CategoriesArchivesJuly 2008 |
April 2008I should be…figuring out, trying on what I think I might wear tonight for the BC Book Soiree. At the very least, I should be upstairs right now, packing my suitcase, since we leave early in the morning for the Kootenays. I also have, on my to-do list, the ironing of Will’s school clothes to get him through the next week. Instead, what am I doing? Well, I’m coming up with clever hair solutions. I think this one camouflages my haircut shortcomings in a nice, understated way. What do you think?
It is amazing the things I will get up to when a good powerful bout of procrastination hits. I think it looks rather artistic. Don of course, howled with laughter and grabbed his camera and snapped a few photos for prosperity. I decided to post one on my blog. We have the good folks at BC Book Prizes to thank for this, as they gave us a print out on how to post pictures on their blog as we travel from town to town. I wish I could say I have the downloading picture thing conquered, but Don is the one that figured it out and up-loaded it for me. (See, I think I even got the lingo wrong.) Anyway he promised to teach me before I leave. Yeah, right. Would that be before I plow through my other laundry list of things-to-do or after? Sigh. One of the reasons I am procrastinating so much is that, I was really excited to be included on the Book Tour, but now, all of a sudden, we leave tomorrow, and I don’t feel ready to leave my comfy cozy nest. I feel like I just got home. And what if the other authors don’t like me and think I’m dumb and nobody will want to sit next to me at meals. That would suck.
Nope, I don’t think I shall post this picture on their blog.
Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, April 19, 2008 in Chewing the Fat I’m not being political…I read this article and felt the need to post it on my site. No comment. Just want to put it out there. Oh, and by the way, Stephen Harper became our Prime Minister in 2006. That’s all I have to say.
MONTREAL (AFP) - The number of suicides among Canadian soldiers reached their highest level in a decade last year, according to documents cited Friday on public radio.
“I fell out of my chair, I just couldn’t believe it,” Michel Sartori, a major in Canada’s armed forces who conducted the research and recently concluded a doctorate on the subject, told Radio-Canada. “I had to re-read the document at least five, six times,” said Sartori, who reportedly combed through scores of military police reports. The reports did not specify the location of the soldiers’ deaths, but according to Sartori the rise in numbers is linked to Canada’s mission in Afghanistan. Canada has committed a contingent of 2,500 troops to Kandahar, in southern Afghanistan, where it is battling Taliban insurgents. The Canadian suicide rate appears to mirror trends in the US military, whose suicide numbers have risen sharply in recent years and reached a 25-year high in 2006, according to the Pentagon. Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 18, 2008 in Chewing the Fat BC Book Prize SoiréeHello, I realized, belatedly, that I forgot to list this in my “events” section. It’s not a reading or anything. I’ll just be one of many bookish people, mingling around eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping red wine...I think. Actually, I’m not sure, maybe I made that part up about the little munchibles and beverages, but I really can’t imagine a party, or “Soirée” without refreshments. I’m quite excited that they’ve called it that. It makes the whole thing feel way more festive! I’ve been to more parties than I care to shake a stick at, but a Soirée? This is my first! Forty-eight years old and I’ve been invited to my first Soirée. Fun huh? Anyway, come one, come all, meet your favorite authors, buy a BC shortlisted book, have them/or me personalize it to a family member or friend, or yourself, if you feel so inclined. My friend K.C is coming and she has threatened to wear a little black dress with her famous neon colored tights. I’ll probably go the little-black-dress as well, sans the neon colored tights. I wish I had that much self confidence, (not to mention her amazing legs that go on forever) but sadly, I don’t. It will be plain flesh colored nylons for me. See you there!
