Junk, Trunk & the Salty Seductress.

June 5, 2016June 5, 2016 / aliciaashcroft / Leave a comment

The prospect of a post weight-loss shopping trip can be a real thrill. Less intimidated by the reflection in the changing room mirror, approaching fashion with a newfound freedom. A colorful and energetic montage of the new you twirling around in a multitude of stylish garments–celebrating your hard work with a whole new wardrobe.

For me, the main shopping agenda was new bras. Having lost thirty pounds and as many inches, my strapless bras were starting to slide down my torso like a firefighter rushing down the fire hall pole. At the best of times, bra shopping has always been an unfortunate enterprise. A real emotional hot zone. The advertisement in lingerie stores always slays me. After seeing Miranda Kerr in underwear, it makes seeing yourself in underwear a bit of an underwhelming, or even traumatizing experience.

Beth from Herbal One nods sympathetically when I reference my dwindling breasts. “After all, it’s fatty tissue” she reasons. Uh…yea, so is my ass, why the discrimination? As far as the weight loss goes, if my upper half is like a sprightly speed walker, my lower half is like an elderly and arthritic Tai Chi enthusiast. After two weeks of work on a local film set, my pedometer tallied up some rather impressive numbers. 15 hour days on one’s feet really adds up, especially, if you are utterly shameless and casually march and lunge on the spot. The shoot ended and I returned to Herbal One victorious…and five pounds lighter. After walking the equivalent of 15-25 kilometres per day, I was certain that the effort would be reflected in my measurements, which they did—with the ever-loving exception of my pear-shaped essence. That didn’t budge an inch. Meanwhile, it’s RIP C-cup. Who needs a full bust anyway? I can just go back to wearing an undershirt like when I was 9.

My body is changing, my health is improving, and I have generally gained control over the task at hand. My thighs, on the other hand, are like that dude at the party who refuses to call it a night–strumming a guitar poorly, talking loudly; unintentionally intervening on a romantic liaison with that dreamy poet you’ve been flirting with all night. Still there in the morning, drinking your coffee, taking up space and frankly, just rubbing you the wrong way. Go make yourself useful thighs, find out where my boobs scuttled off to. What does a girl have to do to ditch a little of that junk in the trunk?

I signed up for an Herbal One summer challenge and a month of Barre classes–which offers a mix of ballet, yoga and Pilates. It’s the perfect exercise for me, and a fabulous compliment to my Herbal One Program. It’s a full body workout, the music is upbeat, the staff are friendly, and the other attendees are lovely. Sure, the classes can be quite challenging, and it does bring up such questions as: “Has anyone ever barfed in a Barre class? Just right here on the carpet? And then died from lack of core strength or a vicious butt cramp?” It’s like thinking you might die, but in the most elegant way possible. When that last plie while standing on one’s tip toes makes you feel the burn like nothing else; or when you aren’t quite grasping the movements and feel like a water buffalo with a charley horse trying to give birth in a swamp…

…you just have breathe, and focus on a visual, chant a little inspirational mantra. Mine is “Audrey Hepburn in a summer dress…Audrey Hepburn in a summer dress. Audrey. Hepburn. in. a. summer. dress“.

You may want to give up, just a little, or a lot. Tempting isn’t it? Go home, sit on the couch and get your sloth on. Let motivation drift, routines fade, lose track of progress. After all. Isn’t this all so hard? Wasn’t it easier when you filled out the stretchy pants and a proper lady bra? Don’t you miss the sweet, savory and cheeky treats? Temptation is such a salty seductress. Here’s one: don’t you ever get sick of wishing things were different from the sidelines? Wanting to change, and not knowing where to begin? Or falling back into bad habits, and giving up at the first sign of struggle, failure or defeat? Or, what if you just kept quietly pushing onward. It’s about applying that same rationale towards food control to exercise. Commitment and consistency is key, sacrifice and just a smidgen of suffering is required if you want to see results. Ultimately, you have to like what you do, or it won’t really stick for the long haul. Frankly, after living with my thighs rubbing up on each other like a couple of horny teenagers—since, like the day I learned to walk—I need to get in there with some loving, yet brute force.

Between the Herbal One challenge and the Barre Kamloops class, I dropped five inches in one month–and yes, even off the junk in the trunk. For me, finding happy places to focus on my health has been as essential as the little black dress; having friendships steeped in that healthy lifestyle. To be surrounded by support and humor as you lose weight means gaining something far greater in return.

Images & GIF’s Courtesy of the Wide World Web etc.

Downward Facing Dog Gone Girl

March 28, 2015November 14, 2015 / aliciaashcroft / Leave a comment

The 2015 Kamloops Film Festival has just come and gone; this piece was featured in the festival insert that accompanied the Kamloops This Week…without further ado, the extended and Pin-Up-ized version of the article…

Award season is in full swing; and the social media news-feeds are filled with tidbits from these congratulatory evenings that pulsate with fevered anticipation, glittery gowns, and talented performers who are spray tanned within an inch of their life. ‘What are you wearing?” “Who are you here with”? “Are you excited?” “Nervous?” And my question if I were granted court: “When was the last time you had a sandwich?” Of course these people are excited. Number one: if you’re walking that red carpet, dripping in diamonds and adjacent to a bulging three hundred pound bodyguard named Rocco—you’ve made it. You’ve been a part of a significant project, and it’s now being clustered into an exclusive group of significance and a lucky few receive a holy trinket as a result.

But seriously, win or lose, that’s a pretty solid way to spend an evening. Coiffed to perfection, you are privileged to wear jewels and couture, rubbing elbows with wealth, talent and celebrity; swag bags would have gold dipped M&M’s and the champagne fueled after-party people watching would be Olympic level greatness. As it is happening, and in the days that follow, the event and its participants are neatly categorized by the media under: best/worst/memorable/uncomfortable; the hits, the misses. I can’t help but think about the people behind the flops. Who are the people behind the choices? Like…who approved Bjork’s swan dress?

The late 80’s scandal magnet Rob Lowe singing Proud Mary with Snow White?

Who was the guy who pitched Anne Hathaway and James Franco as Oscar hosts? Seriously?

