Kiss my cotton candy

My day started with my closet having a temper tantrum that resulted in clothes scattered all over my room. I dashed for the bus in heels and a pencil skirt that didn't match. Ugh. I need a new brown tweed skirt. The old man in the mall still told me I looked very nice.

Work is chaos right now and that stresses me right out. I recently introduced a new process for getting work done and today started a numeric and colour-coded filing system. I went to my manager holding the pink and orange files close to my heart and said, "filing soothes my soul."

For lunch I thought I had packed a container of my spinach and lentils casserole but upon opening the lid discovered that I actually had cream of cauliflower soup. I dumped the 3/4-full, tall yogurt container of soup into a large bowl, heated it up and grabbed a spoon.

Just before lunch I'd slicked my lips with some lip gloss because they were feeling dry. The gloss was supposed to be cotton candy flavored, or rather, Christian Dior's interpretation of cotton candy flavour. Do you know what cotton candy is called in French? Barbe à papa, literally, Father's beard. Christian Dior took all this and cleverly named their light pink, sparkly lip gloss Cotton Daddy. Do you remember reading the Barbapapa children's books with the big pink fluffy character? That's the color of the lip gloss. Anyway, the flavor of the gloss is not very tasty and does not at all complement cream of cauliflower soup. I doubt that it would have improved upon the flavouring of the lentils dish either.

Look! Fireplace!

Men at Work talking about the land of Oz

On Tuesday night a travel services company hosted an information night on visiting Australia and New Zealand. The particular tour company they were featuring that night specialized in packages for the 18 to 35-year-old group. The event was being held at a popular downtown watering hole.

Travel.
18 to 35-year-olds.
Fun location.

Sounds like an opportunity to learn more about something I have an interest in and possibly meet other people in my age group, possibly of the guy-variety who also share this interest. Can you picture the twinkle in my eyes?

I told Lisa about it and she said she'd love to go since she had always dreamed of going to Australia. I didn't know that about her. I, honestly, didn't have any deep yearning to see the place. I also am having a hard time right now imagining a time when I will have $2000 or so to jet off across to the other side of the world for fun, but as I noted, my motives for attending the event were more social. Whenever someone writes into Miss Lonelyhearts complaining that they just can't meet people, she always tells them to join things, volunteer, get out there. Well this is me, out there. You know I'm out there, right? I'm a joiner. I try things all the time. I do always have some kind of fun.

Miss Lonelyhearts, I'm calling bullshit on this strategy. Only girls showed up to the event. There were seven of us. We outnumbered the travel staff by just one.

The presentation was good. It actually made joining a tour sound like fun. You fly yourself to the destination, meet up with your group and spend the next three to 16 days travelling and doing excursions with them. You get a tour bus, nice looking accommodations, nightly entertainment and a tonne of choices in activities like surfing, skydiving, sailing, rolling down a hill in an inflated ball. Hey, this was starting to sound like something worth saving up for.

After the tour company rep gave her presentation one of the guys from the travel services company who sponsored the event got up to speak. That's right, I said one of the guys. There were two of them. One was geeky cute but made mention of a girlfriend. The other one (the one who got up to speak) was tall, dark and handsome. I don't know his marital status, never did find out, but he helped a great deal to turn the social aspect of the evening right around.

After the presentation was done, TD&H drew names for door prizes. Guess who was the last name called? Yup. I got the best prize of all--a big fat guide book of Australia.

The others got up and left once the speaking was done. Lisa had just turned to me and said, "well...?" when  the geeky-cute girlfriended guy came by and asked us about our travel plans. We explained to him that we didn't really have plans yet, that we were just starting to investigate our options. He moved on and then TD&H came by to chat with us. He gave Lisa the tote bag that he has pulled the names out of and asked us about our travel plans. He talked. A lot. Which was completely fine by me. I tried to be very encouraging of this by nodding, asking questions, answering his questions, although he didn't need much encouragement so mostly I just got to sit there and enjoy studying him. He had two earrings in his left ear and looked like he had spent the last 10 years or so playing football. I'll bet he had a motorcycle.

So the night was a win. I got a free book and a TD&H personal resource should I ever wish to explore The Down Under.

liberating art

I went sketching with Nigel tonight. They do long poses on Thursday nights and neither of us had done the long pose class before. I picked him up just after six. The weather this week has been phenomenal. I try to take in as many minutes in the sun as I can manage so I don't really mind that I have to park three blocks away from his apartment. The lilacs are in bloom right now and I could get drunk off of the sweet scent.

