The Banff World Television Shmooze Festival

The last time I was in Banff, I was a tour guide for international students on the red-eye Greyhound bus traveling from Vancouver to the Rockies during my summers off from University. It was one of those jobs that, in theory, sounded entertaining until I had to disguise myself as an uber-religious church girl in order to deter those Latin playboys from hitting on their tour guide prey. Ole!

Ten years later, I have returned to Banff for the World Television Festival, and there is only one thing in common with my last visit – red eyes. The late night shmooze fests were followed by my early morning “pitch of a lifetime.” This became my identity.

Standing in pointy heels 16 hours a day while trying to remember the names of 1200 people was a challenge. I even forgot what my own name was by the end of it all. I have battle scars on my poor heel-trashed toes to prove my ambitions were worth the effort. 500 plus business cards later and the who’s who of Hollywood North, South, East and West have become my new best acquaintances.

What I didn’t realize was that this festival has become one of the most remarkable entertainment events in North America. The new generation of Television’s future mixed and mingled with the seasoned veterans of TV’s decision makers. Writers and producers from all over the globe graciously introduced themselves to strangers, old friends and possible future colleagues. Given my personality, I was in my element. I offered my careful Canadian sensibility on what it was like living and working in la la land, how Vancouver has given me the same opportunities as its California counterpart and I gave thoughtful glances towards my ambitions for the future of television.

The thing that is always interesting about conferences is how to define the fine line between bragging and actually being proud of your own accomplishments. Everyone at any conference has made something out of nothing, so my word of advice is not to be shy about sharing your resume with the guy sitting next to you on the party bus. Most of the time, they’ll ask anyways.

I met one humble Canadian who was from the Maritimes. Right away, I knew this guy was a Canadian through and through. He didn’t look like he was a Hollywood shark by his way of dress, which happened to resemble that of a possible lobster tradesman. In the same tone, his accent was complimentary to the hometown quality of the Eastern townships, eh? Guess what? Don’t judge a book by its cover. Behind his humility and dress stood one of the most well known TV writers of our time. I actually was star-struck. How did I meet him? He was standing in the food line by himself and I thought I’d strike up a friendly conversation. He looked like a fish out of water, so I was really curious to hear what his story was. Oh, he was full of stories, alright! He practically writes them all for television! Had he been dressed in a flashy Hugo Boss suit, perhaps he would have been mobbed. In any case, I was lucky enough to meet such a kind and genuine person, who disguised his overstated career by his understated quality.

All in all, I had objectives at Banff to meet as many people as possible, and to share my hard work and accomplishments with those of the same mentality. I live life like I’m eighty, most of the time, as I try to diminish any regrets. So far, it’s working. Where will I be a year from now? Hopefully in Banff, feeling a bit more comfortable in my pointy-toed heels.

LA Cigar

Cigar houses are there for a reason, n'est pas? Why then are people so compelled to smoke these things on set? It is only ever the LA peeps who do so, and when I say "peeps" I mean people who are posing as LA prototypes. They are sitting there, fat, beard-worthy, wearing a movie logo jacket and Gucci blue-tinted glasses with a cigar hanging out of their American accented mouths. I'm American, so I should know. Now, in case you haven't been on set, there are actually hundreds of people in close proximity of each other, so if two or more people decide to smoke a cigar, it will infiltrate everyone from the background performers to the camera man to the make-up artist.

I just don't understand why it is deemed "cool" to smoke a cigar while working. It just screams LA, doesn't it? Any normal Canadian would wait until the day is done and proceed to their Anglo-Saxon posh man club in the downtown core where you can sit there with your other conservative cronies and smoke up until your house burns down. I don't have a problem with that, in fact, I'd like to join you! However, when it is three in the afternoon, and you are in the middle of a work day while surrounded by hundreds of people, what is the need to be a poser? Are these people insecure? Cigars embody a certain type of prestige, don't they? Having lived in LA for years, all I could do was chuckle at the site and cough at the smoke. I sighed in relief that I had moved away from the insecurity pumpkin patch, because you and I both know, these people turn into pumpkins after their Cinderella Hollywood success stories have diminished into the twilight.

IS THERE A MENTOR IN THE BUILDING?

