While walking my pretty Puppa-roo across Queen St on a beautiful fall day I realized something. Almost every store we go into offers her a treat. And my Puppa is excited for every gift. Whether big cookie or little milk bone, she over-eagerly accepts all gifts- then I saw- when she wasn't getting a treat her interest wained. Pulling without subtlety back towards the place she last got treated. Oh no. I have created not only a chubby Jilly Bean no neck, but a bad gift receiver and a greedy puppy. A selfish and no good spoiled brat. And that makes me a bad Momma. Not the type of Momma I want to be.
Before I cast all the blame unto Bean for her lack of grace when accepting a gift I must reflect upon my own. For all my pomp and circumstance and big loud voice and funny dance moves, I am actually quite shy. Now, as an actress you may think that's weird. However, I don't mind the attention of an audience- an audience doesn't try to get to know you. Doesn't try to figure you out. They just let your character wash over them. The only pressure on you is to give a performance you're proud of. That's a gift I can give! Otherwise, I am a terrible gift giver. Or have been, until recently. I have been giving cash at weddings and gift certificates for most everything else. I am sorta generous. I just don't want anyone to feel like they should ever have to give me a gift. So, I try and avoid those situations altogether. Until I made my lifetime friends- they won't let me off the hook. And they are the best gift givers I've ever met, so it's quite an obstacle. Their gifts have inspired my intention to be a better giver and receiver.
Here are a few of the key ingredients I've learned about giving and getting perfect gifts. Something special comes from listening, looking and feeling- both the person and receiver- presumably a friend or family member- and their surroundings. Take mental notes or have Siri take one for you. Create dates in your calendar. Paying attention is key. Customized gifts are great but allow time for delivery. Also you can never go wrong with a genuine smile, warmly written card and eye contact. Receiving someone's gratitude is a key aspect of the cycle of being a talented giver. And never underestimate giving someone the gift of time. Life is busy and short, why not give the gift of togetherness? A dinner out or a home cooked meal, perhaps an offer to help with that nagging DIY project.
In the past I have been equally bad at giving and receiving- but I'm working on it. That's a gift to me. However, that treat eating, greedy little fur baby dragging me down Queen St , never gave me anything but unconditional love. Well, there's a new Sheriff in town and Jilly better start rolling over to my new way of thinking. She needs to learn a new trick or two- otherwise this old dog won't get her any new treats. Plus I like browsing Queen St and not every store has a treat for the Stinker, some treats are for your gifted Momma;)
Happy Thanksgiving! And getting!
There have been more than a few times this past summer when upon catching an image of myself in a shiny surface I've been disappointed. I look tired and worn out. All used up and puffy. My smile is tight and quite clearly needs a long winter's nap. And I look fat- not cartoon fat, and not obese, just scrunchy. So I harumpf and then take a deep breath and encourage myself to go on. Though thinking lesser of yourself is the worst kind of torture. Every step being taken is a drip in an already full bucket. Step- you're ugly. Step- everyone sees it. Step- you should be better. Step- you've given up. Until I turn my feet around and head back towards home. The only place I can hide away in my jogging pants and loose fitting t-shirt. I know where the mirrors are here and I can go for days without really looking at myself. Tricky part is, not every mirror is telling the truth, and not everyone can spot a lie.
I remember hearing that you're never as fat as you think you are. Which is as true for people with low self esteem as it is for prima ballerinas. But some people are exactly as fat as they think they are. I am just not sure which category I fit into. I know that my skinny jeans are tight...but that's to be expected. They are skinny jeans...how skinny they should be is a different question entirely. I know that I spend a lot of time yanking and pulling and arranging my clothes, but tiny little movie stars have a wardrobe person doing that to them as well. It's a strange and infuriating juxtaposition.
At Canada's Wonderland after a day of being soaking wet and half drying and then getting wet again, I dragged myself into the washroom as night fell. The harsh florescent lighting revealed that the fun I was having had taken a toll. My mascara had dripped and caked under my eyes trapped under the long day's sunscreen. My shirt was clingy and mishappen from being soaked by white water rapids. My skin looked greasy and yellow. The shorts I had on, welcome to Camel toe town. I was a nightmare. And just like that- all the fun I had been charging up on all day was drained. I felt stupid and ugly, fat and I wanted to go home. So, I walked my soggy running shoes out to the parking lot and said g'night with a growl. Looking terrible ruined my eve, and here I was thinking I wasn't superficial.
