There are children all over who grow up dreaming. Sometimes they are too shy to talk their peers. Perhaps their mouth works just a hint faster than their brain and they often find themselves chewing foot. Maybe they find their own thoughts more amusing and entertaining than reality and well, just a wonderful place to play. Those starry eyes drifting; lost in a teeny insect world, or on an intergalactic journey. For little bitty me, imagination was my best friend. We would read fairy tales and mystery novels together. Yellow jacketed puzzles that we'd solve just in time to start the next. We'd write dark and brooding poetry, as that was the only kind we knew about until haiku. But movies, they were our home.
There are so many lives I have lived through movies. I have been a warrior, a dancer, an outcast, a vigilante. I have fallen in love with the bad boy, and the good boy who pretends to be the bad boy but gets caught up being bad until his true love for me snaps him out of it. There have been to millions of Christmas', tonnes of Weddings and oh so many narrowly escaped terrors. Movies have always been a special part of the world for me. A chance to jump into someone else's imagination. Maybe even explore uncharted islands, star systems or the future. I've attended Proms where the whole grad class knows the same dance moves. Having wishes come to life. Making children out of wood. Flying elephants. Then just as quickly drafted back onto the front lines. Dark and dirty. With just a hint of hope. The smile of the inn keeper's son, and suddenly the rain doesn't seem so bad. Without warning the band starts warming up and you're dancing. Singing songs that reflect the hopes of the world around you. Being a part of the magic is an important part of me; and my imagination agrees with that.
The movies might not always be good. A lot of the time they will be rotten. You'll forget about them. Perhaps you'll fall asleep before the end. But knowing that eventually, no matter how bad the movies get there will always be somebody who wants to make them great again. There will always be a writer searching for the greatest idea they've ever had. Each character is a chance for the makeup artist to perfect their craft. Then there's the lighting guys, the boom operator, the focus puller. And as we all know there's the cast. There might be a lot of movies out there that will never surprise us. They may never get noticed. They may even let us down. But every once in a while there's a movie that finds our imagination, wakes it up and asks them if they want to come out and play. And this time of year has my imagination pulling all-nighters, but with another trip to the concession stand, I should be able to pack enough high fructose energy to keep my imagination and I going, at least until Boxing Day.
My Parents have done a great job of keeping me off the pole, until now. I was taught that the reputation is a lifetime to build and a moment to destroy. The road to a bad reputation is a quick and slippery one. But it can also be athletic, sweaty and a lot of fun.
Things I learned about pole dancing
1. Wedding rings and brass rails are natural enemies
2. The pole is slippery, wide and wet
3. The pole burns with the friction of a thousand suns
4. Just when you think you're spinning too fast you get stuck
5. Whiplash can be caused by an almost kinda sexy hair toss
6. Sexy arms are way harder than they look
7. It helps your dancing to keep your high heels on
8. Doing the robot isn't sexy
9. Either the boobs lead or the butt leads but never both
10. Leg warmers are cute and functional
11. Big steps=feet too far apart
12. Move slowly, at least then you don't have to fake as much sexy time
13. Watch your high kicks
13a. Watch where you're aiming those not so high kicks- they reach your classmate no prob
14. Poise-ture: it's an attitude thing
15. A smile distracts the watcher, even if you're wrapped around the pole like an origami snake
16. Furrowed brows aren't hot
17. I was tempted to have a Flashdance style ending to class- but the bucket of water is tough to rig and slippery to continue dancing
18. Public groping, short shorts and gyrating are encouraged but not automatic
19. Climbing the brass rail is new recruit hazing
20. Striptease class isn't about sex, it's about confidence
21. Bruises are expected and celebrated by these tough tight ladies
22. Six inches are starter heels
23. My body is sore and I love it.
I may not be ready for a 3 song night shift, but with a little practice I'll look forward to relinquishing the crown of world's worst dancer. And for that, I know my Momma will be proud, cuz we have the same dancing shoes.