Do people really know what they are doing in the film industry or do they merely fly by the seat of their sequined pants? I
wholeheartedly believe that most people, more often than not, fake it until they make it in any business, to some extent, but not without some help. My observation has been that when someone does make it, either by chance or by hard work, most keep their secrets to their success securely hidden in their back pocket, but why intentionally keep them concealed? How about sharing the wealth of knowledge to an unknown who is just trying to learn the ropes? What have you got to lose? Seriously. You aren’t going to be around forever, so why not pass it on? You’ll gain good Karma, I promise!

All I want is a mentor. Is that too much to ask? I want somebody to say, “HEY, why don’t I show you the ropes” or something along those fruitful lines that I so long to hear from the lips of anyone…um…somewhat normal. I’ve had a few crazy folks say they would help, but that always turns into an “I saw that one coming” kind of a disaster. I’m never totally shocked when something goes wrong, but it would be nice if I could say one day that so-in-so really helped me out in this business, without any kind of ulterior motive lurking in his or her dark alley of a mind.

Every so often, I think, “now is my chance to learn!” and I really become excited about the possibilities that could be excavated from the underground Hollywood vault I am about to discover! Maybe I’ll find the secret scroll to success ala “Kung Fu Panda” style! Yes! Po, from that incredibly delightful movie which was garnished with Buddhist afterthoughts and quests for personal growth, had that mentor I am longing for so desperately. He had two mentors, actually; a wise old Yoda-like tortoise, and a rabbit who at first hated Po’s guts, but learned to accept Panda Po for who he was as a…uh…person or, pardon me, as a panda. The hare saw Po’s faults, but used them as a way to enhance Po's character and, as a result, made him into a better panda. Brilliant! Does this actually exist outside of a cartoon? I never got a tortoise nor a hare to show me how to cross that finish line of success.

Sigh. There is still time, my child...right? Right??? God, I hope so.

Of course, I come across some, shall I say, interesting individuals in the film industry who are down right cruel. All I ask of them is, instead of being nasty or revengeful, try being helpful. The former is a mark of insecurity anyways. Is that what you want to be known for? If not, then extend your hand to those who ask kindly for your guidance and see what happens. I bet you’ll feel pretty damn good about yourself when it is all said and done.

There, Universe, I've asked for my mentor and if it means I must play the part myself, so be it. Just let me know, so I can start acting.

What is your Security Blanket?

Do you ever think "that could never happen to me!" and then realize that the "that" you are thinking of is actually happening to you? Whether positive or negative, I know you've had "that" thought. For argument's sake, I will take the negative rather than the positive, and go from there.

When I see the many drug addicts downtown as I sleepily saunter to work at 9am every morning, I think "that could never happen to me." In the same fashion, when I hop over the sleeping homeless man who is sadly trying to keep warm under a fire blanket in a somewhat sheltered stairwell in my parking garage, I think again, "that could never happen to me." Or can it?

How does someone get to "that" point in their life? I've been asking myself this particular question lately as the bleakest economic time I've seen in my life is hitting everyone, and it is quite accurately hitting me. Call me narcissistic, yes, but people, this is a blog and blogs are just that...somewhat shameless. I am hoping that by me writing about my own "that" in life, you might put your own life into perspective. You might, perhaps, even have a sobering thought that no matter what your situation is, it could be worse, like the man in the stairway who is barely covered by his security blanket.
What is your security blanket? Is it an actual blanket like the man in the stairwell, or is it a little something, dare I say, cushier? Could it be your nest egg that is slowly going down the drain? Is it your overpriced car? Maybe it is the $30K you've saved up for a down payment on a one bedroom condo in the "coolest" part of town which has subsequently dwindled away in GM stock...oops! I still have a GM credit card. Seriously. They took away my points, but probably because they knew I'd never buy one of those fuel hungry wheelbarrows anyway!
Whatever your blanket, at least you aren't the man in the stairwell. How do I know that? Well...you are on the internet, therefore you must have some form of shelter in order to read this blog entry.

I'm not saying our hard times aren't valid just because we aren't shivering under a blanket like Mr. Stairwell, but it does make you think a little, doesn't it? Whether you've lost your job or you are losing copious amounts of security blanket-esque capital, you'll most certainly come out of this eventually, you'll find another job and, hey, you'll even forget this ever happened, because humans are great at forgetting...

The Naked Truth Behind a D-Movie

The blundering bumble from a poorly written script is part of my ever challenging life of auditioning. What happened to my former life of Shakespearean Old English stage productions and comedic endeavors written by me? I'm not saying I'm a comedic genius, but I'd rather perform a stand-up show that flops, than a sexy maiden speaking poor English for a D-Movie production. Hey, they make money off of DVD sales, I get it, but really? Are you serious?

