The other day I was at Target with all the three kids, and they were in rare form. Ike-a-saurus was pelting strangers with goldfish (the crackers, not actual goldfish), the wee-er one was doing that thing where she pops her eyes so you can see all the whites, and then growls and gnashes her teeth (she was angry I had not immediately looked at the fake Barbie laptop when she asked), and the wee one had decided this particular Target visit was the exact perfect time to ask me why Hitler killed 6 million people.
In the midst of all this mayhem an empathetic mom smiled at me and said, "You should have your own reality show." I laughed. Not because I thought she was crazy, not because I've heard that a million times before, not becaue I've thought it, too – but because it's actually happening. I just wasn't allowed to say anything yet.
I know you're all, "SHUT UP!"
But it's true! They're not paying us hardly anything, but I'm trying to casually lay copies of my books in every scene. Except for this one – I'm actually recording this right now, but my books are upstairs and I'm too lazy to go up there. I have to email the footage to the producers in the morning and they can, like, edit in some Strokes music and make my latenight blogging and watching 30 Rock look way more exciting than it really is.
I'll probably get in trouble for this, but here's a scintillating bit:
Right now the working title of the show is Kari So Wary: Life After the Trach. It's going to run on the OWN channel for 8 episodes. If people like it, then we'll get to make more.
Now you know why I haven't been blogging much. So many things have been going on, so many people at the house. It's been crazy. The kids are crazy. The dog is crazy. I keep trying to make sandwiches for the cameramen and that's against union rules. So much to get used to.
Really, though, having a cameraman or two at the house isn't that much different than when we had the nurses everyday. Except the camermen are a lot less helpful at naptime. And I'm not allowed to talk to them or give them my extra kale from the farmhouse bushel.
The cameramen are even coming with us to Cincinnati this summer. Just when we finally stopped having to get all the medical equipment through airport security, now we have all kinds of camera crap to wait on. They're not coming with us to the beach, though. Vacations are private – plus, my sister won't sign a release.
One of the major reasons the camera guys aren't coming to the beach, though, is because this is all a huge lie. Not true at all. Thank goodness! Happy first of April, biznatches.