Just Like Howard Hughes

For the record, I often get the names "Howard Hughes" and "Hugh Hefner" mixed up. Not the people behind the name, but I tend to imagine them as one person. An old guy who spends a lot of time in a bathrobe, collecting his urine and publishing naughty calendars.

(I still haven't seen The Aviator, if you can believe it. One of those movies I keep meaning to watch, but am never in the mood to see. I feel somehow, that like Dead Man Walking,it's some sort of huge time commitment.)

But speaking of saving your urine, guess what I get to do this weekend? That's right! Due to some truly lame health problems I've been experiencing lately, my doctor has requested that I save my pee. All my pee. For 24 hours. Meaning I basically have to take a day off to stay home and pee. Apparently they give you some kind of container and collection system, then you cart all your bottles of pee (the requisition slip doesn't say if they give you an anonymous brown paper bag to carry your pee-jugs in) back to the lab for analysis.

Fun times on the bus,let me tell you! I've chosen Sunday as my official pee day, because it's the only day for the next couple of weeks that I'm not working. J has volunteered to stay home with me and have a karao-pee party.

Related to lame health problems, I've gained a rather impressive amount of weight over the last couple of months, despite exercising more and eating less. So I'm feeling a little depressed about it, trying to stay positive. I don't have a lot of wardrobe options, and I'm just generally feeling rather dumpy and chub these days. Trying to continue working out, track my food. I haven't re-joined Weight Watchers yet, but I'm eating what used to work for me-- ye olde Core Plan. Hopefully I can at least maintain until my doctor figures out what is going on.

Can't wait to start peeing!

Fridge Blues

Well, my fridge has decided to recognize only two possible settings: Emergency Defrost Freezer Leakage, and Preserve All Food As Ice Cubes (Including Salad You Were Bringing For Lunch). This results either in a steady spring thaw-like dripping from the freezer into the fridge, or all fridge food, from strawberries to Tofurky, encrusted in ice crystals, much like what happens when you finally lose that game of Frozen Bubble.

I think it may be time for a new fridge. We also need a new television, new bed and a new couch. After which I will either need a new credit card or a new identity, hardy-har-har.

I'm feeling rather uninspired as of late, friends. Feeling uninspired by myself, which is the worst kind of uninspired to feel, as far as I'm concerned. I realize the world really doesn't treat me as badly as all that, and that things can't be thrilling/exciting/constant new developments-ing all the time. But I'm feeling a little dull and down and a wee bit sorry for myself.

It'll pass, I'm positive of it. This week I plan to clean out some closets and clean out a workspace for myself to get back to sewing and non-theatre-related stuff.

How do you get yourself out of a blue patch?

Update

Just a quick note-- I have blog guilt (or is that non-blogging guilt?). Anyhoo, apologies for my lack of updates: life seems to be in a bit of a holding pattern at the moment. Just working 6 days a week, which is putting a kink in my plans to relax, but I'm hard pressed to say no to extra money at the moment.

I'm waiting somewhat impatiently to be inspired-- I'd like to start a new project, but am a little bit low on ideas. Working on singing, doing some other music stuff. Thinking about giving myself a makeover.

You know, the usual.

More and better updates in the coming week! Seriously, ya'll!

Green-Eyed Monster

Yes, I confess it: I'm a jealous person. Not in the romantic way, I'm not one of those ladies whose boyfriend/husband/sweet baboo has to call her every hour on the hour when he's out, or who puts her foot down over watching television shows featuring beautiful women. No, I'm definitely a career jealous person.

Not that I've made jealousy my career. I mean, I get jealous about the careers of others. Why must my friends be so accomplished? Why do I feel like I'm being left behind?

I love my friends, I'm proud of them. Heck, I'm even happy for my less-than-friends when something good career-wise happens to them.

Except...

Except for the blinding flashes of jealousy I also get. And of course, that's my issue, obvs. It's time for deep breaths, and reassuring myself that This is not a race, and using it to spur me to move ahead. And meditating on crystals, or reading The Secret or something.

OK, just kidding about those last two.

Last week, I did awesome on my goals, with the exception of the piano. The studio is a bit of a disaster at the moment (I'm sure a shrink, or the person who wrote The Secret might say that the exterior clutter is a material representation of me blocking my pathways to success, but really, it's just mess and I'm lazy.)

So, piano will get added to this week's list.

This week's Five in Seven:

1) Practice piano

2) Drink water every day. I don't know why I have such a huge problem doing this. Maybe I need to make an inspiration board about water. Anyway, 8-10 glasses a day.

3) Sing every day. Because it seems to be working. Go figure.

4) Back to work on sewing that blouse. (This, along with piano playing, necessitates cleaning out my studio. Take that, imaginary shrinks and Secret author!)

5) Research some theatre companies, Canadian and outside the Great White North, who might like to read my skit-shows.

Have a great weekend, y'all!

Five In Seven

Sounds like some kind of infomercial weight loss plan, right? Like Deal A Meal (remember Deal A Meal?)

I was talking to an amazing, inspiring friend of mine about my frustrations about my vocal progress. I feel blocked. My reaction to feeling blocked is to take some kind of action, but I have no idea of what to do. And we had a long talk, and she gave me some homework. She said "if you really want to be a singer and you love singing, there is always something you can do to advance yourself musically." And she told me to think of 5 things I could do in one week that would move me along towards my goals.

I think that's great advice. I'm trying to get more positive and active, rather than dwelling in the negativity with the bitter people. If that means going out on a limb and trying new things, so be it.

So here's my list of things to do this week:

1) discover some new music/singers
2) review and re-remember key signatures
3) sing every day
4) get the italian translation for my aria
5) practice piano

Hopefully I'll be back with a completed list and another 5 things to by this time next week. They may or may not be singing related, though.

She also told me: "Remember, no one is ever going to come along and give you a license to be a singer. Don't wait until you think you're 'good enough'." Pretty nice advice, which can probably translate to some of my other plans and schemes.

Looks Like Dog Food, Tastes Like Vinegar.

My friends, as much as it pains me to confess it, I have very, very unpredictable cooking skills. Sometimes I'm great, sometimes I'm... well, when it's bad, it's horrible. Really, really horrible.

I take some comfort in being consistently good at baking, but a massive failure at cooking is always a crushing blow to my self-esteem. It's not that I can't follow a recipe. It's not that I don't measure. It's not that I make crazy substitutions for things. It's just something in the alchemy-- every so often, I cook something that's an unmitigated disaster for no apparent reason.

Take the Stewpie (STEW-pee) incident, for instance. When I was first living with my husband, I was trying out all kinds of new recipes. He's got a stomach thing that won't let him eat dairy or red meat, and before he met me, he was living on minute rice and cooked carrots. It never occurred to him to order a pizza without cheese, or to check out soy and rice cheeses, or just find recipes that didn't contain dairy, or whatever. So I was having mucho fun trying out a bunch of vegan recipes (I was just beginning to seriously explore vegetarianism), many of which turned out amazingly. My cooking reputation in our relationship was solid. Until, that is, I decided to try and make Stewpie.

I have no recollection of where I found the original recipe. It wasn't called Stewpie (a combo of stew and pie, for reasons that will become obvious). It was just some kind of vegetable pot pie. Which I was envisioning as a kind of yummy comfort food: flaky crust, warm thick gravy, nummy vegetables. And I think that's what it was supposed to be. And although it's hazy in my memory, I seem to recall that I even made my own pie crust. Things seemed promising. And then...

I won't try to embellish it, it was disgusting. Not disgusting in a way that would immediately induce projectile vomiting or anything. But it was horrible. Mushy, pasty, awful glop. Depressing. And J, bless him, ate TWO helpings before admitting he hated it and could barely stand to look at it. He thought that he'd hurt my feelings if he didn't eat it. But instead I find myself wondering if he *really* likes my food, or if he's just humoring me. To which he immediately responds "It's not a Stewpie!"

Anyway. Fast forward to last night. One of my friends at work had made this butternut squash dish that smelled amazing. Like, I wanted to chew off my own fingers and pretend they were butternut squash amazing. So I asked for the recipe and set out to make it last night.

Things all fell apart with the balsamic reduction. I don't know what I did, but it ended up looking like dog food and tasting like vinegar. I was laughing so hard, I was crying, because it was so disgusting and ridiculous. I tried to force myself to eat some, as a kind of penance, but I just couldn't do it.

I did get right back on the horse and make the filling for some potstickers for tonight. Hopefully those turn out a little bit better.

Television Guilty Pleasures

Yes, I have finally started watching Mad Men. As a matter of fact, I've got two seasons under my belt, and joy of joys, On Demand has finally put Season 3 up! Of course, they still show commercials for the new season during the episodes, which is maddening and causes us to stick our fingers in our ears and sing "Poker Face" at the top of our lungs while turning our eyes skywards. No spoilers, AMC!

So far, I am dying over the fashions. And all the fabulous mid-century modern decor. And the priceless things like shaking the garbage off your picnic blanket and leaving it in a glorious pile in the park. And the writing has been pretty good-- I wasn't a huge fan of parts of Season 2, particularly Don's bizarre business trip. But the last episode of Season 1, his monologue about the Kodak carousel made me crumble with jealousy a little bit. So yes, Season 3 begins tonight in my living room.

