Tag Archives: I’m awesome

Killer Moves

– Contributed by Wee C

Dancing Queen

Photo source: The Body Odd on msnbc.com (http://tinyurl.com/4qtzlvj)

It was an epic moment in television history…when Elaine Benes showed off her killer dance moves and wowed the world with her unforgettable style and grace. I’m always so flattered when people tell me I dance just like her. I mean, she’s a total star and no one ever forgets how she danced. Sigh, I’m the luckiest girl on earth.

I don’t know how I do it. I’ve been able to move like that for as long as I can remember. High school dances, proms, gala events, house parties. I’ve always managed to get people talking when I get up to dance. Pointing and whispering. In amazement, of course. In fact, there’s a reason we didn’t have a dance at our wedding…I would have put the other guests to shame. Brought them to tears, even. Sobbing, turn-your-head-away-because-you-blind-me-with-your-brilliance, tears. I think you’d call it a gift, my ability to move people with my dancing, but I’m much too modest for that.

So, when Paula Abdul got up on stage to teach us new choreography at Bust a Move I knew that I would be able to rock out with her, the Laker Girl, and the So You Think You Can Dance finalist she had brought with her. Straight up, I’d forever be their girl.

Tragically, though, I had been placed at the back of the event room. Hidden from view. Only to be seen by the poor wallflowers at the back who just couldn’t get it together enough to keep up and follow along. How awful it must have been for them to watch me in horror…the horror of knowing that they could never move like me. Longing for my coordination, my fluidity, my swagger. My moves are so unique, they could never duplicate them.

Oh, jealousy is a cruel emotion. I could feel them whispering amongst themselves behind me. It’s so hard being that girl, but there’s one in every crowd and you can’t apologize for being remarkable. That’s denying your gift and that’s all kinds of wrong.

So I continued on, making my arm movements all the bigger, throwing my hips more dramatically, and doing everything I could to prevent myself from adding in my signature move…the snapping of the fingers. That would have sent them over the edge, I’m quite sure of it.

Admittedly, there came a point, where I just had to stop. It broke my heart to give up my chance for Paula to see me, call me out of the crowd and up onto the stage, but I was filled with sorrow for the girls on the wall. I knew that if I didn’t stop, they would melt into a puddle of self-doubt and despair. And I’m far too kind to allow that to happen. So, selflessly, I abandoned my one shot to make it big and I joined them on the wall. I could immediately see a deep, deep sense of relief come over their faces. It bordered on jubilation. I knew I had done the right thing.

It’s so hard keeping a talent like this bottled up. But my friends and loved ones have always encouraged me to remain modest and to use extreme moderation in showing off my mad skills. It’s sweet how protective they are over me, really. So I heed their advice and choose my venues wisely. Wedding receptions, though? That’s my beat. Thank goodness I have one coming up soon. That crowd? They won’t know what hit them. At least not until they see my flailing arms propelling me across the room. Now that’s what I’m talking about.


Killed by the Skinny Jean

– Contributed by Wee C

So, while I love the insights Big L and I share with our readers, I’ve been feeling like my content has been a smidge heavy lately. So I’m looking to lighten the mood this week with a little “laugh at yourself humour”. Dear readers: here is the story of my lifelong battle with the skinny jean (SJ). A profound story, yes?

I’ve avoided the SJ for as long as they’ve been fashionable; at least this time around. You, see, I was late to the party the first time they were in fashion, sometime in the late 80s. I was the last of my friends to buy them and when I did secure my very own pair, I ensured they were the version with the zippers at the bottom, rock star that I was. But, like a shooting star, the trend fizzled, and I was left zipping and unzipping my pant legs while everyone else had moved on and was basking in the comfort of the baggy carpenter jean. Why such a stark contrast was necessary, is beyond me. Guess who was late to that party, too? I’ll tell you the story of wearing my dad’s jeans in another blog post

So when I found myself wandering into one of the city’s boutiques to find myself a pair of these ill-fated knickers, I surprised myself. Maybe it was the fabulous “I’ve just been to the hair-dressers and can’t get this look at home” do, or the fact that every fashionista seems to have boycotted the wide-legged pants that I have come to adore, but I was determined that I would once again give myself over to the skinny jean. But this time, I would show those pants who’s boss.

