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.

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. 

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.

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?

Let's do the Twist

Inhale. Exhale. Plot twist. This is just a plot twist.

When I have a plan, an expertly laid, perfectly timed plan, and that plan goes horribly off the rails, I repeat these two words to myself until I calm down: Plot twist. Because I'm just bopping along my merry little way, trying to do good in the world by spreading love and good cheer and then the Universe rolls over, scratches itself and throws the proverbial monkey wrench into my day, just for an amusing right hook in my personal story, y'know, to shake the bag a little so I can stay sharp and the Grand Poobah of Life can have a good chuckle.

Saturday was a day full of plot twists.

It was October 5 which marked six months of relationship surival bliss with my dear sweet honey bunches of oats, Stephen the Beefcake. (I am still working on a good alias for him. And by good I mean ridiculously goofy, because we have that kind of love.) We were going to celebrate with a fancy, neither-one-of-us-has-to-wash-the-dishes dinner. For this half year special occasion I wanted to look half decent so I made an appointment for a manicure, pedicure and make up doing at a beauty college. I'd never been to a beauty school for a service before, but I've been to a massage school and was entirely satisfied so I expected the same results. I invited Lisa along to make it a full blown girly-girl afternoon.

The first twist of the day came when we arrived at the college and I was informed that I would not be getting my make up done.

"We tried calling you this morning, but I guess we only had your work number. The girl who was going to do your make up today couldn't make it in," said the otherwise pleasant receptionist. This was a bit of a heartbreaker for me because I had set my mind on trying a red lip look that day, to complement an outfit comprised of a turquoise blue halter-top blouse and a navy blue satin pencil skirt. I'd never done a bright red lip before and had no clue what shade would work for me so I was counting on some professional (or approximating professional) help that afternoon in a way that would draw Stephen's gaze right to my kisser the moment he walked in the door.

Plot twist, plot twist plot twist. I would be okay. I'd just zip over to the mall after the appointment and visit one of the many make up counters for a consult.

Three hours later...

My fingers and toes were painted a pretty, ballet slipper pink. I had about 40 minutes to solve my make up crisis. Lisa dropped me off at my house and I had zero minutes to put a single calorie into my grumbling belly which hadn't seen a morsel of food since brunch. I grabbed my Truck keys, booked it to the mall and settled upon Shoppers Drug Mart as my destination.

I walked up to the first person in the make up boutique who looked like she knew how to work liquid liner and asked if she could help me pick a red lipstick. She was wearing a Benefit Cosmetics pink t-shirt. 

"We don't have anything like that, but this lady may be able to help you," Pink t-shirt lady gestured to the porcelain-skinned and raven haired beauty from Lise Watier.

Pretty Girl Lise Watier quickly grabbed a tube of rouge and sampled it for me on the back of her right hand. It looked exciting but not over-the-top. I was game.

"Could you try it on me?" I asked.

She introduced me to her chair and I took no time getting comfortable. I then launched into my sad, sad tale about the make up artist who did not show up to do my 6-month-aversary dinner face.

"Would you like me to put some foundation on you?" she asked.

Sitting there with my completely bare canvas visage, I am sure every sign of relief was visible as replied, "I would be incredibly grateful for anything you can do to this face."

That lovely Lise Watier artist proceeded to cover up my red where I didn't want it and add glow and sparkle where I did, along with the very dramatic and delicious red lips.

I knew the product wouldn't be cheap but I asked for the lipstick and liner. 

"We have the liner, but we seem to be out of the lipstick," the artist informed me. Since Shoppers was having a 20x the points event for spending $50 or more I apologized and told her I would check another store for both pieces. I don't think she works on commission but I still felt bad walking away from her all dolled up but empty handed.

When I found the lipstick and liner at another store I finally checked the price. It was $21 for the lipstick and $18 for the liner. Oye. More painful than the steep price was the fact that I was still short of the $50 for the bonus points. I caved and ran around the store to increase my tally. I found a card for Stephen and a package of the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte instant coffees. (PS--the lipstick was totally worth the splurge. It is creamy but light, not drying on my lips and tastes a little like cherry Chapstick)

I got home and had just enough time to put on my outfit and my coat before Stephen came in the door. I wanted my outfit to have a big dramatic reveal moment at the restaurant.

We had made reservations at Cafe Dario on Tuesday night after checking out their online menu. I'd been there before for lunch and enjoyed every morsel. Their dinner shtick is a prix fixe menu with a number of appetizer and main course options. That evening began my four days of dreaming of roasted lamb in a Kahlua chocolate sauce.

Stephen and I were both close to passing out from hunger when we arrived at the warm and homey, tiny restaurant. As we were shown our table the waitress placed that day's menu in the space where our plates would eventually land. Stephen got right to business with checking out the offerings as I was slipping off my coat, thus entirely missing my ta-da moment.The poor boy was so hungry that I doubt had I literally done the twist I would have succeeded in catching least a corner of his eye. He is a good man though and he did have many sweet words for me soon enough.

I scanned the menu in search of the dishes I had already tasted in my mind. I saw the word lamb but neither the word Kahlua nor chocolate were anywhere near it. It said peppercorn instead. I twisted my hands in my lap with distress inflamed by my raving hunger. I could hear the heavens chortling.

Once the plates started coming and my wine glass was filled with delicious, red liquid I started to relax. I could feel my face warming and could only imagine it was approximating the shade of my pretty mouth, but Stephen reached over to take hold of my hand and everything else just melted away. 

Six months of Stephen. He's my favourite plot twist of 2013.

After dinner we weren't quite ready to call it a night so we decided to pay a visit to where we went on our first date--Joey's on Kenaston. 

On March 23 I pulled into the box mall parking lot and parked right in front of David's Bridal. I was certain  I heard the Universe rolling on the floor laughing that night. I remember the moment when I first saw Stephen, although I couldn't really tell you what he wore that night. I do remember thinking thank goodness, he's not a shorty. I will be able to wear heels with this guy.

We went into the lounge but couldn't find a seat until a sweet, grey-haired couple offered us their booth. Every time the 23rd of the month rolls around I think of them and say a silent prayer of gratitude.

At the end of our date he walked me to Truck and right there in front of David and all his white dresses he kissed me on the cheek and said he would call me, because he wanted to. Such a smoothy he is. A few weeks later I asked him if I could be his girlfriend. I didn't have any clever lines or a big dramatic speech. The Universe snored peacefully as our story took flight.  

F*ing Perfect

Yesterday at 4:13 p.m. I was sitting at my desk spitting mad at myself. When I turned off my computer for the day at 3:30 and started gathering up my stuff to head to my after-work plans, I couldn't find my Truck keys. I dumped my purse, cleared my desk, nothing. I went down to the parkade where my Truck sat, waiting for me to jump in and get going to see if I could spot the shiny silver of my J-initial and Mickey Mouse key chain but no luck. I called lost and found and found no relief. I called my dad so he could bring me my other set of keys and I could get on with my Thursday evening.

