Good intentions

I had no intentions of ever doing any kind of writing for work. When I was a kid I always loved writing and creative writing classes at school, but I didn't see how that could equate into a career that would have me living above the poverty line. I didn't really enjoy English classes, mostly because I didn't like the books we read and I wasn't very good at writing essays. I think I scored a 67 on my provincial English exam. I realize now though that English classes were only 20% about writing, and more about being able to form an opinion on what you had read. The only opinions I had about the readings were that they were boring and irrelevant to me.

I also hated gym class. I never learned how to run. Everyone else seemed to just be able to do the laps like they were part gazelle while I just never could find a pace that I could go at and not feel like my lungs were collapsing. I didn't have asthma, but I used to secretly wish I did so at least I'd have an excuse for my performance. (I never felt the peer pressure to try smoking, but I always wondered if one of those puffers could magically make running a little more bearable.)

Yesterday I had two things on my to-do list: go for a run in the park and go see the short films presentation at the Writers Festival. Okay, so they still don't technically pay me to write yet in the creative department at Good Wooden Leg, and I'm still in the learning stages of running, but we've definitely come a long way, baby.

I arrived to the venue early this time, and was one of the first people to buy my ticket. As I waited in the lobby for the doors to the theatre to open, I noticed our local CTV sports anchor chatting with an event organizer. It seemed that he would be hosting the program. Somewhere around this time I also glanced down at my ticket and noticed something odd. My ticket said:

Saturday, September 27, 1:30 p.m. Matinee: Hockey Day in Canada!

I figured there had to be some kind of mistake. Perhaps they had given me the wrong ticket, or I was in the wrong place. I grabbed a program book from the stand and flipped to the blurb on Moving Stories Films. The page read:

Sunday September 28, 1:30 p.m. Matinee: Moving Stories Films

I had read the program wrong, and now I was going to a discussion on hockey literature. This was fantastic for a girl who only knows the term "icing" as it pertains to a cake.

(I would like to now add the subtitle to this post: Jillian, if you are going to take in a writers festival, you should at least first know how to read.)

I suppose I could have tried to explain my situation to the ticket seller, but that seemed a little embarrassing. I envisioned him scowling at me and saying, "What do you mean you don't want to see the discussion on hockey? Are you an American tourist or something?"

So I figured I would just make the best of my mistake. Who knows, maybe Pasha would magically re-appear and I could wink at him again.

I went in, dropped off my entry for the door prize, perused the book table, found a seat in the second row and hoped for the best in something I had no intentions of taking in.

For this session, four authors took turns doing their readings. In between readings, the host asked them questions and opened the floor up for audience members to interview the authors as well.

Regardless of the topic, I think it is always interesting to hear an author talk about their work. My favourite presenter of the afternoon was Paul Quarrington, a Leafs fan who wrote King Leary. The book tells the story of a fictitious hockey hero who is nearing the end of his lifetime and reflecting upon it from the nursing home. The writing is smart and funny, and Paul does a great out-loud reading. I didn't have a pen on me to write down the title, so I tried my best to just commit it to memory.

I was left pleasantly surprised with the session and happy that at least I had learned about one book that interested me.

And then the most perfect part of the afternoon came. The host drew a ticket from the door prize ballot box and announced "Jillian B@rr0tt" as the winner of one copy of each book presented that afternoon.

It was the funniest twist of fate ever. I was so amused by it all that I just had to tell someone what happened. I graciously accepted my books and then headed outside to return my missed call from my dad. Later I realized how terrible that must have looked. I had just won this awesome collection of new books and I didn't stick around to ask anyone to sign them. Fate shakes her head at me a lot for my ungratefulness.

How are you today?

I phoned my dad this morning as I was leaving the house. He asked me, "how are you today?"

"Okay." I said.

"Oh, what's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing, it's just seven in the morning, that's all."

If only that was all.

