I love you too Mom

I got to watch Vampire Diaries tonight at Lisa's thanks to the magic of TiVo. I told Lisa I haven't loved a show this much since The O.C. She laughed because she knows. After that we watched Grey's. I am not a fan of Grey's Anatomy. I can't stand Meredith or her miniature version they call her sister, but I tolerate them because Lisa likes the show quite a bit. However, tonight's episode was a total stinker. If you haven't seen the ep yet, you might want to close your window now or hit Next Blog up there and I pray for you that what comes up isn't a porn site if you are at work.

All clear?

Okay, so they did a super holiday special show. First it was Thanksgiving, then Mini Meredith chopped the end of her pinky finger off and they zipped over to Christmas. New Year's concluded the episode. One hour, three major holidays and a chopped off digit. Okay, maybe my CW assignment this week was sub-par, but it was no worse than the November 19 episode of Grey's Anatomy. What with all the sappy miracles, blips of characters (I'm looking at you, surprise daughter of Sloan) it was cheesier than a wheel of smoked Gouda and more gorged with cliches than the greeting card wall at the dollar store. Oh yes, it made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside didn't it America? And then when they played the commercials for the big Christmas sales you said, forget the recession, Derek and Sloan just saved a little boy by picking a blood vessel out of his nose, life is beautiful, I'm going shopping!

On Friday night when I am pulling my hair out trying to fix my story, to breath life into the characters and cut out the cancers that is awful dialogue, when I am ready to throw Mac at the wall and walk away, I will remember this week's episode of Grey's and I will lower the bar for myself a little, just a smidgen so long as I don't resort to Christmas miracles as plot fillers.

Things that stink in the night

Tonight I went to my second last creative writing class. I had worked on my story most of last Wednesday and for a few hours on Friday night. Oh yeah, this was my Friday night last week, watched Vampire Diaries (yes, another teenage drama featuring not one, but TWO brooding boys for me to sigh over--Damon is my favourite) and waited until I started to feel sleepy before I attacked my story again and finished it. I've been finding lately that the writing flows best when sleepiness dulls the inner critic a bit. After a good two hours of work I then left the story until Sunday afternoon when I did some editing before sending it in for the 6pm deadline.

I didn't feel good about the piece. I had a story in mind that I wanted to play out, but what I wrote didn't do it for me. I figured this was just me being overly critical of myself, which I often am. Whenever I used to hand something over to Michael at Good-Wooden Leg to read I would preface it with "I don't like this, or, "I had a hard time writing this part and I don't know if I quite got it right". Michael told me to stop doing that, which is one of the best and most universally applicable rules anyone has ever given me. I still struggle with it though. When I sent in this assignment a few people had already emailed theirs and made comments about being unhappy with their product so I too noted that I wasn't happy with mine.

Even though I knew we would be discussing the stories, I didn't feel anxious about talking about mine and facing the critiques until my instructor said to the class, "I have to admit, I was disappointed in this week's work. It was not at the level I feel it should have been for an intermediate class."

At that point I started wondering if I could take off during the 7:30 break and not come back. I wasn't being hard on myself apparently, my work really did suck. Oh God, why did I write that thing? Why did I let myself get all swept away by it? I knew it wasn't strong. I knew I didn't have all the pieces I needed to make it work. I was mad at myself. One of the women in class had written this really great short story--a complete piece of work. I could have done that. I could have taken something from my blog and re-purposed it or come up with something original and written a complete short story but instead I had to go all ambitious and try to write an amazing first chapter of an epic tale of greed, motivation, deceit and sisterly love. I thought about the Post-its on the wall and the notes in my book and wondered why I wasted that time just to come up with the stinker I drafted. Now I was going to hear confirmation from my peers about how awful it was. Yay.