Of course, this will be after I watch the other guilty pleasures that Monday night brings, namely Intervention and Obsessed. Schadenfreude, anyone? Also, I don't really like watching Hoarders because I find it so repetitive, but I do tend to get a lot of house cleaning done. That, or I don't feel quite so bad about my own mess.

Fun At Work

I'll admit it: I've always been someone who thrives on responsibility. I was the kid who'd volunteer to take the money down to the office on hot dog day at school, who'd be the dissection class table leader. Yes, Iike being in charge of things, whether it be an envelope of quarters or a stainless steel tray of frog cadavers. Being entrusted with responsibility makes me feel accomplished, and dare I say, validated. And nearly every job I've ever had, I feel the pull of wanting to work towards promotion, to being in charge of projects. To having keys.

And, often, the thrill of validation disappears nearly instantly. Not that it leaves me in some sort of shame spiral, or hollow, esteem-less pit that drives me to drug use. It's usually replaced by at least one of two thoughts: I'd rather be doing something else, or the ever-popular People are intensely irritating.

Let me break it down. Advancing in my chosen field = awesome. The sizzle of being in charge of the odd-pay-period-wage-reports = fleeting at best.

Right now, I have 2 and a half jobs. One is working in the box office at a concert hall. It's mellow (for the most part), and they let me write plays when it's not busy. I also occasionally contract editing scripts for video games. And I do a bunch of freelance writing gigs-- newsletter articles, online publications, and so on. Plus my super-glamorous chosen field of THE THEAT-AH.

The concert hall has recently made me a key holder. Which I'm happy about, I mean, I get a pay raise, some benefits, keys to the place. But let me just put something out there. I don't know a lot about business, and I haven't worked there that long. But my thinking is, that if you have the better part of 4 hours in the afternoon to devote to drawing dragons in MS Paint, I had better not have any problems with your cashout. I mean, your cashout should be pretty much immaculate, because I can't imagine starting on the 4-tone rendering of Galthor's scales unless you'd actually finished your work for the day.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

And no, I won't be ranting like a 12-year-old girl in this one. I'm feeling a little more grown up and secure now. With a grown-up problem! A grown-up relationship problem. And no, it's not like that. I'm talking about being facebook friends with my hairdresser, who I'm thinking of cheating on.

Actually, I'm thinking about leaving her altogether. And in the good old days, you could just kind of disappear off the face of the earth, never to return to your old salon. Perhaps one day you would run into your old stylist in the produce aisle at Safeway, say a polite hello, or perhaps nothing at all. There would be an understanding. I mean, if you didn't have 10 inches of roots, it would just be assumed you'd moved on.

I am the worst at confrontation. Trying out a different stylist at the same salon is one thing, but just out and out leaving? Do I have the balls to drag my stuff into the living room and say "Torvald, I'm leaving." Also, my stylist's name isn't Torvald (I would never even think of leaving if it was!), that was just a bonus A Doll's House reference for the nerds out there.

The pros of my stylist:
I like the salon, and most of the people there are super nice. The rest are just pretty nice.
My stylist knows how to cut my hair really, really well. I have A LOT of coarse, wavy-ish hair, so it's hard to find someone good.
I've been going there for a few years. (Is this even a pro?)
I get a lot of compliments on my colour and cut.

The cons of staying:
They're out of my way. It's a pain in the ass to get there.
Expensive. I mean, I'm a big proponent of spending the money on your hair, but it's a little ridiculous.
I think my stylist takes me for granted.
The last couple of times I've gone, I've left with splotches of colour around my hairline, which I didn't notice till I get home, but which are a pet peeve of mine, because it's sloppy work.


So I don't know what to do. I have some ideas of salons I'd like to try, but it's hard to just make a clean break. Although this is supposing that my hairstylist cares passionately about whether or not I'm a client.

Anyone have tips on breaking up with a stylist? Or stories about cheating on your salon?

Ouch, Facebook!

So, yesterday was my birthday. Though I sometimes would like to make a big deal about it and have a party, I never do, because I live with the fat kid's fear of NO ONE SHOWING UP, PROVING EVERYONE HATES YOU ON YOUR BIRTHDAY, THE MOST HUMILIATING OF ALL DAYS TO BE HATED! Maybe that's not a very grown-up sentiment, but the whole being-left-out-of-everything-because-no-one-cares-about-you elementary school thing is, even all these years later, a huge emotional panic trigger for me. I suspect it may be a permanent background anxiety that I can usually ignore.

Speaking of, did anyone ever feel like they fit in? It seems like most people I talked to were always picked last for things, always lived in fear of other children. Do I just hang with a crowd of bully victims? What happened to all the popular kids? Do they go away to some island of beautiful people when they turn 21 (which would be disappointing, because I always imagined they would grow up to serve fries all day and be covered in unsightly boils).

ANYWAY, I must confess that I was looking forward to a little facebook birthday love. Yes, lame, I know, but it's kind of nice to have people wishing you a happy birthday. Of course, if I examined it more closely, I might wonder why none of these people talk to me at any other time, but why add more insecurity to my already-crowded plate? So yesterday, I opened up Facebook, expecting that warm-glowy feeling, and was thrilled that one of my bestest buds had wished me a happy birthday, (and didn't need facebook to tell her it was my birthday), and then...

nada. Nothing! The whole day, not one single person wished me good tidings of great joy. And it's immature and stupid and facebook, for God's sake, but it's hard not to feel a little burnt by that. And I'm trying to be a good girl and not fall into the clutches of fat kid fears. But seriously, out of 400 friends? Not even my sister wished me well! Ouch!

Fortunately, I got some birthday love in real life, which is way better. J set up the Christmas tree in the living room while I was at work Thursday night, which is a bit of an inside joke: I heart Christmas a lot, and when I was a kid, I always used to proclaim I had the best birthday, because it was exactly six months from Christmas. So the year was perfectly symetrical in terms of presents I would receive.

But I confess, I do wish that my birthday was a little closer to winter so I didn't have to wait to use this awesome gift:


Yes, that is a Snuggie. Not just any Snuggie, but a Snuggie Wild Side! I guess they were worried that their regular solid colours just wouldn't appeal to today's youth. So I've got a fab leopard print blanket with arms! With the official Snuggie Brand label on the sleeve!

I'm actually a little too excited about this.
Anyway, you now have a little less than 6 shopping months till Christmas.
Happy Saturday, everyone!

An Open Letter To The Last Three Movies I've Seen, Which, Coincidentally, Were All Pretty Disappointing

Dear Shutter Island, The Book of Eli, and Tim Burton's Alice In Wonderland,

The first thing I want you to know is that I really, really like movies. Really. Anything from film noir, to cheesy 80's capers, to musicals, to disease-of-the-week movies on tv. Psychological thrillers, documentaries, zombie movies, foreign film. I just like movies. Which is why the last couple of weeks have been so distressing to me.

Shutter Island,I confess that I wasn't totally excited to see you. I didn't really understand what you were supposed to be about going in, only that the phrase I associate with you is "THE TWIST YOU'LL NEVER SEE COMING!" And you know what, Shutter Island? I guessed it. I guessed the twist I'd never see coming, literally about 90 seconds in. Leo hadn't even arrived on the stupid island yet. And it's not like you were bad, though I could have done without the overwrought, CGI'd Twin Peaks-style dream sequences. You just weren't terribly exciting. And maybe it's my fault for guessing. But what was I supposed to do? You dared me to.

And you, The Book of Eli, you were J's idea, not mine. He'd been looking forward to seeing you for weeks. And so you show up in our living room the very day you're released with what looks like something visually interesting, something taut and tense, post-apocalyptic exciting, and you turn out to be... well, you turn out to be The Book of Eli? Seriously? I mean, I passed the time speculating on how this could be turned into a sequel to The Preacher's Wife, or wondering aloud why everyone post-apocalypse wear such uncomfortable looking clothes (if there is some kind of solar flare, or nuclear volcano, or sudden evaporation of 90% of the earth's water supply, you had best believe I won't be getting myself a bustier top, a corset, or fur leg warmers. Nor will I be wrapping my limbs in various ribbons/audio tape/whatever they use to do that.). But what pissed me off the most was that you had a great plot twist, something that could have been a lot more effective. But it was so not worth it. So. Not. Worth. It.

And finally, Tim Burton's Alice In Wonderland, I was pretty disappointed in you, as well. A whole lot of style, with very little substance. Frankly, I'd rather see Peter Jackson direct Alice in Wonderland, because I think he'd do a pretty kickass job of it. Maybe Tim Burton could direct Animal Farm, make it a new Watership Down to traumatize the kids of this generation. Either way, I bet Elijah Wood was probably pretty pissed off when he saw Johnny Depp in this movie. Because Elijah could probably have saved them a whole lot of money in animation fees:



And what the hell was wrong with Crispin Glover? All stretched out and weird-looking? Is he supposed to be a playing card, like those other red guys? Because it looks weird, but not so weird that you'd immediately assume it was done on purpose. And not so consistent that you can immediately figure out what exactly it is that's weird.

