April 2008

Emily’s poems

Emily was beautiful, brilliant, luminescent.  From the first sentence she had me, totally captivated, entranced, delighted.  I knew she was good.  I had no idea how good.  Her wit, her words, her impeccable delivery.  Everything so original, fresh, so Emily.  My God, I had no idea that poetry could be so entertaining.  I don’t know how she did it.  So sly and funny and heart-breakingly sad. 

I’m sorry if what I’m going to say sounds biased, because actually, I’m not.  I can see the work of people close to me, people I love, very clearly. 

My daughter, Emily, is a f___king genius.  Not an opinion.  Fact.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, April 05, 2008 in

A feast

I’m back in my Internet Cafe nursing a fresh squeezed orange juice and a toasted bagel with butter and cream cheese.  I tried Skyping Don, but the cafe is way more crowded and noisy today.  Perhaps on account of it being a Saturday.  Practically every table is full and the staff has the music on way louder than on weekdays, so we couldn’t hear each other very well, and after several minutes of “Sorry, what was that?” “I can’t hear you,” “What?  What did you say?” And a few half-hearted attempt at lip reading, we gave up and decided that we would be seeing each other tomorrow anyway when I arrived back home.

I had the best day yesterday, ending up in a grand finale at a little Polish restaurant.  Megan and Lowen joined us and it was so much fun because we were ravenously hungry and so when I suggested that we order five kinds of perogies and Kielbasa and smoked salmon potato pancakes with dill and sour cream and some potato pancakes with sour cream and caviar that we could all share, they enthusiastically agreed that it was a splendid idea.  And the coolest thing of all is when it arrived, along with my wine and their gigantic thick mugs of Polish beer, not only was it delicious, but it was so tasty that our stomachs all agreed that even though we had just ingested a rather large portion of food, none of our bellies were in the remotest full and we needed to order delectable main courses as well.

“More potato pancakes!” I bellowed.  (Actually, I didn’t really, but I did in my mind.) I ordered the Hungarian Goulash, which of course were served on top of more delicious fried and delicately spiced potato pancakes and topped with decorative squirts of sour cream.  Yum!  I can’t remember what everybody else’s main course were because I was too busy enjoying mine.

Of course when we’d finished the main courses we were practically groaning.  We only looked at the dessert menus for fun. 

But you know how it is with fun...One thing led to another and before we knew what had happened we not only ordered desserts, but we ATE THEM TOO!  There is nothing like well cooked comfort food to make one feel like all is right with the world. 

We rolled our happy, rotund bellies out of that restaurant and I don’t know about everyone else, but for me, bed was the only viable option.

And tonight I get to witness my brilliant talented daughter read her beautiful poetry.  How lucky am I?  I feel humbled sitting here, basking in the warmth of all my blessings.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, April 05, 2008 in

Emily, dippin-dots, and Don’s sleepless night

I came back to the B&B in the afternoon with my daughter in tow.  Actually, I was in her tow if one is being precise.  And the bathtub was cleaned and the room remarkably warmer.  It made me wonder if the B&B owner had looked up my blog?  My husband had nightmares all night and called me at 6 AM his time, his voice all scratchy and sleepless.  That’s how I knew how worried he was.  Which is really sweet, but quite unnecessary.

“You have to move,” he said.  “I couldn’t sleep all night.”

That’s when I realized that perhaps, in my no-wireless-fury, I had overstated all the other small, niggling, and really not a big deal “problems” with the B&B here on my blog.

Tucking into bed last night, I looked around me, thought about my childhood and really I couldn’t have imagined something this fancy and clean growing up.  And I have stayed at relatives and friends houses, with way less to offer.  I think it’s just that when one pays for things, one has certain expectation is all.  I was upset and so all the jarring notes stood out.  The room is very pretty, and now with the tub clean and the room warmer and me having found both breakfast and internet access at a café around 6 blocks away.  I’m totally fine.  Happy even. 