I swaggered into the boutique, perched my sunglasses atop my freshly blonded hair and sashayed past the Halifax socialites who frequent the joint like Italians frequent the espresso bar. And I went straight for the sales rack. I’d be damned if I was going to pay full price for a pair of jeans that may never see the light of day.

An armload of skinny jeans later and I found myself in the fitting room, full of gusto, and ready to tackle my challenge head on. And then the red face, sweating and grunting began. All in the name of getting the leg of the jean past my ankle. Here’s my theory on skinny jeans: they got their namesake because putting them on is the equivalent of completing a marathon. I hopped, tugged and twisted until they were finally up over my calves.

And after all that work, they looked hideous. Tragic, even. The memories came flooding back. I was almost in the fetal. Until I realized that putting a pair of boots on may help my cause…after all, the boot over the skinny jean was, in fact, what had inspired me to try the trend once again. So I shimmied the boots up over my leg and proceed to zip (ahem, force) the boots over the jeans. And…STILL TRAGIC! I was defeated, deflated, and my fabulous hair was falling flat. It was time to abort. I’d just unzip the boots, wrestle the jeans off my body and be done with it. Except that the boots seemed to be a wee bit stuck. Actually, a whole lot stuck. Like couldn’t get them unzipped stuck. You.have.got.to.be.kidding.me.

At first, I though the jeans were jammed in the boots and I would be stuck with these wretched pants forever. But, alas, that would have been a far better outcome. No, these damn SJ, took both me and my boots as its victim. A piece of leather from my beloved boots got stuck in the zipper (a direct result of my aggressive attempt to get them done up over the jeans) and that was the end of it.

The moment of reckoning came when the sales women politely knocked on the door and asked if I needed any help. Indeed I did. I was forced to poke my head out of my fitting room, and call for a pair of scissors. That’s right. I cut my boot off my leg. My beautiful, Spanish-made boot. CUT OFF MY LEG. Can I get a collective gasp, please?!

With as much fabulousness as I walked in with, I walked out with embarrassment. No new jeans and a boot being held together with a bull dog clip. The SJ had beat me again. I mourned my loss.

A few weeks later, I was shopping with a friend and we made our way into the same store. Still in the need of jeans, I humbled myself and perused the rack (note the SAME sales woman who was working during my previous adventure was working again…sigh). And, somehow, decided to pick up yet another pair of skinny jeans. The look from the sales lady was amused.

Well, low and behold, those skinny jeans fit. And were actually not bad. So, I bought them. I spent real money on the SJ. I left feeling pretty jubilant, excited to once again be part of this trend (laggard or not).

Yeah, I haven’t worn them yet. But the fact that I can, whenever I want, means I won and it makes the money spent all worthwhile. Except for the boots. They were killed by the skinny jean.

#30: Is it a little breezy in here?

– Contributed by Wee C

About the middle of May I placed an innocent-enough phone call to Liam Hennessey at Applehead Studio, looking for some information on photography for my BFF’s upcoming nuptials. When I was exploring his website I came across his boudoir portfolio. “Crazy fools,” I mumbled to myself. But secretly, I was beyond jealous that these beautiful women had the courage to strip down to their skivvies, put on those “come hither” looks and let some random MAN take their pictures. I mean, really…who is to say this photog wasn’t some Criminal Minds-esque fella, keeping all these pictures of half naked women and planning to abduct them? Right…have I failed to mention that I’m overly-suspicious and generally fear that everyone has it out for me? My, I have a brilliant imagination for someone my age.

At the end of my call I found myself blurting out a question that I was certain had come from someone else in the room. “So, tell me a bit about your boudoir sessions. I’m turning 30 in a month or so and I think a boudoir session could be the BIG thing I do to celebrate,” I say (without taking any breaths…those commas are just for proper punctuation, folks). WHAT?? That couldn’t have been me that asked that. But the grin on my face after the words left my mouth suggested that I was, indeed, the happily-guilty culprit.

