Okay, okay, that's a made up word. But it has an implied meaning; so even though you've never heard it before you understand it. Which is a strange way to think of language but it's a great way to think about communication. Aww, you know what I mean. How many times a day do you hear someone say that? And you do know what they mean, somehow your brain makes the call. Having collected all the crucial communication information. The speaker, the topic and the time. These factors clean up sloppy lines of communication. So, let the conversation satisfication begin.
While spending some much needed time kissing tha'Babe, I couldn't help but see how little talking was required for me to understand exactly what she meant. Most of the time it was just small talk, but I would think that's even harder for an 8 month old. As we grow up we forget how to communicate on the basic human level. Please don't take this to mean we should start crying, throwing things and screaming to get our points across-though for some of us it's too late. Instead consider that a wink and smile can go a long way in all languages.
With instant communication at our fingertips. We are infinitely connected and all within arms reach. These little devices being constantly forgotten, causing heart attacks and anxiety. Most of us suffering from a severe case of the where is it?Oh there it is. Phew-itis. It's hard to comprehend how we could loose track of how important and special those names, places and photos really are. I remember the social calls. The teenage hour long conversations. The ringing doorbell. The playdates. And the Sunday check-ins. In my pocket I have all the information I could ever want. Dates, times and events all collected in one tiny hand held horcrux; communicating has never been easier. Though the digital siren's call is a tough one to ignore. It is my goal to put down my fruity apendage and really stay connected. And even if I can't peel it off; I will never underestimate the power of a smile. Now, that's what I call satisfication. Oh, you know what I mean.
Growing up in a small town, there's lots of time for reflection. Time to sit by the river and wait for your enemies to roll by or read the Art of War. It's up to you. There is always more time and it's never to late to write your wrongs. My Grandma Far was a fan of two nuggets of truth. 1. What's for you doesn't go by you. Which means, if you're destined to have something or you've earned it, you'll get it. And 2. The whole world can't be wrong. Meaning, if you're the only one to see things your way, you're probably wrong. And I am. I have been wrong a lot lately. Which is not to say I haven't been trying, I've just been trying the wrong things the right way and ignoring the right things the wrong way
The strangest part about being wrong is that you don't realize it until it's too late. Sad, but true. If l had stopped to listen to the oh so very many voices of reason while on this tunnel vision express train, I probably wouldn't have F*ed things up...quite so badly. There were warning signs- I ignored. There were beacons of information- I ignored. How about the pony express telegrams I received, but instead of reading, I did what, oh that's right- I ignored them. Hubby says that people need to go through a selfish faze, especially when their goals are as lofty as mine. Here is the problem though. I am double crossing myself. Hedging my bets. By putting in the effort for the things I need to be good at to achieve my goals, I risk losing the things I am already great at. And I don't like that, it feels wrong.
When it feels like the world hates my guts, there is special person I turn to. The man behind the curtain. My Papa B; renowned grump and philosopher. Plus sometimes I just need to talk to my Daddy. As I wept onto my smart phone, my Papa B apologized for giving me his guarded and easily aggravated genes. He is convinced that he is responsible for the not-so-social quirks my Bro and I share. Which are many and widely varied. This might explain why the only person the 3 of us really trust is my Momma. I know he's wrong about giving me all my quirks cuz I got a few from my Momma as well. But where things really go wrong is when the two gene pools collide. My Papa B's shrouded mystery with my Momma's need to shout it from the rooftops. My Papa B's grumpiness with my Momma's need to please. Papa B took an hour on a windy almost winter day to talk me down from a lonely breezy, freezing ledge and what I needed to hear most was the last thing he said: "No matter how wrong you are. If you apologize and mean it, there will always be time to right what you've wronged, if that's what you want." And I want to. Living life right is about maintenance, it takes work. You're never wrong for wanting to better yourself. But there is a right way to do it. As for their genes, they may never fit me and look flattering. But my Mom's genes will sure look good with my New Balance *insert coy wink for my funny little play on words*
Heading into the busy holiday season I thought I would try to organize myself. I would love to be one of those "5 year plan-It's all going according to schedule" girls but these are words I have never uttered. Ever. There are things I am good at organizing; like other people's events-which can be very helpful this season. But there are organizational tools that elude me, for example choreographing a Puppy and Kitty Xmas Carolling Concert- I don't know how those animals on the radio do it. Oh and Social planning. It's not my forte. Please let me explain. I am great in social situations, it's all the other stuff that goes with them that I stink at.
