How to survive being on television when you’re a neurotic mess like me. Or not.

Earlier this week, I got a request to appear on Studio 10, a local morning talk show in Tampa, hosted by Holley Sinn and Jerome Ritchey. They wanted to discuss my review of Capitalism: A Love Story and maybe even my blogging adventures at Out in Left Field.

Despite the fact they have no open bar, I agreed to go on the show.

Thursday morning, I arrived early and asked for the makeup room.

Lovely Receptionist blinked a few times.

“Where do you think you are?” she asked. “Oprah?”

I glanced at a mirror.

Nothing but frizz and fright.

I leaned in real close and tried to appeal to her sense of justice.

“My laugh lines look like the San Andreas Fault. I’ve seen Gayle Guyardo up close and need someone to work that magic on me. Surely you have a professional who can address these sagging cheeks and bags under my eyes that resemble two testicles in need of a biopsy.”

She wasn’t fazed.

“We like the natural look.”

“There’s nothing natural about a 20 year-old tube of mascara and some lip gloss I bought at 7-11.”

Nothing.

“My kids begged me not to embarrass them,” I continued. “That was before I broke two nails trying to fluff my hair in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Gandy Bridge.”

Still nothing.

I sighed and gave up.

No bar. No professional hair and makeup.

This was not my kind of morning.

Then they told me Dean Cain would appear in the first segment.

“I follow Superman?”

Strike. Fucking. Three.

I asked for the ladies room and tried to find a side exit. No luck. Every time I turned a corner, I ran into Mike Deeson.

He’s scarier than those twins in The Shining.

I ducked into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. I took deep breaths. The woman shitting in the stall next to me was supportive –

“Lighten up, lady, you’re not a complete train wreck. At least you’re not constipated.”

Perhaps she was right. Maybe my looks wouldn’t frighten small children.

And I could pass an entertainment center through my colon.

I walked back to the studio.

The producer sent me further into panic mode with warnings about curse words, sex talk, and FCC fines. If I wasn’t thinking of all the different ways to say “fuck” beforehand, it was definitely on my mind after signing the release forms.

Then another gentleman came over, slipped the microphone down my shirt, around my waist and hooked everything on to the back of my jeans.

“Now you know me as well as my husband and Jesus,” I told him.

When they called me up to my chair on stage and we waited for the commercials to end, I couldn’t help but wonder how this would go. Would they be friendly or mean? Rachel Maddow or Bill O’Reilly? Will Smith or Chris Brown?

Turns out, Jerome and Holly were great, even if they are happy and good looking. They even laughed a few times. I bashed Capitalism: The Ideology and raved about Capitalism: A Love Story.

Afterward, everyone asked me to come back and Microphone Man even winked.

Score.

I left feeling on top of the world. Phone calls, emails, texts, Facebook updates and Twitters – all positive. I offered to give my autograph to everyone I met and although the gas station attendant didn’t find me charming, everyone else was complimentary.

My kids wouldn’t be embarrassed after all.

Then I went home and saw the show myself.

I couldn’t stop yelling at the television.

“HDTV is the devil.”

“Oh my.”

“What’s the opposite of a close-up? Give me a wide shot, for the love of Christ. Wide shot!”

“Why am I kicking my left leg?”

“Calm down, Katie.”

“Cannot believe you’re saying you’d like to go back to when moms stayed at home. Beautiful.”

“Do I always talk with my hands?”

“It’s yellow police tape, bitch. YELLOW.”

“Stop looking around. Make eye contact!”

“Will you look all the goddamn wrinkles.”

“What is up with my jaw? The Ruth Buzzie look is not hot!”

“The camera adds twenty pounds. Easily.”

“Oh, Katie, stop rambling. You sound like a Valley Girl.”

I thought my children would be on my side.

Youngest asked if he could wear sunglasses when we go to the grocery store.

Oldest rubbed my arm.

“You’re not embarrassed, are you?” I asked.

“Can Nana pick us up from school from now on? My friends are already calling you a communist.”

To add insult to injury, Studio 10 said they’d post the segments online by 3pm that day.

I’m still waiting.

They posted every other segment. Just not mine.

I tossed and turned in bed that night, going through the appearance and wondering what went wrong.

I didn’t wear anything provocative. I didn’t mention Brazilian waxes or my vast collection of love toys. I didn’t talk about anyone’s ass and I didn’t hit on Jerome. Or Holley.

But I did bash capitalism.

On network television.

Could that be why they didn’t post the video?

A vast right-wing conspiracy or did too many people call to complain that the glare off my forehead is worse than the sun…

Maybe we’ll never find out. But thanks to technology and Husband’s hard work, you can judge for yourself.

Be kind.

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And yes, those curls are natural. I certainly wouldn’t do that on purpose.

10.05.09 UPDATE: Postpone those calls to Michael Moore. Turns out it wasn’t my politics or puss that bent anyone out of shape. Channel 10 experienced some tech issues. My clip is online here.

Tags: capitalism a love story, catherine durkin robinson on studio 10, michael moore's capitalism a love story, Studio 10