The Age of De-Consent

It's hit and miss whether any of us have our first uttered words recorded on 8 mm film (pre-video), our very. first. spoken. word. ever. on planet Earth.

They were probably:
"NO!!!" or 
"No, thank you," for those spoiled brats with boastful parents.

Me? No footage. Don't need it; I rely on memory. "No" was my script and I delivered it like a diva born to the part. No, no, no, NO!! So much drahma. 

Some next phrases were probably along the lines of, "Muuuuum, he's on my side~!!" - in reference to a sibling nudging his/her hand past the imaginary line down the middle of a car seat and me trying to whomp it like whack-a-mole.

And of course, everyone else played their part: Don't, don't, don't, don't!!
Don't eat your mashed potatoes with your doll's feet. 
Don't pet skunks.
Don't lap hot water from a bowl pretending you're a cat drinking tea. (Actually, Mum didn't know.)

There are probably a few don'ts that should have been there but weren't: 

Don't lift up your dress when you pull up your leotards. 

Don't try to hypnotize your friends in the back of the classroom when you finish your work early. 

...Your standard stuff.

But all this to-and-fro with "no-ing" is just us revving up for the go years that start at about 16:

The golden 

Age of Consent Years👼

A fresh script. Yes, yes, yes, yes!! Not to be a boastful spoiled brat, but I was a natural at that as well. 

R-rated movies? Yes. High heels and gobs of makeup? Yes! Vote? Yes! Staying out late? Driving? Yes. Sex and drinking? Heck, yes!  

These are the years we require our names/photos printed on our YES LICENSEs to get behind closed doors and wheels (and as evidence afterwards, if required).

The joy of YES. 

But like all things, yes gets just as addictive as no used to be. It's a troubling trend. Which begs the question:

ARE YOU ADDICTED TO YES?

=======================================================

The learned scholars here at Mel Labs have prepared this scientific quiz to see if you're addicted to YES. Simply answer yes or no to the following questions to see if you're totally fecked.

1. Would you mind staying late today to clean the escalator steps with a toothpick and cotton swabs?  YES / NO

2. Would you please accept this lifetime supply of free chocolate? YES / NO 

3. Can you bake six dozen organic fruit pies for the church raffle this afternoon?  YES / NO

4. Why don't you drive us to that great new coffee shop I heard about at the airport? (By the way, will my suitcase fit in your trunk?)  YES / NO

5. May I give you a lifetime voucher for free clothes from all stores of your choice? YES / NO

7. You don't mind taking care of these two dozen two-year-olds while I go to Paris, do you?  YES / NO

8. I have free airline passage to everywhere in the world for life. Will you accept this as my gift of appreciation? YES / NO 

For each question you answered yes or no to, give yourself 0 points. Add them up. Ding ding ding ding! Congratulations!! You are as officially nitwittish for having completed this quiz as I am for having written it. Besides, a quiz is always a good idea. (That airport one is true. I didn't go, but given my addiction, it was a close call.) 

=======================================================

Moving right along.

So how did we go from no to yes? 

 Is there an escape?

Menopause. Or what I like to call my Wisecracking Years, when the brain gates slam open and shut at random forcing me to realign my playbook. 

So, first things first, and it's a doozy. Yeah, big, seismic, huge. You ask:

"What's that rumbling sound?" 

Ddddoooo yyyyou fffeeeel it? 

Your license has been revoked. No guilt for NO!

Yes. It's  N O !!!

Welcome Age of De-Consent!

 .

No guilt for NO!! 

I felt the quake coming on in my late 40s when the world was hit with invisible vision, like those x-ray glasses in comic books, except these fake glasses were real and they didn't just remove clothes - they removed entire people: women over 45, specifically. Suddenly, poof. All gone. 

That's no comic book - that's Stephen King!

"Snap out of it!!" I'd scream. Happily, often they do; it helps if you dress in whatever the feck you want like a little snappy slap on their face.

So I'm back at it, almost Olympian! Back to my roots -

No, no, no, NO!!

I stamp my foot, preferably in fabulous Fluevog Jericho shaggy booties. Practise with me: "You can't make me. You're not the boss of me. I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do." I'm the girl with the curl in the middle of my forehead, when I'm good I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad I'm horrid even better. Now? I guard my yes's like little candies.

Have you got your Age of De-Consent card yet? Or maybe you never needed one...? In which case, Hallelujah!! 

A model life with feints and wobbles

I'm 60, the Big Six O - as in Ohhh!!

