flew into boston monday afternoon and was swept away by a silver 15 passenger van to a bustling wireless production office in the heart of the city. the introductions around the room were rapid-fire and friendly and in no time at all, i was in the bathroom in my underwear, struggling to squeeze my way into the wetsuit that would keep me warm while i stood in a cranberry bog up to my bum and wisecracked with rednecks. it was sleeveless with a velcro closure on the left shoulder and it fought me all the way. i waddled into the adjoining room to murmurs of approval by the costume department. the wardrobe person was surprised at how quickly i got into it. so was i.
i was in and out of four or five outfits superfast and i was photographed and then those outfits were approved of or vetoed by the ocean spray powers that be. and so was my hair. (more on that later.) bang-bang-bang, just like that. in no time at all, the well-organized wardrobe room was emptied and i was in the front seat of that silver van again, on my way to where we'd be staying during the shoot -- plymouth, "the nation's hometown," according to the sign that let us know where we were as we entered the town.
it was about an hour south of boston, and it was cold, cold, cold. the p.a. took me to a nearby gigantic mega-walmart (aren't they all that big?), which made me strangely happy. i stocked my little fridge with juice and yogurt and fruit because i knew that i would be on hold the next day and that meant nothing to do and i didn't want to leave my room. for anything. i prayed for a wireless hook-up, cable tv and a decent sized tub. i was prepared for a nice long soak and i had the lush bath bombs to prove it. when we arrived at the governor bradford motor inn (how positively creepy!), i realized that two out of three ain't bad and i promptly sacked out like somebody drugged me.
the next day was spent oversleeping, reading that war book that's changing my life, writing in my journal and making lists incessantly, obsessively even. oh yeah. and there were a ton of phone calls. as usual.
bizarrely enough, i happen to know a lot about plymouth. something in me always wanted to come here and explore the place. it's one thing to read about this stuff, but it's an entirely different situation to physically wander through it, to have it unfold right before your eyes. i did a report about thanksgiving once in grade school that was supposed to be some sort of pat presentation that retold the story we've all heard. the problem was, i wasn't a "pat presentation" kind of a child. i kept digging for the truth behind the well-worn stories. and once i got past the revisionist dreck, i found it. frankly, it scared the living daylights out of me -- and everyone else in the classroom. i distinctly recall that my teacher, a rather glow-in-the-dark pasty middle-aged spinster type with a helmet-like modified spit-curled beehive to go with that unyielding personality of hers, a real live sourpuss who labeled me as "bossy" (the nerve!) was genuinely annoyed with me and pretty much labeled me a troublemaker after that. it was so well-researched, she didn't think i actually did it. boy, did that piss my mother off. after all, she was the one who taught me to read when i was three. a showdown ensued. but i digress.
do you think i'll find anything in plymouth about what really happened to cause the pilgrims to "give thanks" so profusely? because i don't.
the shoot happens on wednesday. wish me well, folks. wish me well.