Ahhhh, NYC. I just can’t quit you. I’m back (again) and this time it’s to step in front of the camera for the first time maybe ever (well, since film school).
When Dee was a baby, I was hell bent on keeping her little body free of the crap that Scott and I tend to eat and full of good things like vegetables and protein. For a while I got pretty in to making her food, but that became time consuming and as we all know, time is at a premium these days. Thankfully someone pointed my exhausted self in the direction of Happy Family, which basically sold totally organic and poison-free homemade-like baby food in frozen cubes. It changed my life. I was pretty obsessed. I relished in my new free time and sang praises to anyone who would listen. So when Happy Family randomly reached out a couple of weeks ago saying they followed my blog and wanted to know if I’d be interested in appearing in a commercial for their brand I don’t think they had finished asking the question before I was saying yes.
In my offline time I do a lot of work on the creative development end of commercial advertising. So it was really surreal to step through the pages of the storyboard and on to the set…and did I mention? In front of the camera.
If you know me (which, let’s assume most of you do by now) then you know this is not my forte. But I did it. I did it even despite the fact that I knew Jim could see me on the monitors in video village while he was being prepped by the agency or when Kristen appeared on set to see what she’d be up against when she takes her turn today. I don’t even think I really fucked it up. It’s like the miracle on ice without the ice.
But my trip to NY has not all been such smooth sailing. Despite being a grown ass adult with a child, when it comes to taking care of my own self, I don’t tend to do a stellar job. So it’s no major surprise that I hopped on a Red Eye flight to NY Tuesday night without having had dinner. I grabbed a Naked Juice at the airport, and six hours later after a bumpy flight, I ate some of the free snacks they were giving out on the plane and chased it with about half my juice. Upon arriving at the hotel I promptly passed out, waking up only when the car service dispatcher called my cell phone to let me know the driver was waiting downstairs to take me to rehearsal. Naked juice in tow, I stumbled downstairs.
The team behind the Happy Family spots are great, so we laughed and chatted and had a generally good time at rehearsal and before I knew it, I was done and it was time to head back to Manhattan, so I grabbed a few ice cubes from craft services and dropped them in to my by now twelve hours old Naked juice, figuring that a smoothie would hold me over until I met up with friends for dinner. WRONG, MORGAN. WRONG BAD DECISION MAKING.
We had barely entered the Brooklyn-Battery tunnel when I broke out in to a cold sweat. I rolled down the window (which in NY livery cars only goes about half way) and tried to get fresh air on my face, but was met with gas fumes and tunnel stank instead. I was getting really woozy as the driver wove through traffic and we made our turn onto Lexington Avenue.
I haven’t gotten car sick since I was a kid. I was sure I could make it to the hotel where I would certainly stop sweating, and could finally get some food in me. But I was wrong. My stomach didn’t care that I was 31-years-old and nicely dresed in the back of a town car. All my stomach cared about was that there was some old-ass orange mango something or other in there and it was not welcome any longer.
G*D DAMN CHILD SAFETY LOCKS, NEW YORK. The driver finally caught on to my silent predicament as I clawed at the door with one hand, and did my best to catch the contents of my stomach in the other. Eventually, he popped the locks and I lost my (lack of) lunch all over Lexington Avenue. And my shirt. And my jeans. And down my pants. And a little bit in the back of this poor dude’s car. We were only a few blocks away from the hotel by then, but the driver slowed way down and spent the next several minutes chiding me for not warning him I wasn’t feeling well and telling me how it happened all the time with children, but never adults. I shamefully mopped myself off with the pack of tissues I had in my purse and before exiting the vehicle I managed to mumble “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t make your day worse” (which I obviously did) and shoved a crumpled $20 at him, like that was somehow going to make up for his car smelling like regurgitated Orange-Mango Naked Juice.
Thank god there was a laundromat in the basement of the hotel.