My cousin rehearsed lines with me one night and she couldn't stop laughing, because the script was so poorly written that it was almost not worth walking in for the call. It was one of these hot babes and violence deals. Ironically, I booked a role like this recently and I turned it down. I turned it down! In the past, young and desperate to act, I may have taken this role, but now...are you kidding me? I understand when the role calls for a certain type of action, and even though I might feel uncomfortable, I am the type of girl who wears a turtleneck instead of a bathing suit to the beach, and I admit, that is also an extreme reaction, so I have to get over this as an actress. Show a little skin? Sigh...fine.

One fruitful day back in Hollywoodland, I dressed in my confident get-up to prance around Bev Hills and as I walked down Rodeo Drive, I noticed a management company with a store front heading "Zeus Management" a pseudonym...highly unusual as these types of agencies don't usually solicit their business to the public, but nevertheless I walked in, uninvited. I was a cute 24 year old redhead, confident that I'd at least get a second glance, so me being uninvited was never an issue. I simply didn't care if they kicked me out.

The Greek man standing next to a wall of headshots, turned around and scowled at my unannounced arrival. He took my headshot and as I was heading out the door, he told me to sit down for a moment. Wow! Really? My uninvited entrance actually worked this time! So there I sat listening to his mumbo jumbo about what it means to be an actress in Hollywood. My excitement stemmed from my immediate response of "he is interested in signing me! Finally, an agent in Hollywood!" and then I slowly realized, as he kept speaking, that his actors were objects to him. He told me that acting requires you to accept roles you won't feel comfortable doing and I must take whatever role was offered, no matter how much nudity was in the film. WHAT????

Just to paint a positive picture here, he was obviously a fraud. My agent here is one of the best in the city and she said "If you feel uncomfortable wearing shorts and a tank top on set, I respect that. Never accept a role you feel comprises who you are as a well-trained actor." THANK GOD there are people like her. Mr. Zeus, above, didn't respect a single soul that graced his glamorous wall of working actors. Whether they knew that or not, I don't know. Some actors come from outer space and some come from a well-trained Shakespearean background with a degree and that single degree gets me further than an alien actress from the moon, I'll tell you that much.

Act like you have a Real Job

I took a not-so-long break from the art of acting, as I settled back into Canada. Acting in LA was more on the comedic side of things in more ways than one. It consisted of Friday night hosting at the Laugh Factory for South Floridian retired tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and silver-grey ponytails as their "fancy" clothes to a swanky Hollywood comedy club. Oh yes, sitting ducks for teasing, usually because they sat in the front row, hoping to what? Become blinded by the stage lights? What were these people thinking? Sitting ducks, I say. Quack, Quack for Hollywood.

I had a swanky job at a Hollywood studio and used my lunches as a disguise for jaunting off daily to commercial and print auditions; a tedious adventure as I hoped to make it back to my office before forcing unsuspecting entrepreneurs to sign on the dotted line for whatever sordid deal we were conjuring up that day. It was a bit of a tedious endeavor...driving around in ridiculous Hollywood, auditioning and the other side of who I am, an uptight business woman? It doesn't make sense, does it?

Usually, my adventures would be for some silly AXE Body Spray commercial where I had to take a bite out of a fictitious chocolate man, a commercial which won a prize at Cannes, yet only paid their actors $1000 flat for the role. Those Robber Barons! After the audition, I'd frantically speed back to the studio as fast as I could, and role into my office in less than an hour. I had it down to an art, seriously. I knew every secret route in LA which would lead me to my destination sans traffic. I should write a book for LA visitors "How to Drive in LA like an Actress who Auditions on her Lunch Break."

Now I am back in Canadia, with a fantastic agent pushing me into great roles for "Supernatural" and "Smallville" on a regular basis. It has been very odd getting back into the swing of things. I thought I'd have some time to prepare mentally for these high-caliber roles and high-density auditioning. I'm seeing everyone I've ever wanted to be like in these tense waiting rooms. All are actors I've admired, hoped to audition against, and then I realized something; I AM one of those actors I wished to be for so long! Horrah! The time has come, so what is my problem?

