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!!!