My face needs a break. This realization was quick and blemished. I've loved the same products for so long. But when BFF brought out her new cleanser, smelling of lemongrass and spring water; I was jealous. I have been using the same 12 step program for the last 5 years.
People have asked me how I manage to do all 12 steps everyday. The reply? Reverse packing it into the cabinet, so I have to move all 12 steps to get to step one. And I know that I have a very special case of OCD because if I have to touch it to move it, I will use it. It's there, paid for. It's got to be used up before I can buy something new. It's the rule in my house. It applies to everything, except for a few things.
There is something so predictable about my love for shoes. Something so Muriel's Wedding. I love My shoes. But there are shoes in every doorway. Hanging in mock organization. Hiding under the bed. In boxes stacked inside suitcases. The Comissioner hates it. *throat clear*game systems. To the uninformed observer it may seem like overkill but there are shoes for every occasion. I have costume boots and flimsy sandals. Green and brown and suede. Shoes for dancing. And peep toes fancies. How could I get rid of any of them:$ I might need them any day now.
Another jam packed buried treasure. My make up box. Every shade of the rainbow a piece from a different Mac collection. The shade variations and the exclusive colours tickling my fancy. Painting my face and changing my story. I am addicted to green mascara from the Amazon. And my sleepy time rose water nigh-night cream, a dreamy pre-bed ritual. Sephora calls to me like a siren in an otherwise ill fitting mall. Floating on a sea of serums and balms, gels and oils. Longing for the spice of life. Though my 12 steps remain the same.
With my tight fisted-ness and ability to deny myself the pleasure of shiny and new; I am boldy marching toward a new regime... Well, skincare regime. I am freaking psyched for the bright smelling clean feeling of brand spanking new! Having completed my 12 step program. One out, one in. So, without any of the potential hoarding episode my other collections are becoming, I will start anew. With that in mind this holiday season I will be giving bottles of wine wrapped in boots and makeup painted greeting cards. That doesn't sound sanitary...but it does sound Eco-nomical.
There is a group of people who shine. They've got that certain something. That intangible spark. The X Factor. The Voice. They are a gangplank walking, chicken skin giving group. Overflowing with that very special something that sets them apart from the herd. The unique flare; a thing that people want to look at, talk about, dream about, drool over, wonder at, remember and cry over. It's hard to describe what makes a person a superstar, but I am willing to bet, it has something to do with three easily identifiable markers. And the unlikely combination created within that Shinning star. Creating a chemical reaction worth watching.
Talent- These are the people you can't stop watching. The people who sing the doors off- Whitney, Celine. Or the way Ansel Adams can make you feel thirsty. In this group we have dancers, writers, actors. Daniel Day's dedication to lifestyle immersion. They are the fireworks. They burn so beautifully bright. Typically they burn hard and fast. Streaking across the sky. Just catching them in the corner of your eye is lucky.
Confidence- Maybe it's the Cee Lo Green variety. Perhaps it's the confidence that Christina has in those mini skirts. It's that strut the angels have when they're telling secrets. The way a lead singer makes eyes at the camera. It's the stance. The swagger. It's shivering and sparkling. All the Bam Bam, all deliciously wrapped with a tiny little bow.
Personality- It's the distinctive late night gap toothed laugh. Then it's about creating a catch phrase. It's Farah Fawcett's blonde fringe. Monroe and Chaplin with their distinctive walks. Andy Warhol painting an iconic eye. The breathy vulnerability heard from the blues. It's the devil in their eyes. Unexpected punchlines. The suspenders and heart shaped glasses. It's a big floppy straw hat and pink boots.
The things that make you go boom. As a performer I fall into 1.75 of these categories. My personality is a solid 8.5, my confidence hovers between 6-8 and my talent varies greatly from passing to fancy. It plays into my favour that I am tenacious with a side of lazy. The good news is I am starting to know where I am going as a clear destination. I won't stop, cuz I can't stop. I am figuring out what it takes to make myself someone that burns brightly. A show must go on type of girl. I am on the road to giving goose flesh. They say knowledge is power and I am learning quite a bit about this crazy place and this even crazier business. But I don't think I'll ever stop lookin' at the stars.
