Ten years ago, I moved to Vancouver to try and break into the film and television industry. I had been in Calgary for five years prior to that studying in college and landed the occasional part in a play, a Movie of the Week and an unforgettable appearance as a prostitute in “Lonesome Dove – The Outlaw Years”. (My character was shot dead minutes after the teaser ended so ‘unforgettable’ may not be the most appropriate adjective in this scenario.)
While I lived in Calgary, my Mom and sister moved from the prairies out west to Cowtown and we all shacked up on a couple of different occasions – once upon their arrival while my Mom was getting acclimatized to the city and another time when I had given up my apartment to move in with her and “save money” for my move to Vancouver.
“Save money” is an interesting term, isn’t it? That’s an option that tends to work best for people who a.) Have a job; or b.) Don’t spend all their coin when they do have a job on a bunch of useless crap as a way of self-sabotaging a move out to Vancouver. Door #1, aka: a job, wasn’t always open for me. As an out of work actor, the pay (or pittance as I like to call it) I made working in various coffee shops wouldn’t have covered the cost of gas required to drive to the local U-Haul office, let alone the cost of renting one of those beasts to haul my gack all the way to Vancouver. When I was working, the money seemed to slip through my fingers without cause or reason.
I lived with my Mom for nine months at that time, a symbolic number, I realize, in retrospect. It was warm and cozy in there living rent-free and surrounded by my Mom’s knickknacks and excellent cooking and all. I remember the incredible birthday party she threw for me when I turned 24. We gave it a little kid theme and we had a cotton candy machine and everything! She baked a huge homemade cake and my friend, Steve, came over and did his “Scientific Steve” show for us, the one in which he taught school children about science through magic tricks. Only, at my party we’d all had a few drinks and Steve spoke to us the way he never could to all those rascally little ankle-biters who normally attended his presentations at the shows. (“Scientific Steeeeeeeeeeve,” one of us little darlings would holler in the whiniest voice possible while he was in the middle of a sentence, “what’s the formula to calculate the superficial velocity of this cheese-doodle when I throw it at the side of your head?!!!” - “Well Billy, you sniveling little ass-wipe, if you shut your f*#@-ing mouth long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, I’d be happy to tell you.”) Overall, the party was a hit and the time I spent living with my Mom was a much-needed cushion to pad the blow of what would become life in the big city on the left coast.
I arrived in Vancouver ready to roll right into the top spot on a hit series. I had a two year college education and a resume with three things on it. I mean, I was ready to take this city by storm! Instead, I gained 20lbs, worked two jobs every day (the first started at 5:30am, the second clocked out at 10pm) and watched in horror one day as the clutch in my '88 Chevy Corsica broke while I was driving in the middle of traffic in downtown Vancouver. The move to the coast was not going as planned.
It took me nearly two years to find an agent. When I finally did land an agent, a month later she retired. (A month after that, she started taking new clients and would mysteriously cross the street if she saw me coming in her direction.) Another time, I had an agent approach me after a show I had just performed. He was absolutely tickled by my work and invited me to come and meet with him to discuss representation. A week and a half later, I sat down in his office and he looked at me utterly perplexed and asked, “Why are we meeting again?”
I could not get arrested. Literally. If the cops saw me jay-walking, they would just say, “I’m sorry, we’re not fining any new actors right now. We’re too busy giving tickets to actors who already have agents.” I don’t know what I would have done if not for the success and stimulation of a one-woman show I did called, “Would You Like Fries With That?” – A phrase more relevant to my life as an out of work actor at that time than I care to remember.
I was beginning to wonder if the move to Vancouver had been a mistake. I was working a ridiculous amount of hours just to get by, not getting seen by casting directors, had no agent to speak of and missed my family terribly. My Mom sent me gift cards for groceries, care packages and love letters. She left encouraging messages on my voicemail. She even sent me $50 once so I could buy a book of sheet music entitled, “Best Songs Of The 70s”, in the hopes that I would knock ‘em dead at a musical theatre audition for a touring production of “The Lion King”. (This just in: there is no song from the ‘70s that can erase the expression of total shock followed by sheer terror from the face of a producer when I open my mouth to sing “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer at an audition.) But none of that mattered to my Mom, a woman who would not let her daughter give up on her dream. My Mom had been an actor in community theatre when I was a kid and inspired me to follow that path myself. Every time I felt down and out – and there were times I was slumped on the kitchen floor in tears in the face of an industry that just didn’t seem to want me in it – my Mom’s voice would arrive over the phone lines and pick me back up again. It was her laughter, I think, that cheered me up the most. Getting my Mom to laugh that high-pitch squeal that can only come out of a person who is laughing so hard that they seriously cannot even breathe is like winning the lottery. It’s Christmas morning. It’s a humor high and it got me through those early dreadful days in Vancouver.
It’s no coincidence, then, that I dabbled in stand-up at that time and it was at one particular gig that I met the agent of a fellow performer. This guy expressed interest in my work and he really meant it! At the time, his roster was full but it wasn’t long before we connected again and everything just clicked. It was as if the Universe had had enough of kicking me in the ass for a while. The clouds began to part and that massive fist that usually followed me around waiting to flick the proverbial hat off my head when I wasn’t looking decided to cut me some slack already and turn to some other unsuspecting shmuck to crush their dreams like clockwork every day of the week. Finally it was my turn to catch a break! I called my Mom and she was thrilled! Things were going to start turning around for me.