I'd had a busy night planned for myself. I was to go to my gym class at 4:30, meet Stephen at the Forks for 6 and then head to my Writer's Fest volunteer job for 7 p.m. There was no room for scatterbrained mishaps.

My first disappointed thought was for missing my gym class. I've been very disciplined lately about doing a core training class three times a week and running three times a week. Although by the time I got to the gym the class was 3/4 done, I wasn't going to waste time pouting so I did my own thing on the machines and the floor. I could see the class from my spot at the glutes and hamstrings station though and I may have let a scowl escape.

Back in Truck, post workout, I turned the key in the ignition and was greeted by U2 singing I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. I will use my last breath to argue with anyone who disputes the fact that God is a DJ with a wry sense of humour.


At the Forks I took at seat on an aluminum chair in front of the coffee shop where Stephen and I had agreed to meet. My phone rang, on its last bar of power and Stephen's mug came up. A flutter of worry stirred in my stomach.

"I just turned onto St. Mary's and traffic is insane. I guess because of the Jets game tonight. I'm not sure if I'll make it to see you," he said. "I'll call you in 10 minutes to let you know where I'm at."

Stupid Winnipeg hockey traffic messing with my date night. It's pre-season people. Calm the hello kitty down.

I sat by the window waiting for my phone to ring or die. I went over in my head all the places I'd been with my purse and keys and decided that most likely they would've fallen out of my purse at Starbucks. I plotted to call them as soon as I could find their number.

While deep in my plotting and stewing, a pair of hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and lips pressed to my left cheek. Now, I was downtown so I did gasp at first and felt a shot of adrenaline prepping me to fight or flight, but then I quickly melted when I realized I wasn't being assaulted but actually rescued from my mourning by that guy who has a strong like for me.

In the lounge I indulged in a pretty martini called a Blue Eyed Blond. I needed the irony and the booze equally.

"Stephen you can run now," I said. "It's not going to get any better. It's probably going to get worse," I said, in reference to me and my losing things.

He just smiled at me and said, "Oh Jillian, don't talk like that."

I keep saying that if there was a pill or a shock therapy I could take that would help me not forget and lose things I would go all in. My brain failures cause me so much stress and grief. My parents are used to it and have had to rescue me numerous times but I was always nervous about someone like Stephen having to deal with this mess. Stephen is neat, right down to his penmanship. I've never seen him lose anything. Not even his patience, which is the key quality someone should have to spend time with me.

On the other hand, my brain of fluff kind of ignited his affection for me. On our second date he picked me up and took me mini golfing and then for gelati. I remember that I had put on my best outfit and was feeling like I was going to wow this guy with my mini golf or at least my good sense of humour. But for some reason when we were out I felt like I was struggling to hold up conversation which was super frustrating and made me feel really shy. At the end of the night he pulled into my driveway and all I could think was how I wasn't going to see this very cute and funny guy again. I was surprised and elated when he asked if I wanted to do dinner with him later that week.And then I couldn't find my mitts. I looked on the floor, in my purse, under my seat, under my bum, nadda. I was trying not to show panic or concern about losing my favourite, pink leather gloves given to me as a birthday present by my grandmother a few years ago and then I found them between the seat and the door.

I admitted to feeling rather embarrassed about the whole incident.

"Why? It's cute," Stephen laughed.

"But it happens all the time!" And then I laughed too because all night I'd been trying so hard to be the perfect date that it felt so relieving to be not-perfect and still have this guy's eye on me. Stephen used to remind me of this story all the time. Except when he tells it he also reminds me that he ended our night by leaning over for a kiss and I gave him something with the level of affection one would use for kissing a dignitary, or, as he calls it, a "toast kiss". Six months later though he's still buying me ice cream. When we do breakfast together he puts me in charge of toast.

I went home last night and put all my angry energy into cleaning my house. I find cleaning very therapeutic. This morning I was going to leave for work early and zip down to the lost and found. I packed up my purse and then noticed something I hadn't seen there before. Keys. Were they my spare set? No. They were my usual set with the Tigger house key and the Mickey Mouse key chain. Hidden in a tiny pocket, I had put them there yesterday morning, thinking they would be safe from falling out of my outside pocket and safe from getting lost in the very bottom of the main purse area. This is what aggravates me almost as much as my mush brain. I do try to be pro-active with my scatterbrained-ness. I know myself so I do things thinking I will prevent loss, stress and frustration but more often than not it just makes a mess anyway. I have no workaround!

I texted Stephen to tell him the news.

"Awesome! Good start to your Friday," he said. And I loved him for it. I lose my keys, no big deal. I find that they were in my purse the whole time, still no big deal. If we were bodies of water I would be a meandering river and he would be Lake Placid.

"Every river has an ocean it runs to
And I knew if I kept going
Someday I'd find you" 

Johnny Reid, Dedicated to You

I feel bad for making my dad come out to deliver my spare set of keys and I feel bad that I was a glum date last night, but at least two good things came out of the whole fiasco.

1. I missed my regular gym class and did my own workout which, according to my sore muscles, was probably more effective than the class. Maybe I should do my own thing more often.
2. I got my house cleaned up.

You're so mean
When you talk
About yourself, you were wrong
Change the voices in your head
Make them like you instead
So complicated
Look how we all make it
Filled with so much hatred
Such a tired game

Pink, F-ing Perfect

What 30 means to me

Finally I have some time for blogging. This also means I have time for catching up on the two weeks of PVR'd TV programs. I apologize if this post starts trailing off on quotes from House.

I'd wanted to say some words on my birthday to my family, but I ran out of time to pull my thoughts together so all I could muster was a story about how I had been singing along to a favourite tune on the radio that afternoon (That Song by Big Wreck, a tune of nostalgia if there is one), feeling great until the announcer came on and said "hard to believe that song is 15 years old now". I have favourite songs from high school that are now 15 years old. I am an oldie, moldy crust of bread.

So you crank that song
And it might sound dumb
So just leave the room
While I sit'n stare
Cause yeah that's rare
I really love that tune
Man I love that song
I love that song
I love that song
--That Song, Big Wreck


Turning 30 didn't really cause me any pain. Yeah, it's kind of a big number and yes, it means I have closed the door on the 20-something category. But really, the best thing about your 20s is that you're young. And the worst part about your 20s is, well, that you're young. I won't miss the days of being another recent grad with a generously spaced resume and limited awareness of my own strengths and talents.

At 21 I was a college/university graduate, at 22 I was seven months into my first career job and at 24 I was in the world of corporate communications at a large Canadian company. I also bought my first vehicle, brand new, and started blogging--my first public act of writing since grade school. A year and a half later I bought a house.