The Script: Are you satisfied with your long distance plan? Would you mind if I called during dinner? Is there a better time or number that I that I can reach you? I am not going to call, I am just asking. There are just a few things I would like to discuss with you for the next 2 hours but we're not going to sort anything out or save you any extra money. This will only be a short survey, and when you accept; my first question will be to ask you if you understand what a survey is. Would you mind being recorded so we can play this conversation at our national convention when we can all laugh at you. And joke about how irate you get talking to our customer retention manager; who 's actually just the guy in the next cubicle. Please listen to this slightly untuned white noise music station from the world's last dial radio. You're call matters. To you.
Uncle. I give up* Insert waving of white flag. Mr. Phoneman, you make me pay monthly for using my computer; which I also had to pay for. It's just bytes of life for Rod's sake. You throttle the amount of information I receive. If you think it's too much, you unplug my encyclopedia. You tell me I can't have all the channels that the really great shows are on. The specialty channels are where everything well, for lack of another word, special is, just share it, would ya'please? Are you always going to be the meanest and most expensive bill that lands on my step? The most controlling member of my private life? Would it kill you to give me a break? I mean how much more do you need?
Big Bad Businessman, would you mind if I stole your social identity? How would you like it if I were to come into your office and told you no more? Just straight up tell you that I wasn't going to tolerate this treatment anymore. What would you do then? I mean, it's hard to do anything about the fact that large corporations are a joke. The 23 top employees get paid like rockstars and then you screw the rest us. This is the reason we now have to live in a Twinkie free society. I'm excited for the day when my outrage will affect more than my status on FB. And as far as long distance is concerned, I know Hubby and I have the most cost effective package for talk & text with a premium price tag for the Ultra light-super-maxi-high speed internet. Obviously, we have to have the best, I mean what are we cavemen?
There is a group of people who shine. They've got that certain something. That intangible spark. The X Factor. The Voice. They are a gangplank walking, chicken skin giving group. Overflowing with that very special something that sets them apart from the herd. The unique flare; a thing that people want to look at, talk about, dream about, drool over, wonder at, remember and cry over. It's hard to describe what makes a person a superstar, but I am willing to bet, it has something to do with three easily identifiable markers. And the unlikely combination created within that Shinning star. Creating a chemical reaction worth watching.
Talent- These are the people you can't stop watching. The people who sing the doors off- Whitney, Celine. Or the way Ansel Adams can make you feel thirsty. In this group we have dancers, writers, actors. Daniel Day's dedication to lifestyle immersion. They are the fireworks. They burn so beautifully bright. Typically they burn hard and fast. Streaking across the sky. Just catching them in the corner of your eye is lucky.
Confidence- Maybe it's the Cee Lo Green variety. Perhaps it's the confidence that Christina has in those mini skirts. It's that strut the angels have when they're telling secrets. The way a lead singer makes eyes at the camera. It's the stance. The swagger. It's shivering and sparkling. All the Bam Bam, all deliciously wrapped with a tiny little bow.
Personality- It's the distinctive late night gap toothed laugh. Then it's about creating a catch phrase. It's Farah Fawcett's blonde fringe. Monroe and Chaplin with their distinctive walks. Andy Warhol painting an iconic eye. The breathy vulnerability heard from the blues. It's the devil in their eyes. Unexpected punchlines. The suspenders and heart shaped glasses. It's a big floppy straw hat and pink boots.
The things that make you go boom. As a performer I fall into 1.75 of these categories. My personality is a solid 8.5, my confidence hovers between 6-8 and my talent varies greatly from passing to fancy. It plays into my favour that I am tenacious with a side of lazy. The good news is I am starting to know where I am going as a clear destination. I won't stop, cuz I can't stop. I am figuring out what it takes to make myself someone that burns brightly. A show must go on type of girl. I am on the road to giving goose flesh. They say knowledge is power and I am learning quite a bit about this crazy place and this even crazier business. But I don't think I'll ever stop lookin' at the stars.
If you know my Hubby, you know how he feels about superheroes. Specifically, Superman, the Man of Steel, the Kryptonian from Kansas. If you know me, you know I can hold my own when it comes to superhero showdowns. I know the differences between Heroes, Vigilantes and Anti-Heroes. And when it comes to a heated debate of Good VS Evil, I know all the players and they're powers. The real question is with all this backstory; what would my super power be and how would I choose to use it.
I think I would choose to be an alien, as most of the time I feel like I don't belong anyhow. Which is often its own superpower. Different is good. But I am that already...