If anything, the more CGI and animation I see, the more I wonder if it's really been good for movies. I mean, yes, obviously there are some movies that use it amazingly well, and it helps tell the story without becoming the story itself. But I wonder if better and better technology is making people less creative in some way. Not neccessarily with reference to TBAIW, but overall.

Anyway, you guys, you've really left me disappointed. In fact my regret about writing this is that's a public acknowledgement that I actually sat through all three of you. I think the best thing for all of us is that we all try to forget that I arrived on your island, or apoca'd into your lypse, or fell down your rabbit hole.

You get the picture.

Love,
Me

On Shopping and Sizes, or What Is This, A Cathy Cartoon?

So the other day we were out shopping, and my husband wanted to get a pair of pants. He walked into a store, found some pants he liked, checked the tags, picked up the pants and said "Let's go."
"Don't you want to try those on?"
"Nah."
"But how do you know they'll fit?"
"Ummm..." he said, pausing to figure out how not to imply that I was dumb "because they're my size?"
And then he went to pay for his pants. Which, ps, totally fit perfectly.

At the risk of sounding like a certain cartoon, AAAAAAACCCKKKK!

(Confession: my sister has pretty much the entire collection of Cathy comics at my parents' house, which I totally binge on (irony!) when I'm there at Christmas. Oh, Irving!)

I mean, seriously. I can't imagine the day when I would just believe that a marked size would correctly match the proportions of my body. Maybe if I already owned the same exact thing and was buying a second one in a different colour. But having had the experience of being 3 different sizes of jeans in the same store (I'm looking at you, Old Navy!), I'm always prepared for pants shopping to be an epic event.

At the moment, I wear a 14. Which is better than the 20 I've previously worn, but kind of a weird size generally. Even though we're constantly hearing "That's the average American woman's size!", 14 is a strange fit. It's on the cusp of plus size, so you have a good chance of finding it in a "regular" store (I know I'm not alone in my weight goals including being able to shop in regular stores). Plus size stores generally start at a 14, though that 14 will be cut differently than a 14 in a "regular" store. Not that the numbers mean anything, really.

I remember the legend of The Gap, where at one point if you wore, say, an 8 everywhere else, you would fit a 6 in Gap clothes. Which was kind of a nice little ego boost. But then everyone started doing it. So while you wear a size 8 at one store, you might take a 10 at another, or a 6 somewhere else. And so on, until we fast forward to Old Navy and me trying on sizes 12 through 16 in jeans, all variously too big or too small, depending on the style. And my husband picking out his usual size without trying on, waiting by the cash for me.

I mean, I'm sure people of all sizes have these fit/size problems. It's probably more emotionally charged for someone who, say, couldn't find trendy clothes as a kid, and for whom clothes shopping would be marked by comments on my weight and why I couldn't fit into regular sizes. In reality, I know it's the pants that suck, not my body. And yet...

Well, enough complaining and ackkking for one day.

Strange Dreams

Last night I had a dream that Disneyland had opened a park in Red Deer, Alberta. Now Red Deer, for those of you not familiar is a city pretty much exactly halfway between Edmonton and Calgary. Currently its main attraction for me is the Donut Mill (pictured), which is just off the highway in a quaint gathering of restaurants and service stations called Gasoline Alley. The Donut Mill is exciting because it is (a) shapped like a windmill, and (b)is full of doughnuts. So you can bet I was pretty excited to have a Disneyland open up within an hour and a half's drive of me. So I hopped on a tour bus, which, disappointingly made numerous stops where we had to get off and listen to inspirational speeches made by a variety of disabled people.

At one point, a friend of mine was offering granola bars to tide us over until we reached the happiest place on earth, but when I requested one without marshmallows in it, he gave me a terribly patronizing smile, left, and never returned. Towards the end of the dream, I think I made some kind of social faux pas (I seem to recall doing tricks in someone's wheelchair), and everyone was mad at me, and we never made it to Disneyland.

I have no idea what this means.

I have a day off tomorrow, which I am greatly looking forward to. Unfortunately, working Saturdays means that I rarely have two days off in a row. So days off tend to be times when I can accomplish all the other stuff I don't get to do during the week, like pay bills, go grocery shopping, submit my taxes.

Taxes. Yes, the deadline was April 30. Yes, I still haven't submitted them. But I'm getting money back, so I doubt Revenue Canada will be chasing me down for that. But tomorrow is a day to get a lot of grown-up stuff done. And consider getting some submissions out.

Momentum is a fragile creature. While I was away from here, I feel like I had a lot of perspective on what this city is, and what it isn't. And that to further my career, I really need to look elsewhere. But it's hard to keep that momentum going when you're sucked back into the drama of this community, and the everyday grind. And another grown-up thing I have to do tomorrow is try to kick-start that momentum again, force myself to send some stuff out before the little voice in my head wakes up and starts nagging me.

Oh, and relax. Perhaps with some lemonade.

In Which I Endeavor To Do the Opposite of Letting Myself Go

I suppose the opposite of letting yourself go might be "getting yourself together", but this title uses more words. Also, I like to create obstacles for myself by trying to do a negative action as opposed to a positive action. Don't try this in rehearsal, actor kids! Always with the positive action!

Anyway. I don't think I've really "let myself go". I think that's a phrased designed to make women feel insecure and for publishing houses to continue to sell magazines after the women who buy them have already achieved their major life goals of getting hitched and having babies. But I have always yearned to be a little more put together.

Let me explain. My mother doesn't wear makeup. Well, she does if you count that she pencils in her eyebrows, because my mother is eyebrow-bald. Or extremely eyebrow-receding. Being a little gifted (one might go so far as to say overachieving) in the eyebrow department, eyebrow pencils weren't really high on my list of priorities. But the point being that I think a lot of ladies learn about make-up from their moms, and we had nothing in the house. Ditto with hair-- my mother wears her hair short, wash-and-wear. I get the sense that she thinks that primping is impractical and not for the smart girls.

But I want to primp! And though I have lived with many roommates who spent hours in front of the mirror, or wouldn't go out to get the mail without lipstick, I never really learned anything about putting on makeup. I remember envying my cousin's turquoise eyeliner! The Cover Girl ads in Seventeen that showed people whose eyes were lined in four different colours. On one eye!

Same goes for clothes. Now, I have always been a bit of a fat, insecure kid. Even when I was skinnier, I still felt like the fat kid. And so clothes shopping became a little bit of an anxiety trigger for me. Sure, I went through a brief faux-goth phase (well, probably more artsy than goth), loving that it stood out at my Catholic high school. By the time I moved on to the artsy-fartsy school, I embraced grunge, which was super comfortable, but not exactly body conscious. And now I find I love vintage clothes, bold prints, quirky stuff, classic stuff. And although I could probably put an outfit together for someone else, I never feel confident in what I wear.

In fact, I think I probably dress a little bit... frumpy... at the moment.

So it's time for an intervention.
And I'm not saying that figuring out how to pick out lipstick will change my whole life, but I have a feeling it could sure improve my confidence to feel like I look kind of good. That I put some effort into getting up and facing the world every day.

I have a pretty strict budget, but I'd like to do some stuff like:
*get my eyebrows done professionally
*figure out what lipstick looks good on me
*get some cute shoes
*start remaking my wardrobe, whether I'm skinnier or not
*get a pedicure
*try out a couple of vintage-y, pin-up-y hairstyles

And so on.
Where do you guys go for style tips? Whose style do you admire? Whose style do you hate? Any girly stuff I should absolutely try at least once? Any girly stuff I should absolutely avoid?

Ta!

Back In The Saddle

Hello, friends and neighbours,
It's been a little while since I bothered to blog (I wonder what percentage of my blog posts begin with an apology for not blogging?), and in that time, I've returned from my fancy playwrights' retreat, gone back to work, and filled my social calendar with things like fundraisers, attending the theatre, going to physio for my $%# shoulder, and making appointments for life's pesky neccessities, like getting my roots done.

In short, I suppose I've gone back to a normal life. Although it's the first time in at least a year that I haven't had to plan some major event, write a play, produce a show, or work more than one job. So life seems a little... dull? Maybe dull isn't quite the right word. Ordinary. I have an ordinary life at the moment.
I've never wanted to have an ordinary life. I mean, I suppose very few people say "When I grow up, I want to be ORDINARY!" But I think a lot of people settle into that. Heck, when I worked my government job, I met a lot of people who were thrilled with being ordinary, routine, predictable, and safe.

So feeling ordinary gives me that itch... write another play, do a one-woman show, sign myself up for some weird class, plan a vacation to Costa Rica, eat strange foods. Stuff like that. Which can be dangerous, because then I find myself planning major events, producing shows, working more than one job, all at the same time.

Once I get all that ordinary life stuff out of the way (bills, finally filing my taxes, etc.), I really do want to spend the summer doing stuff I want to do-- sewing is pretty high on the list. Music is pretty high on the list. Surprisingly, writing is pretty high on the list. And I didn't altogether like writing anymore, so I thought. Of course, The Unpleasantness with a certain AD didn't really help much.