Here is a taste:

At around 4pm, the night prior to my audition, my phone rings. I see the call display from my agent's assistant. I panic. I have an audition the next day around 6pm out at Northshore Studios in North Vancouver and I know that my whole night is now shot. Whatever plans I had are now cancelled or cut short (my boyfriend's favourite) and rehearsing for three hours happens to become my priority. Not that this is a bad thing, but it is the life of an actor. Its the constant battle between wanting these auditions so badly, and keeping a full time job to pay the bills. Which is more important? To me, my acting and TV writing is what I want to do for a living. It is what I trained for years at university for, twice, but I like the stability of an important job as a career woman in the business world, and that too is my reality.

However, receiving last minute phone calls for auditions causes unbelievable anxiety to the point where panic attack-induced worry causes lack of sleep, a dismal next day at my real job, and an audition you wish you had nailed better than you did. I am obsessed with rehearsing, though. I don't go to bed until I know that I can carry a decent audition through the terrible nerves I conjure up while sitting in the tension-you-can-cut-with-a-knife waiting room the next day.

I have refused to become a slave to just one career and I have a steady job that I actually enjoy to a certain extent. It is in the commercial industry where I network and conjure up creative ideas for commercials. I don't audition for commercials anymore, I produce them. How ironic.

One day, the clouds of anxiety will lift, and I will be left to wonder what all my stress was about when I was doing exactly what I wanted to do in the first place. Until the ultimate call of casts occurs, and I see my name lit up on the screen as a story editor, actor, writer or producer, I will not stop my pursuit. I may learn to relax, but I will not learn to rest until the satisfaction of accomplishment becomes better than just plane old satisfactory.

Star Struck or Being Struck Down...Preferences Anyone?

Having just returned from the bold and the beautiful star-studded Toronto Film Festival, I quite honestly miss LA...slightly.

What does it take to get to that "star" caliber? I wandered aimlessly around Toronto this past weekend hoping that I would become star struck by an angelic vision of a glamorous movie star. Instead, I was struck down by human bulldozers as they tried to take a snap shot of Viggo from "Lord of the Rings." At least, I think it was him. It was hard to tell while being blinded by all of the flashing bulbs from the point and shoot cameras held by amateur paparazzi-fans beside me.

I like Toronto. I like it better than LA and possibly even New York, but the weather wouldn't suit my fancy. I once camped out in -20 degree weather, and I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I didn't fall asleep in my outdoor refrigerator, fearing I might never wake to see the light of day again. That would put a whole new meaning to freezing yourself in a time capsule, wouldn't it? But...I digress.

I met up with my up-and-coming actor friend who will be very famous in a matter of months. He will humbly disagree with me on that point, but I have the utmost faith in his career, mainly because he has his head on his shoulders which I can't even say for myself. Is that how you "make it" in sordid Hollywoodland? The other option is to imitate the likes of Amy Winehouse and become famous for “trying” to detox in a five star institute. These are the two extremes of Hollywood; creative stability and creative insanity. I will opt for the former.

My claim to fame this weekend was being interviewed by the "New Tang Dynasty Television" station...what? Yes, that was my question too. They told me they were Russian reporters, but that they are based out of New York, but part of a Chinese TV station. I figure it sounds multicultural, so good on them, oui? You can view the hilarity here by cutting and pasting this link into your browser...
http://english.ntdtv.com/?c=256&a=4831

They were interested in my opinion on the Finnish film "Three Wise Men" which was a great take on men drinking copious amounts of alcohol in a Karaoke bar, all the while reflecting on their sordid and disturbing lives. It was like watching a male version of "Sex in the City" combined with a Finnish re-make of "Leaving Las Vegas." I was left feeling equally hungover and pleased that my life wasn't even half as bad as these "wise men."

In any case, going to a film festival has inspired me. What things could I do with MY life? Maybe next time, the Russian reporter will be replaced by Ryan Seacrest, and I too will have flashing bulbs of star struck fans vying for my million dollar smile. Uh...right. Would I even want that? Careful what you wish upon a star for…

By Ms. Heels

Flakes of the Centered and Balanced Cosmopolitan Lifestyle

Why is it that the biggest flakes in Hollywood claim to be the most balanced? It is always someone creative, artsy, and nuts about yoga who, lets face it, is just plain nuts. I’m a creative almond myself which is why it is irritating to be pigeonholed into the same flakes and nuts cereal bowl.

