Wanted: Real People

For many years, like many other moms in Mo’town, I stayed at home with the kids. Before I had children, I worked at a variety of jobs and did not exactly have what one would call a career. My husband DOES have a career that requires that he travel most of the time, so we both felt it was best if I hung with the boys while he earned a living in fabulous places like Las Vegas, LA, and Muscatine, Iowa.

I spent many hours at home with my boysies, searching for dinosaurs, pretending to be pirates and playing at what they called “the wooden playground,” Fullerton Park. I also remember crushing hours of boredom when I longed for adult company, clever conversation and three to five margaritas. It was this boredom that led me to do some pretty random things, like auditioning for QVC. Really.

This happened during the lost years, when both boys were finally in school all day and I needed to go back to work, but had no clue where to begin. I have always read the newspaper every morning and was half-heartedly scanning the classifieds when I spied a full-page ad announcing auditions for QVC spokespersons. The ad specified that they were looking for REAL people, not models. How refreshing! I was a real person, and I had certainly done my share of auditions while living in Chicago. It was one of the few things I felt qualified to do: be a real person! So, I began to plot my trip to West Chester, that foreign land inhabited by QVC studios.

This was in the pre-GPS days. I remember pulling up a map on MapQuest and, without telling a soul, getting in the car and tootling off to my impending career as a real person hawking comfy caftans on TV. My inner-movie had me gabbing in the studio, showcasing faux jewels with fabulously manicured nails, knocking everyone over with my wit and ease in front of the camera. Rich inner life aside, my nails have always been short and ragged, but I was sure that fake fingernails would be part of the perks package.

The drive was endless and fraught with anxiety. I didn’t want to make a wrong turn so I drove slowly, eliciting honking horns and hand gestures as I moseyed toward West Chester. Once I got to the QVC campus, there were no friendly signs pointing me towards the auditions. Nor did there seem to be other “real” people stumbling about. Eventually I found a guest parking lot that turned out to be as far as one could get from the audition site while still remaining in Pennsylvania. And then, with a deep breath, I began my walk toward stardom.

Everyone I passed sent me in another direction. Was this a ploy by other, cleverer real people to keep me from my new career? Finally, I asked a sullen guard where the auditions were being held. He pointed toward a building I had passed at least four times. As I gazed upon my future, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before: many of the people entering the building were carrying contraptions of some sort; hat-racks, shoe trees and objects that can only be described as indescribable. One man had a huge, velvet covered ‘thing’ under his arms. I had to know what it was.

In the building lobby, there were finally some signs pointing us real people where real people needed to go. Directed to sign in, we were then herded into at least a dozen rooms. As I walked toward ‘real person waiting room number five,’ I saw the man with the velvet-covered object. He was having a vigorous conversation with his object, or so I thought. It wasn’t until I sidled up to him that I realized he was going through his audition spiel. When he abruptly stopped, I applauded wildly. What better way to gain his confidence? “That was great,” I chortled. He blushed modestly. “What are you doing?” I asked naively.

“This is the 18th time I’ve auditioned for this job. They really like it when you bring in your own object to sell, so I’ve brought in my own magnifying lamp.” He whisked off the velvet cover to reveal an ancient lamp. I could feel myself deflating, my dreams of sales stardom evaporating. I thanked him for sharing with me then made my way to my assigned cattle pen, now so unsure of myself. I hadn’t brought my umbrella stand, my envelope moistening machine OR my thick-soled gravity boots. I had nothing. I found a dark corner and sat down. Other real people were practicing their sales pitches while I moped. I was so out of tune with QVC, having never shopped there, that when a handsome, perma-tanned Ken doll came in and was swarmed by the ladies, I had no idea he was a QVC star. What did I know? I was looking for a job, not an idol.

There were objects in the room that we were supposed to fondle and play with in preparation for our audition. I don’t remember if I partook of this preliminary activity. I was too busy absorbing the salesmanship around me; too busy with the realization that I might not be the kind of real person they were looking for.

When my number was finally called, I tried to walk confidently into the audition room. I think my voice was too loud. I saw one person wince when I introduced myself. They invited me to sit down, but I insisted that I did my best selling while standing (yeah, right). One of them walked to a box then handed me a salt-and-pepper combo that one squeezed instead of grinding. They could have handed me one of my sons and I still wouldn’t have known what to say in my two-minute sales pitch. At one point, I held it up to my ear lobe and said “Too busy?” No one laughed. I babbled on until one of them tiredly said “Thank you. That’s enough.”

As I stumbled back to my car, I replayed how I could have sold that gadget, suddenly able to hawk it with delightful superlatives and lavish descriptors. I knew instinctively that I would not be getting a callback from QVC.

For the longest time, I told no one of my little adventure. It was a treasure that I kept to myself for those too-long days when I was tired of hands-on mothering. I would think of my audition, laugh, and then feel good about myself for having the guts to do it. I was still alive.