Posts tagged the kid
Posts tagged the kid
When I first meet someone and tell him/her that I’m a TV writer, I pretty much hear two responses.
1) “I don’t watch television.”
2) “What shows do you write for?” (go here if you were curious)
Followed by a, “Cool,” or the more common “Oh.”
Every so often, however, I’ll get asked by the stranger/person I’ve just met, “Can you read my ________ ” Go ahead. Fill in that blank. If it can be written, I’ve probably read it: screenplays, bios, spec scripts, essays, etc.
I’m not saying this is a bad thing. In fact, I owe a great deal to all the generous friends and mentors who’ve read and given feedback on my works-in-progress. One of my girlfriends flat-out told me the one-woman-show I was attempting to write was atrocious and that I needed to turn my stories into personal essays. I did, and those essays led to two pilot script deals (ps - THANK YOU).
It’s more the apprehension I have about being asked by a complete stranger to read his or her work. Then again, I’m not going to knock anyone for being daring and bold. Life’s not about playing it safe, right? (no, really, I’m asking…)
I can say, however, there’s at least one instance where you should NEVER ask someone (friend or not) to read your material.
A couple of years ago, a woman I’d just met asked, “So what do you do?” (see above). After I answered, she beamed and said, “I’m a writer, too!” She proceeded to tell me how she’s a songwriter and had a catalog of songs that are perfect for X or Y country artist. She then asked if I’d be willing to look at them.
All I could think was:
a) I know nothing about song writing
b) HOLY F’N *&%, I have a kid!
See, less than 24 hours prior to that, I had given birth. Un. Medicated.
The hubs and I were still staring at/in awe of this new alien being in my arms when the nurse sprang this question on me. Through my fog (and certainty that I’d somehow scarred the kid for life because I hadn’t figured out how to do a %&@* proper latch) I politely told the woman my lack of songwriting knowledge and wished her luck. Undeterred, she said she’d bring me her notebook the next time she came by.
Fortunately for me, she’d left that notebook at home.
So in case you were ever thinking, hey, that writer in that hospital bed is not going anywhere for another day or so, now would be the perfect time for me to give them my stuff.
No. No, it would not.
Why, yes, even though my bottom half is on FIRE and I can’t use the facilities unassisted, I would LOVE to read your latest masterpiece.
Because I now get most (most, not all) of my news through social media, I’ve discovered enlightening information such as: which of my friends have gastrointestinal issues (next time, skip the chili); how I can work on a script no matter the device; and that purple squirrels quite possibly exist. So when a friend recently posted that “Today is the second day of the second week of the second month of the second year of the second decade of the second millennium.” I thought, now that’s something to celebrate. So I am. By kick-starting this here blog.
With the recent-ish new year (Happy Year of the Dragon!), I’ve been establishing new habits — which may or may not have been
stolen from inspired by other blogs — that supposedly will make life happier and more productive. My favorite one so far: keeping a gratitude journal. The idea that by consistently focusing on the positive, negative hoodoo has a lesser chance of bringing you down.
The thing I love most about the gratitude list: after the first few days, when it’s pretty easy to come up with the big stuff (my groovy guy, my kick-arse kid, my darling dog), I start appreciating the small, obscure delights, like…
The kid preferring a window to a television.
Toys that don’t need batteries (or sing the frakkin’ ABC’s).
Bacon toast. Don’t judge.
So happy second day AFTER the second day of the second week of the second month of the second year of the second decade of the second millennium! And if you’re having trouble coming up with your own gratitude list or in need of something that makes you smile, click here for a dose of emergency cute.
When my Facebook and Twitter feeds went all aflutter and atingle this past weekend, I knew it had arrived. Comic-Con. Or, more accurately, “Comic-Con International: San Diego… home of the largest comic book and popular arts convention in the world!”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t go. Although, I REALLY would’ve loved checking it out. Not only were a bunch of my friends on panels (‘cause they’re groovy like that), but a few even moderated them. So while my peeps were in San Diego getting their geek on — and I mean that in the most loving and envious way — I was 100 miles up the coast spending the last weekend of my mother-in-law’s visit tourist-ing it up.
I can’t stress enough MeMe’s overall awesomeness. Which is why we wanted her last two days in town with her youngest grandchild to rock. And, if I can toot our own horn, I think they did.
Our plan? Hit up the Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach one day and Malibu the next. While we didn’t catch a glimpse of the “Twilight” cast, sing along with the “Always Sunny in Philadelphia” folks or see the trailer for the new season of “The Walking Dead,” I feel like we had our own mini version of ‘Con…
Some events were standing room only:
We ran into the occasional odd bird:
And even had close encounters with out-of-this-world creatures:
As for fangirling or fanboying? Most. Definitely. Evidenced here.
Just like my friends and the real Comic-Con, this household’s now going through a bit of withdrawal — but unlike with the real one, we don’t have to wait another year to experience it all again. Hear that, MeMe? (hint, hint)
PURE. JOY. (note to self: figure out how to get a puffin bird)
My mother-in-law’s in town.
While this strikes fear/rage/paranoia into the hearts of many a friend in regards to their own MILs, I, on the other hand, delight in her presence. Seriously. I adore her.
In addition to being able to chat it up with me for hours (much to the hubs’ chagrin), she’s a hoot to be around, she CLEANS (so that thing you’re doing is called, “dusting”?), plus, and this is a BIG PLUS, the kid thinks she’s more fun than a cardboard box. And if you know how much tykes love those darn boxes…
But when we get down to it, the best thing about grandma being here?
This past Saturday, the hubs and I took full advantage of it.
We had ourselves a little date night and took in a play. Although, since he’s technically IN the play, I guess it doesn’t really count as a true date night.
Shameless plug: www.caughttheplay.com
Definitions aside, what matters is that I got to spend a Saturday night out of the house, hanging with my guy. I even gussied myself up and everything. Wore makeup. Jewelry. Heels.
Frankly, I looked hot.
And since I didn’t take a photo of this rare state of being, you’ll just have to take my word for it. My neighbor, who didn’t even recognize me at first, commented on my awesomeness — which only got a tad disturbing when she wouldn’t stop gushing about my appearance, “No. Really. You should do this look more often. REALLY.”
Post-show, the hubs and I hung out with some of the cast as well as the producer and the playwright. We talked. And talked. And… well, we didn’t make it home until after 1 AM.
Unlike my last excursion (http://bit.ly/q231w8), I didn’t bring the pump with me — actually, I did, but I’d left it in the car and somehow trying to convince this group to come back with me while I did my business, didn’t seem quite the option — so by the time we arrived home, I couldn’t attach myself to the machine fast enough.
I finally fell asleep around 2:30am. Which, normally (read: pre-kid), suits me just fine. My preferred bedtime? Somewhere in the 1am-3am block.
I’m a nightowl. The kid, however, is not.
And yet, every week I make the mistake of thinking, “It’s the weekend. I can sleep in!” Funnily enough, and by that I mean, not funny at all, the kid does not share this philosophy.
So less than four hours after my head hit the pillow, I found myself stumbling about, making my way to a chatty, squealing, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little bugger, full of up and at ‘em (seriously, whose child is this?).
And even though I was paying the price for our late night date night… waking up to these eyes:
makes it worth it (except when it’s before the sun comes up, ‘cause that’s just wrong).
I groggily attempted to start my day, when it dawned on me. You know who else isn’t a nightowl?
Before I could take another step, she cheerfully swooped in, cuddled and then whisked the kid away. As their giggles and laughter filled the house, I crawled back into bed. I don’t know about sliced bread, but I can attest that my mother-in-law beats cardboard boxes any day.