30 minute blah blah

I have 30 minutes. I haven't penned anything much more than a grocery list in months and now I have given myself 30 minutes in the playground. The sticky, stagnant, soupy air, Elton John's Your Song being amplified from the neighbour's stereo and a snoozing boyfriend stirred my appetite to pick up a laptop and start typing something out. I've already found myself distracted by various insignificant things: the tiny sliver in my middle finger, the speedy truck that bounced as it came down the street, my hungry stomach, my worn nail polish on my toes and my disdain for The Boyfriend's laptop. The tracker pad is uber sensitive and likes to randomly hide and move my cursor. I curse it back.

We looked at a house yesterday. It was so pretty. There was this corner window in the front where I could see myself doing a lot of thinking and writing. There was a little space with a fireplace and a spot for the TV off of the kitchen. While I could see myself happy in many corners of the house, I had a hard time figuring out if I could see myself living in that corner of the city. It didn't even really feel like my city anymore, which was both thrilling and unsettling at the same time.

10 minutes...

This morning The Boyfriend got us up early because his friend was coming to do the roof. When his friend came solo, The BF was compelled to be second mate on the awful job. We had made plans to visit the farmer's market, do breakfast and such. When that plan got snuffed I sniffed, and pouted and sniffed and then slipped out the back door. I was surprised (and I don't know why) when I found peace shopping. I impulsively bought two pairs of shoes and a little mint plant. The fragrance is released by brushing a hand over the tiny leaves and this put me right in zen. One hundred and fifty dollars later...

We also had plans to go to a party tonight and I was sure that The Boyfriend would be much too tired from the hard work to be up for going. I stewed and stewed about this.

When I came back to the house he was on the roof and called to me. He came down and gave me a kiss. My heart fluttered at seeing him covered in sweat and shingle dirt. It was impossible to feel sore anymore. When I asked if he'd feel up to going out later he said absolutely.

"But there's no way I can dance," he said. I felt a pout creeping in.

"Except a slow dance with you," he added. Man does he have me figured out.

Time to take the ribs out of the oven.

Shhh!

Last night I met up with a group of pals from Good-Wooden Leg. Two of them asked me if I still posted on my blog. "Um, well, I've slowed down quite a bit," I said. See, life in love is kind of boring. I mean, it's great, just not terribly bloggable, I find. Or maybe I'm just lazy. Anyway, today I am going to blog an update about my orthodontic journey.

So I had an appointment this morning. It was long. I think the girl maybe was new. I now have a super sore mouth and because they moved some stuff around in there, I have developed a lisp. I have a lisp and my boyfriend's name is Stephen. Guess what Stephen's favourite thing in the whole wide world is to do? Make fun of me. Stop it, Stephen. Sufferin succotash, stop it and pass me the soup so I can sooth my sore teeth.

Pouting aside, at the end of the 2.5 hour teeth-moving ordeal, I had an end date set! As things are today, my appointment to get my braces off my teeth is Monday, April 7, 2014. Everything wonderful is coming together to happen within a two week period. Here are the notes from my daytimer:

March 23--Anniversary of my first date with Stephen
March 28--Stephen's birthday
March 31--Stephen and Jill depart for Palm Beach, FL for a spring break get-away
April 5--Officially, 1 year of "going steady" for "Stillian".
April 7--Jill eats apples, carrot sticks, popcorn, corn on the cob and curry!

Accept the fact that some days you're the pigeon, and some days you're the statue

Today will not go down as my favourite day ever. It could be one of my longest ones though as I greeted it at 1:30 this morning. I tried to send it back to sleep but to no avail. Knowing that you will go to work with three hours of shut eye in the bank isn't the best way to start things off.

The news on the radio said highway conditions were poor with blizzard-like conditions (possibly official blizzard conditions, my memory is fuzzy on the exact details.) I first thought of The Beefcake Boyfriend as he has to drive outside the city about 20 minutes to get to work. I waited until what seemed like a sensible hour (6:30) to text him a good luck with the drive message. I chose my words carefully so as not to imply that I didn't think he could manage the drive, just that I hoped it went well. I've read Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus. I know that you don't tell a guy you doubt his abilities. And I'm a PR girl, so ambiguous yet positive messages are my bread and butter.

"No work today!" he wrote back. His workplace closed due to the conditions. On three hours of sleep it's a big challenge to dig deep and pull up happiness for my love's luck. I dug. I found it. It didn't taste very good coming out, but it was genuine.

From there the day continued to take a gentle but steady tumble. I submitted my expenses for payment and one receipt was rejected for not being a receipt.

"This isn't a receipt," the cashier said.

"But it says receipt," I said. It even said it in two places. How much more receipt-y could it get?

"But it doesn't say on here that you paid. It only says what the total amount was. It needs to show paid with a balance of zero. Did you order this item from the Internet?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, we see this all the time. Just contact the vendor and ask them to send you the paperwork."

I was expecting $87 back. I got zero because of that one "non" receipt. I've plead my case to the Internet and am holding my breath. I've been advised I may have to do this for two business days.

More antics from other grumbly people ensued. Details not really important here. But this afternoon came with a small ray of sunshine.

On Tuesday I was in a meeting. One of my co-workers was about 10 paces ahead of me leaving the room. I was looking down and saw a twenty dollar bill flutter to the floor. I picked it up and wondered if it had fallen out of the coat pocket of my colleague. She was hoofing it out the door to get home to her kids so I couldn't catch her. I emailed her when I got to my desk to ask if she had lost $20. I hoped it was hers and not some other hospital visitor's, perhaps someone who really couldn't afford to lose $20. I also hoped that the security camera didn't judge me for picking it up. I wanted to go up to it and explain my planned attempt to reunite the funds with its proper owner. If it didn't belong to my co-worker, plan B would be to donate it to the hospital anyway.

Today I heard back from my co-worker.

I did lose 20$, got stuck in the parking lot and used my husbands visa to get out, lol. Thanks so much for you honesty.

 Are you paying attention, Karma? I did something nice. Yah. It's really not like me to be nice, I know, so how about a little encouragement to do it again? What's that? Two business days to process? Sounds good. Thanks.

