Everybody's Hot Sometimes

I've struggled since the beginning with what the litmus test was going to be. Was I hot when boys liked me? Was I hot when someone told me I was? How was I ever to know when I finally got there?

Being honest, I've found myself less and less interested in reaching that pinnacle of inferno. Coming here to write about my quest for hotness has been more like a chore lately than the overflowing outpouring it was when I first began my journey. I was busting to get something out of me, and get that intangible "hot mojo" in.

So am I hot yet? Today? I don't think so. No, I don't really feel particularly hot today. Or lately. Somehow in the last little while I got away from myself. Doesn't my boyfriend tell me I'm hot? Well, yes. But that's his job. So do my friends. They're not really the point, though. At least, not completely.

Then have I failed? Well, no. I don't think so. Not completely. And not all the time. Because even though I know that I'm not super hot right now, I know that I have been hot at times over the past two and a half years. I've made my body hot. I've made my face hot. I've made my clothes hot. I've made my smile hot. I've made my dancing hot. I've made my words hot. I've made my thoughts hot. I've felt hot. Other people have felt my hotness.

And more importantly, I know I can do it again.

I've been feeling kind of down lately. It's been bothering me because, first of all, feeling down feels shitty. I think we can all agree on that one. But it's also bothering me because I know it bothers everyone around me. Yesterday, pretty much right when I needed it, a Facebook friend that I rarely talk to had posted a status update with an excerpt from an Audrey Hepburn quote.

"I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles."

And I think this is the key that I've kind of been subconsciously avoiding the whole time and right when I needed it I was batted over the head with it. More than one person has told me over the last two and a half years that I should just do what made me happy, because that's what hot people do.

So, thanks to those people. You had it right all the time. And thanks to everyone who has advised, commented, commiserated. And to all 2000-odd of you who have quietly peeked in on this hot project. It has been unbelievably motivating to know that some, or all, of my journey has spoken to you in some way...if only because it was a little bit tragedorable to see what someone else was going through. But I think I've got this now. :)

Hot People Eat Muffin Tops for Breakfast

I know it's been a long time when blogger asks me for my password. And then I get it wrong. Twice.

I REALLY know it's been a long time when I have to check my blog to see what I last wrote about. You may (or may not) recall that it was about finally being comfortable in my skin.

But some recent events have suggested to me that perhaps I'm getting a little TOO comfortable in my skin.

It's been a fantastic summer - lots of drinks on the beach, lazing about on the water, and I've just finished up a really awesome vacation revisiting the east coast with my beau. Basically, the last month-ish has been an excess of nothing-much.

And it's (more than) starting to show. I went for a bike ride to a nearby park with my boyfriend yesterday. Though he was quick to point out that the bike I used wasn't a performance bike, was not meant to ride up big hills, didn't actually have brakes or speeds on it, this was not really enough to comfort me after I found myself in a heart-thumping, panting heap on the grass at the top of a big hill. Especially since I had actually walked the bike up the hill.

I'm finding myself backsliding and I don't like it. I'm busy, and as a result I'm sitting too much and eating too much food I didn't cook and the result is that sweaty, panting mass I described above. I thought I'd made some pretty foolproof resolutions in January, and by God, I'm going to stick to them come hell or high water or (most likely outcome:) frequent relapse.

I've started already - I've cooked three meals in a row with actual foods that came from an actual grocery store. I even put some in the freezer for later use. This is huge, people. And even though I spent most of yesterday evening sitting and cursing at my sewing machine, in the back of my mind I was thinking about going swimming today. And again later this week. And MAYBE for a jog. And this is the big thing. That bike ride (if you can even call it that) was a big wake up call for me. I've never been so obviously (to myself) out of shape. I NEED to do something. Not only because muffin tops are definitely not hot (and I'm less and less able to avoid them), but also because heart disease isn't either. And I see a lot of heart disease these days.

All of this brought me to one big conclusion. I need to get on that "do less" thing. Stat. Which means I'll have to use a word I hate to use. "No." And I don't mean that I need to learn to say no, and to put myself first, and blar-di-blar in one of those Oprah Magazine kind of ways. Saying yes has meant a lot of awesome things for me. I have not consistently had so much fun as I've had in the last year and a half of saying yes to just about everything that's come my way. It just mean I really have to consider the impact of saying yes. Everything I do, I have to resolve myself to consider whether saying yes to doing it will allow me to 1. make and eat actual foods 80% of the time, and 2. sustain the regular movement of my body in ways other than rolling over in bed.

Ok - let's do it.

Hot People See the Light

The last few days have been kind of a life clean-up in the aftermath of my major projects for the spring season. January to the end of May have been a series one-thing-after-another in both work and life. When I was in university, this after-the-crazy-subsides time was usually followed by a few weeks of listless depression and total lack of motivation in finding a summer job.

