Abstract Woman.

I had a wonderful conversation with someone this week which included our love for anything odd. For as long as I can remember I have not been a fan of even numbers, perfect hair, perfectly constructed outfits or even stale personalities. I’ve always been attracted to the things that were a bit off, a little uneven, pinches of quirk and cracked perfection.  I tend to bring a lot of this into my work and play. With anything perfect there is always that flaw. I believe this is the reason for my love of flawed characters. But then again, we are all pretty much flawed and hide behind our masks. I tend to think abstractly and create abstractly. Lately I’ve been locking myself in my room, blasting music and painting. It’s a release to set your mind free from the “to do’s” and let it go. It’s amazing how a piece of music will guide your brush, inspire your colour and not judge how it looks. Most of the time, my left brain has an idea of how I want to depict something but my right brain takes over and the unexpected is there. I love texture and colour…maybe even a bit of sparkle too. This is just how I roll. – CS xx

“Clear thinking at the wrong moment can stifle creativity.”  – Karl Lagerfeld

The Cardigan Chronicles.

Some people have a collection of cats, I have a collection of cardigans. There I said it. I love a good cardigan. From 1950’s styles to grandpa styles, from cropped styles to grandma styles, to oversized styles, to fitted styles, to a modern-day style cardigan you could say I have one (too many) for every season. Some vintage, some new. Either, or, there’s a warm sensation about throwing one over a tank and a pair of jeans, a v-neck and a skirt, a camisole and a pair of cut offs and saying to yourself (quietly) “I feel like a book-worm and I love it”. As a kid I would rummage through my parents closet and pull out my dad’s oversized grey knitted one with black buttons. No matter how big and worn it was I would walk around the house and pair it with my mom’s oversized heels. Not much has changed, except for the fact that I have now grown into those heels. In high school I would sport our uniform cardigan of black, white and green. But soon replace it with a cool knitted one that I thought suited my kilt more. Confidently prancing the hallways in MY dress code I felt cool that I, the stealth being that I am got away with personalizing my own look at a Catholic high school where we only had one “Out Of Uniform” a month. Not me. Until I’d hear a loud yell down the hallway from my principal, “Miss Sicoli, that’s not uniformed cardigan!”. “Yeah it – no it’s not. You’re right sir, I forgot it at home”. He would continue shaking his head. I’d continue pulling excuses out of my arse shuffling down the hallway and quickly taking it off. Good thing there was another corner to turn cause no one was gonna tell me what to do! I’d put it back on as soon as I’d be out of his sight. “Sucka”. Yes, I was a rebel. A rebel with a cardigan. You can never really have too many.  Even if you steal them from your father’s closet. – CS xx

“Once Upon A Time….

In A Far Away Land” there was as a little girl who was obsessed with anything that began with, “Once Upon A Time In A Far Away Land…” Who wasn’t? And where is this land they speak of? Or is it just in our imagination? I remember my dad would read fairy tales to me before bed time. And of course every Disney movie that came to the big screen had to be watched with pop and popcorn. They filled my vast imagination with thoughts of magical fairy godmothers, magic dust, sparkles, enchanted forests, prince charming’s, dwarves, kisses, long braided hair and the list goes on and on. Some may dream of fairytale endings when there’s a void. They put us in our happy place to fill our heart, mind and soul. As I grew older I read the Brothers Grimm version and as much as I didn’t want to believe these cracked fairy tales, they too had a sense of reality with the gruesome twists that life may throw. As we grow, we have a better understanding of the lessons that are taught, the symbolism exposed and the subliminal messages you even see in your favourite Disney movie (yes, they are there if you look really hard). We have more of an awareness of ourselves too. You have to just take both with a grain of salt and know that sometimes fairy tales are just fairy tales and reality is where you’re at right now. Although kissing a frog would be interesting. This takes me to those magical pair of heels that you’ve encountered. You stand there holding them, smelling them, touching them. You glide your hand down that marvellous heel. You know that heel is dangerous. As a matter of fact its going to kill your feet and your knees. You know that after 5 minutes of walking in them, toes pushed against the front, forced arches rising, you will not turn into a pumpkin but rather the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Believe me, I’ve been there and done that. And I still do that because honestly those heels are just too dynamite not to wear. They are sexy. They make your legs look like a model’s body. Not a model’s leg, her entire body. Yikes! You are taller than you have every dreamed you could be. You try them on and of course your instincts were right. You squeal, you cringe, you blush with frustration as you force your foot in that heel. “God dammit! Get in! Get in! Don’t embarrass me!!”. After exhaling and smiling confidently, you thank the perturbed man who has seen you stroking them for the past month. You politely say, “Thank you sir, but it looks like I’m going to have to think about them…. until next Monday…. when I get paid “. NOT. You will never step foot near those heels again, especially if hawk eye is watching your every step. They just weren’t a perfect fit. You frown. Think Cinderella –  the many women at the ball who squeezed their foot in that glass slipper trying to appease the likes of the prince. But knowingly enough, they too were not a perfect fit. Your frown slowly rises, Wait a second. You see  another pair of heels (Note to self: You are looking at way too many shoes lately). They may not look like a strippers foot like the last ones. Yes you can say that now because they didn’t fit and you didn’t buy them. But the girl who buys them could be mistaken for a stripper! I’m just saying. But we aren’t judging here cause we’re in my fairytale. Back to these heels. Damn, they are truly gorgeous and hey you got some time. Time is the essence. As a matter of fact you don’t wear a watch and your cell phone died. So there isn’t even a clock around. You try them on for shi*s and giggles. Oh my. Why they are a perfect fit. Your legs may not look like a models entire body but they look like your body. Your legs. Your feet and knees aren’t screaming at you. And dang you are sexy! SOLD!!!! “I’ll use Visa, debit and cash please”. Like I said, I get paid next Monday. I’ll tell ya, you just can’t fake a comfortable shoe. But for a few seconds you can always dream it. Lesson learned once again – CS xx