I am not very good at quiet

There was nothing soft about this Monday morning. It greeted me at four am with gnawing, relentless stomach cramps that did not let up before it was time to leave my bed. When the radio woke up at 5:45 I fumbled at trying to find the stereo remote to quickly shut the noise off so the vacationing person in the bed with me would be minimally disturbed. Having been wide awake with a to do list running through my head for the last 75 minutes, I easily rose out of bed. Using my iPod as a flashlight, I grabbed some clothes out of my closet and drawers, pulled the bedroom door closed behind me, and left quiet behind.

I am not very good at quiet. Or rather it seems that when I try hardest to maintain silence, noise escapes everywhere. Of course I had to have an omelette this morning, which required going into the drawer at the bottom of the stove for a frying pan. Of course the entire house had to smell like a polish diner because I had to have onions in my omelette. Of course my chair had to squeak. Of course the empty beer cans on the floor, in the pile meant for recycling,  had to topple like bowling pins into the empty salad container. Twice.

Of course the door had to slam shut when I went out to shuffle vehicles in the driveway. Stephen said once that he will not look at a house for us without a garage. I think he'd rather clip a gorilla's toenails than have to brush snow off his vehicle in the morning. In an attempt to keep our options open, I may have said that we could consider a home with a single car garage and that I would play valet in the mornings to take Truck out and put his vehicle in, snow swept and everything. This morning I got a taste of how that would go. It's a production, let me tell you.

When I was done I sat down and wrote Stephen a good morning note. The pen didn't write smoothly so I pressed it hard to the pad of paper as I filled it words like thank you, dreamy, hope and love.

When it was time for me to go, I tip-toed into the bedroom where he was waiting for me, awake. I found his chest and put my head to his heart. I was careful to dangle my snowy shoes off the edge of the bed, saving the white duvet from winter grit.

"Hello smokey bear," he said and wrapped an arm around me.

"I don't want to go to work this morning," I said to him.

"I don't blame you."

I listened to his heart beat. I told him his ticker sounded good, and honestly I did listen to a few beats carefully before I said this. I don't know what makes me think I am an expert on "tickers" and how they should sound, but it seems that that was the most loving, eloquent sentiment I could manage in the moment. Perhaps later, to return the expression of love, he will comment on how brilliant and healthy the whites of my eyes are looking.

One Day Very Soon

Last night after I blogged I thought to myself, Jillian, you should tell Stephen you miss him. It's nice to be missed. Don't you like knowing when you are missed? So I told him in a text message that I missed him and not just because I wished someone was there to make me tea. And then he sent me words that Hallmark couldn't have improved upon:

"It was funny I was thinking the same thing not too long ago. How I'd like to take care of you when you're sick. One day very soon baby."

And even though he's such a nice guy I had to go girl it up by telling him if he was with me I'd make him watch the girly movie, Blue Crush, which I'd just happily found on the Game Show channel, of all places.

Oh Jillian. Just let him love you.

I love you tutu

Even though I am in love, I still seek to learn more about what love is, where it comes from and how it works. I saw The Tutu Project's video through Facebook today and it warmed my heart.




When his wife, Linda was diagnosed with cancer, Bob went into what he described as "self-therapy mode" and turned to photography to help him deal with painful new reality. His subject was himself wearing only a tutu, shot in locations across the globe. The photos made Linda laugh and feel uplifted.

“Oddly enough, her cancer has taught us that life is good, dealing with it can be hard, and sometimes the very best thing — no, the only thing — we can do to face another day is to laugh at ourselves, and share a laugh with others.”

Love isn't always expressed in words. It's not always delivered with softness, compassion and warmth. Sometimes it's even more endearing when it's not so poetic. Sometimes love is a pink tutu.

My birthday this year was very different from any birthday I'd ever had before. This time I had a date for it. Stephen took me out for dinner to a place in the city I'd had my eye on for a while. It was supposed to be the most romantic dinner spot in Winnipeg. Inside the place sparkled with white Christmas lights and a whimsical shoe theme. It was so me. I had gotten my suitcase back so I was able to wear the dress I'd purchased for the evening. I also even brought The Betseys out. I only wish I'd gotten some pictures of the night. I took a few of the decorations but they didn't turn out well. I really wanted one of Stephen and I together, all dressed up and happy. My first birthday date.  I know, so high school.

After dinner we came home and Stephen locked me in the bathroom. Well, okay, I busied myself in there brushing my teeth and touching up my makeup while he set up my birthday gift spectacle. When I came out the lights were all off except for five birthday candles lit on five of 24 birthday cupcakes that Stephen had baked and frosted all himself. The little cakes were fluffy white with rainbow chips and white frosting, my favourite. They were all different sizes and some rose in a lopsided fashion but they were pure Love with a candle on top. That was his pink tutu for me.

Last night we were supposed to get together to go to Costco and then decorate my Christmas tree.  I was annoyed when I learned that hockey game traffic would delay my love's arrival. While at the super warehouse, the boy decides it is fun to swat me with his mitts and call me puffy because I was wearing my Kenny from Southpark winter jacket. It's no cupcake, and what girl wants to have her guy call her puffy, but I think this is a tutu moment too. (I am an eternal optimist.) Tonight I am home solo, nursing a cold and I wish the mitt-swatter was here (not just because I really wish someone would make me some tea right now). It's just kind of quiet sometimes when he's not around and somehow that makes me even grumpier than I usually am. My grumpiness is usually wearing a tutu. I hope he can see that.

Eat and Run

I've definitely stepped up my commitment to my fitness regime in the last three months and finally I feel like I'm seeing some change and not just "feeling" stronger. I was getting frustrated with the actual results though as it seemed that none of my numbers were improving. Finally, last week I saw half an inch difference in my hip measurements. It's ridiculous, I know, but I needed to see something to assure me that I wasn't just imagining it all.

That same week I also came across a blog post by Lauren Fleshman, an Olympic hopeful in running. Lauren wrote about a fashion show she did during New York Fashion Week for her sponsor, Oiselle Running Apparel. Photos of her walking the runway were posted and she looked every bit like a champion.

But Lauren didn't feel these pictures were totally honest and wanted to set things straight.

