Tick/Talk

"Did you eat yet?" my mom asked me on the phone on Friday evening.

"Yeah, I had popcorn," I said. It's that time of year again where when I come home on Fridays I just want to sit outside and eat popcorn for dinner.

"Oh, did you have beer with that?"

"No," I laughed. "Getting tipsy on a gimpy ankle didn't seem like the best of ideas, mom."

"Your dad is worried you're not eating properly," she said. I wasn't sure how serious this passed on sentiment was. Maybe he was serious, maybe he said it jokingly, but don't even get me started on his eating habits. I know my dad worries about me more than he lets on though and I suppose his daughter passing out on a downtown sidewalk last week really didn't do much to give the poor old guy any relief. I did eat that day, for the record. It's the drinking fluids part that I have a strange aversion to and had better learn to smarten up on.

On Sunday afternoon I took a drive up to Gimli with Judy. Before she picked me up I was at my mom's and dad's. I was scratching Elmo under his chin when I felt the sickening little lump. I took a closer look. Yup. Wood tick. A big one. It was white already. Then I looked at his ear and spotted two more, a little smaller. I don't mind ticks normally, but when they get big they do gross me out a bit.

"Go see dad," I told Elmo. We walked together to where Dad was watching a race on TV.

"Elmo has wood ticks." I announced. "Is Gordon still in the lead?"

"No, he's in second. Elmo has wood ticks? What do you want me to do? Go pull them off."

Poor Elmo hates wood tick season. He gets all jumpy whenever you slowly comb through his fur or let your fingers linger a little too long over his ears. Don't try to feign an innocent little belly rub with him. He knows.

Mom cornered him by the back door and I pretty much sat on the poor guy to pin him down so she could do the dirty work. Every time after she's pulled the tick out, she shows it to Elmo to prove to him that she was doing something good for him. I caught a glance of the bugger in the Kleenex and had to put my hand to my stomach while doubled over with disgust.

"Yeah, and who wants a dog?" Dad said.

"Well what am I supposed to get, a hairless cat?"

"It's just like a kernel of corn," Mom said after the two of them pulled another one off. I had to leave.

I don't know where I was when Judy was announcing at her goodbye party last week that she was going to be spending the summer in Gimli. I didn't ever leave the table, but maybe those syrupy sweet belinis got the better of me and I missed that entire part of the conversation. Anyway, on Sunday morning I called her up to reply to a text she had sent me the night before. "Men suck" it said. "Indeed they do," I replied when I called her. It was during that conversation I found out that she was going to be away for the whole summer. The WHOLE SUMMER. I've never had a best friend leave me behind for summer camp or anything like that, but I imagine this is what it would feel like. Major suckage.

Gimli is a small beach/fishing town in the Manitoba Interlake region, about an hour's drive north of Winnipeg. Judy's in the military and landed a term job doing PR work for the Air Cadets training camp there. She wanted to take a load of her stuff up there and check out her summer digs. Along the way Judy told me about her guy troubles with Knucklehead, the on again/off again man in her life.

"The longest we've ever gone without talking is a month," she said. "Without him, I'm not the same. I'm like 10 per cent Judy."

"You know that's the same rationalization alcoholics use?" I said with a sympathetic smile. We see it all the time, don't we? Smart girls with these mixed up guys who just break their hearts. From the outside it's so easy to see, but when you're the girl with that mess of a guy and your heart is in it 100 per cent, it's damn near impossible to operate with logic or any small bit of deserved selfishness. I know. I've been the outside observer and inside idiot more than a few times.

Judy introduced me to a few people she knew on the base. I won't get into it, but boy is she walking into a soap opera up there. I told her she needs to blog all this stuff. She promised to keep an eye out for persons who may be of interest to me. They have parties and social nights up there and we agreed that it would be fun for me to come up and visit. Me. Pilots. I can hear the theme from Top Gun playing already. Hey, didn't Maverick have a motorcycle? Please don't tell my poor father.

On the way home it was my turn at the confessional but talking gave me no relief or new insight into my history. I've told my stories enough times, walked around and examined them from all angles to the point that I just don't care anymore to look.

"You've gotta get on writing that book of yours," Judy said. "I read your blog the other day and my heart just went out to you."

I was avoiding it all weekend but when I got home on Sunday night I did do a little bit of writing. Not enough, but a start, thanks to Judy's little nudge of encouragement. Feel free to nag me at random with reminders to keep it up. I'm not the best at self-discipline.

I am so done with this week

I think I killed one of the Sea Monkeys.

I was counting them this afternoon but could only find five. I counted again and again. Big Mac was there, the twins were there, Edgar was there and so was Pixel but I couldn't see Perry nor Chico. I peered closely at the bottom of the tank amongst the algae blooms that looked like trunkless trees, or green tumbleweed perhaps. I spotted Chico and then I saw Perry in the greenery. Perry was looking out at me but not moving. I sloshed the water a bit. Perry tipped to the side and then righted up again with the movements of the water. The tail did not flit about.

At first I thought that Perry was just stuck in the algae. I had seen Chico get stuck there earlier today. Chico's tail or perhaps string of poop seemed to get caught on the mossy green fluff. Chico flailed about trying to break free but it wasn't until Mac swam through Chico's tail and broke it that Chico was freed. So I sloshed the water again to see if I could dislodge Perry from the algae, but again Perry just tipped over sideways and then slowly bobbed back right-ways like one of those inflatable clown punching bags.

I rested my head in my right hand. Ouch. The spot above my eye was still bruised and tender to the touch. Had I done this? When I was oxygenating the tank today I noticed twice that a Sea Monkey got stuck to the side of the emptied container, the first time in the measuring cup, the second time in the tank. It was still wiggling so I just quickly poured the water back into the empty vessel and assumed nothing was critically traumatized. Maybe I was wrong? I stared at Perry's beady little Sea Monkey eyes with a heavy heart. How was I going to tell Michael?

