It’s been quite a while since my last post. I’d like to say that I spent the time sipping sweet tea vodka with my new best friend, Tina Fey NPH, but that would be an unfortunate and desperate lie. And unfortunate, I am not. Despite my still unrequited pleas, I must press forward in pursuing my dreams. Because what good are dreams if they are easily obtainable? (That is what the man in the corner liquor store said to me to convince me to exchange my $138 in Coinstar money for 138 lottery tickets.)
So, what have I been doing for the last couple weeks? I’ve been stuffing, packing, and padding. Although, in some circles, that sounds like something you would do in the champagne room of the neighborhood windowless bar, double-fisting vodka tonics or human melons—my task was not quite that exciting. I have spent the last few weeks moving across the country, in an attempt to find Tina Fey NPH on the west coast.
I’ve moved quite a bit in my life (especially for someone in her mid-20s), and I pretty much always underestimate the amount of time it takes to fully pack your belongings. After weeks of passive packing, I finally reached the “what the hell do I do with this shit” part of the move—aka, the final 10%. This segment of any move, while relatively small in a numeric sense, takes the greatest toll on the mover in terms of sanity and time. This is the part of the move where the mover stares at a particular “what the hell do I do with this shit item,” stare at it some more, sigh, find something else to do like play Mafia Wars on Facebook, stare at it some more, and finally decide that the best course of action is to again watch the Nappy Tabs’ choreographed performance on SYTYCD so that the mover can perfect lyrical hip hop and become a world-famous dancer by Season 8. I digress.
Long story short, the hubby and I finally packed up all of our crap and were ready to embark on a new journey.
While at the airport, waiting for my flight to northern California, I scanned the premises for inspiration for a new spec script. A cute family was waiting for the same flight, and they were playing with their unbelievably adorable Maltese puppy, whose name I later discovered was Snowball. Although Snowball was only 9 months old, he was quite well-behaved and did not need a leash to understand that he needed to stay close to his family. As I sat there, sipping my overpriced coffee, I began to wonder how the hubby would react to me bringing a puppy home—my canine stupor was interrupted when a woman walked by with her child . . . on a leash.
Before I comment on leashed children, I should first add the caveat that I am not a mom. I have never babysat any children, so perhaps I’m not in a position to judge. But I literally fell out of my seat into convulsions, trying to hold my laughter in, as I watched this little leashed girl petting an unleashed puppy. The leash was about 2 feet long, and the mom held the leash as the little girl moved around the waiting area. Apparently, the little girl had not learned the “heel” command, because she was often pulling the leash complete taut, in a fruitless attempt to investigate her surroundings. As I was watching this scene, I began furiously texting friends. I also tried to take a picture with my cameraphone, but I was not quick enough to get a good shot. (Mom did, however, turn around when my cameraphone made an incredibly loud noise when I tried to get a snapshot off, after which I quickly pulled my phone in and looked around in a completely inconspicuous manner).
In any event, as I was watching the scene unfold before me—leashed girl cooing and petting unleashed puppy—I realized that I was not the only one staring. Dozens of other individuals stole glances, and I had a Eureka moment.
I must find a leash. If this otherwise nondescript girl could get dozens of completely bored individuals at the airport to look at her, perhaps I too could generate publicity by attaching myself to a leash and having the hubby lead me around! Of course, I would have to avoid spiked and rhinestoned leashes, because the hubby and I would only attract swingers (and I’m not sure how fast I can run away from swingers if Iwere attached to a leash). I will design my own leash—wide enough to contain, in hot pink, the words, “Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!” The hubby will walk me around the streets of San Francisco, and I will pull forward, panting as the collar restricted my airways. I am a writer. I am a genius. And I will be a human dog.
Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!
Discover Me, Tina Fey! 