Or so I thought. You see, once you wade through the slog of getting an agent, your agent has to convince the casting directors to see you for auditions. Well, it seems no casting directors were looking for the Enid-Raye Adams type, whatever that means. Months went by and nothing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch. I was at my wits end. All this crap was starting to feel like the biggest waste of time. Perhaps the point had come where I needed to consider giving it all up and getting a “real job”. My failure as an actor, coupled with the fact that my relationship with my then-boyfriend was souring faster than a glass of thick milk left on the counter too long, meant I had only one recourse. There was only one thing I could do to get out of the quicksand of Vancouver: go home to my Mom in Calgary.
And that is precisely what I did. From the moment I saw her, I forgot about the slog. For three days, I enjoyed her smiling face, those warm eyes peeking up at me over her reading glasses and some phenomenally tasty roast beef and gravy. The playoffs were on CBC, there was a can of evaporated milk in the cupboard awaiting my cup of morning coffee and all was right with the world. My Mom and I hung out and shared all the little moments, the quiet ones that only a mother and daughter collect between them. When I left to head back to my big goals of becoming a successful actor in Vancouver, she waved and cheered me on. I felt nurtured, rejuvenated and ready to charge ahead. Nothing could prepare me for the earthquake to come.
It was about 4:45pm two days later that I got the call. My Mom, at the age of 44, had suffered a brain aneurism and would be lucky to make it through the night. My whole world collapsed as if the earth really was shaking beneath me. Only it wasn’t going to swallow me whole and spare me from this nightmare. I was going to survive this tremor and would have to find a way to navigate my way through a world without my Mom in it. Over the course of the weeks that followed, my body would not allow me to eat. Every day an hour before dinner, I would slink into depression and burst into tears as if to commemorate that moment in time when I received that terrible phone call. My whole family and I were in shock. I literally felt as if I was trapped inside a snow globe driving down the longest road imaginable with no end in sight. Is there any way to accurately describe what it’s like to lose your Mom? I don’t know, honestly, but the lofty attempt of it is for another blog on another day. All I can say is that it’s a tangible absence in a crazy time that can be felt but not conveyed.
After travelling back and forth between Vancouver and Calgary to handle my Mom’s affairs, I finally settled back into my small apartment on Granville Street and into what was the loneliest time of my life. I could walk into a room filled with people and feel totally alone. I began to question everything that I once held important to me. I began to take a second look at the way I had lived my life until then. In the shakiness of daily life, I took stock and found that I no longer gave a rat’s ass about being an actor. There was too much heartache going on in this new world without my Mom and I didn’t need the extra hassles of this stupid old dream weighing me down. It was settled then. I wasn’t going to give being an actor another thought.
But my Mom had other plans for me.
One night, a couple months after her death, she came to me in a dream. She was dressed all in white, sitting on a bed which was covered chaotically in white wrapping paper. One of our family’s favorite Christmas traditions occurred every Christmas Eve. My Mom bought gifts in excess with plenty of time to spare but was a notorious procrastinator when it came to wrapping them. She left all the wrapping until the very last minute, holed up in her bedroom, and whether or not we would get out the door in time for Christmas Eve Service at church was a mystery left to unfold in a choir of custom made swear words created by my Mother. Every year without fail, each rant topped the previous year’s unique ream of cusses, all while my brother and sister and I pressed our ears to the door of her bedroom giggling uncontrollably as we listened in on her traditional tirade, the absurd yet comical combination of which we found to be highly entertaining. So it didn’t surprise me to see my Mom surrounded by wrapping paper in my dream. Though this time, the chaos had a grace and an elegance to it.
And I was so happy to see her! She was wearing her reading glasses and she looked absolutely divine, in a sexy school teacher sort of way. In my dream, she was on the phone but never spoke. Instead she had a notepad which contained a list of things I was to do to become a successful actor. Every time she communicated an item to me, she would cross it off the list. I was to quit my job waitressing at the diner and rest during this incredibly difficult time: Not to worry, I would be taken care of. Check. I was to join the Union Of BC Performers. Check. Buy a fax machine. Check. And on it went. In the silence that cradled us, she – so unbelievably beautiful - looked up over the rim of her glasses at me making sure that she was being heard. Despite the absence of her voice, I was hearing her loud and clear. She was telling me that if I did all the things she said, this dream of mine would come true. An amazing role would come along in an amazing show that would kick everything off and I would know it when I saw it.
Then my ethereal Mom hung up the phone and I tiptoed down the hall away from her room, out of the angelic visit and into the morning that awaited.
Over the next few months, I did everything she said to do. And I waited.
Then something really lovely happened. In the course of taking on the task at hand, the big wave of grief I was under lifted somewhat and I lingered in stillness. It was at this point, in my calm, that I got a call from my agent. A big casting director in town, who had never seen me before, was willing to prescreen me for a role on “Da Vinci’s Inquest”, one of the best shows in Canada. I went to the fax machine to collect the scene I would be learning for the audition and as soon as I read it - goose bumps! I knew this was the role my Mom was talking about. It had her fingerprints all over it.