BC Book Prize Soirée
Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 17, 2008 in BeckyBecky came over on the morning ferry and we had a nice day together. Went for a walk, then lunch, then...THE CANDY STORE! It was fun. We bought whatever we wanted. All kinds of candy from childhood memories, and anything else that looked tasty! And it was fun. “Remember, “ Becky said as we were leaving the candy store, both of us lugging a brown paper bag stuffed full of candy. “When we were little and would daydream about this kind of thing?” “Yeah,” I said, smiling at her happily. “We’re so lucky.” “Yeah. We are. Sometimes I can’t even believe it.” And then I hugged her right there on the sidewalk and she hugged me, one arm style, so we could keep a good grip on our candy. And we walked like that, arms around each others shoulders, heads tipped together. Becky and Meg, young, and Becky and Meg old walking down the street. The past and the present all intermingled. I remember once, at school on Texada, I can’t remember what grade I was in, 6th or 7th. Can’t remember who found the penny. Whether it was Becky or me? I do remember though, that we were very happy about it. And at lunch break we walked a mile to Mary’s cafe and bought a green bozo. Spearmint flavor. I carefully bit it in half. Did such a good job that Becky had a hard time choosing which half to pick. And then once she had, we popped that half a gum in our mouths and chewed it and it was good. And now, we are all grown up and we can go into a candy store and buy whatever we want, and eat it too. Before dinner if we like. If that isn’t proof positive that magic can happen, I don’t know what is. Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, April 16, 2008 in Chewing the Fat dinnerWe are going out for dinner tonight. We had a haircut scheduled for Will. ( No, not at the place where I got mine. ) When we got there the receptionist said, “Oh, didn’t you get the call?” “What call?” I said. “Amanda wasn’t feeling well, so she had to go home early. But don’t worry,” she said turning to Will with a perky smile. “We can squeeze you in with John.” NOW, normally, after Don and me picking Will up from school, banging around the shopping center for 40 minutes until appointment time, I would have said, “Fine. John, Amanda, what’s the diff?” And maybe Will would have gone along with it, or maybe not, but it would have been worth a try. But I am wiser now. I have learned from my experience. “No way,” I said. “It’s Amanda or nothing. It took us a long time to find someone who cut his hair like he likes it. We’ll wait until she’s well again.” I wasn’t even grouchy about the drive down and the pointless meandering we had to do around the mall. There was no way I was going to let my boy step into the unknown hair dressing shears ever again. We re-scheduled. Left the salon. Will didn’t say anything about it. Me either. But I felt proud just the same. Like maybe we dodged a major bullet there. Like I didn’t care that we gave up an hour that we could have been doing something practical. I was glad to put my foot down and say, no way. Anyway, how I enticed Don into coming with me for the haircut field-trip was by saying, that by the time Will’s haircut was finished, it would be five o’clock, so instead of Don having to cook tonight, we could go out for dinner instead. And then we thought, on the drive to Will’s school, about all the delicious places we could eat at. And we settled on this really yummy French restaurant that does amazing things with pork loin and apples and crispy chunks of potatoes, and Will adores their duck, cooked to perfection with grapes and pears and a delicious cheese polenta. And so, even though it is no longer practical, because we didn’t get Will’s haircut, and had already driven home, our mouths were already ready for the delectable dinner, so we made a reservation anyway and will be leaving shortly. Um...my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Bye, I’m off. Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 15, 2008 in Chewing the Fat I tried…but the blog will go, where the blog wants to go.Well, I shouldn’t have promised to write a nice cozy blog today, because now there are expectations. And when there are expectations, I freeze up and I can’t think of anything nice or cozy to say. (I was going to say, “I can’t think of anything nice and cozy to say for the life of me.” I did actually write it, but then I erased it. I got this weird superstitious feeling that maybe somebody would charge into the room and force me to write something that was both nice and cozy or something bad would happen to my life. So, I quickly made good use of the delete button.) Don is downstairs watching the third period of the Ottawa Senators/Pittsburgh Penguins game. The Penguins won the last two play-off games so Don is happy. He is crazy about that team, what with Sidney Crosby