So many big and exciting moments happened in the first half of my 20s but 29 was probably my favourite year of that decade because in that year I believe I found my own two, very well-shoed feet. Some of my most frustrating, upside down and lost moments happened in that year, the year that my mom had to come to my house to scrape me off the floor where I was drowning in a puddle of my own tears. But even in that moment when I didn't want to open my eyes or for my mom to stop holding me, I had inside of me a flame I'd never sensed before. It's my pilot light that never goes out, even in the darkest moments. My fire in my belly is the small but mighty voice of wisdom that either took 29 years to grow or 29 years for me to finally hear it and believe when it says no matter what, everything will turn out and I'll be okay.

In mid-November I went to a craft show and spent probably 45 minutes reading all the fun and inspirational quotes a girl had printed on magnets, coasters and plaques. The most basic magnets were only a dollar. I bought a stack of them. One of my very favourites featured a quote from contemporary poet, Maya Angelou:

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.”

When I'm in a hole at the depths of despair, I can't climb out of it fast enough. But once I am in the warm sun again I have an enormous appreciation for the challenge and the opportunity to use strength I didn't realize I possessed.
 
I learned so much about myself in the last year and a half or so. This knowledge is what made turning 30 so easy breezy. I'm sure I don't know it all, but I feel like I at least finally have a grasp of the territory. For now. Which brings me to the other favourite magnet I picked up:

"Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten"
--Natasha Bedingfield

I took the day off on Monday so I could enjoy a full day of celebrating. I wanted to spend time with as many people I love as I could. It started off with a free, birthday coffee from Starbucks that I drank while visiting with my senior citizen friends from the mall that I used to walk through on my way to work. Brownie and Emil gave me a box of chocolates along with their good company.

After that visit I went to the Urban Oasis Spa. (Thank you, Manitoba Blues Club, for that gift certificate parting gift.) I thoroughly enjoyed the steam room and the mineral pool before receiving a wrap treatment. My sister met up with me after the wrap and we got our nails done together, which we've never done before. After that we went to the bridal salon and Sister selected her wedding gown with big nods of approval from me and Mom. After that I rushed home and put on my party frock for dinner with the family. I'll let the pictures tell the story from here.

Sweet Sisters!

Birthday manicure and birthday glass o'wine

I told my sister, who planned my special night, that the most important thing of all for me was the Birthday Cake. She nailed this.

What a slice looks like

What the whole inside looks like. Cake, then cream, then cake, cream, cake, cream, fruit and chocolate garnish topped by a smattering of candle wax.

When I got home that night, alone with me, myself and I again, I lit one more candle, sat down in front of it, and unleashed all my joys, gratitude, and heart-bursting hopes for the future. When I was about done I said, "God/Universe, I don't know if you heard--" and before I could finish the sentence with "any of that" and the rest of my not-really-so-eloquent-yet-full-of-passion-and-conviction speech, the candle went out. Poof. No draughts and plenty of wax and wick left to burn. Spontaneous de-combustion* I guess. Or, a simple message reminding me to not worry, sit tight, drink lots of fluids and go to bed so I can get plenty of rest for the ride to come. I went to bed a little before midnight but I woke up on Tuesday feeling like I'd been hit by a truck and have been battling the sniffles all week. Ugh, this has been the most unpleasant welcome to a new era I've ever encountered.

Last magnet of inspiration, I promise (I have a very inspiring refrigerator):

If I'm not happy
in this time,
in this place,
I'm not paying attention.
--Jodi Hills

*un-combustion? anti-combustion? None of these is a word, according to Webster. Whatever, 30 means you are old enough to write your own dictionary.

My body tells me no, but I won't quit

My day started at three a.m. when I woke up in a sweat with Young the Giant's "My Body" stuck on repeat in my head, among other things.

I had a full day of presentations with classes of grade 11 biology students ahead of me. This day is going to be brought to you by Starbucks, I moaned when it was time to get out of bed.

After nearly leaving the house without my laptop I found my way to pick up one of my speakers--of the people variety, not the audio kind. (My head is still foggy and I couldn't figure out how to make that differentiation in a simpler manner than that.) The Creme Brule latte was helping.

I had three speakers talk today about their experience with organ donation. All of them have amazing, inspiring stories that I love hearing over and over, like a favourite TV episode (which is good when you have to make the same presentation with them five times in a row in one day).

I came home with a heavy heart though because one of my speakers, a kidney recipient, is facing kidney failure again a year and a half after transplant. He is 72 and would be the first to tell you that he has lived a full, good life and that dialysis and transplant gave him time to enjoy retirement from his career as a school principal and spend time with his grandchildren. But the odds of him getting a second transplant are not great and dialysis is not fun. In the next few months he will have to decide if he wants to go back on dialysis or let the kidney failure take its course.

This guy has so much life experience and wisdom in him and I have seen only a small part of it. He has a cute sense of humour that gets the students from high school to med school laughing along with him. I don't let my mind think about my 28-year-old friend Kristin not getting her heart transplant because she has so much life to live, but I also can't imagine the lights going out for this gentleman who continues to inspire, teach and affect people. His transplant only gave him 18 months or so free from dialysis. Was it worth it? Absolutely. If it had only given him an extra week it would have been worth it. I am so grateful it lasted long enough for me to get to know him.

I love this job but I know it is going to break my heart.


My body tells me no
But I won't quit
Cause I want more
Cause I want more
My body tells me no
But I wont quit
Cause I want more
Cause I want more

It rides out of town

Oh, it's my road
It's my road
It's my road
It's my road
It's my road
It's my road

And it's my war
It's my war
It's my war
It's my war

His eyes are open
His eyes are open

--Young the Giant, My Body Tells Me No

Everyday is Mother's Day

My mom made me veggie burgers (with no hidden agenda cheese) and a vegan apple pie today. Even though I am 29 and far beyond my temperamental, experimental teen years, she goes along with my whims. It is because of her that I can keep my youthful curiosity and spirit. The Grand Canyon filled ten times over could not hold my gratitude for this gift.

Also, my dad fixed my heaved patio blocks today so I let him drink the beer in my fridge.

(If you filled the Grand Canyon 10 time over with beer, you'd just have a lot of drunk dads.)

Heart Matters

A friend of mine is waiting for a heart transplant. She's 27, loves shoes, shopping, and going to the gym. I've heard her tell her story several times now about how she was a healthy, normal girl who went from a heart murmur and a mysterious fainting episode to heart failure and being in need of a transplant. Her story reminds me  of my own, except hers went to life-threatening while I am still just a fainter with a beat-skipping heart.

I tell people it's my mission to find her a heart. Someone, somewhere will sign a donor card, become an organ donor and my friend will get her new heart.