Fact is things hit as often as they miss—sometimes you don’t know why, sometimes you wonder why no one foresaw the future flop–but sometimes the miss evolves into something spectacular in retrospect, and falls under the best category of all–“so bad it’s good” .Rob Lowe + Snow White x “Proud Mary” = The Greatest Thing to Ever Happen to Me. If only something tossed Lowe a saxophone so he could play a la Billy Hicks from “St Elmo’s Fire”, it would have lifted the bar a fair bit.

This performance was so bad that the Academy received strongly worded letters from the likes of Paul Newman and Julie Andrews. Ouch. I just hope I never screw up so badly that I get a strongly worded letter from Mary Poppins. Perhaps I can comfort my collection of small failures with the sentiment.

It also says something about formulas for success. I can only imagine the late 1980’s executives in their boardrooms, jacked on cocaine and ego clapping each other on the back for these ‘excellent’ ideas. “People love Rob Lowe. People adore Snow White. People can’t resist bastardizing the lyrics to “Proud Mary” with clever cracks about dwarves. What if we threw it all in a great big blender…how smooth would that go down?” Hey—I like fish and I like ice cream, but it doesn’t mean I want to combine the two. In my experience as an event coordinator, I constantly obsess at the near mathematical combination of time of day/day of week/point in year in combination with financial climate/theme/location…and all the details in between. Most importantly, “Who am I catering to?” “What gets people off the couch and out the door? “Why should they get a babysitter?” “Why should they make the time?” Socialization is hard work—at least the idea of it is. I feel like participating in dinner parties or social occasions is like exercise. You don’t feel like doing it, and then you do it and maybe it starts off painfully, and then…you’re just running—smiling, cheeks flushed, wind in your hair, and heart pounding mightily in your chest. You’re glad you tried it. You feel better for having done it. Still, you need to get moving to get that feeling. And that, as everyone knows is the hard part.

So…who are you? What do you want? What do you want in a party or event? What kind of music? What would you eat? Drink? What would make you want to stay? Want to go? The mind reels, right? Do you even know what you want? You want that freshly exercised feeling without the pain. I know I do. Whenever I have a hand in the planning of an event, it always comes with a touch of heartburn and crippling self-doubt. If I planned an event that suited me, there’d be nothing but cheeseboards, bread, mellow lighting, and comfortable seating, listening to the CBC at a moderate level while waiters who looked like George Clooney handed out free drinks and lingered while making eye contact. But hey, that’s just me.

Also, planning takes time, and when you don’t have time—you are up a creek without a paddle. I don’t know about you, but I personally have the ability to overload my schedule in the same way a prison inmate or a university student would load up their plate at a buffet on a cruise ship. Always, always, always room for dessert, and maybe more mashed potatoes. Heaping spoonful’s of absolutely everything—YOLO y’all, YOLO. Sleep is for babies and great things can be achieved if you make that the thing to take off the plate. It kind of makes you like a circus performer who rides a unicycle and balances plates on sticks…except you are drunk, experiencing vertigo and only have one leg. Oh. And you are on fire. In the thick of film festival preparedness, beyond my demanding career, I was also participating in a thirty-day yoga challenge. Then, just for fun, my husband and I got a new puppy. We named her ‘Bluebear”, which is Latin for “Nothing will ever be achieved in a timely manner again”.

With my e-mail inbox fuller than a Kardashian’s pout, Bluebear’s need for attention at an ‘11’ on the puppy scale, I was at a breaking point: downward facing-dog-gone-girl. This furry little toddler was gnawing away at my spare time like the carpet in the living room; prevention had no point, she was destroying the fabric like it was her mission from God. I had one afternoon to myself, and was bent on catching up. I ran an errand with the dog on the passenger seat. The radio playing low and the pup resting her head peacefully, and me…just driving for 45-minutes basking in the quiet. Eyes narrowed on the road—like a fugitive from the law—just a couple of procrastinating bandits–she the Thelma to my Louise. “Let’s just keen going Blue–let’s just drive until we run out of road”.

My phone rings, my husband’s voice over speakerphone sounding concerned. “Where are you—I’m waiting for you to come home, I was going to take the dog”. “I’m just driving!” I say, laughing, my own voice teetering on the edge of madness—sounding as incredulously giddy and nonsensical as if I had just said: “I just walked on the moon in ice skates, good thing I had my sunglasses! I just had Justin Bieber’s baby—I didn’t even know I was pregnant, I’ve never even heard his music! Charlie Sheen is doing Shakespeare in the park—and he makes a wonderful Juliet!!” Okay then…time to stop driving. This is like 2008 Britney Spears behind the wheel with a baby on her lap kind of crazy.

Once home, both husband and the puppy out of sight, the opportunity presented itself to work alone in the sanctity of my office. I faced the email onslaught with the intensity of Rocky dashing up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art once he’s finally in fighting form. One by one, the emails are answered and filed or deleted, the pressure lessens, a new to-do list is born.

Why do this? Every volunteer has full plates of their own: families, jobs, responsibilities and yet they save room on the dish for the film festival. We do it because we are film-lovers who love film-goers. We like to put all these pieces together, and create a special experience for our community. No greater joy than to sit back and watch others enjoy; like the matriarch in a multi-generational family watching everyone devouring the meal she spent the day making: feasting, tasting, laughing—satiated by your own loving efforts. It makes balancing it along with the yoga challenges, puppy problems, and time constraints worth the while. To participate in a committee like this is to invest your time in creating a special, cathartic, emotional, entertaining and fabulous chain of events. It’s a cinematic holiday in your daily life where film-goers gather to love movies together. It’s worth the lost sleep and increased intake of Tums.

Why the film festival? To me, it’s one of my favourite times of the year. This Netflix age—much precious time is spent looking for “something good”. And then—you finally make a selection, only to lose interest in the first 15 minutes. And so—the journey continues, trudging the path of indecision in the land of endless choices. The issue is of timing and context. It’s the dilemma of film’s purpose—entertaining vs. edifying. Let’s be honest, life can take some pretty dark turns: disease, divorce, war, poverty, the way toddlers have a better i-Phone than you and are so technologically adept that they could very well be the Sony Hackers. There are many serious, important, controversial films that hold a mirror up to history, to humanity—and I have never seen them. Simply because there never seems to be a good time to experience the breakdown of a marriage, the death of a loved one, the atrocities we afflict on others on large and small scales in the comfort of your own home. It never goes well with the end of a long work week, a ratty oversized hoodie and a plate of Chinese food on your lap. If nobody minds, I’d like to keep it so light that the movie could practically float away.

