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Meg's Blog

Some times good ideas backfire…

I am in LA at my friend, Ilene’s house.  It’s really pretty here.  There are huge trees outside my bedroom window.  Every once in a while I can hear the whoosh of traffic, the spin of tires in the distance, of people racing off to work, but the sound of bird song is the predominate morning noise.  How happy these birds are.

The day before yesterday, I heard a few quivering brave chirps from the few, foolish, feathered-friends that miscalculated, and returned to Toronto amid the still frigid weather.  I worried for them.

Actually,...I’m worried for me!

When Ilene asked if I’d be interested in going on a short hiking holiday with her, I was all for it.  Why not? I thought. I like hiking, Ilene likes hiking, we done this kind of thing before. 

“Sure!” I said.  “Sounds like fun.” 

We both signed up.  And that’s when the information package arrived.

THEY WANTED US TO PREPARE 4 WEEKS BEFORE ARRIVING!  GACK!  GASP!

We only had 2 1/2 weeks before touchdown.  Not only that, but I had pulled a muscle in my back 1 1/2 months before and had used that as an excuse to abstain from all exercise of any kind.  AND my sister Becky and I were heading off to England to see Will’s play, meet his lovely girlfriend and have a week of fun and feasting on wonderful food! 

I convinced myself that all the eating and shopping my sister and I did and tromping up and down cobblestone streets would have to suffice. 

Halfway into my week-with-Becky, I received a two week (they call it friendly- reminder, but to me it felt more like a stern, disapproving warning, like they had long distance binoculars and could see that my sister and I had splurged on a tasting menu with wine pairings the night before.)  And according to this friendly reminder, I was now supposed to be upping my hiking from two to two and a half hours daily, stopping every 30 minutes to do 3 three minute sessions of jumping jacks.  I also was supposed to be doing copious amounts of crunches and push-up. Along with other things like cutting out meat, sugar, artificial sweeteners, processed foods, alcohol, etc.

I read the email and started sweating.

“Becky,” I squeaked.  “You’ve got to help me!  I need to exercise!” 

She agreed.  She would join in.  It would be good for both of us.

We barely got through the 3 minutes of jumping jacks.  It was HARD!  We did the crunches.  That was hard too.  The big French feast we had just ingested was NOT amused! We did the ten deep silent breathes in.  That was nice.  Both of us managed that no problem.  We were invigorated. Determined.  “We’ll do this every day,” we said.

Um… we didn’t. 

We didn’t do it again actually.

We did have a lovely time in England though!

Flew home and a day later the One Week Warning arrived.  Now I was suppose to up my hiking to 3 hours a day and on my off day do 1 hour.  All bad habits and foods were supposed to have been eradicated. 

Um…Nope.  Nope to all of the above.

Ilene called all happy and healthy having just returned from a spin class.  Johnathan had seen her in New York and she had taken him to a Vegan restaurant. 

That scared the h_ll out of me.  I hopped on my cross trainer, and managed to get my exercise quotient up to a 1 1/2 hours, but that is a poor excuse for what they are expecting… And today is the day. 

In an hour and a half Ilene and I hop in her car and pay the piper.

I can’t believe I agreed to do this, that I paid good money to come.  I can’t believe I allowed the old childhood knee-jerk reaction of, “you aren’t the boss of me!” take over.  I mean, what am I?  Five years old?  I can’t believe I gained 3lbs in two and a half weeks of prep.  It’s like I was thrown back to that little hungry girl that I used to be, picking through my mother’s leftover chicken bones to get all the barely there scraps of meat that she’d didn’t know were nestled between the little, tiny rib bones.  The more I’d get those emails telling me what I couldn’t have, the hungrier I got.

Sigh…




Ta..da!

Yay!  So many times I’ve wanted to blog, but when I’d updated my computer, it gobbled up my instant check-in and I couldn’t remember my password…BUT Timothy Garcia from Hop Studio SAVED the day! 

I was embarrassed to ask, yet again, so sneakily I snuck it into a conversation we were having about updating my website and SUCCESS!

I’m not going to blog tonight, since it is the end of the day and it is my husband-cozy-chat-play-board-games-eat-ice-cream time.  But I will be back soon.  Blogging away, since I have finished the last set of copy edits for my new book, Behind The Scenes, and now there is nothing to do but wait for it’s launch in May and my typing fingers are feeling at loose ends.

I’m off!  Talk soon! xo




the luxury of…

Finished the first draft of my follow-up novel to A Taste Of Heaven and am awaiting Laura’s comments. 

It’s such a pleasure to have these next couple days stretching out in front of me to be filled with floating lovely summer laziness.

The house is quiet today. The clock ticking.  Don typing.  Me at my computer writing to you. 