I suppose I'm at that rare crossroad where all the crap I HAD to do is currently behind me, and all I have to do (besides working to pay my rent and bills) is stuff I want to do. Picnics! Garage sales! Goofy hairstyles! Aprons!

Summer!

Me Vs. Shyness: Part Ninety-First

Well, I don't know how many parts there are in that battle. But it's true, I'm shy. Although once people get to know me, they would probably never describe me as shy. A little quiet at times, but not shy. So... socially anxious? But isn't that the same thing as shyness?

I don't really know why shyness is considered to be a character defect anyway. But the point is, I've always been a *little* nervous around new people, and now that's rearing its ugly head. I suppose it's to be expected-- I mean, I am away from home and everyone I know, constantly meeting new people who will be reading my work and having opinions about it that, even though they are discouraged from sharing opinions about others' work, they will still have. So it's probably no surprise that, finding myself surrounded by seemingly confident, veteran Canadian theatre luminaries this morning, I felt a little shaky (ok, a lot shaky. Like, actually shaking shaky) about doing my intro in front of the group and talking about my work.

So my shyness doesn't stop me from going out into the world and doing things like buying groceries, or asking where to find a particular book. But I'll admit that it has make me curtail my social activities at times, because I'm so worried about not knowing what to say to people, or coming across as a loser or something. Which is a feature that I don't like about myself. But I don't really know too much about dealing with anxiety. I kind of assume it's a "fake it till you make it" kind of scenario. And the reality is that strangers find me perfectly pleasant, and even funny sometimes. The trick, of course, is to ask people questions about themselves. Works like a charm, every time. And, probably, not to think of all human interaction as some kind of job interview for the position of "likeable". Sometimes, people just don't like other people. Or they're jerks. Or some combination of those and other factors.

Sigh. Time for another confidence boosting mission, I think. Which is weird to need one, because people here are nothing but supportive and complimentary and excited about my work. So why do I have such a hard time with believing them?

Last night I was saying to myself that I was really looking forward to a summer of music and weight loss. Which begs the question: what am I, thirteen? Isn't that largely the same summer I wanted to have between grade seven and grade eight? Although to be fair, this summer I intend to be performing the music (sorry Bryan Adams Reckless! You had your time in the sun!), and I actually do need to lose some weight and get in shape. And after a year of planning things (weddings, shows, parties, trips), and being stressed out about things, I want to have an awesome summer of doing things I want to do.

I have the first reading of my play this afternoon. Apparently I will have to address the group at the start. Bleurgh! I'm off to prepare some brief opening remarks and try to convince myself that people will find my nervousness charming and refreshingly modest.

Mountains + Massage + Room Service = Happiness

So I've been here almost a week, at ye olde fancy prestigious playwriting retreat. It has been fabulous. And incredibly emotional, and dismal and frustrating and amazing. So, all these things. And as I'm working to deadline to turn in script draft tomorrow for a reading on Monday, I decided to try and get some of the knots out of MY ENTIRE BODY, and to just hole up in my room eating a veggie burger, rather than traipsing down to the dining hall with the rest of the writers.

I've also had Center Stage on tv in the background for company-noise, but that's neither here nor there. I'm pretty sure it isn't influencing the current draft. But the thing is I'm SO TIRED. I always thought that the mountains made me sleep better, but apparently that wears off after a few days. And now I find myself sleeping for about 2 hours at a time, twice a night. That's 4 hours of sleep, people! I mean, no wonder I'm getting emotional at times.

That, and I had no idea how much the bullshit with that last workshop had affected me. So I'm looking forward to Monday, when I can finally put that workshop behind me. And then I have another reading scheduled for the end of the week.

I'm trying to think of something to do this weekend. I'm not feeling too social, and I'm in a small, small town. I was thinking about a movie, but my choices are: Iron Man 2, Prince of Persia, Robin Hood, and Sex and The City 2...

Yikes!

Ouch! Wednesday!

No, it's not a new feature. It just happens to be Wednesday, and I have an ouch-- I slept funny, and now I seem to have a bit of a pinched nerve kind of scenario happening in my shoulder. Good times!

The show is still going okay, if with small houses. I really think that if we did it strictly as our own production, rather than under the umbrella of this "independent season" group, we would have better houses. People have strange opinions about what constitutes independent theatre. And fair enough, I have seen some wanky crap under the indie theatre umbrella, complete with unneccessary-to-the-plot nude interpretive dance, strange and sudden tunefully questionable musical numbers, and just general stage writhing. Always with the writhing, these people.

Not that that should dissuade you from going to see independent theatre. You should. Because these are the people who don't have the huge budget, who are likely using their own money, who are forced to use their imaginations instead of their bankrolls. These are the people who are doing theatre because they really feel they have to. And I'm not questioning the integrity of people who have more money, I think that's great and they are lucky, and don't I wish I had a little more of that myself? But even though it's difficult and expensive, and no one comes, these are the people who keep doing it anyway.

Case in point: in the big theatre last week, there was a high school musical. I think I said before that in my day, you did your show in the gym and liked it. But this school, they rent out a hugely expensive theatre, have a full week of tech time, and a week's run. All the (mostly entitled, rude) kids are walking around wearing wireless mics. And the cost of renting those mics alone was probably well beyond my entire budget. And of course I guess there are no comps, and everyone's friends and family are kind of obligated to come and see their little darlings, so they probably make all their money back.

But still. I wanted to invite all those little Zac Efrons and Ashley Tisdales in for a chilling glimpse into their future in professional theatre. Yes, kids, my set is made out of cardboard boxes! Some of which came from the garbage! And we perform in front of as many as fifteen people! Many of whom forgot to turn off their cell phone, or who have a medical condition causing them to develop an undeniable urge to eat hard candies when the lights are turned off!

But I kid. Hey, I'm just proving that you don't need a lot of money to become an asshole. But it certainly helps.

I must confess I'm going to be glad when this month is over. It's been a bit of a stressful time. I'm feeling very burdened by the world as of late. I think a couple of weeks to just be creative in the mountains is exactly what I need. And to be honest, the fact that what we're doing isn't causing any ripples just means that I have the freedom to do what I want. It's pretty liberating, actually.

I have a couple of ideas already for some shows next year-- I just have to pay off this one first. And I'm still not done with my idea of doing a cabaret, even though my progress in singing has been incredibly slow. Perhaps there is a rip-off-the-bandaid element to doing it.

In any case, I'm off to find some tylenols. Happy Wednesday, everyone!

opened

And... we're open. It went pretty well, barring a few glitches that always seem to happen on opening night-- most hilariously when I threw a t-shirt (which I'm supposed to do), and took out a rather important set piece (which I'm definitely not supposed to do!). Oops!
We had a crowd of about a dozen people (sadly, not unusual for indie theatre), and I'm hoping we top that tonight, seeing as how it is Friday and all.

The space where we're performing is part of what would like to be called an "arts complex"-- we're in the small black box theatre, right next door to the large 400 seat house. Unfortunately for us, this theatre has been rented out by a local high school to perform their play. Which was surprising to me--granted, I went to an artsy-fartsy high school for the last couple of years of my education, but the school I went to before that you performed your play in the gym and you liked it! But I understand this is kind of a common practice now, the schools rent out this insanely expensive theatre to do the school play. And the end result is all these 16 year olds who think they're on Glee or something shoving past you in the crossover, rolling their eyes and saying "Excuse me! I'm performing in a PLAY." Or giggling and yelling in the crossover area immediately behind our theatre while we're performing our very small, intimate, QUIET show.

A friend who came last night said it was like our house was haunted by Gershwin, to give you an idea. And it's not just us they're inconsiderate of. I understand there was a little shoving aside of our audience as they waited to get in.

Kids, I'm not saying you don't belong in High School Musical. And I'm sorry if Miley Cyrus has led you to believe that you can make The Climb. I'm not saying that Randy would say "I don't know, that was real pitchy, dog." I'm just saying that when you watch the video of this production in a couple of years for shits and giggles, you may not be as impressed with yourselves. Just saying.

I think they play until Saturday.

I'm still processing the bullshit that was yesterday. I don't know what I want to do about that, so I'm just not going to do anything. For now.

Of all the passive-aggressive revisionist emails....

Did I mention I sent an email yesterday? I can't remember, and frankly I'm too lazy to go back and check, But I sent an email yesterday, to the AD of the theatre where I had a somewhat awful workshop. And it's not just me. Others who had the circumstances described to them agreed that it was awful. So I sent a brief email withdrawing my script from an upcoming festival. I listed my reasons. And I got this really long, godawful email back, which is either painstakingly crafted to be passive-aggressive, or is just pushing my guilty buttons or some combination of the two. I won't post it here. But suffice it to say that it implies that I'm some hysterical female who doesn't have the years of professional wisdom and experience that the sender has, and that implies none too subtly that he's the only ticket to professional production.

Yikes.

And I just kind of want to cry at the moment, which is a dumb reaction. Because I hate to think of anyone thinking badly of me, even if it is just passive-aggressive bullshit. And because I got that cold prickly sick feeling all over when I read it, like I'd been smacked in the face or challenged to a duel or something. And because I open tonight and I already have a good base level of nerves going on over that. And I really don't want to deal with this.

