This blog was written with a haughty British accent;)
In my life I've seen a plethora of wild, weird and amazing sights. I love learning and doing new things and exploring new places. Typically while in the throughs my adventures I must powder my nose, to put it demurely. In those varied facilities there has been many a loo I have endured, Port-a-potties and Johnny on the spots included. There are few places with such a wide variation of experiences, most of which are increasingly disgusting. But truly where to begin? Perhaps here:
1. Graffiti professing love and loathing. Which distracts from the task at hand...task at bottom.
2. Portable facilities at festivals and in parks. The limited cleaning of these is in and of itself: a nightmare. I am convinced that the toilet monster from Dogma resides within them and awaits an unexpecting bottom to latch onto and suck down into the bog below.
3. Disasters. Need a lady say more?
4. No flushing. It is a simple physical gesture that proves you respect yourself and others enough to not show them your waste.
5. Toilet paper on the floor. Both wrapped rolls and rogue strips. Wet it becomes a horrific paper-mâché soaked with urine or unidentifiable liquid.
6. Women throwing up and crying, typically a drunken phenomenon; overtaking the facilities, forcing the gentry to "hold it".
7. Hair; pubic and longer strewn about, but always in a location I must touch. And though I am sure you think your hair is cleanly, I do not desire intimate contact.
8. People having sex. I tend to think of public lavatories as out-posts, where you are only expelling, though some may consider me a prude.
9. Washing hands is recommended but how many other parts of the body should be washed in a public sink? Armpits, feet and crotches are business best left for home. Unless your home is Union Station.
11. Line ups and natural flow. Women, please let's agree that the rules of the road should apply to the lines of the restroom. First in, merging and line ups should be adhered to. Unless elderly or invalid.
10. Phone applications that make noise to cover the sound of using the facilities. There is a children's book: Everybody Poops. Please do your business and don't try to wait until the room is empty; everyone knows what you are doing behind that closed door. So my dear, relax and do it.
11. The smell. What foods must be eaten to create such a wretched stench? And if the water closet is a onesizie; leave the door ajar to air it out for the next occupant. Pretty please with a cherry on top?
12. Seat pee. The squatters who have convinced themselves that diseases will leap from the seat, attach and infest within the 15 seconds of contact. Problem? They are the reason other gentle ladies need to wipe the seat before use.
In softer times the loo was outfitted with chaise lounges, mirrors and complimentary beautifying supplies- well complimentary with a substantial tip to the attendant. Lavatories were a place for women in corsets and girdles to breath. For nose powdering and feminine gaggle gossip. It was not simply a place to make water and leave a mess. It was seclusion; away from the eyes of your gentlemen callers. In the comfort of a private place for ladies only. But the perpetrators of the fore mentioned offenses have lost sight of the dignity we had. And now there are fewer ladies, in a time when that's just what the world needs. Oh dear, my telephone is ringing. Please excuse me, I have to take this, it's nature calling:)
May is a month full of special days, especially Birthdays. And if you count backwards it's all those not-yet-parents celebrating Labour Day that are making May babies, heads up on that. I realized that May is My BFF's and Toronto celebrating over 100 years and Freud and Tina Fey celebrating their Bdays- which coincedentally would be the best/worst party ever. This year May is also the Diamond Jubilee; an extremely rare occasion- celebrating the 60 year reign of an 86 year old Queen. Known for having her head on our recently discontinued penny. But those aren't unbirthdays.
Is today your unbirthday? Odds are it is. What have you got planned? Today, I felt like celebrating. Like singing a song in a British accent, wearing a top hat, serving tea to a rabbit and a mouse then dancing in a solo high kick line. An oxymoron, I know, but I've been having trouble finding qualified high kicking applicants to fill those high flying shoes:). I realized that starting this blog was an excuse to celebrate 5 days a week. Well, maybe not excuse; perhaps catalyst is a better word. Every morning I go to my happy place (my laptop), open the spigot (my brain) and pour out a daily dose of mental floss (garble). I put my happy into this, for you. But what really amazes me- once I started writing and thinking happy- it was easier to actually be happy. I mean really happy. And seriously who could be unhappy on their unbirthday? Not this gal.*insert sassy finger shake.