I didn’t book my session that day. But I sat and I stewed (and stewed and stewed some more), wondering whether I had built up enough swagger over the course of the year to really do this. And, in usual form, I talked about it, puffed my chest out and said that a boudoir shoot would be my last 30 Thing, all the while never making a follow up call to actually book the session. I bought myself personal training sessions at the gym (and exercised until I literally cried in the middle of the gym). I stopped eating bread and cheese for 30 days, I took the stairs at work (all two flights of them), I was doing a copious amount of sit-ups every night, and I was flexing my behind anytime I thought no one was looking. I was doing everything I needed to do to get myself ready…except make the stinkin’ call.

As is usually the case, Big L laid the law down. And, no one disappoints Big L. Have you seen Will Farrell’s skit, The Landlord? Big L’s a bit like Pearl. Cute as a button, but you don’t mess with her. Needless to say, I called. “Ok, I need to book this thing,” I said. “And making this phone call is about as big of a deal as actually coming to the shoot.” The deal was done. I, of course, immediately called Big L to report on my good behaviour and accomplishment.

I had about three weeks to prepare for my Play Girl shoot. And for about two weeks and five days, I COMPLETELY IGNORED the fact that I was going to do this. Yes, I discussed it with friends, but alone, I managed to successfully block the reality of my impending doom. To make matters worse, two weeks before the shoot I came down with a cold that took me out of the gym for the remaining days leading up to the shoot. Add that into the mix, and I was in full-on denial.

With 48 hours left, I decided I should probably figure out what I was going to wear. That’s when panic set it. OMG! OMG! OMG! What does a girl wear to one of these things? Do I even have any underwear and bras that match (remember, I’ve been with hubby for 11 years, the necessity of having matching underoos is, well, non-existent)? Lace? Silk? Low cut? High cut? Oh, no, definitely not high cut. DO I HAVE ANYTHING, AT ALL, THAT’S FLATTERING ON THIS FLABBY BODY? And in my desperation, I even stood in front of my full-length mirror, pulled the skin around my stomach towards my back (in an effort to look more taut) and wondered whether I could legitimately get away with taping my skin back and not having my make-shift plastic surgery solution show up in the pictures.

Thank goodness for Liam’s stylist, Nirah. Perhaps more appropriately, thank God. My call with her the day before the shoot settled my nerves and actually made me excited for the shoot…like going-to-Disney-World excited. “Pack a suitcase with anything and everything you have in your closet,” she said. “I mean everything. Jewels, lingerie, off-the-shoulder tops, trench coats…” Did she just say trench coats?! I have the most spectacular Big Bird yellow (how’s that for sex appeal) trench coat hanging in my closet and wearing it makes me feel like a million bucks. Telling me I could bring that coat was like telling a three-year-old that they don’t need to leave their sookie blanket at home. Now I was ready to rock and roll.

And rock and roll I did. With Liam, Nirah, and Big L (armed with a little celebratory bubbly) cheering me on, the only other time I’ve felt that sensational was on my wedding day. And fortunately, Liam didn’t fit the creepy profile I had imposed upon him. Whether an accurate analysis or not, Liam seems to simply appreciate women…each one for who their own respective beauty. And I’ll tell you, that feeling goes a long way in helping you when you haven’t got much covering your bits. So, if any of you are going to do this, go see this guy. You won’t regret it.

We shot for FOUR hours. And I loved every single second of it. I left that night feeling like a year had most definitely changed me and knowing that there could have been no better way to celebrate my 30th birthday. Getting the pictures a week later? Well, that was just the icing on the cake.

PS – the photos are pretty incredible, by the way.

