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?
It's been a few months since I wrote an ode to earhairs. It's sad but I long for the mysterious intrigue of earhairs. A tickly, thickly curling wisp that flutters in the wind. It's hooked and I can't stop starring! Of course, there have been a few memorable chin hairs and a mole hair or two, but nothing worth a dedicated blog to my outspoken affection for such furry occurrences. I have been trying to rise above the physical foibles of those around me. But what is it they say about the best laid plans?
Upon returning to my regular cop shop gig I have seen a few wily whiskers, but have taken the high road- for the most part. Ignoring a hair collar sticking out above shirt necklines, and avoiding eye contact with caterpillar brows. Honest I was trying to be good. Until yesterday, I discovered a giant ear hair...you will never guess where. In MY own EAR. I couldn't believe it. It was awful. Possessed by a tickle I felt in my ear canal. A creepy crawling, fluttering feeling that I couldn't shake. Literally I couldn't shake it off. Heading to the loo, I thought I would discreetly pull all the hairs from both ears, you know, all those tiny fine hairs that cover a human. The fuzz that reminds us we're not too far from being the animals we were. And trust me if I'd had a razor I would've shaved myself from the eyebrows down! Getting to the washroom I studied, inspected, looked and leered at my ears- seeing nothing, but I knew it was there. I started plucking blindly. Oh did I mention that I carry tweezers with me? Cuz, yeah I do. Everywhere I go, just in case. That's when it happened. The tweezers clamped down on something. And like deep sea fishing, it was a struggle to reel that hair in- or out as the case may be. When I finally triumphed over my well rooted foe, I was .5lbs lighter and my hearing had amplified 4 fold. How long could it have been growing there? As far as I am concerned- any length of time is too long. Now, I must turn my obsession inward, I have become my own earhair-enemy.
But it could have been worse, I guess. The group I associate with at work are a mature crowd. Their eyesight isn't like use-ta-be and most have earhairs of their own, earhairs they can be proud of. So, I figure as long as I can still see, feel and pluck my own unruly rogue hairs I am ahead of the social grooming curve. But maybe we could all use a little help from our friends. One of my colleagues has asked for a lady's agreement. Using my 20/20 vision I am to alert him to any strays I may spy...though to prevent hurt feelings I have been collecting a few hairs to alert him of all at once, instead of a daily hair check-in. It's better for us both that way. I get to marvel at those wiry wonders for a few more days, and he gets to think his super power is growing multiple magnanimous hairs in an afternoon. So my fair earhairs- it's been a while since we wrote, but you are a familiar friend. Honestly though, I could do without you whispering in my ear. Literally.
While trolling through my own FB page I noticed something...I still own most of those clothes! No matter when the photo was taken; I still got it. The turquoise wrap sweater, the black and white satin dress, the grey business suit from 1999; you name it, I still got it. Yesterday someone said I looked like a hoarder! Oh please! What does that even mean? I don't own more than my fair share of cats. I flush the toilet every time I go. I don't have a spare bedroom filled with fast food containers and old Reader's Digests. But man- have I got clothes. And most of them I've had for years!! I mean it, yee-ears. They are pilled and frayed and I keep clipping and tucking and yanking, stitching and hoping for the best.
Today however, I congratulate myself. I have culled the herd- again. Donating my too short t-shirts and throwing out ugly undies. Collecting uncomfortable shoes and mis-matched socks. Pulling out the shirts with missing buttons and skirts with dropped hems. Tossing anything stained, streaked or discoloured. In an effort to be seemingly more polished. I have given away my "party" shirt that's been a staple for 5 years. I'm convinced the only thing keeping those sequins attached was my wishing. I am sentimental about my Chicago and blue Batman tees, so I kept them, though now they're tucked away safely and quietly under the bed. My stack of work clothes keeps growing. Downgrading some of my 'nice' clothes to work clothes to make room for the new phantom pieces I should add. Now, I have only 3 casual tees and 2 skirts.
The real war being the cost vs the worth. Which brings me to another crossroad. Do the expensive products differ in value to the cheap stuff? The short answer is hell YES! Now, shall I continue with the long answer? Yes. You must've noticed the difference between the Payless pleather and the Steve Madden leather. The way your hair shimmers, shines and stays when using salon products. How the dermatologist tested and clinical skincare line is better; limiting breakouts, irritation and premature aging. With the adage of getting what you pay for ringing loudly in my mind, I've tried to KISS it. (Keep It Simple Sweet-cheeks) But how do you apply this when it comes to clothing?
