Special Sauce and A Snail’s Ass Pace
Odd title for sure. And, nope, got nothing to do with G. Love and his band. But, figured, what the hell, with titles from “Burning Mom” to “Prada Gal’s Son” to “the Lice My Mother Told Me” (never wrote that one but should), you two readers are used to it by now. Hi, Risa and Beth. So what’s this one about? A new...
Jump
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought my post (yes, I still live) should be about poultry, namely, my very own CHICKEN. It’s been an interesting time since last I typed you. Am thinking if I simply (ha! as if anything I do is melodramatic-less) pasted the poem I wrote for a recent assignment in my sister’s spiritual poker...
PradaGal’s Son
Bet you’re wondering if my spawn returned from Peru in one piece?! Quite possibly and more likely, you are not worrying and didn’t even know he was gone. But, since delusion is one of my better traits, let me go with it. Yes, he made it home. And, no, not without a hitch or two. Fine. Two hitches to be exact. Fiiiine, strikes...
My So Cold Life
Photo by Patrick Demarchelier for Vogue
My name is Marnie and I’m a martyr mother.
It’s been thirteen years, three houses, two newspaper columns, one literary agent, a writing partner, several television treatments, four producers, an attorney, 50+ life coaching clients, a coaching blog, umpteen named hurricanes, a nor’easter or five, ten testings of the Emergency Broadcast System, RECORDER KARATE and many, many, many inexplicable teacher work days since last I birthed.
Specifically (if you’re a stickler and need stuff like the truth and details), I have two spawn.
Fine. Be like that — WE have two spawn.
I always wanted three but outed only two. One naturally and the other, I am sure ‘cause WE got cocky after the first and plotted the sex, the month we wanted to have our blonde and a year and a half later ended up at a fertility clinic, having our second, a winter born brunette by means of a turkey baster (intrauterine insemination). One boy, fourteen who already has four inches on me as well as toe hair and a daughter, ten, equipped with eye roll capability and Duracell bunny stealth in how long she can speak and speak and speak without ever taking a breath or giving a hamster’s ass if you are listening or not.
Shut up. You don’t know me well enough to know she gets that from me.
I started this blog for several reasons.
- It’s cathartic.
- Bitching in print feels better than talking to myself about it, and it may save me money on wine.
- As I speak fluent Bitch, Chicken and Martyr, I thought I could make a difference on the planet by speaking for my people.
- My writing partner, Katie Torpey, and I created a television series that finally tells the truth about motherhood without having to give the self absorbed over-educated mom cancer, a drug addiction or a cartel and well, I’ve been told by my Israeli (best known for their subtle ) producer that I need to up my credibility…somehow.
- The “somehow” was somewhat motivating.
Special Sauce and A Snail’s Ass Pace
Odd title for sure. And, nope, got nothing to do with G. Love and his band. But, figured, what the hell, with titles from “Burning Mom” to “Prada Gal’s Son” to “the Lice My Mother Told Me” (never wrote that one but should), you two readers are used to it by now.
Hi, Risa and Beth.
So what’s this one about? A new recipe? French, perhaps? Nah. This one is actually about my TV show, the long drive to my dream and getting there….albeit 8 years later. The speed (or lack there of) at which I went for it, still got it and the road I’m now on.
Maybe, it IS a recipe of sorts. Though certainly not fancy and French cause, truth is, it does happen to taste (or better yet, smell) like chicken.
Duh, right. When have I not been a coward, you may wonder? Even in the pursuit of my dream, creating writing and selling Katie Torpey and my animated TV show, the “Subourbon,” “Child Support,” “Vesper Madison,” “Mother Up!” I’ve spent way more time butchering my chicken than being brave; crying than celebrating; swallowing than speaking; pouting than pitching, etc…Oh, I could go on, but, again, am thinking you two get the drift.
But, though I may sound whiny don’t get me wrong, I am so freaking relieved, thrilled, tickled, and grateful. Beyond grateful, actually. If our producers didn’t believe in this show as much as they did, it never would have come to be. This show could have been called “life support” more so than “child support,” because of how many close flat lining calls its had. Maybe many people in the biz would and could just nod, knowing this is just how it goes. Your dream will live and die often. You will be tested on how much you believe, daily.
And, 8 years later. It happened.
I remember not that long ago I had a conversation with the ever-talented Chris Wedge, Ice Age director and Scrat himself. And, when I was YES whining to him about my project’s death (again), he smiled and said. It’s taken ME eight years to get my next project made, Marnie, and I have a track record. You?
So, you do what it takes.
The producers through persistence and equal insanity or more, sold the show. We are greenlit for 13 half-hour episodes (unheard of) airing primetime on CityTV in Canada, at the coveted 9pm, dancing with the likes of “Modern Family,” “New Girl,” and “Parks and Recreation.” In the US, we will be on HULU. Eva Longoria is the lead voice of “Rudi Wilson” as well as an executive producer. Michael Shipley, the nicest non Jewish mentch I’ve met in a long time, is our gifted showrunner, director and supervising showrunner and executive producer. A man of many hats.
The show will air this fall 2013.
No, I’m not writing for it. I am not Canadian and it seems to be an issue for a Canadian show. So be it. Yes, I cried about that for a bit. Waddled in my pity puddle but then eventually, fine, with a sharp and consistent kick from my baby sister, I learned that the reason I was so busy feeling sorry for myself is because I preferred crying over creating a new show.
Ouch but accurate.
Stay tuned for the birth of acorn 2. Anything less than 8 years to sell it is an upgrade. I’m game. You?
And, anyway, I believe the Emmy’s are wheelchair accessible!!!
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Jump
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought my post (yes, I still live) should be about poultry, namely, my very own CHICKEN.
