We are all waiting for our moment of stardom here in the City of Angels. People, houses, cats, dogs. I wanted to be a star once. Well. At least a working actor. That's what I wanted. And I was. I put Mr. Ex through law school on the money I made acting. He didn't have to work a single minute of his academic life as a law student. No, he did not.
And the last house we lived in together had its moment. It was in a TV show. They used the front hallway and the living room and the exterior of the house. I think we made three or four grand just for that one day, and when her dad got home that night, the younger daughter told him the front door made more than he did.
So. My townhouse survived its photo shoot. Me running around like a maniac gardener this morning sweeping, raking, hosing grevelia leaves from the patio, juggling artwork around with my real estate agent, turning all the lights on, changing this bowl for that bowl on the dining room table, removing the dish towels from the kitchen, and stowing Piper the cat's sleeping bag (don't ask) and her bowl of Catsure from the living room end table. The fancy embroidered towels were out strutting their stuff, and the perfumed soaps were shaking their little French asses in all the bathroom soap dishes.
You wanna be a star? You wanna be famous? You wanna make the big bucks? Let me tell you what you have to do.