It’s funny the difference a day makes.  Yesterday it was the Saturday market, stocking up on delicious organic fruits and vegetables and indulging in homemade breads and treats.  Swinging Don by the doctors and then home again, to make buttermilk pancakes and sausage and bacon and to lay out freshly washed bowls of all the wonderful fruit that was picked only hours before.  It’s amazing how much better fruit taste when it is ripened on the bush or tree and picked the day it is going to be consumed.  It’s like the other stuff, the stuff you pay more money than sense would dictate to get organic produce from fancy city stores, and I’m telling you, the tongue doesn’t receive one quarter the taste or flavour or satisfaction from it.  I like receiving the fruit and vegetables from the people who planted, grew and picked the food.  Feels like a gift.  Makes the world feel more hopeful somehow. 

For the last few days the house has been full of family and laughter and food and it’s been lovely.  Funny, how easily I slip back into Mom mode.  Will comes from England on Friday for a month and a half, but for now, it’s Don and me again.  Tucking into our quiet the-kids-are-grown-life.  Both the Mom life and this other more recent one Don and I have carved out have their joys.  Feel lucky to have found a balance.  To not be clinging to my grown children’s ankles weeping as they try to head for the door.  Feel lucky that there are so many things I appreciate about the quiet life too. 

Wasn’t sure, when the children first started heading out the door, first one and then the next and finally the youngest.  All grown.  All gone.  Was lost for a while.  My head understood what was happening, but my heart and body needed a while to catch up.  It was hard. 

But now, it isn’t.  It is lovely both ways.  Blessings within both worlds surround me. 




Still reeling

Now as you know, I generally don’t read interviews, articles, reviews about my work, myself.  Sometimes a friend or family member will send something and I might take a peek, but more often than not, I don’t. 

I started this thirty years ago, when Big Chill came out and some reviewer called Chloe, an air-head, or a space cadet, or something of that ilk, and it hurt my/Chloe’s feelings.  She is so much more than that! I thought.  How could that person sit through that film and come away with that judgement on her? Yes, she doesn’t mouth the pat, expected platitudes.  Yes, she walks to a different beat, but can’t you see how she’s hurting?  Can’t you see how deeply she feels? How true she is?  How she walks with integrity?

It hurt my heart.  I decided not to read reviews anymore.  And then that spread to interviews.  Didn’t want to see my characters or myself through someone else’s lens.

I stick to this policy for the most part. 

It’s served me well.  I do the best work I can. Give everything to the character I am portraying, the book I am writing. 

It used to be, when I met a member of the media, I was very cautious, guarded.  Had so many secrets.  Had a push-me-pull-you relationship with the whole being-in-the-public-eye. Was scared of being naked, vulnerable, found to be human.  The interviews, the photo taking, made me feel hunted.

But now, in middle age, I have worked hard to let that go.  Feel it’s important to be oneself. To not dissemble. To stand tall in one’s mistakes as well as one’s accomplishments. I try not to censor myself. Try not to present a rosy publicity package of the Meg Tilly franchise wrapped up nice and tidy with a pretty pink bow.  I try to be me, to be the same person whether it is with a friend or a stranger.

And I’ve managed, for the most part, not to let myself get scared.  To be open.  To not have keep out signs posted all over our conversations, my heart, experiences.  I try to listen to each question and answer it as honestly as I can, figuring if I, at all times, tell the truth, I don’t have to worry about keeping up an image, being something I’m not.

But now, I don’t know. Made the mistake of reading an article someone wrote about me. Shouldn’t have. Been a couple days since it came out and I have this ache in the pit of my stomach and bad dreams that wake me, leave me feeling sad, small, like the darkness is closing in. Feeling like I never want to do another interview ever again. Want to hide, tuck into my shell, return to my quiet invisible life.

But I can’t.

I think the thing that hurts the most, is that I really liked this woman.  That’s why, when someone tweeted the article, I decided to read it. We were both middle-aged women in our 50’s with grown kids, laughing over wrinkly necks, changing bodies, desires. She was wearing this unique jacket that was like this funky piece of art.  She was a writer, I was a writer.  We talked about my book, A Taste Of Heaven, because that was why the interview had been set up.  The writing process, the reasons for writing it, what I was trying to say. We talked about celebrity, because that is one of the themes of the book.  We talked about Bomb Girls, Lorna, working on the set. 

And it was fun. Sipping on peppermint tea with a little bit of honey. Tucked in a warm booth at a retro diner in a hipster hotel.  It had taken an effort to get there, emotionally, physically.  I was on the tail end of a long cold, had been crazy busy with the whole Bomb Girls press, CSA stuff, as well as A Taste of Heaven.  There was snow and thick black ice on the roads and all I had wanted to do was nestle into bed and sleep for a month.  But there I was, and I was glad I was there.

We talked and we talked and we laughed and we talked some more. The interview portion, long over and still we sat there, talking.  She felt like a friend. Her sharing her life, me sharing mine.  And when I left, I thought, maybe we’ll be friends, wouldn’t that be nice?  I wasn’t sure how it would happen, maybe another writer friend would have a party and we would bump into each other, outside of work, exchange emails, go for lunch or walks or something.  And I felt lucky because I never would have gone out on that frigid cold day.  Never would have entered that hotel, sat in that diner, met that interesting woman.  Never would have even known they existed. And this is where I thought I have a lucky, lucky life.

