Contrast

I cleaned out my closet/wardrobe today. A little bit. It's hard for me to throw out clothes if they still fit me because I go: WHAT IF I GET THE URGE TO WEAR THIS AND IT'S NOT HERE? WHAT THEN?

Either way: we've been having a go of some awful weather today, freezing rain and power outages, so I thought I might as well do a little spring cleaning and house keeping. I was going through some pants and stuff in my dresser when I found a bunch of pairs of shorts from the summer. To my eyes, they looked kinda big, but I thought maybe I had misjudged them. I'm bad at sizing things up and such.

I posted THIS OUTFIT on July 16th, 2011.


I tried on the shorts again just today.



Uhm. WHAT?

Please note how my legs are literally SQUEEZED into the shorts like Polski-Russian sausage in photo number one, and then note grin on my face in the second picture. I didn't even REALIZE the difference in myself until I put myself in those shorts.

Over Christmas I saw a bunch of my relatives who were all OOOH YOU LOOK SO GOOD and I kinda brushed it off because I didn't even REALIZE what the hell I had done, or what I'm still doing.

I wish I could explain how this feels. It's like disbelief and joy, motivation and...shock. Emotionally, as well as physically. If I wear them, you literally cannot see my ass. They hang off of me. I have to get RID of them now. And I thought I would notice such a drastic change: it's all a matter of perspectives.

It's kind of amazing and freaky, and if anything, it's impressing in me the importance of documenting this asskicking tour de force as I go.

For the Love of Film

If you happen to follow me on Twitter I'm sure you're realize I was plugged into the Academy awards tonight. It wasn't necessarily the best year for epic speeches or hosts (even Billy Crystal was falling a LITTLE flat BILLYI'MSOSORRY) but nonetheless, there were heartfelt moments, passion, tears, and the epic music... which needed far more attention by the way.
Seriously. I was all over that. Hans Zimmer + Pharrell = Love. The audiophile in me just about peed with excitement.

And even though my lady crush Rooney Mara didn't win Best Actress, Christopher Plummer won for Beginners and The Artist took home a BUNCH of things, which I was just thrilled about, including Jean Dujardin for Best Actor. I only actually saw the film Saturday evening, but I'm so glad I did. If you haven't already checked out the Artist, you have to. I was literally stunned when the credits finally rolled. That a movie can draw you in emotionally, charm you, make you love it, break your heart and have you in it's grip-- without saying a word-- is truly a testament of greatness to everyone involved from start to finish.

The last silent film made was Mel Brook's aptly titled 'Silent Film' and it was basically based on the gimmick of the fact that the film itself had no spoken dialogue. Like all Brooks, it was spoofy. The Artist was nothing short of awe inspiring.

Watching the Oscars made me miss film. As much as I know that I might not have a career out in the industry waiting for me, tonight was a reminder of just how much I love good storytelling. How powerful words translated into visuals delivered by individuals with the right tone and cadence can have people holding their breath. They can inform and endear and alter a point of view.

I love that a silent film won Best Picture this year, against the odds. I love when someone takes a huge long shot and suddenly, the world is in the palm of their hand. The power of film is to take someone's vision, someone's dream, and put it out there for everyone else to experience and see. It's collaboration and pain and suffering that pays off, but not always. I miss that aspect of writing. The visions and the translations and the buildings. Not to say that there is much stopping me from writing screenplays again, just my own mental block.

But...

But.

That is just it.

I feel this absurd LONGING to just write these stories and tell tales and do these things-- even though I can admit I'm not very good at them. Do I make it a hobby? Do I just practice for fun and lose steam? I don't know.

I decided to go ahead and get a Lookbook account. Sometimes, even though I've done it a couple of times by now, I just feel straight up WEIRD posting outfit photos. I know it's my blog and I should be able to do what I want with it but, as someone who does consider themself a writer, I struggle with the idea that the stories behind the outfits should take precedence over the outfits themselves. So hopefully in the future I can find a happy medium between writing and my sartorial pursuits.

Either way-- here we go!