and Malkin and now with some great new guy, Marion Hoossa. Oops, Don just came up stairs all full of piss and vinegar. I didn’t even have to ask him who won. I could just tell by the jaunty way he came into my room, practically vibrating with we-did-it-again energy. But, I’m a good wife. I’m thoughtful. So I asked him anyway. “Who won, honey?” I said. “The Penguins,” he said, beating a rat-a-tat-tat on his thighs. Four to one. Marion Hoossa scored his first NHL series goal in...” I’d like to give you the rest of this very exciting statistic, but my mind must have tuned him out, because I’m not 100% sure about what the final score was, or what the significance of Hoossa’s goal is. I just said he said 4 to 1 because I think that’s what he said, but I can’t vouch for it. See, I don’t ask Don hockey questions because I’m interested. I throw him a hockey bone every now and then so he won’t miss all his buds from California. All his roller-blade hockey friends, lets go over to so-and-so’s house and watch the big game, kind of guy friends. I throw him a hockey bone, so he won’t notice that since he moved up here to live with me, most of his hockey fun is not in the context of a group anymore. I mean, Will will go to a game every now and then. So will Dave when he can get off work and make the ferry in time. And Don does play ball hockey, running around the gym with a few guys on Monday night. But it’s not like he has a gang of friends anymore. It’s a gang of one, mostly. Me. I feel slightly guilty about this sometimes. Especially when there is a real important game on TV. Then I’ll make him cheese popcorn and a milkshake if he wants it, and sometimes I’ll even bring a book downstairs so he’ll have someone to high-five when a critical goal is scored. But it’s an effort, because I don’t really get what’s so great about all that effort just to get a little black puck into the net. And I really don’t like it when they are mean and fight, and throw off their gloves and rip off their helmets and pound their fists over and over into each others faces and bodies. I don’t like it at all. Hmm… This isn’t a “nice and cozy blog.” Oh well, that’s what happens sometimes. I tried. And at least it is a blog, so that’s something. Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 14, 2008 in BC Book Prize blogHello everybody. The BC Book Tour database recognizes me now so if you want to read the posting I did today you can go to www.bcbookprizes.ca then click on Finalists On Tour and the click on On Tour Blog. I’ll blog here a little later. xo Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 14, 2008 in Chewing the Fat the weekendWe went away for the weekend. Peaceful. No Internet, computers, very few mirrors. Heaven. Poor Don had a bad cold. I was for the most part, soothing and comforting. Will said my hair was fine, except for the side bits that hang down and make me look like I have Elvis sideburns. Which I have to admit, even though I was trying to act indignant, I couldn’t suppress the snort of laughter that erupted out of my nose. Will and Don didn’t even bother trying to suppress their laughter. Actually, the more I think about it, the better deal I think I got with this haircut. We are a family that laughs a lot, but this haircut? Worth every reckless penny spent. So, I look a little odd for a while? Hair grows. By the way, we watched As Time Goes By, last night, and I got struck with inspiration. “Hey guys,” I said. “How about I get a haircut like Judi Dench? It’s already short, I’d just make it a little shorter.” Both their heads snapped towards mine. “You’re kidding right?” “No, don’t you think her haircut’s pretty?” I got a resounding, emphatic NO! Which I find really surprising. I think she looks great. Love her haircut. It’s odd, how they see Judi Dench’s haircut in a totally opposite way. I find it quite chic, pretty, unpretentious, gamine. I’m not quite sure how they see it exactly, but I do know that Will was still worrying about it over breakfast and made me promise not to cut my hair like hers. Anyway, we are back home now. I’m off to bed. Will do a nice cozy blog tomorrow. Promise. Posted by Meg Tilly on Sunday, April 13, 2008 in the continuing sagaWhen Don read my blog, we were both in fits of laughter, so much so that Don had to go to the bathroom to get some toilet paper to wipe his eyes. I was laughing too, but when he went to the bathroom, a few of the laughter tears turned sad for a second and I had to scrub furiously to get them mopped up before he returned. “My aching stomach,” he moaned, clutching it on the return. And then he returned to the reading aloud of it, and we returned to the belly aching laughter, and it was really funny, until he got to the end and read the last couple sentences. “Oh...” he said, shrinking slightly in his chair. “I’m sorry.” Eyes stricken. “Oh, I’m fine now,” I said. And I was really, other than