Moral Of The Story

Magical Kiss

A Modern Day Rupunzel

Strippers Delight.

Crowned Princess.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said…..

Big Feet . Ballerina Dreams

 

 

I started dancing when I was 4 years old. Tap and Ballet were my first and then Jazz. My love for dancing has really enabled me to rock out on any dance floor or living room. Interpretive dances are a must – at a party, at a cottage, in the comfort of your own home (or others). My body does things. As a matter of fact, breaking into creative dance moves in a store, down an aisle, on a stage (especially with a banana) or in the street is my kinda my thing. Weather its dancing to “Saturday Night Fever” or Classical Music I let the music take me where no man has gone before. Er- 

When I was 6 years old my ballet teacher, **Rita (** Rita wasn’t her real name) told my mother that I would never be a ballerina. To put it gently (as I later cried and still hold it with me till this day) I didn’t have the proper legs ala turn out. Wow. That was a smack in the face. Especially when you, the little girl with probably the biggest feet in the class had a dream. I absolutely adored ballet and was secretly jealous of those girls who moved so flawlessly on the stage and excelled in the advanced program. Desperately trying to prove her wrong I stuck it out until I was 16,  just when I was about to go on point shoes. I absolutely loved point. But I knew that I wouldn’t advance further. You’re probably thinking, “Christina, No girlfriend! You should have stuck with it. Seriously, dreams do come true. You are the ballerina that could! You could have been a ballet star! YOU could have been Natalie Portman in The Black Swan”!!!!!!! Or something like that. But your gut knows best and your body knows it even more. I stopped out of  insecurity. Why put myself through the torture of trying to be someone I wasn’t? You can’t fit a square in a circle. Or can you? Instead I’ll have you know I was Vice President of Student Council that year which occupied my time. You’re probably thinking, “Wow Christina you are a jack of all trades”. Yes my friends, I am.  Skipping math class to “do council work” was a priority. And stepping out of science class to “take care of an important matter” (free Oh Henry Bars were coming in by the case for the Much Music dance party that night) I needed to be there for my peers. So instead I did what any responsible councilman would do, I decided to prioritize. I chose the only dance class I had time for and made time for. This was Tap. So that little girl who clung to the back row in ballet class, self-conscious of legs and feet, who always looked ahead to the “favoured” girls in the front row returned her point shoes. Another girl with a ballet dream would scoop them up. And plus I was really important that year in high school, so….  Alright. The truth: I knew my dream (and there are lots) to be a ballerina would not come true. I gave up. Something I do not like doing. Ever. Was it my big feet that I was self-conscious of? Maybe it was a turnout. My feet aren’t perfectly arched either. They are, as the boys would tease me in grade school, “flat as a board”.  Well guess what boys! My feet grew faster than my boobs. So take that. You know what they say about a gal with big feet?

ME: What?

ME: I dunno.

