When I graduated theatre school I thought it was only a matter of time until my name was up in lights and people were making parodies of me. Drawing cartoons for the New Yorker, you know the things that optimistic young ingenues believe. That everything will come up roses. Well, needless to say things haven't turned out that way. And I should have seen it coming:
My first unionized-paying theatre gig was 2 months after my graduation. I was the 3rd person in my class to book a paying gig. And I was proud! Boy was I. I mean, by no means was I playing Cleopatra, but I was working in my chosen field; leading myself towards my dreams!*insert angelic choir. Okay, okay, I am making it sound way better than it was. I was getting paid $375/ week and no per diem to be in Stratford, while still paying rent in Toronto. With this in mind the production arranged for me to billet with a local family. Now to be fair; I needed to stay somewhere for free, and my billet family loved the theatre: it was a match made, in well, not quite heaven.
Having taken a bus from Toronto to Stratford, I was frazzled and my host family wasn't at home until after my first day of rehearsal. Trucking all my clothing for the 4 weeks of rehearsal and everything I thought I could possibly need including 3 books, a pillow and my almost as large as a desktop-laptop. The first day of rehearsal was tiring, and the combination of almost 4 hours bus travel to Stratford, a full 10 hour day of script breakdown and blocking, when I finally arrived at my billet's home- they were waiting at the door, excited to meet me. Then there was the complex introductions to Father, Mother, 2 kidlets, 1 golden retriever & 2 cats. I just wanted to go to bed, but being the polite and sociable person I am I accept their invitation to dinner; a four course meal with lots of starch.
Hours later when I was finally climbing into bed I was exhausted. Falling asleep almost immediately; all thoughts of reading dashed by the lack of bedside lamp. While drifting towards dreaming, I heard noises, strange noises. Something like a helicopter... Could that be right? I am in the basement of a Stratford family home; no where near a helipad. Then a screech. Like a bat or vampire disguised as a bat. Waking in a confused state, trying to remember where I am. Oh yeah, I am in a strange bedroom...Where is the light switch again? Feeling the nearby wall, I find it. Snapping the light on to reveal a disaster. Across the room standing in my suitcase is HouseCat 1- posed like a black Halloween cutout, yellow eyes wide with fear. Frozen in a tableau of confusion, we stare at each other. Then the helicopter sound and screech begins again. The helicopter is actually this possessed feline shooting pooh out of its bum and into my very full suitcase. The suitcase filled with my life! A spray of kitty diarrhea shooting into and over all my personal belongings. And just as suddenly as it began HouseCat 1 screeches one final time and vaults herself out of my suitcase, down the hall, and into the furnace room. Leaving me alone in a strange basement, in the middle of the night, starring into my litter box suitcase, wondering where to begin.
This is the strangest welcome wagon I've ever received. Needless to say, there was very little sleep that first night. Between rewashing all my laundry and waking the billets with concerns over their smallest family member, I was a wreck the next day for rehearsal. As far as omens go, this should have been a big black X, against my chosen career, but against all odds I've carried on this clearly glamours path. Come hell or flying kitty poo. The best lessons I learned: keep your suitcase zipped and off the floor and never snap on the light if you hear a helicopter in a stranger's basement.
I work in the film industry, where it's typical to receive "compliments" like; "You're actually a pretty girl."(said with an air of surprise) and "Does anyone ever tell you you look like Reece Witherspoon?". Both are compliments, but today's blog is about the latter. Looking like someone, but not being that person is not totally awesome.
Consensus* says I am pretty, not a 10 but a solid 7.5; 8 if I'm wearing mascara. It's not a unique or exotic beauty it's a "does anybody ever tell you, you look like Reece Witherspoon" beauty. If you have a similar look, people will act like you're just as pretty, but I am nowhere near the level of Reese Witherspoon. Obviously. Being measured against someone who has a personal trainer, regimented diet plan and movie contracts, when I don't is a slightly stacked deck. I am clearly not Reece Witherspoon. I look like her...? And Jenny McCarthy sort of. And if my complimentor is lazy they'll just grasp at names of famous blondes. But what does that do for me? I mean, really?