Firstly, I am not a good planner. Not to mean I can't make plans and keep them. It's just that I like to fly by the seat of my pants which means I leave a lot up to destiny. I make general plans with multiple options for amusement. Letting myself go with the flow- a BFF trick extraordinaire. It's a lot more fun that way. Unless of course you're married to the Commish, who must account for every minute he's on the clock, otherwise the boys upstairs will start giving him heat; and he's too old for that.
Secondly, I tend to double, triple and in rare cases even quintuple book myself. The enthusiasm of just being invited somewhere clouds my judgment, going against all scientific theories of time and space. Which I hope by this time in the year 2014 (baring the Rapture) we'll have solved. And I will be able to attend all events simultaneously on a fractured timeline.
Thirdly, distraction. I am easily distracted. Oh! A squirrel!
Fourthly, short term memory loss. Did someone say something about squirrels? If I don't write it down it's gone.
Fifthly, I forget every year this coming month goes by so fast and then the parties are over. It's a busy blur of festive cheer. Leaving us in the Daylight savings dark with nothing to celebrate until Valentine's day.
So, I hope this year to take advantage of some much needed celebrating. Despite all my social foibles. There something relieving about FB holiday invites going out early and the pre-event planning I've been involved in. So, this year I look forward to wrapping myself up in an ugly Sandy Clause sweater and enjoying all the miracles and merriment of the season. At least that's my plan;)
Dear Teenage Angst,
First and foremost I want you to know I love you. I may not always like you but I do love you. There are so many things I want you to know. Like once upon a time long, long ago, I was your age. Believe it or not, but I was. Things were different then. I made mix tapes and passed notes that would go on for days. I lived in a small town, where everyone knew my beeswax. We didn't have FB. I took keyboarding class on a typewriter for crying out loud. Things have chaged, and I know that, but the more things change the more they stay the same. There are always going to be people who are mean. There will always be people who are different.
Being in highschool stinks. All those hormones flying around. Teenagers unable to express themselves in a clear and direct manner. Which often means they will lash out and hurt each other because they don't know any other way. Somedays it will feel like you're doing everything wrong. But here's what you should remember. You're so lucky to be loved. Lucky to be alive and lucky to live here. Things may seem hard, and somedays they will be, but trust me when I tell you. The adult you want to become is inside of you. Waiting for their chance to grow up. This is not an order for you to stop being a kid. Heck, I am still a kid. This is the suggestion to step back, and really look at the world around you. The people you've got. The way you live your life. Are you the person you hope to be? The person you want the world to see? Perhaps instead of complaining about the things that are wrong with the world; you suggest ways to change it. Be the change you want to see in the world. Maybe you could spend some time helping others, like your mother, your father, your neighbour or dare I say it your little brother.
There is a whole wide world out there. And soon you will be sent out into it to fend for yourself. Trusted with the information you've gathered to make your own way. I know you can do it, people less brave than you have, and they seem, well, alright. Angst, we know that under all those wacky teenage emotions, the sweet child we all want to take care of is still there. But you make it tough for people to love you. And really, that's all we've ever wanted to do.
Yours Meliciously,
The Adults in your Life
P.S. I have a few tricks for dealing with tough people, when you finally admit you don't know everything.