my brief sorrow when he dashed to the bathroom. That was a momentary thing. A .05% of the rest of what I was feeling. I know what my haircut looks like. I know it’s ridiculous. I was laughing too. I went upstairs to our bathroom to look at it again in the mirror, a chagrined Don at my heels. “You know what it is?” I said to Don. “The bangs right here are too heavy. They fall into my face, get stuck on my glasses. I just need to cut them a bit and maybe it will look better.” Sheer panic on Don’s face. “You’re kidding right?” “Nope!” I said. Because really, I could take the bread knife to my hair and it couldn’t look worse. “Where are the scissors.” “Don’t do it!” Don said. “It’s not that bad.” (Interpretation: You’re only going to make it worse.) No matter. I grab the scissors and wield them with more confidence that I feel. It’s sort of like a kid has just dared me to eat dirt. Why not, right? I start snipping, a little hair here, a bit more there. I am not a hairdresser by any means. Don was watching in horror. I was having fun. I’m not even going to try to guess how relieved he was when my ride to the CWILL meeting arrived. As Karen (aka KC Dyer/author/ kcdyerblogspot.com) drove us into town she shored my confidence up with how much she liked my haircut and that it was cute etc. And then at the CWILL meeting that Kari Lynn-Winter (author of Jeffery and Sloth, also up for a BC Book Prize) arranged for some teachers to come in and talk with us about what they liked and didn’t like about the teacher’s guides they were getting. It was very helpful. And not only that, but I got a lot more reassuring comments about my disaster of a haircut. “It makes you look way younger,” someone piped up. Really? Yay! So, I felt quite a bit pluckier returning home. Actually, most of the time I forget that it looks different because I’m not seeing it. I’m just looking out of the same old eyes and face. I can’t see what my hair looks like. And whether I like the haircut or not, I’m certainly not about to lurk about town with a brown paper bag over my head. Look at it this way, a lousy haircut on me, can make everyone else feel much more grateful and happier with their own hairdressers. I get home and Don is being quite sweet. It is obvious he’s thought a lot about my, “Honey, you are supposed to say things like, you look cute, it’s like a whole new you, it makes me want to leap on your bones. That sort of thing. Even if you don’t like it. Because there is nothing I can do. The hair is cut. It’s gone. I can’t glue it back on my head. Then in a few days, or a week, after the shock has worn off, then you say, I like this look, but I think perhaps I even like the way you used to wear your hair better.” “I like your haircut now,” he says, following me into the kitchen, lying through his teeth. “I think I just needed to get used to it is all. Now that it’s flattened out a bit, it’s quite flattering. It’s just when you’d first walked in this afternoon, the hair dresser had poofed it or something and it was all fluffed up on the top of your head like a huge souffle. But now? Now it looks. Well, I’m getting used to it now. I...” he swallows. “Like it. It makes you look...” and I’m thinking he’s going to say what that wonderful author at the CWILL meeting said. I’m thinking he’s realized it as well. That he now thinks I really am happening and fresh. “It makes you look...” he pauses, his finger and thumb together like a French chef about to say Voila, “More...” feeling around for the word. “Mature.” What?! That is definately not what a middle-aged woman wants to hear. A “mature woman” is just a polite way of calling someone old. Great. Not only do I have a sucko haircut, but my husband thinks I look like an old crone. Which will be fine when I am an old crone. But I’m not yet. I’m only forty-eight. Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 11, 2008 in Chewing the Fat haircutI decided that it would probably be wise to get a tiny trim on my medium length, rather conservative, no-muss no-fuss haircut before going on my fantabulous BC Book Tour spree next week. I called the place I go to and was in luck, S___n had a cancellation. Great! I walked in around five minutes early and brought a book, because it doesn’t matter what the excuse is, S___n is ALWAYS late. Today, however was different, he wasn’t even in the shop. “Had to pop out for a moment,” a young woman with pitch black hair and tons of eyeliner informed me. No problem, I have my book. Cut to: 20 minutes later, he’s still not there and I am sorely tempted to get up and leave. Five more minutes, I tell myself, and then I shall take me and my hair to another place of business. At two minutes before deadline time, S___n breezes in, “Sorry, I got held up,” he says giving me a smile that probably worked when he was twenty years younger. Not to mention, this is the 6th or 7th time I’ve gotten my hair cut