We get to the studio and sit in the same spots as last time. The model isn't the same. She has reddish-brown curly hair and is larger than the girl we had last time. She has an intricate tattoo covering most of her back. I think it was roses. I find her less interesting as a subject. I'm not sure why. I thought she would have more curves than the skinny girl and I love drawing the curves but I struggle to find them. Her breasts are large, lots of curves there, but the angle I see her at doesn't present them so well. She is laying on her back, looking up, as if she is resting under a tree. No bum. The leg closest to me is bent and I like how she has arched her foot. I start with her big toe and outline up to the top of her head.

Nigel focuses on drawing her head and face. He listens to his iPod while he works because he doesn't like the music they play in the studio. It's some kind of jazz stuff tonight. I don't really mind it. I sometimes find listening to my own music distracting from the task at hand.

I find myself searching for interesting shadows and lines but with little luck. She has milk-white skin that seems to reflect all the light. It baffles me. She should have curves but everything looks flat to me.

After the first break I decide to try a new spot to draw from. I see her more head on, a little to the left. I put my own headphones on and get to work. I keep trying different things to capture the roundness of her breasts so they don't just look like two eggs in a frying pan. I also discover a subtle shadow on her leg, a bit of a curve on the outside of her thigh. I didn't think it then but I wonder now if she is bothered by the shape of her thighs. She shouldn't be. At least not in the studio she shouldn't. I take some peeks at the work of the guy to my left. He's using conte. I try to mimic the shadows he's shaded in but I can't quite make them work in my drawing.

Briefly, I find myself wondering what she is thinking about. Sometimes her eyes are open, sometimes she closes them. Is she making a grocery list? Is she reflecting on her day? Doing homework? Missing someone? Sometimes I think she is looking at me and I wonder if she has noticed I am the only woman in the studio tonight. Does she notice the artists or does she shut us out completely? Sometimes she has to stretch her leg out or flex her hand. I notice her breathing deepening for a moment. Did she suddenly remember that she is naked in a room full of strangers?

Around nine, during a break, we decide to pack it up and head home. As I am putting away my easel I see Nigel talking to the model. He shows her the sketch of her face and she likes it. She also notices his new tattoos on the inside of his forearms. He explains that they are the apples from Apple Records,

"the Beatles' record label," he says.

"Yeah," she nods, seeming to be familiar with the reference. I'm impressed.

As I'm driving Nigel home he tells me thank you.

"I was feeling really stressed out this week, in fact, I almost didn't want to come tonight but I'm glad I did," he says. "It was relaxing."

I know exactly what he means. When I leave sketching (and it is extremely hard for me to leave) I feel refreshed. It's like a storm has just passed through and now everything is re-hydrated and cooled down.

"You get in there and you just go to work and you focus on the task at hand. You don't think about the outside world at all," Nigel says.

"It's like yoga," I say. Actually, it's like what I imagine yoga is supposed to leave you feeling like. I always enjoy the stretch I get from yoga and the time I get to practice strength and balance, but I don't think I ever leave the yoga studio feeling like I've ridden myself of all my cares and worries. In yoga you are supposed to empty your mind to allow time for yourself. Go ahead, try to empty your mind right now and just breathe. How long does your mind stay empty for? I never last very long. I end up forgetting to breathe or find thoughts pouring in while I frantically try to stop them or shoo them away. Because you are actually supposed to focus on your breath I often end up counting my breathes or keeping track of when I inhale and when I exhale. I try to picture my head just empty, but I can hear my inner voice instructing me to do all this, which I don't think is really allowed either. When I sketch I am focused on the picture I am creating. I don't think about work or money or food or boys. My mind mostly goes blank. The most amazing part is that even the inner critic checks out. I absolutely don't care if what I draw is a masterpiece or not. I'm just there to try, and I completely accept that I'm learning and slowly getting better. Sketching is a complete break from myself. It amazes me what I can do when I am able to just let go. Maybe that's what it feels like to be a nude model.

