Bah. I was working on this long and involved post about my night at Wednesday's poetry reading at the writer's festival but the words weren't coming out right and it was turning into a long way of telling a rather simple story. So now it is after midnight and I'm going to give you the simple version of this story. I was scheduled to work the box office again on Wednesday night. I wasn't planning on sticking around for the performances because it was poetry night and it occurred to me that I would rather swallow a splintered ruler than sit through 90 minutes of poetry reading.
On top of that, the only name I recognized on the list of readers was Christian Bok (there is supposed to be two dots over the O so it is pronounced like book). I had to read his book of poetry, titled Eunoia, when I was in one of my many Canadian Literature classes in university. I hated the book. The concept of his poems was interesting--he divided the book into chapters according to the five vowels in the alphabet, plus Y, and wrote a set of poems for each chapter that used words which employed any of the consonants but only the featured vowel (ie, no words with U in them were found in the A section)--but the poems themselves seemed rather nonsensical and just arty-fartsy fluff. Yawn. I planned to be home by eight.
Plans changed when I found myself in the golden presence of my Can Lit nemesis. Christian Bok, it turns out, is a beautiful, charming, and hilarious man who wore a suit and tie to his reading. He was like a perfect combination of Niles Crane and Michael Buble. Did I mention he was beautiful? Striking. Blond, fair and in a suit. I looked at him and I instantly imagined what it would be like to dance with him. Surely that man could waltz.
I had brought with me my copy of Eunoia, his book of vowel poems. I went up to him after the reading and asked him to sign it. I had to steal a pen from the merchandise table (okay not steal, borrow from the collection left there for people to fill out their door prize ballots).
He asked me if he could hold onto the pen for the night (he didn't have one on him for signing) and I said yes, explaining where it came from. "Thank you," he said. "You are so gracious," he said and touched my right shoulder with his entire left hand.
That photo beside his bio in the link I added does not do him any justice. If I was in charge of marketing him he'd be on cereal boxes.
Brought to you by the letter A, here is my poem for Mr. Bok: Ahhhhhh.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
28 and counting
Change number 246 in the year 2009 for Miss Jillian happened yesterday when I got my new cell phone. I went with the LG Rumour which has the slide out QWERTY keyboard, because clearly I am 15. Fun.
I sat down with it and started to acquaint myself. First thing that needed to be done was input all my contacts. On my old phone I had 28 entries. Yup, two years, 28 contacts, one of which was the telebus number so I can stand at the bus stop and inquire as to when the next bus might arrive. 28 seemed like a rather paltry number to me until I had to go and retype them all. Well, not all since I got tired of typing and left a few contacts behind.
"There has to be an easier way to do this," I said to my mom.
"Your sister would probably know if there was."
I texted her to let her know I had a new phone. No response. She must be working.
I chose my new ring tone and message alerts. Then I put the phone down on the table and willed it to ring. It was 3:30 on a Monday afternoon, I didn't know who I thought would be phoning me then but I would have even settled for a telemarketer. They usually call around 11am though and then again 10 minutes later. They really like to call when I have forgotten to put my phone on vibrate so the whole office can know that they are calling. Only people I truly care about call when I have forgotten to take my phone off of vibrate so that it is subtly going off at the bottom of my bag while I am at home alphabetizing my soup cans and such.
By 6:30 I still had no new calls or messages. My dad's phone was sitting on the kitchen table so I picked it up and dialed myself. Rumour rang out its new happy little tune. You push "Talk" to talk. That's how this phone works. I just wanted to be sure I figured that out before a real important call came in.
I turned the ringer off before I left the house because I was going to my first shift at the Writers Festival. I was scheduled to work the box office, which isn't so much a box nor an office as just a table with a white table cloth and a cash box and a stack of tickets.
A woman of about 35 sat down in the chair beside me.
"Are you a writer?" she asked.
"I blog," I said.
"Oh, that's great!" She said. "What do you write about?"
"Me. Things I did during the day, conversations I had with people."
"Oh," she said and then picked up her program to flip through.