Though in my defense, I am a true sap, an empathetic cinematic sponge that is inflicted with whatever ailment haunts the characters within. My husband has said on more than one occasion: “You know this movie isn’t actually happening to you…right?” Of course I know that…but it could, and being reminded of life’s fragility whilst my fingers are tunneling through a bag of buttery popcorn is as bad a combo as Snow White and Rob Lowe. It makes me think of last year’s beautiful “The Broken Circle Breakdown”, which is quite possibly the most devastating film I’ve ever seen. That’s a kind of film that you watch once, die inside a little and then never again. It does such an exceptional job at bringing you into the heartache, like a 3-D effect, that it hurts way too much to repeat.

With that in mind, it makes you want to polish off too many margaritas and watch a Cameron Diaz movie on a Friday night. Sure, you watch it ironically, and it’s the cinematic equivalent of taking a cabana boy as your lover on holiday. You wouldn’t bring it home with you, but it’s good for the night. But one cannot live off of twenty year olds named Pedro and “Bad Teacher” alone. You need to see the poetry of the human experience in its full breadth: the best/worst/memorable/uncomfortable; the hits, the misses. There are so many excellent emotional cinematic efforts that would pass you by if you avoided the film due to its emotional weight.That’s the beauty of the film festival. It’s a safe place. It is an adventure. It’s a little bit dignified; it’s a social community event. You’re out in public, so odds are your bra is still intact and not carelessly flung onto the kitchen table in the decisive—“Not leaving the house ever again” kind of way. Whether it’s a comedy, a tragedy or somewhere in between—it’s something outside of the norm, outside of your comfort zone. You’re surrounded by empathetic film goers, who share the same doubts, fears, concerns, and who also quiver in the chill of life’s dark shadows; who want to laugh whenever possible, who want to talk about the minor details over a cup of tea afterwards. In the darkness, the group becomes one collective heartbeat, muted observers glimpsing into the lives of others, at the light that shines through the cracks. And you know that you are not alone.

Images Courtesy of Google

Put a Ring on It: Collective Regrets from the George Clooney Women’s Guild

April 28, 2014November 13, 2015 / aliciaashcroft / 4 Comments

Winter has worn away at my soul. I desire a luxurious getaway as one longs for a conjugal visit after years of imprisonment. I am afraid of what I would do for a plane ticket to a hot far-off destination. I would sprint towards a holiday like Whitney Houston did to Kevin Costner at the end The Bodyguard. Mashing my face all over it’s face and while belting I Will Always Love You in the background.

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The later-years Beach Boys classic Kokomo recently came up in conversation, when I was expressing to a friend just how badly I wanted to be nursing a solid buzz on a beach with a trashy magazine in my hand. One simply cannot discuss Kokomo, but must live it, sing it, harmonize with it. Hot skin and wet hair. Toes in the sand. Sounds of crashing waves. Salty kisses from island lovers.

{insert sensuous eye rolling here}

I proclaimed that the Beach Boys song said everything about my current state of mind. And I think a really good solution to all of my problems.

As follows: my personal top ten list of why I would like this song to be about my life.

Now if you want to go and get away from it all (which I do, I really do)
Off the Florida Keys, there’s a place called Kokomo. (There’s not apparently, but let’s move forward anyhow)
That’s where you want to go to get away from it all
We’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow
We’ll be falling in love to the rhythm of a steel drum band (I usually fall in love to the sounds of banjos so this would be a welcomed change).
Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights
That dreamy look in your eye
tropical contact high
Aruba, Jamaica, Bermuda, Bahama, Key Largo, Montego, Jamaica
Bodies in the sand, tropical drink melting in your hand

When I Googled the lyrics of Kokomo, I realized that the line was be “tropical drink melting in your hand”…when all these years I thought that it was “tropical cake melting in your hand”. I had even remarked that the other day: “I don’t even know what it is…but I want it”. I imagine golden yellow slice, glistening with coconutty goodness, a thick slab in the palm of your sun-screened hand. Still…a gooey piece of cake is hardly beach food. And why are they no plates at this resort? Could a sister get a wet-nap up in here? Stand down guys. It’s tropical drink, which when you come to think about it…that really does make more sense. Perhaps this is because my first introduction to this super timeless track is when the Beach Boys appeared on Full House. I would have been about six, and a stiff cocktail would have been no good to me.

Wow. What kind of deal with the devil did these guys make in the 60’s to make an appearance on this saccharine-sweet sitcom in the 80’s? Look at the guy in the dead center wearing those ridiculous mom jeans…I really don’t know who was driving that style choice there. His fly is longer than Mary Kate/Ashley Olsen’s leg. And ole pointy fingers on the end…leather jacket+ball hat+those sweatpants =my favorite person in this picture. Nonetheless. The song grown had with me, and now I would like to feel like the human equivalent to the saxophone solo in this sexy, ooey-gooey cheesy beach jam. Haven’t heard it recently? Allow me to remind you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNZVzIfJlY4

It’s one of my favorite things about YouTube: that some guy in Peru loved Kokomo, and the film in which it was written for (Cocktail) so much that he just plays full scenes of the movie. Not a montage in sight, just whole chunks of muted dialogue with the Beach Boys crooning away. But what an ending to the video. Ugh, when have you ever woken up and thought: “I really hope I don’t have sex in a waterfall today” or “Jeez I hope that a hunky bartender doesn’t try to get into my black one piece bathing suit”. Cocktail is actually loosely based on a relationship I had. Watching the footage actually makes me feel very emotional….in light of the current news.

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Whoa, looks like somebody’s gotten their priorities all out of whack at the Daily Express. Hayfever hell? Boohoo. My Georgey-Porgey is getting married–and I am having a difficult time coping. When I first got word I…had a rather strong reaction.

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The Vicodin I took couldn’t touch my grief. The three martinis I threw down my throat didn’t dull the ache. George, George, not you. That’s when I starting smashing everything in sight.