She's a good girl, loves her mama

I tried running outside today. FAIL! My lungs burned, my throat felt like it was taking on blood and my nose dripped like a facet. After a measly 10 minutes I was a done deal. SO MAD. I knew transitioning from the treadmill to the road wouldn't be a cakewalk but I was not expecting this.

I tried something else new today that went much better than the running. I went to a life drawing session with Nigel and his friend Andrea. I don't know what made me try drawing again since I haven't seriously sketched since junior high art class, but I am so pleased with myself!

I met Nigel and Andrea at the Cre8ery Gallery in the Exchange district for a drop in session. I tried to put together an artsy outfit but couldn't quite get one together so I just went with jeans and an interesting combo of layered t-shirts. I tried to make my hair extra messy to compensate. I would have worn my glasses but I wore them all day at work and they gave me a headache so I had to pop my contacts in.

The gallery supplies you with a seat/easel contraption, some rocking tunes (re: Tom Petty!) and the nude model. The model does mixed poses that she holds for 30 seconds to start and gradually increases the time as the session goes on. You don't get much out of the 30 second poses but they are a good warm up and gave me a chance to get reacquainted with my 2B pencil and sketchbook.

I had two thoughts that stuck with me as I drew: 1) The human body is really beautiful. I love the way the shadows and the light make it interesting. 2) Is there a writing exercise like this? Could I go to a place and be given an object to write about from different perspectives for increasing amounts of time?

I didn't go in with any expectations for my work, which was probably the best way to approach the activity. I just wanted to spend some time with a pencil and see what happened. I usually started off with finding the longest line in the pose and sketching that out, then added the other side. It was refreshing to spend some time creating something on paper without using words.

These were my favourite pages of work:



I gave the model some Amazonian legs here; so generous of me.



This was from the last two poses. I struggled with the angles of her legs and was starting to get frustrated a bit.



These were from the minute and a half poses, I think. Look at that bum! I am so proud of that bum! Doesn't that look real? I should put this one on my fridge.

I hope to go again. Look at me, Little Miss I Go to The Cinematheque and do Drop In Nude Model Drawing. Where's my beret and closet full of black huh?

All the vampires walkin’ through the valley
Move west down ventura boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

--Free Fallin' -- Tom Petty

This is my brain on sugar and cheap white wine.

I had a weird dream last night. I was still 26-years-old but in public school. My best friend (from 20 years ago) had to go to the hospital to see her dad because he was getting a lung transplant. She needed me to direct her there. As dreams sometimes go, the setting changed and all of a sudden we were in a classroom. But the classroom was in a shopping mall (with a cinnamon bun place next door that smelled so delicious).

Here's where it gets weird: Stephen Harper was the principal. And he was holding my class in detention. And he was going on about respecting people and I wasn't really paying attention but then he singled me out and asked me to basically repeat what he had just said. I mumbled something. Somehow my friend and I got out of there.

At the beginning of the dream I just had to get her to the Victoria General Hospital, but then it ended up that we had to take a single engine plane to like, South America. And we talked to a weird travel agent who had a sample station of hand creams. I tried a green one called "Love".

And then I woke up.

I would guess that there is a mish-mash of possible interpretations here. I don't know why my old best friend and her dad came to mind, except that she did live next door and I was at my parents' place yesterday, where I was baking (not cinnamon buns, mind you).

The Stephen Harper cameo is really weird. Apparently I am very unhappy with him and his policies on healthcare and I generally find him irrelevant, yet I feel like I should be able to regurgitate what he says when called upon, and perhaps I am embarrassed by the fact that I don't pay much attention to political leaders. In fact, I'd rather be shopping.

The travel agent? I watched Amazing Race last night with my family. The green lotion? I'm not sure, but love is a pretty constant thought in my head. Usually I think of it right before bed, which is when I put hand cream on. In my room with one green wall.

Yes, I am one of those people who does remember her dreams. I find they are most vivid when I've had sugar before bed. I was eating cookies almost all day yesterday. And I had wine with dinner.

I told Nigel about my dream today and he sent me this picture:

I anticipate nightmares tonight.

Debriefing

Fair warning: The following post has some graphic descriptions. If you are reading this and I work with you, I don't mind, but if the next time I see you in the hall you can only acknowledge me with a half glance and a deep blush, all I can say is that I warned you: I make reference to underwear and boobs. That being said, I think this is a good post. So enjoy, and keep your head down if you must.