My ankle was doing better. Yesterday when I got out of bed pain shot up my leg when I put weight on any part of my foot other than my heel. Once I got it wrapped in the Tensor bandage again though it felt a little better to step on. I figured I may as well go to work, maybe get it looked at by the nurse and baby it with some more ice and elevation. My dad kindly drove me in before he started his day. Some people were surprised to see me there, but you know me, I'm a lousy patient. Besides, I couldn't miss a day of bossing myself around. And what if something important had come up? Then I'd have to tell Michael that I killed one of his Sea Monkeys and I missed something important because I missed work on Wednesday because of a gimpy ankle I injured in a bar fight with some chick who was mad because her husband was hitting on me. Well come on, homewrecker bar fight or bus stop black outs? Which story really sounds like mine?

"We missed you yesterday Jill," Dave, the bus driver said to me this morning. It's nice to be missed. I wore my Nike runners to work and then changed into some kitten heels for around the office. The heels made me have to limp and I was even a little wobbly in them. By lunch time I had given up on following dress code and put my runners back on for some stability. Joanna didn't have to call me Hop Along any more.

I was mad yesterday because I had to miss my Yoga Booty Ballet class. It was supposed to be the last one until fall time as the instructor is going to Italy for two months. I had wanted to give her a card to express my appreciation for the class and her fun spirit. When I started that class I was broken, but it didn't take long for it to help me find my strength and sense of beauty again. That class was a gift that came to me when I really needed it. Yesterday I had to miss it because I was physically broken, or, well, busted somewhat. Sweet Jesus all this giveth and taketh away shit as of late is making me dizzy.

Reflecting upon the ups and downs I've had over the past eight months or so, I said to Joanna at lunch yesterday, "maybe life just decided I needed to go through a few tests before I could go on to the next level, y'know?" I think sometimes we just need a little shake up to push us into something new, make us grow. Normally though I only get about one test a year. Like the job search or the house search. It's been weird lately. I must be on the accelerated track for gifted life learners.

It's supposed to rain all weekend but that's okay with me. It will give me the chance to stay in, read, write and think of how I'm going to tell Michael about Perry on Monday. Maybe I'll play up the limp for sympathy first.

Hitting sidewalk bottom

It was day three of being the boss of me. This morning a rush job came up on Michael's side of things. Michael used to jokingly instruct Amara to just hide under the desk whenever he went away. This rush caught me today in an email, one that had a big red exclamation point on the side to emphasize the emergency nature of the logo request. thankfully Tracy, the designer he usually works with, knew what the client needed and was able to deliver.

I said goodnight to the Sea Monkeys, changed out of my heels into my ballet flats, shut down the computer, slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for home.

It was a warm one again today, about 29 degrees. My first bus took me past the fountain pool at Memorial Park. People had come there to cool off in the mist. On the bus I was certain someone was wearing Hawaiian Tropics sunscreen because I could smell the distinctive coconut aroma that I love. The smell of summer.

The bus stopped at Vaughn and Graham, across from the old downtown Bay. I pressed the yellow strip on the back door to leave. I stepped off the bus and my right ankle buckled. It was my bad ankle. I've sprained it a hundred times before. Sometimes it just decides to give out. I kind of lost my balance and found myself crouched close to the ground before I stabilized myself and gingerly carried forward.

"Are you okay?" Someone behind me asked.

"Oh yes, I'm fine, thanks."

When I got to the corner of Graham and Vaughn another woman stopped me.

"Are you okay? You took quite the tumble there," she asked. Again, I sheepishly nodded and assured her I was fine. My foot wasn't really hurting and I hadn't heard the sickening ripping sound of the scar tissue I often hear when I've really sprained it.

The light for the northbound traffic was red so I proceeded across the street. As I walked, limping a bit, a black cloud filled my vision. I've experienced this before too after a sprain. I always figured it's just the blood rushing from my head down to the injury. Some minor light headedness that quickly passes. But this time it didn't.

Just let me make it across the street so I don't collapse and get hit by a bus, I thought to myself. Heh. Hit by a bus. Aren't I always afraid that when the going gets good I'm going to get hit by a bus and die a happy woman? Well I guess Fate realized her timing was a little off so she did let me safely reach the sidewalk on the other side.

I grabbed hold of the cool metal light standard and waited for the dizziness to pass. The next thing I knew, I was fluttering my eyes open from the ground, surrounded by passersby.

A middle aged woman with short brown hair and a green shirt instructed me to go have a seat on a planter a few steps away. I remember thinking that I didn't want to sit there, I wanted to go inside to The Bay, get some water from the Malt Stop, and sit down. But she insisted and guided me over. I sat down. People were buzzing around me and I blacked out a second time.

This time when I came to I was on the ground, my head resting on the knee of the woman who had led me to my seat. Another woman, younger and blonde, was on her cell phone calling for an ambulance. Someone asked me my name. Then they asked me if I had a husband or a boyfriend or some family they could call. No, no husband, no boyfriend. No Prince Charming or Knight in Shining Armor was on standby to come for me. Someone said something about a seizure and convulsions. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I was scared. Had that happened to me? Was I going to be okay? This had never happened to me before. The two women were talking back and forth so much I couldn't get my words out.

I honestly just wanted someone to hand me a phone so I could call my mom. I desperately wanted a familiar face there to hold my hand, look me in the eyes and tell me that I was safe, I wasn't alone and I was going to be okay. I'm an older sibling, I'm really good at being brave for other people, reassuring them, talking them through something, grabbing the Kleenex and being the calm and optimistic one. But when I'm alone and I'm scared, with no one to be strong for me, to rationalize things for me and shoo away all the crazy thoughts that pop up in this wild imagination of mine, I tend to crumble pretty easily.

I felt pretty ashamed about my tears. I hate letting people see me cry. My ankle was hurting and I had a scratch over my eye that was bleeding and stinging a fair bit. But I'm a tough kid. I can take pain. All sorts of pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, pure embarrassment, I can take it. But I think it was just the fear and loneliness that was consuming me and breaking me down from the inside. Damn those hot tears. Someone handed me a napkin to wipe my eyes. I noticed the blood from the cut, diluted red spots from mixing with the tears. I felt like such a child.

The lady in green told me she was a first responder, a medical professional. She shoo'd away the other bystanders. Told one guy to do up his fly. The wind caught my skirt and I reached down to hold it in place and cling onto what was left of my dignity.