I thought that she was going to be the person working the ticket table with me but she wasn't. An older woman showed up later for that role. Pretty much all the people there that night were older, or women, or both, or young women who were accomplished and published or older women who had been accomplished and published for years. Dateable, no, but inspirational, yes. My box office co-worker was actually the festival director a few years ago. I enjoyed her company greatly.
Just before the show was set to start my box office partner said I could go in and watch, that she would look after the table for us. So I did. I took a seat near the front like a keener.
The current festival director took the stage and welcomed the audience. She also took the opportunity to ask us all to turn off our cell phones. I reached into my bag and pulled mine out. No missed calls. I turned it off of vibrate to silent mode in case it was a loud vibrator and someone important decided to phone me right in the middle of a reading. That would be embarrassing. More embarrassing than no calls at all even.
I very much enjoyed the readings. Lauren Kirshner read first from her novel, Where We Have to Go. She is young, about my age or younger, and pretty in a plain way. She was mentored by Margaret Attwood. Before starting she admitted to having stage fright but I sensed none. I love how people read their work. Not only have they clearly developed and claimed their written voice, but they also have these understated-to-perfection reading voices. They don't get all dramatic about the reading, they just let the words do what they're supposed to do very well on their own. As I listened I decided that I was going to go home and practice reading something of mine out loud to my goldfish Bill.
My mom used to read to me at bedtime. We read all of the Little House on the Prairie books (I wrote many short stories about the pioneer days as a precocious eight-year-old) along with the entire Encyclopedia Brown mysteries collection. Even now, listening to someone read a story out loud instantly puts me into a relaxed state, like when someone plays with my hair or when Elmo sleeps at my feet.
Jon Paul Fiorentino read next from his book, Stripmalling. He opened up by quoting some positive reviews it received from Quill and Quire and the Toronto Star. At first I thought this was rather boastful but then the former Winnipegger went on to say with a laugh that the Winnipeg Free Press called it the worst book ever written. He too admitted to having some stage fright and removed his glasses so that he could not see if his audience reacted badly to his reading. I wanted to run up there and hold his hand.
The second half started with a poetry reading by Metis writer Gregory Scofield. I usually have no use for poetry and maybe I wouldn't have given this guy's words any of my attention if it were not for his beautiful reading voice.
The last author was a white haired woman with a novel. She barely peered over the podium as she spoke about why she wrote a novel about a character who was dying (because she wanted to). If Lauren Kirshner looked like a dream within reach to me, Bonnie Burnard looked like my very distant future. She writes because it is what she is moved to do. She is inspired by life and the relationships she has with her female friends. She spoke with grand experience on life, love and love lost. Then she read a passage from her book Suddenly, where her two senior characters have sex. From my experience with these reading things, it seems that the night just isn't complete unless someone reads a passage about two people getting it on. The fact that this rule was met by the only author on stage who qualified for a seniors discount was awesome.
I got home around 10. Before going to bed I checked my phone to see if it needed charging what with all the playing around I did with it that day. The display greeted me with:
ONE MISSED CALL
Doh!
It was my sister, and apparently there is an easier way to transfer your contacts list to your new phone.
*Actually yes, yes I do mean that.
I sat down with it and started to acquaint myself. First thing that needed to be done was input all my contacts. On my old phone I had 28 entries. Yup, two years, 28 contacts, one of which was the telebus number so I can stand at the bus stop and inquire as to when the next bus might arrive. 28 seemed like a rather paltry number to me until I had to go and retype them all. Well, not all since I got tired of typing and left a few contacts behind.
"There has to be an easier way to do this," I said to my mom.
"Your sister would probably know if there was."
I texted her to let her know I had a new phone. No response. She must be working.
I chose my new ring tone and message alerts. Then I put the phone down on the table and willed it to ring. It was 3:30 on a Monday afternoon, I didn't know who I thought would be phoning me then but I would have even settled for a telemarketer. They usually call around 11am though and then again 10 minutes later. They really like to call when I have forgotten to put my phone on vibrate so the whole office can know that they are calling. Only people I truly care about call when I have forgotten to take my phone off of vibrate so that it is subtly going off at the bottom of my bag while I am at home alphabetizing my soup cans and such.