For example, lets pretend you are set to meet someone for lunch or coffee. If it is a man in Hollywood you are meeting, he will almost always suggest "cocktails" which, if you are a woman, you should politely suggest lunch as not to get yourself in a sticky situation, and you know I'm talking about the residue left from spilling a sugary cosmo on yourself while trying to slap the scum-bag's hand off your thigh. You call, confirm the time, and they inevitably cancel. First time, no problem. Its understandable. The second meeting is set up immediately upon cancellation, and then on the day of, they cancel again, but this time with an elaborate excuse like “my house is flooding.” Oh really? Its So Cal. It doesn't rain here. Ok, so you know they're lying, but you give them the benefit of the doubt and stupidly set up the third, the fourth and even *sigh* the fifth meeting before you sheepishly realize you are now the test dummy in their experimental reality show called “who is the sucka now?” Well, suck it up and walk away. They aren’t worth being the slurping straw you keep trying to suck that last tiny drop out of anyway.

When this happens in Hollywood North, it might be the Canadiana perspective of trying not to rock the boat if it is a business meeting cancellation, because Canadians don’t like confrontation. In America, there is no excuse for such elusive behavior, since Americans usually do what they do best and bluntly show their disgust for the world or people around them without pressing the sensor button. I actually admire those yanks for their lack of passive aggressive comments such as “I don’t think you fit here” or just the plain old “lets face it, you suck” which is usually the New York style of extinguishing a contact. Hey, at least you aren't left wondering what happened.

This flaky five meetings in a row cancellation policy happens a lot in the Film and TV industry and everyone tries to save face in case that contact happens to make it big, no matter who is on the receiving “cancelled-on” end. They say, don’t burn any bridges, but why the heck not? Bridges can always be re-built and usually with some better contact materials!

Stay tuned for a glam story on the casting couch...don't worry, I don't sit on dirty couches.

By Ms. Heels

An Actress without Dysfunction...An Oxymoron.

The forebrain does not fully develop until the age of 25, so naturally, at the age of 24, moving to Los Angeles knowing absolutely no one, seemed logical. At 25, when one develops that elicit forebrain, you begin to think of consequences, danger and possibly even...death. At 24, you’re invinsible.

So there I was, without a brain, leaving for the Hollywood Hills where my mother took her first breath at The Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital fifty some-odd years prior to my arrival. Packing my bags to escape to my mother’s “home” town, practically overnight, seemed adventurous, glamorous and somewhat naive. I knew only one person in Hollywood...one person in the 10 million plus city was at least…someone.

One would think that an actress probably comes from a broken home of vodka-holics, foster-child abandonment, middle-America poverty, trailer trash Aunts and Uncles, and abusive dead-beat, just out of jail boyfriends. You know, the stuff that memoirs are made of. Me? Well…my entire family is well-educated, employed, and they have all of their teeth.

I was always the chatty kid, the one who loved to perform, laugh, make up stories, and write radio shows. I even pretended I was some big time studio exec, which is ironic because of where my career headed later…similar to that office game I used to play, minus the "big time" part, but I’m only 27, so only time will tell. I was the perfect prodigy for a stage mom to exploit, however, my parents were too busy in school to even entertain the thought of making me into the next Jodie Foster or Shirley Temple, so I entertained myself. No one pushed me to become an actress/comedian, except my highschool acting teacher who was also the same woman who taught the Matrix star. My acting teacher, who abandoned her own daughter to become an actress (dysfunction at its best), sat me down one day and said “Stephanie, you are a talented comedic actress, and I encourage you to get your Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and pursue this as a career.” Oh, really? I thought actors just wake up one morning, glance at their reflection (several times) in the mirror, and narcissistically believe their looks will grant them an Oscar as a result of their fab genes. Actors can be *gasp* educated?

I was aiming for my biology degree until I decided on a whim to audition for the acting program at The University of British Columbia, eh? Only twelve were accepted each year, so it was more of a competition with myself to see if I could get in, rather than an “I really want to do this” career. I thought, if I make it, I’ll become an actress and earn my Bachelor of F^&@# all, as one ignorant ex called my degree. If I don’t, a doctor. Fate led me to the land of Mephistopheles…Hollywood.

Looking back, I certainly could have taken the “easier” path of becoming Dr. So-in-So. Who places “easy” and “doctor” in the same sentence? An actress with hindsight.

That fated day of January 10th, 2005 where I left a man-boy I had been dating for all of two seconds, who’s name I can’t remember, but it was something generic like Dave or Matt or Pablo or something, was the turning point when my forebrain sprouted early. There was a moment of discomfort when my brand new 2004 tin-can of a Nissan Sentra was stuck in four hours of traffic on the grapevine. As I was stuck on the ten lane freeway, packed with other youngins with stars in their eyes, I glanced at that infamous Hollywood sign thinking “this is a BAD sign.” Somehow, I knew this was going to be a lot tougher than I thought, and maybe it was time to pray to my angels in Los Angeles for some much needed guidance. Are there even angels in LA?