and he has NEVER been on time. “It happens,” I say, walking a delicate balance between not wanting to be too rude, but also, wanting to let him know that I don’t appreciate it and will not be happy if he is this late the next time I come. I figure I pulled it off, letting a little bit, of my pressed together tight lips, smile, but keeping most of my mouth straight, and I don’t let the smile reach my eyes. I can tell by his face that he knows. I part with my coat, a gown is slipped around my shoulders and I am seated in his chair. “What will it be?” he asks. “Just a trim,” I say. “I don’t know,” he says fluffing my hair. “It’s Spring. How about something new? Something different? Something fresh? Something short?” “No,” I say. “I always regret it when I let someone lop my hair off. This cut works for me. It requires no attention or thought.” “Think about it,” he says, as I am whisked off to get shampooed. “I think you’d really be happy if you let me do something new.” I thought about it as she washed my hair. I was remembering other haircuts that I got and hated. Why mess with something that your comfortable with? And then I thought about What Not To Wear, and how nobody wants to get their hair cut, take the leap and how happy they all are after they’ve taken the plunge. “Okay, go for it,” I say when I’m back in his chair, my wet hair dripping onto my cloak. He practically hugs himself with glee, scissors clacking. “You’re going to be so happy! I’m so glad you decided to. It’s going to be a whole new look. Fresh. Happening.” Now who doesn’t want to be fresh and happening? I couldn’t see what he was doing because my glasses were off, but I could see huge hunks of hair falling into my lap. It was amazing how calm I felt. Excited even, about this new, fresh, happening me that was going to emerge from under all this hair. My head feeling lighter and lighter with every snip. Finally he was done. I had made his day. He had the best time, being the mad scientist in the beauty salon. I cleaned off the finger prints and smudges from my glasses resting in my lap, under the robe and put them on. Hmm? I looked a little like one of the Beatles, if they had been fluffed up with a little hairspray and styling wax. Hmm. “You look so cute!” he says. “You are going to be so happy with this haircut. It is so you.” Well, okay. Maybe it’s cute and I just don’t see it yet. I wonder what Don’s going to think? I get in the car and drive home. The dogs dance around when I come in the front door. They seem to like it. But then, they’re dogs. What do they know? “Hi honey,” I say to Don, typing at his computer. “He talked me into trying something new.” Don finishes, typing his sentence and then swivels around in his chair to look at me. At first it’s like he doesn’t quite register that it’s me, he just looks at me a little blankly, his eyes open a little wider than usual, and an expression on his face like he’s just been hit on the back of his head with a two-by-four. And then the laughter come. Great, huge spasms of it. He can barely speak he’s laughing so hard. “You look...” he reaches around his laughter to find an appropriate word. “Different?” he finally spits out. No, Don. Wrong word. “You look...ha...ha...ha...” he wipes his eyes, his face, his neck, front and back, crimson with all the effort this laughter is causing him. “Oh well,” I say. “Hair grows.” I’m really surprised at how calm I feel. I don’t care if my new haircut makes people helpless with laughter. I don’t mind if I look a fool on the BC Book Tour. Hopefully, people will be able to look past it, once they pick their laughter-weary bodies back off the floor. I go into the kitchen, Don follows close behind. He has been able to stop laughing momentarily, until I shut the refrigerator door and turn to look at him again. This triggers a fresh wave of merriment that causes him to thump hard on his chest with his fist so he can suck some breath back into his lungs. “Well, it certainly is a change,” he wheezes out. I am starting to feel a little less calm and serene. “I think I’m going to blog,” I say, walking around him down the hall towards my writing room. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” I hear him say from behind me. I think he is trying to repair the damage. He thinks this comment will make me feel better. Wrong. I enter my writing room. He stands in the doorway, still staring at my head like an Alien has landed on it and all of a sudden I feel hurt feelings and grouchy. “Out,” I say. “I’m going to blog.” I steer him out of the room and shut the door. I love my husband, but sheesh. Sometimes he’s clueless. Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 10, 2008 in Chewing the Fat The hustlerWell, I just finished whipping Don’s pants off in poker. One hour and a half and he’s out of chips. Granted, I had an unfair advantage. I was wearing Jenny’s shirt. A very cool shirt made out of bumpy dark brown long underwear material with very cool embroidery and beading and a little bit of sparkles right around the bust area. Don was trying to focus, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Jenny’s shirt. I got a lot of, “you’re so pretty“‘s and stuff. And I’d smile in an innocent way and up the ante and he was so spell bound by my good-luck Jenny shirt that he fell for it and flipped his chips in as well. He didn’t know what hit him. He was like a poker-playing-zombie. He didn’t know that my sister’s good poker playing vibes had embedded themselves into her shirt and he didn’t have a chance. I love this shirt Jenny gave me. I’m glad she cleaned out her closet. I’m going to wear it the next time we play poker and see if I can beat Don again, because that was fun! Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, April 09, 2008 in hell in a hand basketHere you are bloggers! Courtesy of Gerry. Also my thanks to James McCann (www.jamesmccann.info/) a fellow author who thoughtfully sent me the Wikipedia link as did my brother Ben, who last week became the proud father of a beautiful baby girl. Congratulations to my brother Ben, my sister-in-law Joline and little Sam, the sweetest nephew an aunt could have. Baby Claire, welcome to the world! To hell in a handbasket From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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There are similar phrases going back over 400 years, such as to “Heaven in a wheelbarrow”. There has been some speculation that the phrases may be related, with “to Hell in a handbasket” perhaps being a mocking reference to the Guillotine which often used a lined basket to catch the severed head. It appeared in published works since the 1940s. “Hell in a Handbasket” was the title of a 1998 Star Trek comic book. Hell in a Handbasket is the title of a 2006 book (ISBN 1585424587) by American counterculture cartoonist Tom Tomorrow, who authors a nationally syndicated cartoon strip This Modern World. “Hell in a handbasket” was the name of an undescribed con requiring a trained cat referenced in the 2004 film, Ocean’s Twelve. Often heard quoted in the midwest circa 1940s, according to Rieta Collins Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 08, 2008 in Chewing the Fat Scary unemployment numbersI got this from John Mauldin’s April 5th newsletter. I’ve been catching up on my reading from when I was out of town. “More Fun in the Unemployment Numbers Payrolls tumbled by 80,000 today, more than forecast and the third monthly decline, the Labor Department said today in Washington. The unemployment rate rose to 5.1%, the highest level since September 2005, from 4.8%. The household survey shows the number of unemployed people rose by 438,000. (That is not a typo!) In March, the number of persons unemployed because they lost jobs increased by 300,000 to 4.2 million. Over the past 12 months, the number of unemployed job losers has increased by 914,000.And of course, when you look into the numbers it is worse than the headlines implies.” I found these numbers to be terrifying. Soon they won’t just be numbers, they will be, (if they aren’t already) the faces and lives of relatives, neighbours, co-workers and friends. 4.2 million people out of work due to job loss. Heartbreaking. And to lose a job at time when credit is increasingly hard to get. What are these people going to do? And job losses begets more job losses. So please everybody, try to cut back on spending, tuck whatever money you can possibly spare away for a rainy day. Because if it isn’t raining in your neighbourhood yet, it doesn’t mean that the dark storm clouds aren’t lurking just beyond the horizon and a torrential downpour could be in your future. And if it doesn’t happen? If you are one of the lucky ones, what harm has been done? You’ve saved some extra money that you can then tuck away into your IRA or your RRSP for when you retire. A win-win situation. Not to mention you’ll be able to sleep a lot better knowing that you and your family have a safety cushion in place. But I guess it’s how you look at it. I said to Don as we were driving through town, “Guess how high the U.S. unemployment numbers are? Keep in mind these are not the long term unemployed who after a certain point no longer show up in the figures. These are the ones the government cops to. Guess. It’s really shocking.” “Um...10 million?” he said. ”10 million? No, god Don! 4.2.” “Well,” he replied. “I guess that isn’t too bad considering there are around 250 million people living in the States.” “Not bad unless you’re one of the ones who have lost your job. Or if you happen to be African American. Then the unemployment rate soars to over 9%.” Which really, really seems wrong. And all those loan officers who sold all those loans to minorities and such shockingly inflated rates over what they offered white people, SHAME