This past weekend after dancing my tail feather off at my bro-in-law's wedding and receiving compliments on my pretty dress and nice hairstyle and 8 Likes on a photo posted on FB; I was feeling alright about myself. That's when nature called again. So, heading from the dark dance floor where I was feeling hair-tossingly sexy, I went to the very bright bathroom. As I washed my hands I caught sight of a sweaty forehead, raccoon bandit style eyes, girl with hair stuck to her face and a flush that only colours someone with high-blood pressure after exertion. And after taking all that in, I realized it was me. Les Sigh. Even when I feel like I am at my best I fall below my lofty standards. BFF is quick to say that I expect too much of myself. But I am quicker to respond, Why would I allow anything less than my best self to be the person I am? So, starving for something can be good, but it sounds like it might be a bigger commitment than just change of diet. I need to put myself on a life diet, and cut out the shit. Because I am tired of feeling I can do better without actually doing it. And I know too many people who regret not being their better self, without knowing they can be. So, Mirror, Mirror, expect to see a lot more of me. I may not like you now, but soon enough magic will make you work for me. And we'll both see the change.
With my 5 month summer standing contract drawing to a close, I thought it pertinent to explore my employment history. I have always been highly employable. I have been a secretary, a baker, a masseuse, a mortgage sales girl, an event coordinator, a retail therapist, an actor, a marketing rep and promoter, a coach and just all around glad hander. You name it I have tried my hand at it. And even if I didn't like the company or my job or my boss or all of the above; I always gave one hundred and ten percent. But 110% at $8.50 an hour doesn't work out to a whole lot in the end. Also my bosses have always loved me; with the exception of two of the craziest most hurtful women I have ever met. They were practically perfect in every evil way. Congratulations! It's tough to be the best at being the worst.
In my entire life I've only been fired from two jobs- Job 1- My boss was one of the previously mentioned crazies and I truly believe I was fired because of my great performance and her inability to follow through with commissions promised. The second was as a teenager I was denied my Bronze cross, though not a job exactly it would have led to my becoming a lifeguard, getting a wicked tan and ultimately getting a free ride at Penn State as a high-diver and all this because I wasn't serious enough... Chaw. Please. Like anyone has ever taken the Hoff seriously.
Having a steady job can be great. That solid stream of income. The sense of community you build with your coworkers. It's nice. though doing something you don't love can be hard on you...but as an Optimism Expertise, I decided to take what I could from the experience and create my ideal job position.
The dream job description:
A job that has me traveling. Travel can be continental as well as global and even astrological. Going to strange places for interesting reasons. A semi-full-time position attending fun events to promote having a great time. Where I talk to media about something really cool that gets people excited. And inspires them to start and keep doing something. I want to meet with people and discuss fascinating new ideas about global issues and I want to host really great events. I want to ambassador something. Something special. I don't think that's asking for much. I am free to start as early as Monday. Is there an opening in that department?
P.S. Is it weird that I didn't even quote salary? I guess a job you love is its own payment. Ha!
I've got friends in low places... But I've got high rolling friends too. Being the middle man ain't so bad. Being the happy medium. The bowl of porridge that's just right. The main stream. A medium sized fish in an appropriate sized pond. It's great to be able to go up or down. But people in the middle are generally regarded as those with the most to loose.
Seeing both those above you and those below you; it's tough not to worry about falling. Or being taken down a few pegs. But it's also a great place for brave optimism aimed at a station beyond your current reach. People are quick to say there is no rank to life, but I believe everything can be quantified. It just depends on how you choose to do so. You know that saying 'worth it's weight in gold?' You can measure everything; in time, in inches lost, by distance, how it makes you feel, a paycheque, in smiles, or daily blog hits- everything is quantifiable. It just depends on how you count it.
Sadly, someone has to be on the bottom of the pyramid, not because they want to be, or they deserve to be there, they are there to support the top. The foundation must be strong for the structure to remain sturdy. In high school we didn't have cheerleaders in the typical sense. We had a Spirit team. A group of rag tag girls and one high kicking boy that really only performed at one talent show and an air band competition. In Spirit squad I was literally the bottom of the pyramid. Being there wasn't so bad, as long as I kept hoping and trying someday to make it to the middle. And then when you get to the middle, that's the day you start hoping to be the gal on the top with the sparklers and the killer smile. The only thing standing in my way is that high kicking boy, but he's worked so hard to get himself up there, so maybe the middle is alright, for at least a little while longer:)
Is lying to yourself really lying? I mean if you truly believe something about yourself, could it really be wrong? Growing up things are black and white. Stealing is bad. But the older you grow, the greyer things get. Stealing to feed your hungry family is bad, but not for the same reasons. It has been a long time that I have been telling myself I am a better person than I might actually be. I have been telling myself (and you) that we can be the people we want to be. It’s just not as simple as I hoped. Being a good person is the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do. The effort required to make the person you are on the outside into the person you dream to be on the inside is an ongoing struggle. With obstacles rising up to meet you every single day. Temptation to be mean. To be selfish. To be too tired to be the best friend you hoped to be. To be strong in the face of adversity. To really stand up for what you believe and what you’ve told yourself to be true. To gossip. Being a good person is the most challenging person to be, it's a never-ending battle. That’s what makes a good person so special.