I blurt. I gush. I show my teeth when I laugh. I can be highly sophisticated, with a British  accent, for about 15 minutes, which is usually when I forget I'm supposed be speaking like a British person. 

In polite society, where acquaintances typically tiptoe towards possible ecstasy via, say, an exclusive boutique or expensive restaurant, I run full bore, why waste time?, like the dog wagging its tail as it hangs precariously over the bow of a Zodiac boat whizzing down False Creek near Granville Island. Surely, if Sarah Polley can Run Towards the Danger*, it's okay to run to Boat Dog, panting, spit flying.

I can be British for 15 minutes at a time. It's a skill.

My armature is getting more brittle while my body envelope becomes more squishy. The light wafting of my upper arms does not generate a refreshing breeze. If anything, it slows me down by Einstein-ian nanoseconds when I accelerate as a foot passenger at a walk signal, a mode of transportation that sinks lower and lower every year with my dwindling tolerance of heels. 

I remember Earth Shoes where the toe was higher than the heel. Would they fare me any better, I wonder. They rocked, literally, back and forth, front to back, like a soothing rocking chair. Too bad I prefer to hard rock with my roll. 

Jogging attire

I've tried to catwalk, having joined a model agency recently, and, after much coaching by a professional, have managed a highly impressive* staccato performance of wobble, halt, feint left, feint right, and spin on stilettos with the heel cap missing. It's a sort of rock and roll. 

When asked to do my own Mel Walk it took a while. I lunged, reverse stepped, windmilled my arms, and showcased my vulgar teeth - perhaps even gums, which, in their timidity, are retreating from the limelight every passing year. My dentist thinks if he were to whip up a gummy mash in a blender and surgically spackle it back on, they would grow more. I am not enticed. Besides, I might prefer to buy a new old car for the price.

No gummy mash for you!

Unless I want to buy an expensive handbag instead, like the kind I see at Events (capital E with several superscript e's), which I sometimes am invited to and accept if there is a mini buffet. And seriously, who needs a car when you can have a handbag, is my motto. Tra-la-la-la-la. My Boat Dog self is intrigued.

Who needs a car when you have a great handbag?

Then I rein myself in, wag my finger in self-admonishment - tut-tut-tut - grab another glass of free champagne, whereupon, as the day begins, I may squeeze in more serious practice of the Mel Walk wobble on my way to ogle another pyramid of luxury goods, being careful to swallow my drools of desire and mini-barfs of incredulity. (If you are an Event organizer, please invite me. I'm hungry. And thirsty.)

strut-strut-strut, 

ow-oof strut-strut

                 Feint, feint, faint!

My DIY Angry Girl says it like it is.

I do remember to squinch and smize, which is squinting without lowering your upper eyelids, to look mean, I mean alluring, mysterious, like when you see me you think, what the hell is she thinking?!! (i.e. Is her Spanx too tight? or There's a hormone cream for that.) Chin forward and tilted up to stretch out that neck, which belies my age, which is what they contracted me for in the first place, like a virus. Let's get an oldster in here for points!, although we still seem to be losing the game. We oldsters are loaded, absolutely LOADED!! - with cash or other emotions, often fueled by ageism, which makes us lethal contenders either way. 

We oldsters are LOADED.

Of course I avoid smiling in official capacity, yet another reason I don't need the gummy mash. Gummy bears...that's a whole 'nother story. Off with their heads - nyom, nyom, nyom.

As I've said, I've always wanted to play the role, to be the sophisticate. But jeez, did you ever wonder why glamour rhymes with hammer, clamour, jammer, rammer, yammer? Not to judge, but how did a word that symbolizes the epitome of beauty and sophistication get stuck with such abrasive cousins? No wonder I'm prone, when perched on the pedestal of glamour, to tipping over into the dirty-kneed, hard scrabble branch of that extended family. 

Sweat?! I pay you to do that for me!

And so life goes on, my friends. Good to see you, if you've managed to Mel Walk your way over here, preferably barefooted through a meadow without goose or doggy poops all over the place. Although, considering there are facial treatments now that use bird guano (poop), verrry expensive, maybe a little scat wouldn't hurt. Let Miz Bagg know how it goes. Of course, she'll then force me, her haggard assistant, to test the process personally.

Cheers. 

*impressive: making a strong impression, exciting a sense of awe, wonderment

*Run Towards the Danger is an outstanding book written by Canadian author, filmmaker, actor Sarah Polley

Scrub that banana and random thoughts

Often I get PR emails announcing that music artist X has just dropped a new single. My first thought on reading such a headline is, Oh no, be careful! Don't drop it! Then, why would you make a new single if you're just going to dump it so quickly? That's a bit like, hello-good-bye.

