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Saturday 23 December 2017

How to figure skate over 55

A Christmas Story of Triumph

O and I finally put up our tree last week after we fired up the crane in the garage. Oh humble Christmas tree, several stories high, with lovely beige(?!)-wrapped gifts underneath, except, oh? What's that? Oh my, a little something something from Santa?!

GAAAAA!!!! Just what I wanted! Figure skates! My evil rival, Miz Bagg, stole my last pair four years ago in the middle of the Milky Way Figure Skating Championships, so I was forced to compete without them. I still won of course. No one does a Besti squat or Biellmann spin better than me, on ice, shaken, not stirred. Give me a couple of bottles, not of milk, and I'll give you an eyeful of swizzle and twizzle too. (real skating terms)

As for the skates, I had to shake my head at these new high-tech wonders. The blades list all the added vitamins and minerals, and include a calorie count which fluctuates depending on whether or not you wear them with milk. That's a bit much, don't you think? Milk?! Cocoa, yeah, I could understand, or coffee even. And let's not forget that cold weather burns calories 3.8 times faster than warm weather. It's an unproven fact. All too confusing.

Inside was tucked a little note from the Intergalactic Figure Skating Championships with an urgent invitation to their meet yesterday in Vancouver. Why not?, I thought. Having eliminated all my former competition, I would be the only entrant.

All the usual judges were there, some I knew intimately having schlepped with them during past games. Mars, hot-headed and annoying, Venus, constantly sobbing and fainting, Pluto, way out there, reminds me of a politician, and of course Uranus, working overtime, always bending over. The only non-Milky Way was Planet X, a cool artist creature in a silver lamé onesie.

There was no ice so I skated on the waters of Burrard Inlet, such is my talent. The move above is a Mel original. And so is the one below. And I threw in some sow-cows. When I was done my routine, an Orca whale gave me a lift back to shore. While daintily gripping its dorsal fin, I reclined like a mermaid in readiness for the media waiting on the pier.

I think my solo program went really well. Especially since I was the only competitor. But it was time to move to pairs. My partner, Chucky, was a bit wooden and couldn't keep his mouth shut. At least he was dressed very on trend, had silver hair, and sported a long beard thingy. 

But we shared a special energy. (Actually, he bit me after this shot. I slapped him with my flowers.)

And at the end of my program, I anxiously awaited news of my scores. I'm glad I had white duct tape to keep my laces tied!!

And there I am at the podium. A perfect score - AGAIN. My blades got a bit mangled, but that's what happens when you're really, really good.

Drinks are on the house! Cheers everyone.

A flubbed Lutz is called a Flutz (true). A klutz is just a klutz (true). And I never schlepped with the judges. I didn't have to - schtellar talent schpeaks for itschelf. Oof.


About the coat, early '60s faux fur, ultra warm, swing cut, by Robert Meshekoff. I always want to figure skate when I wear it. Champagne white, not as yellow or as white as some of those photos.

This post includes bits of revised content from an earlier post. The photo session with the Christmas trees was outside a very popular downtown eatery, Glowbal. I had to navigate around the trendy crowds going in and out, not easily done in skates which require delicate shuffling action no matter how high-tech they are. I'm thankful that the management didn't shoo me away. Clearly they could see I was a pro athlete.

I'm linking this skating adventure up to Catherine's #iwillwearwhatilike at Not Dressed as Lamb.

I hope you all get a break from outside annoyances during the holidays. See you soon. xo

Have you got any clothes that make you want to figure skate?! Pole vault? Do long jump? Shot put?

Sunday 10 December 2017

Another audition - it's almost like being famous! Almost, not quite.

Some bigwigs called and asked me to "be myself." I failed. Heh.

Yip, the casting agency called again. Gaaa! If this keeps up, I'll have to get a real DAYTIMER, not an electronic thingy because they are not real enough. I need pages that can be dripped on and ripped. And a Bic pen (do they still make them?) because, after all, I would be an artiste, not some executive in a skyscraper boardroom like MizBagg.

As a reminder to you, this is my third TV commercial audition since May 2016. Things are going super fast! - 11 months between the first (here) and second (here), and only 8 months until this latest one. Stop the Earth - everything is a blur!

Strolling through Ackery's Alley. Read more about it here.