The other day I was driving her home and we were chatting about hope, waiting and patience. My friend told me one day she saw a pink elastic on the ground that was bent in a way that made it look like a heart. She said she felt inspired at that moment that her heart was coming soon. Unfortunately, it didn't. I've been thinking about the symbolism of hope for my friend and decided to start collecting picture of hearts for her.

From A Heart for Kristin

From A Heart for Kristin

Last week on my trip we even saw an elastic heart on the sidewalk. It's hard to see, but it's there!

From A Heart for Kristin

This will be an ongoing project for me. I will keep adding new hearts to the album as I collect them. If anyone has a picture to add to the collection, send them to me at jill at ajillstory dot com.

It's just an expression

While getting ready for the gym today I noticed a multi-hued bruise just above my knee cap. I touched it. It hurt. Hm. When did I get that? Must've been recently. How? Mysteriously, as you often do, silly girl. I had a hazy memory of hitting myself with the heavy ramps I used to wheel my lawn mower into the back of Truck yesterday. My dad needed to borrow the mower, so if that was the cause of the bruise then at least it was in an act of love and not just poor coordination, as is the usual case.

The most unfortunate part of the bruise was that I was scheduled to do a portrait session with my photographer friend, Doug (affectionately known as Delores here). I worried about the bruise ruining the pictures. I made a mental note to check the rest of my limbs for unsightly blemishes. Later I would fret that the humidity would mean my hair would be limp and gross looking and that my workout would mean my face would be extra red. Gah. Pictures stress me out.

Last Sunday afternoon when NAF was here we were wandering around at the Forks. He snapped some pictures of the river for his blog.

"Wait, there's one more picture I need," he said and pointed the lens at me.

I made a face and groaned. "Not today."

"Why not today?" he asked.

"I was prettier yesterday," I said although I have no idea what that meant. If anything I was "prettier" on Friday when I was sporting my new frilly dress. On that particular Sunday I was wearing a typical weekend t-shirt with some black, easy-breezy, wide-legged pants and, the biggest fashion faux pas that I allowed myself to indulge in, my tired and worn black runners (the ones from New York that I cannot bring myself to toss. Not ever).

"You're one of those people," NAF said as we headed up the river bank.

"One of what people?"

"The ones who never like how they look in any pictures of themselves when really they take beautiful pictures." He showed me the image. Well if I hadn't have made such a "please don't take my picture now" face maybe the photo would have turned out lovely. Great. Now that is going to be his lasting image of me from this visit. You see? Pictures are so stressful!

When I was a kid, no, for my entire life I've wished that I could express myself physically through dance, gymnastics or figure skating or taking really great photos. I understand the concepts of beautiful  and expressive lines and postures, but I am so freakin' awkward and uncoordinated, like a baby giraffe who has no awareness of the length of her limbs. That's why I am constantly bruised. I am forever flailing my arms out and getting my legs in the way of unyielding objects. If I can practice and go slow, sometimes I think I can look graceful, and then I feel beautiful. But that takes some work. It's not natural to me like the flow of words onto a page is. Meh, everyone has their thing.

I've always been good with words. I know how to place them to communicate what I want to say. I know how to play with sentence length, diction and imagery to create something for my readers or listeners to understand and react to. If I can make someone feel something, I have succeeded in my expression.

When it came time for goodbye on Monday morning, NAF and I didn't have much to say. All weekend we had traded stories and laughs but now we were both quiet.We'd look at each other and I'd search his eyes for something that would tell me what he was thinking. Perhaps he wanted to say something but the words were locked up in his head. Me, I had words, all kinds of words. But I didn't know which ones to use just then. Instead I hugged him and hoped that he could read in my eyes that I understood and I wasn't mad, hurt or feeling regret. It was a hard goodbye for me, harder than I thought it would be, but I wanted to show him my most beautiful self--a girl full of grace, poise and strength. That was the picture I wanted him to take with him on the rest of his journey.

At my photo session with Doug today I put on my favourite songs and my favourite outfits. None of them showed the bruise. I tried my very best to show my heart, the whole happy-but-scarred, beat-skipping thing.
 
"Let's make sure we get a real smoldering shot," I told Doug. I wanted to have evidence that I could tell a whole heartbreaker story in one, unblinking look. With the very last head shot he did he said, "your eyes are really blue."
 
I leaned over to look at the preview screen on the camera and smiled. That's the look that makes for hard goodbyes.
 
Now I know.

Take a picture, it will last longer than your generic verbiage

I'm officially a Christmas donkey.

I got my sister's Christmas card in the mail today. The image on the front is of a large, downtown store. When I first looked at it I thought it was the downtown Winnipeg Bay store. I opened the card and read the printed verbiage: "Like a snowflake, each day is a small miracle. Celebrate accordingly." Above that my sister wrote in her best penmanship, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year Jill". Okay, standard stuff. But below the pre-printed sentiment she added:

We are looking forward to celebrating with you this holiday season and in the year to come. The picture on this card is from New York, I figured you'd appreciate it. Love Tracy + C.

I turned to the back of the card. It had the Saks Fifth Avenue logo and yup, a little caption that noted the image on the front was of the New York City flagship store, circa 2004.

She totally out-sentimentaled me on this one. Well okay, at least she didn't send a "Dear Sister at Christmas Time" card. We all know Christmas isn't about the gifts or the butter tarts. It's the one time of the year for telling people how much you love them and value having them in your life. Yup, that's it, only once a year does that opportunity come along and if you miss it you have to wait a full four seasons for the window to open again. Perhaps she will forgive and forget if I tape a twenty to the gift tag on her present.

***

I knew what I wanted to eat before stepping into the Osborne Village restaurant with Vince, Florence and Vince's friend, Dorothy. I had read the reviews for Segovia that afternoon and everyone raved about the hanger steak and the patatas bravas. Winnipeg's only true tapas bar promised something a little different for the meat and potatoes fare.

We were seated in the lounge at a bar height table. My brushed steel stool faced the patio doors that were a window to the winter white urban street front. The three tables for two beside us were occupied by daters. There was a mixed group of four living in the moment at the bar behind us. Unlike the dining room, this room felt like we were in some hipster's apartment. Old fashioned light bulbs hung from the ceiling, their warm glow kissing the flicker of the tea light candles in old canning jars. The candle was sitting in a couple of inches of sand in the bottom of the jar. I loved this and decided I wanted to take a picture of the candle, the brick, the gouged wood table, so I could try to mimic the simple romance in my home.

I just downloaded the photo now though and it's nothing compared to the real thing. It looks like a washed jam jar on a table beside a cold brick wall. That's not how I saw it at all. It looked like heat, like a sample of a beach campfire. Which image is the truth, my memory's or my point and shoot camera's?