Sigh.

Photo representation of my thought process

The confusion lasts for only a microsecond so I don't feel too bad. It took me a while to figure out what cray cray meant too. (I once spelled it cra cra.)

Expensive diet, priceless cheese puff sculpture

Of course, what they really mean is they have introduced a new single. Drop means introduce. So it would be accurate to say that I've dropped a few pounds during the pandemic, right? In fact, it sort of softens the blow and rolls. 

You might even think, whoa, Mel, how did you possibly drop pounds with all your snacking? Especially with Baroness von Snakzalot inhabiting your other dimension (here & here). What's your secret?! I'd just wink and say, Eat more!!, and let you figure it out. But you've figured it out already because I've pre-emptively sabotaged the mystery, if there was any in the first place.

This is a video I made, Dinner Chez Mel, Isolation Style. I'm disappointed that I forgot to include the candelabra, which graces all my fine dining experiences. View it below or go HERE.

My gourmet dining experience during lockdown

I've been thinking lately - it's a habit I've taken up during the pandemic, dwelling on thoughts, dwelling in my dwelling. When this pandemic is over I'm going to do all these really great things. Woo hoo!! All of them, double hard, double downed, double troubled! Because my bad-assery is back-building (especially when I'm dropping weight). I'm gonna fly there and there and invite myself to stay at my friends' homes, your homes. Hallooo!! 

It's not a bucket list because buckets are often so, eeew, stinky and stained and plastic, housing plaster or fish or paint. And you can never rinse out the smell. No, this is my Champagne kegger list. A bit more dignified and with lots of room to fit everything in there with sparkle and a pop.

Vacuum therapy - reenactment - this never happened

I never actually pictured myself as someone having a Champagne kegger list, but the pandemic has brought about lots of significant changes. For example, it used to be that my partner O and I would argue about bananas. He always said I should wash them - the skins. Who does that?, I'd say. It gets rid of salmonella, he'd say. But I don't like washing them because it makes the skins all old looking. 

Now before I go on, let me be clear: I'm not ageist but I like a nice, firm, young-looking banana. Does that make me a bad person? Furthermore, if - and that's a big if - I were going to wash the bananas, it would be to get rid of all those tarantula eggs stuck on there because you know what happens if they make their way into your brain, right? (Although how they get there is cause for hours of horrific contemplation.) 

And now, in these strange days, O has won! Who knew it would take a pandemic to make us see eye-to-eye on bananas. That's bananas! Now we not only scrub the bananas but we scour all our fruit. And bread wrappers, and milk containers, anything that comes into our home. Suddenly spider eggs seem like cute and friendly homesteaders compared to those new invaders. And you don't even really know they're incubating or hatching, do you? DO YOU?! Forget coronavirus - we need a test for spider eggs!

To distract myself from such questions that vex, I've Netflixed myself into oblivion on more than one occasion, devouring series about time travel and ESP and zombies and murder. It's a bit like a marathon transworld flight. I'm reminded of my existence only when my auto-pilot hand goes into the snack-bag beside me and comes out empty, which sets off alarm bells that only a stretch and a refill will quiet. My mask drops down from the closet ready for an emergency evac, but these days I just order delivery. So pffft.

My hair also went much whiter in the front in the span of about a week. I didn't really notice until I noticed, know what I mean? It's those spiders in there playing with my hair-colour glands, I just know it. 

Sigh. Again.

I hope you are all well. Maybe we'll cross paths in the jetstreams of Netflix. Give us a little wave, will ya's? I'll do the same. And prepare your guest suites. Heh. I'll bring the Champagne. And we'll have a little party. Yeeeeah-ah!!! 

VOGOFF LOCKDOWN 2020 Magazine

It's here. The new VOGOFF.

LOCKDOWN Edition 2020

122 pages FREE!

SOLD OUT!!

My friend says: 

"It's like Vogue had a baby with Monty Python"

VOGOFF is 122 pages of the whimsy, wit, and weirdness of women of a certain age living under lockdown. Art, photos, articles - so much stuff and nonsense. 

Launched in 2012, VOGOFF is renowned for its highest standards of baselessness among discerning immature people (40+). 

LAUGH! - the Mayo Clinic says it's good for you.

Below is the pdf. <<Sorry, this is no longer available>>

----------------------------------------------------------------

Special thanks to Sarah @farkingdelightful on Instagram for the work she did helping me get this together and to Shelley, Forest City Fashionista @fcfashionista, for her ongoing support of VOGOFF. And thanks to everyone who joined this time. You guys are awesome!