Sometime, some how this week I grew a knot in my left shoulder. It makes my whole arm burn sometimes. I try icing it and heating it but it is slow to go away.

"Why don't you go for a massage?" Lisa asks me on Thursday night.

"You know me, I don't do that stuff."

"So you'd rather just live with the pain?"

"Well by the time I find a place and make an appointment, the pain will probably be gone."

I know Lisa is right, but I have never gone for a massage before. I am pretty sure I have some coverage with my benefits plan, but I'm not really sure how much. I figure it's about time I give this a shot, so I decide to call today and see what I can get.

I manage to get an 8:00 p.m. appointment at a place just a short drive from my house. I shower, shave and put on my favourite pair of underwear--blue, low-rise Joe Boxer bikini briefs. They're my favourite because they have JB stitched on the side (for Joe Boxer of course) and I like to pretend they are monogrammed just for me. As for the routine, well, it's Friday night and I am going to go lay half-naked on some stranger's table so they can rub me down. I want to feel presentable.

The place is in this old townhouse. Inside, it still looks like a house. I am greeted but no one offers to take my jacket, or even invites me to have a seat. The radio is playing Britney Spears' Womanizer--not exactly giving the zen vibe I am looking for.

I fill out some paperwork and meet my massage therapist, Dan. He's average height, a bit lanky, but cute enough. Skater shoes--blah.

Dan leads me up the stairs into a small room at the front. There is a chair, which I decide will be where I drop my purse and coat.

"Okay, you know how it goes . . ." Dan starts to say.

"No, actually, this is my first time."

"Oh, okay then. Well you remove your clothing except for your underwear and slide in between the two sheets here. You should also take your necklace off."

Okay, great. I nod. Dan leaves and I strip. Now, he only said, "except for your underwear". I assume that means removing the bra, because I know I read that on the website, but if he comes back in and I'm laying face down on the table, bare back, is he going to be like, "oh, you took your bra off too. Oooh-kay then." I shoo the paranoid voices away and unhook my pink bra. I pile my clothes on the chair, decide that I should tuck the pink bra beneath my t-shirt (because clearly, I am just not ready for Dan to see my girly undergarments at this early point in our relationship) and position myself face down on the table.

Dan knocks on the door and I indicate that I am fine for him to come in.

"Oh, I just need to go grab some more oil. I'll be right back."

I take a look at my view: a rather uncomfortable looking wooden stool is directly below. I decide to keep my eyes closed.

Dan comes back ready to go. He starts with a general rub up and down my back.

"So you work at Good Wooden Leg?" he asks. Oh, I think. We chat during these things?

"Yeah, I'm in advertising," I say.

"Oh yeah, did you go to Red River for that?"

"Yeah, well, actually I did a four-year program with Red River and the University of Winnipeg."

"Oh, CreComm?"

"Yeah."

"I applied to that program but I didn't get in. But I got accepted to massage therapy school at the same time, so it worked out in the end."

Huh. Go figure. I'd always felt that it was by some small miracle that I got into the Creative Communications program. I was going to apply to Architecture, but at the last minute I changed my mind and got my application into Red River. So I got accepted to the Creative Communications program that eventually led me to my career in advertising and my current place of employment, Good Wooden Leg, which provides me with the benefits to cover most of this massage along with the stress to need the massage in the first place. Meanwhile, Dan the Man didn't get into the program but did get into massage school so that he can now be the first one to rub my glutes. Yes, I suppose that is some kind of interesting twist of fate.

He pulls down my JBs as we make small talk. If he's going to do that, why am I supposed to keep them on? I hope the oil doesn't stain them. I mean, oil is really hard to get out of cotton.

The small talk ends and he flips my underwear back up. He moves on to focus on my sore shoulder.

"Is the pressure okay?" He asks.

"Yup." I figure, no pain, no gain, right? And beside, I can take it. He does press in pretty hard. At some points it feels like he is circling his fingernail in there. I won't give in though.

I mentally follow along as he moves up and down my back. It's not quite how I thought it would go. I thought there would be more variety, more moves. That he'd help me discover muscles and nerves that I never knew I had. Nope, I'm pretty sure I've felt all those before.