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He said he never wanted to get married, only because I didn’t want to marry him. It’s not that I didn’t want to be “Mrs George Clooney”. It’s just that he wanted to be “Mr Alicia Ashcroft” a bit too desperately. George loved me so deeply, that it really was all-consuming. We were young, met on holiday, and let’s just say he got ‘under the waterfall’. He adored me. Worshipped me. Said I was perfect mix of Jackie Kennedy and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I loved him in return. We were the Golden Couple.

Annex - Grant, Cary (Charade)_01

Some of the greatest moments in pop culture were inspired by George’s romantic gestures to me. John Cusack in Say Anything? That has George all over it. He actually had Peter Gabriel write In Your Eyes about me.

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In later years, he had inspired Beyonce’s Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It), because he was trying to get a message to me. I was hesitating and he was slipping through my fingers. George actually said that to me one night, after a dinner party at our home in Lake Como. He hissed it, so that the waitstaff couldn’t hear. All the other couples were married and engaged, nannies holding gorgeous babies who are named after exotic locations and expensive cheese. George was humiliated after Beyonce and Jay-Z pressed us about our single status. Why couldn’t I give him those things? Why didn’t we have a little Camembert Dubai Clooney? Why couldn’t I put a ring on it?

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Not this again. George, baby, things are so good why complicate it with things like marriage and children? What if dating is like the first half of Cocktail, hot sex in a Jamaican waterfall and marriage is like the second half, when it gets all serious with unwanted pregnancies, angry parents and suicide notes? A friend and I had both lamented that brief and glorious time when love is new and your lover doesn’t know you yet. “Just dating” George Clooney was my life support. Marriage was quicksand. I pressed myself up against George, and swore my allegiance. I knew his heart was breaking.

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Eventually we fell apart…around the”In your Eyes” era. He needed to get married, and by the time I offered to throw him a bone and marry him just to shut him up…it was too late. His heart had hardened to the whole institution of marriage. I broke George Clooney. I regret everyday since that I couldn’t repair the damage I had caused.

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I don’t see him around much. I hear things like the rest of the world does now….in the news, on the internet. Do I get jealous? Well, sometimes I miss the Italian air, our housemaid Lupe, and the smell of George’s musk. He had good musk. When I see pictures of George trying to aptly describe just how enormous his Clooney is, and people like Sandra Bullock aren’t even paying attention to him, I get a little peeved. That could have been me.

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News of Clooney’s engagement has shaken the world through and through, inspiring bios on his new fiance Amal Alamuddin, and lists of “Clooney’s former flames”…or as I like to call it, “Clooney-Bear and the luckiest Bitches on Earth”.

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Don’t look for me, I’m not on the list. I don’t know if this is TMZ’s mistake, or that George has worked so hard to forget me, that the press has forgotten me as well. That’s fine…the paparazzi know me by name, but whatever leave me off the list. I know what I had with George. I don’t need to prove it with pictures of me on George’s yacht.

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Please…that’s obvi me…I would recognize those legs from anywhere.

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Oh this? Just George and I leaving after a nice meal out. The photogs were really there to catch a glimpse of me, but snaps of George would do too.

The other women knew about me as well. I was famous amongst the other Cloonists as having made his hair go salt and pepper from all the heart ache I caused him. Many tried and failed to slay the dragon as only I and his ex wife Talia Balsam had done before.

ABC Annual Fall Affiliates Dinner - June 14, 1990

So…after all the replacements that George has tried to tried to fill the gap with…all the vivacious, intelligent brunettes he’s known–and all he could see was me. And now…it seems that someone has finally ‘put a ring on it’ : Beirut born, London based human rights Lawyer Amal Alamuddin.

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Well let’s just acknowledge the elephant in the room. That’s my doppelganger. I’ve got piercing eyes and endless locks of shiny ravine hair. The similarities do not end there. Amal Alamuddin? Alicia Ashcroft? Uh George, this is a little embarrassing for you, chasing the dream as you tend to do. At the last Clooney Guild meeting, the others offered scant details–just that George chases versions of me the same way a nerdy Asian teen tracks ever-evolving technology. Amal Alamuddin is just a new i-Phone..a shiny distraction. When news of the engagement spread, I caught a ride to the secret compound on Kelly Preston’s helicopter along with Stacey Keibler and the gal with the awful arm band tattoo circa Pamela Anderson in Barb Wire, who now dates the guy from Jack Ass. We pooled together about what we knew of her:

She’s provided legal council to Wikileaks founder Julian Assange and former Ukrainian prime minister Yulia Tymoshenko.

She served as council into the United Nations.

Legal advisor to the King of Bahrain…

She speaks fluent French and Arabic…

She’s a published author. Apparently has written several articles about international criminal law.

She was voted “hottest barrister in London” by a particularly sexist and ethically dubious legal blog called Your Barrister Boyfriend…for achieving “the seemingly unattainable ideal of contemporary femininity: she is both breathtakingly beautiful and formidably successful.”

Breathtakingly beautiful and formidably successful? That’s how most people describe me. Frankly, it’s like looking in a mirror. Although, according to this photo she’s like a little pocket-sized lawyer. That’s never going to work. What is this? A bride for ants?

Maybe watching Clooney up and marry my evil twin is my equivalent of The Beach Boys on Full House: karmic payback for not appreciating the glory days. I had him, and I lost him, and now I have to live with it. All because of my foolish pride. So there it is. Goodbye George Clooney. I will grieve this loss in only the most glamorous of ways. One of the things he loved most about me.

charade-1963-720p-bluray-x264-cinefile01-13-28 Images Courtesy of Google

Paint Me Paltrow.

March 25, 2014March 31, 2014 / aliciaashcroft / Leave a comment

"Pin Up Picks Pen Up"

I wish I had Gwyneth Paltrow‘s problems. I wish I had her money. I wish I had her wardrobe. I wish I had her legs.

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I wish I could make huffy remarks like: “When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, ‘No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine?”…oh yeah, and you have to say it with a straight face. And, furthermore, Paltrow complains about poor concierge recommendations, like “Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris?” You just hear her fury loud and clear. My god, this is a woman with her finger on the pulse. She is touching on some serious issues that today’s woman really struggle with–being in a foreign country and having no one to tend to your solid gold snatch.

