This past week when I received my mail, there was an ominous brown envelope with a bank logo in the corner. Usually, when I get one of these letters it is the bank congratulating me on my increased line of credit (which I need like a hole in the head), but this time.... Oh this time. This letter, with enclosed pamphlet details exactly how my bank fees are increasing. INCREASING? I am already paying $12.95 a month for the ability to use a debit card and for the bank to "take care" of my money. Money which they put on hold and prevent me from getting at whenever I want. They are also closing branches and limiting access to ATMs. Now, that seems nutty- raising fees and lowering expectations. C'mon! I am confused to say the least, where is all that extra money going? If banks are closing to limit costs, why do we need to raise the fees?
I really don't want to increase what I am paying the bank now. How can a business gamble with my money, keep the winnings and have the audacity to charge more? These banks are being selfish. When I was growing up, my Momma was adement about sharing. Or at least giving credit where it's due. It would be great if the banks rewarded us for being good customers, with something usable like, ummm, money. If money is a concept created by banks to establish financial hierarchy, they should be doing more to help the largest demographic- the bottom. How about a matching fund? For every dollar you save with the bank, they donate 10 cents? Or if your account has less than 20 transactions you get a money order that you can put towards a fun new pair of shoes. How about a fund that will donate monthly if you have a direct withdrawal with a registered charity. There are many ways to make the members of a bank swallow the new fees easier. How about this? The bank knowing your spending habits automatically gives you the account best suited for you, instead of wrestling with a bank employee to get it. It's not hard to be a better business, just ask your local BIA.
Can we create a better system? It seems like the best option for a broke ass like me, would be to go back to the barter system. I will give you a manicure and a massage for my groceries? Would that work?
If I came over and cleaned your house would you chauffer me around? Are there any other options? What is going to happen to the world if these bank systems need to be bailed out, and there is no money to do it? It seems to me that the best option is stuffing a coffee can full of $50 dollar bills and waiting for a rainy day. Though I think if it starts to look stormy I will just blow it all on rubber boots and call it square.
You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you cant pick your friend's nose hairs; your brother's on the other hand that's a different story. Buddy-boy, I know you won't read this, but thanks for pre-approving my telling it:) His actual words being; "I won't read it, so whatever." My brother and I are very similar, though he thinks I am some sort of Golden Child, which is a lot of pressure, cuz I don't like to disappoint, and being the golden child, I am waiting for Eddie Murphy and the "I-ee-i-i-I want the knife". If you see us together, you can tell we're related. We laugh at our own jokes, we laugh before we've even told a joke. We're awesome. You know, we're awesome because we say so. It's a family thing.
Now, Buddy-boy is a tradesman. He works all day with wood and paint and hammers. He breathes in dirt and dust and indignation. He's supposed to wear a mask, but chooses not to. And I think it's for the same reason as I don't like wearing them, they make talking hard. Talking- well, ranting, that's another a family thing. How would the world survive without hearing what we've got to say- luckily, you'll never know, cuz we won't shut up.*insert knowing head nod. So, no mask means- his natural filter- his nose holes, are working OT. (It's unpaid OT as they are contracted under special Ontario Trades apprenticeship program) That being said- I think you can understand where I'm going with this... His nostrils are brimming with rogues- it's like an upside down vase with fuzzy stems poking out. It's amazing.
When he arrived at my house, looming over me, all I could see was nose hair. I was deaf to his words, in my mind what he was saying was: "Hey, sis, you should pluck this. I want you to get rid of them. Please, you're my only hope" What he was actually saying was he's falling in love, which is scary for him but I know it's really wicked! So, before I missed any other important information I stopped him. "Can I get those for you?" Pointing to his schnoze. "Pretty please? You'll look so much, well, less hairy. When your nose hairs start migrating to beard hairs... it's time to take them out." His answer? A resounding "NO!" suddenly Hubby chimes in, "You'd better just let her do it. She won't stop until they're gone". I turn to Hubby smiling, he gets me, he really gets me:) Finally, Buddy-boy agrees. I leap from my seat and reach for the tweezers (which there's a pair in every room and my purse) and a kleenex. Going straight to work, worried he'll change his mind. Buddy-boy tearing up and laughing at the same time. He knows that beauty is pain, just ask his 27 tattoos or piercings and mohawk. Having pulled 6 hairs- one of which I am pretty sure was attached to his brain, he stops me.
"That's good." he says with the matching suppression gesture.
"No, there's only 2 more." I whine,
"No, it's good." Recognizing the tone of his voice as the one that he typically uses before the Green light (green light means all systems Go! No holding back), I restrain myself.