And part of me wishes that the B&B woman hadn’t read my blog and perhaps gotten her feelings hurt, but the practical part, is very happy she did, because I was nice and toasty warm last night.

“Honey,” I replied to Don, in a soothing sort of way.  “Really, I’m fine.  It’s nice enough here.” (What a wonderful thing it is to have a partner who has decided to carry the worry.  Now I can be all laize faire, and generous.) And yes, I know I misspelled that, but there is no Oxford’s at this cafe.

It’s an interesting sensation, visiting Emily here.  Her all grown-up.  Picking me up in her car.  Me being in the passenger seat.  And not only in the literal sense.  She’s taking such thoughtful care of me.  Has researched and made reservations for lunches and dinners and every place we’ve eaten, fantastically good. 

And this morning she called me, as she was heading out the door to her workshop with a visiting poet and then the obligatory luncheon that follows, to tell me that she has located a place that has dippin-dots. 

How sweet is that?  I had mentioned in passing, a while back on the phone, the dippin-dots as something I was planning on doing when I was here because nobody sells dippin-dots in all of B.C. and they didn’t have any all the way up to Bend Oregon, and so I looked it up Online and found that yes, they do sell them here in this little University town that she lives in. 

I was just chatting, you know how mothers do.  Talking about inconsequential stuff, because they don’t want to intrude, budge in too close; breathe up all their children’s space and air.  But Emily, she remembered that I had mentioned it, and she looked it up and made a plan for us to go by a place that sold them this afternoon.  And I can’t tell you how it warmed my heart.  Made me feel loved. 

Sometimes, I feel all bumbly around my grown children.  All fingers and thumbs.  Inadvertently sticking my foot, my mouth in places where it would be best they stayed out of.  Places that seem innocent enough topics, but still, I miss the nuances and get it all wrong. 

It’s hard sometimes, letting go of that totally ridiculous notion if I was a really good mother I would know just how to act, in any circumstance that arose. I would be able to be supportive, but not crippling, loving, but not smothering. 

See, my impulse is to give everything to my kids, emotional, physical, and financial.  But whom would that help?  Who would that giving be for?  Not them.  They don’t want a wishy-washy-bending-over-backwards mother.  How could they respect that?  I have to fight my impulse to make myself small so that I won’t cast an impossible shadow.  They are talented and smart and will find, forge their own way in the world.  In giving too much, I would actually be taking away. 

Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 04, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Some B&B’s are good and some…

I am very frustrated.  I am at this stupid Bed & Breakfast that is seriously one of the worst Bed & Breakfast I have ever encountered.  And believe me, I’ve encountered a lot of them.

Generally, if I have a choice, I’ll choose the Bed & Breakfast over a hotel/motel any day.  I find it is so much cozier.  I enjoy the chance to people watch.  Find it interesting what people choose to say over breakfast, what they don’t.  Watching the interplay between partners, the unspoken dialogue. 

Also, quite often, you get a much nicer room than at a hotel, with a fireplace, and a cozy seating area etc.  Some of them have an afternoon tea, complete with cookies and little crust-less sandwiches.  Others have complimentary Port and chocolate covered strawberries before you tuck into bed.  Others spoil you with a welcoming wine and cheese tray, or warm chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven.

I’m always curious about who chooses to become a Bed and Breakfast owner, and the whys.  My children always tell me I would make a wonderful B&B owner because I am so interested in people, and make delicious breakfasts.  And if I didn’t used to be famous, I could see me being quite happy having a B&B.  Although, I wouldn’t like the extra laundry and the cleaning that would need to be done.  And I don’t think having to let anybody who pays march into my house and demand service would work for me either. 

Although honestly, sometimes Don and I feel like we are running a B&B with the amount of people who come to visit, but at least we have a choice as to whom we are agreeing to do all the extra work for.

But THIS B&B!?  Not good. 