I keep waiting for the moment to come where suddenly I feel, I don't know, tingly or something. But it doesn't happen. I listen to the music but it's a song I don't like. I wish I had the remote so I could change it or something. I actually consider asking him to skip to the next song. Sigh. Am I expecting too much? Why can't I just let go and relax already?

I feel the sheet being draped over me. Is my session over already? It can't be, I paid for 45 minutes and I am certain I've only heard five songs so far. If each song is a maximum five minutes long then I must have at least a good 20 minutes left still.

I'm still doing the math in my head when Dan says, "Okay, you can flip over now and slide down a bit."

What? Oh. Okay. I clasp my hands to my chest and do my best to modestly and gracefully "flip". I look up to see Dan holding the sheet up for me, smiling. I lay back down, close my eyes and try to assess my level of nakedness. I really can't tell where the sheet is. In this semi-relaxed state everything feels light and airy, so I keep my hands pressed to myself. I definitely have my left nipple under wraps, but I have no idea where the right one has ended up.

Dan lifts my head and starts doing this thing to my neck. I start to melt and then I finally feel it--the tingling release. It works its way down into my knees and toes and floods out everywhere. Yes!

"Okay, we're done."

What? No we're not! I'm just getting started.

"Take your time getting up. I'll see you downstairs."

I get dressed and notice that I feel a bit woozy. My contacts are all dry. Maybe I should have stayed on the table a bit longer. I turn the doorknob (ew, it's kind of slick) and go meet Dan downstairs. He offers me a glass of water in a plastic cup.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good."

"Would you like to book another appointment, or just call in the next time?" This feels like that awkward part of the date where one person says, "that was fun, we should do this again," but the other person is thinking, if I get all the green lights on the way home, I should make it in time to catch The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos at 11.

"No, that's okay, my schedule is all over the place anyway."

"Okay, well, I'll give you my card. I only work Friday nights and Sundays because I'm still in school. But everyone else here is great too."

And then I realize, Dan is still new to this too. Sure, he's got the basics, but he's not ready to do the signature techniques yet. I forgive him. Still, I'd really like to see what a pro could do for me. I guess this means I'm putting my cute glutes back on the market.

***k buddy

"Talk to me," he says. There's no hello or random statement to ease into a conversation. You could picture me, sitting in a space working away at something and suddenly interrupted by a familiar man standing in my doorway. We speak playfully about something and share a laugh. I ask him how he's doing.

"It's in the e-mail. Read and enjoy."

"Yeah, I was just trying to be polite and not talk about myself." I laugh at my sheer honesty. It's taken a while to get this comfortable with him.

"You should, that's why I said 'talk to me', because you should".

I sit up and look at him for a moment. He doesn't want a polite conversation. He doesn't care what topic I pick. All he wants is talk. There are two things I do well; talking is the other one. So I give it to him. I don't think about the past, I don't think about the non-existent future. I just let it all loose, chattering away and holding nothing back for 40 minutes until he says he has to go.

I used to suck at good-bye, always wondering when the next time would be. This time, I don't even care if there is a next time. This was just so perfect I'm afraid a next time couldn't be anything but a let down. That, and I know that there will certainly be a next time. After a year and a half of dancing around I finally know.

*Every girl should have a good talk buddy.

Oops I did it again, I *am* that innocent

So I have been e-mailing back and forth with this guy for a week. He seems pretty cool, funny, sweet and I like that he's quick to write back. We were exchanging notes a few times every day.

On the weekend he asked if I used MSN. I gave him my info and he right away added me. Yesterday he started a conversation with me by asking, "want to hear my new favorite thing in the world?" Well of course I did. So he sent me a link to a YouTube video. It was goofy, but that's him. I didn't really follow it closely. It was a bunch of Mexican guys dancing around singing a song about a seafood taco. I wrote back,

Hahaha. I love the dance too! I will never get away from tacos, will I? It's the theme of the month. I think I've had a sushi taco...or was that sushi pizza. How was your hockey game on Saturday?

Five minutes went by. He wrote back,

hahaha, I think seafood taco is a term for something that really isn't food

I quickly Googled and consulted the Urban Dictionary.

Oh dear. Oh my. Oh Jillian. Dear, sweet, innocent Jillian.

I later consulted my friends to gauge how naive I really was. I asked three guys, all engineers (you can interpret those merits as you wish) if they were familiar with the term. At least two of them admitted they were not familiar with the exact term. Here were the responses I got:

Fish tacos. Yes, I had them at Joeys once.