I heard the sirens and the ambulance pulled up. There was talk of me going to the hospital. Everything felt like it was moving ahead of me and I wasn't being given a chance to think for myself. I mostly just nodded along in a daze. I remember when I was out both times that I dreamed. I don't remember what the dreams were or who was there, which annoyed me. Awake, I still felt like I was in one of those dreams where your feet are dead weight and you're trying to run away from something but you everything is in slow motion.

The paramedics helped me onto the gurney. I had never been on one before. As they put me in the back of the truck I tried to call out thank you to the two women who had stayed with me, but my voice was pretty weak and I don't know if they heard me.

In the truck they took my blood pressure and checked my heart and found me okay. The one who does most of the talking and work has longish, silver hair. (I know, couldn't I have at least gotten a hot one?) I told the guy what happened, about my ankle. He looked at it and noticed that it wasn't even swollen.

"You probably just don't have a high tolerance for pain," he said. I knew that wasn't true.

I opted out of them taking me to the hospital. It seemed silly really, to sit in a waiting room for just sprain. I signed the release form for them to let me go.

The other paramedic offered to zip up my bag for me. He picked it up with a grunt.

"No wonder you fell there, I don't know how you carry this thing around," he said. I carry my life in that old bag of mine. I've never weighed my life before but I know it all fits in that blue bag of mine.

"Lunch, shoes, a library book," I rattled off the heavier contents.

"Good thing you weren't wearing those shoes when you fell," the sweet and grunty paramedic said, noticing the skinny two inch heel on my robin's egg blue shoes. They're one of my favourite pairs.

I smiled. "Actually, I usually sprain my ankle on flats," I said. It's true. I'm better in heels.

Sweet Grunty helped me out of the ambulance and then I was on my own. The crowd of helpers, thinking I was going for further medical care, had taken off. I hobbled to the doors of The Bay and looked at my watch. Damn. I'd missed the bus and had no idea when the next one would come. So I hobbled inside the store, limped my way through the cosmetics department as I reached for my phone to finally call my mom. I was sobbing again as I asked her to meet me, explained what had happened. She promised she'd call when she got there.

I limped and sniffed and wiped away tears as I made my way to the parkade doors where I was to meet my mother. I rounded my shoulders, kept my head and eyes down. It didn't matter anyway though, nobody seemed to really notice this limping mess of a girl passing through. Given the downtown location, I suppose there really was no need to question it.

I found a bench, sat down and turned toward the wall to hide my tear stained face. I still wasn't able to quite get control of myself for some reason. I fished out a napkin from my lunch bag and tried to clean myself up. I pulled out my phone to turn the ringer on so I would be sure not to miss my mom's call. My phone was dying, died. Of course.

I hobbled over to the doors out to the parkade. Again, feeling terribly ashamed and wondering about the blood on my face I kept my head down, really not wanting anyone to notice me, to ask questions, to wonder.

Two girls were already sitting on the bench at the parkade doors so I just stood. I noticed a payphone outside so I used my last 50 cents to call my mom to tell her my phone was dead. I got the voicemail because she was driving. I just wanted to hear a familiar voice so I pulled out my Visa, swiped it in the card reader, and called my dad to tell him what happened. I was fine, physically, at this point, but still just shaken up by the whole thing. And lonely.

My mom got there faster than I thought she would. Elmo was with her since she had been at my house with him, preparing the living room walls for painting. She took me home to her place, gave me ice for the ankle and food.

My mom has come to my rescue twice in the past two months or so. Aside from the pain in my foot, this was the dominant thought in my head that seemed to be giving me grief. I have these grand dreams of independence, of maybe leaving this old town of little boys and little opportunity for something bigger and better. But if I did that, who would be my emergency phone call? Who would come pick me up when I've fallen? Who would hold my hand when I'm scared? Who would drop everything for me? The only people who I know will do that, every time, without question, are my mom and dad.

Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I'm not strong enough. Not independent enough, tough enough for facing this world alone. And will I ever be?

Monkey business

Michael is on vacation this week which means I am the boss. Since we are a team of two that means I am the boss of me, which gets kinda boring after the first day. Thankfully, he left me with some important responsibilities such as watering his plant and babysitting the Sea Monkeys.

Yes, the Sea Monkeys.

Just after our big department move, Michael bought a Sea Monkey kit. They were slow to start but now he has seven monkeys swimming around in there. Today I decided to take a picture of them and name them all.

Yes, name the Sea Monkeys.

I have been studying them carefully. I've been watching them grow since they were the size of a period, so I have gotten to know them pretty well. First there's Macro, who I will also affectionately call Big Mac, or just Mac, for short. Next there's the fraternal twins, Tuesday and Wednesday. I was originally just going to assign them all a day of the week, since there was seven of them, but then I decided I only really liked the names Tuesday and Wednesday. I call them twins because I had a hard time telling them apart. They both like to hover near the bottom and stare out of the tank at you, kind of like a puppy in a pet store. Wednesday has a longer tail and Tuesday often has a bend in hers as if she is trying to imitate the pose of a mermaid. Tuesday is my favourite. Next is Edgar, a funny, squat little monkey. Chico is also a smaller monkey but with a really really long tail. Perry and Pixel are the smallest of the group, Pixel being tinier than Perry. I actually just discovered Pixel this morning.

Big Mac is pregnant. You can tell because when Sea Monkeys are pregnant they show two black dots at the base of their tails. Michael says sometimes they give live birth. Maybe I should set up a Monkey Cam.

I had to feed the monkeys today and oxygenate the water. Before he left, Michael made me do a trial run of the oxygenating duties. To do this, you have to pour the tank out into another container and then back into the tank. Repeat once or twice. I was nervous about this trial run. The Sea Monkey aquarium is small and oblong. The container I was to pour the contents of the aquarium into was a wide mouth water bottle. I have problems pouring things without dribbling. Sometimes it seems the best way to avoid the dribbles is to do it quickly. So nervously this is what I did, but I still managed to leave a rather significant puddle. Michael, Mr. Laid Back himself, looked aghast (maybe I'm exaggerating, but I think he at least gasped). I felt awful thinking of the tiny baby sea monkeys that were now floundering in that puddle. But at lunch time Michael went out and bought a measuring cup which has a much larger opening, making it much easier and less stressful to pour into. So far, no stress. Oh yeah, and work is going fine too.