By 6:30 I still had no new calls or messages. My dad's phone was sitting on the kitchen table so I picked it up and dialed myself. Rumour rang out its new happy little tune. You push "Talk" to talk. That's how this phone works. I just wanted to be sure I figured that out before a real important call came in.
I turned the ringer off before I left the house because I was going to my first shift at the Writers Festival. I was scheduled to work the box office, which isn't so much a box nor an office as just a table with a white table cloth and a cash box and a stack of tickets.
A woman of about 35 sat down in the chair beside me.
"Are you a writer?" she asked.
"I blog," I said.
"Oh, that's great!" She said. "What do you write about?"
"Me. Things I did during the day, conversations I had with people."
"Oh," she said and then picked up her program to flip through.
I thought that she was going to be the person working the ticket table with me but she wasn't. An older woman showed up later for that role. Pretty much all the people there that night were older, or women, or both, or young women who were accomplished and published or older women who had been accomplished and published for years. Dateable, no, but inspirational, yes. My box office co-worker was actually the festival director a few years ago. I enjoyed her company greatly.
Just before the show was set to start my box office partner said I could go in and watch, that she would look after the table for us. So I did. I took a seat near the front like a keener.
The current festival director took the stage and welcomed the audience. She also took the opportunity to ask us all to turn off our cell phones. I reached into my bag and pulled mine out. No missed calls. I turned it off of vibrate to silent mode in case it was a loud vibrator and someone important decided to phone me right in the middle of a reading. That would be embarrassing. More embarrassing than no calls at all even.
I very much enjoyed the readings. Lauren Kirshner read first from her novel, Where We Have to Go. She is young, about my age or younger, and pretty in a plain way. She was mentored by Margaret Attwood. Before starting she admitted to having stage fright but I sensed none. I love how people read their work. Not only have they clearly developed and claimed their written voice, but they also have these understated-to-perfection reading voices. They don't get all dramatic about the reading, they just let the words do what they're supposed to do very well on their own. As I listened I decided that I was going to go home and practice reading something of mine out loud to my goldfish Bill.
My mom used to read to me at bedtime. We read all of the Little House on the Prairie books (I wrote many short stories about the pioneer days as a precocious eight-year-old) along with the entire Encyclopedia Brown mysteries collection. Even now, listening to someone read a story out loud instantly puts me into a relaxed state, like when someone plays with my hair or when Elmo sleeps at my feet.
Jon Paul Fiorentino read next from his book, Stripmalling. He opened up by quoting some positive reviews it received from Quill and Quire and the Toronto Star. At first I thought this was rather boastful but then the former Winnipegger went on to say with a laugh that the Winnipeg Free Press called it the worst book ever written. He too admitted to having some stage fright and removed his glasses so that he could not see if his audience reacted badly to his reading. I wanted to run up there and hold his hand.
The second half started with a poetry reading by Metis writer Gregory Scofield. I usually have no use for poetry and maybe I wouldn't have given this guy's words any of my attention if it were not for his beautiful reading voice.
The last author was a white haired woman with a novel. She barely peered over the podium as she spoke about why she wrote a novel about a character who was dying (because she wanted to). If Lauren Kirshner looked like a dream within reach to me, Bonnie Burnard looked like my very distant future. She writes because it is what she is moved to do. She is inspired by life and the relationships she has with her female friends. She spoke with grand experience on life, love and love lost. Then she read a passage from her book Suddenly, where her two senior characters have sex. From my experience with these reading things, it seems that the night just isn't complete unless someone reads a passage about two people getting it on. The fact that this rule was met by the only author on stage who qualified for a seniors discount was awesome.
I got home around 10. Before going to bed I checked my phone to see if it needed charging what with all the playing around I did with it that day. The display greeted me with:
ONE MISSED CALL
Doh!