ON YOU! Truly it made me feel sick to my stomach when I read the numbers. I was reading Postcards from Cape Town and he has bits and pieces from different financial wizards points of view, often totally opposing. I find it very informative. Anyway, he had the cover of the English newspaper, The Independent, and it’s front page article was about how 28 million Americans are now relying on Food Stamps just to survive. And there was something about seeing those numbers in print, seeing the long line of people lined up, defeat in their posture, their shoulders, the way they held their heads, that made my heart hurt so much. I know that hopeless, hungry feeling. And then I can’t help it, I’m in a pretty safe situation right now, but still, I get scared that that one day it could be me again. Not knowing where my next meal will come from. That’s why I’m so careful and conservative with my investments. That’s why, if I can’t pay for it in cash, upfront, I don’t buy it. No debt. Very important for me. Very. Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 08, 2008 in Chewing the Fat BC Book Prize blogWell, I guess the Do-your-work-Meg Gods are with me. I just tried to blog on the BC Book Prize Blog and I’m not in their data base yet, so I guess I’ll have to go to work on that presentation. I’ll let you know when I start posting on the BC blog. Actually, I think I’ll finish getting the spaghetti sauce ready so it can simmer a bit while I work on tomorrow’s talk. I love my homemade spaghetti with lots of Parmesan cheese. It’s a great rainy day food. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Bye for now. Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 07, 2008 in home againIt was nice last night, to sleep in my own bed. Home and yet, images of Emily and her friends still with me as well. Coming back up the front steps from a dinner out, Will said, “I’m glad you’re home, Mom.” He gave me a hug and I was surprised all over again by his size. My little boy, who I held in my arms had to bend over to give me a hug. My arms around his waist. His waist! Good gracious. And laughing still, we went inside, Will saying, “And remember how I used to look up at Emily, how she was the biggest?” And when he says it, those days come rushing back. My sister, Becky, bringing Emily and David over to the hospital right when they got out of school. The expression on Emily and David’s faces when they saw their new baby brother for the first time. Climbing up onto my hospital bed, me placing a pillow and then baby Will, who was only a few hours old onto their laps. First Emily, whose face was shining with a mixture of wonder and awe. Then little David, four years old, who looked slightly confused, like he’d just woken up. I love it when the past and the present collide, unexpectedly. So you have a foot in both worlds at once. Well, most of the times I love it. I guess it depends on what the memory is that rushes to the forefront. Some memories, I could do with them staying safely boxed. I guess what I love are the cozy ones, memories and times that you didn’t know your heart had tucked away for future pleasure. Those are the ones I love receiving like an unexpected gift. Well, I could stay, blog the afternoon away, but I have a presentation to do for the Young Writers & Performers Festival tomorrow, so I guess I’d better go and write it. Oh, also, I went by The BC Book Prizes office and picked up my Book Tour package and in it they mentioned that they’d like the authors to blog a little about the whole experience so I think I shall post a thing or two there. So if you’re curious you can go to www.bcbookprizes.ca then click on Finalists On Tour and the click on On Tour Blog. And occasionally, you’ll find me there, blogging a bit. Although, I just checked it out so I could tell you how to get there and it looked very professional, with pictures and everything, so I will write a couple blogs, but I can’t promise they will post them. Maybe I’ll write one right now and see. I think I shall. Yes, another good way to procrastinate working on my presentation tomorrow. Sound’s like a good plan to me. Oh, hey and one last thing. Our beloved friend Gerry (who moonlights as our accountant) contacted Don while I was away and said that going to hell in a hand-basket was in Wikipedia. So there, take that Webster’s and Oxford’s.
Hmm...I just went to Wikipedia and typed it in and got a lot of movies names and video games. I don’t really know how to use Wikipedia, I guess. I couldn’t find it, but if Gerry says it’s there...it’s there! Because Gerry is nothing if not thorough. That’s one of the reasons why he’s the most conscientious, brilliant accountant that the world has ever known. Mind like a steel trap. Nothing gets by him.
Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 07, 2008 in Chewing the Fat |
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