Old Pizza

YESTERDAY I FINALLY SENT IN MY PORTFOLIO TO CONCORDIA.
I've been wanting to type that sentence for a long. ass. time.

After months of agonizing over the idea of moving to a different city. Weeks of procrastinating. Days collecting of pieces of work and choosing the right one. Hours writing, rewriting, and editing. Minutes waiting in the line to the post office to express post the package. IT IS DONE. IT IS DONEEEE. Now all I have to do is wait. Which I'm sure will seem like forever until the second I have an enveloped in my hands with the test results in.

This has been chomping on my brain for the past little while-- it was like NaNoWriMo but for editing, and it was only 15 pages long. My time when not workin' or working out was burned up on all of it. And I have been doing a LOT of working out. (Which means more than my usual 3x a week. I don't mean for hours on end...I'm not THAT insane.)

Last week, Jill put me up to a challenge to lose 3 lbs before the end of February. I am nothing if not sugar coated niceness to hide my envy and competitive streaks, and so it's basically GAME ON, right now. I started carefully watching what I eat (except I did eat one Cheeses Murphy special...there was chorizo involved....I regret NOTHING) what I drink, and breaking a sweat, even a little one, on a daily basis.

I was doing pretty well until I walked into the back room for my lunch break at Shoppers and I saw it. An abandoned pile of pizza boxes. Now, it did not matter that I was about to eat my own dinner, which I reasoned was small and would leave me hungry. Or that the pizza was cold, probably going stale. What mattered was-- it was PIZZA.

I'm pretty sure I blacked out because when I came to, I was standing, noshing on a stale, floury slice of the veggie variety, gazing at the grease stains on the bottom of the pizza box and the remaining sad, faded slices. I looked at wilted tomatos in their former glory. Then the floppy slice of pizza in my hand with a sizeable bite out of it. I tasted the dry cheese and the flat tomato sauce and suddenly, I stopped. Everything ground to a halt.

Inside, my action hero heart screamed NOOOOOOOOOO and I grabbed for a wad of paper towels into which the half masticated old pizza was promptly spit and discarded into the garbage can, along with the rest of the unchewed slice.

Then I found out later the pizza had been sitting on that counter for a full 24 hours. That was how I started to be really aware of my automatic-eating habits and saved myself from possible spores as well as terrible pizza. Good life choices are good.

Never Never Never Quit!

Happy Belated Day of Love to all my readers, followers, stalkers, people who took a wrong turn and ended up here!

Between working every day from Monday until God-knows-when, trying to edit and scrape together my Concordia application and portfolio, Jill and Dad's birthdays, Valentine's day and working on a SPECIAL SECRET PROJECT (which I will talk about more in some other post) with Rebekah, I've had my hands busy at all times-- and if I haven't been busy, I've been passed out cold.

The funny thing is, it's not as though I'm rushing around trying to do everything at breakneck speed, I only realize I've been busy when I realize we're 3/4 of the way through February and WHERETHEHELLDIDITGO? I can't be the only one who feels this way. Anyone else accidentally walk through a time tunnel and end up in the future? Just me? Goddamn.

Life of Wiley's 1st Birthday also got caught in this clustercussing crossfire of mayhem. I shouldn't even be BLOGGING right now, but if I want to make it to the kid's second birthday, I better at least try and be a teeny bit consistent and show my face every now and again. (I'm going to be a stellar parent some day.)

I have no idea who Dexter is, but I stole his cake. It's our birthday, betch! (Source.)

I just want to thank all 5 of my followers for jumping on the Bandwagon and staying here for a whole year! WOWOWOWOW. But seriously, next year, 10 followers. WHO KNOWS?
I had a cake recipe planned out and a video blog and there was going to be a stripper, but that all went to shiiiiit with all the stuff going on.

MAYBE SOME OTHER TIME.

UHHHM. Life is life, friends, and that is wisdom I invite you all to enjoy and take all the way to the bank. I lost 2 pounds this week, which is surprising considering the MASS of amazing and terrible food consumed over the weekend (pulled pork grilled cheese, 2 kinds of cupcakes, dynamite handrolls, and buffalo chicken fingers...) But I picked up my pieces, started to eat a little better and squeezed in a couple of workouts. I'm hoping for 3-5 pounds by the end of the month, and then, by the end of April, to drag myself kicking and screaming into the low 170s or high 160s. YES THE 160s. I haven't been there since 1st year, and before that, probably not since grade school. CRAY.