And I did, in fact, respond. To his accusations about my email. I said I was sorry if he felt I had "tone", and I had worked hard to make my email brief and to the point. And that I would respond to the rest of his comments at another time, once I no longer had a show to open.

And of course, in last minute issues, the FOH (Front of House or ticket-takers) which I have long been assured by our producing company were taken care of, are not in fact taken care of, and we are now scrambling to find volunteers.

Madness!

Another Openin', Another Show...

Well, not quite yet. Opening is actually tomorrow night, and right now no one can say how it will go. Our Q2Q last night was a little uneven, and in fact, we're going to finish it later today before our tech dress.

For those of you who aren't theatre folks, Q2Q (or "cue to cue") is a technical rehearsal of only the cues... basically you take it from a couple of lines before the lights change or the phone rings, or whatever, and the stage manager and technical operators get to practice running the cue in the context of the show. The tech dress is a full-on rehearsal of the show with all technical components. It's like a performance without the audience there. (Although in some cases invited guests are allowed in--making it an invited dress).

I can't quite believe we're at opening already--at least now I know that however it turns out, it'll be done. I'd still like it to turn out well, though. More on this Friday morning, I suppose.

In other news, I still have to go for the blood tests my doctor ordered, because I am still continuously gaining weight FOR NO REASON. I'm feeling a little self-conscious about it. In fact, I kind of want to just chuck it all and eat crap for a week, since I'm going to gain weight anyway. But an unfortunate side effect of eating healthy for a long time is that a lot of unhealthy food will now make you feel gross and greasy. So fruits and veggies it continues to be!

Singing lessons are... frustrating. I mean some of it is from not going for a few weeks, and weird jaw tension from show-related stress. But I feel like I'm never going to get there. Like all I really wanted to do was get up and sing some songs for people and I still can't do that. Not even due to crippling fear, but to actual lack of vocal ability and consistency.

Oh, enough of my artsy-fartsy whining for the day. Think broken legs and French poop for me tomorrow night. (Note-- "merde", the French word for poop is one way of wishing show folks luck!)

Soldiering Forward...

Well, tech week is almost upon us. For any non-theatre folks, tech week is the week that you move into the theatre and incorporate all your technical cues-- lights, sound, set change, other random stuff. So whether we're ready or not, we open next Thursday. I have to say I'm glad we're almost at opening, even though I am freaking out because I'm not quite where I'd like to be. Because now I can actually see beyond the run of the show to the other stuff I'm going to do this summer.

It's been a learning experience, for sure-- my production management skills were a bit rusty, and there's some things I would be more organized about. Some people I'd think twice about working with again. But I continue onward.

And here's the thing-- I've never been one of those people that others feel the need to "rescue". Which is a good thing, I hate being rescued. But at the same time, I must project the aura of always having everything handled or something. Sometimes, the offer of a little help would be nice. And yes, silly, I do ask for help when I need it. But sometimes being the "oh, I'm sure she's fine" girl is as bad as being the "you poor dear, let me do that for you!" girl.

Anyway. This summer, I'm hoping to do some fun things. And when I saw that Butterick was having their 3-day sale on patterns, I couldn't resist picking up a few things:

Butterick 4790, the infamous "walkaway dress". I've seen it done in one colour and in contrasting fabrics, and I can't decide which I'll make. I am fascinated because of its construction (it's a unique kind of wrap dress).



Butterick 5320, which is not vintage, but is adorable! I love dresses with pockets!




Butterick 5319, also adorable and somehow vintage-y to me.





Butterick 4443, which I've had my eye on for a long time. It's actually quite similar to the silhouette of my wedding dress, and I love the different options. It's supposed to be an easy pattern, so I'm hoping to get a few uses out of this one.



Apologies for the hard-to-see picture of Vogue 1044. It's a vintage re-issue that is adorable, but quite ladylike. Like, gloves-wearing ladylike. I couldn't resist the pintucks in the front, but I don't know if I can pull it off-- it's a little fancy to go to Safeway in!



Vogue 2961 is a vintage re-issue which has optional halter straps and just seems like summer fun to me.



And last but not least, Vogue 2902 is another vintage reissue that seems perfect for summer.
I think I may have to add a crinoline to my list of summer purchases-- nothing crazy dramatic and costume-y, but maybe a little something-something to fill out all those full skirts?

Canada would be perfect if we only had...

Is the Lifetime Channel. Now, this is not to be confused with what was formerly called "Life Channel", which is now "Slice" (as in, of life? I don't know). I mean the Lifetime Movie Network, with its 24 hour movie-of-the-week deliciousness.

I mean, how is it that the networks don't do movies of the week? After the sudden influx of unauthorized movies about tv shows (Three's Company and Different Strokes, I'm looking at you), the only time the networks show a made-for-tv movie, is if it's an "Event", meaning it's going to be about an earthquake, or weather-related-mishaps, or something that will require its stars to jump away from explosions, fireballs or magma.

Last night, I caught the amazing "The Party Never Stops", a cautionary tale about binge drinking at college. While I always loved disease/disability movies (Who can forget Nancy McKeon as an architect who develops schizophrenia? Justine Bateman as a young blind woman learning to live independently?), I think I liked the judgmental boogeyman quality of "issue" movies. For example in The Party Never Stops, the heroine just about throws her future away because of her binge drinking. Fortunately, she manages to stop in time, but her best friend, who never had any real consequences before, DIES.


Isn't there usually a cautionary death in these movies? I remember fondly Kate's Secret (starring Meredith Baxter-Birney, the mom from Family Ties), which was about a housewife trying to hide her bulimia. She manages to survive, but her friend and anorexic roommate (whose name, inexplicably, was Patch)DIES.

And of course, one of my favorites, the classic The Karen Carpenter Story starring Cynthia Gibb, who I idolized because she played Holly on Fame. Who, come to think of it, also had an eating disorder for an episode. Maybe it was that research that helped Cynthia nail the role of Karen Carpenter.

In any case,do you know how maddening it is that there's an entire channel that shows movies with titles like: Deadly Honeymoon, Dying To Belong,and They Shoot Divas, Don't They? (which stars Jennifer Beals and Traci Lords, and sounds so amazingly terrible that I can barely get my head around it.

I know we got HBO Canada, finally. Which is fabulous, if you like well-written, well-acted television. But what about the cheap thrills, the tawdry titillations? What about those of us who indulge in schadenfreude and the cautionary death?

Please, tv. Bring back the movie of the week.
Please?

Multi-tasking and Stealing Posts From Facebook Messages

Hello, friends and neighbours!
I'm here at work, simultaneously trying to do some rewrites, find some rehearsal space for the days we have none, email production notes, and, of course, sell symphony subscriptions. In my free moments when I'm doing none of those things, I worry about the show and whether it will be brilliant, terrible, or forgettable and mediocre. And every time the phone rings, I want to say "People! Leave me alone! Can't you see I'm trying to run an independent theatre company here?"

But that can only be said in my inside voice. J is away this week, so I sit at home like a crazy woman, trying to make a tiny cardboard house for our poster (don't ask), wondering if I should just get a free photo from Morgefile instead.

However.

I had that workshop last week. And it was... well, I've been telling people who know those involved that it was interesting, and gave me food for thought. But in reality? When I don't have to worry about what I say getting back to anyone else? It was kind of a disaster. Here's some of what I had to say about it in a facebook message to a friend:

April 14 at 10:37am
So, I finally had my workshop on Monday... You may remember I gave "Artistic Director" the one date I was available about 3 weeks ago, and he was trying to work around (actor)'s schedule. So last Thursday, I email "Artistic Director" to ask if we're still doing this, and he says "Sure, who should I ask to be in it?"

What? Oh, you mean aside from the extensive list of actors we had talked about 3 months ago, none of whom are probably available on 3 days' notice?

So, I gave him some suggestions, and of course, no one was available. On Saturday I suggested we postpone rather than do it with random gender-appropriate people, and he said "let's wait till tomorrow to cancel. I hate it when this happens." But he does find some random girl to play (central character of play) at 9pm on Sunday.

So when I arrive, "artistic director"'s late. We eventually start, and it's going ok-ish, and at the act break we're going to the washroom and "artistic director" says to me: "You know, I don't think I've read this."

And I said "What do you mean you haven't read this? How can you have not read this? You're the one who sent me the pdf of the draft and asked me to confirm that this was the one we're using!"

And he didn't seem to think that was a problem. Turns out, he thought my play was the 25 pages or so that was read at "New Play Festival" 2 years ago, and that I'd just given up on it and hadn't worked on it since then. Which begs the question: why are you doing this workshop, are you offering me a production if you HAVEN'T READ THE PLAY?

And not reading the play doesn't exactly prepare you to guide a dramaturgically helpful discussion about said play. Which you haven't read. "Artistic director" just left me twisting in the wind during "feedback". Which was maddening, because
(lengthy paragraph describing the changes the actors insisted were neccessary to satisfy the audience, which would basically just turn the play into an episode of "Murder, She Wrote", followed by discussion of how "artistic director" couldn't help me out because he was so blown away that I'd finished writing the play.)