I had handed the story over to my mom on Sunday night for her opinion. She read it during the slower moments of Brothers and Sisters. She pointed out a typo half-way through and said "it's good" upon finishing it. And then I remembered why I never share my writing with my parents and why I repeatedly asked them not to read my blog. I think the last thing my mom has enjoyed reading of mine was a story I wrote in grade two about a man who lived off of potato salad sandwiches. And okay, maybe asking her opinion is a bit like the woman asking her husband if these pants make her look fat, but every time I've tried to share something I've written with my mom she's come back with an "oh, that's nice" kind of response, which to me always sounded more like "oh, that's weird Jill. Why do you keep trying to be a writer anyway?" In grade three I wrote a story about a divorced mother dating a man who doesn't like it when the woman puts her infant girl in dresses. Yes, I've been odd since at least the age of eight. But anyway, how much worse of a critique could I get in class than the quiet review from my mom and the scathing one I give myself?

I think my story was the third one to get critiqued. I braced myself with reminders that it would probably only be five minutes of discussion on how this was cliche and that was weak and the main character was flat. I do have a beautiful imagination, but if it could only dream up scenes for me better than it can imagine critiques, I could be a real success. As it turned out, yes, there were some identified areas that could be tightened up, but there were some parts that really worked for people too, parts that either I didn't really think about or that I worried came across as bland. My instructor even called my last paragraph "poignant".

So now I have the option of editing this piece and making it stronger, or starting fresh with something completely new. I'm not going to look at it again until Friday night (after Vampire Diaries--sigh, now there's a story I'd like to have my name attached to). In that classroom tonight I was ready to throw that story away and never think of it again. But that's what I always do and this year is about change, so I'd like to try to do this differently and see what happens when I stick it out until the thing starts to grow on me.

Here, let's end this post of discomfort with something really bad in a good, sexy way. Allow me to introduce to you Ian Somerhalder, aka Damon Salvator, who definitely does not stink:


See that? See what he's thinking there? I betchya it's: I am grumpy and brooding because I do not have a sunshiney, odd little blonde girl in my life to make me laugh and tell me stories about men who live off of potato salad sandwiches.

Sparkle and Shine

I got to the Good-Wooden Leg Dinner and Dance on Saturday night and double checked the sign on the door because I figured I had to be at the wrong party. The room was decorated with black, white and silver balloons and everyone in there appeared to be wearing black and/or white attire. I thought this was supposed to be Dancing Under the Stars, not the Black and White Ball. I was expecting some hot red salsa dresses and other colourful, fun frocks. The most colourful thing I saw there was a man's festive Christmas tie that was red with a big green tree on it. Trust Good-Wooden to take a holiday party to dulls ville. I myself was wearing The Dress which was silver sequins with splashes of colour. I could feel eyes on me. Making me feel like I stuck out even more was the fact that I was there alone and the rest of my gal pals hadn't arrived yet so I didn't even have anyone to stand around and chit chat with. To help matters I bought myself a drink and walked around the place trying to find someone wearing colour. I relaxed and smiled to myself when a girl walked by me and then turned to her friend and said, "I love that dress." My girlfriends eventually arrived, all dressed in black, of course. To be honest though, it seems that there isn't much out there right now.

The most colour I saw in the room was burgundy. Even the few younger folk there were in their little black dresses. Once again I walked into a Good-Wooden Leg crowd and did not fit in at all. I am getting used to being outstanding.

The event actually was disappointing. I'm glad I didn't fork any money over to attend. When I walked in, after first being overpowered by the black and white colour scheme, I was next thrown by the unmistakable scent of lilies that were the centerpieces at every table. My word, in a world where they ask you not to wear perfume or cologne in the office out of respect for those with scent sensitivity, who's brainwave was it to fill a room with those stinky things? Just throw some geraniums in there and you'd have me keeled over. Yuck.

The best part of the dinner was the vegetables. I could have eaten a plateful of the cauliflower, carrots and red potatoes. The chicken was dry and stuffed with blandness. Standard fare I suppose for these things. The service was quick and efficient though and dessert was tasty.