New motto: "Never never never quit!"

Not that I had a motto before. I wrote it on my mirror like those teenage girls who write 'you are beautiful' and shit, just because I need a constant reminder that giving up is the lamest. THE LAMEST.

Rant: FAT

Yesterday, something happened to me that hasn't happened in awhile. Someone called me fat. Now it's totally possible it was directed at someone ELSE, but figuring this out didn't make me feel better. It was in the back of my mind ALL DAY. I didn't want anyone to look at me, I didn't want to talk, I didn't want anyone to touch me. It was like every part of me emotionally recoiled, as though the people I loved the most were the ones who had put the bullet in my stability.

I grew up with the word fat. I was bullied sporadically, going periods of time under the radar, and just when I thought everything might be okay, someone else would come along and drop a big fucking F bomb on me. Boo hoo, I know, lots of kids get bullied for lots of different reasons all day, every day. Being picked on is not what makes you a beautiful or unique snowflake; what makes you beautiful is how you overcome and take on your life by storm. The point is, I thought I had outgrown being insulted by the word fat a long time ago.

I'm not a fat activist, but I do believe in the power of body positivity. Recently, I've read enough of the literature of the Fat Positive Movement to feel more secure in myself. I believed that the word 'fat' was just a word. A reclaimed adjective and a physical attribute. That was it. The word couldn't hurt, because technically, telling me I have more junk in my trunk is like telling someone they have red hair. It's just a STATEMENT.

But thinking it over, the word fat bothers me because of the negative connotations it has. Fat isn't just saying that you wear a larger size. FAT is thrown around like an insult, and it's used as a weapon. When one of my slimmer girlfriends says, "Oh god I'm going to get FAT," this is never expressed with joy or anticipation. Saying someone is fat is like saying you think less of them, you don't find them attractive, rather you find them gross or disgusting. And who the fuck is ANYONE to say something like that to anyone else?

Nobody. Thinking before you speak is a goddamn art form.

What I'm mad about is the very fact that someone calling me that has the power to unnerve me at all. I thought I had shaken the old testament definition, and suddenly some jackass on Chatroulette POSSIBLY called me fat and my emotions just crumpled like a piece of paper, when bullshit like that shouldn't even phase me.

I'm going to blame PMS aka The Bear aka Hyde aka all the bad things about me just beneath the physical and emotional surface of my skin. Makes me sensitive and touchy. It even sounds stupid, "A total stranger on the internet MAYBE said I was fat and I retracted from myself because it got right into the core of my brain." The only explanation is that it brought up some old scars that rattled me hard. Fuck how far I've come, I just want to be done with all the emotional baggage that comes along with it.

Even when my friends were trying to make me feel better when they noticed I was dejected, none of them said, "you aren't fat." Which should be okay because I am aware I'm not a size zero, AND if I truly don't believe the word should have negative power it shouldn't matter AND if I didn't care it wouldn't bother me. I am curvy. I am ass-bodacious. I'm fat, by the standards of the fashion industry and by douchebag standards. But who needs douchebags? Why do I even care?

If I love so many people regardless or possibly even because of their size, why do these sentiments and rules evaporate when it comes to myself? What is it about three letters in sequence that cut to the marrow? I'm a hypocrite, I can say it. I have to learn. I have to TRULY believe what I say. It's just a word. Brush it off. It's just a word, believe it, and so on and so forth.

It seems I have more 'not giving a shit' lessons to complete before I can go on. Work in Progress.

OH YEAH, AND IT WAS TOTALLY THE BLOG'S ONE YEAR BIRTHDAY YESTERDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BLOG (AND HAPPY 60th DAD)!

Mixed Bag

When your best friend on the face of the earth proposes a 10 day trip to Paris/Spain, including the wedding of her cousin, you should probably say yes. Before four years of being broke in school in a new city, locked into tuition and work and money. Before graduation, a job, a family. You should probably say yes.