My future is aces high and joker's wild

On Saturday I went to McNally Robinson Booksellers to get my free, Winnipeg-ized tarot card reading. As part of the Winnipeg Cultural Capital of Canada 2010 ARTS FOR ALL initiative The Winnipeg Tarot Company offered free readings for the month of October. And as an added twist to the paranormal, the readings were done with a special, Winnipeg-themed deck featuring all things iconic about my hometown.

I was the first customer of the day. I knew what I wanted the cards to give me insight on but I took a moment to carefully word my question. I've done this before, I know the tarot likes specific questions.

I was instructed to cut the deck three times and then re-stack it as I saw fit. The reader then dealt the spread and turned the cards over one by one as she explained their meanings.

My first two cards were the Diva and the Street Person. These cards were representative of my present.

"The Diva represents someone who is the star, the center of attention," the reader explained. The Street Person card represented poverty and financial struggles.

The next card was the nine of blizzards. It features a thin girl at one of those Winnipeg--One Great City signs stationed at the city limits. It's blowing snow and she is improperly dressed (this sounds totally like me huh?). This card represents a struggle, some hard work and tough times but also perseverance and toughness. With this card we were starting to look to my future.

The third card that came up was the Three of Floods, which depicted the Teddy Bears' Picnic.

"This card represents a collection of people from all walks of life coming together. The stream that you see running through the image represents a life force uniting these people together."

So far so good, the cards were giving me a very interesting response to my question. With the final card the reading was dead on.

"The Fool on Garbage Hill card represents the ultimate friendly Manitoban. Here he is standing high atop garbage hill, but if he falls, he never falls hard and he never falls very far."

The reading actually confirmed what my own intuition was telling me. I was pleasantly surprised by it.

"Okay, now I have one more card for you. You can ask another question and then I will turn it over and read it for you."

I again thought for a moment before voicing my question. "What does my future hold for me in love?" I asked.

The reader turned the card over and placed before me the Devil card.

"This card represents carnality and lust," she said and her eyes twinkled. She seemed to think this meant something very hot and passionate was in my future, but I saw something else entirely. That there, by my interpretation, was the sinful Homewrecker card that has been the thorn on my long stem Valentine rose for quite some time now. If the cards are in fact right, it's more married men and bored, betrothed boys licking their lips and regarding me as little more than a fun distraction. Ah well, I'll worry about the love thing later. There are many, many more cards in the deck for me to play right now.

Okay, the reading wasn't entirely free, actually. In exchange for the reading, patrons were asked to give a Winnipeg story--any story that comes from Winnipeg. I had thought about it for a bit and decided to talk about the support and love my family got from the Blue Bomber family this past summer when my uncle died, specifically Lorne, the team padre, and about being invited to the practice where we all went into the huddle together.

The reader gasped.. "What a beautiful story," she told me when I was done and I was pleased. It felt like a fair exchange of gifts.

The very hungry caterpillar is still hungry

I had a one hour appointment today with a life coach. She was one of the coupons in the Lifestyles pass I picked up this month.

I had some time to kill before my appointment so I wandered into a couple of Exchange District shops. The first one was a hat place. I looked around at the merchandise, touched it, picked it up, checked the price tags and put it down. A few I thought were interesting enough to try on and check out in the mirror.

"The tag goes to the back," the storekeeper said when he saw me trying on a large wool lid that seemed to have ear flaps. Aware I was being watched I shyly glanced in the mirror and then put the hat back.

There were toques, caps, fedoras, hats with pom poms and hats with feathers. Pink ones, blue ones, black ones, plaid and solid. None of them seemed me though.

"On Wednesday he ate through three plums, but he was still hungry"

--The Very Hungry Caterpillar



I found my way to the coach's office. It was in an old building with winding hallways and uneven floors. Her space was a small room with a desk by the windows and table and chairs by the door.

"So what brought you here today?" she began by asking.

I took a deep breath and struggled to get out my first sentence. She followed up with more questions that led up to the ultimate one.

"So what would you do if you removed all the barriers? All the fears, all the need for approval?"

I have been thinking about this question a lot over the past few months. Last week I found myself in the bookstore and even picked up Life Coaching for Dummies and started working through it. I had an answer but suddenly I was shy to say it out loud. So I talked around it, pretended like I was still exploring options. I tried to feel out what her reaction might be. I was hoping she'd say what I was thinking, like it was her idea first and I could just give an enthusiastic nod and grin. But that's not really how coaching works. It's hard to open up completely to someone you've only just met. And I've read that it can take time to find the right coach for you, the one you'll feel comfortable with, who gets you.

The session was not a waste though. I did let my heart speak a little bit and I saw how fears have been holding me back. There is no making a wrong decision, and making a big change doesn't mean having to bind and gag all your fears so you can jump head first into your choice. The way she described her approach to change sounded like a metamorphosis, a process gradual enough that it doesn't hurt or feel scary.

I am proud of this place I am in right now. I got myself here, but I did it all with the security of the approval from my family and friends. I am ready to start doing things on my own esteem now. I have my own legs, my own voice, my own funds. Things may not go the way I plan, but I have to be okay with that and hopefully they will stick by me anyway because that's when I will need them the most.


"The next day was Sunday again. The caterpillar ate through one nice green leaf and after that he felt much better. Now, he wasn't hungry anymore and he wasn't a little caterpillar anymore."
--The Very Hungry Caterpillar

New strength

Change is hard. For me, having a change handed to me isn't something that stresses me out much because I know that I always have the choice of take it or leave it. If I don't like the change I simply make a change myself and find my nearest exit point. I always thought that took strength, courage and resourcefulness.

The really hard kind of change though is the self-inflicted kind, like the promise you make to change your natural tendency so you can be better some how. It's hard when you have to be mindful of the behaviour so you can catch yourself and make the correction, choose the better reaction or behaviour. It's so much easier to just give up and let yourself be. Nobody's perfect, right? People just have to accept you, warts and all.

I wanted to stop being such a pill to my mom about looking after Elmo when my parents go away from time to time to a place where they can't bring him along. I make a big deal out of it every time and then I end up feeling terrible about it. Despite being aware of it, whenever my mom asks if I'll take him I still make it known that I am not looking forward to the responsibility.

This time she said to me, "Well fine then, I'll put him in a kennel and he'll get so stressed out he'll have a heart attack and die". I told her I didn't believe that would happen.

Why do I get all worked up about this so much anyway? Guilt. The entire situation is sauced in it. First my mom has to "ask" me if I can take the dog. I know she feels bad because I really don't have a choice but to say yes because she has no one else to go to. I have to say yes because she is my mother, she still takes care of me and who am I to deny her a weekend away? Say no and I am ungrateful and mean.