So when her article came up, I broke from my normal way of doing things and I read it.  I read it because I was hoping to capture a bit of how special that day had felt. 

I started to read, and shock set in.  This was an intelligent woman with warm eyes, this woman had a comfortable laugh, a comfortable body.  We were both middle aged women who had gone through a lot.  How could she have written this? An article that barely mentioned the book, which was the whole reason we met. Nothing about the writing process, the reasons why. The title. That’s it.  There was a brief reference,  a sentence, I think, about Bomb Girls.

So, what did she write about?  What did she see when she sat across the table from me?  What did she come away with?

Tabloid fodder. 

I was shocked.  I felt violated.  I felt like my internal monitor must be so far off base.  How could I have thought we were having one kind of experience, when she was so clearly having another?  How could I have been so wrong?

And I don’t know why I’ve allowed this incident, this woman to affect me so much.  I have friends.  Real friends.  Good ones. 

So what, who cares what she wrote? That karma that will come back to her.  Or maybe it won’t.  What do I care?

But I do.

How must it feel? I tell myself.  To be her.  To do that kind of thing? What is the cost? You should feel compassion for her.  What kind of life is that?

But still, I feel bad.  And I’m not sure how to feel better.  How to let it go.  Am hoping in writing about it, it will disinfect it, let the hurt seep out, so I don’t carry my disappointment in her, in my own misjudgment, around for another day. 

Do know that I don’t feel like doing another interview ever again.  Do know that I’ve been wondering if it’s worth it.  I love acting, creating, writing, but is one possible without the other? One can’t just act in a show, or write a book and refuse to do media for it.  It wouldn’t be fair to the people who hired me, believed in me.  Support goes both ways.

Maybe they’ll be okay with me doing less?  Or maybe I just have to put the walls up again?  Not be so open.  Watch my words, so they can’t be taken, quoted out of context, manipulated, to make it seem like an entirely different chat than the one that went down. 

Or maybe, I just have to continue being me, not tuck back into myself?  Maybe, I have to be even more diligent about not reading anything written about me, ever.

I don’t know what the answer is. 

But I do feel better, having written this.  Not sure if I’ll post it.  We’ll see.




Equinox:

A friend’s Equinox… Musings? Scribbling? Poem?

No. So much more. 

Gonna share. Hope doesn’t piss friend off.  But too good, too talented to keep to myself.

Equinox: equal day and night.
light and dark, you and i.
shadow and not.
smart phones and stupid cars.
hello and good-bye
sweet and much less so.

good, better, best: analogies broken.
remember when stuff was polar:
we came; we went.
remember not remembering:
almost like forgetting,
only more so.
remember us…
what were our names?




Kidsbooks event

Hello.

Not sure if anyone comes here anymore?  I’ve been away for quite sometime.  Sorry.

For those of you who are in the Vancouver area, I’ll be reading at Kidsbooks (the one on Broadway) this Thursday, March 14th at 7PM. I’ll read a titch from my new book, A Taste Of Heaven, and then we’ll settle in for a cozy chat. 

It’s interesting, these readings.  I never know what to expect.  Sometimes it’s a handful of people, sometimes it’s hundreds. 

Once, there was a raging blizzard outside, people were warned to stay home, but I was worried, what if someone showed up anyway, braved the snow, and I wasn’t there.  So, I cajoled my husband into accompanying me.  “Madness,” he said.  “No one is going to show.”

One person did.  Had come quite a distance, a 45 minute white knuckle drive.  I was quite moved by her determination.  I mean it was one thing for me to show up with my husband in tow, we had an all-wheel-drive vehicle, winter tires and a snow shovel in the back.  And I would have read, just for her, if she had wanted me to, but she was more interested in a chat.  So chat we did, then we put on our coats, our hats and gloves and trudged out into the snowy night, squinting through eyelashes in an attempt to see better, keep the snow at bay.

And then, there are places like Village Books in Bellingham.  Who would think in Bellingham that the entire downstairs of the store (and it was big) would be stuffed to the gills, all the rows and rows of chairs filled and people standing too.  Every time I’ve been, doesn’t matter the book, adult, YA, always the town turns out.  So much fun, reading at Village Book.

So, I don’t know what’s in store for me at Kidsbooks. But I do know, that whether it’s a big group or a small one, we always have fun.




Hello

It’s a new year and this time it really feels like it.  When I woke up this morning, the world seemed all fresh and new and full of hope and possibilities. 

We hopped in the car and went to see a part of this place that I have been curious about.  Took an impromptu hike up a minor mountain.  Met a couple of women who were huge Bomb Girl fans and they informed me in no uncertain terms that I looked much younger in person.  Which pleased me greatly, since my character Lorna is considerably younger than me. 