You want to walk the streets in Paris and feel the history swell in your chest. You want to sit in perfect silence in a café to hear the language all around you. A cultural ambiance. You want the nightlife, to dance with the locals into the early hours of the morning. French Discotheque. Spanish Guitar. You want to fall in love with something different. Off the wall. You want the life experience more than you want the money. You want to chase your heart's desire's over all over the straight and narrow path paved by the brain's stern logical voice.

You want a long dress. Sangria and sunglasses. Je voudrai parler Francais. Photographs. Memories. You want your biography to read that at the tender age of 22, you ran wild with Spaniards and it changed you.

I hate money.
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When did I stop being happy go lucky and start being melodramatic? I'm gonna figure it out and fix it, damnit.
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TEXTS I WAS GOING TO SEND TODAY BUT I COULDN'T BECAUSE I HIT MY TEXT LIMIT AND CANNOT SEND MORE WITHOUT BEING CHARGED:

"I think I hate peplums."

"Verona + cinnamon dolce = MY NEW LIFE FORCE."

"Oh the sweet memories! Did you give it a wave?"

"BABE DID YOU VISIT WHILE I WAS ON MY LUNCH?!"

"Uhhhh Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning I think? Let me double check."

"I keep thinking about that magazine thing. It could be SO SICK."

Get Busy Blogging

As the saying goes, get busy living or get busy blogging. I guess this past week I've been doing more living than blogging! Still, here's some links in case you're interested:

Spring Has Sprung, Bitches-- 2012 Spring Fashion Report for TRAVIS

Everyday People-- How I Met a Homophobe in Real Life

Other than that, this week was a blur of working the Starbucks and Shoppers, as well as celebrating Rebekah's 22nd birthday. As the BFF, I was overly freaked about making everything go right. I wanted a fun, stress free smooth riding night, damnit, and I was going to pick at every detail with tweezers until it was perfect.

Which is why everything went slightly wrong. Everything from bad winter weather driving into Toronto, to people going home from the bar sick, to finding 24 hour parking, all the way to work calling me in the morning saying, "You were suppose to uhh...be here an hour ago?" When I had really booked the day off. I guess trying to control the chaos just doesn't work. Note to self: In the future, go with the flow, because stressing out doesn't make things NOT HAPPEN TO YOU.

Moulin Rouge.
The night started out with martinis and awesome food, and railed through to Fly, our favourite gay bar with lots of bassy techno dance music. Josh got danced on by a man and Justin got asked if he knew where to get some ecstasy. I accidentally-on-purpose gave Rebekah a birthday kiss at midnight. Amy had to go home sick. Everyone rocked out, and I got my dance on. I freakin' LOVE getting my dance on. If I could take dance classes for fun, I would go every DAY. I would eat sleep and breathe shakin' it.

Rebekah and Justin rock the dance floor.

The night ended with Justin, Rebekah and I driving around Toronto at 2:30 in the morning freezing our asses off and looking for places with cheap 24 hour parking. My toes were freezing as I ran to the parking lot signs to read the restrictions. We pulled u-turns. We laughed and shivered. Sitting in the the Buick, looking over at Bek, I assured her we would laugh about it some day. "It's going to make a good story." That's my one liner.

We fit six people sleeping in Alli and Amy's tiny living room, human jigsaw style. I meant to take a picture but I was too busy snuggling between Justin on the floor, and the giant nest chair Reb was sleeping on. Then we talked. All I know is we talked pop rocks, French Stewart, Robert Munsch, schizophrenia... That qualifies a good night for me. Martinis, Dancing, Story Material, French Stewart, giant sleepover. The night felt very "20-something" to me.

Other Things I Did This Week:
I finally saw Shame, watched Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (AGAIN, yes it was that good), got my ass back into the gym, started working on my portfolio for Concordia, ate Almond Butter, found a new fitness philosophy (STOP THINKING OF WORKING OUT AS A PUNISHMENT) and I dunno. Things. I did things.