The character was Janet Jefferson, a young woman dealing with the untimely death of her mother…
And the rest, as they say, is history. I was lucky enough to book that job and it opened up doors for me that had previously been closed. Since then, I have been blessed to have many great working experiences and have ventured into writing and directing as well. Many of the stories I seem to need to tell are inspired in some form or another by my Mom’s life, her passing and the road that followed.
I would love to be able to say that I went on to win awards for my work (no Oscar yet but I did win a pile of pork chops once at a meat draw), that I directed my very own personal and well-received films and that I finally, FINALLY landed the lead in a series (Chris Haddock, can you hear me? Chris Haddock, can you see me? Chris Haddock, can you find me just off-camera to the right?).
But I don’t know what happens next. I guess I’m still writing the story.
I’ll let you know how it turns out…
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Marriage Pie
If I were to compare marriage to a pie, the pieces would be divided into the following sections:
85% - Excellent
10% - Pretty good
3% - “Meh”
1% - Irritation
1% - “I’d like to hit you in the back of the head with this frying pan.”
The excellence of this pie my husband and I are baking together really is delicious. I am happy to report that 85% of our relationship is truly a joy. I married a man who is my best friend, who loves me and accepts me exactly as I am (even when I don’t offer myself that same courtesy), who is tremendously supportive of my hopes and dreams and who is - I’m sorry in case his Mother is reading this but it must be said publicly - a real rocket in the sack!
Then there are times that are pretty good. Enjoyable, relaxed, domestic. He takes out the garbage, I clean the kitchen. At the end of a long and delightful day of parenting (sometimes together, sometimes individually) we fall down into the sofa with a cup of Bengal Spice tea and invite the cushions to hammock us into a much deserved vegetative retreat in front of the TV. It’s nice.
Other times, meh… Boredom sets in. I look at my mate and wonder how many times a day I will have to pick up the clothes he has discarded on our bedroom floor, creating a veritable obstacle course which threatens to topple me, ass end over tea kettle, if I venture to travel within ten feet of his side of the bed. “The laundry hamper is right there! Can you not see it? This is boring. Why do I have to pick these clothes up every day?”
Which brings us to Irritation. Meh and irritation are not too distantly related. They may not have gone to school together as kids but they sure met up at summer camp and set a few gophers on fire. Throw an impatient wife into the mix and irritation becomes a Molotov cocktail, having graduated from human-fuse status to a lethal weapon waiting to wreak havoc on all (and when I say all, I mean husband) who may enter.
This brings us to the 1% of my relationship which makes me want to hit my husband over the back of the head with a frying pan. Yes the same one he used earlier in the day to cook scrambled eggs, a dish he “Brycified” to culinary perfection. A pan in which the remnants of his concoction slowly transformed from an award winning brunch to the skeletal remains of an egg dish that become impossible to scrub away from a pan after you let it sit on a stove to rot for 6 or 7 hours. This part of the marriage pie does not taste very good. The crust is burnt as if it were pushed too far to the back of the oven where the heat took hold of it during baking. When I take a bite of this piece of the pie, the blackened crust disintegrates in my mouth like dust.
Now to be fair, this 1% of our relationship where I want to go all Bruce Lee on his ass, swinging that frying pan through the air like a ninja wielding a pair of nunchucks, is not the fault of my husband alone, nor does it just happen overnight. This part of the pie is not so closely related to Irritation and Meh, who are only passing acquaintances of Pretty Good and have never even met the 85% Excellence which we usually enjoy. No, this part of the pie takes just as much work to bake as the good stuff. It requires me to jump into old habits of poor communication, judgments and finger pointing. It compels me to leave all common sense at the door. It forces me to remove my usual attire of rational thought and don in its place the mask of Hector Projector - that grotesque hooligan that takes every insecurity and fear I ever had and magnifies them through every ounce of the future I can see for myself until it shows me a terrifying reality doomed to failure, which does not actually exist, but is only being created in my head right now.
This past week was the frying pan week - the 1% that sucked. For every couple, that sucky part manifests for different reasons. Different triggers cause it to pop up. For Bryce and me, the trigger is usually always money. My hubby, along with his entire department, was laid off from his company five months ago and since then he has been looking for work. Unemployment is a stressful thing for any couple and we are no different. Money is a necessity and the insecurity of not knowing where it’s going to come from, particularly when you have a child, is no fun at all. But money is never really totally about money, is it? Sure it may have a dollar figure attached but it always brings with it the baggage of associations that many of us lug around through life. For me, having grown up mostly hovering around the poverty line, it means the following simply put: If I have enough to pay my bills on time and to do fun things, I am ok. But if I don’t, I am not good enough. I am poor. I am unworthy. And this particularly useless mantra snowballs from there.