<<SORRY, SOLD OUT!!>>

Now you can also purchase a PRINT VERSION of this issue from the publisher, Blurb, who will ship it to you direct. It's $27.99 (Cdn) or about $21 US, plus shipping. This is the publisher's fee plus $1 for me to help with the next issue. I chose the best paper and cover so it feels deeeeluxe. Hahaha. 

Thoughts on air travel as a submarine-setter

In my life as a influencer, heh, and jet-setter (clarify: private-submarine-setter whenever possible), I must often fly to fake locations around the world. Sometimes I have to go to real places too. Oh, bother!

A while ago I flew, not by self-propulsion, which is another excellent option (see below), but on a plane. I had a suitcase. And I was in class H. Yes, you read that right. Remember when there used to be economy and first class, then business class nudged its way in, until this: class H, which presumably stands for Hot Hottie.

I was class Q (stands for "This is quackers!") on my return flight.
I thought there was a misprint.

My favoured way to fly.

One of my first self-propulsion flights.

I expected my boarding lineup to be way over in the other terminal I was so far down the list. If I was lucky there might be a bicycle or push scooter to transport me down the line. But no, I was lumped in with all the uppity classes, C D E F and Gs, and was later forced to sit with people waaay below my class, L M N O P. The indignity! Meanwhile, the As and Bs got their own rarefied air travel experience shuffling in the line next to mine. No mooing herd heard.

I know Canada is a classless society, but we certainly adapt quickly when it comes to air travel. [haughty sniff]

What to pack for an overnight trip 

This is part of what I brought with me. 

It's crucial that everything fits in a carry-on bag. 

I brought six attendants to aid in this process. 

Upon boarding and settling into your seat, you may discover that the person beside you is maybe a class F (Frickin' Frick), two steps above my class H.

She certainly didn't look class F, more like a J. 

Oh, the charade!! 

In fact, I only found out her higher status because she got priority snack service, which meant she could buy her potato chips first (crisps), grrr, but included in the price was the ire of everyone within eyesight and earshot of her crunch and grin. I thought, Heh, good deal! - nothing like being locked in a tubular cage surrounded by people who hate you for five hours.

But maybe this is the essence of the class structure. The one-percenters get chips (if class F counts); the rest of us watch and listen and get jealous and mad, while they crunch, look smug, exhale their horrible chip breath all over the place, and prepare to dash to the nearest exit. Sigh.

WHAT TO WEAR FOR AIR TRAVEL IN CLASS H 
(Class H stands for Class Hot Hottie)

Adding injury to insult, the flight attendant dropped that mini can of chips on my wrist and it really really hurt bad. Did I get free chips? No! But she brought me a clear plastic baggie knotted at the top and filled with ice chips sloshing around in reddish water which looked like meat juice. There were probably shards of bone in there too.

What fresh hell was this!? 

If I were class E or F (remember I was H), I'm sure I would have received at least a blue Freezie pop. I'm sure in Class A or B they would have forgone the meat runoff and just slapped a raw sirloin steak on my wrist before serving it to me for lunch.

I suppose this setup has a certain fairness, except for my grievous injury. The woman beside me paid more for the extras, like PRIORITY CHIPS, like you pay for extra space: x dollars for right elbow room, x dollars for earlobe space, hip space, baby toe space, x  dollars for middle finger space, but many of us just take advantage of that one without paying, which begs the question:

Is that breaking the rules?

I should get on board with this new reality and propose that airlines charge for oxygen. You get x cubic litres for x dollars. Of course it would be timed so you have to top up when you get close to your destination. It's only good marketing. And extra-fresh air for an extra fee. Miz Bagg always used to charge me for air in the office.

I can envision all kinds of money-making schemes.

• "Yes, sir, that is indeed your pudding. You didn't order a container or a spoon." 
• "No bathroom privileges for you! You didn't pay the extra $100." "But this is a 10 hour flight!" Which of course would boost sales for the fresh air option.

Another flying adventure, this time with co-pilot Sandra @standard.deviations.

I'm sure the troll on the wing of the plane in that Twilight Zone episode below would never get away with free passage on the wing like that these days. Trolls must board like the rest of us, regardless of their class, where at least we can all keep an eye of them, as if that helps.

Really, if I could self-propulse everywhere I would, but it gets cold up there. After this experience, I'm truly grateful for my private luxury submarine. If I could only figure out how to portage it across the prairies I wouldn't have to put up with this nonsense. Suggestions?