"Out of the thousands of photos taken at the runway show after all that tanning and primping and posture-holding, one or two of them looked good. A lot of them looked pretty gnarly. Weird facial expressions, lumpy bits, zombie walks…but nobody would ever know…"

Lauren posted photos of herself taken later that week to prove her point. She showed pics of a soft belly hanging out and another one of her grabbing dimpled flesh on her inner thigh.

Thigh cheese on a world class runner

Lauren can run a 5k in under 15 minutes and was ranked 7th in the world in 2011 and sometimes her stomach sticks out. This gives me comfort followed by immediate discomfort for the fact that I need to be reassured that even fast running Olympic candidate athletes have chubby parts and wobbly bits. I think the way to break this vicious circle of comfort/discomfort is to eat a cookie. And then run. And then eat a chocolate bon bon. And then run.

Pain tolerance

Gah. I hate it when I have the blogging voice in my head but I ignore it and put off writing for days and then the words, memories and thoughts build up and start crashing into each other to the point that I can no longer untangle one post idea from another. It's like a laundry pile of bloggable stuff up there and I need to sort it out into the darks, lights, sheets, delicates and the stuff that needs to be pre-treated. On the upside, the blogger voice has taken up residence in my head again. (Who in the hills gets excited for voices returning to her head? This girl does, apparently.)

I read an article that showed up on my Facebook news feed this week and found it strummed on my strings. What do you think the most important question you can ask yourself today is? Mark Manson  writes that it isn't "what do you want out of life" but rather, "what pain do you want out of life" because everyone wants the same pleasure, but we all differ on the kind of pain we'll endure to get the rewards. What are you willing to struggle for, Manson asks?

Everybody wants to have great sex and an awesome relationship -- but not everyone is willing to go through the tough communication, the awkward silences, the hurt feelings and the emotional psychodrama to get there. And so they settle. They settle and wonder "What if?" for years and years and until the question morphs from "What if?" into "What for?" And when the lawyers go home and the alimony check is in the mail they say, "What was it all for?" If not for their lowered standards and expectations for themselves 20 years prior, then what for?

Coming around to month eight of the Stillian Relationship Adventure, I still get jumpy and nervous whenever I say something and Stephen states that he believes the opposite. How can we live happily ever after if when I say black he says white, when I want almond milk he wants beer or if my dream is for X but his is for D, M or S and there is no room for X. On Thursday night Stephen told me he missed mushrooms (I am strongly opposed to them anywhere on my plate) and asked if he would ever get to eat them again. 

"Couples do that, right, they eat different things sometimes, right?" he asked. On Friday when I was grocery shopping I looked at the fresh mushrooms and considered them as an ingredient in an omelet I'd make for him (mine would be 'shroom free, and cooked in a different pan altogether, that's how much I dislike their flavour). For him I would put mushrooms into my shopping basket, of course I would. My mom was always so good about working around our family's various nutritional needs and preferences that I see this kind of accommodation as an act of love and a challenging opportunity to be creative in cooking. It's a pain, but it's one I enjoy and will choose to take on.

"On the other hand, I am willing to live out of a suitcase for months on end, to stammer around in a foreign language for hours with people who speak no English to try and buy a cell phone, to get lost in new cities over and over and over again. Because that's the sort of pain and stress I enjoy sustaining. That's where my passion lies, not just in the pleasures, but in the stress and pain."

When I read this part of the article it grips my heart. Sometimes I shake my head and wonder why  and how people endure my nonsense, but I remember that Love is a choice we make. We shrug off the pain and stress, even enjoy the challenge of it. Not everyone would make the same choice but we find happiness in the path we take. I had a big exhale in the moment I realised the simple truth: I don't have to be the stress-free, pain-free option to be chosen by Love. How freakin liberating is that? Hey people who love me, I may be a royal pain in the hindquarters but I am YOUR pain in the hindquarters. Yup, you choose me and I am beyond humbled and grateful.

My heartbreaks, my regrets, my joy.

A day of plot twists, it was. First was the pie, the birthday pie I was asked to make for Stephen's mom's birthday. I had made the pastry on Saturday in my mom's kitchen, under the supervision of my baking mentor, mama. I've made pastry maybe a few times in my life. I've made maybe four pies on my own. Cake I can do in my sleep. Pies are still a new challenge, and boy did this one set out to test my mettle.

I am constructing the pie in Stephen's kitchen and hadn't packed flour in my toolbox for rolling out the pastry so it sticks to everything, the rolling pin, the mat, me...etc. I have corn starch with me so I cross my fingers and make it a substitute for the flour. Unfortunately I have to roll it out twice, once for the failed attempt where the pastry refused to let go of the mat and then a second and final time. You need to be careful when working with pastry that you don't overwork it or it will end up tough and may shrink when baked. Sure enough, it shrinks in the pie tin. Plot twist number one.

I then set to make the lemon curd filling. This requires five egg yolks; the whites would be saved for the meringue topping. It is very important that no yolk gets into the whites or the meringue won't work. I bust a yolk on egg number 4. Despite our best tries, neither Stephen nor I can collect all the yolk out of the whites. They would make a lovely omelet, but are useless for meringue. Plot twist, plot twist.

Finished with the curd on the stove, I pour it into the crust and then we leave for my house. We had our first real dumping of snow the night before so I needed to get home to do some shoveling. I had also forgotten to pack my hair dryer and needed it to make something out of my goldie locks.

While Stephen starts on my driveway I retrieve the carton of egg whites from my fridge, my hair dryer and my snow brush for my truck. I go to find mitts so I can join Mr. Plow outside. I keep my winter things in a bag in my closet and this is my first time accessing it since March. I pull everything out but only manage to find three different mitts, no matches. I consider wearing a mismatched pair, thinking at the very least it would make Stephen laugh, but I can't even do that since I'd only found left hands.

Stephen had found my scoop shovel for pushing the snow off the driveway.

"That thing hurts my knee," I say.

"It works great, you just need to learn how to use it properly." Stephen proceeds to demonstrate pushing the scoop across the snow and then dumping it with a slight tipping action after pushing it up the newly established bank. He then offers the scoop to me.