After I hung up I found myself standing at the bus stop alone. I looked at my watch and it was 7:05. The bus has been all over the map this week because the regular driver is on vacation. Sometimes it is nice and early (on-time, actually, if it arrives at 7:04 or 7:05) and sometimes it is stupid and late (7:07 to 7:09). When it is early, it usually makes me happy because I get a good connection. Except today, when I apparently missed it altogether.

The next bus seemed to arrive about five minutes late. Even the people who regularly take that bus seemed to be looking at their watches and tapping their toes a lot. I had to stand the whole way downtown.

As we were going down Portage Avenue I saw a truck turn onto the street. It was loaded with lumber and plywood and the tailgate was down. I watched as the contents all slid out onto the street. I lurched forward as our bus came to a screeching halt. And then I waited patiently while our bus driver helped the idiot driver load his load back into his truck.

I made a decent connection and finally arrived at my building. As I walked up to the door with a sigh of relief, thinking, "I made it!", I rolled my ankle. I limped in to my office and went straight to Amara's cube to complain. But Amara wasn't there today.

"I have a sympathetic ear," Michael said when he heard my pouting. So I told him the whole story and felt a bit better, if not silly for being so bothered by it all.

Then I turned to my chair and noticed some kind of newspaper item on it. I picked it up and turned it over. It was the Winnipeg Sun TV guide with a very serious looking George Stroumboulopoulos on the cover. Whoever had left it for me also stuck a small post-it by his head and wrote, "Hi Jill I look really serious but it's just because I am thinking of you". I smiled, marking the end of my bad morning, and the start of at least a half-way decent day.

From Random Summer 08

Sometimes I have not-so-fun days at work. Some how though, those are the days when I come back from lunch and find a surprise cupcake, or cookie, or band stickers on my desk from some mysterious donor. It's not always because I've complained loudly, I usually find out later that the treat was a random nice act. There are people I try really hard to win over, there are grumpy people who I sometimes allow to spoil my day, and then there are people who just enjoy me. That will never cease to be humbling or awesome.

The write stuff

I went to a reading tonight as part of the Thin Air 2008, Winnipeg International Writers Festival. I picked tonight's session because it was called Matches and Misses, and was supposed to feature works on the theme of relationships, one of my favourite topics to write and read about.

I almost forgot that I had planned to go. I had pilates tonight until 7:15 and the show started at eight. I needed to stop at the bank to take out money to get in. Short on time, I considered running home and just grabbing a jacket to throw over my workout get up. I heard my sister's voice in my head, "you never know who you're going to meet so you should always look your best". Yeah but really, who was I going to see at a book reading?

Practically tearing my clothes off at the front door, I burst into the house and at least changed into my hot jeans.

I got downtown in time and sprinted to the venue, but slowed my pace when I saw other people leisurely walking up to the doors.

"One please," I said to the guy at the ticket table.

"Student?"

I did, briefly, consider just nodding, but who can cheat a writers festival out of two dollars? I can't.

"Regular," I corrected him and forked over my twenty for the full-price, $12.00 ticket.

I walked in and scouted out a seat. I kind of wanted to sit near the front, so I picked out a spot in the second row. I was about to sit down when I spotted my friend Kerri, who had also just come from our pilates class. Kerri was checking out the books for sale on stage. She at least had had the smarts to leave the class a bit early.

"You should come sit with us, we're just up there some where," she said. Truthfully, my plan had been to take in the show incognito and alone. I didn't unzip my jacket for fear of Kerri discovering that I was still wearing the bright pink top, layered over a black tank and sports bra that I had worn to pilates. But I did join her at her seat several rows up.

The first reader was surprisingly, well, amateur I guess. I liked the story, just didn't much care for the words. Who describes a book cover as "peacock blue" and calls that imagery? Well, at least she wrote a book. At least she's published. I am not.

Someone else better read after her, and then another guy read some poems. He was pretty good, although I've always struggled with finding my appreciation for poetry.