TOWER, WE'RE READY FOR TAKE-OFF

I hope you are all fine and dandy. I've been missing this blog world.

Happy 2020. And wearing beige on my way to millions

Happy New Year. 2020. When I was 12, I thought the year 2000 was like la-la Lost-in-Space time, but now in 2020, it turns out my thoughts were not too far off the mark after all. These are definitely non-fiction science-fiction times. Case in point, I'm wearing beige. And a trendy item, a puffer coat. Highly SF because beige is like my kryptonite, not as much as it used to be, but still.

Okay, beige, but it is pearlescent and ultra warm, 

a generous donation from a friend. 

I'm trying to be badass. It's exhausting. Flyaway brows help.

I was interested to read yesterday that scientists recently put 3D glasses on a cuttlefish and studied its behaviour as it watched movies, real story HERE. The glasses look like wings on each side of its head. Question: Who exactly made the glasses, where did they study how to make them, and did they overcharge? Also, did the cuttlefish get popcorn?

So I'm now thinking of attaching cuttlefish to each side of my own head and studying my own behaviour, but that would only work in water (with a snorkel because I wouldn't want the cuttlefish to suffocate in the air). But in water I wouldn't be able to eat popcorn. I could eat the cuttlefish, but that would defeat the point of the exercise, which I'm not convinced existed in the first place. So there goes that idea! Why does everything have to be so complicated?

Badassery pose 2. How much longer can I keep this up?!

Maybe I'll just learn how to make 3D glasses for octopus instead. I'll make a fortune!

I also read that people who snore are now being encouraged to lose weight on their tongue, real story HERE. Yeah, well, I got to work on that right away, much easier to do than attaching cuttlefish to my head. I've been writing! Look for my new books in your favourite bookstores:

• Tongue 'o Steel 
• Six-pack Tongue in Six Days 
• Tongue in Cheek 2, 3, 4...  
• 105 Slobber-free Habits to Tone your Tongue 
• Gimme Some More Tongue! 
• Tone up with Tongue Wagging

Yes, I've been busy.

I have already submitted patent applications for a revolutionary weight pack to wrap around your tongue for 24-hour strength training and a customized tongue weigh scale so you can measure the results. Of course I'll start a Tonguexercise franchise. I just need to make sure that a slender toned tongue doesn't weigh more than a thin flaccid one. These are questions that keep me awake at night.

Scientists suggest playing the didgeridoo as an effective means of losing tongue fat and as an alternative to CPAP machines. True.

Whew! Good assery!

Gosh, with 3D octopus glasses and my tongue exercise empire, I'm finally gonna make my millions in 2020! Of course, you'll all want to be my friend now so you too can hop aboard the Mel Money Train, woo-woo. That's okay. There's room for everyone and I'll enjoy the company.

Yes, keywords being woo-woo.

It's a wacky world, no doubt about it. I could talk about sustainable shopping and recycling or the fires in Australia or the crises unfolding in the Middle East or Trudeau's new facial hair, but frankly, as Madeline Kahn said so well in the 1974 movie Blazing Saddles, "I'm tired." If we don't take care of ourselves, we won't be very good at taking care of others.

Mel Brooks's satirical film Blazing Saddles. I'm not sure how well 
it holds up with time, but I LOVE Ms. Kahn

So "Back to the studio!" as Bridget Jones (fictional character from book/movie Bridget Jones's Diary) famously cried after sliding down the fireman's pole. See the brilliant clip HERE.

My studio in this case is a music studio because, look!, I wrote a song, kinda. I hope it's a No. 1 hit on those charts if they even exist anymore because I'm so out of it I wouldn't really know. Do they still have Billboard?

A Smart Kinda Nurse (an original song)

By Crone (my band name) 

I get on with life as a nurse,

I'm a smart kinda person.

I like golf and badminton.

I like to contemplate slippers.

But when I start to daydream,

My mind turns straight to wine.

Five six seven eight...

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,

I notice the way I think about wine with a smile,

Curved lips I just can't disguise.

But I think it's slippers making my life worthwhile.

Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?

Slippers or...

Wine?

I like to use words like 'awesome' and 'neato.'

I like to use words about slippers.

But when I stop my talking,

My mind turns straight to wine.

Five six seven eight...

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,

I notice the way I think about wine with a smile,

Curved lips I just can't disguise.

But I think it's slippers making my life worthwhile.

Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?

Slippers or...

Wine?