So naturally I went home feeling rather OUCH. Like I wasn't sure if I'd just wasted the last 3 years writing this, or if I'm wasting my time trying to get people to see my point of view. I really, really think that audiences are capable of so much more than people give them credit for. I think that an "unsatisfying" ending is neccessary sometimes. In fact, I think the ending of the play IS satisfying if you get the point of the play.


And so on. The point is, that really, really, sucked, and I would much rather have taken the day off of work and lounged around watching Days of Our Lives and eating strawberries and bagels with cream cheese.

Now, back to running a theatre company...

Working For The Weekend?

Another exciting Saturday morning where I am at work-- fortunately it is quiet today (too quiet, as they might say in a d-grade horror movie-- what's the universe holding back for us), possibly because of the insane, gale-force winds that have been plaguing us the past few days. I mean, seriously, snow? In April? And what's sad, is that I've seen it snow here in May and August as well. In fact, I think the only month of the year it hasn't ever snowed here is July.

But I'm probably jinxing myself to monthly blizzards for the rest of 2010. Sorry, everyone! My bad!

This weekend, I am working at the box office all day Saturday, followed by a four hour rehearsal that has been relocated to my house. Sunday is a day of standardized patient (you know that thing that Kramer did on Seinfeld where he pretends to be sick for med students? It's very lucrative and requires minimal effort, but does involve getting up ridiculously early on a Sunday and doing something very, very repetitive all day.), followed by another rehearsal at the house. Monday I work half the day, then have what may be a doomed workshop of the Banff play in the afternoon. Sometime between now and then, I also have to put myself on tape for a film audition which is for a pretty decently written horror movie, but the character they have me reading for is "in her forties".

Now, I may not be 20 anymore, but I was pretty confident that I don't look "in my forties" just yet. Does my agent think I look in my forties? Or do I not look in my forties, but that's what my agent keeps submitting me for, and thus I never get work? Or are there not enough women willing to admit to being in their forties so they're just seeing whoever?

I could go on. But instead I'll just say I have an insanely busy weekend and am actually looking forward to Tuesday when all I have to do is work a 12-8. Well, and some other stuff. OK, June 4, that is my new date where there is nothing to do. I resolve to spend it drinking girly drinks and reading trashy novels/watching trash television, snacking on crustless sandwiches and exotic fruits.

Confession: Style-Challenged

The last couple of items on my list got me to thinking. And thinking got me headed towards a harsh truth. And that truth is that I really don't know how to dress myself.

I mean, I don't think it's What Not To Wear time here, I don't wear acid wash or tapered jeans or horribly age-inappropriate clothing. But I certainly do dress in a boring, generic, somewhat blah and ill-fitting manner.

I think part of it was getting stuck in the "interim clothes while I lose weight" trap, and then plateauing. Because now all my clothes are either way too big or don't fit quite right, but I didn't want to spend any more money until I could buy a smaller size, and so on and so on. So I think I need to suck it up and buy some new clothes. Probably Value Village clothes, but clothes that fit me.

I also don't think I know very much about style. I mean, I know when other people are stylish, but I get overwhelmed trying to figure out how to put things together and what might look good on me.

Any recommendations on blogs/online thingies, magazines I should read? Here's what I like/have realized:
1) I appreciate it when curvier girls rock it out, and would like to learn how to do that.
2) Not everyone who's a size 2 looks good. Not everyone who looks good is a size 2.
3) I love vintage styles, but not looking like I'm wearing a costume
4) I love colours and bold prints
5) I need to learn how to accessorize
6) I love clothes that are a little quirky, or that stand out without looking like they're trying too hard
7) I don't own nearly enough shoes

So I think I'm basically trying to build a wardrobe from scratch. Hopefully my sewing escapades can help with this. But I feel lost.

And can we talk about makeup? I have no lipsticks. Well, I have lipsticks, but none that I wear regularly. I got stuck on the idea that with my big eyes, strong lips make me look a little clownish. Whether or not that's true, now when I wear lipstick, it's all I can see, so I don't know if it looks good or not. I'm pretty unskilled at makeup application to begin with, but am determined to learn.

I want to look pretty, dammit! Anyone have any suggestions on where to begin?

Stuff to Do At Some Point...

Confession: I am an ambitious person by nature. Maybe not always in the healthiest sense, I mean, I have been guilty of putting far too much stock into achievements and accomplishments. But I can't help it, I feel validated by ticking off items on a to-do list. And although I have mucho things to do until the beginning of June, I thought it would be fun to come up with a list of things to accomplish in my much-anticipated spare time.

And then it wasn't enough to come up with things to do over the summer, I wanted to make a list of things I wanted to do over the next, oh, say, year or so. Because January goal-setting is too much pressure. Or maybe I already set some goals, but they've been erased in a cascade of shame and failure. Or I'm too lazy to check previous posts. Whatever.

In any case, here are some things I plan to do sometime in the next 365 days. I'll add to it as I think of it.

1) run a 5k
2) learn to play the ukulele
3) sew a vintage pattern
4) sing for people. publicly, like.
5) drive with confidence
6) develop some mad skillz re: pin curls and victory rolls
7) bake more
8) learn to dress better
9) get clothes that fittt
10) learn to wear lipstick. and makeup in general, for that matter.

The Desmokening... Part 84

Or however many times I have tried to quit smoking thus far. Yes, friends, today is day 1. Day 1, which fills me with such a sense of loathing and bitterness, that I always vow never to have to live through it again, but, well, here we are. I've just passed hour 12 since my last cigarette. Challenges tonight include a production meeting with smoker who's always been more than willing to bum me a ciggie in my time of need. But it's time.

Jesus, listen to me. You'd think Candy Finnegan or Jeff VonVondervonvon were going to ambush me at the bus stop on my way home. Quitting sucks.

But doesn't smoking suck? Yes, in the global picture, smoking does suck, and it is gross and isn't a terribly vegetarian thing to do, and so on and so on. But I have to admit, I kind of like the physical act of smoking. I like having a prop. I like having an "out" to take a break from conversations or stressful situations. I like the secret society of smokers, we who are outcasts from healthy, intelligent society.

Still, I'm doing my best to quit. Can I guarantee that I won't ever have a single cigarette again? Probably not. I would love to be the three-times a year kind of smoker, but I don't know that I can be. In any case, I'm just trying to get through the next 12 hours without (a) bursting into tears (b) murdering someone because everyone is just so goddamned irritating! or (c) eat my weight in reduced-to-clear easter chocolate.

A Mouse In Our House

It's true, we are infested. But just a little bit. As in, one mouse. And I know, I know that there is no such thing as a singular mouse, but we have cleaned the house top to bottom, and found no other mice, not even one nugget of poop. Is it possible that we had a mouse just dash through our kitchen as he stayed one night to review us for TripAdvisor? I suppose not. And laugh at me if you must, but I'm going to get one of those humane traps, because if there's one thing I don't want to deal with, it's throwing out dead mouse bodies.

Our cat is absolutely no help. I blame it on his upbringing, how I reared him to lie on the couch watching Project Runway and Intervention in a semi-conscious state. Being so sucked into the idiot box that any movement seen out of the corner of one's eye is brushed off with a "meh, it's probably my contacts".

In other news, I am working like a crazy woman, and trying to get (a) the show and (b) the workshop with The Producing Theatre Company off the ground. I have no idea why I am organizing the workshop. Well, I'm not organizing it as much as I am being the cattle prod that ensures it gets done and I don't get emails like "Oh, by the way, we're having a workshop tomorrow, the actors and I will see you there." I want people to be organized like me! And I'm not that organized! Yesterday in the wake of house-mouse-driven-house-cleaning, I was opening mail from 2 months ago that I just hadn't bothered to open. Pay stubs and bank statements. And thinking I should get a shredder, because I'm pretty sure my method of tearing things up into bits, mixing them up and pouring old salad dressing over everything (to gross out identity thieves) is neither efficient nor protective.

I've been trying to stay on track, foodwise. Part of me feels like it's useless, because the scale really hasn't budged in, oh, about, 2 months, despite exercise and good eating. And sometimes part of me feels like I can do it. It's not clear which side is going to win here.

Anyway, I am off to the eye doctor's, where they put tainted q-tips and paper strips on my eyeballs, and then my pupils get big like I'm on drugs and I try to find my way home, looking mysterious and old-Hollywood in my sunglasses. Or I assume I will. I won't really be able to see.

Cheers, friends!

I did it!

Are you wondering what exactly it is that I did? Especially since I seem to start so many things and never talk about finishing them? Well, yesterday I took advantage of having a day off, and trucked myself down to Fabricland where I bought a membership, some fabric, and these two patterns!

They are McCall's 5631, and Simplicity 2501, a skirt and blouse respectively. Initially I just wanted a blouse pattern, since I've never really made one, and I thought it would be a good wardrobe-builder for work clothes. But I just couldn't resist a cute skirt. Mine won't be the view in the photo, it's going to be plainer with just overstitching on the hem.

In retrospect, I should probably have gotten fabrics that matched so I could wear them together, but I have a hard time with decisions to begin with, much less picking two things that will also go together.

Of course I don't know when I'm going to have time to start something new-- I think this may have to wait until closer to summer-- at least until the show opens.