I think I am always striving to connect to my worth. So when I combine the obvious fact that people need money to survive in this capitalist society, with my life long struggle with self-esteem, then money takes on a whole new meaning. It becomes more powerful than it should be - a downright assailant. “You don’t have a job. We don’t have enough to pay our bills at the end of the month” is stressful enough but when one also attaches a human value to having or not having money then forget about it. It’s World War III. Two people in a marriage either avoiding their issues or magnifying them as a result of money cannot, I have learned, have a rational conversation about plausible solutions. It’s a fight to the death and hopefully that death mourns only the passing of the Ego, that little voice in your head that prances around with sharpened kitchen knives stabbing you with various thoughts of worthlessness. When the ego takes over from a whisper to an all out shouting match then that’s when marriage becomes a battlefield. You know how they say that in a relationship you have to pick your battles? For us, it’s at this point in the match when we have to go to our separate corners. Nothing is being received as intended. All spoken words are construed as attacks. The bell rings and we step back to our trainers, our corner man of choice, as we eye each other cautiously. It’s the only thing, for us anyway, which gives us the space we need to calm down and re-focus.
Thankfully, this is exactly what happens. Bryce goes to the movies and dinner - a treat from his friend Dennis, his best man at our wedding, who in these times of conflict has become my best man too. Zach and I hang out in the sunshine of our backyard with family and enjoy a fabulous dinner with my dear friend, Valerie. We each take the space we need, receive wise counsel from people who have been there before us and, a bit renewed, come back to each other in a slow wet kiss, interrupted by the collision of our teeth as we laugh at an ice-breaker, some goofy thing I say in the moment. (Now this is the kind of collision I enjoy, one that is brought on by our common laughter and extra large front teeth.) Then I sink in to my sweetheart’s lips and linger there for a while. He has lightened after a tough week and I have too. And as I hold him close, I can feel us sliding out of the piece of pie that feels so awful, through what was previously irritating, and slowly back into the good stuff.
The road back to this 85% of the pie inevitably brings with it some growing. This part of the path asks you to question how you got out of there in the first place. As I consider this, I wonder if money will always be an issue for us. And though we gotta have it ‘cause it’s what pays the bills, I am reminded to put its role in our lives into perspective as I read the wise words of an exceptional writer, Judy Wark. In this passage, she describes her great wish for her dying husband, Andrew, in his last days before succumbing to cancer: “…It is paramount that he and those around him know… truly know that the worth of a person lies not in his ability to accumulate wealth or do great deeds. The measure of a man remains locked into this reality alone: that he has loved well and been loved.”
This is my great wish for us also.
We finish up our slow wet kiss and I take a good look at him. Nothing has changed financially for us but the focus has shifted. We are now dancing on the shores of possibility. Problem solving, as an option, has washed up on the beach and I like the way its water cleanses the sand. It feels good against my feet. Which are firmly planted right next to those of my husband as we stand here, our sacred little family, our happy threesome, lapping it all up.
We're ready to dig into a good piece of pie….
85% - Excellent
10% - Pretty good
3% - “Meh”
1% - Irritation
1% - “I’d like to hit you in the back of the head with this frying pan.”
The excellence of this pie my husband and I are baking together really is delicious. I am happy to report that 85% of our relationship is truly a joy. I married a man who is my best friend, who loves me and accepts me exactly as I am (even when I don’t offer myself that same courtesy), who is tremendously supportive of my hopes and dreams and who is - I’m sorry in case his Mother is reading this but it must be said publicly - a real rocket in the sack!
Then there are times that are pretty good. Enjoyable, relaxed, domestic. He takes out the garbage, I clean the kitchen. At the end of a long and delightful day of parenting (sometimes together, sometimes individually) we fall down into the sofa with a cup of Bengal Spice tea and invite the cushions to hammock us into a much deserved vegetative retreat in front of the TV. It’s nice.
Other times, meh… Boredom sets in. I look at my mate and wonder how many times a day I will have to pick up the clothes he has discarded on our bedroom floor, creating a veritable obstacle course which threatens to topple me, ass end over tea kettle, if I venture to travel within ten feet of his side of the bed. “The laundry hamper is right there! Can you not see it? This is boring. Why do I have to pick these clothes up every day?”
Which brings us to Irritation. Meh and irritation are not too distantly related. They may not have gone to school together as kids but they sure met up at summer camp and set a few gophers on fire. Throw an impatient wife into the mix and irritation becomes a Molotov cocktail, having graduated from human-fuse status to a lethal weapon waiting to wreak havoc on all (and when I say all, I mean husband) who may enter.
This brings us to the 1% of my relationship which makes me want to hit my husband over the back of the head with a frying pan. Yes the same one he used earlier in the day to cook scrambled eggs, a dish he “Brycified” to culinary perfection. A pan in which the remnants of his concoction slowly transformed from an award winning brunch to the skeletal remains of an egg dish that become impossible to scrub away from a pan after you let it sit on a stove to rot for 6 or 7 hours. This part of the marriage pie does not taste very good. The crust is burnt as if it were pushed too far to the back of the oven where the heat took hold of it during baking. When I take a bite of this piece of the pie, the blackened crust disintegrates in my mouth like dust.