I like to hang out with Mary and Rhoda.

But when left alone,

My mind turns straight to wine.

Five six seven eight...

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,

I notice the way I think about wine with a smile,

Curved lips I just can't disguise.

But I think it's slippers making my life worthwhile.

Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?

Slippers or...

Wine?

I hate the dark and carrots.

But I just think back to wine,

And I'm happy once again.

Five six seven eight...

Song Lyrics Generator HERE actually generated it, but I had to fill in the crucial bits with untrue facts. If any of you want to add music, please do and send it to me. I'll record it badly and my rock star dreams coming true will add to my moguldom.

Blast from the past, VOGOFF e-zine, June 2013 issue HERE

And I'm linking up to Patti, dagblammit, and her Visible Monday on Not Dead Yet Style when it's time. I look forward to seeing everyone.

Again, Happy New Year! Health and happiness to you all. Hugs all around. Thanks for dropping by. It's been busy here, in a good way. I hope it has been for you too.

Intrepid explorer (and some style stuff)

I'm spinning! I'm twirling! Hahaha! Hahahahaaa!!

[swell of orchestra] 

Now I'm singing, SINGING - 

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

WITH THE SOUND OF -

OOF.

*#&*!!!

Hello again. Excuse me while I brush off the shrubbery. The gazelle in the background dropped a few coins in my hat - to make me go away. 

I thought that since I'm back after a bit of a break I should get serious here and share pithy quips on style secrets. And serious photos, like this one:

Karl Lagerfeld leather skirt, donation from a generous neighbour

But I kinda blew it. I still think it's only fair, in this age of fake news, to tell you what's going on with me since September. 

Four things I have been doing since my last blog post

1. Starting a family - better late than never I always say

In the media, I'm often lumped in with women over 50 and called a granny, even though I don't have kids. Well, hey, why not get on board with that? Most people have kids in a hit/miss kind of way, before they're 57. I by-passed all that rigmarole and ordered them from a miracle lab run by Scientist Badinoff.

That's right. Quints! All mine, all me. After this success, I'm going to do it again in about ten years with the aim of becoming the oldest woman on Earth to give birth to octuplets. The record now is by a woman 66, for twins. Laughable. And these kids only take three months to grow in a dish. Whee!! It's so easy I could populate a country. Oooh...

I wept when my darlings leapt from their incubators for the first time in Louboutins and Doc Martens, singing show tunes from Cabaret. So proud. These babies will be fully adult in another month, at which time I can put them to work and O can check out of the Facility. He did not hand out cigars. 

2. Testing an eco-friendly clothing/species

I am worried about the environment so I devised a way to eliminate heavy winter clothing and even winter itself! Again with Scientist Badinoff (SB), I've been the subject of genetic testing for my human/bear hybrid design, featuring a human head and hands, and bear fur over the rest to stay warm and cozy while sleeping through the entire winter season! 

Hibernating in a cave would eliminate home decorating anxiety and the need for cleaning for several months at least. Plus, I love gorging before sleeping. And I like honey, salmon, and blueberries; those cave diets are so in. (I'm afraid a cave shortage may be a problem if this works out, although some men already have man caves.) 

It appears SB got the fur part right, but only on my legs, and there are a few strips on my chin (wrong appendage!, am considering a lawsuit), but I do tend to hibernate for a while each day in my living room, which, depending on the day, may be cave-like, so perhaps we're on the right track. I have not yet tested the truth of what bears do in the woods. 

Glasses from Vint and York in New York, with progressive lenses, my first ever, and they are amazing!! Amore frames, dahling. Outfit similar to the one in the first photo.

3. Followed my calling - became a high priestess

A new career! Soon I will open my first unmonastery, where acolytes can take vows of screamery, not silence, goodness, no. I figured the Arctic would be a splendid location.

As luck would have it, that's where Jim (Mr. Bond to you) built me a secret lair (although it was a bit eetjit-y to sculpt my face on it if it's secret) as a surprise Christmas gift for saving his ass last year, read about it HERE. He couldn't put it under the tree so he sneakily preprogrammed my private luxury submarine to take me there. 

It's a huge space, rather remote, not quite Rushmore, but I'm Canadian and this will do; it will melt soon anyway - I hope the wrinkles melt first. I decided this lair would be perfect for my unmonastery. So I am taking reservations for acolytes for 2020. Morning screaming, afternoon screaming, and lovely sunset screaming, if there is any sun to set. Luxury accommodations if you can manage your way past the entrance. Or buy your franchise license now to be part of my global unmonastery movement.

