Against my better judgement, I have launched this campaign while still working my all consuming job. Knowing how accountability works; I am going to stick to it and start as planned. Though perhaps not the way I planned. The nitty gritty of The Starving Artist will go up as soon as I am free to do so. Including my current body measurements, my eating plan and my goals to better myself. But for today... enjoy a healthy bite of blog:)
Having too much on your plate. Your life plate and your dinner plate. The typical North American workaholic has a tendency to live life to the fullest; by undertaking more than the suggested serving size. And I am no exception. With food we tend to eat our fill and then some. In life we jam each waking hour with the bread and butter of expectation. Consuming what we crave and still hungering for more. Ensuring that we aren't missing out on something special. Packing our plates with all the social food groups and licking them clean. We're afraid of wasting even the smallest morsel of deliciousness. There are socially starving children all over the world.
Portion control relies heavily on your support systems. Being strong for yourself and making the decision to stick to your guns can be hard. Having a BFF who knows you might cheat but she would keep that secret on lock-down; gives the strength to stick to your meal plan. On the other hand, having a Hubby who pushes your buttons can create a craving to break the rules; stuffing your face with all the wrong responses. The ability to see a plateful and have the strength to ask for a doggie bag is a newly acquired skill set. But it agrees with my new initiative.
Variation and moderation. It's okay to start small and add as you go. This technique allows you to slowly and comfortably fill your stomach and soul. By choosing smaller options and splitting them tapas style you encourage a sense of community generosity. My life is full of moderated variation from ukeing to swimming, dancing myself skinny to eating myself fat and everything in between. Variety is the spice of life and I like it hot. This variety helps your spirit & taste buds to be pleased without the overstuffed sensation of way too much. As with most things the good life requires you to read the box and follow the recipe. Pick your menu wisely and be strong enough to avoid any unnecessary substitutions. They cost you more in the long run any way.
I grew up surrounded by gossips. Not the mean spirited kind of gossip, more like the I know all your beeswax cuz we live in a small town kinda gossip. And I loved it. I love knowing who's in love. Who's newly single. Who's getting a promotion. I love it all. But upon hearing this from another gossip: "You know that man cheated on wife with a 23 year old; ruined his marriage. Let's go talk to him." I stopped to think about it. I don't support his decision to be that guy. In fact I am shocked that anyone would; except he was in a place of power. What she thought we'd extract from him I have no idea, so I decided not to join the conversation. Which brings me to- the classy gossip.
The classy gossip doesn't participate in gossip mongering. If you have a difficult situation you want to share I will be a sympathetic ear. And then keep my mouth shut about it. If you are having a tough month in your relationship I am happy to help any way I can or offer no help if that's what you need. But I think I am done with the people who disregard the feelings of others in pursuit of selfish glory. I can no longer tolerate the brutal spilling of someone else's beans... In CSI speak- it's hearsay. Hearsay is a third party retelling of something they have no business to share. I think we're better than that. At least I hope to be better than that.
Privacy seems a concept that has been long forgotten. With public FB profiles and Instagram we are able to see what SMiley Circus wore to the grocery store. I can honestly say I'm not interested. Pookie had a baby with a teenage father? Who gives a rat's sass? It's strange to think we've gotten to the point where the lives of strangers are more important than our own. May I suggest you spend that energy learning to quilt- those ladies know the very best gossip. So, let's agree. Privacy is important unless you are the one gossiping about yourself. In this industry I might even consider it self promotion. As for happy gossip it's just fine by me- but let's keep it on the sunny side of the street.
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.
I haven't been sick in over a year. I have been working hard and fighting off viruses with enthusiasm. But to everything turn, turn, turn, there is a season. And 'tis the season for an end of summer cold. Les Sigh. When I was at performing arts post secondary school, surviving on Mrs Noodle and suffering from low blood sugar and pre-anemia, I would get a master blaster of a summer cold that would knock me down for weeks. Then linger till Christmas. But since I started eating like a grown up; my health is much better and I haven't suffered from any long drawn out illnesses. Believing in my own invincibility I let my illness avoidance techniques lapse and as punishment I was dealt a cruel hand- filled with snot rags and cough lozenges.