Today after work a bunch of us met up at Earl's on Main for drinks on the patio. I do NOT recommend the Bellini there unless you are a humming bird looking for a glass of syrupy nectar. I was going to tell a story about our good time at Earl's but I can't remember any of the quotes except for when Cindy was driving us home and she noticed a rotten egg smell and she said, "that wasn't me, that's my car."

"It's probably from your catalytic converter," I said.

"You know that stuff?" Judy said. "Wow, you're a smart little blond."

Ignoring the dumb blond reference because I was in a good mood I said, "yeah, that's what makes me hot." That's right lug nuts, I know your grease nipples from your drive shaft and I can bake a cake. Hm, should I start using this as my pick up line?

After the rain

I came home on Saturday night, flopped on the floor and tried to clear my mind the way we do in yoga, but I couldn't. My brain wanted to blog or talk about the past or talk about the future or imagine a million different what if situations. Maybe it was the heat getting to me.

Summer arrived in Winnipeg this week. This is what we wait for. This is what we dream of in the middle of January when it's -50 with the windchill and the air is so dry you need to submerse yourself in a tub of Vaseline if you are going to have any chance at soft and un-flaky skin.

I picked Lisa up on Saturday afternoon to take her with me to my aunt's place where we would spend the day by the pool. I lugged over my bag of books along with grand intentions of doing some reading in the sun. Does In Style magazine count as literature? Because that was all I ended up actually reading. I also didn't run or participate in any kind of sustained physical exertion, nor did I speak to or even bat my eyelashes at any boys. I did work on my tan though and while lounging in the hot sun drinking tall and fancy drinks I may have found Zen.

On the way home Lisa said, "If I had money, I'd buy a Volvo." She's getting her new lease, a Volkswagen, on Tuesday. It's a grand step up from her Aveo that for crying out loud doesn't even have ABS. Piss poor, Chevy, that is piss poor on your part.

"If I had money I'd get a membership at the Canoe Club," I said as we drove past it, or where I seem to think it is.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'd go rowing. I'd love to get into rowing," I said. "And I'd buy a Corvette."

"Like Barbie!" Lisa said and I nodded. My Barbie Corvette was blue. It wasn't the real Barbie brand, just one of those cheaper knock-offs, but my mom fancied it up by adding racing stripes to the hood with silver metallic tape. My mom was always doing stuff like that for us. I remember when I really wanted the Barbie with the pink dress that had glow-in-the-dark stars printed all over it. My mom's answer was to decorate a Barbie dress we already had with glow-in-the-dark fabric paint. I think if my mom were to run a match making service, she'd take in all the guys who get passed over, like the shy or awkward ones, give them some racing stripes and send them out on dates feeling like the confident and one-of-a-kind special guys they are deep down. My mom sees the good, the potential, in everything and everyone. She gave me that. I'm undecided some days if I should call it a gift or a curse.

"I could buy a motorcycle for only three or five grand," I said, vaguely remembering a poster I saw somewhere for a used one. I thought this over for a moment though and realized I couldn't actually drive the motorcycle without getting a motorcycle driver's licence, and I never ever want to take another driving test again. It was awful enough the first time. And the second time. And the...I suppose there wouldn't be a parallel parking section to pass though, which would be my saving grace.

A few weeks back NYF and I were talking about his list of things he wants to do before he dies. I think he has something like 43 things on his list right now. I have no such list. I said to NYF, "I am a list girl, I love lists. But I cannot begin to imagine what I want to do for certain. Like, are all the things on your list, must dos? Because today I might say, I want to buy a motorcycle and drive it to Texas. But next week I may completely change my mind on that."

I've changed my mind. I don't want to drive it to Texas. I want George Stroumboulopoulos (or some similar character) to drive it, and me, to the California coast. I don't think this is the kind of thing I am supposed to put on this kind of list.

These are a few of the things that were firing through my head as I tried to clear it on Saturday night. Driving over to Lisa's that afternoon, windows down, music up, all I could think of was, this summer I am just going to have fun. I'm not going to think backwards, I'm not going to think forwards, I'm just going to live in the moment without a care in the world like I am 17. (Although I seem to recall having many big cares in the world at 17, so this time maybe I will do it right). But back home my brain was like a chatty little four year old who wanted to tell a story and ask questions I really didn't want to look at right then. Mostly the whys came up.

The heat and humidity the past few days has been unrelenting. They kept predicting rain that never came. As I lay there on my living room floor, hot and literally bothered, I wished that the sky would open up and the rain would come down, as promised. Give me a break. Even just a sprinkle of relief would be nice.

And I know, of the pain, that you feel the same as me.
And I dream, of the rain, as it falls upon the leaves.
And the cracks, in the ground, like the cracks are in our lives.
They are sealed, and are now, far away.

Iron Maiden, Rainmaker

It rained last night and I let a tear or two slip down my sun-kissed cheek. My brain, the clouds will soon clear. Relief is coming.

Birthday cake and Oreo ice cream

I met Nigel and his girlfriend Susan at E&C tonight for drinks. I was meeting up with them because Nigel's best bud Edward was also supposed to be meeting us and bringing someone he thought I should meet.

I met Edward at Nigel's birthday party last September. Apparently, Edward remembered me and thought of me for his friend. When Nigel told me this a few weeks ago, I was truly touched. I really thought it was sweet that Edward thought enough of me to want to introduce me to his friend. I was given next to no details on this guy but hey, I'm a good sport and always up for the chance at a good story, so I figured there was nothing to lose.

I was looking super cute. I mean, I rocked the look. I was wearing my new shirt dress over my new skinny jeans and those cute grey, Rocket Dog heels I also got in America. My hair is getting into its summery blonde colour again and it was actually full and fluffy looking.

The guys were supposed to arrive at 7:30. I think Nigel spotted Edward coming in around 8:00. I realized when I saw him that I totally didn't remember correctly what he looked like. If I had passed him on the street I never would have recognized him. It was odd so I kept looking at him all night trying to jog my memory. As for his friend? Oh goodness no. No, no, no. It was awkward sitting beside him all night. But really, he didn't even try to talk to me. His name was Bill, like my goldfish.