Seated at our table was one of the corporate lawyers. I remember being in a meeting with her with Head One and Head Two in January. The first thing I noticed about her that day was the awesome shoes she was wearing. She was blonde, fashionable, obviously successful and smart. I learned at the table that evening that she recently moved to a different team as she had been finding it difficult to work under her manager who was rather inflexible and didn't appreciate differing opinions or people who took initiative (Really? At Good-Wooden Leg?). If I was still at Good-Wooden Leg I think I would have called her up on Monday, asked her to join me for lunch and see if I could adopt her as a mentor. She is the woman I want to be. She apparently also has a sizable shoe collection.

After dinner the band came on. I remember the woman who was organizing the dinner and dance had gone to check out a few bands and was really excited about this one. Maybe they were good and it was just the songs they were playing that turned me off--a mix of 50s and 60s stuff. The girls in my party were equally unimpressed though. I don't remember whose idea it was but someone said "maybe we should go check out the other Christmas party down the hall" and I replied with an emphatic yes. As we approached the other ballroom we could hear the dance music and already it sounded promising.





"We have to look natural," Elizabeth said, which only made me crack up. But I regained my composure and led the ladies right through the doors and onto the dance floor of the CAA Manitoba party where we got our grove on to Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

"Everyone's staring at us," Tonia said. I didn't notice, but hey, I was a pale blonde girl in a silver sequin dress, I was already used to sticking out as an eye-catcher that night.

Honestly though, we had such a fun time there. It's been a while since any of us had gone dancing and maybe the fact that we were being a little rebellious made things even more entertaining.

"We should totally do this next weekend," I said. I'm serious, I want to be a Christmas Party Crasher.



One of these things just doesn't belong here...

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

--The Police, Englishman in New York

If I don't make it as a writer maybe I can bottle my ambition

On Remembrance Day this year after 11 am I started writing. By 5:30 p.m. after taking two breaks--one to bake cookies the other to take Elmo for a walk--I had 920 words down. Oh, and don't think a little thing like a 33 minute power failure stopped me either. My trusty boy Mac kept running on battery and the glow from his ultra bright screen was enough to not make my eyes get too weary.

I have three pages down. I need to complete about seven for my class assignment by Sunday night, the results of which I think will end up being Chapter 1 of something sizeable. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna do it and I'm going to go to the Good-Wooden Leg Dinner and Dance on Saturday, start reading that novel for the book club Amara and I have organized and that I will host on December 13, go through that pile of clothes I don't wear anymore and get them out of my spare room, get back into my gym routine that I started last week but dropped after destroying something in my left calf muscle, and then I'm going to do something about world peace because today I am just a bottomless barrel of ambition.

Method to my madness

I was awoken yesterday morning by my story. It was in my head, nagging at me to work on it. Saturdays are supposed to be for sleeping in but like a child it wouldn't leave me be.

And it seems that my story does not want to simply be a short one. No, it wants to be a novel. Why does everything have to aspire to be so grand?

I gave in, turned on the light and grabbed my pen and a pad of lined Post-Its. I started writing down all the pieces I had of The Story--characters and their motivations, conflicts, plot elements and theme. I did that for about an hour and then I stuck them all up on my living room wall. Genius or the work of a mad woman? I honestly don't know.



I may not be blogging much for the next two weeks or so. If I am, it's because I am avoiding my writing assignment or given up completely. I'm hoping it doesn't come to that. I will miss you though I am sure.

This damn pen of mine

ARGH. There are six empty chairs in this room. Why can't one of them be a seat for someone who can sit and listen to me talk out this story I have to write in two weeks? Guy, girl, young, old, I don't care, just someone who knows what it's like to have this mess of pieces and holes and how to make them fit together.

I heart November 2, 2009

Dear Diary,

This morning I needed something designed for me. I was going to go ask Designer A, the guy I have worked on a couple of things with, but he wasn't at his desk so instead I asked Designer J, the dreamiest boy in all of Manitoba Blues Club. When he emailed me the file he called me...Jillian.