Preparing for my first acolytes. All systems go.

4. Popping wheelies on Mars - space travel!

Speaking of all systems go, I almost forgot... I spent a couple of weeks off planet too.

Suzanne gave me a metallic silver moto jacket and I thought I should put it to use in space, where it belongs. As the world now knows, my first lunar mission was in January 2017. You can read about it HERE. Well, been there, done that, I chose Mars this time. 

Charging my space suit before takeoff

NASA loaned me a bigger than-life-size spaced-out Barbie camper so I could boot around, do doughnuts (because Mars is like one huge vacant parking lot), and watch Netflix in comfort. They even snuck a snack into my rebreather, perhaps a peeled potato, shown in the left corner. I'm wasn't sure how to access it, but it's the thought that counts. It's now encased in the Smithsonian, known as "Mel Mars Potato."

The Canadian government has been hush-hush about this mission as well because they funded it, but they liked that the red planet matches the Canadian flag quite nicely, good for selfies. And politics is all about style.

That's all.

I guess what I've been doing all this time is rolling with the punches of life, although this was more like shadow boxing. And I'll just say right now - can we drop the whole when-life-gives-you-lemons-you-make-lemonade thing? I prefer:

When life gives you a secret lair, make an unmonastery. 

Wrapping things up, some real music. This scene creeps me out now. The lyrics creep me out too. I loved Gidget movies growing up; now my nostalgia has more patina, less shine. It is what it is. It's a pity that Gidget had to blunt her edges. Maybe she would have become a blogger in later years.

The Female Trouble sweater is Gidget-pre-blunt-worthy, but I'm glad of all the other associations with this phrase as well (Female Trouble, not blunt). The sweater was a gift from the London-based company HADES quite a while ago, pure virgin wool, made in Scotland. "It's so dreamy, Moon Doggy!" (from a Gidget movie). Coat from students in the VCC fashion program.

And I was featured in a literary blog for, guess what? Creative writing. I gob-smacked myself, what a mess. Madam Mayo pointed out things about my writing that I'm not aware of in the process. For that I am grateful - it's nice to know what I'm doing, the forest-for-the-trees thing again. Thanks, C. M. Mayo, for this review! HERE.

And Who What Wear included me in their article, "These Outfits From the 50-Plus Crowd Are My Favorite From the Whole Year." Thank you! Swipe and you'll see Shelley too. She took that photo of me and then we switched and I took that one of her. And Patti of Not Dead Yet Style is also in there, along with a bunch of other friends. If the list were mine to make, we'd ALL be in there. 

Happy holidays. Merry Christmas is what I grew up saying, and like my feelings for Gidget, its edge as a season seems blunted. I hope that we can all find ways to sit back and relax for a while, eat great food, have lots of laughs, and maybe take a tour of Mars in a Barbie camper. What do you think?

Thanks for dropping by. It's been a long time. I edited this so it might be easier to follow but there my be more changes later too. And I'm linking up with Patti at Visible Monday, Not Dead Yet Style. Hellooo!! 

PS I got the Hamster Habitat (rebreather) photo from JediLofty GNU Free Documentation License, Ver. 1.2

2 artists in a bar and then one goes to space

While I was shooting this, the owner of the distillery behind me commented on how I must like their walls because he'd seen me there before. I laughed, yes, I do!

I was recently interviewed for a show called Two Artists Walk Into a Bar by Carol Mcquaid, a Canadian artist/traveler, a self-described nomad. (The link goes to the webcast; you can subscribe to her podcast as well.)

My first thought when she contacted me was, cool, I'm an artist! Then I thought, but am I really? Then I thought, yeah, yeah, I am! Sometimes it's hard to see yourself for the trees, know what I mean, when you just do what you do.

Before I lost my studio

So what does an artist look like? Pfft, that's an idiotic question. THIS is what an artist looks like, courtesy of the photo filter Noire. The netting on the hat would have to go though. I'd be wearing black sidezip capris and pointy-toe boots. Adding a filter to your life would, in some respects, be so much easier than actually living as an artist.

Mel as quintessential artist person, minus the ciggie and the Dali mustache

(Skip to later if you just want photos, and don't miss my space movie down there)

An artist looks like Salvadore Dali, except in my case minus the mustache. Or a sort of Audrey Hepburn in the 1957 movie Funny Face, her beatnik phase, when she was paired with Fred Astaire. Ugh, I didn't feel the magic but anyway. Often there's a cigarette, but I've used a pencil crayon in a holder instead.