When the time comes for Elmo to stay he is usually good company. He's happy to see me when I get home and he has a cute snore when he's sleeping. But when I have to leave and go somewhere without him he gets upset. He trembles and tries to climb into my lap in protest. Or sometimes he just annoys me. Like when he doesn't want to come inside from his morning pee break and I am trying to leave for work. Or when he wakes me up at three am to go outside and it's minus forty and I have to put on my jacket and shoes and walk him to the back gate and wait for him so I can walk him back inside. Or when he won't go to sleep because he's heard a noise or is just afraid of the dark and he whines and pants and paws at my bed. Or how he always wants a cookie and always slops a big puddle of water on the floor when he drinks. And I get mad. Sometimes I just get so tired, frustrated and mad. And then I feel guilty and awful for being mad at a dog who is just being a dog and doesn't deserve my mad energy. When he's actually pretty good for the whole weekend I still feel bad because I made such a fuss about taking him in the first place. That dog makes me throw daggers at myself. He becomes a mirror for all this yuckiness inside of me--my impatience, my selfishness, my lack of maternal instincts and my absolute need for seven hours of solid sleep.

I didn't want Elmo. Not at all. I remember when our first family dog died. I was ten or eleven and it broke my heart. I never wanted to feel that awful pain again. A few years later I came home from my part-time job one day to a puppy traipsing around in our back yard. My mom and my sister had picked him out. I quickly fell in love with him (except on the days he ate my text book and my shoes). But from day one, and in the many days that followed since then, my mind has gone to that dark place to remind me that one day he's going to get sick and will need to be put down. Every year on his birthday I do the morbid math: average life expectancy for a dog is 14 years, subtract current age to get number of years left with this precious fur ball of unconditional love. He turned eleven this year.

Extreme guilt. Horrible pain. That's what I'm trying to run away from, kicking and pouting the whole way. How do I face and change that?

I have committed myself to exploring the concept of acceptance. Instead of questioning why I'm here, why I'm not there, when this will happen or why now, I am practicing taking deep breaths and facing my anxiety by coming to terms with the present.

I have a calendar at work that has a word for the month of October: optibitious. I don't know if it's a real word. I tried looking it up in the dictionary and online but my search turned up nothing. For each month the calendar features a different ad or marketing agency's selected word of the year. I wouldn't really put it past them to just make something up. Anyway, I like the word optibitious. It means (allegedly) going forth with an unrestrained determination to succeed, regardless of the odds or environment. I love the word because it is me. I want to be optibitious every single day. But with such ambition and heart comes a certain amount of pain when things don't turn out despite oozing optibitiousness. (Just because I work in a cardboard box factory doesn't mean I can't make stuff up too you know.) So I took that word and I took my promise to change and do better and I wrote this on a Post-It note as my new daily mantra:

I optibitiously accept this day as an opportunity to live, love, learn and grow.

On November 20 when Elmo comes to my house I will be repeating this mantra over and over and over. Maybe the old dog can teach me some new tricks about enjoying the present.

eyes hood bee

Day one of the Writers Festival main stage events. I attended. I showed up an hour early because I thought the show started at 7:15 but actually it starts at eight. I killed time walking around The Forks and kicked myself for not being at the gym. I should be, I should be...

It was a drizzly, damp, foggy evening, which seemed like the perfect occasion for a latte, not to mention a good way to sip away some time. I talked myself out of it though, saving myself a good 200-300 calories and four dollars. At least I won that battle.

When it was closer to eight I went back to the venue and browsed the book table. I bumped into someone I used to work with at Good-Wooden Leg and got into a conversation with her about the writing thing. She's been doing some workshops. She asked me what I've been doing in pursuit of my calling. She was the second person to ask today.

I barely listened to the readings tonight. Mostly I was distracted by my guilt and inner nag. I should be, I should be, I should be.

I should be writing every day. I should be preparing pieces for submission. I should be editing my 50,000 word manuscript. I should be going to the gym five days a week, at least. I should be drinking more water. I should be eating less carbs. I should be dating. I should be doing laundry. I should be, I should be. Eyes hood be.

On the way home I heard a new song on the radio. These are the lyrics:

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are

Just the Way You Are--Bruno Mars

Personally, I'm a much bigger fan of Billy Joel's take on the sentiment, however, the song was a good cure for the I Should Be ear worm in my head. I am who I am and that's good enough for me. I don't need to be anything else today. I am not wasting or losing time. I will get done all the things I want to do. I am focused right now on certain aspects of my life and when I have those things in order, I will move on to my next challenge. I don't need to change a thing or do more to be amazing. I am there already and that isn't a characteristic that is going away.

Dear Self, here is a song for you. Love always, Me.

Don't go changing, to try and please me
You never let me down before
Don't imagine you're too familiar
And I don't see you anymore
I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble
We never could have come this far
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times
I'll take you just the way you are

Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care

I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew
What will it take till you believe in me
The way that I believe in you.

I said I love you and that's forever
And this I promise from the heart
I could not love you any better
I love you just the way you are.

Just the Way You Are--Billy Joel

Life is a highway

Home. I pulled into my driveway at nine, as the GPS lady promised me I would. I unloaded my small haul from America, plugged in my dead cell phone and started reconnecting with the world I left behind on Friday evening.

Friday. It feels so long ago. I turned down after work drinks with K so I could go home and pack. I stopped at Starbucks on the way so I could get a smoothie for the road. It was sunny and warm and I had the whole long weekend ahead of me. I had a fun ride down.

Hot Border guard: Where you headed?
Me: Turtle River.
Hot Border guard: Whatchya doing down there?
Me: Camping.
Hot Border Guard: By yourself?
Me: Meeting my parents down there.
Hot Border Guard: So your parents forced you to go camping with them this weekend huh? Doing anything else down there?

Figuring it would have been inappropriate at this time to bat my eyelashes and ask in a Canadian maple syrup sweet voice, "what are you doing later?" I instead replied: Maybe some shopping.

Hot Boarder Guard with dimpled smile: Alright then, you try to have fun camping this weekend.

I continued my journey onward with my spirits and music high and pulled up to the motor home around 8:30 where I was greeted by my parents and Elmo. Home for the weekend. I've fallen in love with the drive to the border now, the way I know other Manitobans love the drive north to the beaches or east to the Lake of the Woods area. And the motor home, it's not a cabin on the lake and I don't even get my own bedroom, but the motor home has become a special home away from home for me. Wherever it is, there is a warm place for me.

This weekend I went shopping with my mom, rode bikes with my dad and scratched Elmo behind his ears whenever I could. I hung around a bit late today, not wanting to leave. While my journey was ending today, my mom's and dad's was just starting. Dad retired this week and now they are travelling for the month of September. No real destination, just wherever the wind blows (although I warned my mom to stay clear of hurricane territory). It felt weird this week. First my dad had this big accomplishment--he finished his 37-year career. For all my life it's been me or my sister accomplishing things, but this time it was my dad's turn to celebrate himself. And today, when I pulled away from the motor home and waved so long, I had an idea what it might feel like to be a parent sending her children off to summer camp or university for the first time. Where did the time go? Will they be okay? A month is so long, I'm going to miss them so!