I know that too much of a good thing can be painful, like those Big Gulp slushies no one can ever finish. Having nearly completed my mission, I am nearly satisfied that I will be sending him out into the City like the awesome dude he says he is (and actually is most days). I think for X-mas, I will get him an industrial face hole trimmer, or I'll just invite him over for a spa day with his fav Golden girl, which would actually be like a gift for both of us:)
Today I don't feel like doing anything. I don't want to blog, I don't want to clean, I just don't wanna.*insert foot stomp. I want people to pamper me and fawn over me and tell me, even though it's raining I have brought a ray of sunlight to their day. It's Thursday, a have I got a mean case of the Thursdays. Oh, you might not know what that means... On Wednesdays Hubby hosts karaoke, and he is out and performing until 2 am, and it's 4 am before he gets home. There is more often than not a few beers involved as well. But mostly it's the energy sucking of being the entertainer, always on pointe, keeping the night flowing- anyone who's thrown a party before knows the feeling. The day after is always a kicker. Yesterday I worked until 1am, and didn't get to sleep until 3am and my biggest problem is it was Soo very nice yesterday, and I was at work. I got to work outside for the morning, and sure I got some colour but I thought we were done with this crappy weather. I know, I know, the winter wasn't so bad, but a falsely-started spring is the worst. I gots a mean case of the False-spring-Thursdays- a double whammy if there ever was one. So, today I don't feel like doing anything. So, I won't .
Except this. I am throwing around the idea of starting an online "talk show". It's just an idea...but I am looking for volunteers to join me on my couch. I picture this: an evening of women socializing and then a sequence of interviews about things affecting us in our life and times. Creating an online time capsule for generations of women to come. So plant that seed neighbour girls. Want to join me on the couch? Leave your comments here or...send me a Facebook message:) I hope today's super-cala-dreariness doesn't reach you, wherever you are.
Yesterday, while lying in a shallow grave getting hailed on, I realized. I love my job. I know, I know, it sounds terrible. And really it is. I mean, it's freaking awful. It's cold and dirty and you have to use unheated port-a-pottys, and you stand around for 14 hours, and your jaw hurts from clenching it in the cold. You have no control over when you'll be finished; no matter how hard or well you work. Generally, you're just uncomfortable and itchy. The film business, ain't purty. There in lies the rub, I love it anyways. I love, love, love it; and it's a good thing I have a union that dictates what I get paid- cuz I would do all this crazy stuff for free- that's how much I love it. FREE!!! I would be a waitress, or a police officer, or a janitor in a movie, tv show or theatre production. The great thing is, I never have to stay the same thing more than a few days. Tomorrow always holds another character.
Here is my morbid dream, which I guess should be classified as a nightmare...I want to play a dead body 7 times before I die, and preferably in the following ways:
1. Blueing Corpse on a mortuary slab with the Y-stitches- I don't know the cause of death, the CSI team are just putting the clues together, there will hopefully be a "flashback" of the murder happening.
2. Falling down stairs- splayed out at the bottom.- Pushed by my jealous lover or a woman who wants to steal my husband and perfect life.
3. A cancer patient or other near survivor.- Not really something I want to do...but if I am playing people dying, this is one of the most likely avenues I'll have to take.
4. Impaled in the gut with a spear or jousting foil.- Going down in a medieval blaze of glory, a peasant woman secretly acting as a knight to save her family's business from a tyrannical Lord or Baron.
5. Eaten by a wild animal, preferably a bear, after a wrestling match.- While lost in the woods, without shoes I stumble into a ferocious bear's territory. He lurches at me from the rustling brush, and we struggle as he slashes and tears, I eventually succumb and the bear eats me, ripping me apart.
6. Swarmed by zombies or dragged away by demons- like in Ghost or Zombieland, with lots of screaming and grasping for help, clutching the hand of someone I know is going to leave me behind, I am too far gone already. I just hope if it's Zombies, my team of apocalyptic survivors shoot me in the head to honour my memory, keeping me from becoming a zombie myself. It's the least they could do.
7. Floating in a pool- eyes open.- a timeless classic, and I would hope it's shot in black and white, from the bottom of the pool. Classic death, drowned in a swimming pool.
All that terrible stuff being said, I would also like to solve a mystery, find a missing child, rob a bank, fly, unite 2 feuding families...okay, okay, let's be honest. I want to do everything. There's not a single thing that I wouldn't do or be. I have always been a glutton for punishment, not real punishment mind you, but working in film might be worse punishment as it's a lot more takes, a lot more angles, and a lot more direction, but I still love it. Why be a anything, when you could be everything?