"You learn by doing," he says. Right. I'm dating a teacher. The thing is, my dad had given me the exact same speech and demonstration numerous times. It's eerie, really, to hear the same words coming out of Stephen's mouth. He is a movember-stashed, splash pants and blue toqued version of my father. He's also recently taken to affectionately calling me JB, which previously only my dad had ever addressed me with. This starts feeling weird.

Back in the boy's kitchen, I get to work on the meringue. It turns out lovely. It's my new favourite part of lemon pie now. I spoon it onto the filling and put it in the oven to toast. It gets a bit over-toasted but otherwise is good. When we eat the pie, I am happy with the meringue, mostly pleased with the lemon curd, but know the crust would not pass the Barrott standard of excellence. I still have practicing to do.

At the end of the night I gather my weekend luggage in the kitchen and get ready to leave for home. I'd brought so much stuff this time I feel like I'd traveled hours from home. I loathe this part of Sunday nights. They feel sad, heavy and arduous on my arms and my heart.

I don't get very far down the back lane before I realize I'd forgotten my cell phone and iPod. I pull up to the front of Stephen's house where he is shoveling his steps and sidewalk.

"Cell phone and iPod," I say. He is not fazed by these Alzheimer's moments of mine. I still beat myself up about them but am consciously trying to be more accepting and forgiving of it all. I just don't want to come to terms with the fact that I forget and lose things because I think that it means my brain is smaller than everyone else's. I shake my head at the terrible insults I hurl at myself when I make a mistake, but when someone I love err's, I know I am good at smiling and forgiving. Why can' I lend myself the same level of compassion?

I go around to the back of the house and into the kitchen to retrieve my electronic devices. When I come back outside, Stephen is there to meet me. I am set to hurry back to my truck, but he stops me, smiling.

"Hey, where's my bonus kiss?"

And right then and there in minus seven degrees I start to melt. He kisses me once, then again, and then again. The weekend that had zipped by is suddenly on pause as he and I become the couple of the moment to share a tender kiss with the snow softly falling around us. I think about that moment the whole drive home. I think about it so much that I miss my turn off and have to drive an extra six kilometres. Never mind twist, this is a plot detour.

If I hadn't forgotten my phone and iPod tonight, I wouldn't have had that sweet moment that I will replay in my head when I need a warm thought. I forgave myself tonight for my brain of fluff.

This post title is blank because gremlins ate my blog

I just sat through an entire gaggle of UFC fights (what do you call a group of fights anyway?) and blogged happily all through. It was a grand post. Awesome. I was doing this whole comparison thing between fights and those on again off again relationships that we all do and then go why, why why?

I was working on Stephen's laptop. It's evil and hates me. (see, I just typed that and then the cursor jumped to the middle of the sentence to spite me. Evil possessed thing.) So as I was finishing up this grand post, the Laptop highlights three paragraphs and replaces the words with an A.

GAH!

So to fix this, I quickly closed the post, hoping to catch it before auto-save kicked in. Didn't work. I hit back on the browser and BOOM, the whole post disappeared. Yeah. Awesome.

Plot twist, plot twist, plot twist. Oh Jillian, those words just weren't meant for public consumption.

Pen and paper have never failed me. I am going back. At least Stephen doesn't have a dog to eat my work and his fireplace is a nice, safe, electric one.

Let it go...

Journey

I am home again, clean again and will sleep on stable ground again. I'd almost trade it all in for more train time.

I left Winnipeg on my seven month-aversary of being with Stephen. I'm pretty sure I've gone through all the dwarf characters--maybe a few stellar Snow White moments--in that time. Sleepy? Yup. Dopey? For sure. Grumpy? Yeah...Happy? Definitely.

I didn't catch it until just before I left the house, but Stephen sent me a sweet text message that morning to wish me a good trip, tell me he would miss me, and acknowledge our special day. My heart fluttered. It still does that whenever he sends some random "I am thinking of you" message. It's not quite so romantic to press your Blackberry to your heart and sigh as it was in the past when you'd press a hand-written love note sent by homing pigeons, but the effect is the same, I am sure.

I planned to send Stephen some kind of happy hello when I got off the plane. But when I pulled my phone out the little battery icon was glowing orange which means CAUTION! YOU HAVE ABOUT 20 KEYSTROKES OF POWER LEFT ON THIS THING SO USE CAREFULLY! I had three missions upon de-planing

1. Find the Toronto Pearson Airport Good Life gym and check it out
2. Charge phone so I can tell everyone that I have landed and am ready to start my adventure
3. Find some WiFi so I could send my press release to people in Winnipeg for distribution

I didn't find the gym. I found all kinds of signage once outside of the arrival terminal telling me it was back in there and that they even rent shoes and work out gear. Why would you put the signs on the outside and not inside the terminal, with great big arrows to say RUN HERE? Dumb. That's what I say.

I walked in circles to find a place to plug in my phone and had to give up. I got into a taxi and headed for the train station where I also wandered around but this time found an outlet. I parked myself on a bench that had a lovely view of a bank of payphones and the men's washrooms. When I had enough battery power again I thought about sending a message to Stephen. I wanted to say something grand and heart-melting but couldn't come up with anything. Then I reminded myself that the message doesn't matter so much as the simple reminder that someone is thinking of you and missing you. So I went with that theory and hit the send button.

Once my phone was almost full again I ventured down Front Street toward the restaurant where I was to meet my travel mates, Hailey and Helene. I still had an hour to kill before dinner. I stepped into Starbucks ordered a grande cup of Passion tea and made a home at one of the tables by the window. 

Although the Internet access at Starbucks is free, the signal is quite clogged up with people watching and doing all sorts of pipe clogging activities. I couldn't get logged onto my work files so I couldn't send my press release. Grr. I gave up, wrapped my hands around my paper cup of sweet and spicy tea and watched the world go by for an hour. It was dark and boring.

I met Hailey and Helene at seven o'clock for dinner at Jack Astor's. I'd been there before with Vince and Chris and remember loving their nachos. This was probably five years ago. I didn't think cheese and corn chips had changed much in that time, but at Jack's they did and now they were not so delicious. But that was an insignificant detail of the evening where I met two awesome girls who would make this trip fun like summer camp.

"Are you married, seeing someone, not currently with anyone?" Helene got down to the important details immediately.

