The Other Shoe

It was well after midnight when my husband jostled me awake.

"Are you up?"

"Mmph"

"I just found a blog you're gonna love! This woman was with her daughter, an extra in the movie . . . she wrote about our son!"

I chuckled involuntarily, it seemed. The shadowy darkness hid the smile my facial muscles had produced, as sleep swallowed it whole.

******

This morning, dutifully, I found the link my husband had meticulously provided for me in my inbox.

You may recall the big day The Aussie and The Actor invaded the space of several hundred extras. Finally, you've a comparative read, from the other perspective - the other shoe, if you will.

An excerpt from the blog of Heather Heath Chapman:

Not long after that, two tall, handsome boys tumbled into the gym together like puppies, arms and legs everywhere. “We’re bored!” they announced, and a wave of interest rolled through the crowd of extras. These were the two male stars of the movie, whom my daughter had already seen and deemed “cute.” A group of kids soon gathered around them. The boys signed autographs and joked amiably with everyone.It was interesting to watch them. Aside from the fact that they had the clearest skin of any teenagers I’d ever seen, they reminded me of the boys at my daughter’s school: gangly, silly, adorable, awkward. Like every other boy in the gym, they looked funny in those Sixties-era clothes. Like Madeline—like any teen—they were looking for a little attention.

It was just as my favorite trash mag had always claimed: Stars. They’re just like us.

Except surprisingly acne free.

With bodyguards.

And an omelet station.

But just people, apparently, and not as mysterious as I’d always suspected.

I made this point to my daughter on day three as we walked back from the prop room. “So,” I concluded, “if those boys ever become really famous, you can tell everyone that you’ve met them, and that they’re just as dorky as any other boys.”

Enjoy Heather's three part series on the Flipped experience here: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

My husband was right - I was delighted in Heather's literary saga! I wonder to myself how many times I looked her in the eye as L'il Man and I entered the cafeteria brimming with people? Or, better yet, if she'd reconsider her Big Mac boycott, if she knew The Aussie had a unique moniker for the joint? That we have photos of The Director?

A season shared, yet separated by task - Two Moms, Two Thespians - people who gained an experience, but had no conscious knowledge of the others' thoughts . . . until midnight last night.

Thanks, Heather, for sharing your side of the story. The Other Shoe.

The Fruit Of His Labor

It was bound to happen at some point. I knew it was unavoidable. Yet when, exactly, the 'other shoe' would fall, I truly had no idea.

That is of course, until - oh, approximately August 1, when the full-court press began.

My son: "Mom. I want a Mac."

Me: "Umm-hmm."

My son: "It's in my budget. Here, take a look at this one. It's got all the specs I'm looking for . . ."

And so it went. Incessantly.

Finally, we took a trip to the store.

Glitches were had. We returned home empty-handed, but only for the space of about 24 hours. That's when Dad kicked it, with his mischevious ways.

Rising early, we high-tailed it to the preceeding evening's destination and revisited the clerk who promised the goods. We then returned home, to [torment] the lad.

Here is a pictoral essay on the event, as it played out at our house. Will our lives ever be the same again? Are we all destined for the same fate?

Sightings of Mr. Benson, The Parental Delimna

I've cringed at him.

I've laughed until I cried at his antics.

I've hesitated to share him, that he be not misunderstood.

I've explained him, that he be not an offense.

Yet the fact of the matter is, Mr. Benson has definitely taken up residence in our humble abode.

He stopped by last night, just to chide me on my (in his estimation) unnecessary complaint that my son had been eating the computer bandwith by watching and untold number of episodes of Lost.

Mr. Benson: "Bandwidth, bandwidth, bandwidth! That's yer complaint, eh?"
Me: [staring him down, recognizing his sudden appearance]
Mr. Benson: "We're really tired of hearing yer bellyachin' about this. You've missed nothing. Meanwhile, when YOU use the wireless, YOU eat MY bandwidth, and my show goes something like this:

[turning head in short staccato action, never quite actually changing perspective]

'W- . . . w- . . .we . . . we' - . . .'

The words never fully come out, you see. So, I'm sorry, but we cannot accept yer claim at this time. Thank you."

At this, my son suddenly reappears, all smiles at his most recent performance, the likes of which have caused me to sigh in resignation the fact that I've still years to parent this boy.