First off, all over the website, “wireless internet in every room.” NOT.  Last night I thought that it was just because I didn’t have the password.  So I had Don post a comment on my blog for me.  Then, when morning came, I brought my computer down to “breakfast” and asked what I was doing wrong.  The woman, who runs this place became very cagy, got busy fluttering around the kitchen, avoiding my eyes, poking at the pot of lumpy porridge that she had congealing on the stove.  Try this, she said.  Try that.  All the while knowing it was useless, because nothing worked. 

Now, how hard can it be?  You tell me what your wireless name is, you give me your password, I type them in and there you are, wireless. 

Nada. 

And I was planning on bloggin this morning. That is why Emily and I decided to meet up at 11ish.  Grrrrr…

Anyway, now I am sitting on my bed, that didn’t have enough covers last night, so I froze my ass off, thank you very much, typing on Microsoft word and hoping that I will be able to cut and paste this onto my site when I get to a wireless Internet café or something. 

Someone’s calling me.  Be right back.

Ha!  The truth is out.  The B&B lady (I know her name, I’m just not using it, because although she is inept, there is something kind of lost and sweet about her as well) just yelled up the stairs that she was sorry that I was having difficulty getting Online. 

I felt hope spring into my chest.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe it was just a weird glitch that occurred and I just needed to be more diligent. “Oh,” I said scrambling to my feet.  “Maybe I should try again.  Am I the only guest who has had difficulty getting Online?”

There was a pause.  “What?” she said.

“Am I the only guest you’ve had who hasn’t been able to attach to your wireless?”

Another long pause.  “I don’t know,” she said. 

The hope that was flickering in my chest is doused.

“Oh,” I said.

“What I meant was, if you like, you can come downstairs and use my computer.” Which is nice of her to offer.  Well meaning, but the thing is, how am I supposed to get in that private space that is required to blog truthfully, in someone else’s space, on their computer?  It’s not like it would be an impersonal library computer or something.

“But I have a computer,” I lugged the damned thing through a zillion airports yesterday, because her website said they had wireless.  It was one of the highlighted advertising points.  “So if you would just give me the...” I paused.  “Your computer, it’s working on wireless right?”

“No...no...it’s on a land line.”

Now, I’m not happy to hear this, but at least it clears up a few things.  Like why she was acting so weird when I brought my computer down to the “breakfast” this morning, and was trying to get the access name and the password from her.

Sheesh.  Just tell me that you’ve had to cut back on expenses and don’t have wireless anymore, right from the beginning and save me all this bother.  Me struggling, last night, before breakfast, after breakfast, trying to get Online.  What a waste of time.

Okay, now I shall move onto the “breakfast.” One of the things I love about B & B’s is all the niceties.  The ritual, the pretty settings, the themes, the matching plates, the centerpieces, the carefully prepared food.  I love seeing what kind of things other people come up with for breakfast.  The pampering.  Somebody serving me a lovely breakfast for a change, it’s a nice treat to have it done for me, since I have spent a lifetime doing it for others.

Well, at this B & B you can kiss that good-bye.  I felt rather sorry for the other two guests that stumbled downstairs this morning in their robes, looking sleepy-eyed and hungry. 

There was no beautifully laid table.  There were three plates stuck on a counter in a very crowded, messy kitchen.  It was a help-yourself kind of deal.  Water boiling in a pot on the stove if you want to make yourself some tea.  Gross looking porridge in a pot, and some fresh pineapple diced and sprinkled on the top of a fruit salad that had definitely been hanging around the fridge for a few days, everything brown.  Eww.  I took a little bowl of fruit salad and plucked the pineapple bits out. 

Oh!  Not to mention, when everyone was assembled in the kitchen, she waved her hands in the direction of the messy counter and said, “Help yourself.  I’m trying to be as much hands off as possible because I think I’m coming down with a nasty cold.” Accompanied by a great throat clearing and snuffing.  Great.