A younger generation probably envisions something completely different having grown up without cursive writing or even the joys of cassette tape Walkmans. ("A walk what?")

And the artist is always starving. Let's just debunk that myth right now: junk food is the cheapest food around and it tastes reeeal good. Chips!

The starving artist is a terrible stereotype! Maybe it's time for resale royalty rights in North America, hmm? Like musicians and novelists, and actors/filmmakers get.

But seriously? What little there is left of the stereotype (style-wise at least) is crumbling - if this image was ever something beyond my own imagination in the first place - especially with new media, which is now old, which is exactly how I feel when I think about how quickly everything is changing. Keeping up is key to feeling young I think.

So back to the interview - Carol asked me where I envision myself in the future. I quickly replied: in a penthouse, living a life where I never have to vacuum again and have a personal chef to cook for me and a personal driver.

I reflected on that answer this week (I reflect on everything later and then freak out), and thought, hey, I must be living the high life already and not even know it because:

1. My current home is really high up; 
2. I could easily never vacuum again (some might argue it's already true);
3. O usually cooks for me (he is afraid of starving if I do it, although I make a mean boiled egg);
4. I have a personal driver but I kindly share space with others on the bus or I go driverless (Skytrain, no driver), or I do enjoy driving myself once in a while (if I'm not in tight leather pants). There's nothing more personal than being the actual person, is there?

Of course, that's about material wealth. What would I envision for me in the truly meaningful sense, although shelter, heat, and food are pretty meaningful. And a sanitation system.

As I said to Carol, I would be doing what I'm already doing but on a bigger scale - videos, or how about a real show or series or movies or a magazine or book, made with other creatives?!! I get dizzy thinking about it. "I'd conquer the world!," she yells from the prow of her private submarine. So that's my other answer to that question. Now, I sometimes feel like that prisoner in the movie Shawshank Redemption, digging his underground escape tunnel with a spoon, for freedom via a sewer pipe. Moving right along.

But again, isn't this kind of like my other penthouse answer? Am I living the dream already? Successful people in interviews often look back on their days before success and say, those were the best days of my life! Okay. I'm trying to get on board with that.

A famous TV series was once filming in a loft complex where O and I were living and they used our suite for a bit. The Big Star sauntered in during a break and said, "You know, this place reminds me of the good old days when I was a struggling actor in New York." How does one respond to that? - wow, you guys are in rough shape, and, hey, isn't it fun? And it was in fact a really nice loft. Everything is relative.

I thrive on the creative stuff I do and am grateful to be able to do it. And I have worked/played at it for a long time. I do or could do all those things I listed right now, but I grin considering the bigger picture, a bigger budget. Heh.

So I'm just putting all this out there as I ponder issues Carol and I discussed during the talk - what it is to be an artist, a model, the imposter syndrome, underwear, and more, for about an hour. It was very laid back and I enjoyed her company. So I invite you to have a listen HERE or via podcast, Two Artists Walk into a Bar. And/or catch some of the other artists she has interviewed. I've enjoyed so many of them.

And now some outfit photos because, you know, style and all. These are just a couple of the things I've worn since my last post.

I farked the jacket. I made it smaller by adding a front diagonal red zipper. You've maybe seen it before.

Vintage men's velvet blazer made in London and faux suede/velvet Parasuco pants. Suzanne clocked the blazer for me when we were at a Toronto thrift store.

And what else? I feel like I've dumped all the stuff from my purse onto the floor and am pulling bits out excitedly to show you. "Oh, look at this, and there's this, and oh, what about this...?!" - a toothpick with writing on it, a piece of forgotten chocolate, a pink tape measure.

I made this video too. As you may know, I recently put together my annual what-I-wore video (see sidebar), found a thread in there and pulled. This came out, especially with the music playing in my head, "Saving the World" by Aaron Kenny. The space photo is by Raphael Nogueira from unsplash.com. O made the space ship; I made it fly. Heh.

I have more stuff to show you but I'll mercifully save it for another post. Till next time.

I hope you are all well, now moving into autumn here, spring for my friends down under. Hellooooo!! I've missed you all. Thanks so much for stopping by, especially if you've made it to the end of this post.

I'll link up with Patti at Not Dead Yet Style for Visible Monday and Catherine at Not Dressed as Lamb for #iwillwearwhatilike when everyone is ready. And don't forget, for some of us it's almost time for pumpkin scones (even though they're often made from other gourds, still tasty). Hooray!!!

Edit: I also linked to Anne at Spy Girl. She has a great post with reselling tips by Suzanne.