Silly that. I realized it the moment I wrote it.  Why should I be carrying around a happy glow because they thought I looked so much younger?  I’m quite proud of my age, of my years, the experiences I’ve had. Why, in our society, is it such good thing to be thought younger? Why is that a compliment? 

I worked hard to arrive at 52.  Wouldn’t give up even one of those years.  So if I look so much younger than Lorna, who is 43, then doesn’t that mean that I come off as immature? Unformed?

Speaking of… ahem…immature…

I woke up feeling blissfully happy and content this morning, but as I lay in bed stretching out, enjoying the fact that I didn’t have to leap out of bed and go to work, didn’t have a writing assignment looming, that my youngest was visiting his brother and his wife so there was no one moving around hungrily in the kitchen, as I lay there…a memory surfaced.

And with it, a niggle of embarrassment. 

Okay, it started as a niggle and then as I thought on it more, it blossomed into a slightly sweaty swell of panic.

The memory… ahem…yes…

Well, after we finished wrapping Season 2 of Bomb Girls, but before I left Toronto for Christmas, I went to CBC to see the very charming and crazily intelligent George Stroumboulopoulos and we taped an interview to be held until after Christmas. 

I was fine about it.  There were no nerves. Had been on his show last year and he was very sweet and it was a lot of fun. His studio was quite chilly last year, so this year I wore something warmer.  Leggings, boots, a sweater, and a pretty…um… I’m not sure what to call it?  It’s one of Jenny’s fancy things that was made of sweater material but must have been knit with large needles so it’s kind of see through, and it has all kind of interesting things like sequins and beads all around the edge.  I wore my favourite necklace of these misty grey with purple-tinged stones that are polished and very comforting to wear, even though they are heavy and after a long period, tire out my neck.

John Calvert, one of the producers on Bomb Girls had given Beverly (the Bomb-Girls-publicist-extraordinaire) the funds to hire a make-up/hair guy (Dave) to make sure I was turned out properly. (Must have gotten a hold of some of the press stuff I did for my bookish ventures before I ventured back into the acting arena.  You know.  The pictures that are floating around where it is clear the most attention my hair and face received was a scrubbing and a brush.)

So, I was all set.  I was going to go on Strombo, look pretty, be dignified, talk a little about this, a little about that.

Um… I don’t know what happened?  You’ll see when you watch the show. Unless, the producers have an ounce of compassion and decide not to air that particular interview.

I could blame my Strombo silliness on a lot of things.

The exciting, inventive, amazingly funny, beautiful and thoughtful gift basket that Bev and her daughter and husband came up with.  A beautiful basket of the “11 things I couldn’t live without.” I’d been asked to write up a list of “10 things I couldn’t live without.” So, I had, but there were 11 things and they weren’t the kind of things I was supposed to say, and I wanted to help out, and I wanted to play by the rules, but I found I just couldn’t.  If it had been called “10 objects I love,” or “10 objects that fill me with great joy,” it would have been no problem.  But “10 things I can’t live without?” I just couldn’t put together a list that was acceptable to all.  So after a lot of backing and forthing, we all decided that perhaps it was best if I didn’t participate. 

So, to my surprise and my delight, when Bev came marching up my walkway with a beautifully wrapped, bountiful gift of the “11 things I couldn’t live without!” of course I had to open it pronto, and open it I did, both of us in gales of laughter, and Dave the make-up guy, smiling politely, but not quite sure why I so delighted to get a beautifully wrapped roll of toilet paper etc.  We couldn’t stop laughing, her gift so funny!  Had to massage my cheeks because they had gotten so sore.  So maybe some of that silly giddiness perched on my shoulder, hopped in the taxi with me on my way to the show. 

Or maybe it was the lipstick.  Dave, after giving my outfit the once over, decided that a red, red lipstick was what it needed.  A splash, a dash of colour.  And it did look pretty.  Real pretty. He was right.  But I wasn’t used to it.  I’ve worn red lipstick for characters and been fine, but this was me, and I suddenly had visions of me with lipstick all over my teeth, splashes of red peeking through my lips every time I smiled or spoke.  And then on the ride over, I kept accidentally bumping my mouth with my hand. 

Didn’t realize how often I touch my mouth, my face.  Wouldn’t realize I had except whenever I glanced down, I’d find new smears of red all over my fingers and knuckles.

When we got to CBC someone came to greet us and ushered us upstairs to the green room.  There were drinks and snacks and comfy chairs. 

They put a radio mic on me.  Had me tape a couple of things.  Then George came in and I tried to talk comfortable-like, but I couldn’t, because it’s hard to talk comfortable-like when you are scared that you have red lipstick on your teeth so you try to talk with out opening your lips very wide. 

After he left I thought, oh dear, this does not bode well. 

