“I’m sure he has a very good reason for his tardiness.” She flashes a grin so supportive that, even though I’m surprised to hear her say that, I instinctively grin in return. My Greentree mom doesn’t tolerate tardiness, and I always kind of wish she’d lighten up and stop making such a big thing over little delays.
When I see my dad, Joe, well, compared to Eileen’s and Holly’s, his transformation isn’t nearly as dramatic, but that’s not to say he looks anything even remotely like my Greentree dad.
The forehead creases I’ve grown used to seeing look like they’ve been pressed with an iron. And when he flashes me a nod and a grin from across the room, I can’t help but notice how the gray patches in his hair are now blond, like someone took a paintbrush, dipped it in yellow, and covered those parts.
He looks like the kind of dad who spends a lot of time at board meetings and on swanky golf courses—the sort of person who’s considered far too important to ever set foot inside a place like Dashaway Home and Hardware. He’d send one of his many assistants instead.
Though his eyes are still like mine. Only a lot less stressed, which is really nice to see.
He waves from his mark.
I wave back.
And with the cameras in place, and the kitchen counters and island overflowing with multiple trays of freshly baked cookies, along with all the necessary decorating tools, the director shouts, “Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown. Day one—scene one—take one!” and immediately snaps that black-and-white clapper board thing, which, according to the briefing sheet Ezer handed me when my clothes were being inspected for stray pieces of lint, means it’s my job to move toward my mark and hug Eileen, high-five Joe, and compliment Holly on her necklace so she can balance it on the tip of her index finger, aim it toward the camera, and mention the name of the shop where she bought it. Then I lean down to pet my dog, Sir Dasher Dashaway, who, also according to the notes, will run into the room right on cue, where he will join Holly and me as we decorate cookies like the world’s favorite (and most famous!) brother-and-sister act while our parents look on adoringly.
It all seems simple enough, which is why it goes exactly as planned.
Until Sir Dasher Dashaway runs into the room and my jaw falls to my knees as my eyeballs bug out like they’re loaded on springs.
“What happened?” I groan, so shocked by the sight of him I forgot that the cameras were rolling. But sheesh! While the celebrity makeover looks good on my parents and Holly, when it comes to Sir Dasher Dashaway, it’s completely over the top.
The Greentree version of Sir Dasher Dashaway is what you might call more beautiful inside than out. He’s a one-eyed rescue mutt of indeterminate origins with oversized paws, black-and-white fur with the occasional brown spot, floppy ears, and a stub for a tail.
The celebrity version is a tiny white overgroomed, overpedigreed beast whose natural habitat is the inside pocket of an expensive designer purse.
“Cut!” the director shouts as everything that was once set in motion comes to a screeching halt.
“Is there a problem, Nick?” Ezer shoots me a look not unlike the ones from the limo.
“I—” I look all around. Everyone is staring, waiting for me to explain.
“Nick?” Ezer lifts a brow and flips his palms so they’re sunny-side up. A silent ultimatum if I’ve ever seen one.
“No. Um.” I swallow, take another look at Sir Dasher Dashaway, and try to make peace with the horrible sight of him. But it’s too much to ask, so I turn away and say, “I’m good. We’re good. Let’s shoot.”
I head back to my mark as the director calls, “Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown. Day one—scene one—take two. From the top!”
COOKIE CUTTER
We’re in the middle of shooting the last scene of the day, the one where Holly “accidentally” decorates my cheek with a blob of frosting so I can retaliate by drawing a red-icing mustache on her face. And while that’s going down, Sir Dasher Dashaway will, right on cue, jump onto the counter and eat a bunch of the cookies when we’re not looking, only to have my parents walk into the room and—instead of getting upset like most parents would—throw their hands up and join in the fun.
I don’t think I need to explain how not a single thing about this reality show is even the slightest bit real.
Every “spontaneous” moment is carefully scripted.
Including the concealed ramp tiny Sir Dasher Dashaway needs to “jump” onto the kitchen counter.
While I’m sure the edited version will portray just the amount of lighthearted fun the audience loves, the actual reality is that Holly had an allergic reaction to the icing that made her face swell up and turn red, and Sir Dasher Dashaway ate so many cookies he vomited all over the floor and had to be replaced with a stunt dog who I’m told regularly stands in as his double.
From what I’ve learned so far, acting “real” for a reality show is so exhausting I’m starting to wonder if I had it all wrong about how great it would be to live a life like Josh Frost’s.
Oh, and did I mention that we’re on our thirteenth take?