Do you know the saying if it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck- she's a Toronto actress (probably not, as I just made it up). When a producer is cheap, they hire the stand-in, the person who looks the part, but only from a certain angle, with a certain lighting. The girl looks like the actress the producer wanted but at 1/8 the cost. And they will use you until they have the money to get the Reese they always wanted. So, I am currently standing in; waiting for someone to notice how wicked I am. In my brain it's happening. Well, it isn't really- but if enough people believe it, it might come true! So everybody out there clap your hands and say; "I believe that looking like someone famous, can help you become famous.". Now, I don't mean FAMOUS-famous, I mean Canadian famous. The famous where everyone thinks they went to high school with you. Cast in the glorious role of waitress or concerned nurse or episode victim. Maybe a few commercials every year? Nothing too fancy, I do like going out without make-up and would hate to have paparazzi following my every move posting photos of my "Worst beach body".
Though I have realized that looking like someone famous isn't all bad. You get put on the top of the party invite list, you get pampered by the crew and craft services will make you that super complex douche bag drink you love so much. I guess there are benefits to being close, but no cigar- except when there's a smoker in the room.
* Consensus made up of my Momma, Papa, Hubby, Bro, BFF and 1 work colleague.
Last night after attending a sketch comedy show, I became the crazy stalker person I am deep inside. With all the tell-tale signs. The tweeting and Facebook posts to people, giving them props, and using inside jokes...but here's where it really gets weird. I made a play for the group. I tried to convince them I would be an asset to their already very talented team. Like I have anything to offer. I write down my slightly off centre remarks at a computer with no one to judge them...But I think I miss the judgement- at least I miss the feeling of saying you can't please everyone. And Sketch comedy is about not pleasing anyone but yourself. It's about writing something you think is funny and showing people who usually think you're funny and laughing together. There's no money in it. There is only fun. So I decided I want to have more fun, I am, against my better judgement I am going to start doing more comedy again. Now I know it's way, Way easier to read this from the comfort of your own home, but you should come too, I am going to take this show on the road. I just need a WIFI connection. SOooo maybe I'll see you in the great wide beyond very very soon. That is if this sketch troupe doesn't need a blonde, creepy, stalker-type in their upcoming show. Stay tuned fo'dat.
Also, today was neato, I got to watch clowns at work. And I don't mean the construction workers outside my door.*insert wink/nudge A friend of mine had a great audition opportunity, but this meant the ticket she bought needed a taker. So I took. An audience of 100 people and I watched as Philippe Gaulier a french master in La Jeu and Clown, toiled and teased and coerced people into being their nastiest, sexiest, niftiest or nicest selves. It truly is interesting to watch how capable some are and how natural the act of buffoon-ery comes to them...Something special happens when you put on a red nose. All the social stigmas of what's acceptable fly out the window. You're encouraged to take advantage of your faults and follies. It is expected that you will walk with vim and vigor- all clowns big and small. I think that being able to hide behind a red nose or funny hat or big shoes is a great way to express yourself. And I might not be too far off already, how would you feel about that? I am sure Hubby would love it.
Alrighty, it's that time of the year again. The time when the government gives you, (or your spouse) a bit of money to say: Hey, thanks for giving us money all year and to divert us from what's about to happen. TAXES....taxes. As a "self-employed performer" who must collect her HST from each "employer" or "client" tax time for me can be stressful, should I stay or should I owe? And here's the kicker I don't understand taxes and receipt counting and totals and TFS accounts and RRSPs, GICs, UFOs etc. I don't get it. Why are there so many lines and factors? The cheat sheet shorthand guide is ten million pages thick, and you can file online but you have to print out all ten million pages too, and then keep it for 8 years? Oh, and if you're a canadian citizen, but you don't live here, you pay our taxes and you pay in your current country? Hello, help, I raise my hand meekly to ask a question. How does property tax work? Where is the beef? Is it possible for a person who doesn't work at a government or accounting office to understand these things? Why are they so complicated? Wouldn't it be better if everyone could understand? Unless, it's just me. In which case I say play through sir, and I tip my hat to you. Oh, and I don't understand those HRBlock commercials, but they're memorable, so I guess we can consider it mission: accomplished.