One of the producers came in and said they were almost ready, would I care to have their make-up lady take a quick peek at me?

Yes please.  I was led down the hall.  Introduced to her, the name flew out of my head, because all I could think was, please let there be time for her to remove this lipstick. I sat down in her chair and glanced in the mirror.  I was going to do a discreet grimace to see if my teeth were coated with red, my teeth were fine, but to my horror, I noticed that not only had I gotten that red red lipstick on my knuckles, but I had also smeared it my face as well! A smear of red from the right side of my lips up my cheek and also a downward smear towards my chin! 

I was so lucky she was there!  I was so lucky she was able to work fast, removed the lipstick, the smears and put a nice neutral colour of lip gloss in it’s place!

She finished the switch and then they rushed me off onto the set to wait behind the curtains. Me, blessing the makeup woman who saved the day, a million times in my heart.

I could hear George talking, the audience laughing.  There was someone in the audience who said they were from Victoria which made me happy to hear, in my little spot behind the curtains.  Like it was a good omen.  A friendly hello from home.

And then it was my turn to go out and I did.  And I was so happy to be there, to see George, to not be wearing that bright red lipstick smeared all over my face, to have received such a lovely present from such a good funny friend.  All of that happiness and giddy relief topped with the school’s-out-feeling of having wrapped Season 2 of Bomb Girls, to be proud of the work, of getting through 12 episodes intact.  More than intact, still loving everyone, still loving the experience.  And then knowing that after finishing George’s show, that I was done with the publicity part as it was my last interview.  That after this was done my son and I were going to fly out at the crack of dawn to join my husband, to nestle in with family, Christmas and cooking.  All of those things added up to…

Um… A rather silly, exuberant…

Okay, maybe even… um… well…possibly weird appearance on the George Stroumboulopoulos Tonight show.

So, I don’t know when it’s going to be on.  If it’s going to be on.  But if they do air it, and if you do accidentally happen to watch it.  That’s what happened.  And, no, I wasn’t on drugs.  I’m never on drugs.  It was a combination of things along with the fun that is George that spiralled out into some kind of I-don’t-know-what.  And no matter how they cut it, there is no way in hell I’m going to come off as dignified, or as one of Toronto’s intelligentsia.

Sigh…




little rusty

Hi Everyone,

It’s been awhile.  Feel kind of unsure, like I’m not sure I remember how to blog. 

It’s probably best if we dispense with the formality.  You won’t expect my usual style of blog and I won’t have to figure out how to write it.  Will just write-scatter-shot and maybe something will stick, interest me.  Otherwise, this will be a brief hello to break the ice and maybe a longer cozier blog will appear in the near future.

The other day on the Bomb Girls set, I was between scenes, so I popped into the craft service truck. It’s not like I was hungry or anything. I just like wandering in every now and then to feel like part of the action. It’s one of the cozy places to hang out, something to do when I get tired of being holed up in my trailer, running lines, memorizing new ones, going over the scripts, adding new scenes, deleting others, crossing off the completed ones. 

On this particular day, it was drizzling, not enough to warrant an umbrella, but there was a chill to the air, the wind kicking up.  I trotted up the metal stairs, still marvelling at the fact that I am back on a set.  Acting in a show of all things.  I really thought that phase of my life was over. 

Jeff was at the rear of the truck cooking up some delicious concoction.  Julia must have been out, wending her way through the set with a large platter of something tasty in her hands, the crew, the actors, gathering around like she’s Santa Claus at a parade handing out free candy canes. 

There were a couple other people in the truck, I can’t remember who.  The place is never empty, we are always grazing there, ladling ourselves some homemade soup or a sandwich or sneaking a few candies from the plastic bin above the toaster. 

What I do remember is Jeff saying, “I stood at the end of a rainbow yesterday.”

“You what?” I asked.  I’d heard him fine, but everyone knows that it is impossible to stand at the end of a rainbow because it is an optical illusion.  I personally have tried to capture the end of a rainbow with no success.  Especially when I was young because that pot of gold would have come in handy.  But every time I’d get to where I thought it was, the rainbow would have moved on.

“I stood at the end of a rainbow,” he said with a quiet happiness radiating out from his face.  He pulled out his iPhone and pulled up the picture.  “See,” he said.  “Here is the rainbow.  And it continued on here.  It was a complete rainbow.  And when I saw that it landed right there…” he pointed at the photo with his finger.  “In front of those trees…I could see the trees behind it.  So I pulled to the side of the road, hopped out of my truck and ran over.  I stepped right into that rainbow.  It was only for a few moments and then the rainbow moved on, into the stand of trees.”

“What was it like?” I asked

“It was all sparkly,” he said, the expression on his face, suddenly that of a little boy, all fresh and new.  “Sparkly light all around me.”

And I knew he was telling the truth.

“Yep,” he said.  “I stood at the end of a rainbow.”

