On the drive back to the Fort Garry I saw one verison of myself riding shotgun in a shitty 80s Buick. Frizzed out perm and fake nails. My husband was blue-collar weathered, a mean looking SOB whose idea of romance would be a 2-4 and sending the kids to the neighbours. This version of myself smells like potato salad. She cries more than she laughs and her laughter is usually in jaded tones.
I looked into that car, into that life as we waited for the light to turn green and all I could think was: I have my mother to thank for the fact that I am in this car, headed straight down Broadway rather than that car, which turned south.
Yesterday my first script on this show went to camera. It's been two years since I've seen a script through to production despite the number of projects currently either circulating or circling the drain, and yet only a few things have changed in that time. (1) Location. Vancouver becomes Winnipeg. (2) Dough. With time comes increased income. (3) Cheering gallery. On the first occasion, I phoned my mom to share the moment. This time, my dad got the call. The inability to phone my mom still takes some getting used to. Perhaps I'll never get used to that. (4) Post-day drinks. With another script due this week, there was little chance of getting out last night. It was just me, the view west, and the glowing apple seeing out the night.