But I do recommend the Fabricland membership to anyone who's going to be buying fabrics-- the discount totally paid for itself on my first visit. Plus now I get cheap cheap patterns-- so I'm going to wait until those awesome vintage Vogue and Butterick patterns go on sale. Dramatic Joan Crawford-style ladies' hats, anyone?

Customers Who I Do Not Prefer

1. The passive-aggressive customer who finds smug and "subtle" ways to point out his superiority to the CSR, alternating with painting himself as the victim of the CSR's trickery.

2. The yeller. Not to be confused with the profanitizer, who is also not a preferred customer of mine.

3. The loud talker. Ms. Loud Talker, allow me to introduce you to one of our premium products called "The Inside Voice". Has anyone ever said to you "I'm right here in the same room with you? Really? In any case, being on the phone with you is not only like being in the same room together, it's being in the same room and speaking directly into each other's ears. So pipe down, wouldya?"

4. The eater. Now, I haven't had any in-person customers eat while we conduct our transaction, but I can't imagine it would gross me out nearly as much as hearing someone eat while talking to them on the phone. "I'd like to order some tickets? "

5. S/He Who Thinks I Have Power. Or That It's All My Fault. I mean, I do have some power. Customers, you should really know that. Just as waitresses have the power to decide how much spit makes it into your meal, CSR's have some ability to proverbially spit into your file. Or at the very least, we sometimes have the power to make exceptions for you. But no matter how unjustly you feel you've been treated, no matter how much I seem not to understand the unfairness of it all, tearing a strip off me will not make your life any easier. It will not get your problem solved any faster. And really, ask yourself this: how likely is it that someone with any decision-making, policy-shaping abilities is going to be the one you're talking to at 7:55 pm on a Friday night?

6. The ATVIP. That's the Assistant To the VIP. And yes, I feel slightly guilty for calling out assistants here. I've been an assistant many times over the years. But certain executive assistants call in, on behalf of their bosses, who may be city councillors, or oil executives or judges, or someone else who is too busy with lofty matters to attend to real life, and act like I should have a big red button that stops everything. They drop names like I should gasp in awe, thanking my lucky stars for the chance to serve one so exalted. They get impatient if I ask how to spell the VIP's name. They're always in a hurry. They have to check with their boss, who they refer to as "My Minister" or "his Honour" or "his Excellency" or some other title. And a lot of times I get the feeling that they're ticked that I didn't sense their call coming, and have everything done and waiting for their stamp of approval.

7. The Crazies. OK, the Crazies would probably be my most preferred customers of this group. They can be entertaining, at least. Like the lady who wanted me to change her phone number because the people in her walls were reporting her to the CIA, but I wasn't allowed to say her new phone number out loud, because the people in her walls would hear it, and then she'd just have to get her number changed all over again. Or the guy who came in to the box office (he had an assistant crazy person, a guy who followed him around and said "yeah! yeah!" and repeated the last couple of words in this guy's sentences) and told me he was donating $100 million dollars to the paper to give scholarships for my children, and could he leave these torn polaroids inserted into various brochures in the lobby because the RCMP would know where to find missing kids, and by the way, I should never go to Tim Horton's because of his impending lawsuit about a shooting there.

8. The Everyone's-A-Suspect. Now, I don't like being called at home either, and of course I try to let businesses I deal with know that. And of course I try to limit some of the personal information I give out about myself. But I try to maintain a standard across the board. Like, if I wouldn't give you my phone number, I'm probably not going to give you my video store password. And I certainly wouldn't give you my wifi password. And so on. But if you're going to say "God! Don't you have my credit card on file?" and then sarcastically read the digits to me, you can't freak out and scream at me because I asked you if the address we have on file is correct. In fact, if you freak out and scream at me saying I have no right to your address, you really shouldn't call back in a month later demanding to know why you never got your subscription package.

Hey, y'all...

And due to the accursed limitations of the medium, you'll just have to imagine the "Oh,hay, y'awwll!" inflection, tinged with a mixture of sadness and guilt. I've been a negligent blogger. It seems that you can divide my blog posts into a couple of different categories here: non-posting guilt, and feeling more/less fat posts.

How terrible is that, y'all?
But seriously. Nothing happens to me. I'm currently working a minimum of 12 hours a day, split between two jobs. Any concept of nutrition I ever had has gone out the window. (This lead to the unfortunate veggie sandwich incident, where in my cravings for actual vegetables I decided to try a different place at the food court on my way to job #1. Thank you, giant chunk of tuna salad right in the middle of my sandwich! Mmm, mmm good!)

I am stressed. Terribly stressed, in fact. In that I currently have many expectations piled on me (including a show in 2 months, har har har), and I am constantly working and never doing anything I want to do. With no real end in sight. Oh, until mid-June, when there will be some serious relaxing happening. I'm talking margaritas and gin and tonics while eating 7-layer-dip and wearing those shorts that I would never be seen in publicly relaxing.

Did I just say that? Clearly that is not a healthy-lifestyle thought. Once in a while, though...

Things that have happened:
I found out I have two cavities that need to be filled. Eek. I could probably put it off for a while, but I figure I should just get it over with.

We have a car! It's an old car, that a darling friend has sold us for $1. Of course, we have to get it inspected, insured, and registered, but eventually there will be wonderful, wonderful freedom!

I'm going to try and make some time to get to Fabricland and get some fabric and a membership and get back to sewing. I've been reading all about the fabulous projects on Sew Retro, and those folks blow me away!

Anyone home?

Yes, I haven't been here in a while. Not for lack of spending time on the computer. Writing some online content, trying to make some cash. Sending copies of the script to people who should really have had script copies sent to them months ago. Oops! And that's not including my various blog reading and fuck-offery that I usually do on the internet. So you can see why I haven't had time to keep up.

Nothing much is new. Still working jobs#1 and 2, except now I'm in charge of the rest of the project at Job 2. Which sounds important, but is actually not that important, because there's a lot of cogs in that wheel. However, this week I'm working 12 hours a day minimum, making it tough to get in the 30 Day Shred. It's way easier NOT to fit it into my day, which is something I need to deal with.

Singing: argh. Blerg. Poop! The required musculature has been taken over by various heffalumps and woozles, subconscious, psychological, obstinate, or otherwise.

I saw this Andy Warhol quote on someone else's blog, and I thought it just espoused one of my life's philosophies so well:

"They always say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."

I just want to carve that into a pumpkin, or put it on a cake, or spell it out with alphagetti. I'm not sure why that would give it more meaning (well, other than giving it more weight... Hey-oh!). Perhaps it's best not to examine that too closely.

Be back sooner, all.

Ouch!

Holy Hannah!
I tried out level one of the 30 Day Shred a few hours ago-- it pretty much kicked my ass. In a good way, mind you, in the way that when you're done you're standing up straight and feeling like a tight and toned size 2. But I can tell I'm going to be sore tomorrow, especially in the upper body-- all my years of figure skating gave me a lot of lower body endurance, but I have weak, pudgy arms. Using my hilariously small 2 lb weights was enough weight for me, thank you very much.
I don't know if I can do it again tomorrow-- I'm thinking I might alternate days for the first week, depending on how sore I am tomorrow. But I can definitely see how this gets results. And I was surprised that Jillian wasn't a super bitch, just a supportive trainer who doesn't tolerate bullshit.

Moving On Up...

To the mountains!
Yes, friends and neighbours, on Friday I got the phone call formally inviting me to the SuperPrestigiousPlaywritingColony in the mountains!

I'm stoked. I'm sure as the day to leave approaches, I will be a little terrified, seeing as how I will probably be meeting writers who are famous. Like, whose plays I studied in school. Or whose plays are so good that it makes me want to vomit with jealousy.

Of course, maybe I'm a little bit awesome as well... just don't tell anyone I said that.

On the scale front, things remain largely the same-- down a half a pound, which is just so frustrating. And I know, I should be glad I'm not gaining, but come on. When you watch Dr. Phil and he's all like "Well, if y'all would stop drinking frappucinos, y'all would lose 100 lbs in a year", or whatever. And I'm like "I eat tofu! I eat fruits, vegetables and whole grains! I don't eat whipped cream-laden, chocolate sauce-drizzled blended coffee ice creams! So why am I still fat?

Phew. Just had to get that out.

So I bought a copy of Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred. I'm jumping on the bandwagon on this one. Not that I think that the "You can lose 20 lbs in 30 days" statement applies to very many people, and I don't expect to lose that much. But realistically, a workout that's high intensity and only 20 minutes is appealing, because who doesn't have 20 minutes to work out? Even if I don't want to work out, it can be over in 20 minutes! Or I can just start doing it, and by the time I realize that I'm exercising, it'll be almost time for cooldown.

I'll try and blog a little about it, but I am afraid. I've heard it's a pretty ass-kicking little workout.