Shortly after Edward, his girlfriend and Bill arrived, a tallish guy with 80s style long blond hair joined our party. Edward introduced him as Sammy, a guy that he and Bill worked with. Sammy sat at the end and didn't say a whole lot but I gathered from some comment that he possibly had a motorcycle, which made him somewhat interesting to me.

At the end of the night I got up to pay for my drinks but Edward thought I was headed to the washrooms. "Just follow Jill," he said to Sammy, who was asking where the washrooms were. "That's where you're going, right?" he asked me.

"Actually, I was going to pay, but I can show him where the washrooms are," I said. I had only just learned myself where they were that evening.

I led the way and Sammy followed. I tried to slow down my pace a bit and let him catch up, but he just kept behind me, which felt odd, until we got to the lobby and then he walked a little nearer to me. From there I guided him to the appropriate hallway. I went into the washroom and texted Judy to tell her about the night. I still appreciated the gesture from Edward to want to introduce Bill to me, but I was left wondering why exactly I came to mind.

After squaring up the bills, Nigel, Susan and I headed outside. Edward and Bill were out there for a smoke already. Bill shook my hand and said, "it was nice to meet you." I responded in kind and then they made their way toward the doors. Sammy came from around the corner.

"Good to meet you," he said and shook my hand. It wasn't all sweaty like Bill's was, which was nice, and he let his hand, and his eyes, hold onto me a bit, which was also nice.

"You hang out with these guys often?" he asked.

"Yeah, well, with Nigel and Susan anyway. I only see Edward at birthday parties," I replied. I don't remember if he said something back, but for a good 15 seconds my cute outfit didn't feel like a total lost cause.

Susan and Nigel walked me back to where I parked.

"So no, eh?" Susan said smiling.

"Yeah no," I replied.

"Yeah, I knew as soon as he sat down," she said.

"Yeah, but that Sammy guy, I think he has a motorcycle and it's my summer dream this year to ride on the back of one."

"Oh God no, Jill. Not him. He wouldn't let you on his bike without you performing sexual favours for him first."

It wasn't the impression I got, but what the hell do I know anyway? My judgment in guys has proven to be sub-par to say the least.

When I got home I pulled out a piece of birthday cake from the freezer. Not mine, someone else's thankyouverymuch. You know how I like to keep that stuff around for random occasions and cravings. I also grabbed the Oreo ice cream and dished myself two scoops beside the cake. I'm not one who eats when she's depressed (no, depression actually makes me stop eating) I just had a craving for something sweet on my lips. I went online to tell NYF about the night since I had already briefed him on the set-up. NYF wasn't around and Vince wasn't answering so I ate my cake and ice cream while blogging in my super cute outfit that I wasn't really ready to take off.

It's now almost 1 am. I have a 10am hair appointment and then I plan on spending the day pool side, nowhere near any boys or prince charmings. I really should get some reading and writing done this weekend anyway. And go for a run.

Sigh. Goodnight cute clothes and hair. Hope to see you again sometime.

It could happen

I read today when I got home. It was too hot to go for a run anyway. I am realizing now that I am constantly going to have to be choosing between my three ongoing projects: fitness (running), writing, and social (the ongoing search for Prince Charming and just general merriment). It will be interesting to see which project wins.

The book I am currently reading is Mercy Among the Children by David Adams Richards. It was the winner of the Giller prize in 2000 and Sarah Slean made it her pick in Canada Reads 2009. I had no knowledge of any of this when I grabbed it off the library shelf on Saturday.

I finished a chapter and found myself feeling very sleepy when it was only 6 o'clock. Ignoring my suggestion about going for a run, but still feeling anxious and bored, I decided I should try to write something. I didn't have any writing thoughts in my head. I sorted through some bills, moved some laundry out of the dryer, moved other laundry into the dryer, bopped around the house, sat down for a moment and then found an idea forming in my head. It came from absolutely nowhere. One minute I was thinking about laundry, the next minute I had this scene in my head, this feel for a character that I had never met before. I took Mac outside and got acquainted with this person.

Lately I've been talking a lot about moments and feeling either like I am in the right place for that moment, or feeling frustrated and like I am in the wrong place for that moment. I think I will explore those ideas with this character and another one I sketched out and see what happens when I bring them together.

Last week I started working on another story that for now I am calling Socks. It's going to be a story about responsibility and will look at feeling responsible for something, taking on responsibility and denying one's responsibility.

I'm excited about these two stories. I don't know if they will work out, but it's just really cool to have something to work on again, to be using this part of my brain again. If I like them, I'll share them with you. Maybe. That's the hardest part for me. Honestly, I'd rather give a speech, naked, from the top of the tallest Ferris Wheel, than share something creative I have written with people I know and respect. I have to get over that, which is another good reason to keep up with this get published goal of mine.

After putting my writing aside I walked to the park to meet my mom and Elmo for some walking and eventually some ice cream. I got to our meeting spot first--the park side of the pedestrian bridge. I leaned against a railing to wait and watch. In the field behind the pavilion I saw a group of cheerleaders practicing basket tosses. A guy who was maybe in his early 20s with a black notebook headed for a spot under a tree to do some sketching. That possibly interesting guy from the bus who spoke to me out of the blue once, wheeled by on his bike, gave me a look, a smile, a nod, and a hello. (It definitely wasn't him who I saw on Saturday.) I slapped a few mosquitoes while working on my stories and this blog in my head and then I had the best ice cream treat ever. Delightful.

And then, moments ago while typing here, sitting outside on my front step, I got an email from my cousin Patrick in London, ON. I had mentioned to him in a note yesterday that I almost booked a trip out there because I saw that Kings of Leon were playing there and completely skipping over Winnipeg during their Canadian tour. However, the flights to London were too much for my wine-in-a-box budget so I passed on the idea.

"Noooo way you know who KoL is. You’re too young. You’re like supposed to be all lady gaga and shit. I’m sitting on two for that show," he says. Then he tells me that if I can get myself out there, one of those tickets is mine. Um, hello, Dream Opportunity? Meet Palm of My Hand. The concert is on Sunday, September 20. Now all I need is to have $500 show up in my mailbox. Hm, the government did surprise me with a cheque for $16.32 last week. It could happen.

So yeah, did some reading, writing, walking, boy-checking-out, and may just make a concert dream come true. I guess maybe I can multi task on my life projects.

