Saturday, July 30, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Here's a "candid" picture of Mom getting ready for a dumbass real estate TV show. The hat and sunglasses indoors look pretty stupid. She forced me to smile for some Roblochon cheese. I'll do just about anything for some Roblochon cheese.
Mom's career must be making its final death rattle because she's agreed to do an episode of HGTV's House Hunters. The show is coming to Nice, France, Europe to film a bunch of expats here in their new hundred year old houses.
The idea of a film crew coming in here and rearranging all my furniture to make it look like we don't live here yet is so fake. Then they'll put it all back and Mom and Dad will talk about how fabulous everything is here in Nice, France, Europe. What the producers at House Hunters should film is all the endless complaining Mom and Dad do. Then it might actually be a real reality show.
I might have to bite somebody unless of course...they give me some Roblochon cheese.
Incredibly, Mom's agent called from Hollywood last night. It was on speaker phone, so I heard the whole boring thing.
Mom: "So I haven't missed anything earth shattering, right?"
Mom's agent: "No, it's been pri....tteeeee dead here this summer. There hasn't been anything life-changing, it's real quiet."
Mom: "Then it must be REALLY dead for me if it's dead for your teenage clients."
Mom's agent: "Oh, it's not dead for them but things should be picking up for your type as soon as you get back. Lots of good stuff coming up...lots of good stuff."
I know what "lots of good stuff" means in Hollywood. It means that Mom is going to have to spend hours memorizing pages of ridiculous lines and then leave the house all day to meet with idiot producers who then tell her agent that they loved her but wanted someone more famous than her for their crappy TV show.
I'm going to go and sit in front of the fridge, where the Roblochon cheese might fall out if Mom or Dad opens the door. I'm positive that one of them will give me some before we go to the beach today.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Patrolling the streets of Nice, France, Europe.
Dad is depressed and Mom thinks he should DO something to snap himself out of it. Last night, Dad went to bed before the rest of us and sat in the dark.
Mom: "What's wrong now?"
Dad: "Nothing...I'm out of it, that's all. I'm tired. I've lost hundreds of thousands of dollars, I'm not working and all I'm doing is buying more towels and sheets...in France."
Mom: "Well why don't you DO something? You've been talking about getting a bike for months. Why don't you just buy the bike and go for ride? Take MY bike. Work out, join the gym! You could bleach your teeth, you've been talking about bleaching your teeth for years."
Dad: "I'm too depressed to bleach my teeth."
Mom: "Why? You've brought the tooth bleaching kit everywhere for two years now and you never do it. It's always in the suitcase for nothing. Bleach them now."
Dad:" It's too depressing. I have to wear glasses to see to put the droplets of bleach gel in the tooth tray. Might as well be sitting here in my truss with glasses on. Like Ben Franklin trying to get Brad Pitt's teeth. If I bleach my teeth it'll just be scary. It'll be like Wink Martindale's teeth superimposed into Golum's mouth. I'm not bleaching my teeth."
Mom:"What's a truss?"
Dad: "Look it up."
Mom: "We don't have an English dictionary in France."
Dad: "It's a thing to hold up your herniated ball."
Poor Dad. I think I'd better pretend I need a walk. Then I'll drag him four blocks to the beach. He'll feel better in the salt air of Nice, France, Europe. We can pee in the sea together and mark the Mediterranean.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Gaz de France
Though it's not as roomy as our jacuzzi in Hollywood, I love soaking in the tub with Mom in Nice, France, Europe. I like to just stare at her while we get super clean. French dogs are filthy and Finn is becoming quite French in her filthyness.
Mom and I have bubble competitions in the bath sometimes. Mine are bigger and fog up all the mirrors. They fill the bathroom with special French food gas. The Gas Company in Nice-France-Europe is called "Gaz de France" and that's what Dad calls my stink bombs...Gaz de France.