“Wow…” I didn’t know what else to say, didn’t have the words.  Wished I had been there so I could have jumped out of the truck and stood in that sparkly light at the end of the rainbow.  “Wow…that’s cool.” 

Then I got myself a banana and went back to my trailer to eat it.  Eat it and contemplate, digest this new startling revelation.  That is actually was possible. 

And now, here at home, telling you about it, I think, hey, if he could stand in the end of a rainbow, right in it… then maybe if he hadn’t been so dazzled by the sparkly light maybe, if he’d taken a quick look around him, he would have seen a leprechaun too!  You never know.  Now that would have been super cool!




Ahhh…

Last weekend, I didn’t have one, since I was working like a dog on the copy edits of A Taste of Heaven…

BUT this weekend is TOTALLY making up for it!  I have been gifted the luxury of a four day weekend, thanks to the clever and resourceful scheduling of the Bomb Girls AD department.  I am VERY grateful!

Yesterday, was my vacation day.  I read a book, ate chocolate covered malt balls.  Made some popcorn with lots of salt and butter to counter balance the sweet.  Lolled around in my pj until dinnertime when Don and I made a last minute change and instead of cooking, went out for Chinese food.  Otherwise, I would have lazed around in flannel pj until it was time to go to bed.  There is something about wearing pj all day that feels so indulgent.  Even when one starts to feel a little grimy, like maybe it’s time to take a shower and get out of those pj, even then, it’s nice, because there is the choice.  So it really doesn’t matter at that point whether I stay in my pj or not. 

What matters is that I have a choice.  I’m not expected anywhere.  Don’t have to go to work.  Nobodies is waiting for me.  The only reason I would have to get out of my pajamas is if I decided I wanted to. 

Ahh….

The funny thing is, I don’t wear pj to bed.  Not since the kids left home.  I thrash around a lot in my sleep and pj’s can tend to get twisted up and be quite uncomfortable.  I save my floppy large non-constricting flannel pajamas for times like this.  Vacation at home days, or when I’m sick and stumbling around the house making a pot of chicken soup or tea.  Or, when I come home after a hard day and want to put on something comfy, for that in between time after dinner but before sleep. Or sometimes, before dinner, if it is a wet and gloomy day and one wants to get the feeling of hibernating, tucking in, nesting down to a cozy evening of food, conversation and a hand of cards or a book.

Hmm… didn’t expect to blog about this.  That yesterday was a vacation day, was going to be one sentence, and then perhaps I would delve into more exciting topics like all the work I managed to do today, the fact that I actually exercised, went to the bank, did errands, was up at six in the morning working on the Bomb Girls block 3 scripts. 

But no.  I blathered on about my pj indulgence. 

Oh well. 




hello

It’s been awhile.  Have a million excuses.  But I doubt you care to hear them anymore than I care to type them.

Just sent the new edit of my middle grade novel off.  It’s a light giddy feeling.  Didn’t know if I was going to be able to manage.  Seemed overwhelming to have to piggy-back the shooting block two of Bomb Girls and memorizing block three with trying to squeeze in the time to implement another slew of edit suggestions from my editor, Lynne, at Penguin.  I thought I’d be scrambling until the very last minute…

But no!  Ha…ha!  I conquered that mountain.  Not only did I manage to get it done, but I finished it well before the deadline.  I can’t tell you how triumphant I feel!

I’m going to take the rest the day off and hang with husband and my son, Will.  Cook something tasty, maybe go to a movie, read a short story or two.  Candy of course.  I’m going to eat some candy to celebrate whether I feel like it or not, and blue berries too.  Lots of blue berries!  Life is good.




Leo happiness

It’s going to be a quick blog, we are in the middle of a move, an endless mountain of work awaits me, but I couldn’t let another day go by without thanking everyone for all of their warm wishes and congratulations about the Leo award. A special thanks to the very talented Ali Liebert who graciously accepted it on my behalf at the Leo awards ceremony in Vancouver.  I wanted to attend but as all of my blog-regulars know, I’m romping around the stage at the Tarragon theatre in The Real World?

I can’t believe we only have six more shows to go!  Amazing how time is zooming past. 

One of my happiest moments is when I come off stage towards the end of the play, after giving my/Madeline-2’s husband (the talented Cliff Saunders) what-for.  I’m done now, can release my character’s challenges, heartaches.  I come off, Cara’s already there, having finished before me.  I find my way to the props table.  It’s dark back there, especially after coming off from all the lights blaring down on the stage.  I get a tissue, blow my nose and wipe my eyes, because it was hard what I/Madeline had to do.  Then I use the hand sanitizer, because after I do that, I huddle on the stairs, me and Cara (my daughter in the play) in the dark and it’s tradition now that we hug.  A one-armed hug, me bending down so my head doesn’t bang the banister, Cara reaching up from her spot on the chair.  Both of us, still shaken from what we’ve just gone through, but happy too.  To be sitting side by side in the dark.  To be done.  Another show under our belt.