A total write-off summer starts here

Friday afternoon finds me sitting on Judy’s front lawn with Judy and Cindy, eating pretzels and drinking red wine out of two different bottles. Later, Cindy’s friend Erica joins us adding prosciutto, aged cheddar, Portuguese water bread and a bottle of white wine to the picnic. Erica doesn’t have to say much before I decide I like her. I get the vibe right away that she’s smart, no-nonsense and confident.

This is my first time meeting Erica, officially. She was with Cindy on Wednesday night at George’s going away drinks thing at The Tavern but the entire time I assumed she was Carol, Cindy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Apparently they’re off again. Cindy figures this time it’s for good. When I ask her why she thinks they keep going through this cycle she says, “because we know we don’t have a future together”. I wonder what it is like to have a future with someone you don't think you have a future with.

We all take turns talking about relationships. Judy has this “it’s complicated” thing going with a guy she calls Knucklehead (and he is one). She complains about not being able to find a guy she actually wants to have a relationship but she can’t figure out why she hangs on to Knucklehead.

“Because he’s familiar and easy to fall back on,” I say.

Pointing at me Erica says, “She’s exactly right”. I now know why I immediately liked Erica. I can feel myself in her shoes though because I know her story. Smart and good-hearted as she is, she wants someone who cannot want her back. She breaks my heart.

Cindy drives me home on a flat tire that we don’t realize is flat until someone pulls up beside us at a light and tells us. This happens twice. It really is flat. I get into my house, slip off my shoes and go crash on my bed. I have an hour before I have to get ready to meet up with Lisa for 9. My eyes flutter open at nine. I’m not ready to move from my bed yet but how do I tell Lisa, “sorry, can we skip tonight, I was drinking on a front lawn after work this afternoon and now I’m ready for two Advils and my PJs”?

When I get to Lisa’s she moans that she’s exhausted. She had a rough day—some family stuff to deal with—and she has to get up early in the morning. She had considered calling the night off too. We laugh at our pathetic-ness as we walk to The Academy where we plan on seeing Matt and his band play. Unfortunately, we’ve managed to miss Matt. By 11 Lisa says she can’t keep her eyes open anymore so we head home. I crawl into bed and I can’t sleep. Of course.

On Saturday I get up with some ambition. Feeling like I poisoned my body the night before, I decide I am going to go for a run to try to sweat all that crap out. I grab Nan (my iPod Nano) but she’s dead. Of course. She’s always dead when I want to take her anywhere. Such a flake. So I have to run listening to traffic noise and the music in my head. Usually I run in the park but this time I just go around the neighbourhood. It’s a good run. I feel really good, and surprised, considering it’s been over a week since my last run.

When I get home I change into old shorts that used to be my favourite but now don’t fit. I then get out the lawn mower and cut the grass. I don’t know why, but after coming home from a run I am always in the mood for grass cutting. I guess it’s like doing my cardio and then some weights. I know I'd pick grass cutting over snow shoveling any day.

A guy on his bicycle wheels by on the sidewalk. I notice him and he notices me. He looks familiar but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. He smiles. I don’t because I am trying too hard to figure out if he’s just being friendly and neighbourly (or flirty, although in the sweaty and grassy state I’m in, I can hardly imagine this to be true), or if I am supposed to acknowledge him as an old friend. I am also wrestling with the lawnmower that is pissing me off because the wheels are too low causing it to keep getting hung up on every little hump in the lawn. Maybe he was that guy from the bus I exchanged a few words with last week? I don’t know why, but this sticks in my head for a while. I think too much.

Lawn taken care of, I shower and put on fresh clothes. My last weekend purchases from JC Penny are making their debut—denim capris and a periwinkle blue t-shirt. Before I leave a song comes on the radio that makes me want to dance so I practice my moves I learned in Yoga Booty Ballet class. You are fun and funny, I tell myself. I get into Truck and head downtown. Destination? The downtown library.

Lisa thinks the fact that I use the library is something that makes me interesting. She told me this on a day when I was feeling particularly un-interesting. I find this evaluation interesting.

I want to pick up some back issues of literary magazines. I recently decided that I am going to try to get something published so that when I call myself a writer, I actually have something of merit behind that statement. I have given considerable thought to this goal and formed a real plan for it. This week I compiled a list of lit magazines to send short story submissions into. All of them suggest reading back issues to get an idea as to what they look for when considering a submission.

I know that to be a writer you have to be a reader. I haven’t been reading much lately. Ironically, I think school turned me off of reading, especially off of “literature”. I don’t know if I can actually be literary. I don’t even know if I care to be. I just want to be a good story-teller. Does good story telling really need metaphors, allegory and symbolism? Can’t I just hook you in and make you laugh? I think that’s where the real money is. Not that I’m doing this for the money. Fame maybe, but certainly not money. Anyway, by reading what actually gets published, I figure I’ll also be awakening my underdeveloped literary mind and maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to squeeze out a metaphor or two.

I pull two copies each of two different magazines. Sadly, there just isn’t much to choose from. One of the magazines is clearly for aspiring, amature writers while the other is for the ones who have not only arrived, but established themselves. This is great. I have picked out where to begin and where I want to end up. I make my way to the fiction section of the library and browse. I let my eyes settle only on the books with a maple leaf on the spine, a marking reserved for Canadian writers. I pull out a few collections of short stories and a few novels. I check out my armload of literature, load it into a reusable shopping bag, and head for a rooftop patio to start my self-directed studying.

The idea of sitting alone on a rooftop patio, in the warm sun, getting lost in self-discipline was appealing to me until I actually did it. It takes forever for a waitress to come over and take my order because it seems that the couples and groups that walk in after me are the more appealing customers. I had forgotten to reapply sunscreen after my shower so I can feel the heat of a sunburn building on my arms. Also, I am the only person up there alone. Everyone else comes in pairs or trios. I wanted to feel cool and independent but I kind of just feel dumb for paying to do what I could be doing at home for free. An hour later, I collect my readings and head home.

That evening I build an outfit around one of my new pairs of shoes and head out for dinner to help celebrate Tonia’s birthday. I talk to one of Tonia’s friends who shocks me when she tells me she’s 37. She honestly looks like she could be 10 years younger. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, well-traveled, and yet has so far struck out in the love department.