My loving Hubby is a shoe box man. Every receipt goes into a box, which stays somewhat chronological but that is the only things organized about them. I on the other hand, have been trying, for the last 8 years, not to do that. Though around Sept I usually forget and end up organizing 4 months the night before I drop them of with Alice the accountant. Alice is smart as a whip and a breeze to be around with a comforting rainforest slideshow screen saver. The perfect accountant. The last one was a slightly sticky looking bald man in a stale office that had a squeaky door and exposed ceilings that looked saggy and spongey. As for Hubby and I this year we will be filing as husband and wife for the very first time. I couldn't be happier for Tax Season:) Happy taxing!
Four score and seven beer ago, my onefather (and 3 friends) brought forth on this condo a new population. At least I think that's how it goes, I am paraphrasing from Kindergarten Cop. In my new and pretty condo, people gather and lounge. Like big cats in sunspots. They like to drink beer and soda pop. It is a fun place to be and people finally wanna come over to play. Hubby and I have always been homebodies who wanted to entertain but we've never had the space... Now we have space to spare. A foursome is easily accommodated for a movie, a twosome for a snuggle and a larger group spreads out and leans against walls, leaking into the den, where most of the Man-geek magic happens.
I have always wanted to be the condo the neighbours walk by thinking; "Aww, that sounds like fun." My old neighbours used to have that kind of party (every Thursday, Friday and Saturday with a sleep over brunch on Sunday, which is a bit much) and all I wanted was to be invited to one. All this longing, knowing that once the day of the party arrives I would stress about having nothing to wear that would show how fun I am*insert jazz hands. Only to decide on the same thing I wore in the last set of Facebook photos of a party I was at. When I do get to the party, usually the first guest, I start helping out, bowling snacks or chilling beer. I make myself busy to hide the fact that I'm a bit nervous to be there. When other guests arrive, appropriately late (which is a weird thing, right? I mean if you wanted people there for 7:30, why not just say that? Don't call it for 7:00, knowing people won't arrive for a half hour, 'cause I'll arrive at 7:00, it's rude to be late) I am tossed from the kitchen and into the fray of people: some I might know, some will be strangers. This should be exciting right? It is the most terrifiying situation, Zombie apocalypse not withstanding. If they are comedy people the night demands one-up-manship and witty banter- which means I have to be on my toes! And though I am not competitive, I don't like to loose. If the group is 9-5ers they are easily off put by an overly eager me trying to connect with them on some topic, pumping them for mutual interests, anything that we could jive about for a standard party interval. And if the guests are family, oh dear, I am the black sheep, and I believe that as my family they are mandated to love me, and they do, but that doesn't mean they don't think I'm outta my everloving mind.*insert sad jazz hands
I think I might be trying too hard. I just want people to like me, I mean I want people to want to like me. I don't want to ask people to like me, I want them to do it on their own. Is that so strange? I mean it seems to me that I am a good person, with good intentions and I am doing good things... Well, mostly good things, I J-walk and break minor bi-laws on occasion, damn the man. I think if you invited me to your party you would have fun. I am the world's cheapest party entertainer... special mid-week rates apply:)
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.
Today's hot topic is implied value. "Wha? What's that you ask?" Whoa gun-jumper, let me tell you....
Implied values are the "special" rates that Groupon offers or the "Prix Fixe" of Winterlicious/Summerlicious/every-other-possible-licious, except Melicious of course:)
First the Groupon:
These spas, resorts and all vendors in general are approached by a company- Dealfind, WagJag, Groupon etc... and asked to offer goods or services at a discounted rate. A discount of 50% or more to members who subscribe to their Coupon-ing services... So they want a full brazilian wax- not an inside leg lame one strip waxing, or perhaps they want a .5 carat pair of zirconium earrings, maybe a trip to Bermuda to sleep in a plane in a tree for 3 nights with dinner included. These are bargain basement prices on occasionally decent items...depending on what rings your bell. What you don't know is that of the slashed-everything-must-go-price-tag only 50% goes to the actual spa or resort. So when you look at it as a business model it's really all about generating a new client base.