They had an intermission. I was not expecting this. I didn't get up to stretch or visit the bar. I just scanned the room and tried to pick out the cute guys. There was none, of course. Instead I saw mostly women. Mostly older women. Mostly women with big, poofy, curly hair. I don't know why, but that's the image that sticks out in my head.

Aha! I spotted one, a guy, finally. He was on stage, on one of the couches. At first we thought he was just some random guy who decided to sit down on the authors' couch, but then Kerri recognized that he was one of the authors who would read in the second set. He was wearing faded jeans and a brown jacket over a darker brown shirt. He had nice glasses. My favourite part was his hat--one of those newsboy type hats that just left his ears sticking out. His name was Pasha Malla.

He read first. When the host introduced him she noted that he was from New York. Of course he was. Put me in a room of any number of guys and I will be automatically drawn to the one who lives 2000 km away.

Actually, he didn't read first, he told us a story first and it was funny. I could tell right then that he was a story teller. The piece he read us was delicious. Not pretentious, not trying too hard, his writing voice was natural and very likable. He was, by far, my favourite of the whole night.

Two more authors stepped up and gave readings before the performance part of the evening was done. When the lights came back on there was a rush of people moving to the book table. Everyone was grabbing Pasha's peacock blue coloured book. (I kid you not. Remember the Peacock Blue pencil crayon in your package of Laurentiens? Exact same. I'm not calling it imagery, I'm just calling it as I saw it.)

I picked up his book, The Withdrawal Method, and held it for a moment. I turned it over and looked at the price sticker--$29.95. The budget does not really allow for $30 hardcovers right now. I looked at Kerri.

"If we buy the books here, it means the authors will autograph them for us, right?"

"Yeah," she said.

I pulled out Mr. MasterCard. This was going to be worth it.

After paying, I walked over to the couch where Pasha was sitting and chatting with David Bergen. I, politely, interrupted to ask Pasha if he would sign my book.

"Sure," he said. He looked up at me and then I noticed his (what the hell, let's try it) peacock blue eyes. (Now that I think of it, that pencil crayon was always the shortest one in the package by the end of the year.)

"You're the cutest author here," I said with a shy grin. And then I felt my eye twitch. And I thought, did I just wink? I never wink. I've tried it at home, in front of the mirror, and I look like a total ned (that's ned, not nerd) doing it, so I just don't have it in my repertoire. Usually I am a pretty smooth flirt. Tonight I was tripping all over myself like a thirteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers autograph session at the mall.

He took a long time to write the inscription. I peeked but didn't want to read it as he wrote. Mostly I just checked to see if he was noting any seven digit numbers. I waited until I got home to read it.

And now I'm reading it.

"Hi Jill--
Thanks so much for your support. Certainly no shame in being "cute" either. Hope you enjoy the stories!"

OHMYGOD I'm sleeping with it under my pillow tonight.

And I, Pasha, hope that you too enjoy my stories (y'know, someday).

The Green Team

When you don't have a story, get out and join one.

I found out through Nigel today that Elizabeth May, leader of the federal Green Party, was stopping in Winnipeg as part of her green train tour. She was due to arrive at 11:20 a.m. so I decided to walk down to Union Station during my lunch hour to check her out.

I don't really align myself with any particular party, but I do enjoy the political process. If you go to any party gathering you can feel the energy and positive spirit as people rally around a shining leader. Everyone is full of hope and optimism. It's like Christmas!

George Stroumboulopoulos interviewed Elizabeth May last year on The Hour and I found her to be passionate, engaging and inspiring. I'm not really certain yet on who I will give my vote, but I did want to see her speak in person.

From The Green Vote

Nigel is helping Jessie Klassen, the candidate in the Winnipeg Centre riding, with her campaign. He's on vacation this week and was surprised when I showed up to the gathering today.

"Do we get to see the the green train?" I asked him.

"Ah, no," he laughed.

"But that's what I came for! I want to see this train."

