Gumboots

Dear Ginger Jane,
I love that clip you posted. More specifically, it makes me imagine my own metamorphosis into an eccentric older lady with a slightly dazed expression and a penchant for orange lipstick. It’s like a visual prophesy of sorts. It’s going to happen to you too, don’t fight it. You’ll be the ginger-haired foodie version, like Peta Mathias. I know you love Madame Mathias, so this won’t be an alarming prospect for you. In fact, I can see you embracing the situation with alacrity and a wide smile. It’s raining right now, so everyone here is wearing gumboots, which is super super cute. One thing I kind of love about this place is how schizophrenic the weather is. Check it out.

One minute it’s scorching, the next, thunderstorms. So in the spirit of gumboots, here is a weather-related, America-related song you might enjoy. Well, it’s not really about weather so much, but it is called “Last of the Melting Snow.” You’ll like it, I promise.

Smooches, Rebecca

PS: How’s your new budget treating you, my dear? I want a progress report. With diagrams, like you promised.

Halfway Point

Dear Sarah Jane,

I like your angry walrus a great deal. So I sent you a *real* letter about my daytrip to Rhode Island on Sunday… which I guess will probably reach you in about three months. One awesome thing I didn’t mention was the sheer number of crazy old people walking along the beach with metal detectors. Metal detecting seems to be a very popular pursuit in Rhode Island (along with complaining about the postal system ha ha). It cracks me up. I think someone should take the idea to its logical conclusion and dress up in full Jack Sparrow regalia while they shuffle and beep along the beach at dusk. “Argh me hearties! I just found… a nickel. And a lost spanner.”

So as of this week I’m halfway through my time in the States. Isn’t that nuts? It’s been a rose-tinted miasma of stinking hot nights, press releases, marshmallow fluff, reading O Magazine in the laundromat, talking to sweet old Jewish ladies in the box office, cut-grass smell, exposed timber (“ooooh rustic!”), cafeteria food (BBQ Mondays, pizza Thursdays), and editing endless program inserts. This week I get to meet a journalist from Vanity Fair and the almighty chief dance editor from the New York Times. We also have a company currently onsite entirely comprised of seven-foot tall Amazons and Adonis-types, who like to sun themselves on the lawn outside my office window. It’s extremely distracting.

So I need to start thinking about what I do next. Do I want to stay in Canada for a visit, or to live? After September I have two suitcases, no job, and no house. I think I might try and get a short term contract in Canada (maybe another festival) and then see how I feel. Part of me wants to come straight home; there are things and people I miss terribly. One of them is you.

Much love,

Rebecca

Virtual Whiskey With You

Sarah Jane! There's no shame in quitting. Just because you set up that derby league doesn't mean you have to do it forever. Can you imagine being a ninety year old jammer? I didn't think so. It was going to have its day sometime, and today is that day. I salute you.

In other news, I have a bee-sting on my foot.
It's been two days now and aforementioned extremity is still enormously swollen and of cartoon proportions. I couldn't get my strappy sandals on this morning. I put on ballet flats instead and by lunchtime had the foot version of muffin-top. Yeah, laugh it up. Alright. The heat probably doesn't help matters. It's that sort of heat where you come out of air conditioning and it hits you like a snuggie being tied around your whole body.

As I can't be there to drink a whiskey and celebrate your newfound spare time, I shall send you this instead. My boss played it just now and it tickled my fancy. Maybe it'll cheer you up?

xxx
All my love,

Rebecca