Second the Winterliciou/Everything-licious epidemic
These restaurants apply for the honour of being on the Winterlicious map, menu and website. They are given a price point between $20-35 for lunch, and $35-50 for dinner, and must provide a prix fixe menu with multiple options for app, main and dessert. Again these prices may not reflect the actual cost, it is a promotion used as a tool to stimulate a new clientele.
So, where do they go so wrong?
Oh right, by taking it out on the customer bending them over, taking out their ladles and....oh wait, that's the graphic (graphic, but not images) novel I am working on... That's right, the staff bad mouth us as cheap, US, how very dare they. Trying their services or meals or whatever with a coupon, a GD coupon they agreed to! (mid-sentence exclamation means business) and they rip us off. Small portions, rushed dry food, plunked onto tables, no cares as to which lips you're getting waxed or where you're bleeding. As a business owner (I am currently CEO of this Website) I would suggest add-ons at the store level, I mean hello? Resorts could offer breakfast in bed with their local movie star? OR a spa could ask if you wanted that huge blackhead dealt with or if you just wanted to keep walking around like that. Not so hard, be innovative, I want to want to come back, but I am not going to with these shenanigans, strong words but I think you understand. You sold a full body massage, facial and manicure for 55 cents, that's not my fault. And even though it is a hell of a deal, just do it right would'ya? Don't you want me to come back and pay full price? Wouldn't you like me to tell my friends how great your Steak Tartare is? Cause I have a huge mouth and big neck, with a lot of breath support from my genetically modified lungs. I can dish with the best of them, I just wish you could too.
Shall we disgust the topic of Morbid Obesity? Yes, I think we shall. Where to begin?
The morbidly obese of the world are a sensory overload, with bodies that look like a train wreck, smell so strongly like a rotten Iron Chef episode you can taste it, the laborious wheezing after any kind of physical activity, the touch of their sweaty chocolate coated hands leaving marks on handrails and my sixth sense telling me that I don't think the human body was designed to carry that much extra, we could call it fat, but I think I'll just call it human jellyroll filling, cause it's the same gooey red stuff.
Now, all grossness aside, I don't understand how Really Really fat people, people who would benefit from walking or even standing get a motorized scooter. That's like saying "Well Jackie boy, you made a lot of bad decisions, ate yourself into a new handicap parking space, a shiny set of wheels, and you've developed type 2 Diabetes because you drink modified corn sirop. Congratulations!" Cue the confetti, marching band and balloons, oh wait this isn't a celebration it's an abomination. Attn: Scooter riders going the posted street speed limit on the sidewalk is not acceptable, heaven forbid I be strolling, as they pass me, shrieking for to "get out of the way" or "move it". It would have been great to have some of that need for speed before they became an angry scooter-bound manic. I think these scooters of the dumpy-damned should be calibrated to travel no faster than a brisk walking pace, agreed? That would make sense, unless, as a motorized vehicle they should be on the road... Oh, it's almost Darwinian* insert greedy hand rubbing
And since when did being a jerk become a prerequisite to being beyond fat? I mean it used to be called pleasantly plump for crying out loud. What happened to all the sweet super-fatties, who used to compensate for their outward appearance with their inner beauty? (Science debates inner beauty as a non-quantifiable entity) Of all the world's dying breeds, I miss the pleasantly plump the most. They were a group I once counted myself in, but there are too many reflective surfaces in this city and I am a dedicated student of vanity. Although I wouldn't mind a free scooter and I love jellyrolls...it's food for thought.