Now to be fair, this 1% of our relationship where I want to go all Bruce Lee on his ass, swinging that frying pan through the air like a ninja wielding a pair of nunchucks, is not the fault of my husband alone, nor does it just happen overnight. This part of the pie is not so closely related to Irritation and Meh, who are only passing acquaintances of Pretty Good and have never even met the 85% Excellence which we usually enjoy. No, this part of the pie takes just as much work to bake as the good stuff. It requires me to jump into old habits of poor communication, judgments and finger pointing. It compels me to leave all common sense at the door. It forces me to remove my usual attire of rational thought and don in its place the mask of Hector Projector - that grotesque hooligan that takes every insecurity and fear I ever had and magnifies them through every ounce of the future I can see for myself until it shows me a terrifying reality doomed to failure, which does not actually exist, but is only being created in my head right now.
This past week was the frying pan week - the 1% that sucked. For every couple, that sucky part manifests for different reasons. Different triggers cause it to pop up. For Bryce and me, the trigger is usually always money. My hubby, along with his entire department, was laid off from his company five months ago and since then he has been looking for work. Unemployment is a stressful thing for any couple and we are no different. Money is a necessity and the insecurity of not knowing where it’s going to come from, particularly when you have a child, is no fun at all. But money is never really totally about money, is it? Sure it may have a dollar figure attached but it always brings with it the baggage of associations that many of us lug around through life. For me, having grown up mostly hovering around the poverty line, it means the following simply put: If I have enough to pay my bills on time and to do fun things, I am ok. But if I don’t, I am not good enough. I am poor. I am unworthy. And this particularly useless mantra snowballs from there.
I think I am always striving to connect to my worth. So when I combine the obvious fact that people need money to survive in this capitalist society, with my life long struggle with self-esteem, then money takes on a whole new meaning. It becomes more powerful than it should be - a downright assailant. “You don’t have a job. We don’t have enough to pay our bills at the end of the month” is stressful enough but when one also attaches a human value to having or not having money then forget about it. It’s World War III. Two people in a marriage either avoiding their issues or magnifying them as a result of money cannot, I have learned, have a rational conversation about plausible solutions. It’s a fight to the death and hopefully that death mourns only the passing of the Ego, that little voice in your head that prances around with sharpened kitchen knives stabbing you with various thoughts of worthlessness. When the ego takes over from a whisper to an all out shouting match then that’s when marriage becomes a battlefield. You know how they say that in a relationship you have to pick your battles? For us, it’s at this point in the match when we have to go to our separate corners. Nothing is being received as intended. All spoken words are construed as attacks. The bell rings and we step back to our trainers, our corner man of choice, as we eye each other cautiously. It’s the only thing, for us anyway, which gives us the space we need to calm down and re-focus.
Thankfully, this is exactly what happens. Bryce goes to the movies and dinner - a treat from his friend Dennis, his best man at our wedding, who in these times of conflict has become my best man too. Zach and I hang out in the sunshine of our backyard with family and enjoy a fabulous dinner with my dear friend, Valerie. We each take the space we need, receive wise counsel from people who have been there before us and, a bit renewed, come back to each other in a slow wet kiss, interrupted by the collision of our teeth as we laugh at an ice-breaker, some goofy thing I say in the moment. (Now this is the kind of collision I enjoy, one that is brought on by our common laughter and extra large front teeth.) Then I sink in to my sweetheart’s lips and linger there for a while. He has lightened after a tough week and I have too. And as I hold him close, I can feel us sliding out of the piece of pie that feels so awful, through what was previously irritating, and slowly back into the good stuff.
The road back to this 85% of the pie inevitably brings with it some growing. This part of the path asks you to question how you got out of there in the first place. As I consider this, I wonder if money will always be an issue for us. And though we gotta have it ‘cause it’s what pays the bills, I am reminded to put its role in our lives into perspective as I read the wise words of an exceptional writer, Judy Wark. In this passage, she describes her great wish for her dying husband, Andrew, in his last days before succumbing to cancer: “…It is paramount that he and those around him know… truly know that the worth of a person lies not in his ability to accumulate wealth or do great deeds. The measure of a man remains locked into this reality alone: that he has loved well and been loved.”
This is my great wish for us also.
We finish up our slow wet kiss and I take a good look at him. Nothing has changed financially for us but the focus has shifted. We are now dancing on the shores of possibility. Problem solving, as an option, has washed up on the beach and I like the way its water cleanses the sand. It feels good against my feet. Which are firmly planted right next to those of my husband as we stand here, our sacred little family, our happy threesome, lapping it all up.
We're ready to dig into a good piece of pie….
Saturday, July 19, 2008
An oldie for a morning chuckle...
Thought I would throw this in the mix. It's a column I wrote for Buzzine Magazine three years ago during pilot season, also entitled "I Ate Enough To Stop The Heart Of A Donkey". (Are there any original ideas left in Hollywood anymore?) It might give a little insight into my fondness for donkeys.
(What the?)
Hope you enjoy...
Hi Kids. It's an honour and a thrill to be writing for Buzzine Magazine. By way of introduction, I thought I would take the first piece in this column to natter on about my own damn self.
My name is Enid-Raye Adams and I'm an actor with roots in the deep prairies of Canada. I am geographically predisposed to eating my cereal from a plastic bowl and I can locate an $8 Ukrainian buffet within seconds of waking. I remember every significant event in my life by what I was fed. I can pinpoint any cornerstone moment of my youth by the cake that was served and the filler in the hot dogs.