"Actually, I am seeing someone and today is our seven month-aversary. It's the first time we haven't been able to celebrate it together," I said. Helene responded with a heart-felt "Aww" and demanded more information about how we met and such. Later in the evening she noticed I'd used the crayons on the table to draw a heart on the brown paper table cloth and that I'd written a note for Jillian and Stephen in it.

"Let's take a picture!" Helene picked up a crayon and wrote "Stephen" on a napkin. Then she put it over her face and came over to sit beside me, ready for Hailey to snap a picture. We'd known each other for 30 minutes and already she had lent me her compassion. That's Helene.

Helene tries to stand in for Stephen but doesn't
quite have the arms for it.

I sent the picture to Stephen right away with this note.

Having fun with the girls in T.O. Before we get on the train. I celebrated us with a steak and glass of red. The steak was lame-o but the wine is doing me wonders. Ooh and they are playing a song from the cutting edge. I will try to email again from the train tonight or tomorrow.

Love,
Jillian

I had managed to get enough of a corner of the Internet to get my press release out. We left Jack's for the train. I was feeling excited.

On the train it didn't take long before cell service was lost and I was officially off the grid. This became my biggest source of stress for the rest of the trip.



There are people who love taking the train. It costs more than flying and takes longer to get you there so how this can be true was a bit of a mystery to both Hailey and me. The idea got more confounding when we checked out our sleeper car "room".

There were bunks on one side, a sink on the other and a toilet in a closet.

Hailey is coming out of the toilet closet

Kicking back and relaxin' on the bottom bunk

We lucked out in that it was Champagne night in the lounge car. We also lucked out with having a singer/song writer/guitar player on our train all the way to Winnipeg. VIA sponsors artists to ride their trains and share their art with the other passengers.

Helene made quick work of making this guy our new friend. His name was Justin. He was from Winnipeg and yes, he took requests.

"Do you know any Journey?" I asked.

"I do, but not the song you're thinking of," he said. I'm not sure which song he was thinking I was thinking. It wasn't Don't Stop Believing, which would have been my first guess. I was actually hoping the only Journey song he knew how to play was Open Arms, because it's Stephen's song and I wanted to tape the performance and send it to him as my "Sorry I can't be with you today" gift.

Open Arms was not the song, but I liked what he threw down anyway.

It's sad
ohh, there's been mornings
Out of the world without you
Without your charms

Journey - Lights

I never got to send it to Stephen. The Internet connection left when we left the station and it was never strong enough to upload the video. My cell phone service also disappeared. The bar tender in the lounge told me it would be pretty flaky until we got to Sudbury, and then sketchy for the rest of the trip. He wasn't just whistling dixie.

The bar tender of bad news
(but otherwise nice guy)

When I woke up on Wednesday morning, cell service was still but a memory. Hailey and I went to breakfast ahead of the other two girls. On the train they don't have room for solo diners or those in pairs. You are assigned a chair to fill tables. We were seated with two young women with their own interesting histories and reasons for their journeys. One was a film maker from Vancouver who had lived all over the world. The other was on her way to The Pas, MB to move in with her girlfriend who she met on World of Warcraft. I can't make this stuff up and I'm good.

 Cell service was not coming back any time soon. This was frustrating for a girl who was hoping that her event plans were all knitting together nicely back home. I couldn't do any work because I couldn't access any files. All I could do was sit in the sky view car, watch the scenery and journal. I let go of the frustration and grabbed hold of gratitude for the time to get reacquainted with journaling. I stepped into my troubled mind, grabbed a cup of tea and got comfortable.

The disconnection did start to get to me by the afternoon though. I learned in Pensacola that I can travel solo, but I need to be able to connect with my peeps at home at the end of the day to tell them all about my day. I tried to connect when we arrived at a small town. My voicemail was full of messages. Something had gone off the rails back home and I couldn't do anything about it from where I was. All this stirred up a bout of homesickness. I sat on my bunk and looked out at the bleak, grey world passing by, not nearly fast enough for me. I missed Stephen.

I called my parents. My dad talked me off my ledge. I hung up and joined my friends in a game of Bananagrams which is kind of like Scrabble but without a board. I had some mad skills.

The afternoon passed by slowly. Around five I had cell service again. I was checking my phone constantly. Every time it blinked my heart lept. Every time it was an e-flyer from The Gap or Beyond the Rack I sunk. We had sing alongs with Justin.  There was a beautiful sunset. A radio station wanted an interview and then changed its mind.

I still missed Stephen. The simple and logical thing to do would be to grab that cell phone signal by the horns and send the guy a note, a text that said "hey, it's been a yo-yo of a day and I would love to hear from you". But I'm not so good with standing up and saying I need someone or something, so I put the phone down and sang more songs and watched out the window until it was too dark to see any more.

Around five I got cell service again. I decided I was being ridiculous. Adult relationships mean you have to be uncomfortable and vulnerable sometimes. They mean not hanging onto the things that happened in the past and using them to feed your fears in the present. I messaged him and put the phone away.

Sleep on the train was elusive to me. I drifted in and out of consciousness, weird dreams and being wide awake enough to sit up and press my nose to the cool glass of the dark window.

At midnight between Wednesday and Thursday I was awake and my phone was blinking. Service was back. I had voicemails and emails from journalists. I replied to what I could, silently apologizing to my bunkmate for the tap tap tap of my handheld QWERTY. When I saw the reply from Stephen, the butterflies found their way to my heart again.

Event day went amazingly well. I lead the girls through a whirlwind of media interviews before the publicity stunt I'd coordinated. We got good media coverage.

At the end of the day I found Stephen. I was bursting to tell him all about the trip and simultaneously held together by his strong-armed embrace.

I am a girl who gets to do some pretty awesome things in her job. This used to be everything to me. Now I am also a girl in love with a really great guy. I need him. I need his smile, hugs, jokes, loyalty, forgiveness, patience and his no-holding back style of love. When we were still getting to know each other better I came to the conclusion that either he'd never had his heart smashed into pieces and smeared on a wall or he was really, really good at forgiving and forgetting the people who had treated him so carelessly because he seemed fearless in the face of love. I could stand to learn something about that.

Button it up

So I have been working on a post about my train trip the last few days but I'm not quite finished yet. I'm taking a pause on that project though to bring you this breaking news story.