So that explains why we are expected to root around her kitchen assembling our own breakfast.  Except for, I have a feeling that this is her standard stock-and-trade.  Just like the “wireless”.

Oh and here’s another thing, there are no washcloths in the bathroom, and the little bottles of shampoo and whatever...are half used.  It’s like she knows sort of what a B&B is supposed to be, but there is no follow through. 

It was quite funny when I got here.  The taxi driver from Somalia was worried about leaving.  “Are you sure this is the place?” he’d asked.  I guess because of all the clutter on the porch.  “Are you going to be okay?” “I’m fine,” I’d said breezily, because the name of the place was posted right on the wall. 

“I’ll wait,” he said.  “To make sure.” Because I’d knocked a few times and no one was coming to the door.  I knocked again.  Nobody.  I tried the door.  It swung open.  Oh God.  I thought, this is not good, but I plastered a smile on my face, waved over my shoulder to the taxi driver and plunged inside. 

The odd sort of smell was what hit me first.  “Hello,” I called out.  “Hello?”

A frowsy haired woman came lurching around the corner and approached me in a sort of shuffling sideways gait.  And that was my introduction to the _______ _______ Bed and Breakfast.  Yeeouwza.

***

Okay, so I finished my B&B rant to you, and still I had a half an hour until my daughter calls, so I thought, fine, I’ll take a little catnap.  The room is freezing cold, even though I have on my thick socks and am wearing corduroy pants, a long sleeved shirt and the green cashmere zip-up sweater that Jenny gave me.  STILL I’m cold, so I tuck myself into bed, with all my clothes on and shut my eyes.  And it is like a comedy movie or something, because no sooner do my eyes shut when the B&B lady decides to put on some music.

Not soothing-okay-to-snooze-by music.  No.  Of course not.  Her taste is in pounding pianos and shrieking violins.  Loud, passionate, dark music, like a storm of discord, roaring up the stairs. 

A catnap...impossible.

And to be fair, the room is quite nice, tasteful colors, pretty pastoral pastel drawings on the wall, nicely framed.  A mix of old and new furniture.  The sheets, thank god, were clean.  The B&B is centrally located.

But, I don’t know, I’m here visiting my daughter until Sunday, and I am seriously thinking about moving.  I’ve never done this before, and I’ll have to pay for the whole stay anyway, because there is a 7-day cancellation policy, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, because she can’t help that she is no good at this.  But I really might have to. 

***

Okay, that does it.  I just looked into the bathtub.  The enamel is all chipped and there are some curly pubic hairs interspersed with a couple of longer head hairs clinging to the bottom and sides of the tub.  Gross!  That does it.  I’m going to have to try and find someplace else. 

A place with Internet and clean tubs.  It’s too bad, because there is something quite endearing about this rather odd woman.  I enjoy her.  Even though we don’t talk much.  She sparks my imagination.  I imagine she is enormously intelligent.  That she would be a fascinating friend, once you wiggled past the layers of other.  An unconventional, interesting friend, that might appear tucked into the pages of one of my books some day.  A good B&B owner.  Never!  Perhaps I should stay and just avoid her cold, the breakfast, wear lots of layers to bed and walk the six blocks required to get to this Internet cafe.  (Which I am, at present, enjoying a cup of hot steamed milk and a delicious gingersnap cookie.) Because this B&B certainly hasn’t been boring. 

Well, my dear bloggers, I’ll keep you posted as to what I finally decide to do.  I’d better post this now as my daughter will be picking me up any minute now.  xo

Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 03, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Hello, Don Here

Meg was flying all day and has asked me to write.  She just got back from having dinner with her daughter and can’t get the wireless internet to work where she is staying.  So here I am, letting you know that she will get it all straightened out tomorrow and write a nice long, chatty blog then.  

Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, April 02, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Page 3 of 3 pages « First  <  1 2 3