I have size 8 flippers, sometimes they range to a 9.5 (insanity). For a 5’4 gals with a tiny frame that is just uncalled for! I constantly trip UP stairs, on the sidewalk and religiously stub my toes on furniture. My guy won’t touch my feet. As a matter of fact he cringes at them. Saying things like, “look at those”, “get them away from me” or even, “go get orthotics, we have coverage!!!”. I would say this is verbal abuse. I have feelings too you know. I think I may be a hobbit. Come to think of it, If Bilbo Baggins had a sister I would be she. I am a klutz. To say I have grace, well others would argue I walk like an elephant. That’s when I knew my instincts were right about sticking with tap.  I never felt insecure about my foot size, nor my form. And there was a rhythm in my feet. It’s like they would come alive! Yeah, that’s right. I was fast. There was nothing more joyous than the banging sensation of my feet stomping to the ground. I tapped to the rhythm of the music and challenged myself within the beats. I love to tap.  Not to mention, I was the strongest out of all three. Maybe my natural talent for stomping really did come in handy. It excited me in a way that gave me the freedom to move my body loosely while staying in control of my feet. I am like a bag of microwave popcorn ready to explode all over the microwave when I tap. I didn’t even have to wear a bun. Instead, I sported a headband. All this and I looked cool at the same time. Yes I always think I’m cool when I tap. Like when I played soccer as a kid we had to take pictures and I thought I was cool by pushing my tongue against my bottom lip (try it. You’ll feel cool). Don’t ask me why but I have proof in the pictures. I even had the honour of tapping with Gregory Hines in Theatre School. Yep! I’m gloating and I name dropped. You will have to just deal with it. Jazz on the other hand well, I am definitely a white girl. Watching me do Hip Hop will cheer anyone up when they are feeling blue. It’s a comedy show in itself. I still got my tappers and have come to terms with my 87-year-old looking feet. Correction – My 87-year-old grandfather has prettier feet than mine. I have no idea where these came from. I’ve also come to terms with the fact that this shy timid little ballerina girl (who secretly glides across the bedroom floor to “Swan Lake” in a Swan costume (I exaggerated the part of the costume) has her ballet slippers tucked underneath her bed. I may have a tiny bunion or two. And I may not be so graceful. But I got rhythm and I got music….Who could ask for anything more?  

Ballet classes please? – CS xx

No one ever told me I could’t sport a tutu and heels.

The Lucky Dumpster.

Over the long weekend I had the pleasure of packing it up  and staying at a cabin in Washington state. It was awesome. It’s always amazing when you forget about your daily “TO DO’S” (which I am the first one to admit I am awful at). While enjoying a ton o laughs I slathered on the suntan lotion, swam in the lake, read a few magazines, did an interpretive dance to MJ’s “Thriller” and strolled through the tiny quaint town of Edison. Here, antique shops and small businesses are by far lucky gems scattered throughout this town. Speaking of lucky, I stumbled across The Lucky Dumpster. Like a kid in a candy store or simply in Sicoli fashion I touched, smelled, picked up, sat on, shook, tapped, and darted my eyes around every which way until I found what I was looking for. I could have bought everything (if I had a VISA) but of course had to be realistic. Not everything was gong to fit in the ol Hyundai.

This treasure chest of goodies is owned and operated by James Reisen and Jessica Bonin, a quirky and very talented couple (they are in the band called, The Daffodils)  who sell original and moderately priced artwork. And if you are looking for restored work this is the place! The Lucky Dumpster is really a jewel. I was inspired and found a few vintage finds as well as recycled  art items. It is one of those stores where every inch is packed with a unique find. James and Jessica are absolutely wonderful and their store is full of charm and in the words of  Mark Wahlberg, “Good vibrations”.  I was on the hunt for an antique vanity and was ecstatic to  find a few pieces that allowed me to build it on my own. D.I.Y if you will. I literally created a vintage beauty salon in my home office. So if you visit this quirky town of Edison filled with coffee shops, bakery’s, art gallery’s, go and support The Lucky Dumpster. Even if it’s for a cheery chat. – CS xx

For those who know me, I can fall asleep anywhere. This was after my interpretive “Thriller” dance.

The Compromising Couple.