“It’s Winnipeg men,” she says. “Anywhere else, the guys approach the girls in restaurants, clubs, on the street. Here, the few good guys know that they are in high demand and that they can have their pick of great women. They don’t even have to try.” This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this theory. I don’t know that my buddy Rob, definitely one of the good ones, would agree though. Then again, he wasn’t born here. Stupid Winnipeg. On a pessimistic day if you ask me, the guys of this town fall into one of three groups: those who go to Folkfest and eat three square meals of granola, those who can open beer bottles with their toes and those who idolize Peter Pan and will never never get their shit together and grow up.

After dinner there is talk of going down the street to Billabong for more drinks and merriment. I don’t know what is wrong with me but I don’t want to go. I know that after Friday I certainly had my fill of alcohol for the weekend so that part of the plan isn’t winning me over. I’m kind of tired too. I know on Monday I’ll probably hear about how this whole crew of fireman came in for drinks and everyone went home with someone, but I take my chances on heading home early anyway.

I notice how comfortable my new shoes are as I walk down the sidewalk to Truck. I acknowledge two guys with a small smile as they walk past me. As I write this now I know two things that matter: summer has arrived in Winnipeg, finally, (or at least for a few days) and I am going to write something great.

At this moment

Friday after work I jumped into Truck and jetted out of town. Music blaring, we headed for the American border. It felt really good to be getting out of town for the weekend. It's amazing how a little distance from life back home can really ease the mind for a bit. Traveling solo was good too because it meant I could listen to what I wanted as loud as I wanted it, and feel no shame whatsoever about listening to the same song a few times over before going on to the next one. This is what Truck and I were meant to do together.

We arrived in Grand Forks to meet up with the folks around 7:00. They were at the race track and had decided to wait for me to arrive so we could go to the races together. I hadn't anticipated this and was completely prepared to spend the evening hanging out in the motor home with Schmo (one of my pet names for Elmo). As we walked towards the grandstands I could hear the roar of the cars. I inhaled and caught whiff of burning methanol. I inhaled again, deeply this time, and smiled. This is what I love.

In the stands the chill in the air quickly set in. I get cold pretty easily and I never seem to dress properly for sitting out at sporting events. That night I was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, my favourite old navy blue hoodie, a nylon jacket and jeans. My mom had brought an afghan to put on our laps but I was still shivering. Just before the late models took to the track my dad went back and grabbed us another blanket. It helped, but I swear I'm 80% solar powered. I don't know how I keep surviving here in Winnipeg.

The late models and the sprints are my favourite to watch. When you get 18-22 of them on the track at once it gets pretty loud. I love this. I used to beg my mom to let me go watch a race when I was younger and my dad was helping out on the pit crew for his buddy. My mom always told me I wouldn't like it, that it would be too loud for me. She couldn't keep me away forever though.

When the late models and the sprints race it's loud enough that you can feel it in your chest. As they come around turn one and onto the front straightaway they usually kick up a cloud of dirt. You can't escape it. Blink your eyes a few times (if you dare to miss the action) to try to keep the dust out, but it's best to simply accept that you're going home with a fine layer of black, Red River valley dirt on your face and in your hair. Loud. Dirty. Flashy. Fast. That's dirt track racing in Grand Forks. I love it. If I didn't have bills to pay I'd attach myself to a pit crew and film a documentary on the sport.

I went to bed that night still feeling the effects of the unseasonably cool night temperatures. I wore flannel pjs tucked into my socks, a long sleeve t-shirt underneath a short sleeve one, underneath my hoodie, pulled a flannel sheet and sleeping bag over my head, and slept the second best sleep I've had all year.

On Saturday my mom and I took Truck around town to do some shopping. My dad took the motor home and Elmo to get a camping spot at Lake Bronson, about two hours east of Grand Forks. The shopping was awesome. Getting dressed in the mornings these days has been so depressing because none of my pants fit anymore (I know, boo hoo, they are all too big). I only got one pair of work suitable bottoms (dressy bermuda shorts) and sadly, I won't be able to wear them any time soon if this cool weather keeps up. I shopped that day like I didn't have a mortgage (although given all the great bargains I found, I barely spent one bi-weekly mortgage payment). It felt so good to do that for myself.

I still have a hard time getting used to picking up the smaller sizes. I still instinctively grab mediums first and then, with trepidation, add another of the same item in the small to try. I also seem to have this fear that I'm going to wake up one day and find that this was all a dream and now I again have a closet full of clothes that do not fit. As far back as I can remember when buying clothes for myself, I have never worn these sizes. It's surreal. I'm a size 6 today, but inside I think I will always feel like a 12 (not that there is anything wrong with that). I know I'm not the only person to experience this and I think it's an interesting part of one's identity.

Yes, I bought shoes. I was walking past Journeys on the way to Sears. Sears used to be one of my favourite surprise places to find good shoes, but it hasn't really impressed me in the past five years. Journeys is an interesting store because it looks like it caters to the skater crowd, but I often find really cute heels there. I grabbed two pairs off of a display rack and requested my size. I thought for sure I'd prefer one pair over the other, but once I tried them on, I just couldn't choose. So I got both. At 40 bucks each, they were a steal anyway.

The pros do a much better job of the product shots, so check out the latest additions to my collection here and here.

For you Journeys lovers, I found out while chatting to the guy in the store that Journeys is supposed to be opening four stores in Canada this year (I assume they will likely be in the major centers of Toronto, Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver). They are also supposed to be building a warehouse up here so that they can ship to Canadian addresses.

"Except then you guys won't come see us down here," he said.

"Aw, don't worry, we'll still come," I assured him, not wanting the sweet and attentive skater boi to be sad or lonely.

Our second last stop for the day was Gordman's. It is here that I can usually find shoes, my Betsey Johnson perfume, and various house stuff. I love browsing through their framed art. I got the print of shoe sketches that hangs over my bed there. This time I fell in love with something a little different.

"You won't like it," I told my mom, shielding the picture from her.

"Why, what is it?" she asked.

I turned the picture around to show her.

"It looks like a tattoo!" she said with a frown.