Nope. but fish tacos are good.

I ate seafood tacos on Sunday. They were delicious. Why? (Admittedly, I was on the sea. That makes a difference.)

This morning I mentioned it to some girls at work. Granted, I gave them some more context, but they seemed to quickly pick up on the reference. I also related the story to Kat and George, who shared a pretty good laugh about it with me. George and I tried to picture the guy falling off his chair as he read my response. I also informed them that I found a Martha Stewart recipe for a Poached seafood taco. Both of them responded with, did she learn that in prison?

Jill Story is also in the Urban Dictionary. I am not a fan of the other Jill references there, and this one isn't great either, but I do find it a little amusing

A story that's either too short or too long that ultimately ends up going nowhere. It has no real point and usually justs ends in everyone laughing AT the person who told the story.

Self Love 101*

(*Dear God this is going to attract a lot of dirty-mind traffic.)

I wanted to write this post yesterday, but I didn't have time.

One hundred (and one) days ago I visited 43things.com and made a list of things I wanted to accomplish. One of my goals was to be open to love. After some self reflection I was feeling that I was trying harder to stay single than I was to find a relationship. So I called the goal, "I am open to love" and I set up a daily e-mail to remind myself everyday to be open to love. Here is the note I wrote for myself:

Dear future self,

Remember to love yourself. Remember that people love you.
Remember to glow. Love will find you.


Sincerely,
Your past self

I read that note everyday for the last 100 (and one) days. Some days were harder than others and I did not want to read my note. I wanted to tell myself, "I know, I know, love is all around, yadda yadda". Some days I read the note out loud (quietly, as I usually read it at work). Some days I would read it slowly and kind of meditate on the words. I really like the word "glow" and I really like the last reassuring sentence. And I really like that I started the whole thing off with "remember to love yourself".

Anyway, so what were the results? Well, after 100+1 days of self love, I think I did find some love. Okay no, Prince Charming did not bang on my door on day 100, but some other things, and not all romantic things, seemed to show up that really made me happy and glow-y.

Thank you.

I love you.

You know who you are.

J day

This day is brought to you by the letter J

J, making joy wherever she goes.

Spy vs Spy at Good Wooden Leg

Joanna and I headed out at lunch today. We were both hoping to catch some sun and warm up a bit. We walked the usual route over the bridge down Osborne. We met up with George, who was coming out of the Shoppers. I gave him a cheerful wave before remembering that we are supposed to be sworn enemies. "Oops! I forgot to snub you!" I giggled.

Earlier in the week George asked me, "which one of us is supposed to be the evil one again?" I explained that after 25 years of being fair and virtuous I was feeling enticed to cross to the dark side, although he clearly is more evil looking than I.

"I'm not very good at this evil thing," I admitted.

"Fine, I'll be the evil one," George said and carried on his way back to the office.

When Joanna and I got back we saw George again at the photocopiers. I can't remember what he said, but I then turned to Joanna and said, "y'know, neither one of us is very good at being a villain. We're just both too nice."

I wish I could eat my sweet sweet words because when I walked into my cube I found a crime scene on my desk.

I'm not really sure what happened, but apparently because last week I hung Abi's pony, George cracked my monkey. I guess some tiny thugs of his came in and whacked the poor little guy over the head with a pencil. Tragic, yes, but I think I might actually have shed a tear if they had done something to the little penguin who sits beside the monkey. Naturally, I took tons of photos for the investigation. I think there may be a finger print too.

Naturally, George has an alibi and apparently Hollene has joined his team. I think she's after my shoe collection.

The evil war is on, but help me readers, how am I going to top this?

Jillian the Villain

I've been at Good Wooden Leg for a year and a half now. My past experiences taught me that building a good relationship with the graphic designers will make life a lot easier. Not to mention that they are usually fun, cool people. I did everything I could to get the designers to accept me, embrace me. I gave them flexible deadlines.I listened to them when they told me my client's idea of design wouldn't hold up in a kindergarten art class. I fed them chocolate. I took their "gentle" teasing and even supplied them with endless fodder for mockery. Nevertheless, while I could sometimes enjoy a brief stay in Artshoppe land, it was always cut short by Tracy sternly directing me out with her pointing finger and laser beam eyes.