Springtime is upon us! And for this fancy lady that means skirts and sundresses. Upon opening my clothes storage container and releasing the smell of musty but clean summer wear, I breathe a sigh of relief. I mean, who doesn't love wearing a skirt? I carefully choose a dual-season skirt that could be worn with stockings, as it is too chilly for bare legs just yet. While wearing the skirt, doors started opening for me - literally - people started opening doors for me, giving slight bows and respecting the skirt. With a great skirt, comes great responsibility.
I consider myself a feminist: I vote; I enjoy "equal rights" (though as an actress they don't really help me); and I read Bust magazine. Being a feminist can seem like a strange and outdated philosophy by those who don't realize the changes we've made. Feminists are no longer relegated to being a screaming, hairy-arm-pitted, bra-burning, college crowd. We have become a strongly feminine and global unity-seeking bunch. Now, not all feminists agree that we can be feminist and feminine. But within every movement there are factions, believing similar mantras with variations. I believe that all women have a choice on how to use their bodies. That includes the ability to make decisions about abortion and birth control, as well as the right not to be harassed - in the workplace or anywhere else. That being said, I also believe that women have the right to choose how they behave. That's an important part. Women can be tough or sweet and still believe in feminist principles. It's a new world.
I think more men need to be feminists. I am starting to think that most men truly believe women would rather do it all ourselves. And by do it, I mean all the details that keep life chugging along on it's rails. If women took a week off, what would happen to the household? It falls to pieces. This is crazy, 'cuz no one has a yearning desire to do laundry. There isn't one person in the whole wide world who looks into their drawer of clean, folded clothes anticipating the exhilaration of their next wash! It's getting dirty that's the fun part. Sheesh! I do the laundry now because if something gets ruined, I have no one to blame but myself. Self-reliance and desire are easily confusable, in this aspect. I don't want to do laundry; I do it because I don't want to blame anyone else for ruining something (as hubby knows all too well). But where do we draw the line between the traditional gender roles and the balancing act of being a 50/50 household? Times have changed. It's not often that a nuclear family has a stay-at-home mom, responsible for keeping house. In most modern homes both members work, bringing home the bacon and frying it up together. How have we come so far without actually changing anything?
I guess where I end up is here: I do laundry because I cannot afford to replace my clothes and I will continue to get my clothes dirty. I'll wear skirts and have doors open for me and I will continue to fight for feminist dames because no one deserves to be treated like Molly Maid just because they wear a skirt.
- MM (and no, that doesn’t stand for Molly Maid)
My girlfriend said the best thing about this blog is; it feels like you're on the inside of the jokes. So, being the butt of this inside joke, I thought I would tell you about my pant splitting experience. I split the ass out of my jeans. I mean right out. I split them from helm to bow, from crotch to fly. I tore through those poor jeans as if they'd gone after my family. With one foul slash these jeans stole all the self confidence I had been slowly building. Getting myself to a place of physical acceptance; only to have it, quite literally ripped away from me. While at work- with a group of mostly men, a distinct ripping sound filled the air and a breeze blew through, where no breeze had blown before. One of the few gentlemen on set covertly approached me and whispered in my ear that my pants had split. Lucky me to have worn my conservative, full bum, black cotton briefs. Scurrying off to the washroom like a grade 8 girl who just started her period, I wrapped a shirt around my waist and kept on with my day, though with strong sense of em-bare-ass-ment.
My Hubby didn't get why I was so upset- as I thundered and stormed around, in search of some reason for this happening. So what, maybe these jeans were too expensive? And I really loved them, big deal. They are after all just a pair of pants; but I have trouble letting things go. For example my Penn state jogging pants I bought with babysitting money on a trip to New England. The only thing supporting my statement that these are still pants- is a flimsy (no more elastic) waistband. These joggers are the only thing linking my high school days to my married life- except Facebook. There is a certain comfort to be had, wearing an orange hoodie you've had for 8 years or a tank top that's 5 summers old. Cuddling up in the broken down fabric; with the ripped cuffs and frayed bottoms.
