So about a week or so ago I received an email from a lovely reporter gal who writes for
Time Out New York and knows a writer I know,
Rachel Bussel. She's looking for a New York City equivalent of Marge Simpson and Rachel suggested she contact me. Rachel is a young, vibrant, childless friend, and maybe it's not so much of a stretch for her to think of me when somebody mentions Marge Simpson. I'm a stay-at-home-mom with two kids, and I live in New York City. If she were a mother herself, chances are she would know how very un-Marge-like I am. But me being the whore for m
edia attention that I am, I lovingly and good-naturedly answered the journalist's query with a bevy of similarities which you may read about when you purchase your copy of Time Out today. I think I've already blogged good and hard enough about how I'm no Marge Simpson, so that needs no further addressing. Just hear this, good readers of Springfield, er, I mean, of the Blogisphere, I am just tickled to finally, finally! be in a damn magazine. I swear that half my adult life thus far, plus about eighty per cent of my adolescent inner universe was consumed with achieving some sort of external, in-print (or on-screen) validation, and now, oh the irony, just as I stop struggling to be an actress or a writer or career gal of any shape whatsoever and just be a mom, my dream comes true. Whoa.
So about a week or so ago I received an email from a lovely reporter gal who writes for Time Out New York and knows a writer I know, Rachel Bussel. She's looking for a New York City equivalent of Marge Simpson and Rachel suggested she contact me. Rachel is a young, vibrant, childless friend, and maybe it's not so much of a stretch for her to think of me when somebody mentions Marge Simpson. I'm a stay-at-home-mom with two kids, and I live in New York City. If she were a mother herself, chances are she would know how very un-Marge-like I am. But me being the whore for m
edia attention that I am, I lovingly and good-naturedly answered the journalist's query with a bevy of similarities which you may read about when you purchase your copy of Time Out today. I think I've already blogged good and hard enough about how I'm no Marge Simpson, so that needs no further addressing. Just hear this, good readers of Springfield, er, I mean, of the Blogisphere, I am just tickled to finally, finally! be in a damn magazine. I swear that half my adult life thus far, plus about eighty per cent of my adolescent inner universe was consumed with achieving some sort of external, in-print (or on-screen) validation, and now, oh the irony, just as I stop struggling to be an actress or a writer or career gal of any shape whatsoever and just be a mom, my dream comes true. Whoa.