Telekenetics and telepathy are both solid skill sets. But there might be an internal conflict with knowing the thoughts and motivations of every unprotected cranium. So the idea of those powers might be nicer than the actual ability.
Maybe I'd like the ability to manipulate time and space- or have access to advanced technology that would allow for time travel. With the understanding that a time machine can also travel to locations simultaneously in current time. Though once time is altered it splits realities and changes destiny and the outcomes of everyone and thing involved in the conflict. Which is a lot of pressure, knowing what can and should be changed, only to change it making it worse, only to change it again, and again...you get the idea.
I guess there is a reason that heroes are heroes. It is a tough decision to make not to screw anything up worse than it already was. And having a super power gives many opportunities to not be so super. What I do wish is that there were more real heroes taking care of those who can't help themselves. Also can I just say, it ticks me off that Clark Kent has a better job than I do, and that's not even his REAL job. Sigh, Wait, is jealously a super power?That's it! I will be the Green Eyed Vixen, though I can't help but think that sounds more like a villain... But villains really are misunderstood heroes...right?
For my first day back at it I decided to take it slow. I pumped my tires full of hot air, literally and figuratively. And this fat bottom girl got on her bike to ride. Huffing and puffing before my hula hoop class even started! And stinky with the shame of looking at myself standing awkwardly in a room with a solid wall of mirror. Trying to keep it fun and easy, I registered for a hoop burn class. How hard could it be to hula hoop? Not hard for the first 5 mins- then for the rest of the 55 mins- very hard. Add onto that the tricks and spins and doubles and turns and all that jazz I was out of my depth. But teacher says I am a natural- plus my classmates were nice! But I'd be surprised if hula hooping had drawn a bunch o'jerks. I mean it's a sparkly ring you dance inside- not exactly MMA. I am confident that my bum, abs and thighs will scold me tomorrow- but that's always a day away.
Getting back on my bike I headed to the rec centre for a swim. My non-athletic brain thought that if I doubled down on the fitness plan I was more likely to stick to it. I spent 15 mins in the fast lane being harrumphed at by men who wish they were Michael Phelps and 40 mins of arm and leg isolation in the medium lane, where I was the fastest and harumph-free. Until a fast- laner felt like slumming it in the medium lane and while passing people, he kicked them! Dude C'mon! Wouldn't you rather be challenged by the fast lane instead of shaming the mid tempo swimmers? But I guess he needed the ego boost or an excuse to kick people. My oh my, my neck is strained from only breathing one way during my strokes- ah hello, muscle memory, where were you on that? You were trained to go both ways. Either way I was pooped, my goggles were fogged up and I was sweating- in water- weird.
Then in the changeroom it hit me. An omg- I haven't used that muscle in a millennia arm cramp. Just at the moment when my shirt got twisted over my head, locking me in a kama-shirtra death grip. Standing there blind and topless, waiting for a helping hand when who should be the first responder? Why yes, it is a 64 year old naked polish lady. Asking sheepishly for a helping hand while trying to cover my totally exposed boobies, she drops her towel and brazenly untangles me. With a polite thank you, I dress myself and hop back onto my bike. My bottom feeling less fat and my body already sore. So much for taking it slow. I fully expect to wake up tomorrow with a sore everything, but I think I'll register for the noon hula class anyhow. If there's one thing I've learned is that I've told you that we won't stop. And now that I've got this giant rock rolling down the raider's tomb, it's time to get the idol, wait it's time to be the idol.
Dear Mean People,
I think you know who you are. Why must you be so mean? Also, if you fall into any of the following categories please consider yourself addressed: Judgemental, Grumpy, Pessimistic, Rude, Impatient, Disrespectful and Intolerante People. It has come to my attention that you are the worst. I am talking to the people who don't thank strangers for holding the door. A smile is not a target. Just because I am laughing doesn't mean I am laughing at you. It wouldn't kill you to share the sidewalk a little. The poop your dog makes is something you should pick up. Elevators are not a personal toot shack. Get your fingers out of your nose and get underwear that doesn't bury itself so deep in your bum crack. Which isn't really mean, it's just gross. But still.