Indeed, it is a print of an Ed Hardy tattoo design (sorry for the shoddy photo job, here's a better image). Tattoos aren't for me (not for my body anyway, I just couldn't commit to one design for the rest of my life, and personally I like my skin with its own markings and scars) but this appealed to me in a few ways. I love the vibrant colours, the roses, the rockstar feel of the art, and the words--Life, Love, Luck--definitely resonate with me.

I almost put it back. I thought it over and decided I didn't have a place to hang it. But after a second thought, I figured out a place for it. It's going to look perfect once I get my living room walls painted this summer.

With the shopping day drawing to a close, my mom and I grabbed some snacks and hit the highway for the campground. I put on some mellower tunes for my mom's sake--Starbucks' Mele Hawaii compilation CD. I impulse purchased it last week when grabbing an iced latte at lunch. I put it on and I instantly feel like I am on vacation. It has also given me an itch to go see Hawaii. It seems like my kind of place.

Miles and miles away from malls and urban life, I pulled Truck up beside the motor home and was greeted by a smiley and waggly Elmo. My mom and I opened a bottle of wine that was dangerously delicious. Between that and the long day of shopping and driving, I found myself pretty exhausted at the end of the night. I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to slip my contacts out. With no traffic noise, no airplanes, no electronic gadgets humming, the silence granted me the peace I needed to sleep the best rest I've had in some time. It was exactly what I needed.

Most of the rest of the weekend I spent doing nothing. It was gloriously relaxing. On Saturday morning I got my mom to go on a walk with me in search of a camper appreciation event my dad had heard about from the woman at the park's front gate.

"Free cookies and lemonade!" Dad informed us. These are magic words to me. I will walk over my own grandmother to get free cookies.

We walked for about 30 minutes before spotting a building my mom figured was the interpretive centre where the goodies would be. Elmo decided this would be a good time to do some "business" so my mom told me to go on ahead. As I approached the building I heard music, sing along style. I grew suspicious. I casually walked by the wide doorway. I saw no cookies, no lemonade. I did see a large group singing along to some praise Jesus song while some dude strummed a guitar.

I turned around and walked far enough away to be out of ear shot of the Christians before calling out to Mom, "This isn't the path to cookies, it's the path to Christ!" I have never been so disappointed. We never did find the free cookies and lemonade.

When we got back to the camp site I went inside the motor home to turn on the radio. I didn't even get the chance to pick my station when I noticed something crawling on my hand. It was a wood tick. Ugh. I grabbed it and ran outside to throw it in the fire pit. Of course, if you find one tick, you're likely to find at least one more. I hiked up the cuffs of my sweats. Sure enough, I found one suckered to the back of my left calf.

"Better go have a shower and check the rest of yourself out," my dad advised. So I gathered up my shower stuff and headed over to the shower building.

The hot shower felt really good. I ignored the spider in the corner and took my sweet time sudsing up and rinsing off. I didn't find any more ticks, thankfully.

Feeling I had used a little more than my share of the free, natural resources, I turned the water off and grabbed my towel. I was dismayed to see that my shoes had gotten wet. I never seem to be able to find the right spot to put my shoes where they will stay dry in these campground shower stalls.

I managed to get toweled off and mostly dressed before the lights went out, leaving me standing in the shower stall in completely darkness. The lights in the shower building are on motion sensors. The sensor is close to the door and far away from the stall I was in, so all the jumping around and arm flailing I could do was useless. I managed to gather all my stuff and put on the rest of my clothes, including my damp shoes, and unlock the stall door without a hitch. Success!

Whenever I'm feeling lost and out of sorts with myself I find a really good cure is to just go plant myself in nature. When I can't do that, I am temporarily satisfied with staring into the eyes of a pet, like Elmo. I feel grounded when I feel connected to nature. I've said it before, I think this being human thing sometimes sucks, but when I can connect myself with nature, my itchy, tight, human skin melts away and my spirit rises. On Sunday afternoon I took a walk before dinner and sat myself down on a dock in a marshy area of the lake. I looked into the clear water and saw hundreds of tiny minnows swimming against the current. I watched some kind of a bug skate haphazardly across the glassy top of the water. Around me, everything was buzzing. I was very aware of myself and tried to sit as still as possible, like a small rock on a beach, and just blend in with the landscape. I sat there for a bit like this and then I heard a rustling in the reeds on the island in front of me. I couldn't grab my camera fast enough to snap a picture as a deer came crashing out of the marsh right in front of me, splashed across the water and bolted onto the grass behind me. It was awesome.

On Sunday night I pulled out a deck of cards and dealt myself a few games of solitaire. I played until I won. It only took a few games for my lucky hand to come out. My mom was sitting at the table across from me, watching me play.

"What other games do you know?" she asked.

"Crazy 8's." I don't do poker, I don't even really know any rummy games. My mom didn't know Crazy 8's but she was willing to learn.

If we didn't have the pictures to prove that I have indeed been with my normal, hard-working parents my whole life, I'd swear I was raised by hippies. I just couldn't bare to play strategically against my mom. It pained me to play the pick up two and pick up five cards against her. She gave birth to me for crying out loud! She raised me and taught me to be kind and giving and unselfish. I couldn't beat this woman at a simple card game. Hard as I did try to let her catch up, I did still manage to beat her.

We had opened another bottle of wine. We had to finish it that night or risk smuggling it across the border the next day. We had the satellite radio tuned to the Love station and they were playing all my cheesy favourites. I sang along sometimes. My mom and I talked. I realized the perfectness of the moment. I realized how it couldn't be the same if someone else was there. How it easily could have not happened at all if things in my life had gone differently. Moments like that I would not trade for anything or anyone in the world, and I experienced many of those kinds of moments this weekend. It is very easy in those moments to say yes, I am exactly where I am supposed to be and I have all that I need right now. I found myself humbled by the gift of those moments, and all the people and energy that came together to put me in them. In moments like those, it is very easy to let go of pain, anger, jealousy, selfishness, and to just forgive, because whatever happened in the past, it was part of the path to a very beautiful present.

I came home on Monday afternoon feeling like someone had hit my reboot button. I needed that weekend away. I needed that opportunity to treat myself, to ground myself and to be with people who have a good history of loving me. When I got home I didn't even open up Mac, didn't check email. I seriously considered continuing my vacation away from blogging for another few weeks. But today I eased myself back into my old routine and found myself back here with a story to tell.