"Well the train isn't actually green."

I frowned. "Well that's disappointing."

"This is the green party. You know they don't have any money, right?"

I looked around at the decent turnout of typical granola crunchers, moms with kids and youthful earth-crusaders. Riiiight. I'm just so used to seeing green associated with the money-belching Good Wooden Leg. Pantone 347 I believe, to be exact.

From The Green Vote

As I chatted with Nigel there were people handing out signs, reporters interviewing curious by-standers and local candidates talking to supporters. Elizabeth's arrival was delayed and my lunch hour was dwindling away.

From The Green Vote

I ended up having to bail on the event before getting to see Elizabeth, which was rather disappointing. But Nigel offered to take pictures for me so I could have some visuals to share.

On October 14, please get out and vote.

Let them eat cake

I went back to pilates today for the first time since we took a break for summer. I was kind of dreading going. It was hard. The whole time I was thinking, "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't like it. I wish Amara was here." Of course, on the way home I enjoyed the post-workout endorphin high so I will go back next week and maybe complain a little less.

And then when I got home I finished making my three-layer chocolate peanut butter cake. It was a three day process, which is appropriate for a three layer cake, I think.

This is the cake that inspired me:



And this is how mine turned out:

The recipe was easy, but I think it was short on the cream cheese-peanut butter icing (the yellow part). The chocolate glaze recipe also seemed to not call for enough chocolate, so I added more. My cake looks a lot taller though. I hope it is tasty. I planned on eating a slice today, but after all that work, I just can't bear to cut into it just yet.

I did not mean for this to be a rant

I did not go to work today. I got up this morning, showered, dressed, did my hair and face and ate breakfast. I realized though that I still had a cough that sounded like a 1991 Nissan Sentra trying to turn over. Just like on Friday, I felt like my energy levels were normal, but decided this time I would try sacrificing a day of work instead of contaminating the office. So I washed my face, got back into my pajamas, took a shot of NyQuil, went back to bed and slept for six hours.

Thank goodness when I turned on the TV it was well past The View time slot. I did however get to tune in for the Tyra Banks show, which was doing a follow-up show on a young woman who was forced into prostitution by her father, who also looked after her bikini waxings. Oh how I long for the simpler days of Sally Jesse Raphael and the "Are they men or women?" episodes. It baffles me how this stuff gets approved for daytime television while parents groups get all hot and bothered if someone says "shit" on prime time. By the way, George Stroumboulopoulos said "shit" twice on the season five opener of The Hour tonight, but there was absolutely no mentioning of waxing of any kind during the interview with Ricky Gervais.

A long time ago, we used to be friends

So I lived, by the way. Thank you all for your expressed concern. Sheesh, witness to my last will and testament was one giggly school girl and a drunk (see the comments). There is a scene in a story to that somewhere... (You know I'm laughing and not really upset right? Laughter is the best medicine after all.)

On Saturday my mom, dad and I drove up to the cottage to dismantle and bring home the bunk beds that rightfully belong to me and my sister. They were our very first real beds once upon a time. Now that we each have our own houses with spare rooms, we all agreed that the beds would be better served here in the city.

Before the bed arrived, the room was just kind of a walk-in closet and holding space for stuff I wasn't sure what to do with. I just now finished putting the sheets and comforter on. It's weird, it looks like a real room now, but not mine. It feels like someone else's space and it looks like someone should be sleeping in it. I don't know why it feels so foreign, it's all my stuff. My old bed, my old comforter, my old sheets and my stuffed animals. Every time I walk by it I catch myself looking in to see if the girl who is supposed to be living there has come home yet. Maybe I'm still delirious. Maybe I'll get used to it, or maybe it would be better if I put something in there that I'd actually use, like a desk, it would feel more like my space again. I just never thought that I'd feel so detached from the Jill who used to sleep in that bed. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing a ghost.

