The Artist formally known as Princess

The whole Big Apple adventure was muddling up my little mind so I’m splitting it up into two blogs. This first will be about the Princess’ becoming the next “it” girl of said Apple.

I bounce out of bed bright and early on Sunday to pack and become a bundle of nerves about the trip into the city. It’s not everyday that my car becomes a super model.

Eventually, I successfully drag the hubster out of bed and leave early enough so we can stop and do breakfast and try to normalize me.

Emphasis on try.

We pull into at a service area on the way and are surrounded by a green and white army of babbling Jets fans on their way into the game.

So much for normalizing.

I do however take a moment to appreciate the hubster’s Englishness and complete lack of interest in American sports.

We reach the island with what would’ve been more than enough time---me following hubster in his truck.

Said truck is a beast. F-150, extended cab and extended bed. The Princess could probably fit in the pick-up’s bed.

When we suddenly hit what could be confused for a Friday evening’s commuter traffic and maniacs are assaulting me on all sides, I try to will the Princess to hop into the truck.

Ummm, no one bothered to tell us about the bloody marathon.

Apparently people in advertising don’t care about such things.

We slowly work our way over to a parallel street and fly down the island, movie style, with all the lights changing to green as we reach them for about 30 blocks surrounded by nothing but yellow taxis.


We arrive at Chelsea Piers and find Studio 59 @ Pier 59. Imagine that.

I drive The Princess into their freight elevator.


Because they looked at me with that, “ We can drive her if you’re a scardy girl”, way that I saw as a challenge.

Backing her out of the elevator and maneuvering her into her set space with little to no room to work in takes a couple of minutes but I get the job done.

Hurrah! I manage to save face for blonde, women drivers the world over for one more day.

I just might make it into the Blonde’s Hall of Fame yet!

I get out and do the formal introductions with *J* and tell him it is his job to introduce The Princess to everyone tomorrow and make her feel at home.

He looks at me nervously and shakes his head in the appropriate direction.

Not wanting to bother with the camera right then, I ask if I’ll be able to take a pic of her there in the studio tomorrow---he says that’s iffy but if it makes me feel any better, that Princess will be used in the client’s big spring campaign and that she will be on a billboard in Times Square.

WHOO HOOO---- a 6 1/2 story Princess in Times Square.

I smack *J* in the shoulder and say, “You are so lying to me!”

After picking himself up off the floor, he assures me he is not.

We say good-bye and leave them to get her lighting sorted.

I anxiously wait until we are a half block away from the studio before whooping with joy.

I feel all Mary Tyler Moore-ish except;

This is not Minneapolis

I am not single

I have no hat to throw as I don’t do hats

The Big Apple will have to settle for my whooping spin and twirl.

**This is where it got all messy for me----the part now that is hubster’s and my adventure, which is diff from The Princess’ so we do a Hollywood---

Fade to Black

And cut to the next morning.

I awaken, alive and alone in my hotel room.

(Alone? See, you’re going to have to read Big Apple Blog #2---muuuaaaaa ha haaaa!)

In the light of day, being in a hotel alone goes from being scary to lovely.

I take a leisurely shower, eat my fruit and yogurt thingy and watch the morning news.

All the while pretending that I am an independent, single woman in my chic NY flat and not a married woman alone in a rather odd hotel room in Chelsea that is a cross between a closet and a hallway where the only window looks out onto 4 other outside walls of the hotel and room windows.

Before the novelty wears thin *J* rings on my mobile.

“Your good to head over anytime we should have you out of here before noon.”

I repack all my bags thinking I can eliminate one somehow but no such luck.

I head down to check out saddled down with;

My laptop case

My big purple overnight bag

My big lime green tote bag

My big bag of goodies from Fishs Eddy

And my purse

Which is why I cannot walk the 4 blocks to the studio and have to catch a cab.

And don’t you know that I have to cross over to the other side of the street outside the hotel because I need to head that way after getting a cab.

And you’ve already guessed that the other side of the street is nowhere near as friendly as the side with the hotel.

“Show no fear---show no fear….”

Luckily it only took 3 minutes before an available taxi drove up.

I schlep all my bags up to the second floor studio looking like some well-dressed hobo.

Step into the studio space and wow.

All the other sets have been set up and there is about a million people all running about.

I am taken aback for a moment.

I am use to film sets. They are busy but in a quieter way.

This is completely diff. And yet very much the same.

There’s craft services set up, wardrobe, make-up and hair.

Lighting and grip guys hulking about.

Lots of PA’s scurrying everywhere.

And lounging on any available soft spots---not actors, but models.

If not for the loud music and such----very much the same.

I find a small patch of couch and settle in after stowing my stuff in a corner.

A girl walks up and inquires---“I belong to the car”, I say.

“Oh lovely----have some food please.”

All the ad folks at the long table in front of the craft services table all look up from their Apple PowerBooks and cell phones and say, “Yes, please have some food.”


I am now scared to eat the food and instead wander over to peek at Princess.

She is vogueing it up for the photog and I leave her to it.

As I walk away, I run into *J*---“Great, should be done within the hour, she’s a trooper. Oh and have some food.”

Again with the food.

Maybe they should invite some of the homeless people up that were wandering about in the road having intense conversations with the pigeons.

Apparently whose territory the piers are was in question.

A grip comes up to me and says, “You must be Princess’ owner, hi.”

A PA walks over, “I just love VW’s, and it’s all I’ve ever had. I currently drive a Jetta. The Princess is adorable.”

I want to sit down, as I do so the girl at the end of the table looks up from her laptop and introduces herself as Catherine.

I stand back up to shake her hand and notice the ad-copy concept next to her computer. “I’m Dawn. That’s my car.”

I sit down, pull out my notepad and start taking notes to settle myself.

The only thing scarier than too thin female models in person is a too thin male model.

Their heads are too big for their little bodies. I swear I could’ve wrapped my hands around this one guy's hips and my fingers and thumbs could’ve touched.

They are also much bitchier than the girls and way more self absorbed.

One guy bends over in front of me and I am treated to the view of the tattoo across his hips right above his tiny butt. It’s those 3 monkeys—hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

Above his butt-----hmmmmmmmmmmm.

I’d give my soul to be surrounded by narcissistic actors right now. They at least pretend to be interested in you in case you or someone you know can further their career.

I am a stranger in a strange land.

Right before I go head long into a full blown panic attack…..

“Hi, I’m *D*, the photographer. That’s your car?”


“She’s been wonderful, a real star. What’s her name again?”


“Of course!”

I never did get to take my photo.

The biggest head of all the big heads doesn’t allow any pics of his sets.


Okay, I get that.


Her set consisted of nothing but white backdrops and lighting.

The models are no longer in the car.

The rest of the stuff will be digitally put around her.

The end result will be a shot of her head on, close up with a guy driving and a girl passenger going through a tunnel--- a red and white tunnel. The princess being the red bulls eye------ahem, this is a Target ad.

But I am a good set mom and keep all of this inside.

They put my car back to her self---angry eyes and all and I load my stuff into her.

We roll off the freight elevator and up to the parking attendant----who informs me, “Wow, it’s a good thing they took care of this for you—would’ve cost $144.”

Only in NY.

We speed out of the city and back towards the safety of New Hampshire.

Oh, and the artist formally known as Princess, (symbol to follow, but it’s my understanding it is basically the female symbol with the VW in the middle), is insisting I call Nate Berkus to do a redesign on her half of the garage.

posted by Angel @ 9:30 PM |


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