Well...the job keeps going (although, some days I wonder; I often take bets on Thursday for how many people booked on Friday will actually show up), so that's one problem solved. But last year, the sads had definitely set in around this time. So far this year, it hasn't happened.

So what's different?

Well...I think an obvious answer is the fact that I'm pretty comfortably attached right now. My lack of attachment was a source of major concern for me just about a year ago. But...a year ago, I kinda thought I was attached. Plus I really don't feel like it would be truthful to say that my lack of sads is entirely dependent on my being in a comfortable relationship. But it certainly helps.

No, I think that despite the fact that I've not been to the gym in an innumerable quantity of days, and despite the fact that I've not seriously worn makeup on a regular basis since...well, ever (how do people do it? I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME EVERY MORNING), I just feel more comfortable in my skin. When I first started this blog, I didn't know who I was. Without that knowledge, I couldn't really settle comfortably on anything or anyone. And I'm pretty sure that's where the sads came from. In the last year, I've found things I'm comfortable doing, and people I'm comfortable doing them with. It's awesome.

It's so awesome, I'm even doing a few things I'm not totally comfortable with. I played softball for the first time last week since I was in junior high. It went...well, about as well as softball did WHEN I was in junior high. So...pretty poorly. BUT, despite a little bit of pre-game anxiety, I always had in the back of my mind that the people I was playing with weren't hanging out with me because of my baseball skills but because they kinda want to hang out with me. And for the first time in my life, I don't doubt this (all the time).

Sure, I still have (many) moments of personality anxiety. And sometimes they're hilarious. And don't worry - you'll still get a full report of those activities. So stay tuned, kids.

***In other news, though I haven't learned to play guitar or be ab-tastic, I did have a counselling session with a client the other day almost entirely in (not entirely grammatically correct) French. Hurray me!

Hot People's Life Imitates Art?

So, remember this?

I finally got my pictures and permission from the photographer. THIS is what all the fuss was about.
If this picture is to be believed, my boyfriend's mother should have been grandmother to octuplets sometime mid-March. Luckily, it isn't to be believed. The prosthetic belly used in this play was made by and worn by women who have never been pregnant. I stuck it on. We looked at it. We thought maybe it should look bigger. We put more padding on. And then we decided it was more for comedic value than realism.

Last week, one of my clients congratulated me on having gotten married recently. When I looked at her with this face...she said she'd heard through the grapevine that I'd gotten married. I have not gotten married and just magically forgotten to blog about it. I've not gotten engaged. I've not talked about either of those things with any party who might want, in future, to be involved in that with me. Trust me. If I had, it would have made the blog.

I'm quite sure, almost completely without doubt, that she thought I was getting married or had gotten married because of this:






















And if this picture is to be believed, then one must also believe that I got married on four separate occasions to the same man, not wearing a wedding dress, but with one draped over me. And one must also believe that I would marry a man who's idea of a life partner is one who dresses like this:






















With a pink, pie-patterned apron and clashing blue patterned knit cardigan, and matching blue knit stockings....AND thinks that THIS is the best way to do makeup:



















Just look at the foolishness I've wrought with that lipstick and rouge.

One aspect of small-town life that's been difficult to adjust to has been everyone being totally and unabashedly inquisitive about my relationship status. It's totally legit here for people to ask you when you plan on marrying your boyfriend of 4 months. I handle these questions by responding with this face.

Like a hot person would?








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Photos courtesy of Cal Knight Photography.

Hot People Have Quickies

Nope, nothing hotter than a quickie.

And that's why this is a quickie post. Also, because I posted recently and I haven't got loads to talk about. So instead, here's just a quick update about what's hot and what's not.

Not hot: waking up late, cramming too much breakfast down, then realizing at 8:37 a.m. that you had an optometrist appointment at 8:30 a.m.

Hot: going to French class and discovering you got 97% on your most recent exam.

Not hot: getting this sunburn.


















Hot: cute orange pedicure.

That's all for now folks!

Hot People Don't Shimmer (At Least...Not Like This)

The daytime high today in my little northern town was 31C and it's still something like 29C.

One wouldn't think that I'd be one to complain. You know, given the fact that this whole blog is about WANTING to be hot (get it? hot. har-de-har!). But it's not just that. Don't get me wrong. I like summer. Summer means that I can swim and eat vegetables that might have had less travel time than I've had in my life and that the days last longer so I'm not suffering from totally unexplainable depression in the middle of February...AND no raised eyebrows at cracking a cooler in the middle of the day BECAUSE IT'S EFFING HOT OUT AND I NEED TO COOL DOWN, DAMMIT. And, given the fact that northern winters boast a chill that literally has it out for you...like seriously, the weather is TRYING to kill you...it's very difficult not to appreciate a little excessive sizzle in your life.