It was my sister, and apparently there is an easier way to transfer your contacts list to your new phone.
Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring, I don't mean on the phone*
--Santa Baby (pick your favourite version)
*Actually yes, yes I do mean that.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Another step closer to the podium
Michael and I had a big meeting to attend today. Not big as in super important or big as in we had a big role in it, just big in the sense that a lot of people were there and they put out a spread of pastries and coffee.
It's the pastries and the coffee that get me excited about these quarter end meetings. As the meeting approaches I'll usually say to Michael something like, "hey, we've got that food meeting this week, right?" and then he'll say, "you mean the quarter end summary meeting where they talk about the sales figures?" And then I'll say, "yeah yeah, that meeting where we get the free coffee and muffin." For me, a meeting where there is food is still a big novelty in my career. I don't even like the coffee much, I don't even really like the muffins (since the healthy eating industry has ruined them for me by telling me how much fat is in them), but it feels very grown up to go to a meeting where they care enough about you to put out a table of food.
I followed behind Michael in the food line. I poured myself a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar as if it was what I did every morning (I usually just fill my mug with water). Then I eyed up the pastry and muffin options and decided if I was going to go for a full fat snack it was going to be the chocolate drizzled croissant.
The last time I attended one of these meetings I quite honestly nearly fell asleep. It was incredibly boring and nothing they spoke about had any relevance to my job. This time though they had someone speak from the marketing department, the department I support as a communication specialist, and the meeting took a sudden turn toward relevant and interesting. The speaker mentioned some projects that I recognized because I had a hand in getting the communication materials produced for them. That was kind of cool. Then, the speaker closed her presentation with reading a testimonial from a happy client. It was a testimonial that I had prepared from the notes and interview I did with that client.
I could feel myself glowing as the speaker read the piece. No, they weren't entirely my words, not even half, they were mostly the client's, but I had assembled them into the story that was now touching the hearts of every person in that conference center. It wasn't my voice reading the piece and there was no nod to me as the writer of it. The people in the room probably just assumed that the client herself had written the whole polished sounding thing. That didn't matter. That didn't take away from the moment where I, for the first time (in a very very long time? Ever?), felt like I had created something that was significant and had meaning. I could actually see my audience, I could hear the tone that the reader took in her voice and the rhythm she gave the story as she brought it to life. That was an important personal moment for me that will carry me forward in both my business and writing careers.
There is a Sex and the City episode where Carrie does a reading from her book. The movie also has one of these scenes. Part of my still can't quite fathom writing and finishing something as significant as a book, but today I felt a little closer to that dream. Today it became a dream. I want to be the one standing at that podium one day reading my words to my audience, watching and feeling their reactions. I want to create something great.
It's the pastries and the coffee that get me excited about these quarter end meetings. As the meeting approaches I'll usually say to Michael something like, "hey, we've got that food meeting this week, right?" and then he'll say, "you mean the quarter end summary meeting where they talk about the sales figures?" And then I'll say, "yeah yeah, that meeting where we get the free coffee and muffin." For me, a meeting where there is food is still a big novelty in my career. I don't even like the coffee much, I don't even really like the muffins (since the healthy eating industry has ruined them for me by telling me how much fat is in them), but it feels very grown up to go to a meeting where they care enough about you to put out a table of food.
I followed behind Michael in the food line. I poured myself a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar as if it was what I did every morning (I usually just fill my mug with water). Then I eyed up the pastry and muffin options and decided if I was going to go for a full fat snack it was going to be the chocolate drizzled croissant.
The last time I attended one of these meetings I quite honestly nearly fell asleep. It was incredibly boring and nothing they spoke about had any relevance to my job. This time though they had someone speak from the marketing department, the department I support as a communication specialist, and the meeting took a sudden turn toward relevant and interesting. The speaker mentioned some projects that I recognized because I had a hand in getting the communication materials produced for them. That was kind of cool. Then, the speaker closed her presentation with reading a testimonial from a happy client. It was a testimonial that I had prepared from the notes and interview I did with that client.
