Lezlie Wade
Bio
Lezlie is an award-winning stage and film director. As a writer, her musical, the Remarkable Journey to Tianguo has been short-listed for the Tom Hendry Award. Other musicals: Hansel & Gretel, and Dead Reckoning part of Kidfilm Festival.
Stories (6/0)
Handle With Care
Sometimes when I can't sleep at night, instead of counting sheep, I count all the different places I've lived. When I was a kid, the Tippet and Richardson truck was a regular sight in our driveway. By the time I was 11, I'd already moved seven times. All our things shoved into boxes would be piled into the belly of a van by men in coveralls who made a sport out of how far they could throw the furniture. I can't remember a single move where something didn't arrive broken or scratched. "A bad omen," my mother would say as she unwrapped chipped porcelain Capodimonte. The truth was that I'd chipped a few of those ugly flowers myself playing Barbies, and only now did she notice. Best to go with the flow.
By Lezlie Wade3 years ago in Families
The F Word
I was 19 years-old the first time I ever said the F-word. I remember it distinctly. I was sitting on the bleachers at the ball park not far from my home thinking about a boy who had kissed me, on that very spot a week earlier. I was writing in my journal when two guys, a bit younger than I, started harassing me. “Nice tits,” the slighty chubby one yelled. “Yeah,” his side-kick mimicked, “Nice tits.” I was and remain to this day a very modest person. I don’t enjoy being somewhat well endowed. I wanted to be flat chested my entire life drawing absolutely no attention to any part of my body whatsoever. My dream was always that people would like me for my sizable brain and witty banter. My breasts were the last thing I cared about. In fact, they betrayed me. Women with breasts were naturally thought of as stupid, whereas flat chested women were smart. But I had just graduated from high school with a 92% average. It had to be because I hid my breasts constantly behind sweaters, jumpers, blazers.
By Lezlie Wade3 years ago in Humans
The Streets of Paris
A few Christmases ago, when in Paris, I happened to become friends with a homeless gentleman who frequented the corner at the end of my street. He sat upon a shocking pink suitcase with his little dog, Lucky, curled up at his feet and wished everyone who passed by a heartfelt “bonne journée.” He never asked for money. Not once. He never scorned those who scoffed or worse judged. He simply smiled and addressed every passerby with a sincere greeting of goodwill. I’d been warned repeatedly about beggars in Paris. “Charlatans,” people said, “they’ll take everything you own if you let them.” So, when I first encountered Nichola, I hurried by shunning eye contact and willing myself NOT to look at the dog. I can turn a blind eye like the rest of us to things too uncomfortable to deal with and reasoned that since this was my first visit to Europe, I deserved a break from routine considerations. But no matter how much I wished I could ignore them, they were always there, as constant as the Eiffel Tower. After a few days, it became impossible, and frankly tiresome, avoiding him. On the fourth night of my stay, I happened to be returning from a concert at the Chapel in Versailles. Intoxicated by the music of Faure, I was in a particularly good mood when I noticed Nichola and Lucky asleep on the street. It was cold that night and a light wet snow had fallen so they were huddled on a grate for warmth upon the wet pavement. My heart cracked. I made my way to the apartment I was staying in around the corner on Duvivier and laying on my bed, stared at the ceiling unable to sleep. I had no idea how I could help or what comfort I could offer, but pretending they didn’t exist was now impossible.
By Lezlie Wade3 years ago in Humans
Being An Actress
I remember the moment I decided I wanted to be an actress. I was walking across the parking lot of my high school after an undoubtedly stellar performance as Portia in an all-girl production of The Merchant of Venice when my father turned to me and said, "Do you think you might want to do this for a living?" At the time I remembered feeling a little insulted. My grades were excellent. Didn't my father think I could be a lawyer or a veterinarian or a psychologist? It wasn't that I didn't love to act, but everyone I knew who wanted to be an actress was either egotistical or unstable. Not that one was mutually exclusive of the other. What did this say about me? No one in my family acted, although my Grandmother often hinted of an unsubstantiated family connection to Hermoine Gingold. Occasionally my parents would take us to see a play or listen to a concert, but only to help make us well-rounded individuals. When someone would go on about the Sound of Music my father would roll his eyes and say, “How can I take a nun singing on hilltops seriously?” And I found myself admitting that he had a point.
By Lezlie Wade3 years ago in Journal
Stranger in a Strange Land
Strangers in Strange Lands My husband works at a five-star hotel and the stories he comes home with are enough fodder for at least several novels and a salacious television series. “Last night a couple from Minnesota pulled the dresser from the wall and checked for dust,” he tells me, “and then complained ad nauseam when they found a hair.” As if the housekeeping staff is made up of Russian shot putters on steroids whose job it is to rearrange the furniture. It’s not enough that these poor women (it’s mostly women) have only half an hour per room to wipe away all the comings and goings of the former occupant. No, they must feed the delusion of the new tenant in such a way that they believe they are the only person who has ever inhabited the room. A hotel suite is not a private residence and a pillow out of place is not proof that there’s been a home invasion.
By Lezlie Wade3 years ago in Wander