News, Knits, and No Exit Strategy

Howdy,friends and neighbors!
I thought I'd stop by and give an update-- that very prestigious playwrights' retreat (hint: it's in Banff)? Well, I am officially on the waiting list. Which I guess is pretty impressive for a play that had absolutely no support from anyone wanting to produce it. I'm not on their "A" list, but I like to think I'm on the "We would totally want you here if we had more funding" list. And the depressingly-toned email they sent assures me that they'll let me know if a space opens up, it seems like they are also saying "fat chance". Because who doesn't go to something like that? And I wouldn't feel good wishing family emergencies on playwrights everywhere, so I'm just going to have to wait and see.

On the positive panda front, I found this website through a blog the other day. It's a super cute idea, and just the thing I need these days-- short, digestible, positive affirmations.

Oh, and the play I'm writing? That we're producing in May? I have no exit strategy. I just keep churning out my 5 pages a day, with no end in sight, no conceivable structure. I know this is an easy fix, just have someone read it, or read it myself and cut out all the crap bits. But I need an end. Good GOD, I need an end. I will feel so much better once it's done, no matter how shitty the draft, no matter how much rewriting it needs. Because I will finally have the albatross that is this play lifted from my shoulders.

But I promised some knitting chat.

Now, I absolutely cannot resist buying knitting needles secondhand. At Value Village, at yard sales, if you're getting rid of knitting needles, I will buy them. Consequently, I end up with a lot of weird sizes of circular needles, yet always have to go buy the right size for a new project. I did score an awesome set of vintage straights in delicious metallic colours, but circulars always seem to do me in.

But no more!
My mom got me these for Christmas:


Not only are they interchangeable, but they are Addis!



They are amazing. Incredibly lightweight and easy to knit with. I'm a huge fan of metal needles, anyway, and these are the best I've ever used. Plus I can make any length circular I want!

I've just been making a test scarf, as I'm currently between patterns-- a friend moved to Australia for a few months, taking most of my knitting books with her! Quel scandal! But once I get paid, I think I'm going to pick a pattern, something juicy and difficult, and really break in these needles.

And that's all the news that is the news!

Production Value

So, the scale is the same. A frustrating 173. But I've made it through almost 21 days of gluten-free vegan! I'm pretty proud that I haven't cracked and eaten a donut or something. I am going to gracefully end the cleanse tomorrow, as it's Hallmark Invented Day, and we are going out for Indian food before J heads out on tour this week. I'm excited to eat bread again, but it has made me really think about what I could be eating, and how I *can* eat healthy, yummy food.

But in other news... I had a long-awaited meeting with an artistic director today. It had really become something of a joke, because we kept trying to reschedule and he kept blowing me off, and it just seemed like it was never going to happen. And when I say "meeting with an artistic director", it seems like it's the huge poopoochichi thing, and it's not. Other places, it might be. Here, everyone knows each other and can tell you five stories about who the person at the table next to you is sleeping with.

In any case, I was having this meeting about a play I've written, a play I applied with to a prestigious writer's colony with, a play I really, really hope will one day be produced. And I was just kind of straight up about it, which really surprised me, but I get tired of the runaround. Long story short, it sounds like we're doing a workshop in March, a public reading in May, and if things go my way, my play will open the 2011/2012 season!

!!!

I was so thrilled I came home and wrote another 5 pages on the play I'm supposed to be writing, like, yesterday. For me, writing can be kind of like working out-- you have to do it as soon as you get the idea, and suffer through it because it feels so good when it stops. And it's good for you. And, you get worthwhile results.

!!!

!

Well, duh...

Do you ever have those moments of epiphany where you realize something that alters your way of thinking, but is so staggeringly obvious that you don't understand how you couldn't have realized it before?

I had one of those moments today after my singing lesson.

Let me tell you a story about me and singing:

One of my earliest career aspirations was to be an opera singer. I remember my dad listening to Saturday Afternoon At The Opera every weekend, and being incredibly interested in the curtain call segment of the proceedings. All those people yelling "Bravo!", and the applause, and my imaginings of roses raining down on the singers (yes, I was a mildly overdramatic child) made me think "That's something I want to do." Of course, I can't discount the fact that the singing orange on Sesame Street may also have influenced me.

I loved singing. I sang all the time. I still do, probably to the annoyance of people around me. I asked my parents for singing lessons, but that never quite panned out. But we did get a piano, which I taught myself to play so I could sing old show tunes to my heart's content. I remember once my dad saying "You know, if you stopped fooling around, you'd probably have a good voice." Needless to say, I wasn't fooling around.

Long story short, when I was 16, and decided to audition for the local arts high school. (It is nothing and everything like Fame, for those of you wondering.) I got accepted into the drama program and the music program, and there was no question that I was going to go into music. Since I'd already moved out of my parents house, this was a BIG SCARY INDEPENDENT STEP that I was taking.

Somehow, as I took voice lessons, as I was surrounded by other singers, something changed for me. I felt... different. I didn't sound like other people, and there were so many people who were so good. So many people that it seemed like it was so easy for, while I was struggling. I felt blocked. I felt frustrated. I started to hate singing in public, because I felt like I wasn't good enough, wasn't good at all. I got tired of getting put in the alto section because I was loud and everyone else was blossoming into these lyric sopranos. I got critiques from a lot of people (one of the hazards of pursuing the arts-- you're expected to accept criticism with good grace, from just about anyone). I wanted so much to audition for a musical theatre program, but I lost my nerve. Not just because of my singing, but because of a lot of other things. There were plenty of other things I didn't like about myself besides my voice, but that's a dark tale for another time. But I hated my voice. I hated singing.

Instead of going away to become a singer, I stayed in my hometown and went to theatre school instead. Which was fabulous, and I learned a lot. But somehow, I kept drifting back to singing. I'd pick up with a new teacher every few year, hoping that they'd have the magic key that would unlock my poor blocked voice. No one did, and I'd get frustrated, realize I couldn't really afford to study something that was going nowhere, and quit after about a year. Incidentally, a friend told me her daughter's piano teacher refuses to take adult students, because adults who want to study an instrument "are always trying to work out some unresolved childhood issue." True? Or maybe they just want to take piano lessons.

I even had a job where I had to sing, last year, doing a school tour, I had to open the show singing a song in French (it was a French touring show). And even when people told me I was fine, good even, I didn't feel like it was good enough. Like somehow they weren't telling me the truth, that I just wished I could be a singer, and whatever I was doing, it didn't feel like it.

Fast forward to last year. My old teacher was moving away to teach elsewhere, and she recommended another teacher for me, if I was still interested in continuing. I hemmed and hawed over it for a while. Let's face it, I thought, I have a weird voice and I kind of suck and it's frustrating. But I decided to give it another shot. And I'm glad I did, because my voice teacher now is awesome. I mean, I still think I have a weird voice, and I'm not exactly fantastic yet, but I'm beginning to remember the things I loved about singing in the first place. And that I don't have to feel judged for doing it. So much so that I'm contemplating singing in front of people, seriously, for the first time in years and years.

Which brings me back to my "duh" moment. Had a great lesson this morning, made some real progress. Thinking on the bus ride on my way to work about the things people have said to me about my voice, things I have said to myself about my voice. And I suddenly realized a couple of things:

*Just because people say something to me, it doesn't mean it's true
*I don't have to hold on to negative stuff forever and ever to torture myself with
*Keeping score of positive comments vs negative comments is exhausting and pointless
*Really, I'm sure most of the people involved wouldn't remember saying anything to me, so why should I keep hitting myself in the face with it in lurid technicolour detail?
*It's none of my business what other people think of me.

So there is my realization for the day. Other than that, I'm eager for the cleanse to be over so I can go and have some Indian food with naan bread!

It occurs to me...

That I do a lot of bitching and moaning and insecuritizing in my blog. Which is okay, I mean, if blogs aren't for pretending your venting matters to others, then what are they for?

But it does occur to me that maybe all this bitching and moaning and insecuritizing isn't great for my life and my creative pursuits. I'm not saying I've suddenly discovered "The Secret" and am busy making an inspiration board, but I have been thinking that maybe you do attract what you put out there.

I was chatting with another artist friend the other day about feeling blocked, and jealous, and left behind. And how I realized that probably everyone I know feels this way, probably right at this very moment to some degree. And how that still didn't help, you see, because I felt like *I* was actually the only one who was sucking the big benucci at this thing called living a creative life.

And do you know what she said?

"You just have to remember your inherent awesomeness."

Now, normally, the bitter, chain-smoking, washed up drag queen who lives inside me would have rolled her heavily-false-lashed eyes at her and ordered another daquiri. But for some reason, this made sense. Remember my inherent awesomeness? But... I'm not awesome. Not at all.

Am I?

I mean, I have some pretty insecure artist friends who are pretty damn awesome, and can't see it to save their lives. Could I in fact, be like them?

You see where I'm going with this?

In any case, I'm going to try and be more positive in my life for a little while. Hey, it can't hurt. And if I don't like it, I figure I can always make a triumphant return to bitterness. Not that I'm wholly bitter, because the bitter artist is an iconic figure whom I particularly loathe. I mean, everyone gets frustrated, but at the same time, no one's holding a gun to your head, forcing you to choose this career.

Which is something I have to remember.

So, friends and neighbours, any of you who are still with me-- how do you stay positive? Are you relentlessly chipper? Do you secretly drink in the mornings to keep a shine on the day? Do you remember your inherent awesomeness?