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.
So, it was six weeks ago that I faced facts and stared the terrible truth dead in the eye. Not liking what I saw I decided that it was time for action. I am the captain of my own destiny and if I truly wanted to reach the end of this life long journey without reget, it was time I took the wheel. Since then I have up-ed my effort, my enthusiasm and my fiber. It was time for a change or 12, and I have been working my way through the ever lengthening list tortoise style. This is a race I want to win.
I have been visiting "gym mirror me" 3 or 4 times a week. She looks a lot more comfortable in her lulus, they don't bunch as much. Nothing less flattering than a yoga pant camel toe. Though, I don't believe I am ready quite yet for the apparently fashionable gym rat short shorts. A fad which is strange to me because who wants more of their skin touching the common elements? Interestingly, I have started to schedule my workouts. Finding time between the skimmed milk wonder twins who play their music too loud and never break a sweat and the grunting guy who reminds me of that viral video where that Russian strains so hard his insides fall out. Watching others in the gym setting I finally get why at home gyms are popular. It's amazing how much better it would be to have my own wall of frosted mirrors, wind machine, bow flex and a slightly dimmer, more flattering light.
My eating habits are back to mostly veggies with the occasional bacon slip. Eating clean foods like arugula, kale and whole grains. With a daily boost of fiber, just to add... interest. I think I finally get what those cryptic commercials mean by 'regular'. Salads and live sprouts are at the top of my list. Late night binges have almost disappeared. Though there are days when I still crave junk. It would be a lie to say that I never think about hot wings, Doritos and orange Crush. But I think that's the fear and self-defeat talking and they weren't invited to this party.
Even though I haven't lost weight I feel tighter. My big jeans are loose. My skinny jeans are still too skinny, but I don't look like Molly Muffin top anymore. Which is a good feeling. Now I am able to sport my whole wardrobe, not just my fat pants. The worry that after dinner and drinks I will swell and push the seams to extremes is gone. I feel more confident wearing flirty skirts and leggings. It's a good start. The worst*fingers crossed* is yet to come, when I hopefully*arms crossed too* I become too small for all my clothes and they hang off me like some bigger girl's hand-me-downs.
Anybody who says improving themselves was easy is only saying it to make you feel bad. Life is hard. Being good is hard. Living a good life well is harder. And being the best you and becoming a benefit to yourself is the hardest. Things are getting better and less hard. Firmer yes, but not harder. I am starting to see what a difference little changes can make, and I can't wait to see what some bigger changes will, well, change:). So, stay brave, be bold and sweat those pre-Xmas stresses out. And even though I thought I would have made more numeric progress, I feel better than I have in months. So, how could I complain about that? Wait, I'm sure I can find a way...
And now for the moment we've been waiting for: Week 6 measurements
Height still 5'8"
Weight 176.2 (+1.8)
Bust 40 (-/+)
Natural waist 32.5 (-.5")
Hips 43 (-1")
Arm flex r:13.25 (-.5") l:13.5 (-/+)
Arm rest r: 13.5 (-/+) l:13.5 (-/+)
Thigh standing r: 24.75 (+.25) l:24.5 (-.5)
For a total loss of 1.75 inches
P.S. BFF says it's not the weight that I should focus on it's the measurements. Which except the bust are heading in the right direction. Which is a good thing/ bad thing I think.
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:)
If you got a problem yo I'll solve it. If you have a gap I can fill it. I am your go to gal for all things great and small. Writer's cramp? I will massage it. Strained emotion? I will decompress it. If you need something it's quite likely I can do it, or at the very least I know someone who can get it for you. I am a great Sidekick, a keen Girl Friday, a worthy friend and a diabolical adversary. I am that girl.
All my life I have been an avid learner. I've always wanted to figure out the world around me. My interest in teaching myself knick-knack-knowledge makes me an invaluable font of information- both useful or useless. I know so many useless facts, formulas and theories that I've been accused of memorizing MindTrap- a card game designed to encourage lateral thinking. I am good with puzzles, especially word games. If you like trivia, I am your gal. If you want to beat someone at trivia- I am even more your girl. But what I am the best at is getting things done.