Case in point/random factoids:
I was born in 1973 in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, the strawberry capital of Canada. Since then no one has ever pronounced my name correctly. Kids in school called me "Igor" or "Enid the Penid". (Kids in school are rotten little f*#% ers.) For the first twelve years of my life, my front teeth were way too big for my face. They literally preceded me everywhere I went by about three solid feet. There was really nothing I could do other than eat with them. Once when I conducted the band in an elementary school concert, I dented Charlie Norton's xylophone in the third row with my aforementioned front chompers. After that, all the kids snorted and laughed in the halls as they walked by me, covering their faces with their hands so I wouldn't accidentally run into them with my teeth (which were usually encrusted with chunks of chocolate flavored Wagon Wheels).
In grade eight, after two perms in a row, I bore a striking resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite. To disguise this obvious fact from curious onlookers, I dyed my hair black, looked like I had a burnt Brillo pad on my head, then shaved my hair off altogether, thus bearing a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas. Accompanying snack of choice: peanut butter and ketchup chip sandwiches with a candy cigarette chaser.
For my first day as a freshman in high school, I chose a much more elegant coif. Sausage bangs with a shelf of hair teased high enough off the top of my head to break the nine-inch barrier. I also had the great good wisdom to wear a foxy little ensemble I like to call the "How Can I Get More People To Call Me Igor Pant Suit". This was a two-piece garment constructed from left over fabric that my Mom used to make our autumn table clothe that year. Picture my *pure liquid hotness now: A boxy blazer equipped with shoulder pads the size of garbage can lids and matching parachute pants, both covered in a print of earth tone rutabagas. Thank God I had the foresight to wear a cumber bun that covered my entire rib cage. That and the massive hair really allowed for the focus to settle squarely on my over bite.
I didn't develop eyebrows until my early twenties. (When I ran for Cafeteria Rep in university, my ‘More Meatloaf' mandate was sullied when people graffitied my posters to read "Vote For Edna-Raye No Eyebrows Adams".) I didn't develop breasts until my early forties. (I'm 31 - fingers crossed.) I have way too many cats, an inexplicable crush on Grizzly Adams, and a can of Spam in my cupboard the size of a Lincoln Town Car.
What do all these things have in common? Not too much really. But jotting them down just now has made me feel a bit peckish. Which brings us back to where we started - FOOD. I dig it. Hardcore. I friggon love the stuff. Cookies, lard, butter, toast, perogies, processed cheese, pickled onions, relish…
Every geek infested moment I've ever had was accompanied by a snack that somehow saved my ass from further embarrassment. Sure half the neighbourhood referred to my ‘88 Chevy Chevette as the "Dork N Squaremobile" but I was too busy hosting macaroni parties in my specially built buffet pants to care.
Besides, for every negative moment there is a positive, even pivotal one and its perfect food partner. For me, that life altering moment and snack came one day while watching the "The Flintstones Hit Hollyrock". At a time when after-school television was saturated by Smurfette and that "la la la la la la" song, it was a refreshing change to get back to basics with Fred and Dino and their zany prehistoric ways.
In the show, the whole gang travels to Hollyrock. Dino falls in love with a starlet dinodogette. She's beautiful. She's charming. She's a freakin' hag when she takes off her make-up. When Dino secretly watches her tear off her false eyelashes only to behold a decrepit ghastly version of the beauty he once loved, I remember thinking, "Where's the raisin bread?"
Hey, it was the 70's. I was a chubby kid and I enjoyed a snack. As I polished off a loaf, I watched Dino pick up the pieces of his broken heart and I contemplated a career in Hollywood.
Now here I am, upon the very threshold of Shakespeare and Sorkin. (Note definition of threshold: sitting on sofa scratching belly while watching Sorkin on TV.) A can of pork-n-beans is never far from my grasp. I've finally grown into my teeth! I have a bag of gravy in my back pocket for every audition and I don't care who knows it. Art and Eat are my favorite three-letter words. They belong together. So kids, join me as I fulfill my destiny. Put down the low carb silliness and pick up a can of ham and a sleeve of crackers. Together we can perform monologues from "Moo" by Sally Clark and this pilot season, as we focus on our craft, maybe we can all eat enough to stop the heart of a donkey.
* ("Pure liquid hotness" is a favorite phrase borrowed from comedian Sean Cullen, possibly the funniest man on legs.)
(What the?)
Hope you enjoy...
Hi Kids. It's an honour and a thrill to be writing for Buzzine Magazine. By way of introduction, I thought I would take the first piece in this column to natter on about my own damn self.
My name is Enid-Raye Adams and I'm an actor with roots in the deep prairies of Canada. I am geographically predisposed to eating my cereal from a plastic bowl and I can locate an $8 Ukrainian buffet within seconds of waking. I remember every significant event in my life by what I was fed. I can pinpoint any cornerstone moment of my youth by the cake that was served and the filler in the hot dogs.
Case in point/random factoids:
I was born in 1973 in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, the strawberry capital of Canada. Since then no one has ever pronounced my name correctly. Kids in school called me "Igor" or "Enid the Penid". (Kids in school are rotten little f*#% ers.) For the first twelve years of my life, my front teeth were way too big for my face. They literally preceded me everywhere I went by about three solid feet. There was really nothing I could do other than eat with them. Once when I conducted the band in an elementary school concert, I dented Charlie Norton's xylophone in the third row with my aforementioned front chompers. After that, all the kids snorted and laughed in the halls as they walked by me, covering their faces with their hands so I wouldn't accidentally run into them with my teeth (which were usually encrusted with chunks of chocolate flavored Wagon Wheels).
