That exclamation mark is included, by the way. I'm excited, but not that excited. In fact, by the time I got there I was mostly nervous and ill at ease.)
From the beginning.
Paul was on Jeopardy! in 1988. We watch it pretty much every night. I took the test with friends when I was in my 20s and didn't do very well. As I recall, we had 10 minutes to answer 50 questions at the TV studio and I didn't come close.
I took the online test about a year ago, before we moved to Long Beach. I got an e-mail in July notifying me I had passed the test and was invited to audition in August. As it turned out, I ended up going to Beijing, so I sent back an e-mail asking if I could postpone. They said they'd put my name back on the list. Then, in early January I got another e-mail inviting me to an audition in February.
So I took the morning off and drove to a hotel near LAX for my Jeopardy audition. The e-mail said I would have to take another 50-question test, play a mock version of the game and be interviewed. There were 20 people there, not all of them local as I had assumed. Four were women; the other three were older than I. A few men were under 30, and none appeared over about 55. About half had tried out once before. The youngest appeared to be a law student at the University of Washington.
I thought it would be a lot of fun, but as it got closer I started to wonder, "What was I thinking?" I mean, I don't like to speak in front of people, I'm shy with people I don't know, I'm not a rah-rah game show person and I could, conceivably, make a monumental fool out of myself. All of those things trump being on TV, as a concept. Even on Jeopardy!
The people in charge were really excited. Trying to get our energy up. "This is a game show tryout! Have some fun!" It wasn't a fun crowd. They talked about the show, and we all played a quick mock game, raising our hands instead of pressing buzzers. They wanted us to be sure to wait until they finished reading the question.
Then came the 50-question test. I don't know for sure how I did. There were six questions I didn't know the answer to. Couldn't even guess. I probably guessed at another six, and I know I got at least two of those right. I'm guessing I didn't do any worse than 40 right, but probably not better than 42. I don't imagine I'll ever know.
I didn't study for the test. One guy said he'd talked to an ex-Jeopardy champion (and the prospective candidates seemed to know a lot of ex-Jeopardy champions) and the guy suggested he study up on rocks. So he went to the Museum of Natural History.
They asked that we not discuss the specifics of the test with anyone. I guess they use the same test each time, although that doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? If, as they say, they get a thousand-plus candidates each season and only 450 or so get on, that's a lot of people who might talk.
Then we played the mock game, in threes. To practice calling the categories and answering in the form of a question and ringing in properly. That's a big one. You have to wait till the lights at the side of the screen light up (and Alex -- or in this case whoever is talking -- finishes the question) before you ring in. Then, you're supposed to press the button continuously. I didn't do too badly at the mock game. Answered wrong once when I rang in. The category was Broadway shows and I said Pajama Party instead of Pajama Game. I don't remember what the clue was -- there was something tricky about it; it wasn't straightforward. But that was another lesson: Don't correct yourself out loud or your neighbor will surely get the answer when it's his turn.
After that, the interviews. This, to me, was the most disheartening part. Not watching the other players answer or wondering how they did on their 50 questions. Nope, it was listening to their interviews and discovering just how many interesting people there were in that room. A physician who specializes in infectious diseases. A dozen lawyers. A handful more with advanced degrees. People who have traveled to much more exotic places than I. A man who hopes to spend his winnings on an expedition up Mount Everest. A sportswriter who used to be in the Peace Corps. And I was the 17th person interviewed. I'd already heard about the dozen or more people who had big cats (a lot of cat people ... interpret that as you like), people who had visited exotic places, people who had funny or embarrassing stories. And while I was sitting there hearing those stories it dawned on me how I should have written on my information sheet (how hard would it have been to work in the fact i'd been in Hong Kong the last several months?) ... but it was too late.
So I don't think I embarrassed myself. I don't think anyone was saying ... how did she get here? I do think they were thinking -- hmmm, she could have a more interesting life.
Isn't that funny?
Next, I wait. They said it could take up to 18 months to get called ... or not called. That's how long a prospective contestant is on the list. If I get the call, I'm on the show, this much I know. And I'll cram on presidents and Shakespeare, avoid science and poetry, and hope for the best.
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