Understandably, the fickle nature of fashion is a strange mistress. But I am a vintage lady with classic tastes. Maybe that's the reason I've kept so many untimely timeless pieces? Hoping that they will come back around style-wise, though they never will 'weather the storm' I will keep my fingers crossed that a white tee and jeans will never go out of style. Shopping vintage has it's advantages, it's also the toughest type of shopping. It might be easier to have clothing made...which brings me to alterations. I want my clothing to fit me, but I am between sizes on top, bottom and in the middle. The only realistic thing to do would be buy a bigger size and nip-tuck it. But why spend $25 in alterations on a $35 shirt? Because it will look way better!?! What's it worth to look better?
So, FB we've reached an impasse. I am sad that my wardrobe is on constant photo album repeat. What would it take to photoshop in a new look? Would it be cheaper to alter my photos or alter my wardrobe? Well when stacked up side by side I think: It all comes out in the wash.
While attending my second industry TIFF party of all time I realized. There is a lot of really great hair in here. Great hair, great outfits and huge egos. The ego though I think is inflated by nerves and the constant fear of making an ass of yourself. People celebrating at these events are typically over-anxious about their art house film that took them 11 years and their entire line of credit to complete- not to mention their parent's money and a friend providing craft services just to keep it going. A labour of love will give you painful contractions.
Watching the potential success of others can be inspiring and disheartening at the same time. With the limited implied value of that little movie your making it's an emotional pregnancy. From conception to birth and even after; all through the awkward teen years until they go off to university. And even then your grown up little baby will always be your baby. The sad thing is that if it took 11 years just to birth it, that is a slow growth rate. The worst part is that my concept zygote is still awaiting fertilization- and by the time that bundle of joy arrives I will be 41! And I never wanted to be an older mother.
Little baby film idea, your Mommy and Daddy have been waiting so long, wishing for you, dreaming of your future and how you'll complete our lives. So TIFF I promise you, you don't know me now but within the next 11 years I will be ready for you to meet my baby. Baby Movie concept: You'll be smart, witty and full of surprises. You're already keeping me up all night and have spoiled my figure, so I have nothing left to loose. It would be great to have an amazing hairstyle though, but I guess I have 11 years to get it right.
Okay, so a recent informal poll I conducted suggests that if there is something wrong with you, you'd like to know. I don't mean if something is wrong with you- in my opinion specifically. I mean- if you have food in your teeth, waving it's spinachy green fingers at me, you'd like to know. Things that are wrong include but are not limited to: ear, cheek and nose hair, downed flys, boogers, flipped clothing tags and other embarrassing but easily repaired esthetic flaws. So, now that we all agree we'd rather know; why do I still worry how you're gonna take it?
Well Doctor, you see that's because nobody likes to think that they have been walking around like an a*hole with their barn door wide open. I might as well take all the confidence you had at that moment, tie it to the biggest anchor I can find and throw it overboard while shouting: 'That'll teach ya for getting too big for your britches. ' cackling all the way back to shore. Pointing out flaws is a terrible feeling for all involved. The victim's "Oh no, I ate 2 hours ago and I've had a hydroponic sesame garden growing in my mouth since" feeling and the messenger's "I wish I didn't have to do this, they'll wish I'd done it sooner." feeling. It stands to reason, you're better to hear it from me, than to head to the bathroom and spot it yourself half a day later. Though reason is seldom applied to vanity.
The strangest thing about this awkward social situation is even if I am part of a much larger group; the responsibility falls to me. I can be at work as the problematic Bat in the Batcave twists in the wind- while the cave dweller tells an emphatic story- everyone sees it. EVERYONE! But nobody says anything... So I wait until the story ends. Either insert a laugh or sympathetic head shake whichever seems appropriate; because I wasn't listening- I was starring at their nose. At the next private oppurtunity I pull them aside and pretend that I just noticed the offense. "You've got a little" *insert the universal signal for get that thing outta there! Don't kill the messenger is an adage quickly brought to mind. Yesterday I found myself in this type of situation; I made the furrowed brow "what is that?" face at my co-worker, with a pinching gesture at the rogue earhair that's been driving me nuts for 30 days. He didn't get it & all I could think was; how universal is this gesture if he doesn't know it...Then I thought maybe it was a familial shorthand, an obsession 4 generations in the mating. Needless to say I gave up on that hair, but only after multiple failed attempts. Hubby says if it doesn't bother them it shouldn't bother me. HA!