What’s embarrassing, is that…

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Year of the Hoarse

February 5, 2014February 5, 2014 / aliciaashcroft / Leave a comment

Glorious Sunday. We woke up early. Six in the morning. Curled up under the blankets, chatting quietly in the dark, we eventually fell asleep, waking up sometime round 10:30am.

The intention was to enjoy the great outdoors. Go sledding. Perhaps go to a Super Bowl party. Attend a yoga class. Visit friends. Instead I am lying on the bed, wrapped up like a blanket burrito, drinking earl grey tea with heaps of honey and baking vanilla, and watching “Sex and the City”.

Our only public appearance this Groundhog Day was a triumvirate of errands: going out to a thrift store to look for a teapot. We skimmed the shelves, found nothing of interest, then got a latte at Starbucks as a consolation prize. Before heading home we stopped by someone’s house. Benjamin occasionally buys tools on an online trading site; he had met this woman before, so he stepped inside the house and closed the door. I didn’t think much of it, in reality he could have been carrying on a torrid affair with a spicy middle aged woman, and he could have used my utter disinterest in tools to cover his tracks. He eventually was gone for long enough that I thought that maybe…just maybe that he had been murdered. Or maybe they’re just lost in the endlessly fascinating topic of carpentry. I figured I’d give it another minute, and continued to scroll through my phone, reading news about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s sudden death.

Philip Seymour Hoffman dies on Super Bowl Sunday by overdosing on heroin in the Year of the Horse. That can’t be a good omen on Groundhog Day.

What do you think that means? Going beyond six more weeks of winter, and entering into a new arctic Armageddon.

Here’s a lesson in word origin history. Heroin got the nickname ‘horse’ due to the unlikely relationship between the two (As explored in Dorothy Ours’ “Man O’ War”).

In the wild, pursued by predators, a horse runs as fast as he can or dies. Given narcotics, a horse feels unnatural sleepiness creeping into his nervous system–sleepiness like the shock caused by the fatal bite of a carnivore. So the hopped up horse runs without reserve. If kept in his stall, he trots in circles until the dose finally ebbs. Let loose on a racetrack, he outruns any normal inhibition. In the United States, cocaine, heroin and morphine were legal for anyone with a doctor’s prescription to buy from a drugstore, until prohibited by the Harrison Act of 1914, and could be bribed from pharmacists long after that. But using those mixtures was a fine art. Prudent trainers experimented during morning workouts, discovering the right dope and dose for each horse.

Imagine a time when there was so much legal heroin just lying around that people were like…”It’s just going to go bad if we don’t use it, lets just give it to the horses!”

Ugh, it makes me sad, the waste of human life. That addiction overshadows talent, status, fortune and prestige. The tragic detail about Hoffman being found in his New York City bathroom with a needle in his arm will take precedence over a proud legacy. I think about all the things I want in this life, things that other people already have…and for a some that sum still doesn’t fill this eternal gap inside of their soul. I wonder how melancholia breeds madness, when everything went wrong because everything had gone right. There are wars inside of ourselves that are often losing battles.

The night before, I caught the open letter Dylan Farrow wrote to the New York Post rehashing her sexual abuse allegations towards Woody Allen. This too bummed me out. The letter started with “What’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?”, then describing the molestation in disturbing detail, pleading to Diane Keaton and other actors known for working with Allen to acknowledge the crime…and then concluding with “So what was your favorite Woody Allen again?” Man. Way to take the fun out of Annie Hall.

When Benjamin and I finally crawled out of the bed, we curled up the living room with our coffees. I told him all about the ballad of Woody and Mia.

Around 1980, Allen began a relationship with actress Mia Farrow, who had leading roles in most of his movies from 1982 to 1992. Farrow and Allen never married and kept separate homes^.. They jointly adopted two children, Dylan Farrow (who changed her name to Eliza and later to Malone) and Moshe Farrow (known as Moses); they also had one biological child, Satchel Farrow (known as Ronan Seamus Farrow).

However, in a 2013 interview with Vanity Fair, Farrow stated that Ronan could “possibly” be the biological child of her first husband Frank Sinatra, whom she married at 21 in 1966, and with whom she claims to have “never really split up.” Who can blame her. You can take the girl out of Sinatra, but you can never take Sinatra out of the girl.

In 1968, Frank Sinatra had blindsided Farrow by having divorce papers delivered to the set of “Rosemary’s Baby”. The film was going over-schedule, and she had to back out of her next acting commitment–in Sinatra’s upcoming feature. In that same year, André Previn, married film composer and symphony conductor, met a newly single, 23-year-old Farrow in London. They began an affair, and she was was pregnant within a year. Previn divorced Dory, his wife of eleven years, and married Farrow.

Poor old Dory Previn. The humiliation and betrayal caused Previn to snap like a twig. She was subsequently institutionalized and subjected to electroconvulsive therapy. According to sources, it led to more introspective songwriting…and did wonders for her hair.

She subsequently expressed her feelings toward Farrow and the end of her marriage in the song “Beware of Young Girls” on her 1970 album. ‘Beware/ Of young girls/Who come to the door/Wistful and pale/Of twenty and four/Delivering daisies/With delicate hands…taking my own sweet man’. The lyrics are thinly veiled, basically calls Farrow out for rolling up to the Previn compound with flowers and silver. She could have just called it “”Fuck You Mia Farrow” and called it a day. A dainty little china Trojan horse; admiring her home, her ring, her unmade bed, and meanwhile is infiltrating her marital home.

Dory Previn really laid the blueprint for Jennifer Aniston, trumped by younger and newer. Mia Farrow, humanitarian and mother of thirteen children is the OG Angelina Jolie.

Previn was clearly the Brad Pitt of this time–this gorgeous hunk of scarf and side swept bangs has been married five times. Who can blame the ladies for fighting over this prime piece of real estate.

The fact that there were ever two women quarreling over Woody Allen…I find slightly more difficult to imagine.

Long story short–(this is the bit you’ve probably already heard), one of the children adopted by Previn and Farrow was Soon-Yi Farrow Previn. About twelve years into Woody and Mia’s relationship–Farrow was in Allen’s apartment (with the famous view of Farrow’s home across the park), and discovered nude photographs of a twenty-year-old Soon-Yi just lying around, waiting to be discovered. Beware of young girls indeed. Hurts don’t it? If this proves anything though–you certainly can’t help who you’re attracted to.