It wasn't all bad at first, it was all bad later.

The Bad: All within a month, I got into a car accident, had my wallet stollen, was dumped by my British boyfriend, dropped my cell phone in the toilet…twice, and started serving tables. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Sign me up!

The Good: My dream had always been to perform on the Comedy Store stage ,and I accomplished my goal within the first two weeks of living in Hollywood for a TV show "Polly" Shore was producing and no, "Polly" Shore is not dead. I know what you are thinking...isn't it Pauly? Yes, but he is kind of feminine, so I changed his name. Comedy Store stage? Check. Mission accomplished, time to move home.

But I didn’t head home, I headed for The Hills, and that is where the story begins…

To Be, or Not to Be...A Londoner

Picture this...



A vacation of high tea in splendid grandeur, surrounded by romantic renaissance architecture, gestures of European affection toward pastry treats, and Shakespearean worthy adventures in the Cotswolds. Bored yet? Envious yet? Shall I continue...yet?


Honestly, Los Angeles seems like a fetus compared to such a cultured city of mouth watering fashion, highly performed British speech and note-worthy theater outings in the overseas market of London town. I'm almost embarrassed to talk about what LA has to offer compared to what I have just experienced!


After having taken my extravagant adventure in order to find the Hugh Grant to my Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, I was also cordially surprised to find that I could possibly become quite the alcoholic in a society based around having a pub on every corner. How fun! Ten pounds later and I'm re-thinking that thought. Perhaps London-born folk aren't that healthy, but they sure know how to enjoy this sordid short life we all live. Remember, I come from the land that makes starvation in Africa look like child's play, and enjoying life means hitting the trendy clubs where "The Hills" ladies "might" appear. Ooo La La-uren Conrad!


Why isn't LA like Europe? What is wrong with having a bit of culture, history, and God forbid, CLASS. Europeans have this way of housing a secret affinity for cultured awareness. The most surprising of individuals can tell you the history of a 15th century pub owned by Henry VIII back in the days where vulgarity was a virtue, and gluttonous stuffings of the face were fancifully rewarded, but the pub still lives regardless of either one getting in the way.


I had a marvelous host though, which makes all the difference in the world. Sharing a pint of Bitter, my new favorite drink, with the Hugh Grant of Hugh Grants (before Devine Brown) fulfills that European fantasy, doesn't it? Forget Hollywood glamour, I'd rather spend time with a dapper commonwealth chap ready to play a drinking game before a cultured theater event. The best of both worlds!


The Cotswolds:
I'm sure the romantic fantasy of moving to a small sheep town emulates mouth watering notions of Jane Austen's Wentworth Miller coming to rescue you ladies on his white horse and I have to admit, it isn't far from the truth! Could have sworn I was courted to milk a goat one morning followed by a jaunt to the country estate. All in one day? Why, but of course!


Lets pretend for a moment that you have tickets to a horse race. I'm not talking about the sleazy Hollywood race track and casino, I'm talking about something along the lines of THE ROYAL ASCOTT. Don't get too excited, I wasn't there, but I did see the posh folk who happened to be dressed in their finest racing tweeds that morning at tea. While their high Brit greetings of "darling" and "chap" perfumed the morning's aura of seemingly having just arrived from tea with the Queen, I was...well...trying not to feel embarrassed, nor stick out like a sore thumb by reference of my American drawl asking for more milk in my English Breakfast...tea, that is. I did "try" to resume my famous posh impression of Bridget Jones' accent several times while embarrassing my host, I'm sure! Brit in my last life? Perhaps.


Other than the beautiful Cotswolds, High Tea at the Wosley (doesn't that sound posh?) and splendid hours at The Victoria Pub where Princess Di used to date young chaps, one must wonder if this is how Londoners actually live. Perhaps this is the UK's version of a mature Disneyland, minus Mickey and Minnie unless those are the names of your race horses at Ascott.


I can always go back when I finally get sick of rummaging through my glamorous life in LA. I make the most of pretending to be a movie star half of the time, but Europe is different. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone but myself. Such a satisfying bonus of contemplation and self reflection.

Hey London...time for tea!
Ms. Heels