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?