Around twenty years ago–in the same neighborhood as the Soon-Yi scandal, Allen was accused of molesting one of their adopted children. He was never tried and convicted, but that stain was never properly washed away. Now that this accusation has been given new life, it feels as though Allen is a hard man to defend. When you write it all down on paper it looks rather…hinky. As for their “biological” son Ronan–though who are we kidding here? I’m no doctor, but even Helen Keller could be able to see that Ronan is a Sinatra. My god, look at that bone structure. Regardless, neither are fans of dear old Woody, and they are not ashamed to say it.

Following Allen and Soon-Yi’s wedding, Allen’s biological son Ronan Farrow said: “He’s my father married to my sister. That makes me his son and his brother-in-law. That is such a moral transgression… I cannot have a relationship with my father and be morally consistent.”
Ronan, who has been disparaging about Allen, tweeted on Father’s Day 2012: “Happy Father’s day – or as they call it in my family, happy brother-in-law’s day.”
The night of the Golden Globes he tweeted: “Missed the Woody Allen tribute–did they put the part where a woman publicly confirmed he molested her at age 7 before or after Annie Hall?

Not cool Ronan. If you weren’t so cute, smart and dreamy; and if your tweets weren’t so funny I would really hate you. As for Woody Allen, I don’t want for that to have happened. I love Woody Allen, I love his films, his sense of humor. The image of him molesting a child while she focuses numbly on an electric toy choo-choo train really hurts my heart. Yes, he is a little creepy and yes, his past behavior is questionable. The letter describes some pretty horrific things, and if I were to let it into my psyche, it really would taint “Annie Hall” forever. I’ve been through enough in my life. I just can’t get creeped out by “I lurve, you I loave you, I luff you”.

On the other hand, I feel for Dylan Farrow. Those are tough things to live with. Whether it happened, or it was a scenario that was fabricated; over time the fact and fiction has blended together. And let me state: not wanting it to be true, is not accusing her to lying. Still, one must wonder the motivation of such a public spectacle. What is Dylan Farrow seeking–absolution, revenge, forgiveness, attention? Does she want to destroy him? Does she want to spoil his chances at an Oscar? Or is this her way to heal? Either way, there are no winners in this scenario, just an awful lot of broken people.

It does makes you wonder…what lurks inside of people. How someone could molest a child or rape a woman, commit a violent crime and then just get right back to the business of living as per usual. How we masquerade addictions, and convince others of our health and sanity. Waltzing into the City of Troy with enemies inside the Trojan Horse. La de da. The question is–is it possible to separate the art from the actions? Then you wonder…has this whole time he’s been charming audiences with neurotic intellectual comedies and dramas, he’s harbored these terribly dark secrets. What is driving Dylan Farrow mad two decades later is the continued success of a talented filmmaker. I wonder how those justify their actions and move forward in their lives. As Philip Seymour Hoffman was once quoted:

I think that’s pretty much the human condition, you know, waking up and trying to live your day in a way that you can go to sleep and feel OK about yourself”.

And here we are, back again to Philip Seymour Hoffman. Good ole Lester Bangs from “Almost Famous”. Dead at 46 from a perfectly preventable death. Another one bites the dust.

We could talk about this all night, until our voices were raw and hoarse. Death cannot be undone, tragedies cannot be unlaced like a Christmas ribbon. Feeling chilled to the bone, exhausted and feeling perfectly existential, that was when I crawled back into bed to watch some classic “SATC”. Season three–when Carrie had big hair, and before she broke Aidan with her affair with Big. Poor Sarah Jessica Parker, she catches so much grief about the shape of her face. I don’t mean to drag her into my horse motif, but things have gotten entirely too serious and I’ve really got to lighten things up around here.

With all the additions and accusations, wars inward and outward, the world seems to be teeming with misery. The internet brings all that to your door if you let it. Once in a while, you’ve just got to laugh–despite the odds against us. That’s all we have really, that fleeting moment when you are free to horse around.

Images Courtesy of Google

Bear Flu at Downton Abbey

January 12, 2014November 13, 2015 / aliciaashcroft / 2 Comments

My husband’s illness has been of epic proportion. The symptoms are ever-evolving, rotating inside of him like a Ferris wheel (and not one of those awesome ones that Ryan Gosling jumps on to ask you out on a date).

“I’m hot. I’m cold. I’m clammy. I’m burning up. I need a blanket. Take this blanket off of me. I need to eat. I can’t eat that. I need a hot drink. I need a cold drink”. This is not man flu, this is Bear Flu.

Not to confuse it with ‘bear sick’, which is apparently slang for “expressing when something is awesome however when the word awesome is not quite enough”. Can you use it in a negative context? “This is bear awful”…I don’t know, Urban Dictionary didn’t say. Then again, you can’t always trust the internet. Which is what I tell my husband when he wants me to Google his ailments and health concerns. We have a rather strict policy about such things. It’s never a good idea because it’s always the worst case scenario. If I have a tumor, I don’t want to be told by the internet.

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When he first became ill, I’ll admit I was annoyed. It was the day of my first aid course; my work van was picked up by a co-worker for the after-school pick up. Ben agreed to pick me up. Shortly before the examination, near the end of the day, I receive a text that he is too sick to pick me up. It’s a bit of a schmozzle, getting back to my van. I decide to swing past a Booster Juice to get a wheat grass shot for myself, and a smoothie for Ben. Before I go into the shop, I text Ben. “Do you need anything?” I was close to a grocery store, and could pick up any supplies without making an extra trip. Ten minutes later, I come back to the van, and there’s no text message. I go home with the smoothie. I’m home long enough to settle, shoes off, and wandering around the kitchen. Ben comes round the corner. Since I last saw him, he has developed a limp, a pout and speaks with a quivering voice “Did you get me any ice cream?” “Ice cream? I didn’t hear anything about ice cream”. His face sinks in disappointment. “Oh…I just thought it would be good…for my throat”. He coughs weakly. “I texted you…I asked for ice cream”. “But…I brought you a smoothie”. He gives me a look that says a smoothie is good, but not great.