When I came down from my perch on Cloud 9 I sent a piece I had been working on to the VP of Client Development. The logo I asked Designer J to help me with was the final piece I needed before I could send the document off. Coach had reviewed it late on Friday and left it on my desk to greet me this morning with a few small edits and the comment, "Jill, I like it!!"

When he replied, The VP had good things to say about it too:

Thank you. This is very well done and it offers the level of detail to meet the needs of our internal audience. I also think it would be appropriate as a reference for external audiences. I think we should consider providing this piece to the Board as well as both the Senior and Leadership Teams.

And then I went back on up to Cloud 9 to enjoy a Jill impresses the VP cocktail.

Weeeeeeeee!

Just so you know, this morning started with me reaching for the box of granola bars on the top shelf of my cupboard and knocking over a cup of water that was on the counter which then spilled all down the leg of my pants. In the three minutes I had to spare before I had to catch my bus I did manage to mostly dry my pants with the help of the hair dryer. So see, I may be incredibly beautiful, talented and have a sweet new job, but yes, even I sometimes have rough Monday mornings.

Jill and Bets go to a wedding

For Halloween this year I dressed up and went to a wedding for my friends Mike and Tracy. They both work at Good Wooden Leg--Tracy's a designer and Mike works on the E-Media team. When I arrived at the venue for the ceremony a bunch of my old co-workers were sitting on the bride's side. They tried to find a spot for my but I ended up taking a seat alone on the aisle on the groom's side. Yup, even in public I just don't fit in that group anymore.

For the reception I was seated at table 17 with Diana, Sandy and her husband Bob, and the other Jill in my old department and her fiance Rob. Yes, table 17 had two Bobs and two Jills. Go figure.

At one point Sandy asked, "So where do you plan on getting married, Jill?" and at first I was going to reply, "Oh Sandy, I haven't even considered that dream yet," but then I realized she was talking to The Other Jill. There were a few moments like that. I'm just not very used to or good at being one of two.

It was really nice to see my old co-workers, my friends! I miss so much having them around me.

I wore The Betseys tonight. When I arrived at the reception I informed Tracy that I hadn't worn The Betseys since my birthday and that they only come out for very special occasions. At the time it seemed like a nice, warm and fuzzy sentimental moment, but that was before I discovered how uncomfortable The Betseys are. I would like to take this moment to say a few words to The Betseys:

Oh Betsey babe, you know I love you. From the moment I spotted you across the room in Macy's I was sold, and then you were sold to me. Bets, you are incredibly sexy and I love that you come from New York. I love the way you secretly wink at me from your soles. But Betsey, baby, you kill me. You put me in so much pain! Make me weak in the knees and numb in my toes, Bets, I can't do this with you all the time. I wish we could go out together more but it just can't work. I like to dance and mingle and you just want me to sit and look pretty with you. What are we going to do Betsey J? What are we going to do?

My Betsey Johnson heels (aka, The Birthday Shoes from New York) have pink soles with Betsey's winking face painted on the bottom. I don't like to wear them out because I don't want to scratch up Betsey's face. Today I wore flats to walk from the parking lot to the venue and then changed into my heels once inside. To further protect The Betseys I also covered the soles with Glad Press and Seal wrap--worked perfectly!

I watched Tracy go into the ladies room with one of her attendants and it made me pause to think--should I ever find myself in a massive white dress of tulle and silk, is there anyone in my life who would come to my assistance when I had to pee? I mean, I love my sister and I love Lisa, but I just don't know if our relationships have provisions for that duty. Note to self, before finding Prince C., ask around to see if you have someone in your life who would hold your skirts up in the loo so you can tinkle.

I was disappointed to learn when I got home tonight that I didn't get any head to toe shots of me and The Betseys. Check out more photos from the wedding here.