The Canadian national average hovers at Pleasant, and I am alright with that- but if your group could make a conserted effort we could raise it! We really could. Being a nice person is not difficult for the rest of us. We live in Canada, a wonderfully diverse and sympathetic country. It's pretty darn great. A country full of apologies and those saying it have nothing to be sorry for. It sucks that nice people are nice to mean people, even though they're not nice back. I would never treat you that way, which I guess is why I am the nice one and you're not.
Signed,
The Unhappy Doormat
Dear Nice People,
Please, please, please never give up on being nice. I know that sometimes the world can get you down. I know it's gray outside and being sunny when it isn't can be hard. You can be brave. You can be the better person. Please keep opening doors for people. I will thank you. Please tell me if I've dropped something. I will thank you. Help an old lady with her walker onto the streetcar or a young mother with a stroller off. Hopefully, they will thank you. If we can stay strong together we have a better chance of not feeling so bad when the Meanies don't do the things Nice people hope they will. After a Rude Meanie tries to ruin your day, look around for a Nicey-nice, they're never too far away and share a secret smile. A knowing wink to the fact that things will get better.
If we can just keep trying to help the Meanies see that it takes so much more energy to be mean, maybe they'll stop. Now, change like that doesn't happen over night but it can happen. All those Sunday night classic movies and after-school specials can't be wrong. It's gotta be true that sometimes the Nice Guy does finish first, even if it is just a Hallmark moment. I am going to keep hoping for a theme song, a ray of sunshine and a miraculous turning of the tables. Not so that I can be mean to the Meanies, but so that the Meanies can see how much more fun it is on this side of the net.
As for you Niceys, I am looking forward to seeing you at the next meeting of the Canadian branch of the #1 Awesome Sauce Club. When I hope to pass a jolly new bi-law: Singing, not just for showers anymore. Until then keep your chin up little birds. Those mean old winds are strong, but this flight is a nice one.
Yours in Kindness,
The World's Nicest *itch
It is fall. October specifically; the fabulous month of my birth. The month when our bodies acclimatize to the chill. School is in full swing. The trees are exploding in their festive autumn colours. Mist hangs in the air late at night and early in the mornings. There is a sense of something slightly ominous. And who can blame you for feeling this way? With Ghosts and Goblins, Witches and Jack-o-Lanterns in every shop window. The crispy crackle of leaves under your quickening foot steps; chasing your shadow across a deserted parking lot. The feeling that there is someone just behind you or lurking around spooky tree trunks. October should be Heart-pounding awareness month.
Ever since I was a little girl I have loved being scared. I was the proud founder of Scary Chilling Regional Enthusiast Association of Movie-goers or SCREAM, a club of warped teenage girls eating Combos and being scared by my Papa B when he suddenly flicked on the lights. Five girls wrapped up in blankets, sitting in the dark, clutching each other's hands in anticipation of the next big scare. Watching what were the hot horrors at the time. Suspenseful dramatic thrillers with a tortured leading man grimacing about something that, by the end of the movie ends up being trivial even as a side-plot. Only to be reunited with his average girlfriend with the straight A's, then cruelly ripped from her arms in the last shot, basically cementing a sequel~ I mean Squeal!
