Validation of my theory that you have to be mental or a jackass to get offered a reality show (see previous post). Check out this actual casting call that I received as part of a regular PR/media query service we subscribe to at work:
Category: Entertainment and Media
Media Outlet: Cable network
Deadline: 07:00 PM EST - 16 July
Query: A new docu-series is looking for people who are struggling withan issue that is taking over their lives. Whether you are addicted to plastic surgery or have anger management issues, we want to hear from you. Are you or someone you know… … a shopaholic? … a self-harmer? … a serial cheater? … a compulsive gambler? … a sex addict? … an alcoholic? If you want to make a positive change inyour life, please e-mail us the following information: 1.Name 2. City, State 3. Phone number 4. E-mail 5. Photo 6. Aparagraph about the issue you are facing and why you want help.The more you tell us, the better. **** WE ARE ONLY CASTING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ***
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
My Life: The Reality Show
I've decided that if I ever had my own reality show, it would be the worst rated show on TV. How am I supposed to complete with the likes of the Housewives, Kardashians, and Bachelor/Bachelorette's of the world? I work in a regular office, not a fashion magazine. I've had both of my kids "in-wedlock." And I've never bitch-slapped a single soul.
Let's use my week so far as an example. "This week on Cindy Haas, the Reality Show...Cindy fights the urge to have a medium size Dunkin Donuts iced coffee with cream and sugar on her way to work but ultimately succumbs. Stay tuned to see if Cindy's guilt leads her to make a healthier lunch selection in the company's cafeteria." Nail biting, right? I'm mean, unless my weakness for iced coffee constitutes an addiction worthy of a visit to Dr. Drew, I don't think anyone would tune in.
Am I the only boring one? Let's take a poll. Is your life like a TV show? If so, which one?
Let's use my week so far as an example. "This week on Cindy Haas, the Reality Show...Cindy fights the urge to have a medium size Dunkin Donuts iced coffee with cream and sugar on her way to work but ultimately succumbs. Stay tuned to see if Cindy's guilt leads her to make a healthier lunch selection in the company's cafeteria." Nail biting, right? I'm mean, unless my weakness for iced coffee constitutes an addiction worthy of a visit to Dr. Drew, I don't think anyone would tune in.
Am I the only boring one? Let's take a poll. Is your life like a TV show? If so, which one?
- Modern Family
- Cougar Town
- The Bachelorette
- Housewives
- That channel where they just show the inside of a fish tank or a fireplace
Monday, July 12, 2010
I'm going to work to relax!
Did you ever in a million years think parenting would be as exhausting as it is? It may sound crazy, but in so many ways, work is just easier. Honestly, if I was half as good at parenting as I am at my job, I'd be mother of the year! Think about it.
At work, I have clearly defined responsibilities as part of my job description. At home, one second I'm a chef, the next a doctor, then a referee in the middle of a light weight boxing match (parents with more than one child know what I'm referring to in that last example).
At work, if someone needs my time, it's appropriate to schedule a meeting in advance. At home, children barge into the bathroom (urinatus interuptus) whenever they are moved to tell me something they deem important..."mom, next week if it's not raining and we have time and if I don't have a basketball game and if my friend's mom says it's OK can I go to the skate park?"
At work, I'm relied on to monitor and interact with important journalists and respected members of the national media. At home, the media I'm responsible for monitoring almost always involves Sponge Bob Square Pants.
On the other hand, at work I can't really scream like a maniac and send someone straight to their room...at least not if I wanted to stay employed. And I certainly couldn't run into a colleague's office, pull them up from their chair, squeeze them and shout, "oh my god how did you get so damn cute?"
So don't get me wrong. It's not that I would choose being at work over being with my family. But geez, sometimes life is hard work!
At work, I have clearly defined responsibilities as part of my job description. At home, one second I'm a chef, the next a doctor, then a referee in the middle of a light weight boxing match (parents with more than one child know what I'm referring to in that last example).
At work, if someone needs my time, it's appropriate to schedule a meeting in advance. At home, children barge into the bathroom (urinatus interuptus) whenever they are moved to tell me something they deem important..."mom, next week if it's not raining and we have time and if I don't have a basketball game and if my friend's mom says it's OK can I go to the skate park?"
At work, I'm relied on to monitor and interact with important journalists and respected members of the national media. At home, the media I'm responsible for monitoring almost always involves Sponge Bob Square Pants.
On the other hand, at work I can't really scream like a maniac and send someone straight to their room...at least not if I wanted to stay employed. And I certainly couldn't run into a colleague's office, pull them up from their chair, squeeze them and shout, "oh my god how did you get so damn cute?"
So don't get me wrong. It's not that I would choose being at work over being with my family. But geez, sometimes life is hard work!
