First, sorry for my absence. No excuses other than I’ve started a fabulous new job and a fabulous new website and have continued being a fabulous procrastinator. A while ago, I talked about my career goals, which included being the new Oprah, or rather, Jew-prah. Well, folks, I finally MADE IT ONTO THE electronic babysitter, the idiot box, the mesmerizer. Yes, I was on TV! And on the news, funnily enough, since I don’t watch the news.
The progression of events (which from #2 on, happened between Wednesday and Friday):
2. CBC’s The National was doing a story about the Hunger Games Canadian Premiere, and they asked Indigo for someone to interview. They suggested ME.
3. Producer called, yadayada, and obviously, she’s interested. The one glitch? They want my son as well, and since he’ll be up in Collingwood visiting my mother at her new home (1.5 hrs away!), I’ll have to pick him up early. She’s not happy, and it’s a pain, but anything to grab my 5 minutes in the sun.
4. I don’t have anything to wear. I go shopping (obviously) to a favourite store, Fashion Wear Boutique, where the owner styles me via spycam (she lives in Montreal).
5. Thank goodness they want to film on Friday, because Luisa comes on Friday. And everyone knows that Operation Housewife was a huge failure. So if they came any other day than Friday, my house would have looked like a dirty flophouse on TV. But on Fridays, it gleams. Thank GOD for Luisa, that’s all I can say.
6. My mother is 20 minutes late at the drop off point, although while I’m waiting, I fill up the Flexie with discount Costco gas. I did put buffer time into the strict schedule, knowing she would be, so I arrive home, after tooling it down the highway 20 km over the speed limit, 30 minutes before the journalist, Ely Glasner, his producer, and the camera man are supposed to arrive. Except, they are already there. And, while I tamed my mane before the emergency retail event, my face has not been spackled. I’m no where near camera ready.
7. I layer on my hag-be-gone friends: Nanoblur, Korres Brightening moisturizer, Marcelle BB Cream, Dior Nudeskin Concealer, Smashbox Starburst, slap on some eyeliner, mascara, and blush, swipe some gloss over my pucker, and shazaam. I’m ready. I offer coffee to everyone, except there’s no milk. They forgive me.
8. The filming proceeds smoothly, except for the fact that I keep looking at the camera, and banging my bracelet on the chair we’ve put next to the counter where my son has to sit because he’s way shorter than the other kid who’s come over to be on TV. (I forgot to mention the Producer, Ilana, asked me if I could procure another mom & daughter, which I did, thanks to Twitter). My son, who is extremely verbose (can’t imagine where he gets it from), and a HUGE reader, completely clams up, forgetting his whole vocabulary except the word, ‘UMMMMM”.
9. Everyone leaves.
Monday Night. The reckoning. I’m so sure that they’ll edit me out from the piece. My reason for thinking this? NONE. Because I’m crazy. I’m sure they’ll cut my son, because nobody is really interested in ummm…. hearing about….ummmmm…hummmmm…..
But they don’t cut me (nor do they cut him. He’s sitting behind me staring into space, probably thinking pensively. He doesn’t talk, but nor do most deep thinking pensive people).
Oh yes, I’m in the piece. They just get my name wrong. GET MY NAME WRONG. They call me Maria. My moment in the sun, and I’M SOMEONE ELSE. I don’t even notice, but we get phone calls from people who actually watch the news and not because I called and told them to. I tweet the producer and the error is quickly corrected. In future clips their misnomer becomes my real nomer. I know this, because I’ve watched it a few-ish times.
So have I found my calling? Tell me what you think.. (click the link, the dang thing wouldn’t embed)