New development in my ortho treatment. As of today I have to wear elastics to control the alignment of my bite. To facilitate this they had to glue on buttons to two of my top teeth. The elastics then hook onto the buttons at top and hooks on the bottom. You take them off when you eat but otherwise you have to wear them 24/7. And when they say "cute as a button" they aren't talking about these things.

One button is on a back right molar so it's just an irritant to the inside of my cheek. The other button is on my upper left canine tooth so when I show a big ol' happy grin it looks like my tooth has a pimple. I know, vanity is a troublesome thing I need to throw out the window. But I have a birthday coming and then Christmas holidays with my guy and family I've never met before. Way to bring on the freak show for the holidays. Wah wah wah.

No more random happy kisses from Stephen, I'm afraid. If he starts looking at me with that sparkle in his eye I'm going to have to run to the mirror to un-hook my jaw first. Awesome.

Oh and boy does it hurt. Except when I was in my gym class today the pain went away. I guess my body was busy with the ab, butt and thighs pain so it laid off on the mouth pain for a while.

Okay. I'm done whining. You can now go back to your regularly scheduled programming. Thanks.

Planes, trains and publicity stunts

Tomorrow I get on a plane to Toronto where I will later board a train for 34 hour ride back to Winnipeg. Upon arrival I will coordinate multiple media interviews and then host a fitness boot camp event outside at Portage and Main with a Canadian sweetheart famous for receiving a set of pulmonary fibrosis damage-free lungs.

What does one pack for all that?

Thursday will be a big, busy and crazy day and I couldn't pull it off without my support team. My mom will drive me to the airport on Tuesday. My dad is my production assistant/courier/audio guy. My co-workers are being good sports and will come out for the event and at the end of the day I will find my way back to Stephen's big open arms for a welcome home/I missed you/congrats on a successful event hug.

It will be over before I know it.

I feel pretty

Yesterday was the first day after a haircut. Women know what this day means. It is the big test to see if they can recreate in their tresses all the bounce, shine and fun that their hairdresser did. I armed myself with hair product, my blow dryer and two different brushes to try to coax my locks into showing volume, shine and sleekness. I was nervous but felt prepared and had a tactic in mind so I set to work.

I had already done my make up and was pleased that my face was not red and cranky much. I had managed to apply just the right hint of eye shadow to enhance my peepers in natural shades. If I could get my hair to do what I knew it could, I'd be set.

I started off with good volume, but I couldn't get the hair to lay in the right place and stay. My bangs fell hopelessly infront of my eyes, no amount of sticky paste or hairspray could convince it otherwise. On top of that, I had over-done it on the product. My strands looked heavy and greasy. I was dismayed.

Stephen had just arrived looking cool in his green hooded sweater, jeans and a moto jacket and suggested that we start our afternoon out with a drink.I stood in front of the mirror and assessed. My hair was a small fail. My outfit, comprised of a red t-shirt layered over a long-sleeved white and black striped t-shirt and dark jeans, which had seemed fine a moment ago now showed a frumpy side. I frowned and the little red balloon in my heart that carries my spunk and confidence completely deflated. I felt un-pretty.

I don't think guys can really understand when a girl says she doesn't feel pretty or what difference it makes. I know Stephen looks at me and sees the same blue eyes he saw on our first date. The clothes I put on don't matter much and he has told me he still thinks I'm beautiful with my face all washed off for the night. He says lovely things but still, I want to feel pretty on my own terms. 

It didn't really matter before Stephen, but now it does. I want to feel kissable when I am with my beau. I want to feel like the girl he wants to plant one on in the middle of the produce section at Safeway. A frumpy outfit and bad hair doesn't make me feel kissable. It makes me feel like the friend who is tagging along on the outing.

It's hard to give love to someone else if you're not feeling in love with yourself first.  To do that takes care, time and a strong effort at being gentle to one's self in front of the mirror. It starts with appreciating your bare skin and loving all the freckles, lines and scars. Then it means loving the hug of the clothes on your body and seeing the features that are so striking they command the world's attention. A smile, vivid eyes, a beautiful neck, legs that go on forever--anything. It is seeing all this and knowing it comes with the soul of someone with beautiful, loveable qualities and quirks. When I lose touch with these things I need time and space alone to find them again, which is hard when your boyfriend is standing there looking la-ti-da amazing himself and you have about 15 minutes to get out the door so you can get your to-do list done.

On top of feeling un-presentable that afternoon, my house also felt like a mess. In the kitchen I started to spin out from it all, This climaxed with me trying to find a place for the microwave plate cover in the refrigerator.

"AHH! What am I doing?" I slammed the fridge door shut and threw the cover on the toaster. Stephen grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, and hugged me. Bad hair, frumpy outfit, messy kitchen me. 

I did end up changing my outfit and I covered my hair up with a cute hat. I smiled in the mirror when I was done with the transformation. I felt pretty and when Stephen and I walked hand in hand out of the restaurant, I felt happy, beautiful, and loved. 

Take me back to Pensacola

I was looking today at a post I'd saved in draft from way back in April when I was vacationing in Florida. I don't know why I didn't just hit "Publish" on it then, it seemed complete when I read it today, but I guess in the moment I was writing it I felt I had more to say.

Today I saw palm trees, blue ocean, white sand, lifeguards and pretty drinks with little umbrellas. I walked everywhere, as my blistered feet will attest to. My feet may be giving up on me, but I am love, love, loving this trip to Pensacola. I found my hotel last night in the dark without the help of my GPS, which has decided to take a long nap. I am pretty sure I found my way by heart because this vacation has been calling to me for a while now.

I was so full of happiness today I had to hold back tears. I love the sun, the heat, the sand, the walking around in shorts and tank top over bikini and that delicious scent of sunscreen on my skin. I do not miss the extended weeks of winter in Winnipeg one bit.

I booked this trip while holding my breath but smiling. I was nervous to take a trip on my own but I was excited for the adventure it would bring. Until now I was waiting for a special guy to do a getaway like this with. I always figured I wanted to wait and share this kind of trip with someone special. This year I broke out of that box because I was tired of waiting and I wanted to do something that would grow my independence. Funny things happen when you think you are making a bold move.