Now, I have worked in many jobs. Jobs where plenty of the staff have imbibed during work hours. They could perform their duties drunk, or nearly drunk. I drank at work once, ONCE! and realized I could not perform my tasks without broadcasting my intoxication. As an already clumsy girl drinking on the job was not a great idea. However now that I am suffering from this horrible nasty cold; this squatting in my sinuses and dragging it's nails down my throat kind of cold, I could use a hot toddy. Quite unpleasant indeed. Since drinking at work is wrong I decided instead to take the medication recommended for this... And let me tell you it was more intoxicating than alcohol. And better because it's not illegal to take cold medication at work. I've been drifting around the building in the fluffy white haze of a sleepy head. How can I not be a work hazard? Bumping into things and sneezing on people, I would call WSIB on me!
Cough, cold, flu and pneumonia have drawn their swords and started the charge. I can only hope that by taking way too much medication right off the hop I can nip this virus in the bud. But drinking 5 glasses of tea before lunch, having 2 dissolvable vitamin C tablets, 4 shots of nasal spray, the coughing fits, a throat spray, a drippy watery nose, the sneezing, 4 Advil cold and sinuses, and 1 very soggy run in with a netti pot; health can be overwhelming for someone who hasn't been ill in a long time. I forgot what it was like to be sick, in more than just the head.
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.
Everyone hates you when you're happy.
I am a freaking ray of sunshine. I am a smiley, giggly happy go lucky lady. I want to see the best in people; even in people who aren't anywhere near their best. But you know, some people just aren't happy until they're unhappy. It is amazing to watch negativity spread like a virus. As I am immune to most strains I feel it is my scientific duty to explore it's effects on others. A task I believe should come with hazard pay.
One of the world's deadliest outbreaks of negativity must be the First World Worker Commute- both going to and coming home from work. Whether in a car, subway or on a bike the viral strains vary but the symptoms are the same. Aggression, impatience and projection. These symptoms have many side effects. Which include but are not limited to huffing a sigh of irritability, honking horns, loud complaining, tirade Facebook status updates and general gloominess. These symptoms and oh so many more are highly contagious; infecting others with a negativity sore. And let's be honest, nobody likes viral puss.
The negativity epidemic is nothing new but the way we infect and combat the symptoms is changing. The virus literally travels virally through internet connections and smart phones, infecting people originally immune to one another's discord. We share the good but revel in the bad. Tragedy and pain a mainstay in our shared information and the blatant disregard for the feelings of others (including strangers) becoming common practice. Your virus effects others, you should be taking precautions.
There's a woman at work who's mad because she's usually Miss Sunshine and I stole her thunder, or I guess I gave her thunder. And though her infection is minor, if left untreated it could spread to her sunny side. Which would be a shame. I feel like those who've managed to stay positive, especially in this business, should help create an antidote, not submit to the negative infection. It's a sad turn of events for a woman who's come so far fighting against this plague. I think she has forgotten that every little ray of sunshine helps; even if you aren't the brightest. Negativity can be a debilitating disease without hope. People suffering with it will wonder what your angle is. Why are you being so kind, so optimistic, so generous? And I say I am taking Vitamin Glee and Oil of Original to fight off my Negativity infection, though I wish there was more I could prescribe.
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:)
I used to worry. I mean a lot. I used to worry that I would trip off the sidewalk and crush my head under the wheels of a car; popping it like a watermelon. I used to worry a toilet snake would be lurking in the bowl the one time I didn't turn the light on to inspect. I use to worry about breaking my front teeth while climbing up stairs. I worried about falling off ladders. I worried a lot. This preoccupation with worry happened all day long, every single day. It was my main focus. But I was tired of living that way. So I changed it. Taking control of yourself is one of the hardest things to do.
I remember that I used to spend a lot of time without enjoying the things I was doing. I was too busy worrying. I did lots of things that made me worry. Stupid things, that weren't worth worrying about. I did things that I didn't like because I thought that's what you did as a grown up. Oh oh then surprise, it turns out I'm a better grown up while doing the things I like, as childish as they may be. I quit my rational job and joined this circus. I fell in love with my Hubby, even though he's actor. I started taking my choices seriously. And though Laundry is still holding strong at #8, I can honestly say my worries have become tiny bubbles.