My parents have always encouraged me to follow my heart. But it is only recently I have truly started to become myself. My Hubby is a huge advocate of living each day the way that feels best. And whether that means sitting in a dark room feeling sorry for yourself or whether it means standing on a rooftop and hallooing the world- you should do it. I realized this weekend that I am finally being the unbirthday celebrator I should have been before I started worrying. I started to worry a lot in my post high school years. I would worry about money, time, work, love, my varicose veins, losing at Jenga*insert long and complex list of irrational worries here. I didn't know how to help myself and thought I could just go around being whomever everybody wanted me to be. In the last 3 months though, Ho-oh, I am suddenly not so concerned with worrying anymore. I have realized that I can't totally control those around me. And that's okay- no one loves being controlled. So, on this my Unbirthday I would like to extend an invitation to: Join my Kick line, get a tambourine or play the spoons, but for Kevin's sake (Costner-that is)- Celebrate! The sun is shining and the air is sweet. You only have 364 more unbirthdays this year; what are you waiting for?
And though I didn't invite the Commissioner to this very merry unbirthday, I know he crashes all my parties. Just to ensure that things don't get out of hand, and that people are having the correct amount of fun. So if you see the Commish, tell him to stroke his burly mustache and smile, cuz it's only life and the party's just beginning:)
It's hard to pinpoint the start of my love affair with all things vintage. But I think it started just after my G'ma Far passed away. She was such a Lady. With gloves and pearls and legs crossed at the ankle. It was with her that I watched my first black and white movie. At the time I couldn't understand why anyone would film in B&W instead of colour; it just didn't make sense. It was also with her that I fell in love with Holly Golightly, Gene Kelly and the Sharks (though sadly, I would probably end up being a Jet). At the time she passed I was in high school and had just made the very educated decision to be an almost vegetarian- who ate the occasional steak; because who can resist Papa B's BBQ? But I did give up all pork, you know, for Babe's sake. I tried not to wear leather and fur was murder. I was a very worldy young lady, as far as I was concerned. But there was just one thing; Grandma's fox stole. This glamours furry, rust coloured wrap that smelled like her and felt like a satin lined hug. While cleaning out her house, the house where my Momma grew up; the house were my Bro and I spent Christmases and giggled and fought and played with the old toys that our grown-up cousins had played with. The house where we watched the Jerry Lewis telethon every year the weekend before back to school. It was impossible to think of the things you hoped would remind you of the Lady she was. For me it was the antique cannonball bed and this very non-vegetarian fox stole. I remember talking it out with my Momma; and her tenderness in a time of such heartache. Letting me know that a fox stole worn by my Grandma was very different than a new fur coat. That having something loved by someone before you makes it that much more special. So, I braved my inner critic and wore the stole home on the 3 hour car ride. Sitting in the backseat, wrapped in the smell of my Momma's Momma; and I slept.
Now, a fox stole wasn't something a 17 year old could easily accessorize in 1998, so it went into storage; wrapped and delicately laid there. As I grew, I tried to find my place in this fashionable world. Not an easy task when you grew up in a small town, move to the big city and didn't/don't have any money. Second hand stores and thrift shops were what I could afford or cheap 3 for $10 tops. So I ended up in shoes that didn't fit properly and clothes that even people with bad taste didn't want. These facts forced me to adopt a uniform: jeans, t-shirt and hoodie. This outfit had many incarnations, variations and colours, but it didn't seem to fit me either. I longed to be a Lady, with a capital L like my Grandma. How was a poor little fashion faux-pas like me supposed to make her mark?
Then it happened. A tiny hole in the wall with 12 hats in the front window. My college friend dragged me into a softly lit shoe box storefront- filled with cloches, clutches and class. Smelling vaguely like Chanel No. 5 a woman in rhinestone rimmed glasses smiled at us; 2 college girls in our sweaty dance gear; ogling her wares. I couldn't afford anything that day; not that I didn't want to have it all. I wanted the hats, purses, gloves, brooches, belts and most of all the panache. I wanted to be classy.
It was many years of pining before I started adding quality vintage pieces to my wardrobe. It began with a white sundress from my Momma's high school era; found packed away for a sunny day. Followed by many dresses designed in a time when women were classic and mysterious creatures clad in soft and flowing fabrics. Last year Hubby added my most extravagant piece to date; a chocolate brown Persian lamb 3/4 length coat with voluminous Fox collar and trim. That is a coat that gets noticed! When I wear vintage I can feel the love that the previous owner invested in it and it changes the way you feel about yourself. I am amazed to think that someday my new clothes will be vintage. But by then I think we'll be wearing matching jumpsuits like Logan's run, without all that dreadful running...and murder. That's not the best case scenario for a Lady like me, but who doesn't want hover shoes with automatic laces?