"I'll miss you," he said and I smiled. I'd always wanted someone who would miss me.

I was warmed by the memories of sun and sand. I was happy for the girl who was moved to tears with her joy and I cheered for the girl who broke out of her box and took a risk. The boy who missed me then still misses me today when I am not close by.

The girl of that post was nervous about the risk she was taking, but not afraid to do it. She believed that no matter what happened, she could deal with it. Get lost? She could find her way out. Rain? She could have fun inside. Hopelessly homesick and bored? Oh well, now she knows she can't vacation solo. I love that girl. I am that girl still, somewhere.

I think the things that I am afraid of right now are the highest stakes I've ever faced. Saying, "oh well, if it doesn't work out I'll get over it, I'll figure it out," feels rather impassive, indifferent, nonchalant (playing with the thesaurus here), even if deep down I know the statement is true (minus the casual feelings about it all). Getting to the place where I am okay with that or finding another path to peace in my heart is my challenge right now.

No fear

I do a core workout class twice a week at the gym. Thursdays are my favourite class day because I like the instructor. Today was her first time teaching the newest release and she asked if anyone had done it yet. I had, and another guy in the middle of the studio nodded.

"What did you think of it?" the instructor asked.

"Hard," he said.

"Hard! We don't say hard in this class! We say challenging."

I smiled at this. The other day when Stephen said relationships are hard I said I couldn't use that word. I didn't it like it. To me, hard is a word you use in exasperation. Hard is saved for things that are not only difficult, but questionable as to why you keep doing them. I don't want either of us to describe our relationship as ever being hard.

Maybe it's a girl thing to get so hung up on certain words. I like the word challenge. I can agree that a good relationship has challenges. I like a challenge. I think I have some version of that statement on my resume. Take on a challenge and your are ambitious, driven, confident in your abilities and a problem solver. That's who I am.

I can't remember the wording of it anymore, but I used to have a quote on this blog about how having a relationship with millions of people was easy, it's having a relationship with one single person that's difficult. It resonated with me when I found it because it was easy to make new friends with random strangers but trying to create a meaningful relationship with one special guy was har-d.

Now I see the wisdom differently. It's always been easy to bare my rawest thoughts and feelings here. Perhaps it's the comfort factor of putting words on a page. It's a release and they just flow out so much easier from my fingers than my mouth. My arguments make sense here. When I try to speak my truths to one person, even the simplest statement gets stuck in my throat and then, like I am actually choking, my eyes water. It's annoying. I wonder if it would be any easier if I knew sign language. Maybe I could just draw them pictures?

I never used to be so afraid. I would worry about things a bit, but they wouldn't shake me. I journaled, blogged, vented to my mom and it was all very manageable. Now, I have something new and special that I am afraid to lose and it's different. I can only guess it is kind of like being a new parent who says "Oh my goodness this little thing is so awesome and precious but so fragile. Please don't let me break it!" Kids are a lot stronger than we know, and really, so are we. Even when we are
fumbling around and feel more incompetent than a dust bunny, we still have instincts to guide us. And, I believe, if we have good, honest intentions, we can do pretty okay. People can generally forgive someone who is trying her best. Love does that.

I am afraid to say out loud that I am afraid, because I don't want to be seen as weak. I want to be strong, tough, confident and the one you can lean on. I used to be that girl. I had to be that girl. It was called being an older sister.

I am afraid that if I find my voice and get the words out about my fears and needs, there will be too many for any normal person to handle, and the camel's back will break. But I'm also afraid that if the fear doesn't come out, it will grow, like a cancer. It will make me ugly and eventually destroy me. I can't keep holding it all in.

I used to come here to share my story with the hope that if someone else out there in the world was going through the same thing, they wouldn't feel so alone. They could feel normal.

Being afraid is hard. It is exhausting. And what if I actually have nothing to fear? What if I could stand there, in all my imperfect messiness, release it all and lose nothing but the stress of carrying the fear around? What if I released it and someone said, hey, me too?

Whenever I find myself staring at a wall of fear that has paralyzed me, I remind myself that I will survive. I always do. The wall crumbles. I leap. And I haven't died yet.

Dear Jill,
You're not perfect. You're working on stuff. I get it. I love you anyway. You're worth sticking it out for. Let's go have some fun and eat some ice cream.

Love,
Jill

The relationship you have with yourself is the most challenging one and the most important. It sets the stage for all your other relationships. It needs to be nurtured.

Sit Down. Shut Up.

The Negative Committee had a meeting this week. They told me they weren't happy with what I've been putting out lately.

"The problem is, Jill, you're just not good enough for us. You're a let down. We know you can do better, so why aren't you? Why aren't you giving us the 110% we expect? You know that we don't accept less than that, so why do you even show up with your sad, ho-hum efforts?"

Friday is a run day for me. I alternate between jogging at a normal pace and running at a speedy pace to work on bettering my overall pace for regular runs. I wasn't really looking forward to going to the gym and pounding the treadmill.

"Skip it tonight, Jill. You're too tired and you probably won't run well anyway," the Committee chirped.

I puttered around the house a bit. Then I was hungry so I ate something. My gym bag sat on the floor, my shoes peeking out.

"Don't give up, Jill. It won't take long and you'll feel so good when you're done,"

There's a positive Committee too, of course. Gentle in nature, it is much more soft-spoken than the Negative Committee. I sighed and put on my gym clothes.

On the treadmill I entered my speeds for jogging and running. I decided to push it harder on the run intervals so I set a speed I'd never touched before. I would run for a total of 27 minutes.

At 10 minutes the Negative Committee had regrouped. "Aren't you tired? How's your knee? You've run hard enough, why don't you just finish the session off at your jog speed? Does this interval training stuff even work anyway? I mean, have you actually noticed any difference?"

Maybe I would take it easy, I decided. But not right away. I should run at least 9 intervals at the high speed, since I was doing a 9:30 mile, so if I ran 9 minute then that would be almost a mile, cumulative, at high speed. This math seemed to satisfy both committees.

I got to the ninth interval. Okay, I could take it easy now. I'd done the work.