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I grab my purse, my shoes, the car keys and storm out the door. I resent my sick husband, and resent his need for ice cream. That smoothie should have been perfectly adequate. I go round to the 7-11, and face the chiller filled with wildly overpriced products. I spot a brand on sale two for $9.99. I grab two and head to the till. Of course, there is a complication, the price isn’t registering, and they want to charge me $16. I’d like to pay $9.99, take the ice cream and get back to my regularly scheduled life. It took ten minutes, the fluster of two sales clerks, a call to the manager and to get what was clearly labelled in the cooler. Part of me wants to pay whatever they want so I can leave, but my husband has already missed one day of work, I’ve got to save what I can. This further fuels the marital resentment.

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I come home, cram the containers in the freezer and check on Ben, who is pale and clammy on the couch. Alright, get the poor bastard some ice cream.

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As the flu ravages his body, Benjamin keeps obsessing over the notion that it’s anything other than the flu. I try to soothe him “You just have the flu Bear, that’s why you feel so bad”. My words don’t matter, as he lumbers around the house, following me around like a giant shadow. He breaks my heart, his big sad blue eyes and his feet hanging off the edge of the couch. Despite the giant beard he looks just like a child. He’s weak and emotional, and I want to scoop him up in my arms as though he were a baby.

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Of course, I do have to maintain distance. I can’t afford to get sick. I work with children, I have a really busy schedule. Being sick would be wildly inconvenient. I have to love this man and take care of him from afar. It’s lonely for both of us, sleeping in separate beds, but he needs to get better and I need to stay well. We’ve passed the time watching television; as Benjamin works through the flu and I keep watch, occasionally cleaning dishes and tissues, and making cups of tea.

To make matters more emotional, we’ve been whiling away the hours watching “Downton Abbey” on Netflix.

Goodness me, despite all of the hype and accolades I never had any real interest in the program. Then one week, two seasons and a debilitating illness later, we’ve been through the trenches with these people. The Titanic sank, World War One destroyed lives and shattered social barriers. In the midst of these historical milestones, the Crawley family and their faithful servants are always up to something that tugs at the heartstrings. Just when we couldn’t take anymore, the Spanish Flu took no exception at Downton Abbey.

There are so many richly drawn characters, the writing is excellent, the details are superb. For anyone who’s even been sick and powered through a television series, you can appreciate how one can get pretty attached to the characters. In a sickly stupor you start to take things personally…rather seriously. For example, when I was put on bed-rest with a flu six years ago, I got rather caught up with “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila”.

Nothing is ever as dire for Tequila as it gets for the fine folk at Downton. Rejected lovers, star-crossed lovers, scheming staff, tragic Turks, gossip, intrigue, all steeped in historical fact. I mean…you just have to be there, you just don’t know what it was like unless you were on the front lines. Last night, after three episodes where two characters die as a result of the war and the flu, I was left feeling rather dehydrated.

Then in the ‘very special Spanish Flu” episode, it really hit a nerve with us. Even though we can’t research our own medical concerns, there are no rules about researching diseases from yore.

This pandemic has been described as “the greatest medical holocaust in history” and may have killed more people than the Black Death. It is said that this flu killed more people in 24 weeks than AIDS has killed in 24 years, more in a year than the Black Death killed in a century.

This disease killed six percent of the world’s population anywhere from 40-100 million people. How staggering. God must have been feeling extra Old-Testamenty during that time. Between the war and the flu, a girl would be hard-pressed to find enough men to fill her dance card. We discuss this notion, knowing so much loss, surviving a war only to be cast down by the flu. That really would have been a traumatizing time. By this episode, as dirt as being shoveled onto a grave, I make a remark about not liking the idea of a burial. Ben asks me what I’d prefer for myself. “Cremation”, I said. “Where would you want to go”, he asked. “I don’t know…I’d want someone to take a fistful and release into the wind somewhere”. I look over, and my husband has fat tears rolling down his cheeks and nestling into his red beard.

It’s never a good time to mention these things. Especially after too much Downton. I don’t care to think about it myself. Sometimes it takes the Spanish Flu to say PS: “bury me not on the lone prairie” (and while I’m at it, request “Way Over Yonder” by Carole King, which would be played right after George Clooney does my eulogy, slamming the pulpit and screaming “Why God, Why”). Loss is the saddest thought especially when frightfully ill. Poor Benjamin cried which made me cry. For the first time I didn’t fret about the quarantine perimeters, and pulled him close to me and wrapped my arms around him. Perhaps the first world war and a medical holocaust was just too much for one night.

Images Courtesy of Google

Yuletide Death Rattle

January 11, 2014November 13, 2015 / aliciaashcroft / 2 Comments

I haven’t always been a “Christmas person”. Only when I got married did I really relish in the ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’ romantic element. Growing up, there was something about Christmas that made me feel rather melancholy. Christmas joy is a bit like chasing the dragon. There’s extraordinary highs and lows. It comes and then just as quickly it goes. As a child I anticipated Santa and dreamt about new toys, Barbie dolls, mostly. When I became too old for dolls, there was a certain Christmas magic that passed away.

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I loved the decorations, Nat King Cole singing “The Christmas Song” that warm holiday feeling…but mostly I just loved the Christmas tree. I loved turning off all the lights and how it glowed in the dark. I loved lying under the tree and staring up through ornaments, tinsel and colored balls.

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To me, dismantling the tree is one of the saddest events of the calendar year.

Christmas - Chopping Down the Christmas Tree Poem, 1921 Straight and ready, tall and steady. That’s how I like my trees and my men. And similarly so, I don’t want to get my holly jolly’s out of them for a month or so and toss them away carelessly. Not unless you count an old Spanish lover I had…Rodrigo. I used to wrap him in lights, cover him in tinsel and stare up at his balls.

But that was another time altogether.

vintage-christmas-tree-scene_Merry-Christmas

On the last day of my Christmas holiday, I was feeling jazzed. Moving forward. Looking ahead. I’ve had a nice break, and now it’s time to go back to work. I’m telling this to my husband, speaking in an upbeat voice “I’ve had a nice rest, I’m ready…” and then I’m crying like a baby. And not because I’m not totally in love with my job, it’s like a friend once said to me: “When given the option, time off is preferable”.

