I'm excited, and of course, humbled (as is my nature) to announce that come March, I will make my debut on Broadway, in a fantastic play called "Next Fall." This is a big moment for me, people. I've worked hard my whole life to get here, I've learned my lines and perfected my craft, and words can hardly do justice to the thrilling way I feel. Why, it was only yesterday that I feared I'd -- hang on, the phone is ringing. It's my close friend, Connie Ray, calling from NYC. I better take this.
"Hello?" "Carol, it's Connie." "Oh, hey, hun. How's New York?" "It's fine, but that's not why I'm calling." "Am I in trouble?" "A little bit." "Why? What'd I do now?" "You need to stop telling everyone you're replacing me in 'Next Fall.' You need to stop calling the producers and making crazy demands. There's no nice way to put this. You're not in the play. I am." "So, let me make sure I understand this. You're saying I'm not going to Broadway?" "Exactly." "That all my hopes and dreams are shattered." "Not all your hopes and dreams. Just this one. The one where you star on Broadway and I sit home in Sherman Oaks and miss you. It's actually the other way around." "I stay home in Sherman Oaks and you go to Broadway?" "Yes."
"Alright, well, I can deal with that. But I think I've found a compromise. You star on Broadway, and I come to see you on Broadway." "Much better." "I'm thinking May. I'm thinking a small announcement, strategically placed in the lobby of the Helen Hayes, welcoming me would -- " "No." "No?" "Not happening. I've got to go rehearse. Pull yourself together, okay?" "Don't I always?"
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