In February 2007, I visited Castelnaudary, France to work on my wretched screenplay I euphemistically entitled: “vomit piece of horse manure.”
By Carrie Crain (Housewife Extraordinaire)
I cashed in a treasury bond for $5000, bought a French pocket-sized dictionary, a pair of fuzzy Uggs, and told my husband to kiss my butt. Literally. I asked if he would smack a big one on my fanny for good-luck because I was leaving him and our dogs for a month to chase a dream. He popped open a Shiner and pouted.
“Tough cow patties,” I said.
“Why write in France?” he asked.
“The view’s got to be better than our local Starbucks,” I responded. “Plus, that’s where this award-winning screenwriter lives,” I answered. It was true. He lived there – in a ginormous castle that could easily have been the unappreciated third vacation home for the heir to one of those fancy dairy farms. The writer’s name was Sir Lord Marmaduck. He wrote under a nom de plume. He was of Hollywood Douche Bag Fowl descent. I called him Quack.
“Where did you find this guy?” My husband asked.
“My hairdresser’s ex-wife’s former fiancé’s girlfriend met him on Paltalk. She told me he wrote and directed a French indie documentary that won some kind of jury award.”
“Yeah? What was it about?”
I stared blankly at all my crap that needed to be packed.
“Exploring the relationship between sex and sweets,” I joked, tossing a box of Texas chocolate pecans in my carry-on. My luggage was hot pink with Barbie stickers slapped on them to ensure no one would steal my bags at the airport.