But there's one thing about hot weather that really bothers me, and that is the fact that no matter how hard I try, I ALWAYS look like I'm suffering from debilitating, corpulence-induced meat sweats. Once upon a time, I thought it was because I was fat, but even during my leaner summers I still look like I've been generously greased with a pastry brush. I don't understand how other girls can go through summer looking like beach goddesses with their tans and their sun-bleached hair and their short shorts without the chafing...the awful, awful chafing.

And let's just be clear here, I don't want to spend hours in a tanning bed or bazillions of dollars on just the right amount of bleach (though I could do without the chafing). I'm ok with being pasty and mouse-brown. I'm not ok with looking like a pit-stained fishwife.

Surely there are products and tricks that can help me in this regard. Some kind of grease-removing face wipe? Some kind of maxi-pad for my armpits? Has anyone invented these yet?

Also...my hair has grown out since that picture was taken. What do I do with that? Theoretically, it should just sweep back and tendrils of my naturally curly hair should fall out in just the right places to make me look tousled but not messy, right? RIGHT? THEN WHY DOES IT ALWAYS LOOK MESSY AND GROSS AND PASTED TO THE BACK OF MY NECK ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS?

Dear Blogosphere. Please help. So I can think about what to barbecue.

Sincerely,

Miss T

Hot People Can't Eat Just One

If I was going to pick the psychological disorder I'm most likely to suffer from, I'd probably pick depression nine times out of ten. My last post, I thought, was a pretty good illustration of that (thanks, to my commenters on that one, btw. Nearly all the kick in the ass I needed. Plus this one, which pretty much pulled me up out of it.) Regardless of whether or not I ACTUALLY suffer from depression, this post is about what I think I'm not. I don't think I have an addictive personality. I don't think I have any personality disorders. But a sober(ish) inventory of my life this past weekend suggests to me that I'm both an addict AND a hoarder.

Problem 1

I'm addicted to having things to do. There, I said it. I know. It's a problem. Most of you are probably reading this thinking that I'm crazy (actually, that's my point...); having things to do is totally normal. I'm not going to go through the laundry list of activities I've engaged in over the past few months (because I've done it many, many times already). But I've said yes to so many things that,

a. in order to do my taxes and spend some time with my parents I spent approximately 11 hours in a car, 5 having dinner with one parent, 2 having a fight with another parent, 3 hours doing my taxes, and only 6 hours sleeping so that I could be back in time on the same weekend to rehearse with some vocalists whom I was accompanying in the local music festival. Please note the car to sleep ratio there...

and,

b. my involvement in so many activities in the last month or two was so intense that more than one person thought I might do actual physical harm to myself in the completion of these activities.

So...maybe that's not normal. And though things are winding down for the summer, I don't find myself completely ready for relaxation, beaches and drinks like this:

(even though my boyfriend has admonished me and instructed me that I am not permitted to participate in any sort of extra-curriculars until September). I'm actually getting kind of anxious. Surely, here's JUST ONE MORE THING I can do or get involved in. A community garden? A book club? A quilting class? ANYTHING?

I've taken up crafting to fill the void. And to further illustrate my pathological need for things to do, let me describe my latest crafting venture. I had decided to make flower brooches for my mother and my boyfriend's mother as a belated Mother's Day gift (yeah, yeah...this "things to do" kick also means that I'm chronically late with EVERYTHING). It's pretty, and that's all that matters. See? I had none of the materials or tools necessary for this job. The result was that after work, I went racing to three different stores to get all the materials I needed. Despite the fact that I live in a reasonably well-appointed town, amenities-wise, there was one item I couldn't find. This resulted in massive panic, manifested by a sweaty-browed, arms-flailing sprint to my favourite yarn shop to inarticulately gesture and holler for the missing item. She didn't have it and that was a DISASTER (though totally understandable, because the missing item wasn't yarn, which is what she sells).

The point is, even when my "thing to do" isn't a previously scheduled, organized group activity, I WANT TO DO IT RIGHT NOW. I need to have my fix. See? Problem.

Problem 2

I cleaned my bedroom yesterday. Not even my whole apartment. Do you know how many empty, opened envelopes I found in there? More than one. Like, a grocery bag full. WHY? And hole- and run-ridden pantyhose? Like, a MILLION PAIRS. I don't even remember when I decided that the best course of action for both of these items was to let them lie (on the dresser, on the floor, IN THE BED[?!?!]) rather than toss them directly into the garbage. Because that's what both of those things are. Garbage. Similar items include safety pins, hair elastics, hairballs (helpfully placed in the middle of the bedroom floor by my cat). See? Problem.

Does anyone know of a detox/intervention program for loonies with my kind of problems? Anyone? Yeah, thought not. Anyway, I figure I could quit anytime I want. I just have to subscribe to cable television again (because its hold is WAY more powerful than any community garden committee), and develop a further hoarding habit for attractive containers and dust bins. See? Problem solved.