And we sit there in the dark, listening to Cliff tear the place apart on stage.  And then he comes thundering out, his suitcase in his hand, his hat on his head, he comes out like a freight train, full of rage and sorrow.  Once he’s out of view of the audience, his pace slows.  He places the suitcase down carefully, so as not to make a sound, because Matthew and Tony are on stage.  Cliff hangs his hat on a hook, and I get up from my seat on the stairs and we hug.  Hug solid.  His character, Alex 2, totally gone.  How he does it is kind of a marvel, he rounds the bend and he’s Cliff again, no trace of Alex 2.  It’s as if the character is an old shoe he slips off his foot and flips into the air. It generally takes me a few minutes, but Cliff, he’s a pro. 

It’s a good hug.  And then he turns to Cara, who is standing now, and they hug too.  He doesn’t hug before the show, doesn’t get close, just whispers, “good show” as he slips past in the dark to the other side of the stage, the rumble/roar of the waiting audience preparing itself for a night at the theatre.  He has to play a guy who is pretty mean to the two of us.  And I think, at the end of the night, it’s a relief for Cliff to be able to be nice again.  To know that whatever happens on stage, stays on the stage and we love him and know that Alex 2 and the things he does and says, are just a character he’s playing.

And we listen to Tony and Matthew, still in the throes of it.  Us, backstage giddy, hearts light, but pulling for them too.  Wanting it to be good, to finish strong, for their characters to complete their journey…

Oh jeeze…Just realized I went off on a tangent.  This is supposed to be a short blog to thank all the Leo well-wishers.  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you! 

Got to go now.  I have SO much to do.  We’ve mostly unloaded the first batch of stuff from the condo, but tomorrow, bright and early, the movers come with all our belongings from the Victoria house.  It is going to be a mother-load!  There is no way it will all fit. 

So, not only will there be the work of unpacking for the next few days, but the challenge of having to part with some belongings that are quite beloved to me. 

I hope we are up to the task.




Matthew Edison’s Delicious Hummus!

I’m crazy busy right now, doing the show, organizing a move, selling our Victoria house, an edit my new Penguin YA novel, A Taste Of Heaven, waiting patiently on my desk…

However, this it too good a recipe not to share with the rest of you.  Matthew brought this tasty treat to work the other day and it is truly the best Hummus I’ve ever tasted!  Marinda got the recipe from him and sent it to me and now I’m gifting you with it so you can all go forth and whip up some amazing hummus to wow your family and friends!

I’ve been rather cheeky, because Matthew just calls it Edison’s Hummus, but I think the name he chose doesn’t do it justice, so I’ve re-named it: Matthew Edison’s Delicious Hummus which I think suits it much better.

So… drum roll… here you are!

Matthew Edison’s Delicious Hummus

1. Cut off the top head of a bulb of garlic, drizzle top w/ olive oil, wrap with foil and roast at 400 For about 20-25 min.

2. Drain 1 can of chick peas, keep 1/4 C liquid and put aside.

3. Rinse chick peas, put in a pot & bring to a boil.

4. Once the chick peas have de-shelled, scoop out loose shells with a slotted spoon and transfer the chick peas to a colander. Let drain.

5.  Using a food processor or hand blender add:
chick peas
6 Tblsp Tahini
1 squeezed lemon (or 2 Tblsp)
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp sumac or smoked paprika
1 Tblsp mayo
1 sm. raw clove
1 bulb roasted garlic

Purée while slowly adding 3 ounces of good olive oil until the texture is creamy & silky.
Use remaining 1/4 Cup chick pea liquid to lighten consistency.
Scrape hummus into a bowl and dash with more paprika & olive oil.

Serve warm with olives & pita.

Enjoy!
X

Matt

* * *

Oh, one more thing.  A word of warning.  Make sure that anyone you want to get close to, eats some of this as well.  When I got home after the show, my tummy happy and distended from ingesting a generous portion of Matthew’s hummus and pita, I snuggled up next to Don.  He sniffed the air rather cautiously and said, “Um…hmm,” a rather odd expression on his face.  “What did you…uh…eat?” 

 




Monday Magazine

Many thanks to Monday Magazine and all the readers who wrote in and voted, bestowing me with the lovely, favourite performer title.  Very sweet.

Also, my thanks to the Monte Carlo International TV Fest for the Golden Nymph nomination for Bomb Girls. I know lust is considered one of the seven deadly sins, so I am really trying to contain myself, but my goodness that Golden Nymph is one of the prettiest awards I have ever seen.  It’s like a piece of art. A beautiful woman sitting on the ground, her feet tucked to the side, glancing over her shoulder, braids wrapped around her head.

Hey, I just looked it up and apparently, the Golden Nymph statuettes are copies of the “Salmacis” Nymph by the Monegasque sculptor Francios-Joeph Bosio (1768-1845), the original of which is on show at the Louvre Museum in Paris.