When I got there, the waiting room was packed with people "being themselves" to the max. My hair was high, my hopes were high, and my anxiety was at an all-time low as these things go. I knew it would end badly. Heh. What I wore is here.

This time it was just me and the casting director in the audition room, with a bank of computers and cameras, and I don't know what else. First I had to stand in front of the camera and state my name and height. Thank goodness I knew those lines. Then I had to sit in a comfy leather chair in the stage area and talk about myself. And I did... And I did... CUT!!!

But then I had to dance. Oh, dear reader, I don't dance; I do Martha Graham interpretive movements, lunges and feints and crawls. I preemptively knew I was done for. For my song - we got to pick our own - I chose Rock Lobster by the B52s. It was that or Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. Hey, they said to "be yourself."

I pogo-ed, I hopped and spun, I churned, stumbled, ran into furniture, got really dizzy, light-headed even with all that quick up-and-down bending, and I wagged my tongue during the weird bits of the song. Fer real. No spit flew, though, which I was thankful for - there are no wiper blades on the camera and the director was not wearing a bib. It would have been rude.

I was channeling comedian Maria Bamford, who is currently starring in the Netflix series, Lady Dynamite. She is very unconventional in public, scripted and unscripted too (she makes no secret of her struggles with mental illness), and nobody blinks an eye. If you are delicate, don't watch it. Suzanne introduce me to her.

Towards the end of my exertions, when I finally remembered I was being filmed, I caught sight of the director, who was waving his arms back and forth over his head, like at some of those religious meetings you see, which made me think, hmm, do I do a 360 and go all tabernacle or keep my Martha G funk on? You guessed it. Go Martha G! Go Maria B!

At the end, just as I was leaving, the casting agent said, Wow, I, uh, felt your energy. I panted back, exhausted, "That was fun, thanks." Done. Really done. I have to say, the casting agent is a super-cool guy. I'm getting to know him now, and vice versa, which means maybe I can hold off on my big daytimer purchase and Bic pen.

Of course, no call back. My "me" was too me, or not the "me" the client was looking for. The shoot will be in a tropical country abroad for $$$. For a drink company. Of course I had to try though. And test out my new Maria Bamford-as-confidence-booster technique. It worked. High five! And if I'm called again, yeah, I'll go. Why not?

I found the commercial from the last audition I went to HERE. I had to say the line, "And the scary things eat you," awesome line. I thought I did it well, well, not tooooo badly, but in the final version it is delivered by a super-cute little girl. Well, I ask you, how can I compete with that? Hahaha. I love the ad, though.

I'll link up to Patti at Visible Monday, Not Dead Yet Style, and;
Catherine at #iwillwearwhatilike, Not Dressed as Lamb.

On a final note, they asked when I signed in for this audition whether I could open a bottle using any body parts. I wonder how they would have responded if I said I can do it with my sphincter on a bad day. Heh. I haven't tried - won't. Have you!? Let me know in the comments (she writes, trying to keep a straight face).

Monday 4 December 2017

Should I sing it or wear it?

"Je suis amoureuse." I could wear that on my chest on a tank dress or I could stagger around, slightly hunched over, croaking that 1970s classic song "Je t'aime" with Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, scaring tourists and locals alike. Aren't you glad I chose the former? Aren't you!? Heh. 

Normally I don't like graphics on clothing unless I put them there myself. But this one is so, well, annoying/compelling that I couldn't help myself when I saw it on the $5 rack at My Sister's Closet a few months ago.

I'm keeping this blog post short and sweet. What do they say - absence makes the heart grow fonder? For whom? When I'm away for a while, yes, it's nice to come back.

And miracle of the week - you know how you can be weighted down by niggling worries and then somehow, out of nowhere, your brain connects tiny thoughts that have been pinballing around your brain for ages and suddenly, poof, reset, calm is restored. A profound Aha! moment. Like finding a four-leaf clover in a field of dandelions, not that my brain is a dandelion field. Perhaps sweet corn.

Life has indeed been busy here. Mad Hatter time workwise - not in a bad way. This is the fastest blog post I've put together in a long, long time. But better short than not at all.

Great big bear hugs!!

I'll link up to Patti's Visible Monday at Not Dead Yet Style and Catherine's #iwillwearwhatilike at Not Dressed as Lamb. See you there!

P.S. Make sure you catch Suzanne's latest post - HILARIOUS in a tragic way. I can relate. Let's make this viral!!!!

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