You give me fever

I feel like crap. And in my delirious state, I am convinced that you want to read all about my icky-ness.

I woke up from a strange dream this morning feeling alright, aside from the persistent sore throat. It was department fun day today, so I figured I was good enough to at least put in a half day. Plus, I didn't want to miss out on the free hot dog lunch.

Shortly after sitting down at my desk with a big mug of tea, the aches set in. I was hot and cold, pale and flushed. I should have gone home. I don't know why I can't give in and accept when I need to spend a day in bed. No wait, I remember. I hate daytime television. Especially American daytime television, and most especially The View, which seems to be the only thing on.

Some how, the morning faded into noon, and we were free to head out to the corn maze. I was starving for my free hot dog. Accompanied by a bag of chips and some potato salad, it did not disappoint.

But only 30 minutes into the maze challenge, I was really regretting those 1000 milligrams or so of salt I had consumed at lunch. It was actually a warm day, somewhere around 25 degrees. The slick mud trails were looking so inviting. At first I was adamant about not taking the cheater trails, cutting in between the real trails, but I soon gave up my principles in favour of getting the whole thing over with already.

As we made our way through the maze, we were also supposed to find posted signs with hole punches to punch a game card. There were eight stations in total. After just over 75 minutes with five punches in our card, we called it a day and found our way out. I made my way to the concessions stand and bought the tastiest bottle of water I've ever had. Gas prices jumped again today, but it's still cheaper per litre than water. Barely.

I got a ride home in the back of Judy's car with Cindy and Tonia. They were happily chirping away about boys and weekend plans. I felt bad that I couldn't join in on the giggles. There may be a party to go to tomorrow night. It would be in my best interest to go.

I'm now home, in my room, with the Bomber game on the radio (we're killing Toronto early in the fourth). My fever has seeped into my eyeballs and it makes me wonder if you can cook contact lenses.

Now, I rarely get sick, but I'm pretty sure no one has ever felt this yucky before, and surely I will be dead by morning. Clearly. So, y'know, love you guys. It's been great writing for you all. Tell George Stroumboulopoulos that I love him and I'm sorry I could not have his children.

Back at it

I feel like some kind of post-vacation wrap up blog is in order, but I've probably waited too long now to say anything meaningful. The time off and away was wonderful. I didn't blog it before, but one of my favourite nights in Winnipeg was when I dressed myself up and took myself out on a date to the Fort Garry Hotel lounge. I took a seat at the bar where all the business men were sitting with their Blackberries and laptops. I looked over the wine list and had an idea of what I wanted, but the guy next to me suggested something, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

"What do you think?" he asked. I lied and told him it was good. There isn't really a wine I don't like, but I would've enjoyed my first pick more.

"I can never get used to the idea of stemless wine glasses," he said, pointing to my stunted goblet.

"I know, at the cottage we had a bunch of plastic glasses that looked like this because the stems broke off, so this style always makes me think of something broken." He laughed and told me something about his sister that I can't remember any more. I turned my attention back to the Winnipeg postcards I had purchased.

One of the things I loved about travelling when I was a kid, was sending postcards. Today I think it's a dying activity, given that you're usually closer to WiFi or an Internet cafe than you are to a stamp and mailbox when you want to get in touch with people back home. The tricky part of the postcard is trying to say something meaningful in such a small space. To help overcome the challenge, I first wrote out my thoughts on a small piece of paper before committing them to the card.

As I sat there in my date outfit, drinking my wine, listening to the cute piano man playing November Rain and crafting my letters, I really felt like I was travelling. No one there knew where I was really from or what had brought me to the bar that night.

After I paid my tab I headed out feeling like a very confident young woman. Until I kind of slipped on the marble and took a knee. Note to self, get worn out heels on boots replaced so you aren't walking around on the bare nail. Seems how nobody rushed to see if I was okay, I assume nobody saw...

I got two very happy responses from the postcard project that made it all worth while.