A TRUE STORY. You do things for people because you love them. Sometimes you go on an 8 mile hike up a mountain. This hike happens to be on the side of a cliff. There are gusting winds. En route, your tiny tater tot almost gets gouged off by a branch. I’m not talking about a twig, I’m talking about a bamboo like branch with spikes. Curse words fly in the open air. IE) “for FU&^%K sake I didn’t sign up for this!!”. It feels amazing to shout it out at the top of your lungs. At one point you hug the side of a mountain. There is water streaming down your entire body and you are holding on for dear life. You declare, in your loud the-atre voice, “I’d rather quote a Shakespearean monologue than kiss this ledge” or you just go ahead and bid “farewell thee…” but you don’t remember the rest of the soliloquy. Your loved one isn’t in the mood for a comedy routine. You slip in a creek, pull something under your knee cap, stop at a beach for a snack and notice cats appearing out of nowhere. “What the hell beach is this?” you ask…3….4… 8 of these rat like furry creatures lurk towards you. You have the best movie idea ever. This could be, “Cat Beach”. The latest Steven King film. I would like to see this made. I will star in it as the non cat loving woman who gets possessed. This has NEVER been done before. I love horror films. You wipe out on a trail. A few inches closer and you would fall and swim with the sharks. You crouch against a huge rock when 4 beautiful gazelles (women) just dance up the mountain of rocks with their “toe runners” sporting not a smudge of dirt. You mumble, “Meh”. You and your loved one do a quadruple take and ask at the exact same time, “Did that just happen?” Muddy as a pig in poop, you slowly rise and say, “those are the ugliest toe runner shoes whatever they are..ever”. He says, “You have quinoa on the side of your face”. And as per usual you get the last few words in, “You have a boner”. A dinosaur tramples through the tropical jungle (I made that part up). You wipe the drool on the side of their mouth because that’s what you do for them. He keeps asking, “Where did they go? Maybe we should go back and swim again.” All you hear is a buzzing sound. It’s not a fly. You film 60 Second Tips With Sicoli. You take a wrong turn and walk through boulders. You stand alone in the middle of a strong current staring at the boulder hoping, just hoping for it to say, “Tequila Bar on your next left”. It doesn’t. You stick your tongue out at it. You get back on track. You reach the end and wander off to the main beach and lay down on the sand. You got a big smack of nature in the face today. You are grateful for all the beautiful things that happen to you in life. The ups and the downs. It’s just like hiking up and down that mountain. You embrace it all. A handsome european man (who looked like Javiar Bardem) walks by you and smiles. Your imagination goes wild. You snap out of it before you look like a deer in headlights. You smile back. Like a 16-year-old girl. Maybe you still act like one. But that’s your charm. Some things are worth it. That was a good day. – CS xx

Friday I’m In Love.

It’s Friday. Are you in love? I am. With a lot of things. I don’t think you ever stop learning the different levels of love. And as you get older they affect you even more. Maybe these are my hormones yapping away. Weather it’s with your significant other, friends, family, a crush (oh get real we all have em), or a new pair of  boots that you shouldn’t have bought. I love a sweet smile that makes my heart beat and a hug that tickles my spine. You have lust, romantic feelings, physical attraction (boom boom) and emotional attachment. The beauty of this recipe is that they blend to make one long stroke of love. It took me less than a minute for my heart to melt and my eyes to mist. This is the game of love. – CS xx

Young love is the sweetest . Old love is the deepest – unknown

Love

Friday’s dance selection. I dare you to prance around and dance it off!

The White Russian.

What is it about the White Russian? 

It reminds me of the adult who still orders milk at a restaurant except with liquor so they don’t look 6. Maybe I’m being a little harsh here, but we’ve all seen this. And to each their own. You want to order milk with your pasta, go ahead. But it’s just plain weird. And trust me, I know what it’s like to be weird (I’m a pro at it). I mean gee whiz, your listening to the gal who loves to drink tea and chew gum at the same time. I like how the gum softens and almost melts in my mouth part. The delicious juice of the flavoured gum mixed with my hot cup of tea (especially peppermint) is as delightful tasting as Nutella on toast. It makes it easy to chew especially if you have an achy jaw. Speaking of jaw, I still haven’t found my retainer. I flung it out of my mouth one night and haven’t seen it since. I also talk in my sleep so I’m really not sure what happened but I do know it is nowhere to be found. I clearly have a ghost in my apartment who needs it more that I do. I never thought in a million years that I would utter these words but here goes, “I miss you retainer”. Weird. No? Yes. Milk and cookies I get – you have the dunk factor. Milk and tomato sauce? Well, that’s just a no, no. Please don’t order milk with your pasta. Alright I’m going off on a tangent.

I do like the odd White Russian, especially with Almond Milk. Add some coffee in there and boom! You got a Hot Black Russian. I’ll take that. I’ll even take that over ice. How can one resist? Wait a sec, what are we talking about? Oh yes! Right. The cocktail. Well, come to think of it, Who even says a White Russian has to be a drink? – CS xx