By looking at life through rose coloured glasses, I have significantly decreased the amount I worry. Now I worry about things that I can control. Like tomorrow's blog topic or the possibility of losing taste on the left side of my tongue because I eat too much hot food. Both are small worries in the scheme of things- but it seems that these are the worries I want to deal with and discount. Ah but here's the problem. I don't mind sweating the small stuff. But what I'd really like is to control some of the bigger issues we all worry about. Like people getting enough to eat, taking care of abandoned animals and city governance. Things in our big picture need to change. I'm worried that if I don't do something nobody else will. And I think with a little organization we could worry ourselves into a brighter future.
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.
Once upon a time there was a little boy. This little boy didn't like fun; he thought it was no fun. Everywhere he went he wore a big red baseball cap, pulled down low to hide his grumpy eyes. He didn't like other people having fun and he didn't like people trying to get him to have fun. His least favourite things were cheering, smiling and laughing. One day his having-no-fun Mom took him to the carnival where he sat stone faced on the bumper cars. Hearing all the fun the other kids and grown ups were having he got mad.
'I don't like it when you laugh so loud!' he shouted at them as they banged his car and giggled on to bang another. After spinning and swirling on the Zipper and Scrambler; he still didn't like fun. The only time it looked like he was smiling was when he was hung upside down but as soon as he realized he flipped it back around. His having-no-fun Mom took him to the shows- where she yawned- watching a highflying trapeze, a tightrope and lions. Death defying acts and not a shriek or an Ooooh, not even a hoot or a clap. The stone faced pair didn't crack a smile. Walking out into the midway he ate popcorn, cotton candy and corn dogs. He even finished a pound of maple fudge but he still wasn't having any fun. His red baseball cap pulled down so far, his eyes were covered when he heard a happy fun sound. Ugh, Music. Tipping his head back to get a look past his pulled down brim. Seeing his no-fun Mom was busy texting on her phone- complaining no doubt- about the perfect weather, the happy music and her no-fun Son, the boy walked towards the music eager to put an end to it. The music was coming from a parade with a marching band and a waving crowned queen riding a float with clowns strolling alongside tossing candy and beads into the crowd. He took his cap off for the first time all day and the sunshine hit the boy's frowning face. Upon her float a crowned Queen saw his un-fun face and taking pity on the boy waved to him. The clowns were dispatched, honing in on his unhappiness, picking him up, swinging him around and putting him up onto the waving Queen's float.
'My boy,' she cooed in her queenly way, 'why so sad?' Looking up to her smiling eyes and sparkling crown, then back down to the ball cap in his hands he sighed.
'I don't like fun. I don't like cheering or chuckling or secret handshakes or games. I just don't like it. Not one bit.' The Queen looked sad, forgetting she was part of a happy carnival parade, how could it be that this little boy didn't like fun?
'Little sad boy, if you had one wish what would it be?' she asked. The boy thought as the parade cut its way through the happy dancing crowd. Deep in thought, he forgot about hating fun so much. Sitting with the Queen as she waved, he couldn't help but start waving too. At first it was just for something to do as the pondered his wish- then he started feeling a feeling he'd never felt before. A single tickle under his chin. So, he waved harder watching the way the Queen waved. The crowd watching saw the un-fun boy start to change and the louder they cheered the bigger he waved. The tiny tickle under his chin scurried it's way up to the corner of his mouth. The sad clown noticed it first. The start of a smile. The first smile the boy who hated fun ever had. The crowned Queen asked the boy again,
'If you had one wish, what would you wish?'. The boy remembered suddenly about his no-fun Mom, his first smile fading. As he put his cap back on with a sigh, he turned unsmiling to the Queen and said,
'I wish my Mom could have more fun. I think most grown-ups forget how.' With that the no-fun Son climbed down from the float and ran back through the crowd towards his no-fun Mom, who was looking for him.
'You little scamp! I lost you. What have you got to say for yourself?'. With his brow furrowed underneath his hat brim, the little boy said:
'Mom, I want you to know that fun is not my thing. But you shouldn't miss out. Life can be hard on grown ups.' Taking off his baseball cap the little boy who didn't like fun, opened up a clenched fist and offered his palm to his mother, but it was empty.
'I brought you a smile fit for a Queen, and it's perfect for your face.' handing the unseen smile over; the un-fun Mom took it and used it right away. Holding out her hand to the little boy in the red baseball cap who didn't like fun.
'Well kiddo,' the now-almost-fun Mom said, 'how about we go home and leave the carnival to the people who like fun things.' And they walked home together making sure there was no more funny business. And the now-fun Mom was wearing her queenly smile the whole way.
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