Weekends suddenly make sense to me. I have been living day to day. Jumping from gig to gig for the past 5 years. Without a steady job- other than this... So, the weekend never meant that much to me. It was just 2 more days of the week that I could be working or waiting for the work to call or sweating that it had been 3 days since I worked, etc ad nauseum. But when you're booked into a steady Mon to Friday work week; the weekend is two days off. Back to back, days where I am my own boss. Not worried about when my next job is coming. It's coming Monday. Those 2 days are allocated to my whim. And with this my first Free Weekend I learned the following things in no particular order.
1. The Horseshoe Tavern is Toronto's best music venue- especially if the band has a fiddle
2. Bone marrow, horse meat and cow tongue taste amazing if the chef knows how to do it right
3. Free beer is the best beer
4. A DJ playing to an empty room doesn't take requests
5. My bike needs a softer seat
6. A rare book doesn't have to be old but it helps
7. Law schools are designed to inspire greatness in their students
8. Sundays are designed for Mommas
9. My Puppa loves me more when I smell like bacon poutine
10. Scotland has born some pretty wicked people
11. Lucy doesn't want to play the game "look I’m a pirate and she's a parrot" while standing out on my shoulder
12. Bye, bye Birdie is wicked- this I already knew but it’s important to be reminded
13. Baby Belle won't play herself and I need to practice
14. Coffee in Paris is cheaper at the bar than at a table
15. New shoes make me feel great and guilty
16. A change of facial and body cream are a gateway to better cheeks; which means better smiling
17. Sunshiney weather brings out my freckles
18. My bike basket is not an acceptable handbag
19. Most people yelling in the streets aren't talking to me
20. Queen St though busier is better than Dundas for now
21. Having reliable people around means you breath better
22. Having a slogan on your shirt; allows people to stare at your chesticles
23. Being dressed up and looking good with someone you love is better than being in comfys alone
24. Having a BFF who is pretty helps to see the beautiful things around you
25. A spring breeze is best when blowing through the new spring leaves
26. I will never stop loving Jelly shoes
27. Rose water smells amazing on me
28. Whenever you get something you actually need. When you get home you'll find you needed 2 of them
29. Freddie Mercury still rocks
30. Stopping to smell the flowers sometimes means actually stopping to smell the flowers
31. Painting your toenails navy; encourages one to hum the Village People
I know, I know these aren’t shocking and amazing revelations, but it sounds to me like I had a pretty informative weekend. I just wish that I was taking a weekend from this- and getting paid again Today :) Ah the dream! Happy Monday to all you daily grinders, and Happy non-specific day of any generic work week to all you freelancers.
When I was growing up my family wasn't rich. That's not to say we were poor. We always had name brand Kraft dinner and Koolaid. My Momma is an advocate for buying the products with accountability. None of that yellow pack No Name shenanigans. Unlike my neighbor who's mother made her eat homemade Mac and cheese- eww, poor thing. Being from a family with such high standards, it was hard for me to hear: No. And it was even worse hearing it when I really wanted something.
I used to think/wish/dream that if I was playing with a toy in a store somebody would see me; think I was adorable and give me that toy. Just give it to me. You know the way special and amazing things happen to everyday average people. Especially middle class blonde haired children from small town Ontario. It's supposed to happen all the time. It never did. Remember when Cabbage Patch kids were all the rage? I sure do. I loved my Norma Betsy in her blue corduroy overalls and sandy brown braids. We were inseparable- except if I was playing outside, she wasn't allowed out; she'd get dirty. My macaroni neighbour had 2 Cabbage Patch kids and I only had Norma Betsy. Life just wasn't fair.
Is there a parent out there who likes Toys'R'us? It was an exercise in patience for my parents I suspect. My little Brother knowing the only reason we went to Kitchener was to drive by the chicken giving the thumbs up to the toysrus- the way he said it sounded more like a dinosaur than a toy store- though either would've been cool.