It’s been an interesting time since last I typed you. Am thinking if I simply (ha! as if anything I do is melodramatic-less) pasted the poem I wrote for a recent assignment in my sister’s spiritual poker game that I’m in, you’d get my world over the past few months or at least can get a whiff of it. I blatantly borrowed from the most genius of Def Jam poet’s Anis Mojgani’s “Shake the Dust” and wrote my own version of his and called it “JUMP.”
PradaGal’s Son
Spawn's text read "Love from the floating islands of Lake Titicaca."
Bet you’re wondering if my spawn returned from Peru in one piece?!
Quite possibly and more likely, you are not worrying and didn’t even know he was gone. But, since delusion is one of my better traits, let me go with it.
Yes, he made it home. And, no, not without a hitch or two.
Fine. Two hitches to be exact. Fiiiine, strikes actually and not hitches. “Hitch” was more what we experienced at the airport, a blog ago, when he called me in a state of panic, detained at Liberty Airport, having left his wallet in security and his passport at the gate. Yes, one half hour into the trip and still in Jersey.
Soooooo, it may help to mention now, just to keep it a fair telling, that I may have forgotten to give the kid the don’t-get-sent-home-for-ANYthing- speech BUT only gave him the don’t-get-put-in-a-third-world-country’s-prison speech.
Uh oh. Long gone are the days where my biggest decision re him was to cut the grapes in half or not.
OK. Back to the ALLEGED hitches/strikes – fine, camp crimes.
Midway through his twenty-eight day trip, mid a Friday night dinner party where wine may have been served, we got call one. My husband answered the phone. I was across the yard, with our guests, no sh-t, singing along to one of our guest’s playing my son’s (hereinafter called “the Defendant”’s) guitar.
My husband called me over. It was the head counselor on the phone. Yes, I had a hot flash of concern. But, it turned out, the Defendant got caught in the girls’ rooms. For the second time.
Allegedly.
Needless to say, while my husband was still holding the receiver, I backseat drove him. While he was trying to listen and speak to the distressed counselor, I assisted him with what to say, so much so, he could neither hear her, speak to her nor really, gasp, hear me.
I took the phone from my man, cause after all, it was also an opportunity to speak with the Defendant. I laughed, and said cut it out. And, yes, admittedly, even may have allegedly said, have them (sorry, moms of daughters) come to your room or mess around during daylight hours. Find a bush. Like the rest of us did.
The next alleged incident didn’t happen until last Tuesday, exactly one week before he was to be sent home legally.
This one was a scarier one. I was on a Skype call with a client so I couldn’t answer my phone. My cell rang first. It was a call from Ontario, Canada. I figured it was a telemarketer. But then, my home phone rang right after, and I knew that it was more than just a determined telemarketer. This time, the display on my home phone said the camp tour name.
F-ck.
Now, my heart raced. I told my client that I needed to answer it.
H-e-ll-ooooo. The first words out of the caller’s mouth, as it should be, is “he’s okay!” Phew. Her next words were sort of interesting – they started with a “but” (never great)… “we just wanted to tell you what happened before you heard anything…”
Uh huh.
Having to get back to my client, I just needed to ensure a few things – “he’s okay. Great. Is he in trouble of any sort?!” To that she replied, “no.” So, I said, I’d call her back when I was off my phone call.
The second I got off with my client, I called. She was on the other line and had to call me back. By now I figured it couldn’t be that bad …but yep, was damn curious. What now?!!!!
She called me back and told me the following story: the tour was on a cruise, then she self-corrected, far from a cruise, it was a boat type thing, visiting the floating reed islands of Lake Titicaca. The boys were on top of the boat, horsing around. One boy fell in and the Defendant dove in to save him. They are both fine. They got them out in less than two minutes and there are no signs of HYPOTHERMIA.
It’s Winter in Peru.
Once fully believing he was going to live, maintain all limbs, I then said, “Really?!” Yes, out loud to the caller, possibly in more disbelief than kosher. You know, wanting to believe the Defendant a hero and not going straight into my natural default parade-pissing stance (obviously, slightly less attractive a trait than deluded).
I got off the phone, immediately, of course, googling “hypothermia” to make sure I knew what his near miss was exactly and emailed my family and friends.
Peoples’ reactions varied.
My husband doubted the super hero story. I too, couldn’t really believe he dove in to save a kid when he could have simply screamed. Some of my other friends truly believed it so like him — all heart.
Sweet, right?
Don’t get me wrong. He’s an amazing kid. But, yes, he’s also my kid. Part sweet, part chicken, part my husband – Israeli hero ‘n narcissist.
So, without question, the Defendant would most certainly have a battle in his head and heart at that boat’s edge.
We figured we’d find out the truth when he got home the following week. So, the minute he cleared customs and counselors, in the parking lot on the way to the car, I asked. He laughed and cleared up both “hitches” for me.
Hitch 1 – the one I DID believe. Turns out, he ended up the two times caught in the girls rooms NOT because he was getting any, but the first time was because he was holding a flashlight for a hot girl, so she could pack and the second time, he ran with the runs into the girls room because the boys’ bathroom was occupied.
So, the poor thing, funnily, ironically got his first two strikes and no action.
Hitch 2 – turns out was a dare. The two boys were promised money and blow jobs, if they dove. So, duh, the two teens dove AND duh, neither got paid or blown.
And, now, when I got the below email from the camp, I am in a quandary:
“We also ask you to remind your son or daughter of the photo and video contest that we shared details in our final mailing. As a reminder, there is a prize of $50 for any photo used in our brochure and a top photo prize of $100. The top video selected will win a $500 cash prize along with a $500 certificate for travel in 2013.”
Should I send in the video they took of the two of them diving into Lake Titicaca? For, though he’d surely be banned from another wild great trip, he just might win the cash promised and blown.
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