Alternatively, I want people to tell me when something has gone horribly array. If I were to arrive at my Momma or BFF's with my fly down, burrs stuck to my shirt and in my hair, dark flapping booger hanging from my nose, white bread mush glued between my teeth and giant eye gunk- they would laugh first; ask me how my night was; then get to work at reno-ing this fixer-upper. As for most other people? I am pretty sure they would let you walk around in that state, assuming it was either a purposeful decision to be a disaster or I was too far gone already to be helped by a Kleenex and some floss. Either way I will keep worrying about you and your fixable flaws and worrying about how you're gonna react, so there's that:)
When I first met Hubby I thought he was cute. He was a dude with a Hobbit haircut and a full beard. But his coffee habit had him drinking 6 cups a day. He was an aspiring actor that worked at a video store. Lived in 390 sq ft with a cat- to whom I was allergic. What was I getting myself into? But the Magic 8 ball said 'Signs point to yes '.
The first time we met was Halloween. Him: Borat Me: Robert Goulet. Now, there were a lot of sexy ladies at this party. Sexy librarian, Sexy Red Riding Hood, Sexy cat and a Kissing booth to name a few. I on the other hand was dressed in a brown polyester leisure suit with a pink buttoned up ruffle tuxedo shirt , brown comb over wig and bushy mustache. Neither of us broke character all night. Him: I like-ah do it to a sexy lady Me: Ladadi Dada. As he was leaving he asked the host about me, who didn't give up any details. I guess I made an impression because it was 2 months until I saw him again...but he liked me right away-again.
On the night we really met; he played footsie with me under the table. Walking with me out in the glimmering snowflakes and kissing me in the blue light in front of the Travel Lodge. I like having a romantic sweet story. When we first started dating Hubby would stare at me with a goofy, pie eyed grin on his face. Almost like he was surprised that we were spending time together. I would tell him "There are days.." and he would smile not knowing what I meant. Well, I meant, there are days that I loved him right from the start. And my love keeps growing. He was cute then...But he keeps getting cuter. It's ridiculous. He was a fuzzy mountain man with a full beard and poofy hair. Now he has a dapper short tight hair cut- greased up and rocking his ears. Almost kiss curl style. His baby smooth face is great for kissing. He's become a rock star who cooks and cleans and takes care of me the way a real man takes care of the woman he loves. And the one day he's not home I am. And I am laying on the couch wishing he was here, but he's not. So instead I am forcing my Puppa-Tink to snuggle with me while watching Rock Hudson kiss Mary Poppins. I was excited to be getting married. But I never expected to be this happily married to Danny DeVito, the Commissioner and my Hubby. It's like Threes Company- but I think I'm Mrs. Roper:)
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:)
Day 3 of captivity. Time is starting to drag now, my days and nights determined by the sunlight peeking through the clouds. The men keeping me captive walk the halls of this stripped and soggy building, talking loudly to each other in a language I don't understand. The machines they use are grinding a low hum- worse than constant laundry- somehow bigger, reminding me that we are the only people living on this floor. The 6 surrounding units evacuated, us left unscathed by the flood we are punished by being left here alone. The men entering units while knocking, forget this unit is still occupied. And me who likes to write in my pajamas, yelling: "Hold on!", scaring my sickly cell mate, who wants to sleep all day and cry all night. It's been days since I felt at ease... I like ease. No man shall be left behind, but I gotta get outta here. The animal paces when she awakes, banging into walls, door frames and getting caught on corners. There is an eeriness to her gait, the sad and familiar tinker toes with the gruesome cone snags and bangs. Her pile of blankets twisted into a sad and smelly nest.
The phone has been quiet, no word from the outside world. Except the get better texts, no work, no auditions, no play dates. I think the world knows we're in quarantine, on total lockdown. In an effort to feel less captive, and more stay-cation-ey, I gave my self an at home spa day... well, let's just say, at home disaster day. An intensive hair reconstruction treatment- that left my hair heavy and looking like I groom with a combination of seal blubber oil and adolescent insecurity. I soaked, trimmed, shaped and buffed my nails to an appropriate ukulele length (though it may be a few more days until I play as my pupparoo is always sleeping*insert air strum). This didn't go well. I cut my thumb, pointer and middle finger nails WAY too low and split the pinky one, and my cuticles are uber-dry from the change in seasons and lack of attention! As for my feet? Les sigh. These tender tootsies have been in winter boots with bamboo socks that give me splinters, so I again soaked, trimmed, buffed and shaped them- taking extra care to work off those calluses. Oh wait, only to walk the 10 steps my dog can take and stub my big toe- fracturing my big toe nail and maiming me.