There is a special bond that grows between a man and his dog. Or in my case the Stinker and this Gal. It is not something that can be easily explained. It's a delicate balance of love and angst. A Bermuda triangle of troubled waters and deceptively calm skies. Watching her claim and reclaim her 'rightful' place at my side is a comedy of errors.
I have always had animals. I grew up with Ralph- a charming and distinguished old man conveniently trapped in the body of a lazy Basset hound. He was the howling defender of our house. The couch sleeping snore machine that interrupted movies. And in his old age he would toot with the effort of climbing the stairs. A tuneless trumpet played for my childish delight. We had Ralph for more than 10 years. He was part of our family- he picked favourites, but still he was a part of it. He was my Papa B's puppa roo.
Then along came Beba. Or Eta-be-ba-sane. Or the Big Lady. Or Beebs. Or any number of variations on Reba. An unimaginative breeder's reject. She is a ballerina trapped in a bohemouth's body. With the nerve to love everyone. Her chocolate brown eyes always goofily optimistic for just one more cookie. The prettiest tail wagging simpleton in all the land. She is a Basset of a different colour and perfect for our family. Her award winning smile sets her apart.
Having less space than my parents and knowing I could never fit a country Basset in a city unit, I chose a smaller hound pup. A reagle Beagle. The teeny diddy bean is the sweetest Tinker in the world. Songs have been sung of her beauty and grace. Her fans are scattered far and wide. Shy and quiet her big brown eyes blink at a stranger's approach. She's a stinker though. I am convinced she thinks I control the weather. Making it rain just to soak her tender toes. She has perfected the four foot stomp. A sure fire way of telling us she's hungry. And I could do without her stretching out in bed, pushing me into the upper quarter and defending it with her half moon claws. Plus the undercover over-heating. She's getting to be an old dog, but she's still pretty tricky.
Having a dog is a special responsibility. Even cat lovers know that. You must consider dogs. Their timelines, their behaviours, the seasons and their personality. Each dog I've loved was completely unique. All equally nuts, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Jilly Bean is the first dog that is my own. She's grown past the puppy faze. Through the grumpy teenage dog years and now she's beginning her mid-life crisis. The dog days may not be over but I will stay true to my furry best friend.
P.S. I know I'll get in trouble for not mentioning Bucy goose. The prettiest kitty with the cutest face. Her head is too small for her body, but she's got some spunk. She's a batter. Whipping Jilly into a frenzy then bopping her on the nose. She's a holy terror. But she's not a dog.
Baby steps, taking your time and half measures- I can't say I'm a fan. I have been told once or twice *insert throat clear* I mean a lot, that I put too much pressure on myself. Expecting to achieve life long dreams in dog years. C'mon Melicious get it together! Yesterday's appearance on a National morning show was exhilarating. Being invited to a movie premiere, picked up at the Breaking Dawn (Twilight reference) in a schmancy car and broadcasting my smile across the country was amazing. So, why, as soon as I finished did I feel like I was under-achieiving? Why couldn't I just allow myself one day of gratitude and celebration? Oh, that's right, because I put a lot of pressure on myself and never quite live up to my own insanely high standards.
There are so very many reasons that I should celebrate. I have a loving Hubby, a great group of friends-that I don't see often enough-wicked family, a steady job, a few great ideas and my health. Plus the Puppa tink and Bucy goose, which goes without saying. So, why is it I can't just be happy with what I've got? There is a theory floating around that it may be genetic. Allow me to elaborate: My Momma opened a retail store this past week, before finishing her current term as Councillor, while still working a full time job. My Papa B who builds bathrooms on the weekend, while digging up the front and side yard and runs a company with 5 fulltime staff. Of these lists I have also left off their volunteer habits, their assorted groups and clubs, oh yeah and sleeping/eating- a highly undervalued commodity in our household. I am not blaming them- it's better than being raised by some no-good-lay-abouts with a reputation for no-good! But watching them strive to better themselves has challenged me to do the same. Only worse, because I do it Artistically.