While shopping I began pestering my Momma. Starting softly and steadily increasing my whining towards an 11. Momma telling me; "No. No-for the last time, ask me again and we're going straight home." I skulked off. Back to the Cabbage Patch aisle; the only place I was understood and among friends. Starring at their smiling chubby faces behind the shiny cellophane I started daydreaming: My Momma realizing the error of her ways collects my brother from the bike, trike and scooter aisle. Pulling him against his will, telling him: 'Your sister needs to have a little brother or sister for Norma Betsy. It was a beautiful dream until suddenly there was a pair of hands reaching past me; towards the wall of dolls, selecting a beautiful redhead with curls and 2 front teeth. With a quick inhale I let out a shriek! Joy! Surprise! Sweet and wonderful and all things great! I am twirling and I reach out for this hand- exclaiming "Oh yes! She's so pretty! She's perfect." Taking hold of that hand I turn to find strangers. STRANGERS! The worst thing in the whole wide world and I am holding hands with one. I snatch my 8 year old hand away from an equally surprised woman and start running down the aisle. Finding my Momma and Bro exactly where I knew they would be. Flushed and embarrassed and a bit scared I take Momma by the hand- a hand I know. Promptly bursting into unexplained tears. I didn't leave her side for the rest of the day; worried that strange woman would find us and tell on me.
That day I went home with a tight chest. Sitting in the backseat of our Taurus I couldn't even be bothered to keep my Bro off my side. I could have been an orphan like those Cabbage Patch kids- waiting for a home, but I wasn't. I had a Momma and a Papa and a Bro and Norma Betsy! I couldn't leave them. I still didn't have as many dolls as my Macaroni neighbour, but at least I didn't have to go home with new parents. Oh yeah, 2 months after this traumatic day, on my birthday Norma Betsy and I welcomed Austin Merle to our teeny family. A preemie brother whose bald head smelled of plastic and baby powder in a sea-foam green flannel onesie. It's true, you can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes, you just might find- you get what you already had... and a preemie. It turned out for the best, Norma Betsy has never really been a fan of redheads anyways;)
On my last trip home, 3/4 my parentals mentioned Jilly looked fat. But what this neurotic girl heard was: We said your dog looks fat, but what I really want to say is YOU, Melicious are a fat. A fatty fatty fat pants and even those are too tight. Since the wedding I have gained weight. But I can't stop eating. I mean it, I sit and think about food. If I am not spitting words out, I am shoving food in. This blog is sorta like talking but I've taught myself to type one handed... For many reasons*insert nervous collar pull. The worst part? My loving Hubby and my brand new saddle bags remind me- I'm not 20 anymore. Which in and of itself is a problem, I've just gotten a handle on being 29 and it's my first year of being 30! Roddammit. What do they say? A year late and a holler short? Alright nobody says that.
I have never been a slim person. When I got super stressed out last year planning a wedding to my Hubby (who else) I lost weight all year. It fell off, mostly too quickly, mostly because I wasn't eating anything but fingernails and biting my lip. Oh and booze, every weekend there was a party, for me or Hubby or both. I wasn't planning on losing all that weight. I just didn't think to slot eating into my schedule. Oh boy, did I get compliments. I still had pale untoned arms, but the untone had a much smaller sense of motion. Now, I am more like a flapping pterodactyl, but they're extinct right? Perhaps I am the missing link. Let's not even bring up the bottom half. Okay, in the spirit of journalistic transparency. It's big, it's a big problem. A big, wide, spreading butt with no joke. It's like the Monster Cheese. As we know I exaggerate, which literally means misrepresent as being bigger; convenient but not entirely untrue. The biggest problem isn't just that I've been eating. It's that I also eat the wrong things. Take Mae West snack cakes for example. A golden cake with white icing (icing: a fancy word for sugar paste) wrapped in a sweet chocolate embrace. Mae West is a trampy grown up version of little Debbie, taunting me from the box in her pin up pose, laughing at me. And her cakes hurt my teeth but I love them. So I eat them, in packs of 8 over a week and 2 days... But I feel guilty. I feel guilty and that b*%$h Mae just keeps smiling at me wearing a skimpy outfit. If there is one thing that the film industry has taught me it's that advertising and reality are often worlds apart- Mae West has never eaten one of her disgustingly delicious cakes. Surviving on a strict diet of cotton balls, two finger sandwiches and self loathing. Also, she might have a slight advantage being a cartoon.
PS this may have also caused this On the edge of my seat, hanging by a thread
When was the last time you danced. I mean really shook what your Mama gave ya? Danced until you were out of breath from laughing so hard... Closed your eyes and shrieked along with a song that makes you loose your mind and has for years? A song that you've loved since grade school- I bet my wicked sticks that you still know all the words. Dancing is something every kid does, even though it's more like shaking your sillies out than actual dancing, not that I can boast better moves.
