Weekly Stories

the change you need

“You’re a BIG woman…” Says an intoxicated man in a Giant’s shirt, swinging on the rail in front of me, dangerously close. “You’re more than a handful.” I look around. Not many people on the Muni this afternoon and the ones who are, are not making eye contact with me. I am alone and I have four stops to go. Giant tried to pick a fight with the small man beside me and he scooted away two stops before. The Giant is looking to swing. He has blood on his teeth. Literally. He’s in that place between talking loudly and…

off putting at first

It’s 6:30am and I’ve already been at the airport for an hour and a half. Surprisingly the Canucks restaurant “breakfast sandwich” is very good. I’m off to do a film shoot in San Francisco: super fun. There are going to be zombies! “Why are zombies fun?” I ask myself. Not sure. But they are. Speaking of strange death and un-death, I’m missing a very important callback in Vancouver for something I passionately love. I sent a little pleading note, assuring them I am very interested…but let’s face it. I’m not there. And there’s a lot of great women who are….

professionally diverse

At many Vancouver gatherings, members are greeted with a welcome and an acknowledgment that the city sits on Coast Salish traditional land: unceded territory of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations. I find it respectful and a good reminder. Dan says it every morning at church. But before our children’s show the other day, our host said something along the lines of “We’d like to acknowledge that the city is on the unceded land of the – Sawlish…native…I can never remember this stuff.” And moved on. Backstage we were a bit aghast and chuckled, “yeah, basically all you red…

Granny and the Wolf

I take a breather from the beautiful but stuffy black box that is our rehearsal hall and walk out the door with my hot thick floor length flannel nightie hiked over my knees and my grandma nightcap and grey braid snug and low on my brow as I check my phone for messages. It’s wonderful working at Boca del Lupo at 1422 because of the great people and cool theatrics, but also because it’s right across the street. I can boil my own kettle and cuddle the cat. And I also go home for snacks because this lovely gang brings…

Little Red

My daughter stumbled back from horse camp so tired she keeps bumping into walls. She’s had a wonderful time, three nights overnight with no parents around. Her whole class went. She rode a horse called Hershey, I’m guessing chocolate brown. She was one of the few city kids who had ridden a horse without the help of a big person before – thanks to Uncle Ed. She was very proud of that. We walked home. We’ve been holding hands since just after three when we passed a significant police blockade at the park up our street. I overheard an eyewitness…

a little note about the children

Dear Readers, I have decided to remove any specifics about Fellow’s child at one of the parent’s request. I have only briefly mentioned this child five times anyway and have never given away any names. I have kept it minimal, not because this child isn’t a beautiful and important part of my life, but because I care deeply about this child’s feelings. I want to honour this child’s privacy and the wishes of both parents. In the past, I have revealed the gender and shared a few precious moments because they were so touching and celebratory of this child. But…

the man with a folder full of poems

As I wait for Nora to come back with a straw I peer over the soft checkered shoulder of the elderly man sitting in front of me in the bakery. He is fingering a well worn piece of paper. I recognize it immediately. This is a poem he wrote. Only one other person has seen it. The person he asked to type it out on the computer for him. He doesn’t know how to use a computer and he doesn’t know how to type with more than two fingers. He may as well have stumps for hands, he feels, in…

a proposal

Today Fellow and I took possession of our house on Bowen. We drove over on an early morning ferry with one of our children and our general contractor friend, Pete, our vehicles filled with paint samples, tools, tiles, a portable garage and the like. The house was left littered with bad art, old furniture, cobwebs, chipped crockery and black pots, thin linens and a macrame owl. While the men unloaded flooring and I painted possible colours on the wall. One of our kids grabbed a garbage bag and collected everything ugly. We worked all morning and then had our first…

I am allergic to the American white male narrative

I woke up one day allergic to the American white male narrative. You know, like lactose. I have been fed too much of it all my life and now I have built up an intolerance. This worries me because this means I am allergic to many of the plays being produced in Canada. I am looking at a season right now: 100% male playwrights, 80% AWM playwrights, only 12% of the leads roles on stage are for women. It is so easy for the AWM voice to dominate a season with no complaints. I only just realized the numbers here…

romas

Nonna is in my dreams doing her curlers. Those pink and beige small prickly ones that every grandmother owns. The hair net. The Spanish soaps dubbed into Italian on the TV, blaring declarations of love and hate…over what? Jealousy? Revenge? Swarthy men with full heads of hair. White horses. Heaving bosoms. Passionate kisses. My dream is a Nonna re-run. Then suddenly I am out on her front porch, without a key. Sitting on the pavement. There are no red geraniums in the flower boxes. That’s what gets me. I wake up. Why? Because Anita has texted me a picture of…

Lucia Frangione