Who Let the Bomb Off?

There’s some irony in the fact that I haven’t sold a script in almost a year, yet I am being kicked out of my home Friday night due to a Warner Brothers drama being taped next door. We’ve had nothing but film crew and location managers in and out of our house with various requests. “Can you please sign this waver stating we can use your backyard for craft service?” or “Is it okay that they stick Indiana plates on your SUV if we shoot early in the day?” And my favorite: “Can we pay you 750.00 to vacate your property while we shoot? We’ll even put you in a hotel.” I haven’t had a vacation since my first child was born, so while it’s not Jamaica, a one night stay in San Ferando Valley’s finest Best Western works for me (We’re pawning off the kids on friends and family.) I can’t help but wonder about all this huba baloo for a short exterior scene involving an old car in my neighbor’s driveway. Similar to my television career as of late, they are going to set a bomb on it. What once was a fine working, reliable car, will be rendered unusable in a matter of seconds. I could feel sorry for myself… ahem.. the car.. but perhaps there’s a higher meaning. Maybe the left over bumpers and intact hub caps will be found by some poor schlub in a junk yard, giving him or her just the right the tools they need to get their wheels rolling. Their glistening new chariot will take them to a fabulous job where they’ll be fulfilled beyond their wildest dreams. I will probably consider such thoughts as I wistfully check into my air conditioned hotel room at 9pm Friday night. Or maybe I’ll just have a glass of wine and a leisurely roll in the hay with my husband, who will have met me there with a separate car in the interest of maximizing child drop off times. I could make the most of the seperate arrival by pretending that he's some exotic stranger I'm meeting for random sex. However, given how little we see of each other these days, he really is that exotic stranger. Yet, since we share the same last name and I've seen him use the toilet more times than I care to comment on, the fantasy is null. Most likely I’ll run into the room, jump up and down on the bed, start screaming “No rug rats! No rug rats! Quick! Make sure they didn’t hide in a suitcase! And for godsake, James, turn off the cell phone so our friends can’t turn them back early!”. This will be undoubtedly be followed by my head hitting the pillow as I collapse with my child stained clothes still on my back. Not exactly Club Med, but I’ll take it.