As for obliterating a 3 month old pair of jeans. Do you know what kind of psi pressure goes into splitting them in such a way? Oh- you don't 'cuz it's never happened to you? Well, let me tell you. While thinking about these new jeans I realized they suffered through: 3 Ladies ski weekends in Collingwood, moving, making a horror film in a 'building' where wind is born, 3 comedy shows, the streets of 1860 New York, 2 student films, 4 girl's nights -3 in and 1 out, Jilly's surgery and a friend's new baby. Now, I probably didn't wear those jeans for all that time, but a lot has happened in their short life. So, why mourn their passing? Oh yeah, 'cuz the looked freakin' fabulous and were 100,000,000 times more comfortable than any other pants I've ever had. (That might be a slight exaggeration)
After finally expressing these feelings to Hubby, he told me to get new jeans and get over it. But it's not that easy, replacing your favourite jeans takes time, effort and money. That being said, I bought 3 new pairs. Two of those pairs are way too long. A problem I had worked out with my former new jeans; but I guess long legs outweighs crotchless, at least I know Hubby is more tolerant of rolled cuffs. Okay, so having replaced my favourite jeans with these promising new pairs, I guess it's time I release the crotchless joggers and jeans. But, I can't just throw them out; maybe I'll chop them up and make them into a quilt...with all my extra time. When you've suffered a pant trauma like this, you're likely to have horrific pant splitting flashbacks- which have thrown me into cold sweats- specifically in the butt area and I keep trying to prevent any stretching, bending or leaning- until these new jeans get a little more relaxed, you know for the jean's sake.
PS- An interesting side note to this inside joke: Having told the story a few times, as is my custom, when something funny happens, the general reaction is surprise that it was my pants, and not my shirt- having an obviously high psi up there and two ever-present reasons why I don't wear button down shirts, I guess I was lucky after all.
Dear Opportunity, So very much has happened since we had our chance meeting at Starbucks when I wasn't wearing any makeup and hadn't washed my hair. It was so nice to see you, looking like you just stepped off a runway with matching accessories. Where to begin? Well, we moved. As I tenderly wrap my Marilyn sweater into a hug and nestle her into my new closet on a new wooden hanger, I thought of my Little King, and laughed. Four long years in 400sq ft, this is so much better. I am still figuring out where my life belongs in this place. Where to sleep? Or nap- both being very important and separate resting periods. Where to snuggle? Where Lucy curls up. My hubby thinking I am crazy trying to find places for things. I've never had to worry where things went. They only had one place to go: there. Where's the faucet position for optimal hand washing temp. Turning lights on and off for the first time, and guessing what Hubby is doing in the other room by the sounds. It's amazing. Using the new washer and dryer. Them, I love- cutting my laundry time in half by 3 days. Throwing out unpaired socks. Cause they won't find themselves and move over. Realizing that unsupervised Jilly will nest inside warm, clean laundry. Oh, then there's Jilly one week after vaginal reconstruction surgery and feeling much snappier. Being stubborn as usual and pulling me toward the dog park. Weird thing though she's still running into walls with her giant plastic cone, which I honestly thought by now she would've learned how to navigate. The impact may actually be making her dumber. A worrisome thought when you just spent $3,000 on surgery. But insurance paid for that, well most of it. But not the taxes, never the taxes. *insert fist shake Our new house isn't all washing machines and dog surgeries though. Don't forget the flood, the mail standoff, the mis-wired door buzzer and the constant upgrades, it's a disaster. The slow return of the neighbours, coming home to their dry but damaged stuff. It's an antique collectors nightmare! Irreplaceable heirlooms. Wood that's now more prone to cracking, splitting and splintering. One neighbour explaining why she thought she didn't need insurance; "Cuz nothing she owned was valuable"...Except when it all gets ruined at once and needs to be replaced. That's what insurance is for...Oh yeah, and of course, the last booming machine sucking up humidity into a giant plastic garbage tub is right outside my door. So, I decided to take advantage of the noise and put in a load of laundry. It's amazing how a sound can change when it's answering to your sock and towel whims and not the building manager's, who is scared everyone is gonna sue. It's a fantastic time of inconvenient building posts and no base boards. Otherwise, It's been a wicked month. I have a slightly regular job. Slightly meaning- 2-3 times a week. Commercials on the side, and this. I have watched my Likes grow and my web traffic increase to a steady flow. I created my first guest blog for Misfits & Mascara! Now, I have you. Your my new favourite and when you don't comment I get lonely. But as I say- I want you, to want to want me, but I don't want to ask.Love and Likes.Melicious
This past week I was asked to write for another blog. This is my first guest blog! Check it out! The Misfits & Mascara website is dedicated to teaching the art of productive procrastination. And I was asked to blog about the difficulties of creating something for yourself. Check the link above!