While attending performing arts school I learned to express myself. To climb every mountain and dream the impossible dream. Well, here's a surprise, artists don't get paid much, so to supplement my pro-bono art, I work really hard at other things. But this leaves me tired and uninspired...and a bit pouty. My big fat bottom lip hanging out just waiting for a bird to perch. Don't get me wrong. I am of course grateful for all I have, I just thought I would be further along on this journey. Closer to having a vacation. Closer to finishing my book. Closer to being thin. And just closer to not being so far away from my-sometimes unrealistic- goals. Here's the thing, I know that half the fun is getting there, I just wish the directions were a little more clear. Though, I guess I am to blame for that too, as I keep changing the destination...but that's a story for another time.
The Dawn is Breaking, the dream is over. I’m a “Twilight” super fan and now I’m going national, having been invited to share my enthusiasm with a country of screaming fans. Breaking Dawn pt2 marks the final installment the Twlight saga. A sad day. I’m also a card carrying member of Team Jacob, though not necessarily team Lautner, as he was very much a minor when this whole thing began (I have the same issue with Bieber, but that's another story). The ultimate question for Twi-hards: are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?
Vampires are often tortured souls who live eternal lives. There is something undeniably romantic about a 1000-year-old falling in love with you. You're the most beautiful person he's ever met. You’re the object he's been undying for. You’re his mate…and vampires mate for life! Those mates join Covens – together – for the entire afterlife. But the idea of having to consume blood to stay 'alive', well, that's a choice I'd rather not make. I’m even squeamish around Grey's Anatomy blood.
Werewolves on the other hand are monsters. But they are also warm and fuzzy. Once a month they get furry and ferocious. The Twilight werewolf pack, however, are really more shape-shifters than werewolves, in the typical sense. They have rage issues and can be dangerous to those they love and those who love them. But their love is everlasting- ah hello- imprinted! As pack animals, you're stuck with your pack. And being part of that pack isn’t chosen, it's genetic, which is tough cuz you have to take into account that any pups in your litter could be werewolves too.
It's tough to pick a side.
In the ever-hopeful event that any of these mystical things actually happen, I choose werewolf -to be diplomatic. It's only fair that I give Edward to my girlfriend. I mean, she did invite me to the tiny town of Forks. However, we do have an agreement that should Edward truly love me, she would gracefully resign her affections. As any good friend would for eternal love. Fingers crossed, I'll be able to pick a few more members of that coven. There are people I wouldn't want to be undead without:)
There are some people who don't like the idea of a little girl (or boy) wanting to be a Princess. Well, I thought it was time we clear the air in this stuffy castle tower. The only problem I have with a little girl (or boy) wanting to be a Princess is if they don't realize it means a lot of hard work and hurtful stereotypes. A Princess has to be ready for anything.
There are many different types of Princesses. Some are born into it, some marry into it and some who've chosen that life path. The anti-princess people have only ever seen their side of the argument. Princesses are entitled, demanding and weak. And sadly, I admit that they can be right. That some real life Princesses are not good people. But some real world Princesses-especially those who don't have an official title- are invaluable to their kingdom.
Being an unregistered Princess, I have been judged. I'm naive, though I consider it hopeful. I'm over sensitive, but I prefer the term tender. A Princess who chooses their path knows there will be pitfalls and hopes to avoid them. Leading her subjects to safety and ultimately happiness. But the most important part about being a Princess is fighting for what is true and good. Love is a huge part of that. What else could invite tiny woodland creatures to your side? Have them compose a tune in your honour and convince them to make you the most beautiful ball gown...I mean obviously, you must be lovely. It is a Princess' duty to protect the weak. Being a Princess means that you have to work hard at being the royal beacon your kingdom can follow and be proud of. So, take that Princess-haters, but swallow it with a spoonful of sugar- it'll go down easier:)
Growing up my Momma convinced herself (and the rest of us) that making our costumes was a cost effective and easy way of celebrating a devious holiday. But every year we'd get to the day before the School Halloween Parade and those costumes wouldn't be ready. Then, it was crunch time. Frantically breaking out the markers and glue gun... Taking short cuts and crossing fingers that the safety pins would hold. Side note: This was typical of bake sales, science projects and term papers too. Now, it was not entirely Momma's fault we didn't finish our costumes early. She's always been a busy lady and as a family unit we're not great at prioritizing, except by which project is the most fun. Which explains a few things about my genetic inclination towards procrastination. But you can't call it procrastination if you're too busy doing other things.
