Hey, Mom, We're Famous!!
A man approaches us as we walk down the street. “Would you like a free t-shirt?” Well, it's the middle of the day and we're on a crowded city street. If he's some sort of nut job I can always create a scene. Thus bolstered by the security of my fellow-pedestrians, I tell him, yes, I'd like a free t-shirt. In truth, I never wear the things, but I'm sure my son will like whatever it turns out to be. Then I notice the microphone in the fellow's hand. Then I notice the cameraman in behind him. They are shadowed by the girl who is barely visible behind the heap of t-shirt she carries. Oh, yes. Seems I'm about to be taped for television. Oh, Lord. I'm wearing my Ugly Sundress. The one whose only virtue (not to be taken lightly when the forecast is 33/humidex 45) is that it's cool. But flattering? Not on your life. Pretty? Not even close. The background is fine: it's a kinda funky dark and light blue swirly print that looks waterish, and if they'd stopped there, it would be a Pretty Sundress. The problem is the dolphins. Honkin' big, bulbous, beige dolphins. Cavorting all over me. Curling over a breast, dashing across my belly, bouncing round my ass, all in ways designed to draw one's attention to, and exaggerate the size of, these attributes. I had originally planned to go to a park; I never wear this thing in public. At the park are home-based mothers. Sweat-stained, burpcloth moms, dosed in Eau de Sour Milk, are not “public”. They understand too well the significant accomplishment of simply getting yourself and your offspring dressed and out the door in the morning to waste any time worrying about another mom's fashion sense. I changed my plans, but I didn't change my dress. And now I'm on television... Thank God I'm wearing my totally cool Bluesfest hat and my kick-ass sunglasses. It's the local Cable Station, doing a promo, getting the word out that they've changed their name. They let me know this, then they put the mike in front of each child in the stroller. “What's your name?” As if any child under the age of three is going to answer this question, much less when asked by a strange man shoving something in their face. I help the man along, give them each of the children's names. “This is Zach, and that's Alice.” Each child gets their four seconds of air time. The microphone and camera move on to Darcy. “The one in the front, he might tell you his name.” I say helpfully. What would you do, if you were not quite three, and someone pushed something roughly popsicle-shaped, albeit of a strange texture, and black, right up to your mouth? I mean, really. His mouth opens, his tongue comes out... “Or, he might lick the microphone.” I add, even more helpfully. The fellow takes it in stride. Holding up the mike he hollers out “Lysol! We need Lysol here!”, while I cackle merrily in the background. I dunno. Will this sound bite survive the editing?