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We had intended on taking the tree down that Sunday. We were doing laundry, making lunches, organizing rooms; really taking on the new year and the upcoming work week. But there was a general sense of the blues, that last day of summer camp feeling. That tree was like our glittering mascot, the wing-man for the fireplace…we’ve grown accustomed to it. Taking the tree down is the last straw, the Yuletide death rattle. We decided to just leave it be and enjoy the rest of our Sunday, enjoy what was left of Christmas.

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Though I was organized and prepared, the first day of work was like waking up from a gorgeous sleep, but realized you overslept and missed your flight.

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It was busy, that phone wouldn’t stop ringing, people kept asking me questions. I felt very tongue-tied, responding with phrases like: “I like the Christmas because of the lights and the balls”.

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I’m suddenly not used to not wearing a bathrobe at noon. Pants have become a real problem for me.

That Monday I cringed at the taste of my coffee. The lack of Irish Cream had the same effect as thinking you are about to sip coke through a straw, but it’s actually ice tea. It’s startling…and depending on how must you anticipated that carbonated sip…deeply upsetting.

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Now, the week has passed. It was filled with meetings and late work days, and a first aid course. My husband was struck down by a dreadful flu. It’s now Saturday, January 11th and our Christmas tree is still up.

tumblr_mfjr5wwWQp1r7dlj2o1_500 And I’m actually wearing a similar outfit as this gal overhead. I often mince around the house in sheer pants and a mink stole. They frown on that code of dress at work, fur and partial nudity…and that’s just another thing I have to deal with post-holiday.

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Benjamin is the sickest I’ve ever seen him. Fevered and delusional, the last few days have been a blur of work and getting my Florence Nightingale on.

images__63668__22908.1348588447.1280.1280 The outfit does feel extreme, but I’m one to dress for the occasion. If you must get profoundly ill during the first week of work, causing you to act like a wounded animal caught in a fence, rendering us unable to attend a much anticipated mini-break this weekend….then I get to wear this.

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I made mention to Benjamin that I would take down the tree on Saturday. He kindly offered to watch me do so. Once home from a meeting, and after a few hours of work. The tree was staring at me…expectantly. Like it knows that it’s stayed at the party for far too long. It is the morning of the holiday season, and this is the tree’s walk of shame.

CHARLIE BROWN TRIES TO PERK UP THE FORLORN LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE

Truth is…Christmas tree, (and I know I’ve said this about carbs) I just can’t quit you.

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It makes me sad…what happens to a tree in January. Last year we chopped a tree down in the woods, this year we bought a tree at a lovely market. Both seasons we discussed the idea of an artificial tree. This seems so frightfully inauthentic to me.

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Then, once you’ve enjoyed that pine smell of an authentic tree, you have the authentic task of removing it as though it were a dead stripper after an ill-fated bachelor party. Last winter, we intended to recycle it, and ultimately my husband tossed it in the dumpster. Ugh, there was nothing sadder than the errant string of silver tinsel poking out of mouth of the yellow metal dumpster.

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Perish the thought of dumping the once living tree. Driving away with the greenery shrinking in the rear view window. “I’m sorry little tree, you deserved better. I should have done right by you”.

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Tomorrow we will face the task of packing the rest of Christmas into a box. And I will miss the sparkle of the little white lights.

carole-xmas Images Courtesy of Google

friday the thirteenth

December 13, 2013 / aliciaashcroft / Leave a comment

friday the thirteenth

Is That All There Is, Peggy Lee

August 5, 2013 / aliciaashcroft / 2 Comments

Last day of holiday. Unpacking, laundry and grocery shopping, and that general creeping melancholia from the sun setting on your summer vacation. Take it away, Peggy Lee.

Distraction Central

July 24, 2013November 13, 2015 / aliciaashcroft / 1 Comment

This is not good. I am sitting in my office, coffee cold, this sad little banana that’s been sort of half-finished, unpeeled and partially ravaged, and lying on the desk. I only ate it because they were talking about skipping breakfast leading to heart disease on the CBC. I’m feeling like a kid right before summer holiday. I keep looking out the window, daydreaming about haircuts, pedicures and far off destinations.

I need to be focused, creative, organized…hmmm, what color would I get on my toes? Surely no self-respecting woman goes on holiday without a little sprucing up. And I could use it…I’d love it if the Wash & Brush Up Company from “The Wizard of Oz” could give me a proper once over.

This is a want, not a need. I need to write, I want a pedicure. I also want a latte, a million dollars and a massage from my pool boy Pedro. Now that I’ve written a solid sentence, let’s look out that window again shall we?

Let’s look over notes… that will inspire me. I do a good shorthand. Sometimes I can’t even decipher my own stuff. “Dancers”, underlined. What the hell does that mean? Just relax…just let it flow, you are a writer, the people–they need you. Nose to the grindstone, fingers to the keyboard. Looking wistful as I think up my magnificent thoughts.

I’ve got so much to do, and time is running short. So I should definitely spend two hours not blogging, and exchanging double entendres over instant messaging with my Improv Group. Look at this to-do list, when will this be done? There’s no time like the present…but first, lets read about the new Royal Baby, muck around on Twitter, and search for pictures of other people hard at work.

I’m just noticing now that there is a mouse scaling this lovely table cloth, and that woman is moments away from absolutely losing her shit. Look at her, so focused on her book with her fancy little breakfast. Those flowers are going to go flying. Ah, I should look for a picture of that.

Oh, I’m sorry Sister, am I boring you? Is my lack of cohesive theme, my lack of focus exhausting? You should try living in my head for an hour or two, it is a scary, scattered place.

But you know what? I’m going for that pedicure, and I might even slap on a manicure on that as well. You only live once right? Twice if you are James Bond. After all, I can’t very well face the world like the star that I am, with my fingers and toes unpainted? That just wouldn’t do.

All Images Courtesy of Google

"Pin Up Picks Pen Up"

Chronicling the creative process and defeating Writer's Block…whenever I get around to it

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Junk, Trunk & the Salty Seductress.

Downward Facing Dog Gone Girl

Put a Ring on It: Collective Regrets from the George Clooney Women’s Guild

Paint Me Paltrow.

Year of the Hoarse

Bear Flu at Downton Abbey

Yuletide Death Rattle

friday the thirteenth

Is That All There Is, Peggy Lee

Distraction Central

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