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Last week I answered an ad I saw online for a reality TV show looking for "seriously good home cooks." I decided I might qualify, and thinking who knows where it could go, I emailed. They called. After a brief phone interview, guess what: They wanted me to come on the show and be one of the spatula-wielding gladiators who would be pitted against one another in the style that is so popular these days. If I lost the first round, it would be over. If I didn't lose I would go on to compete again, in a smaller group, until eventually I would either lose or win a cash prize and a chance at stardom! Then what: My own cooking show? A magazine perhaps? A line of dishware like Rachael Ray?
The sky was truly the limit. I'd have to go to New York or maybe LA for the taping, which was no big deal. Fine. Then they told me the dates, and it was exactly when my husband and I are going to be in Barcelona. We have our tickets and hotel reservations and guidebooks and maps, and we're even learning Spanish. So I said no. Besides, who wants to look like an idiot on TV? Especially now, with my new hideous hair color that I got yesterday. Not me.
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