The ride home was less enjoyable. The skies were grey and the wind was wicked. The line up at the border was long (2 miles or more, 100 minutes).

Back at home I plugged in my dead phone, retrieved the message from Lisa (she's home!!) and a text message from Judy (still stuck in the border line up). OAF IM'd me, requesting stories. I checked my fridge for something lunchable. I didn't buy anything I can wear to work tomorrow, well, maybe. OAF is going back to school tomorrow, like so many others. Lucky.

I was feeling pensive while I was bike riding this weekend. The park had a lot of hills. Sometimes I had to chug pretty hard to climb them, even in a low gear. The best feeling was when I was almost at the top and I knew that I was going to make it. At that moment I relished the challenge, way more than the easy sail down the other side. Coasting isn't really that much fun for more than a moment or so. (Although that moment is truly something--the hum of the tires, the wind in my face, the break from peddling.) The other thing that really isn't fun is peddling down a flat stretch in an easy gear. I need some resistance so I don't feel like I'm just spinning my wheels. It's good to know the kind of ride you like and the gear you operate best in. It's also pretty cool to look back at some of those hills you've climbed and be amazed at how far you've come.

I'd go on, but it's getting late. I'll try to post more regularly if only so that my mom and dad have something nice to read when they have Internet access on the road.

A dream is a wish your heart makes

I was going to tell more story about my long weekend, but it was going to be done more in photos than words (oh yay! A slide show of my summer vacay!). I'll have to post that later because I'm not with Mac right now, who is holding my photos, and I want to tell some other stories before the emotions evaporate from memory. Ready? Okay!

You know that moment when you realize your dream is coming true? You're there and it is just unfolding before you, even more wonderful than you had imagined. It feels as if your heart is rising out of your chest and floating over your head, like a bright balloon. And you're standing there and thinking, how could I possibly communicate this moment of wonderfulness to anyone? This is a dream that I have held in the cells of my body for so long, and probably longer than I even remember because I kind of think that dreams lay dormant in you until you are ready to understand them, accept them and take the path to realizing them.

That's what I felt on Thursday night as I stood on the platform of my dad's friend's racing car hauler, looking at the mound of black dirt that was turn one of the track, the golden wheat fields beyond it and the prairie blue sky above. I'd gone to a lot of car races before, but this time I was on the other side of the show. I was part of the pit crew; it was my dream come true.

When I was a little kid my dad would go help his friend, Len, with his late model stock racing car. My mom wouldn't let me go watch. "You wouldn't like it. It would be too loud for you," she always said. I apparently had sensitive ears and always covered them during fireworks shows, so she might have been on to something there. But I also remember going with my dad to Len's house for some reason or another and seeing The Car, loaded on the back of a hauler and being in complete awe of it. It was blue like my Barbie's Corvette and had the number 72P (P was his last initial) in a bright decal on the door panels. I remember the special tires--wide with shallow treads, the dirt and grease and the engine he had in his basement. We had a program from the Grand Forks Speedway that had a photo of Len's car in it, taken during a race. It was the only clue I had to help me imagine what it would be like to see it in action.

Len gave up racing his car before I ever went to my first race. He bought a boat instead. We went out in it a lot. It was a lot fancier and faster than my dad's. My sister and I would sit on the red carpeted floor where the ride was bumpier. For some reason bumpy was fun. He sold the boat eventually too, and later, he and his wife moved down to Florida.

I didn't even go to my first race with my dad. I went with my junior high best friend and his family. They were into sprints. I don't even think they raced the late model class at that track at that time. I was  just getting into NASCAR racing at that time, which is the professional version of the late model class. The sprints are fast but they hardly look like a car, more like a dune buggy with a funny hat. I eventually grew an appreciation for watching them, but they weren't what I wanted to watch.

My friend's family knew a sprint car driver so we went into the pits after the race to see him. My friend's dad was on the driver's crew. Later, when my friend got old enough, he too helped out on the crew. I envied him for his connections.

I wanted so very much a team of my own to be a part of. Dad knew a few guys when we'd go to a race, guys that Len used to race with or the sons of guys he raced with, but those were mostly acquaintances, not enough to earn us a spot on the crew. Dad would talk with them about the old days when he was helping Len out and the good times they had. I heard all the tales numerous times. They were good stories, but when I'd hear them I'd think, Dad needs new stories to tell. He needs a new crew. I started to carry a hope that one day I'd marry into a racing family and satisfy the both of us.

I guess it's been about six or seven years since I started going to the races in Grand Forks with my mom and dad on Friday nights. It used to be the nearest track where you could see the late models race. The Winnipeg track stopped running them for a while because they couldn't afford the payouts. I'd quietly cheer on the Winnipeg guys who ran down there but secretly turned my nose up them too. They had these massive, custom motor homes to pull their custom-made haulers. Big money. If Len was still racing he'd be the scrappy under dog trying to out-run these guys with their latest and greatest equipment. I had no desire to check these guys out with my dad and the other fans in the pits after the race, so I would go back to the motor home with my mom instead, divorcing myself of any dream of ever belonging on the back side of the track. Silly girl.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge. For while knowledge defines all we currently know and understand, imagination points to all we might yet discover and create."
--Albert Einstein

People often ask me when they find out I'm into racing if I want to be a driver. No. That was never the dream. That space the driver sits in is a tiny pod. The steering wheel is at your knees and close to your chest. The driver has to remove it in order to get in and out of the car, and the only way in and out is through the driver's side window. There's no glass to these windows, just a thick, black net. I couldn't imagine feeling comfortable in that space at all. The car looks small when you stand beside it, but when you're sitting in it, it actually feels big, a lot bigger than I am, and of course incredibly powerful. Half the battle of racing is figuring out the set up so that the car responds and handles the way you want it to. And, out on the track, at any moment, some other guy can plow into, or stop dead in front of you. I couldn't handle not feeling in complete control of things like that. Driving a race car doesn't appeal to me at all.

My dream was about being a part of a team of people, who worked together for fun, to put a car out on a track and watch what our driver could do. I didn't care what my role would be on the team. I would have been content with scraping mud off of the tires or handing over wrenches to the mechanics. There is no small role on a race team. Everything is important because any one small detail can cost you speed. On professional NASCAR teams the crew is made up of engineers. The guy who holds the can that catches the gas that overflows when the gas guy is filling the fuel cell has studied quantum mechanics. The team works together all week--even on their fitness regime--in preparation for race weekend. Sometimes they crash on the first lap. Sometimes the fastest car runs out of gas on the last lap. That's racing.

