OH. MY. GOD.

I’m so over myself. I SWEAR!

When I received the most courageous emails from fellow sufferers after my last post – tender, generous, honest messages from people who are not only fighting for their own lives in one way or another, but also bravely staying the course, against all odds in some cases – these amazing souls made me realize two things:

1) I’m not alone (which is not some kind of misery-loves-company stance. In fact, I immediately went into Liz-fix-it mode, wantonly dispensing unsolicited e-therapy so as to heal their pain, if I could.)

And . . .

2) Andy would definitely not be impressed with my current state of mind, as one friend pointed out in a much-needed tough-love e-mail (Thanks, P!). It’s true. I know exactly what Andy would think about my wallowing because we were psychically liked (as I am with my younger brother, Justin, and my father, Fred, and my sister-in-law, Dawn.) Andy would have said, “You can’t help me. Get on with your life!”


I feel ashamed that I made some of you worry about me. Unfortunately, I can’t take it back. But since I’m trying to accept myself warts and all these days, all I can do now is say thank you and I’m sorry. No, really, thank you for indulging me in a moment of pure self-pity. And I’m so sorry I took you on a journey that came to an abrupt halt the next day when, for no apparent reason, I was right as rain again. Sometimes all it takes is a piece of really moist chocolate cake, or a chance encounter with a celebrity.


A few weeks ago, I met a guy in the dog park with his beyond-gorgeous Italian greyhound, sporting an equally gorgeous little sweater. The dog, not the man. (Well, also the man.) So, I asked the man where he got the doggie sweater, thinking how great it would look on Shy. The man said he’d look for the card of the woman who makes them and bring it to the park next day. I didn’t see him for a few days, but when I did see him next he said, “I brought that woman’s card with me everyday this week to give to you. I’m not sure I have it today.” But he fished in his pocket gamely and found it! That, however, is not the happy ending to this story.


Ever since then, we’ve seen each other almost daily at the dog park (no, this is not a blossoming romance, girls and boys, so get your heads out of that story or you’ll be disappointed with the punch line). Recently, I asked him what he does with this days and he told me he works in the theatre. Yesterday, I asked for more specifics about his work, so he told me he does some writing and directing. I happen to know exactly one person who works in the theatre, so I did the do-know-know-my-friend-Geoff thing. The gent said yes he did, and that Geoff is a marvelous actor. (Must tell Geoff). That made me feel so connected and, yes, even a little cool (although technically Geoff is more a friend of a friend, I decided that really didn’t matter. Knowing him gave me cachet by proxy.). Then the gent reciprocated by asking what I do. Communications and portrait painting, I told him. To which he responded with his own do-you-know-so-and-so-who-is-also-a-painter thing. But I did not know his painter person. So he asked me my name. “Liz Phillips,” I said, to which he responded, “Oh,” before adding, as if it would not ring any bells, “My name is Daniel MacIvor --”

“OH. MY. GOD!!!!!!!!!! YOU’RE DANIEL MACIVOR???!!!!!”


Yup. I yelled it. Right there on the street. With hipsters on the other side of the street watching me as they sucked back their espressos.



I’m not really a star fucker. But I am impressed by talent. And Daniel MacIvor (because there is no way I can call him Daniel) has talent out the wazoo. How could Daniel MacIvor be casually talking to me in the dog park about dog sweaters and other things so mundane I can’t even remember what they were when he is the creator of Past Perfect, a film I caught on Bravo one night when I was living at my father’s house after returning from a failed relationship in Seattle (and on the heels of my fire in Montreal)? (Synopsis: Past Perfect “intercuts between two days, two years apart. The first: a flight from Vancouver to Halifax, where Charlotte and Cecil, two strangers, meet in seats 3a & 3c and fall in love. The second: a Saturday two years later, where Charlotte and Cecil now a couple, fight, break-up and finally reunite.” Thank you IMDB). What story could have been more perfect for me at that time? None, I tells ya!

Some of you may have no idea who Daniel MacIvor is, and that's OK. Celebrity is in the mind of the beholder. I'm also hoping that making a fool of one's self is also in the mind of the beholder. Not the espresso-chugging beholder beholding me, mind you. Maybe yelling Daniel MacIvor's name made his day. Knowing that he had thought to bring me the dog-sweater-maker's card every day made mine. Imagine, Daniel MacIvor thinking of me as he made his way to the dog park!

So, there it is. My life as a dramedy. While it’s true that most of life’s unfolding is out of our hands (when/how we die, who loves us), we do have an insane amount of control over the rest (when/how I will write an article for publication, or when/how I will make a body of paintings for exhibition, or who I will choose to love) – we can create a great deal of our reality through thoughts and actions. (Yes, folks, the Liz of old is back!) It’s also true that while we don’t always get what we want – kids, partners, clear-cut and satisfying careers – we often do get what we need: a Liz Lemon moment of slipping on a proverbial banana peel to remind you that life’s randomness can also be really effing funny.