2005 -- at about this exact time last year, I got the call from my brother. My mother's liver had ruptured again. This time, the doctors weren't going to do anything. I was in the middle of a long story department meeting and everyone knew something was up because I always had the phone out, waiting for the call, and this was the only time I ever looked at the call display, then excused myself and stepped outside. Outside. It was warm and windy, and that industrial corner of Winnipeg was deserted, the railway workers and factory seamstresses having gone home for the day. I leaned against the wall, utterly confused. Was there enough time to get on a plane. Could my fluish state even handle travelling. In both cases, the answer was no. I returned to the meeting and sat it out, silent, mortified, terrified of what life would be like without my mother. Three hours later, she was gone, and I'm still getting used to this reality.
2006 -- at about this exact time, I was outside the building watching our stunning camera department set up for the next shot. As Leslie Nielsen sauntered past wardrobes-Carmen and I on his way to video village, he let fly a loud and rather meaty fart. Carmen and I shared a glance. "Was that what I think it was?" she asked. "I hope not, but at the same time, I'm pretty sure I felt a strong wind against my leg as he walked by me." Carmen cringed. "I think I'm scarred for life, and I mean, I'm German, I'm supposed to like that kind of stuff." Moments later, I spotted the fart-squeezer carefully concealed in his left hand. We'd been had by a master.