Let's talk serious Horror for a minute- who would you be? Horror characters: Sensitive jock who pushes his girlfriend a little too hard to go to 3rd base, Slightly nerdy girl who only got invited to this party cuz your parents are friends, Total loose cannon outcast with nothing to lose and no one to answer to, or the hostess- who really just wanted everyone to have a nice time but now they're all dying? At what point in the story would your character give up? I think, I would end up being the one who outlasted everyone. Clumsily and narrowly escaping the tragic end befalling every one else. Be it crushed by a garage door, thrown from 2nd storey windows onto iron fence. If you die in a horror, you're going brutally. But when the chips really are down on the table, do you want to be the one who witnesses all your friends and probably family die? That's almost worse. Being alive when they're all dead. I mean, you're obviously going to be a suspect, you're the reason they were all there in the first place and their only connection. You can never run away or start a new life. That tragic story will follow you where ever you go. Whispering about that girl- sad about that night- oh, haven't you heard- she's the Grundy Island survivor. And that would be awful. Nobody would ever be your friend or love you ever again, because you're cursed. Which is one of the reasons I don't like big parties at secluded locations, where I know everyone. Happy OctoBOOOer:)
When my jogging pants were tight... I knew there was a problem. For the last 8 years I have been half-heartedly chasing my "dreams"- which for the most part are shifting and unspecific. The only constant being my love of performing. Of which I have achieved very little "success". I put success into air quotes because as an artist "success" is subjective, relative and intangible, except we all know what it feels like when it happens. Oh and let's not even discuss the italics. So where am I? I am 30. I have found a job that pays my bills. My loving parents support my every artistic whim. My Puppa loves me and the Kitty likes me most of the time. I have a BFF that really gets me. I am happily married to a Hubby who takes very good care of me. I have been married for 1 year and marriage agrees with me- if you know what I mean. I am supposed to be happy. But there is something missing. I have been working on the periphery of this acting business for almost 10 years, but I haven't really been trying. Whoa, that was hard to admit. Well, I've tried a little but not enough to really make a difference, just enough to keep up appearances. Mostly just wishing and hoping. Fingers crossed that someone, somewhere with some sort of power over something would see me and recognize greatness. Well, that's stupid. I thought by not really trying that I couldn't really fail. Well, that's really stupid. I was also hoping that my stubborn nature would help me to be the last one standing. Stupid, who wants to win by default? So, things have got to change. Knowing that nothing great comes without hard work I have set myself a challenge. Thrown down a gauntlet, if you will, the contract is as follows:
I, Melicious Manners, heretofore known as the talent am willing entering into this contract. The talent is going to GO for IT! There will be some serious changes in the talent's career. She's going to track her physical, employment and emotional progress. In this, the talent's 31st year, half measures will not be tolerated. This will be a full court press. The talent is going to start putting in the required effort. Which includes but is not limited to; Physical appearance, Agency representation, Professional betterment, Style and General emotional well-being.
I the Talent approve this message.
The Starving Artist will be released every Monday starting Sept 17. And I want to invite you to see what I can do. Plus I would be lying if I didn't admit that this blog is one of the reasons I started to actually believe in myself. Finding out that even things this hard have benefits beyond expectation is the most rewarding lesson I've learned. Lesson 2: The more daunting the endeavour the greater the reward. The time is now, there will never be another today for me to better myself. Today is all we get and I am tired of being stupid. But I am ready to be hungry. I am looking forward to impressing you:)
It occurs to me that I don't write much about my Papa B. I think it's because we're both such private people. Don't get me wrong; we're not happy if someone else is the center of attention either. We're not great at second fiddle. We like things on our own terms. In an effort to be private, I have ensured that no one individual has enough incriminating evidence to become a problem. Strategically placing my hair-brained endeavours across a multi-platform support system. Weaving a spiderweb of planned events and past delineations. My Papa taught me that. A social strategy is important if your livelihood depends on your reputation. Though if I was honest I really think it's a power struggle. Not between good and evil, but just to feel powerful enough to bend destiny to my will. Okay that's a bit dramatic...but you get the idea.
Papa B and me also know everyone else's beeswax. Nicknames- which we've probably given, their relationship status, or if they have anything unusual protruding from their body. I guess we look interested. And really who doesn't like a gross medical story? But that may be more my Momma. People who have gossip, love sharing it with us, and even though I do love a good chin wag-I forget most of the secrets I'm told as soon as they're told to me. Cuz for the most part they aren't that juicy a secret to begin with. Except that thing oh, with the Ewww yeah- that was juicy.*insert dreamy eye roll.
My Papa and I are simpatico. Same strange tan lines and deadly baby blues. He gets my jokes- the first time- no explanation. And it helps me to have a strong voice on my side especially since some of the voices in my head put up such a fight. I know he's proud of me. I've almost bankrupted him because he thinks I am talented and wants to support me -literally- in all my endeavours. Which reminds me Papa B, can I borrow $500 bucks?*wink- half kidding. But Papa B, the very best thing about you is that you gave me the creative flu. Symptoms include verbal diarrhea and a sensitive gag reflex with nil filter. I hope it's contagious- cuz Hubby and I would be lucky to have a mini Papa B someday-well, mostly lucky.
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