I am not a good dancer, I am really Really not a good dancer. My very white and untoned arms flailing through the air. My legs either kicking Ringwald style or pogo bouncing- depending on my shirt as I have had too many dance-wardrobe malfunctions. The combination of clumsy and banging beats is dangerous. In highschool I used to dance with my shadow on the wall, cuz it was the only thing forced to dance with me. If you've seen me dance, you know, it's a combination of mock sexy oooh faces and deep knee bends. It's really not great. Thank goodness my regular dance partners are one tough cookie and a bitch. DJ Jilly Bean is a good sport, she tries to keep up for the first 2 songs but she's not in it for the long haul she prefers to growl/sigh at me from the couch once she's realized I am not dancing because there are "sooo manny ccoookkies in my pocket" and she's gonna get them all. My tough cookie is a whoo girl. Is there anything better than a Whoo girl, hooting and hollering and carrying on like a crazed woman; possessed by the music. Okay, that's a little much, but you get it. She's fun.
As for the loss of public dancing. Why don't we have group dances anymore? Moves that everybody knew- the bump, the shuffle, the dip, electric slide and begrudgingly I will even accept the chicken dance. The steps uniting a group of wedding goers or prom attendees. Making outcasts part of the group. A step chart for social interaction helps the socially awkward. Dancing is never going to be something I am good at- no matter how many tap, ballet or jazz classes I take. Even modern dance; a dance designed for the body you've got no matter who you are, I still look strange. A bad dancer dancing strangely is still bad. But what about twirling? I am a great spinner, like a Roddamn top! a twirl-master general. So, maybe I focus on the round and round instead of the doo-wop & get down; it's a small sacrifice. Plus the Macarena isn't dead and even my GMa can do that- Hhhaaa!
This past weekend was a beautiful and picturesque one. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and I was convinced that no matter what, we were gonna have a great time. So, I coerced my fabulous Hubby to take a leisurely stroll along Lakeshore with a plan for drinks at Sunnyside Pavilion and an ice cream if he was good. What I forgot was, I am married to the Commissioner of the Universal police force- a unique and tactical group of people who govern the general public without election or qualifications. His jurisdiction is an impressive one, covering all forms of media and most of southern Ontario.
Being the Commissioner's wife is a lot of pressure- just ask McMillan and his wife-hijinks! But Rock Hudson is a well paid-highly trained-climbed through the ranks- police officer. My Hubby is a freelance, sorta strategic nay-sayer with a knack for the grumps.
On this particular day his mandate was 'Road wise, Street smarts'. It all began when I crossed the street- to a suddenly crowded corner. And we were pinned behind, between and among tourists with cameras and backpacks, street kids with jingling dreadlocks and a tiny woman who wanted to pick-up my poor shy Stinkeroo. I will admit, he was not wrong to be uncomfortable. My next mistake was leading the Commissioner to the shared walk & bike path. With a posted speed of 20k/h and a mental speedometer registering high speeds, the Commissioner was on the lookout for infractions. We have a long running joke about reckless drivers and the wish to have a sack of marbles to ding their vehicle on the way by. But sadly neither the Commissioner or I have the guts to do it. And quite frankly- it's a much higher stake to hit a bicyclist with a glass sphere launched at them as punishment for breaking the suggested bike path speed limit.
Don't get me wrong, tough Hubby is one of my favourite Hubbys, followed closely by chef Hubby and 'you're so pretty, I have stars in my eyes' Hubby. But the Commissioner is hard on me. Especially on a beautiful day when the family is out walking together, and your heart feels like singing and the grass is soft and green, I wish the Commissioner would take a day off. But he doesn't, Hubby is married to his job- which wouldn't be so bad if his benefits were better and the vacation time was paid. Well, at least one of us got ice cream:)
As I compose this blog there are 2 sets of fingers in my mouth. No, that's not right.
As I compose this I am fully reclined with a grinder drilling a hole in my brain...nope, still not there.
This blog was written from the comfort of a dentist's chair. As this new dentist, who I liked as soon as I met him, feels around inside my mouth for this dramatic fracture I am blogging in my mind. You know how people say "Go to your happy place." This is my happy place. But that Rod-damned grinding/polishing is throwing my thoughts into a tizzy- Rude. The weird thing is I don't want to talk about the hands in my mouth (though I have mentioned it twice). I don't even want talk about dentists in general, except this: I love Steve Martin. The topic of choice today?