Len emailed my dad a few months ago to let him know that he was coming up to Winnipeg for the summer. He had a car he'd been racing in Florida and he was bringing it with him. "Is there anyone up there willing to help me out?" he asked. The dormant dream stirred.

It was starting to look like it wasn't going to happen though. Before my uncle had his stroke I had booked a week of vacation for the last week of June/first week of July. We were supposed to meet Len in Grand Forks on the Friday night. Then emergency struck and plans had to be dropped. Weeks went on where schedules didn't match up. Len himself had to take off last week to see his dad in Calgary who had taken ill. Summer was half over. My parents had plans to leave town for the month of September once my dad was finished work. I was worried that it just wasn't going to come together.

Finally, this week it happened. Len was back and ready to go, my dad was available and I even told Lisa, who leaves for Africa on Monday, and who I haven't seen in what seems like a month, that I couldn't get together with her because my dream was coming true and I was going to be pit crew for a night.

I rode with my dad and Len in Len's truck into the pit area of the Winnipeg track. For the first time I saw the track from the other side of the stands. It felt like standing on a stage for the first time. We stopped at a booth to pay and get our pit passes. I signed the waiver and stuck out my arm for the girl to strap on my wristband. It was one of those coated paper ones with the sticky backing. It had pink and white checkers on it and in big black letters it said PIT CREW. It was the most precious bracelet I'd ever worn. I reluctantly cut it off the next morning before heading to work.

I had a few jobs that night. I was the team gofer so I went to the booth and pulled the random number that would assign Len his position in the heat race. I thought 99 sounded like a lucky number, Gretzky's number, but it put Len in the last row. It's more exciting to watch a driver move up from the back though, I think.

I carried a jack. It was super heavy. I helped my dad fill the fuel cell with gas--racing fuel smells sweet but awful. It's the high octane. My favourite and proudest job though was hood pins. These four little clips keep the hood fastened down at high speeds. You have to put them in a certain direction and make sure you DO NOT put them in your pockets or lose them. Before Len went out I ensured the pins were all properly in place--small detail, but a very big deal.

While we waited for the time when the cars were supposed to start lining up, Len sat in his car and Dad leaned into the window. I don't know what they talked about. Frankly, I am amazed Dad even could hear Len's voice, since he seems to be approaching deaf. But that was Dad's job--talk to the driver. I was so proud of him.

Just before Len headed out we gathered around the car--me, Dad, and Len's son, Danny. The team.

"We need a motivational speech," I said.

"Go out there, have fun, finish the race," Dad said.

The modified cars had just come back from their heat races. One of the guys from a team that Len knew came over, banged on the hood and said, "Rod just won his race. Your turn now, Len."

"Let's just try not to wreck so we can make it to the feature race," I said.

"Yeah," Len laughed. "Good idea."

We did not win the heat race. In fact, Len spun out and went off the track before the race finished. It was still better than wrecking though, and we did go into the feature. He didn't win there, or even place in the top ten, but he didn't wreck, and he did a really good job of fighting for positions. His hood did not fly off.

Not really part of the dream was the fact that the night went pretty long. It was a modified class special that night. There was something like 42 cars on the track. Ugh. I hate specials. It takes forever to get through the race because as soon as one car makes an error and slows down, somebody crashes into him and the caution flag comes out. Then they spend the next ten minutes or so lining the cars up only to have another caution, sometimes without even getting another lap in. This goes on until a sufficient number of cars have been eliminated from the field and there is actually enough room for racing. As this is all going on though, night settles in and the temperature drops. I get cold so easily. I thought wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a wool sweater and a windbreaker would be enough on an August night, but no. My body ached from shivering and being clenched into a ball, trying to keep the cold from getting in. It was midnight when we left the track, 12:30 when I got home and had a hot shower before crashing into bed.

I had my camera with me on Thursday night, but the stupid thing died after I'd only taken a couple of pictures, one being of my beautiful, pink Pit Crew wrist band. Last night when I went to download them off my camera though they, along with all the other pictures I'd taken this summer, were gone. It's the weirdest thing--there are six pictures on there that are years old. Dad, Tracy and I were fooling around in the living room at my parents' place. Maybe it was on my Dad's birthday one year or something, I'm not sure. I'm really crushed though that I don't have any pics from Thursday night. Blogging about it at least helps to permanently etch the memories into my mind. There are a few things I want to try to see if those pictures are somewhere on the memory card and it's just the camera that's failing to bring them up. Seriously though, all in favour of Jill getting a new camera so she can again capture these precious moments, say aye, all opposed say, RRSP.

That was my dream realized. I don't know if we'll get back out there before the season is done. I'd love to, but I'm happy I at least got to experience it once, finally. And I know it will never again feel like the first time, although a first victory sure would feel good.

A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you're fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling thru
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true

--From Disney's Cinderella

Nurturing Nature

I came home tonight and saw that my rose bush and herb pot needed water. I grabbed the hose and doused the rose which is still sitting in its pot. Just as I was turning to the pot of herbs I heard a SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK! I saw something scurry in the irises. Please, please don't be a mouse, I said to myself. A mouse would be a problem. I looked and saw a tiny ball of brownish grey fir with ears. As I pulled back the irises a bit more the creature leaped up. Startled, I jumped back. I went in to take another look and decided it must be a baby bunny. Ohhhh! Where is mamma? What if some big ol' nasty crow finds the little guy? I grabbed a Folgers coffee bucket and placed it between the irises and the side of the house hoping that bunny would take refuge in there if need be. He ignored it though, and actually when he hopped closer I could see that the little guy was still blind.

(Okay, so he still looks a bit like a mouse or rodent in this pic, but I promise you there is no rodent tail, so we're cool)

I Googled "Found a baby rabbit" and was reassured by this bit of info:

Rabbit mothers nurse their babies for approximately 5 minutes a day. They will be in the nest or nest box early in the morning and then again in the evening...If you come across a nest of bunnies in the wild and the mother is no where to be seen, please DO NOT disturb them...this is normal. Mother rabbits return to the nest to nurse only at night, staying away as much as possible so as not to attract predators. To determine if the mother is returning, create a tic-tac-toe pattern over the nest with straw, grasses or tiny twigs. Wait 24 hours to see if the twigs have been disturbed. She may be able to feed them without moving the twigs much, so double check--If the babies look healthy, are warm, then the mother is coming back.

--According to the House Rabbit Society 

There appears to be a nest in the leaves of the irises, which explains why Elmo was so interested in them the last time he was here. I know rabbits are almost a nuisance in suburbia, (okay, they are the very definition of nuisance since they do eat my flowers) but come on, they're so cute and it's nice to have such a cute animal friend in my back yard. Plus, I found the bunny when I was taking care of Love. If that isn't a divine plot I don't know what is.

(I need a pet, don't I? I'm one rabbit nest away from crazy town.)