In grade eight, after two perms in a row, I bore a striking resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite. To disguise this obvious fact from curious onlookers, I dyed my hair black, looked like I had a burnt Brillo pad on my head, then shaved my hair off altogether, thus bearing a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas. Accompanying snack of choice: peanut butter and ketchup chip sandwiches with a candy cigarette chaser.
For my first day as a freshman in high school, I chose a much more elegant coif. Sausage bangs with a shelf of hair teased high enough off the top of my head to break the nine-inch barrier. I also had the great good wisdom to wear a foxy little ensemble I like to call the "How Can I Get More People To Call Me Igor Pant Suit". This was a two-piece garment constructed from left over fabric that my Mom used to make our autumn table clothe that year. Picture my *pure liquid hotness now: A boxy blazer equipped with shoulder pads the size of garbage can lids and matching parachute pants, both covered in a print of earth tone rutabagas. Thank God I had the foresight to wear a cumber bun that covered my entire rib cage. That and the massive hair really allowed for the focus to settle squarely on my over bite.
I didn't develop eyebrows until my early twenties. (When I ran for Cafeteria Rep in university, my ‘More Meatloaf' mandate was sullied when people graffitied my posters to read "Vote For Edna-Raye No Eyebrows Adams".) I didn't develop breasts until my early forties. (I'm 31 - fingers crossed.) I have way too many cats, an inexplicable crush on Grizzly Adams, and a can of Spam in my cupboard the size of a Lincoln Town Car.
What do all these things have in common? Not too much really. But jotting them down just now has made me feel a bit peckish. Which brings us back to where we started - FOOD. I dig it. Hardcore. I friggon love the stuff. Cookies, lard, butter, toast, perogies, processed cheese, pickled onions, relish…
Every geek infested moment I've ever had was accompanied by a snack that somehow saved my ass from further embarrassment. Sure half the neighbourhood referred to my ‘88 Chevy Chevette as the "Dork N Squaremobile" but I was too busy hosting macaroni parties in my specially built buffet pants to care.
Besides, for every negative moment there is a positive, even pivotal one and its perfect food partner. For me, that life altering moment and snack came one day while watching the "The Flintstones Hit Hollyrock". At a time when after-school television was saturated by Smurfette and that "la la la la la la" song, it was a refreshing change to get back to basics with Fred and Dino and their zany prehistoric ways.
In the show, the whole gang travels to Hollyrock. Dino falls in love with a starlet dinodogette. She's beautiful. She's charming. She's a freakin' hag when she takes off her make-up. When Dino secretly watches her tear off her false eyelashes only to behold a decrepit ghastly version of the beauty he once loved, I remember thinking, "Where's the raisin bread?"
Hey, it was the 70's. I was a chubby kid and I enjoyed a snack. As I polished off a loaf, I watched Dino pick up the pieces of his broken heart and I contemplated a career in Hollywood.
Now here I am, upon the very threshold of Shakespeare and Sorkin. (Note definition of threshold: sitting on sofa scratching belly while watching Sorkin on TV.) A can of pork-n-beans is never far from my grasp. I've finally grown into my teeth! I have a bag of gravy in my back pocket for every audition and I don't care who knows it. Art and Eat are my favorite three-letter words. They belong together. So kids, join me as I fulfill my destiny. Put down the low carb silliness and pick up a can of ham and a sleeve of crackers. Together we can perform monologues from "Moo" by Sally Clark and this pilot season, as we focus on our craft, maybe we can all eat enough to stop the heart of a donkey.
* ("Pure liquid hotness" is a favorite phrase borrowed from comedian Sean Cullen, possibly the funniest man on legs.)
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Small Doses
I have three minutes to write in this blog. My husband, Bryce, is currently feeding our son his breakfast and the housework needs to be done before a busy day of driving to Port Coquitlam to celebrate the marriage of someone he went to high school with 100 years ago. I'm looking forward to it in a way. Though part of me would rather hunker down on the sofa and watch season 1 of "Da Vinci's Inquest" on DVD. However my viewing experiences are reserved for after bambino's bedtime so why not get out into the sunshine in the backyard of someone I've never met before and say "Shalom to you and your fella we hope your marriage is a happy and successful one. What's that smell? Oh excuse me. My son's butt cheeks have just released a symphony featuring the dulcet tones of a trombone in E flat. Do you have a spare room covered in a rubber sheet? Where there's smoke there's fire..."
And now a word about poo. Yesterday at this time Bryce and I were both elbow deep into the stuff which had us wiping Zach's feet, legs and hands after a massive poo-splosion which could not be contained and could not be handily managed by one person. This one required four hands (six if you count the lightening speed at which the Zachinator can whip his little fingers into the muck of his own diaper-based productions). I dread those sheepish and slightly terrified words, "Honey, can you give me a hand?" which waft through the walls from the baby's room into the small space I have reserved for three minutes of me time. But what are you gonna do? Point and laugh at a tall, imposing man cowering over in terror at a tiny baby whose butt has just unleashed a fury of feces? That would be mean. Ish.
