The big time: basic cable.

There’s a chance I will be on television on Thursday night.

The show is called "“Great Things about the Holidays.” It’s one of those list shows—you know the kind. In which “celebrities” no one has heard of contribute ironic commentary on cultural events that hold no special significance for anyone. It’s the kind of show that we will all mock in a few years. I am proud to have been a part of it.

Anyway, I was interviewed a while ago; it was summer, and like the rest of the world, I didn’t believe that these “holidays” I was asked to speak of would ever return. But my friend was one of the producers, and she put me on the list to be interviewed, and then for some reason the Powers that Be said okay, and I said okay and I showed up and had makeup applied to my face with a trowel.

I had been given a sixty-page list of questions regarding everything holiday-related that anyone had ever thought of. Many of these things I found myself to be far too old to talk about. I mean, if they wanted to talk about Rankin and Bass, I had things to say. Or the Judy Garland Christmas special in which Judy was insolent to Mel Torme—yes! But what is this “O.C.”? And who is this Kwanzaa?

(For the record, I actually have never seen a Judy Garland Christmas special. I’m not that old.)

(Kids: Judy Garland was Liza Minelli’s mommy.)

(And Liza Minelli! Well, she's a nearly dead saucer-eyed songstress with a drug problem. Of course, I’m not one to point fingers right now. My fingers are too blurry.)

So! I read these many, many questions, and Scott and I spent a night coming up with witticisms regarding them. And then, in front of a camera, I relayed my jokes to the producer and the cameraman and my friend Jen and some other random person in what I hoped was a breezy and off-the-cuff manner. While I was attempting to be funny, my underarms destroyed my festive burgundy satin shirt by pumping out cupfuls of sweat. Eventually, when I realized everyone was actually laughing at my jokes, I relaxed and made some truly off-the-cuff remarks, which is probably when I said the idiotic things that they will put on the air.

My “friend,” who claims to care about me, quit the show shortly after editing one segment in which, she says, I appear. She seems to think that therefore they’ll include me in the rest of the show, because it would look weird to have a person only show up for one segment. (This segment I know I’m in deals with the “Jingle Cats,” which I guess is a video in which cats sing Christmas songs. We should all own it, because it is a Great Thing about the Holidays.)

So it turns out that the show is actually a four-part monstrosity, airing for two straight hours on Thursday night (from nine to eleven) and then for two more hours on Friday night, also from nine to eleven. And I have no idea if I’m in it at all. Luckily, according to this schedule, Bravo will be airing the show repeatedly, or at least until its audience begs them to stop airing it. So if you’re not thrilled about wasting four hours of your life on the off-chance that my glorious visage might appear, you could wait to see what I tell you about it and then waste four hours of your life. Or you could use one of those newfangled inventions, like your videotape recording machine gadget or your TiVo, and then fast-forward through it until you see me. I’ll be the one with the short hair and the damp shirt.