Now I'm back. Towards the end of my trip, my mom was starting to come down with something. Now I am feeling like I am battling something. The cold creeps in all around me, but it's nothing a little tea can't fix.

It's fall, my favourite season. As the new TV season starts I feel too like new things are happening for me. Stay tuned, I do believe things are about to get interesting.

Miss me yet?

Note: due to the spotty Internet service at the campground yesterday, I had to wait until we got to the Macy's parking lot in Grand Forks to publish this. I wanted to add more pictures, but don't have time. Sorry!

Friday night Lisa and I met for drinks and nachos at Moxie's downtown. We decided to sit in the lounge.

"Can I see some IDs please?" the high school cheerleader of a waitress asked us.

"I almost wanted to ID her to see if she was old enough to serve us. Apparently at 27 we can still pass for high schoolers!" We laughed. We know, this is a good thing.

After Moxie's we headed over to Portage Place with the intentions of catching U2 at the Imax. I even had a buy-one-get-one-free coupon. I got up to the ticket window and let out a sigh. A piece of paper taped to the window read:

"The 9:30 pm showing of U2 3D has been cancelled. Sorry for any inconvenience"

"Can I at least get my parking validated?" I asked the girl behind the glass. At least that inconvenience was taken care of.

After some Starbucks and big dreams chit-chat with Lisa, I headed home to finish packing up my stuff for my getaway to America.

We took our time getting to the destination--Albertville and its many many outlet shops. We got there around four on Sunday evening. It was hot and humid. Traffic going into the mall was so busy, they had the county sheriff directing people into the parking lot.

Mom and I went in while dad stayed back at the RV with Elmo. We didn't quite finish the first block of the mall before we had to head back so we'd make it to the campground before sun down. I came back with one pair of runners. Not exactly a stellar performance, but a decent kick off to my goal of five pairs of shoes.

Back at the campground my dad got on the Internet with the free WiFi. Someone turned on the TV and got the local CW channel. Thank God for the RV's air conditioning. I can still call it camping, we roasted hot dogs over a fire. (Call it whatever you like, I still like it better than staying in a hotel.)

On Sunday, another scorcher, we headed back to the mall to finish what we had started. Again, dad and Elmo stayed back in the motor home. I felt bad for Elmo. When I came back for some lunch he was looking pretty hot and uncomfortable. My dad was fine. He had beer.

I was determined that I was going to dedicate my funds to buying shoes, most likely at the Nine West outlet. But after resisting the fashions at The Gap, Polo Ralph Lauren, Guess, Bath and Body Works, and making a small exception at Banana Republic, I was supremely disappointed in the offerings when I arrived at the Nine West store. Desperate to put money down for some new footwear, I went to every other shoe store, even the old lady ones. The two young guys working at Aerosoles were very friendly and helpful, but sadly, they did not have anything that made my eyes lit up (aside from themselves, of course, but in my melting and disappointed state I was in no shape for any kind of flirtations.)

My favourite purchase was a cute, straw hat for less than $8.00. I also got a pretty dress for $16 (even with no place to wear it yet, at that price I couldn't really say no). I did end up with another pair of cute runners from the Nike store.

We planned to check out the zoo on Tuesday. Of course, summer had moved out at the end of the holiday Monday, so it was cool and drizzly. Minneapolis has two zoos, the Minnesota Zoo and the Como Zoo. I had a hard time choosing (Dad would not do both) because one was large and spectacular, while the other was small and free and featured a PENGUIN exhibit. I chose the large and spectacular Minnesota Zoo. It was not a disappointment.

Today we are on our way back, somewhere around St. Cloud. The Internet here is spotty. I checked e-mails but had the hardest time getting a connection long enough to reply. I refuse to log in to chat--that is where I draw my line.

I will be home on Friday and my long vacation will soon wrap up. I feel very good, here, on a Wednesday, so far away from work. I miss my friends there, but I did have a terrible dream this morning about a jobsheet meeting.