But such are the joys of raising a baby. And they are joyful. If not smelly. And sometimes a little painful. The other day, my son (who now has four teeth proudly glowering at me like a beautiful little jack-o-lantern) decided to exercise his little chompers while I was breastfeeding him. The throat hollering scream that came from my very core probably prompted several neighbors for blocks around to jump out of their skin. In honour of my baby's dental achievements, I even considered calling this blog "Fuck He Bit My Nipple - I've Fallen And I WON'T Get Up - A Memoir By A Mother With An Accosted Areola." (My agent suggested I advertise this book title in the child-rearing section of Chapters nationwide.)
But today the chompers have behaved, the nipple has recovered and I have decided to go with the more aptly titled "I Ate Enough To Stop The Heart Of A Donkey" after my fondness for all things snack-related. An enjoyment which has not helped me lose all my baby weight in short order, I can tell you.
In spite of the little pitfalls listed above, my life is more glorious than I ever gave it credit for before. Yes, the shit still hits the fan from time to time as we navigate the sometimes dicey waters of employment, finance and ultimate career goals but this baby, I'm telling you, is DIVINE! To be a mommy to him is to truly stop and smell every amazing flower that ever grew in dirt. Never have I been instructed so beautifully by the Universe to stop and pull my once self-involved head out of my own ass. Every day brings with it a new milestone, a new first and a new delight: An impromptu play date with just-made baby friends at the park, yams smooshed in every strand of hair at lunch time, the grace and stillness of my baby's head resting on my shoulder before bed as he negotiates from me one last snuggle before closing his eyes for the night and, of course, the pure and delicious sounds of a 10 month old's hearty and genuine belly laugh. That is the best thing on the planet Earth...
Wow, my three minutes has turned into an essay. Must run and rescue my monkey from his highchair. Papa is done feeding him and he will not be contained a moment longer. After all, the cat's water dish isn't going turn into a lake on the kitchen floor by itself, is it?
Me-time is over. Let the good times roll...
And now a word about poo. Yesterday at this time Bryce and I were both elbow deep into the stuff which had us wiping Zach's feet, legs and hands after a massive poo-splosion which could not be contained and could not be handily managed by one person. This one required four hands (six if you count the lightening speed at which the Zachinator can whip his little fingers into the muck of his own diaper-based productions). I dread those sheepish and slightly terrified words, "Honey, can you give me a hand?" which waft through the walls from the baby's room into the small space I have reserved for three minutes of me time. But what are you gonna do? Point and laugh at a tall, imposing man cowering over in terror at a tiny baby whose butt has just unleashed a fury of feces? That would be mean. Ish.
But such are the joys of raising a baby. And they are joyful. If not smelly. And sometimes a little painful. The other day, my son (who now has four teeth proudly glowering at me like a beautiful little jack-o-lantern) decided to exercise his little chompers while I was breastfeeding him. The throat hollering scream that came from my very core probably prompted several neighbors for blocks around to jump out of their skin. In honour of my baby's dental achievements, I even considered calling this blog "Fuck He Bit My Nipple - I've Fallen And I WON'T Get Up - A Memoir By A Mother With An Accosted Areola." (My agent suggested I advertise this book title in the child-rearing section of Chapters nationwide.)
But today the chompers have behaved, the nipple has recovered and I have decided to go with the more aptly titled "I Ate Enough To Stop The Heart Of A Donkey" after my fondness for all things snack-related. An enjoyment which has not helped me lose all my baby weight in short order, I can tell you.
In spite of the little pitfalls listed above, my life is more glorious than I ever gave it credit for before. Yes, the shit still hits the fan from time to time as we navigate the sometimes dicey waters of employment, finance and ultimate career goals but this baby, I'm telling you, is DIVINE! To be a mommy to him is to truly stop and smell every amazing flower that ever grew in dirt. Never have I been instructed so beautifully by the Universe to stop and pull my once self-involved head out of my own ass. Every day brings with it a new milestone, a new first and a new delight: An impromptu play date with just-made baby friends at the park, yams smooshed in every strand of hair at lunch time, the grace and stillness of my baby's head resting on my shoulder before bed as he negotiates from me one last snuggle before closing his eyes for the night and, of course, the pure and delicious sounds of a 10 month old's hearty and genuine belly laugh. That is the best thing on the planet Earth...
Wow, my three minutes has turned into an essay. Must run and rescue my monkey from his highchair. Papa is done feeding him and he will not be contained a moment longer. After all, the cat's water dish isn't going turn into a lake on the kitchen floor by itself, is it?
Me-time is over. Let the good times roll...
Friday, July 11, 2008
Shalom!
Hi Kids!
This is my very first posting - just to say "Hi, simply hi.".
I would write more but my 10 month old is fired up on all cylinders to get out the door and into the sunshine.
Looking forward to next time...
ERA
This is my very first posting - just to say "Hi, simply hi.".
I would write more but my 10 month old is fired up on all cylinders to get out the door and into the sunshine.
Looking forward to next time...
ERA
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