I am not your typical enforcer. I am a suggestion based outcome manipulator. I have perfected the communication of ideas to the point where others actually believe these ideas were their own. Which can be good and grotesque in equal parts. Lucky folks get to experience things the way I have predicted to be best, but it also means I am held responsible when things go off track. Having people believe that my suggestion are their own idea, has my clients taking all the credit. And as good as I am at most things- sharing is not on that list. Who in the Frak is Sharon?!? With that in mind, have you got a problem to be dealt with? Perhaps you've got a mystery in need of solving. I am a excellent fixer. Though I charge by the hour plus expenses- including disguises :)
You have high blood pressure, you need to lower your cholesterol, try a no sodium diet. It's like you spend your childhood being told not to eat candy, cake and french fries. Then you grow up and your doctor says don't eat candy, cake and french fries. Well, then why do they even exist? Pure torture. Tempting devils (food cake) that ruin my mind and body. Walking across the city I can smell the grease and fire smoked goodness wafting out onto the street. Teasing my nose with those tantalizing fingers of smell. While undertaking the Starving Artist I have been trying to up my game. Sadly, I am now at the point where I want anything but those crisp and delicious veggies, followed by a cool glass of spring water. I want some garbage.
Hubby and I consider ourselves foodies. Though not the culinary adventure type Foodie, we're more a "Find your favourite and only ever order from there" kinda Foodie. If you want something, we know where to get it. We know what we consider to be the best place for that particular dish. We are open to exploring new places; brunches being the preferred time slot. The comfort of eggs accompanied by coffee and booze. The glamour of dinner in the light of day. Brunch is also way more affordable. And it's the closet you can get to having all the food groups in one meal. But having a partner who loves eating well and tasting good things, while I am on a plan is: Terrible. I am following a health and wellness plan to strengthen myself. But he's just as tempting as those city smells and what's worse, he knows my weaknesses.
So, in an effort to find a happy medium after a night of pizza and beer. I am nibbling on celery. Eating natural peanut butter on 86 grain bread. I am drinking a Delta (Burke) of water. Exercise and clean living. Who would've thought they'd be equal parts great and awful at the very same time. I am not really sure how people become obsessed... but then it could also be my view from here. My gym is on P1, the pool is not even a whole lap, the weather has been spitty and sharp. My dog hair covered floor, the guy at the pool with the heel cracks, my tank top that rides up over my muffin top. These are the things I see when I am sweating. Now, after working out on a Sunday, I am stretching, hoping that one day I'll look into the mirror, at the gym, the studio, in the change room or my bathroom and finally see a girl I am proud to be. The girl my Hubby sees. Plus I would like to get rid of my high blood pressure; the flush is really not a good colour for me.
Everybody I know is looking for a little Me time. You'd think that with all the blah blah about timesaving this and yak yak about efficiency that, we'd actually have some time left over. When I started working in this industry I sent and received faxes. Snail mail was how I was paid my commissions. Now we have email transfers and texts. Even just typing those words saves time. So, where does all that extra time go?
I can choose a digital playlist. Send evites and order decorations online for a party; that no one has time to come to. I can search recipes and movie reviews for food I don't have time to cook and movies I don't have time to watch. Research a new fitness regime? Start a collection? Stalk a superstar cyberly? Yup I can do all those things online, but I can't actually find time to do anything in my real life. Zoinks! Then it hit me. I am spending all my Me time online planning for Me time. Oh what a Melicious cycle.
Join me in celebrating the realization that my Me time can be uploaded to real life. Suddenly I have found 2 free hours. When hubby is at work. When the house is quiet and Jilly is excited to snug. A Me time quiet enough to read, but awake enough that I won't fall asleep after 2 pages. A Me time with a rejuvenating face mask and newly painted little piggies. Me time with a chitchat and chinwag with my Besties. But by the sounds of it my Me time is quickly filling up. If you're interested in finding some You time; Please submit your application for Me time. I look forward to considering your nomination and seeing a happier You, with bright new digits:)
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