And then along came George. George joined my team a few weeks ago. There wasn't an empty cube in the writers' area of the department so they gave him one on a nearly empty row behind the Artshoppe. I like George. He's a cool guy. Funny and self-deprecating. The Artshoppe likes him too. Apparently they like him a lot.

Yesterday Abi was feeling frustrated. Too many people were asking too many things of her. I admit, I had many many projects on her plate. I guess I had one too many.

"I want a pony!" she said to Chris, one of the senior designers.

I laughed to myself upon overhearing this. I remembered the I want a Pony site that the Google guys showed me last summer. I sent it to Abi to make her laugh. And she did.

This morning I opened an e-mail from George addressed to me and Abi.

-----Original Message-----
From: George
Sent: Thursday, May 10, 2007 10:01 AM
To: Jill; Abigail
Subject: Horrible, Horrible Jill


…would never let you have a pony.

I, however, honour my promises.

Abi dropped by my cube soon after.

"Look!" she said and proudly held out a small, purple My Little Pony with a pink mane and star shaped comb. "I named him Pantone." And then she added, "George is my new favourite designer."

And just like that, a little flame inside of me was snuffed out. George had officially moved in and I had been swept aside into the pile with the other demanding, unforgiving, unrelenting writers. The Artshoppe Mascot I would never be.

Another e-mail arrived.

-----Original Message-----
From: George
Sent: Thursday, May 10, 2007 10:01 AM
To: Jill; Abigail
Subject: RE: Horrible, Horrible Jill


See, isn't it nice to have a pony? Jill would not have given you a pony. If Jill ruled the world, not only would no one have ponies, there would be no ponies. None. At all. A world without ponies. Ruled by Jill.
We must do what we can to prevent Jill's plans for pony-less world domination.


Around 11 I walked over to Abi's cube. I needed a break and thought I'd stop by to see how she and Pantone were getting along. But when I got there, Abi was not in.

There sat Pantone in all his purple and pink glory on Abi's desk beside her glowing Mac monitor. On the other side were her headphones, resting in a heap of their own serpentine cord.

I'm not sure what exactly came over me at that moment. Maybe it had to do with the coffee machine that took my last 75 cents that morning but did not dispense coffee. Maybe it was the bug taking up residence in my nose, or maybe it was just that taunting smile on Pantone's face that made me do it. I left Abi's cube hardly able to hide the smile.

Not long after, a new headline appeared on the e-mail

-----Original Message-----
From: George
Sent: Thursday, May 10, 2007 11:16 AM
To: Jill; Abigail
Subject: Horrible, Horrible Jill


A hate crime has been committed on Pantone Pony. Jill's quest for global control takes an ugly turn?

It would seem that someone had hung Pantone Pony from the top of Abi's monitor using a noose fashioned with her headphones. George swore that Pantone's hanging would be avenged. Abi was distraught and couldn't imagine who would do such a thing. But George knew. Another e-mail followed.

-----Original Message-----
From: George
Sent: Thursday, May 10, 2007 11:27 AM
To: Jill; Abigail
Subject: Horrible, Horrible Jill


Well then we must strike back at something that Jill loves just as much. Let's see, what could that be...

Got it.

"Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling CLEMENTINE!"

Clementine is what Abi calls Truck despite my loud protests that his name IS NOT CLEMENTINE!

Despite George firmly pointing the finger of blame in my direction, Abi had no idea who had committed the crime.

-----Original Message-----
From: Abigail
Sent: Thursday, May 10, 2007 11:27 AM
To: Jill
Subject: I'm all sorts of crazy

I just asked Gus if he hung my pony.

Upon reading this I cracked up. Gus naturally would have had no idea what Abi was talking about never mind whether or not to take her question literally or as some kind of euphemism for well, I'll let you use your own imagination. I laughed out loud. Kat asked what all my noise was about and I replied, "I hung Abi's pony." My timing could not have been better, or worse, as the words escaped just as Abi was approaching my cube.

"Jillian! YOU HUNG PANTONE!?!?"

Abi then sent out a mass e-mail apologizing to everyone she accused of hanging her pony and held me up as the culprit. George then announced that I and my evil anti-pony agenda had to be stopped. He declared a Jill Jihad, or, a Jill-had for short.

And that is how I fell from grace at Good Wooden Leg to become Jillian the Villain.