People say that life is short. And all you have is today. Though there are times when you feel you’ve lived this day before. The hours dragging before it's even time to start. Starting something and sticking to it. Sounds easy enough. But I feel like I’ve been waiting to start my whole life; I just didn’t realize that actually doing it- this whole living the good life thing- would be the hardest thing I’ve tried. It’s exhausting. High kicking and selfless giving and trying, I mean really trying. It scares the crap out of me. Living like you're dying is tiring. I am tired. I have been lying to myself, thinking that I was doing this just for me. And I am not; I am doing this for you mostly. And also how I feel about me when you’re happy. The fear of disappointing those who believe in me is greater than this weariness. I started this brand new me in hopes that I could force myself into believing that it was true.
There are days when I can’t bring myself to smile. Days when life has piled up and things have started falling. Dropping, despite my efforts to catch and juggle everything. This blog has benefited from my tenacity. But my body has suffered because of my laziness. My Hubby doesn’t get the attention he needs, because I am too busy working at a job that doesn’t help me feel good about myself. My Puppa-Stinkeroo misses me 5 days a week. My Kitty is back to being aloof- because I am not there to wear her down. My friends haven’t seen me. My dream is in a holding pattern. Well, I guess I lied to myself that this steady job was worth all the things I wouldn’t have time for. The very best thing I found is that I have learned so much about who, how and why I yam what I yam. I need to have the freedom to live life as the best me. Stop lying to myself and stop lying. Period . Everyone is all to fast to remind me of what a great paycheck it is… Yeah, but c’mon wouldn’t you rather I be a happy broke ass instead of lying to yourself that money is what you want? It’s never been about the Fame, the Fortune, the Fanfare. It’s all a lie anyway. The only thing that I am not lying about is how great I feel trying to be the best I can be, even though it’s the hardest thing I’ve done. But you know what they say: Fake it ‘til you make it. And I am gonna make it this time. And that’s no lie.
Every girl I know has a deep jean drawer. A drawer filled with varying sized jeans. The dressy jeans, the fat day jeans, the great ass jeans and the jeans that are just waiting to embarrass you by splitting from seam to seam while at your local farmer's market, not that that's happend*insert awkward throat clearing. Then there's your skinny jeans. The jeans that you can only fit into on the skinnest days of the month. The jeans that you bought on the day you were feeling better about yourself than you have ever felt since. The Skinny jeans, a beautiful and terrifying thing. Let me introduce you to: The Skinny Jean Experiment. Heretofore known as The SJEx.
The Skinny Jean Experiment was born out of a need to prove something to myself: I can-too fit in these jeans. Well, let's just say there's a titanic distance between fitting into and feeling comfortable in them. I would have even settled for not cutting off the circulation to my overflowing muffin top. *Gasp* I mean I had to wear the long flowy shirt, just to pretend they were alright. The SJEx wasn't so bad at my house. Surprise, surprise they're okay in my comfort zone...But in the big bad outside world, she's a different story. I barely made it down the stairs. It was four floors of trying to build up momentum only to be stopped when my jeans reached their maximum stretch. Back when TLC was amazing, I used to watch Stacey and Clinton help curvy women get into something structured, creating a flattering silhouette. And I finally get it. *Ding Ding! Catching my shadow's larger than life silhouette projected as a giant on the wall...sigh. I would like to create a totally different one. I finally understand straight lines and something structured on the curvy gal. Floppy makes your curves look like fat; the less you are bending a line the slimmer you look.