The most memorable costumes my Bro and I had growing up include, but are not limited to: Robin Hood, Black & White Harlequin clown, Lydia from Beetlejuice, 3 years in a row being a blue FryGuy, Beaten up Robin Hood, and an 'I don't do mornings' lady with slippers and bathrobe, curlers in her hair, Cup a'joe and green overnight mask.
In our family though, there is always one clear winner. Drum roll please, and the award for the Best Worst costume goes to my Bro as the Orange masked- nun chuck whipping Pre-teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle- as he was only 8. He was covered head to toe in green with an orange face paint mask cuz at that point masks had been deemed unsafe for children. The kicker though? My Papa B (infamous for his sheet ghost costume) fashioned a homemade shell and being a woodworker; choose wood. Forgetting a giant wooden shell might throw all 45lbs of 8 year old Bro off kilter. But Bro being so excited for Halloween, gave that hulking shell his most valiant effort. An attempt that his rat Sensei would've been proud of. More than once he toppled over backwards, splayed and unable to flip himself over, in typical turtle fashion. It wasn't many houses before my teeny Bro collapsed under the shell's weight, my Papa B and I doubled over with laughter, de-shelled my teeny-weeny Bro. Exposed the way he was, my Bro was determined to continue his trick or treating. Without a shell he was transformed into a Pre-teenage Mutant Nun-chucking Slug. Not as intimidating, but just as green. You know, I think we still have that shell, maybe he could go out this year as a turtle, though that Weeny is still only 78 lbs full grown;) Here's hoping your Halloween is flippin' awesome!
P.S. If you've never seen my Bro's mad fuk-coo skills, they're really something.
In an industry where youth is celebrated- sought after and faked, turning another year older can be a lot to recover from. Birthdays are supposed to be special. The one day to feel celebrated. One day a year where you are the number 1, top banana, king of the day; unless of course you're a twin. A day to be doted on. Loved and adored by those who love and adore you. Receiving birthday wishes from all those who think I'm something special. Family and friends eager to enjoy my company. But how does getting older really feel?
My Grandma Near; before she lost her mind to dementia said to me: "I don't remember getting old. I was 22 then I was 80, but that 22 year old is still in here."*pointing to her noggin. Then she asked me how babies were made. Strange disease Alzheimer's, forgetting who you are before your done with being yourself. But that's a story for another day. Growing older I have started to understand the importance of making memories. The urge to celebrate and be with the ones you love. Growing up, well, growing taller I can't help but wonder what the future holds for me. And most of all I've realized that just because you're not doing something doesn't mean things aren't happening. You can't stop progress. I think that getting older is a good thing for me. It's hard to admit that I won't be a reckless teen or self-involved twenty-something ever again. I am becoming a responsible adult. I am growing into my hit- acting-wise. Which should be a good thing*fingers, legs, arms and toes crossed. I am digging on being a grown up...except the ever increasing creases.
After all the indulgence birthdays bring, I will be happy to get back to veggies. The day after my party I had a sugar hangover and my tongue was swollen from sour candies. Plus my just-washed-jeans were a little tighter that morning. My body had just started being healthy for reasons of business and pleasure. And was starting to feel good. But now that I am one year older it won't be so easy staying in shape says Hubby who's been (infuriatingly) the same size since we met. Happy Birthday to me. I am glad to make these new resolutions with you. Here's to a Happy New Year of Melicious:)
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