As most of you know, I am in love with life. I mean I love it so much, I want to ask life to go steady. I try to love every single day. I love my girlfriends and I love talking and I love listening to myself talk to my girlfriends. I walk around with a bounce in my step, usually singing at the top of my lungs... Here's the crux. People hate seeing happy people... WHOA! What? How does that even make any sense? Why would anybody hate someone who's happy?*insert someone whispering into my ear..Oh- cuz they aren't! Oh no, that's awful.
Okay, so let's get happy. Look out your window- there's a whole big world out there, and you're part of it. Everyday so far the world has been turning, spinning and giving you a chance to be the person you want to be. We are alive- and some of us are in pain, and some of us are lonely and some of us hate our jobs... But baby, keep your chin up! Cuz when you're smiling... The whole world smiles with you. A very good friend of mine, who I love-love, tends to get bogged down with worrying over the details. Worry, worry, worry... and it stresses her out. That stress about tomorrow distracts her from the today she's got. Now, I know life is complicated, and that it's a delicate balancing act. I am not trying to tell you not to worry. Worrying is an important part of life too, it just shouldn't dominate. Look for the sunshine. Look for the deep breaths. Look for the laughter, and the patio afternoons. Take advantage of your life. You have one shot at today, and you can choose how you see it.
Singing, dancing and laughing are staples of my daily life. A day without dancing is a sad day. I dance by myself, I dance without music. It makes me happy. Happiness is hard for a lot of people. Happiness is something you need to work at. It doesn't come naturally to everyone. Do you have someone who helps you to be happy? Do you have a happy song? DO you have have happy feet in uncomfortable shoes? Life happens every single day. And there are good days, sad days, days that change us and simple sunny afternoons. But today should be a day you're happy. Have you laughed for no reason? It will make you feel better, trust me. That's why you're here right?
My day is a wicked one. I plan on playing my uke on my teeny balcony, playing You don't know Jack by myself and getting Jilly's stitches out. Now 2 of those 3 things are good, and 1 is great! I plan on ukeing my nail polish off and then I will practise my moves like Jagger, with a Stinkeroo-Bean who has 10 less teeny knots in her butt. I am happy about that! And why wouldn't I be? Life is today and today is great! I love my Hubby, I love my Bean and Sushi-goose. I love this song! Sooo, I'll ask you, are you happy now? You ought to be, because today's the only day we ever get, tomorrow might be great but let's not get ahead of ourselves. So why not choose to be happy? And maybe next time you see me singing on the sidewalk you'll sing the harmony, and we can flip your frown upside down.
Sooo...If you know me, you know- I am loud. I am a loud talker, laugher, I bang into things, I am not a quiet person. It's not on purpose, and it's without Melicious intent, so what's the big deal? I know, I know, just because I think the next thing that might fly out of my mouth could be the day's funniest statement and that the more people who hear it the better, doesn't make it so...
That's why I started a blog, as I am getting more comfortable with my; this is the Voice, my own real life conversations are becoming crisper. The writing is helping me speak... A duh, a doy. Surprise- that's why public figures don't just wing it, and speech writers make a tonne of mola. It's because sounding natural, concise and clear is hard.
Take this blog, if you read some of the earlier posts...Whoa, even I have trouble following the through lines. They are round-about-ey (not a word, but should be) and confusing- no wonder nobody was reading them. As I started to blossom into this young writer you read before you, the stories become straight forward. No more interesting, but at least understandable. Understandable writing is probably the most important thing about writing. Otherwise, ehtocus ahosduss ahos, hahaha-right?
Practice! With practice comes...well, perfection, but that may be over shooting a bit a this point. Let's say with practice comes less humiliation. A daily blog forces me to create something everyday. Force is a strong but accurate word. Word choice. Every word in the english language has a different implication, and choosing the right one is important. Be brave, if you write something and only 2 people read it, odds are 50% of them will like it. Of course, I am not a stats Canada employee and haven't fact checked that statement, but I am assuming one of those people is my Mama,(Hi mom!) and she mostly loves my work... when the language is tame:)
Creating an online avenue for myself is a great way to keep me at home and out of real life alleys, though being the scaredy cat I am, I generally choose the long, well lit way home. Having a place to come and be myself is wicked. I just wish you would come here and be yourself too. I want #FreakChic to reign supreme. The time of the nerd is passed. It is now up to us to let people know, what they want to do, they can do. And that even if you're a weirdo, you can be part of my team. So, I might be loud or choose the wrong topic, but I am getting better... Writing will change the way you feel about words. I am starting to go lightly but carry a big online schtick.
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