While working in the aesthetic industry I was entranced by a multi-step dermal care system. Like a un-exfoliated snake charmed by the sweet sounds of the skin flute (oh wait, that's a different story) I bought into the practice of wash-rinse-remove-cleanse-massage-rinse-exfoliate-massage-rinse-re-rinse-spot treat-age target-moisturize and seal. Though I have all these products with their various accessories scattered, stacked and stored in my teeny condo bathroom, none of these products are the same shape or size, oh no, they are as irregularly shaped as they are infrequently used, stacking, tumbling and taking up space much to the cha-grin of my hubby. And surprise, surprise, I am not easily motivated to do un-fungrueling things for myself (ie: gym, taxes, multi-step systems of any kind), especially after a grueling day of thinking about what I will write for you tomorrow, I can barely muster the enthusiasm to rinse and remove my under eye concealer, which has become a crutch, spackling my newly acquired uber-dark-bags, though it was not long ago I could go without a stich of make-up *implied shocked mock-cheerleader voice (I say mock as I worry about someone actually remember I wasn't a cheerleader, or that my high school didn't actually had a squad). Speaking of cheerleaders, I could start wearing football eye blacks- they might actually create the perfect diversion to what's happening up here* implies a circular gesture to dilapidated** face area. It seems I might actually be getting older, though I thought older/wiser were part and parcel- in fact not so, just the older part is ensured, Older/wiser requires pre-registration. Soooo....let's get a bit more honest than you might like, while watching "THIS is tha Vo-ICE!" I was picking, one might even say digging, at my dead dull lifeless skin, each cell precariously clinging to my face, snuggled up against the winter winds and displaying a serious lack of vitamin D, why? Why won't it just go away, slough off would ya? With you gone I am free to reveal the radiant creature my 3D dermal-dimension-insert D-word here, product line promises is underneath many-MANY layers of contaminated surface skin, I'm like an old gas station, applying for a building permit. Hazzah, I realize with relish- step 7 is my only hope, though step 7 alone cannot rescue this post-February-still-Blah-late-Mardi Gras-early Leprechaun mask, it will take the Tenacious Twelve to save me now. Twelve time consuming steps to the rescue, swooping in to save the day. With this team of super-stringents at my side and on my bathroom counter, I begin grooming the H-E-double hockey stick out of myself! Plucking and prodding, massaging and scrubbing, moulting layers of dead snake skin, finally unveiling the skin within, my face renewed and dewey, which my mother says is the key to youthful beauty. Soft, satisfied and sealed I slither into bed, ready to Face (see what I did there?) the coming morning. With a theme song I awake- a bright and cheerful morning- Whoa wait, what do I spy? Three white-headed friends who've taken up residence: Olivia, Janice and Pusie, which I feel is grossly fitting. Are you kidding me? Alas no joke, though today's theme song continues reminding me 4 heads are better than one... and they are growing on me:) though hopefully not for long.
**Side note: I thought the word was delapitated, it's not, your welcome.
WHAAAt? My father found out I was moving through my blog. Well, there goes that big shiny smart idea that my parents wouldn't be interested in reading my silly little blog. Turns out they do in fact read my blog, which means they do in fact read my facebook, which might also mean they read my twitter... oh the many implications. I wasn't actually sure that people would read this. I mean who am I and what do I do? *Austrian accent implied. Oh yeah, I am Melicious (see home page) and I write a blog sometimes. Sorry, all that Quantum Leaping has given me a swiss cheese memory. I knew that people thought I was amusing, I mean slightly less interesting than a real personality, but more informative- shall we say, opinionated than most strangers shouting their opinions from soap boxes or on streetcars.
Dang! swiss cheese- Here we go, BEA-ack to the 'rents reading this blog: Well, my parents have always been supportive, and I never wanted to hurt their feelings, but they're the reason I am who I am- take it as you will Pops. But in a book I am reading which should be called "Teach me to be funny, cause I'm not", the author is teaching me to make fun of my dearest most supportive fans, and she says they'll actually appreciate it. Now, my family relishes a good roast, but what's good for the goose ain't always so good for the gander, if you catch my drift. I guess what I really want to know is...boom ba doom boom... Are you gonna go my way? *Kravitz accent implied. I think I would like to make fun of me and my parents, and me and my brother and my husband and I, my dog, the cat, their owner (me), my living situation and struggling career, cause I don't really know anything else, and eventually branch out to making fun of well still mostly myself, boy I have got material! So, I guess the question is daddy, if you're reading this, is it still mean if you mean well?
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