The SJEx wasn't so hard in sloppy Parkdale. There are quite a few fashion misses as you roam West Queen West. I was almost confident, until... and I can barely believe the place that brought the SJEx to a crushing almost tearful halt: The Grocery Store. As The SJEx and I are waiting in the checkout lane with 18 items or less grabbing at my waistband which was digging into my soft belly, I looked back. My eyes scrunched with discomfort were met with 3 model types buying cottage cheese and blueberries with lean turkey slices. And I have Doritos, Bits and Bites and my way-too-tight-super-skinner-than-they should be jeans. I feel embarrassed and big and stupid, though I am not sure why I feel stupid it's just all connected somehow. Then the Starving Artist pipes up, in my head of course; You're already starting. They are Starving Artists too, just at a point closer to their goal. But it doesn't make me feel better. I want to be the best now! So, when I got home feeling sorry for myself I teared up and put on my jogging pants and ate Bits and Bites. The SJEx done for today.
The scientific and logical part of my brain knows I am the reason I am where I am physically, emotionally and career-ically. Having had a great experience on Friday night; my first acting gig, I mean actual acting gig in over a year. It was fast and fantastic and furious and soaking wet and never as special as I hope it will be. And like one of those signs indicating how many days it's been since a company's last accident; Today restarts the daily count. Then my full time job ends Friday. So what am I to do with myself. I'm grasping at hands before pointing down in this oubliette of a business, so I thought this Starving Artist Blog would keep me busy. But I worry that Dieting can be all stick and no carrot. Or rather all carrot stick.
Singing, humming, toe tapping and moving to the beat. Not everyone hears the music of life. In everything we do there is rhythm. The sound of your heartbeat, the pace of your breathing. The rustle of the breeze through autumn's crispy leaves. The sound of footsteps on the subway stairs and the whistle of the wind through the tunnel. Music is all around us.
Everyday starts as a new symphony. There are days when you feel like an oboe- Forlorn and lethargic. There are days like a lute- high strung and hurried. There are days you're an accordion- moaning and squeezing at various paces. But the best days, the most fabulous days are the days that ring like a Ukulele. Now I may be prejudiced but there is no emotion a ukulele can't convey. By strumming, chugging and finger picking; I decide how my symphony sounds and feels. I am master of my musical domain. The sheet music of my life is becoming more harmonious as I play.
With music all around us it should be no surprise I can't stop dancing through life. The fact that I have begun writing my own music is however, a surprise. When I began playing music again, I couldn't have imagined the impact would have been so great. Great- meaning both vast and amazing. I had resigned myself to the fact my voice was my sole instrument and I wasn't prepared for the ease with which I slipped into holding a new one in my hands. Since learning uke I have been invited to teach others, which I am excited for despite my inexperience. The ukulele lends itself to your every whim. And having a tight circle of local ukeists is very tempting. Bit by bit my opus is being composed and I can't wait to share it with you. But for now we should listen to the sound of the music all around us. And sway to the rhythm of life:) Happy Thursday from this strummy Uke-lady!P.S. Toronto's very best Ukology teacher is one of my fav blondes Judy Marshak
The ability to relax is one that many people lack. Trust me. Having worked as a masseuse for almost 5 years. Five years of telling people to breathe. Telling people to let me do all the heavy lifting. With our 70 hour work week, we have forgotten how to relax. Taking our work home with you and trying to fit your love, your family, your friends, your animals, your dreams, your life into your already over stuffed schedule. We have forgotten the art of relaxation.
Today though my no Good Friend from Winnepeg reminded me that I do deserve to relax, feel beautiful and relax...wait I said that, sorry I am so relaxed. While spending our day in saltwater whirlpools, saunas and eucalyptus steam rooms. We felt great. The art of relaxation isn't something that comes easy to either of us. We're go-go-goers'. As with all art it takes practise unless your a savant- a rare and beautiful breed in itself. Relaxing takes focus. You must focus on your breathing. Make sure your brain is where you are instead of the billion miles away it usually is. Laugh. That's a good one laughter aids digestion and is a mild abdominal workout- a peripheral benefit. While working and accomplishing tasks is important, you only get one body and one life.
Wearing joggers and bumming on the couch can be calming but there is still a chance you will be interrupted by a Hubby, a needy Pupparoo or laundry. The key to artistic relaxation is extraction. As anyone whose ever had a facial knows-extracting yourself dermally and positionally is imperative. Remove all distractions- including a perstering blog and sit with yourself or add a friend for the fore mentioned ab workout. There is a strange beauty to be found in the sheer indulgence of body and soul. So when you want to finally master the art of relaxation. Take the weight of the world off your shoulders- let someone else take a turn carrying it. Relax so you can do a better job on your next shift. And a kind suggestion from this masseuse "Relax and breathe." Then stand or lay back and admire the art of relaxation. With a little more technique you could be a relaxation Renaissance Master someday.
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 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.
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