NO! DON'T GIVE UP ON YOURSELF! ARE YOU READY TO COLLAPSE? DO YOU FEEL WOOZY? DO YOUR LEGS WANT TO GIVE OUT? WELL THEN KEEP GOING. DO ONE MORE.

Positive Committee had found a megaphone. I listened and did another interval. And another. And another. And then I was on my last one and I ran it as hard as I could because maybe I did suck this week. Maybe I couldn't make the sunshine and rainbows appear but I was not going to cheat myself out of a good run. When my time ticked down to zero I punched the stop button, my lungs sucking for air and legs burning. I'd done it. I ran and I did not suck. The Negative Committee scowled silently and I glowed in all my sweaty glory.

Pining/Pinning

I am a Pinterest freak. I can lose an hour pouring through the goodies on my feed. Recipes are my top finds--it's like a free, continuously growing cook book where all the recipes have photos. Drool...

I pin fashion, pictures of a future I dream of, work out and time saving tips. I also love collecting quotes on my boards Words to Work By, Words to Live By and Exactly. What is that feeling you get, that space that is filled with warmth when you find words that mirror what you believe in your heart? It's like calorie-free ice cream on the tongue, plus the moment your love takes hold of your hand while you are cozy warm under a fluffy, soft blanket. Or something like that.

Here's what has my heart singing these days.

Just because it's not how you would say it, don't toss it away. Everyone has their own way to say I love you.

I need to carry this rock in my pocket.

Oh do I know the truth of this one. 

I think this is true, even when you are in love. Perhaps even more so because you don't stop growing your heart just because someone has put their warm hands on it.

This is my theory on negotiation as a method of conflict resolution. I love that something even more beautiful can come out of strong opposition + stronger will to find a solution.

I am always torn between wanting to sing my heart out and shutting up so I can listen to something important that clearly can't wait 2.5 minutes when the song is over.

My number one rule to live by.

I still think the "Talk To Me" is one of the hottest 3-word commands I've ever received.

I love this perspective. It makes me laugh. But if it also makes me nervous because I am a terrible dancer, am I missing the point entirely?

I put hours into Pinterest with the hope that one day I will find the recipe for these exact cookies. Although my boyfriend did try to propose to me with a corn chip ring once so maybe I am looking for the wrong culinary project.

Paws for love

Today I was browsing through a table of used books at a university fundraiser and I came across a geography text book I used in first year. The class I used the book for was terrifically un-stimulating. It was the only one I skipped several times because it seemed like a waste of time to sit there and listen to the professor read from the book rather than offer any of his own teaching. The exam was brutal.

The text brought back another strong memory. It was identical except in better condition than mine was (or is, I think I still have it somewhere). Mine has hundreds of tiny teeth marks in the spine and a corner of the front cover torn off, thanks to a teething beagle puppy known as Elmo.

I was so mad at him that day when he used my book as a chew toy. That little dog was in a destructive phase and a pooping on the carpet phase. But he was cute, cuddly and did enough funny, puppy dog things to remind me that I really did love him.

I remember Elmo sleeping on my bed. I'd have to curl my legs around his 30lbs, snoring body because he always seemed to find his comfy spot in the middle of the bed. The noise and contortion was hardly bothersome. His snoring is actually the most comforting sound I know.

On Thanksgiving weekend my family, Stephen and his parents gathered at the cottage. At night we were all woken to the sound of Elmo wheezing and coughing. Unlike his soft snores, this cough was so disturbing it gave me knots in my stomach and I winced in pain every time he let one out. It sounded like a lamb going to slaughter.

Days before the weekend, my dad had called me while I was with Stephen to tell me that Elmo wasn't himself and they were worried about him. My mom took him to the vet and although it wasn't his final destination, the doctor told her Elmo was in the early stages of congestive heart failure. My Schmoe is dying.

You know when you get a pet that you are more likely to outlive him, but you push this thought out of your head so you can enjoy all the joy and unconditional love he brings you. He turns three and finally seems to have turned the corner on that rambunctious puppy stage. He turns seven and a little voice whispers to you that he's hit middle age, but he still looks good. He turns 11 and you start noticing the characteristics of the typical senior dog. He turns 13 and you know every day forward is a gift.

My mom said to me the other night while I was scratching Schmoe's back that he doesn't really smile anymore. He used to seem to know how to put on the charm whenever he wanted another cookie or to go for a walk. He'd stick his pink tongue out a little and the corners of his mouth would naturally curl up, like a smiling stuffed animal you'd be drawn to in the toy store.

The vet prescribed him a cocktail of meds to take to help with the congestion. If he seemed to be in pain I know my parents would do what was necessary. For now though my mom feeds him gourmet food and takes him for shorter walks. This is quality of life, we can only guess and hope, for a dog.

In 2013 I fell in love and found an unbelievable joy in my heart. I suspect that I could also find a void in it where a spotted dog dug a hole and buried 15 years of memories.

My Puzzling Experience

I've been beating myself up a lot lately for being a mess. It's exhausting and it's burning me out. I'm not a mess. I'm just a puzzle with many pieces of odd shapes and spaces that need some filling in.

I have spots where I reach out and spots where I pull in. I'm not even around my edges and not perfectly symmetrical.

Sometimes I think my life looks like this.

There are pieces here and there that I know belong somewhere but I haven't figured out where or don't feel like I have the time to put into place. Most likely there is a piece or two missing. It's probably under the couch or stuck to the bottom of my foot. I love the colours of my puzzle though and I tell myself I will get to finishing it soon.

And then along comes Love.

And those places where I am pulled in, Love reaches toward and fills up the void. Those places where I stretch out, Love accepts gratefully for giving what it needed.

Figuring out how the pieces go together and accepting the joining of those pieces isn't always easy. They are all different but they do all belong. Sometimes I fight it. Sometimes I try to force together pieces that don't actually fit. Sometimes I have to step back and take a break for a while or spend time looking at the big picture to understand what I am trying to put together, The tiny details I contribute to the beautiful thing I am a part of.

I have a beautiful puzzle. Even when I feel jagged, upside-down, completely odd-ball and like I don't fit in anywhere, Love has always grabbed me and guided me into place.

And really, how amazing does that feel when you're all warm and safe, in that place where you belong perfectly, with Love?