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Observations
After my little "accident" on July 4, I posted a photo of my foot - sprained ankle wrapped in an ace bandage - on my Facebook page. I did receive the obligatory kind comments from friends -- "OMG r u OK? What happened? Hope you feel better!" At the same time, what was most interesting to me was that several people commented on my red painted toe nails. Of course my reply was, "Pedicures are like clean underwear....always good to have in case of an accident." Just funny that while I was focused on the injury, others notice something completely different.
Like my son and daughter...when I went to work today without my crutches, my 6 year old daughter expressed in sheer delight that my foot must feel better. My 10 year old son, on the other hand, was quick to point out that I was crazy to leave home without the crutches -- "Mom, if you like bring your crutches you'll like get so much more attention, and gifts and stuff." Mars vs Venus? Age difference? Or just different observations? Who knows.
All gave me a chuckle though. And, reminded me of the importance of a good pedicure.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Irony
Like many of you, I was excited to celebrate this past July 4th holiday weekend. An extra day off is always party-worthy. We stocked up on fireworks, and I even took the time to explain to my kids that the holiday had actual historic significance (what a shocker). As the sun began to set, my husband set handed the kids some pop-its and sparklers, and proceeded to launch several loud, and probably somewhat dangerous, rockets and bombs - which my 10 year old son was concerned may not be legal. While our neighbors may not be happy with the colored paper shrapnel that was raining down on their lawns, I can assure all readers of this blog that all of our explosive purchases were entirely legit!
As a person who works for company with a deep and focused safety culture, I of course remained concerned about my kids getting injured. (At least that's the excuse I'm using to cover up my overprotective, hovering, tendency to ruin all the fun, parenting style.) So every few minutes I interrupted the excitement with a "don't jump on the trampoline with the sparklers!" or "don't throw those pop-its at your sister!" or "I know you want to run into the smoke but that thing isn't done exploding yet...get away!!!" exclamations. Of course, when one of the rockets failed to launch into the air, got lodged into its make-shift PVC pipe launch pad, and exploded at eye level, creating an "Apocalypse Now" style scene with my husband yelling to the kids, "get down, get down, get down!" I did feel somewhat justified in my concerns. (Though not surprisingly, that moment was rated "best of the night" by both of my kids.)
So you can imagine my embarrassment when I took off running, glass of wine in hand, to head to our garage deck in order to see the Hollywood Beach fireworks, then planted my foot in a hole in the ground that I didn't see because it was pitch dark, then proceeded to twist my ankle and fall flat on my face. (Though, you must give me credit for not spilling the wine!)
Hence, here I am, ACE bandage around my sprained ankle, crutches leaning conveniently on my dining room table...pondering the concept of irony. What's more ironic - that in my attempt to fully embrace a celebration of our country's independence I have become dependent (yes girls, I actually had to send hubbie to do the grocery shopping yesterday)...OR, that in my over concern for the safety of my family I completely failed to pay attention to the most obvious dangers right in front of my face causing my own injury? Maybe not as poetic as the Alanis Morissette, black fly in the Chardonnay type of irony, but ironic none the less...don't cha think?
As a person who works for company with a deep and focused safety culture, I of course remained concerned about my kids getting injured. (At least that's the excuse I'm using to cover up my overprotective, hovering, tendency to ruin all the fun, parenting style.) So every few minutes I interrupted the excitement with a "don't jump on the trampoline with the sparklers!" or "don't throw those pop-its at your sister!" or "I know you want to run into the smoke but that thing isn't done exploding yet...get away!!!" exclamations. Of course, when one of the rockets failed to launch into the air, got lodged into its make-shift PVC pipe launch pad, and exploded at eye level, creating an "Apocalypse Now" style scene with my husband yelling to the kids, "get down, get down, get down!" I did feel somewhat justified in my concerns. (Though not surprisingly, that moment was rated "best of the night" by both of my kids.)
So you can imagine my embarrassment when I took off running, glass of wine in hand, to head to our garage deck in order to see the Hollywood Beach fireworks, then planted my foot in a hole in the ground that I didn't see because it was pitch dark, then proceeded to twist my ankle and fall flat on my face. (Though, you must give me credit for not spilling the wine!)
Hence, here I am, ACE bandage around my sprained ankle, crutches leaning conveniently on my dining room table...pondering the concept of irony. What's more ironic - that in my attempt to fully embrace a celebration of our country's independence I have become dependent (yes girls, I actually had to send hubbie to do the grocery shopping yesterday)...OR, that in my over concern for the safety of my family I completely failed to pay attention to the most obvious dangers right in front of my face causing my own injury? Maybe not as poetic as the Alanis Morissette, black fly in the Chardonnay type of irony, but ironic none the less...don't cha think?
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