And now, a scene from my glamorous Manhattan lifestyle:
I’m headed down the stairs to walk my dog, The Finn, and as I get down to the lobby, I hear a heated argument, and a door slamming. OK, I live in a crowded city, this isn’t the strangest bit of life you can overhear. Voice sounds familiar, though. Then someone stops me at the bottom of the stairs. With a mic in his ear, my first thought is personal security or cop, but he doesn’t have the look. Then it connects: the voice is familiar not because I know him personally, but because he’s famous. They’re shooting a film in my building. Dog waits quietly and patiently while they finish the scene. It’s a deco building (with an interesting lobby) that ends up getting a lot of Law & Order and movie shoots, so this isn’t too surprising. So, feeling the whole “New York” vibe as I’m winding my way down the stairs, past about thirty people on the set–lighting, grips, assistants, PAs, what appear to be journalists, and all the rest–past catering, past makeup.
Outside, my dog accomplishes his secondary mission, and being a good New Yorker, I bend over to pick it up. Did I mention that having the baby around has killed off any kind of exercise regimen I might have had? Riiiip. I check. Yep, the butt of my pants is torn out completely. I’m wearing a pair of bright purple underwear. Walking back down the block, past makeup, past catering, winding through the crew and the paparazzi, and up the stairs in front of the Hollywood elite and not-so-elite, my face is more purple than my shorts.