It's you. Yes, you. Stop looking around. No, not that guy, why would it be that guy? I can smell his BO from here. Eww. I digress. Yesterday I spent time with 2 of my biggest cheerleaders- unrelated to me by blood or marriage. People who have chosen my basket for some of their eggs. A weird analogy, but I like it. These two fab folks are wicked sticks. The kind that beat the crap out of low-self esteem and prop you up when you're not too sure of yourself. While Hubby says I may give myself too much credit, it's still nice to hear it from others. There is a very nervous and shy girl under this bravado.*insert Home Alone face
When you're a little person, friendship is a game of proximity. You weren't friends with people you didn't see. That's the way it was. When you grow up, well get taller, friendship changes. You start realizing you can learn something from every friend in your life, near or far. Yesterday's lesson was in loyalty and dedication. These two get me doing all sorts of things I don't wanna do, but they knows it's good for me, so I do things for/with them. And maybe a little bit for me. Being more like them helps me feel better about myself. Is that alright? It almost feels like I am taking advantage of their kindness, and claiming it as my own. I hope they get something from me other than a blog entry:)
Another friend of mine has been teaching me generosity. He's generous beyond merit. It's strange to me- I don't like giving gifts. I am not very good at it. I am not good at it because I am cheap. He reminded me that giving to others is a gift in itself. Giving is the point, and it feels good. That is the reason you give someone something. To give it. But I forgot that. I am not sure if I will ever be great at this, but I think trying is the first step to changing that. Then there's Damnber who splits herself so many ways and still manages to make you feel special. Important. Understood. She is more whole while split than most people are whole. If you can wrap your head around that.
So dear friends near and far, old and new let's remember the lessons we've learned and the ones we are teaching. Oh, this UV light and schmancy glasses mean I am almost done at the dentist, and this blog. Which is a good thing cuz thinking about how special you are is giving me the vapours. Oh no, that's just stray spittle. Talk about grinding to a halt:) (That's a very happy smile. Thanks DDS)
Yesterday was my last day working in 1860. The set is slated to be stored, the props are going back to the warehouse of antiquities they came from. The work that I am in love with is over. And yesterday I broke my dental epoxy into a razor sharp crevasse that I can't keep my tongue off. It is a feeling I can only describe as: The worst! When I am concerned that I am falling apart. It must be time to move on. It's my last day with a group of people I met and flattered and swindled into giving me a job. Now, I am distracted by the tongue magnet stuck to the pokey bit in my mouth. I am not saying goodbyes, and I should before drinking at the wrap party. Which for those who don't know is a giant party for everyone who worked on a film or tv show. One last hurrah with the dream team the producers created- and was built from top to bottom. We worked together, personality conflicts and all. We made a tv show. That's awesome. Most of the people on this set are wicked. I mean, they are awesome sauce, and my tongue was too tied up with my broken dental epoxy to tell them.
When I got home last night at the charming hour of 2 am on my last day; I thought I would have been overwhelmed by a feeling of accomplishment. Thought there would be something checked off my list. At least I should feel great, and all I can say is: Well, that was anti-climatic. And then my brain pipes up: Why shouldn't it be? It's just 3 months. And a bunch of new friends. That's just how it works. Three months of spending 5 days a week, 13 hours a day with a group of people. Then you go your separate ways and hope to run into them in the near future. Well, most of them. Some you wonder if they will stick to their guns and actually "get out of this business because it's killing them". I hope that if you want out, you get out. I don't want out- I want deeper in.
The great thing about this is I am going from 1860 to 1900. Not a huge stretch. On Tuesday I will start with a new crew, on a new set. I have to make friends with a new work partner in a new place. I have to get to know them all over again. I just did all that work*insert foot stomp. I was starting to not have to hold back. I was starting to belong to that team as me- myself- almost no filter. Just a back up filter, just in case. I forget that I have to make a new first impression. I hope I come off as likeable as I did last time. My last first impression was wicked- if I do say so myself. It's hard to make new friends, with new jokes and find the people on a new set that will let me go -almost- filterless. So, as one might guess the nerves are thrumming. The tension is mid-range. But I hope to have a new ritual, make each day a bit easier with a little planning. Also, so much studio time means that I will be able to build a nest for myself. A nook where there is a book, a band and a bite to eat. A safe place. So, if you're ever in the past, keep an eye out for me, I will be lurking near by.
As for finishing up this show; I guess the wrap party will be have to be a place for thank you's and awkward hugs. Saying I hope to work with you on Season 2, and actually meaning it most of the time. The best thing about yesterday? Hmmm, oh yea the producer bought my dinner. A fancy and delicious Italian dinner. So it's not all bad. But if I had known he was paying I would have had the lobster.
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