No wonder I thought it looked like a beautiful piece of art. 

Okay, well, I suppose I better trundle off to bed.  It’s it’s 4:20 AM and I’ve got a matinee today.  Hopefully sleep will decide to grace me with a visit.

Sweet dreams everybody. xo




Matthew Edison…take two

Matthew plays my son in The Real World? Or more accurately, I play his mother. 

Wait.  That isn’t accurate at all.  I’m not his real mother.  I’m the one he wrote. 

Sometimes, I flatter myself though, tell myself, I am his real mother.  His true mother.  The one that loves him unconditionally.  That is so proud and grateful that he wrote this play, gave me words, life.  I am the truth.  His truth. 

That’s what I tell myself.

But am I?  That’s up for discussion.  A discussion I don’t need to take part of.  People can have their opinions.  They might differ from mine.  And they might or might not be right. 

So, I feel very proud of him, Claude, Madeline’s son, but it doesn’t stop there.  The pride slides over, reality and the acting world melding.  I feel so proud of Matthew for his brilliant acting, how he becomes Claude so well, understands him, his longings so deeply.  When he, as the character, finally confronts his father, says the things that need to be said.  I feel proud of him, for the words his character wrote for me, that he saw what I and Madeline 1 had hid away for years. 

It’s weird, because Matthew didn’t write this play.  Michael Tremblay did.  And yet, I feel a swell of pride in my chest when I watch the other scenes and see what he has crafted.

And when the play is done and we are taking our bows, Jane and I meet up centre stage and bow and it’s cozy standing next to her, the two of us, bowing together.  And then Matthew, my character’s son comes out of the wings, walk towards us, and the play is over, but still that mother/son connection is still there.  And my heart swells with that motherly pride of what a good job he did, and I watch him stride towards us, standing tall, all of us happy we did a good show that people are clapping and cheering.  And I’m so proud of him.  And he bows and I bow too, because he’s the bow leader, we take our cue off of him.

Um… well… Okay, it isn’t supposed to go like that. 

Matthew is suppose to get a bow by himself! And then we’re all suppose to bow together.  But there I am, bobbing like a monkey.  Me and Matthew, taking Matthew’s bow!  Sheesh!  And to make matters worse, I’m not even aware that I’m doing it!  Last night I came off stage SO pleased with myself, doing a happy dance.  “I did it!”  I crowed happily.  “I finally got the bow right!”

“Um…No, Meg… You didn’t,” said Cara, laughter in her voice. 

At first I thought she was kidding me, but then Cliff weighed in.  “You bowed on Matthew’s bow again.”

“No…”  My eyes darting back and forth between them, my brain so confused.  “I didn’t.  Did I?” 

Yes.  I had.

Matthew was lovely.  Very gracious.  He thought it was funny.  Told me to Etch-a-sketch it.  But I was horrified.  I don’t want him to think I’m always going to muscle in on his bow.

I got up early today.  I am making him a batch of brownies.  I am hoping, praying that I can somehow manage not to make a complete ass of myself again in the curtain calls tonight. 




Matthew Edison

We have had our third preview.  The audiences have been lovely.  It’s funny how no two audience are the same, every night, the show, their reactions, are different. 

And then the next day, we all troop back to the theatre to rehearse some more, Richard, all of us, tweaking, refining, adding something new, soothing out a bump and so forth.  Then dinner break, me, not able to eat much, the nerves starting.  Not bad nerves, just there, making the stomach not able to appreciate the food like it usually does.

Then back to the theatre to get ready, preparing our makeup, our hair, a gradual process of slipping inside our characters.  I get in Madeline 2’s body and her clothes last, because after the show starts, we can’t run water or flush the toilets because the pipes running can be heard right over the stage.  There are certain parts of the upstairs where you can’t walk as well, because the floors are old and they creak.

I go downstairs around 10 minutes before the show starts and sit, collect my thoughts, slip into Maddo 2 more fully.  I was going to say in quiet, because it feels that way, I’m tucked in a dark corner by her fridge, a little light bleeding around the corner of the exit to the kitchen from the stage.  But it’s isn’t quiet, the happy cacophony of a full house fills the air, people talking, laughing, settling into their seats in anticipation of an evening at the theatre.  Emilie, with her earphones on, making sure everything is ready, in it’s place, always, always, there, ready.  Don’t know how she and Miranda do so much, stay so calm.  They are like magic elves that somehow everywhere and invisible all at once.  Solid and steady.

So it isn’t quiet, but it is too, sort of like a quiet house with the wind roaring outside, but inside, things are getting more still, more focused.

And then everyone else comes down, Cliff Saunder’s who plays my husband always whispers, “Good show,” in a hopeful, encouraging way.  Tony Nappo blows me a kiss and I blow him one.  Jane and I touch aprons…

Wait.  I am WAY off topic!  I wasn’t writing a blog today to talk about all of this.  I wanted to tell you something else.

I’m going to start over. 




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