I could feel myself glowing as the speaker read the piece. No, they weren't entirely my words, not even half, they were mostly the client's, but I had assembled them into the story that was now touching the hearts of every person in that conference center. It wasn't my voice reading the piece and there was no nod to me as the writer of it. The people in the room probably just assumed that the client herself had written the whole polished sounding thing. That didn't matter. That didn't take away from the moment where I, for the first time (in a very very long time? Ever?), felt like I had created something that was significant and had meaning. I could actually see my audience, I could hear the tone that the reader took in her voice and the rhythm she gave the story as she brought it to life. That was an important personal moment for me that will carry me forward in both my business and writing careers.
There is a Sex and the City episode where Carrie does a reading from her book. The movie also has one of these scenes. Part of my still can't quite fathom writing and finishing something as significant as a book, but today I felt a little closer to that dream. Today it became a dream. I want to be the one standing at that podium one day reading my words to my audience, watching and feeling their reactions. I want to create something great.
Wish it. Dream it. Do it.
--The antiqued metal sign in my cube at work
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Second down, inches to go
Just before I left work yesterday I got hit with a random act of ice cream. A woman I had never seen or spoken to before showed up in my doorway with a cooler.
"Hi Jill I'm (some name I don't remember) from (some department I don't remember) would you like some ice cream? Of course you would. Good, I just need to get rid of these things before they melt."
She handed me an Oreo ice cream sandwich. What would I do for a Klondike Bar? Not much, but for an Oreo ice cream sandwich, um, I won't go there. Oreo and ice cream were meant for each other and together they are meant for me. There is a God and he knows what I like.
That evening I went to my cousin's place for a baby meet and greet/house tour party. For the second time in a span of two weeks I was handed a small human and expected to automatically know what to do with it.
The baby, he was so tiny I felt like a giant with baseball mitts for hands and Popeye's powerful forearms. I was afraid I would crush his little body as I held him to my chest. He wiggled a lot and he kept alternating between punching me in the throat and choking me by grabbing my necklace. When my awkwardness shone through the cameras came out to capture the beautiful moment.
"You don't hold a lot of babies, do you?" some older man beside me asked.
"Um, no."
Someone then asked if I would like them to take him. Feeling obliged to release the little guy from my sad attempt at channeling my mothering instincts, I handed him over.
There was an assortment of food at the party. I had some fruit, some vegetables, some brownies, some taco dip and a piece of the cake (I skipped out on dinner that night, okay?). Maybe it was the late night noshing or maybe it's the fact that my brain has been working overtime this week, but I had the weirdest dream last night. I was at the cottage. My parents were there, my sister, some friends, and NYF. NYF was smoking though and even he couldn't make it look attractive. In the back yard I noticed a raccoon belaying across a hydro wire. My dad grabbed the wire (okay, maybe it wasn't a hydro wire, must've been a phone wire) and shook the raccoon off. This made the raccoon angry and it chased me. My mom was then able to grab the raccoon (kind of like the way I saw people holding the baby...) and she put it into a shallow fire pit which she covered with a metal mesh screen. We then both grabbed patio stones to weigh the screen down so the critter wouldn't escape. But we couldn't move fast enough and the raccoon got out. It attacked me and then I woke up. What the hell?
I told NYF about my dream this morning while I ate my peanut butter on toast with Mac. Incidentally, NYF is NYF no more. He has left New York and is now attending journalism school in Ottawa. I have no choice now but to call him OAF.
"There are lots of Winnipeggers in our program, by the way," he informed me.
"If any of the transplanted Winnipeggers are attractive young males between the ages of 27 and 34, send them my picture," I said.
"Heh, no, all attractive young females," he wrote back.
Naturally. Why would it be any different from home?
This morning at work I got a call from the volunteer coordinator with the Winnipeg Writers Festival. She had my shift schedule for me. I called to Michael over the cubicle wall to tell him about it.
"You volunteer for a lot of stuff, don't you?" he asked.