My mother says there's never a dull moment with our family, and when things get overwhelming she's right. But when we're on a roll, I mean when we're really cooking, it's hard to stop us. I guess the tough thing about being a juggernaut is that it doesn't matter what direction you're going in- cause you're going all the way. I remember the sunny days, and I know I will see them again soon. I will get to snuggle Jilly, who will have grown all her hair back, in a building that has no water damage, with shiny, healthy hair and fingers and toes that belong in a spa magazine, oh yes, the time will come. But for now, I must wait for the damn machines in the hallway to stop screaming and be a quiet and vigilante cell mate, planning our escape. Leaving no man behind, except maybe hubby, he's normally a home body.
This next story is a secret, so I changed the names, the location and everything but myself.
Once upon a time there was a background performer named Melicious. I work on film sets, commercials and tv shows. Though I am just a measly little extra, I am determined to make every experience on set a good one. So I pitch in, tidying wardrobe and fixing hair. Desiring each project to be as great as it can be. Sometimes, I meet famous people. National figures, actors, musicians and directors- cool people. Sometimes, I get to spend time with them face to face and when that's the case it's very close. (For those of you who don't know a whole lot about the film world, there is usually 10 people on set at any given time; say a wardrobe person, 5 lighting guys, hair and make up, assistant directors etc, to help keep shooting on time and looking good) This past weekend little Melicious was working with a very special woman- to remain nameless (as I signed a confidentiality agreement, not because I am not dying to tell you who it is) as I sit across the cafe table from her I notice a hair on her blouse. It's a white blouse and a black hair, so I make the international sign for "Hey you've got a little something- right there" which she doesn't understand and asks me to "get it", so I do with a sweeping gesture. Happy with myself I sit back down to get this scene in the can (film term for finished). Action! The director starts calling out directions on how she says things, how fast she says it, where the emphasis should be....ad nauseum. As we are shooting, she turns her head and I see a hair sticking off of her lower left cheek. Oh no! A black hair stuck to a light face. A black hair- dancing in the oscillating fan's breeze, taunting me...The director finally yells Cut and I make another gesture "Hey, there is a giant black hair stuck to your lower cheek, it's right there...Please get it!" to which again she doesn't understand and gestures for me to get it. So I do. It's attached*insert rueful head shake. This giant black 2 inch cheek hair has been attached to her face all day. They have been shooting since 6:30 am and it's now the last scene of the day and I am the first to discover this? You gotta be kidding, the hair person didn't see it? The makeup person didn't see it? The camera operator? The 10 people staring at the monitor DIDN'T see it? WTF! Holy Miley- you gotta be kidding. Me! Melicious, I am the one who tries to prune this Super high profile woman's face fern? It's not in my job description and we both know it, and now I have to sit here, for the rest of the day knowing that I tried to pull a hair off her face and it's still there. That taunting SOB, Roddamn it! It's hard to lower your profile, once you've become the failed face plucker. Sad, stupid little extra- keep your hands to yourself!
So that's my true, but unprovable story. I think it is finally time that I take my Hubby's advice: Stop plucking people's hairs- ear, cheek or nose. And I've tried but I just can't. It is a horrible addiction. And I mean honestly, wouldn't you rather know that you have a column of hair growing from your face? The one part of you that is literally facing forward? How are we going to think you can take care of anything... if you can't take care of your follicle farce?
This is a jam goes out to everybody's favourite party girl;) My beautiful Tambourine.
To all you sexy business women walking downtown, looking sexy in their grey- scratch that sexy charcoal business skirt with matching blazer over a collared pinstripe blouse. Usually your striding with great confidence. Legs clad in taupe pantyhose. What's that you're carrying? Oh, it looks like you're bringing work home tonight, something to do between dinner and This is the Voice. And though your short snappy haircut is shimmering in the nearly spring sunlight, I must raise my hand and ask you this...
WHat is up with those white New Balance runners?
Boo! Hiss! I mean you are rocking your shit otherwise. Make up- Check! Hair-did- Check! Job-requiring unpaid-overtime- Check! Lady-I mean it. There isn't a point in life when you have to give in to the Sneakers and skirt combo. You can find very comfortable, supportive and visually stunning shoes, it has become an attainable dream. Hurray for women's lib:) Whoa! With this new found feminism can I still remain feminine? "Oh Hell yes" *insert 3 cross body snaps. Colour me shocked. Somewhere, some woman put their hand up and said: "Can you try a litte harder? I am tired of my feet hurting." and then someone who knows the shoe folks said "Hey yeah, skirts look way better with pretty shoes." And so it was, shoes with straps to lock and load your feet. Heels with magic soles made of cloud. Boots that cradle your ankles, lullaby-ing them to sleep. Look around Beautiful, this dream can be yours. Your new spring shoes await you. Please, please, please, I know you can do it. You know you should do it. So do it, cause no one wants to be the Old woman who lived in the New Balance Shoe.
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