An Appropriate Entry Into 30

-Contributed by Wee C

Well, here it is. 30 is no longer breathing down my neck like a husband who is tired of being at the mall. No, 30 has waltzed into the room, sat down and made itself at home as if has some sort of right to be here. The question of the week has been “what wild and crazy thing will you do to celebrate”? People! C’mon. Have we learned nothing if not that I’m about as far from wild and crazy as Lindsay Lohan is from pure and demure? Yes, I’ve given you all glimmers of hope over the past several months. But a carefee night at a wedding, a couple of school girl-like nights out with the girls, and a particularly uncharacteristic trip to the ever-dirty local strip club does not a wild girl make. But I do appreciate that you’ve continued to hold out hope for me. For the record, I gave up on my aptitude to be a legit party girl months ago. It takes discipline, commitment and enthusiasm that I just don’t have. Party girls of the world, you have my utmost respect. Holla at your girl, as they say. Insert bum giration and slapping of the behind here.

No, I welcomed my 30s as one would expect I should, in true Wee C style. Curled up on my sofa, snoozing away after a 13-hour work day. I woke up just as the clock struck 12, bleary-eyed, staggering, and desperate for bed. It’s almost poetic, really.

I’ll save my full-blown reflective, introspective, ever-so-insightful post about the past year for later this week, after all has been said and done (and you know I will…that’s prime opportunity to to impart life wisdom and insight on all of you, I most definitely could not miss out on that), but what I will tell you is that the next 24 hours holds my last two “30 Things” up its sleeve. Rest assured, not all hope should be lost. I would NEVER have even entertained these last two things this time last year. But let’s just say that they’re big enough “things” that telling you all what they are, well that would be #31 on my list. And let’s face it, that’s outside of the original scope of the project, so it will cost you more. Happy Birthday to me.

#2 of 30: Wee C the Card Shark

– Contributed by Wee C

You know those people who will try anything? Love to explore a new undertaking? Find great satisfaction in just givin’ it a whirl? Yeah, that’s not me. If I’m not good at something the first time I try it, I don’t want to do it. But how can you know if you’re not good at something unless you try it, you ask? I’m willing to not find out. Which is a real pickle considering I’d damn near have to be a prodigy to actually do ANYTHING in life based on this rationale. Oh, wait, that about sums it up.

Note: I just Goggled the word prodigy to be sure I was using it correctly. Clearly. I had to. It was the first time I’ve used prodigy in a written sentence; I had to use it perfectly to feel comfortable with publishing it on the blog.

So, this hang up of mine really boils down to a high need to be perfect. Boy, there’s a reasonable and achievable aspiration in life. But I’ve owned that goal and valiantly worked towards achieving it for my whole freakin’ life. Part of my hope with 30 Things is that I could overcome this need for perfection, to let myself off the hook from time to time, to actually try something new without the need to master it immediately.

Not long after my 3 am visit to the casino during the Hindu wedding, an opportunity to go back presented itself. The hubby and his buddies wanted to go to the casino. “I’ll go and watch,” I thought.

As the boys doubled-down, split their hands, and told the nice lady to hit them, I uncomfortably stood back from the table hoping that no one would ask me to sit in for a hand. Why, you ask? I had never played Black Jack, and therefore assumed I would suck at it. More specifically, I had visions of yelling out “full house” followed by everyone in the casino turning to look at me, pointing and laughing. Have I mentioned that I have tendencies of being self-absorbed? Or is the fact that I started a blog about me not blatant enough?

Right, so back to the casino. Indeed, I could hide no longer. My husband, a wonderful, caring, and pushy as hell man, not-so-gently reminded me that I ought to suck it up or I’d never get through those 30 Things. I say pushy because he literally pushed me (gently, of course) into the seat at the table, gave me my $40 and told me to play. I’m quite certain I started to itch. I didn’t know the rules of the game. I didn’t know whether to say “hit me” on 17 or hold. But in that uncomfortable situation, I quickly began to learn the ropes. And I became comfortable.

In fact, I’m awesome at Black Jack. Yes, I’m awesome (even perfect, really) at a completely random game of chance. I took home $175 for my $40 investment. But I beat more than the house. I beat myself at my own game.