"Well, no more committee work. I've decided that stuff isn't for me," I said. "This I signed up for because I went to the festival last year and saw an author who said she had been volunteering for the festival for so long the organizers told her she couldn't come back unless she had a book to read from. She read and I thought, huh, really? I can do better than that. So I figure this will get me into the circle, get me meeting inspiring people, you know? And besides, volunteering is good for career development."
"I think I volunteered once years ago for the Australian pavillion at Folklorama."
"Yes, but you have a career," I said.
"But our careers are only this far apart," he said and held his thumb and index finger over the top of the cubicle wall separating our cubes. Where Michael sees two inches I see five years, but I like his encouraging perspective. Maybe I'm not so far away.
We had a department fun day today. We went to Grand Prix Amusements for mini golf, go-karting and bumper boating. I am proud to say that I helped contribute to my team's dismal mini golf score which landed us in last place but earned us $10 gift cards for Starbucks.
Naturally, I loved the go-karting. My life needs more go-karting. The funniest part of the day though was when I joined about half of the group on the air pillow--essentially an inflated trampoline. Picture a dozen 25-45 year-olds bouncing around like 10 year-olds. It was something beautiful, it really was.
I was at Lisa's tonight for dinner and TV. We watched the new vampire show and 90210. I told Lisa I've always wanted to be a part of a teen drama show. I love the stories of first love and I love that they always have a killer soundtrack.
"You should write one," she said. "You'd be good at it."
"Maybe I will in my creative writing class."
"I feel good," I said to her as I was leaving. "I feel like whatever happens next, it will be the right thing."
As I walked outside the air was still warm and humid. Lightning flashed and I kept catching it in the corner of my eye. It was like the heavens were capturing the moment by taking photos of me. I hate getting my picture taken, but tonight I couldn't stop smiling.
--Jerry Lee Lewis, Chantilly Lace
"Hi Jill I'm (some name I don't remember) from (some department I don't remember) would you like some ice cream? Of course you would. Good, I just need to get rid of these things before they melt."
She handed me an Oreo ice cream sandwich. What would I do for a Klondike Bar? Not much, but for an Oreo ice cream sandwich, um, I won't go there. Oreo and ice cream were meant for each other and together they are meant for me. There is a God and he knows what I like.
That evening I went to my cousin's place for a baby meet and greet/house tour party. For the second time in a span of two weeks I was handed a small human and expected to automatically know what to do with it.
The baby, he was so tiny I felt like a giant with baseball mitts for hands and Popeye's powerful forearms. I was afraid I would crush his little body as I held him to my chest. He wiggled a lot and he kept alternating between punching me in the throat and choking me by grabbing my necklace. When my awkwardness shone through the cameras came out to capture the beautiful moment.
"You don't hold a lot of babies, do you?" some older man beside me asked.
"Um, no."
Someone then asked if I would like them to take him. Feeling obliged to release the little guy from my sad attempt at channeling my mothering instincts, I handed him over.
There was an assortment of food at the party. I had some fruit, some vegetables, some brownies, some taco dip and a piece of the cake (I skipped out on dinner that night, okay?). Maybe it was the late night noshing or maybe it's the fact that my brain has been working overtime this week, but I had the weirdest dream last night. I was at the cottage. My parents were there, my sister, some friends, and NYF. NYF was smoking though and even he couldn't make it look attractive. In the back yard I noticed a raccoon belaying across a hydro wire. My dad grabbed the wire (okay, maybe it wasn't a hydro wire, must've been a phone wire) and shook the raccoon off. This made the raccoon angry and it chased me. My mom was then able to grab the raccoon (kind of like the way I saw people holding the baby...) and she put it into a shallow fire pit which she covered with a metal mesh screen. We then both grabbed patio stones to weigh the screen down so the critter wouldn't escape. But we couldn't move fast enough and the raccoon got out. It attacked me and then I woke up. What the hell?
I told NYF about my dream this morning while I ate my peanut butter on toast with Mac. Incidentally, NYF is NYF no more. He has left New York and is now attending journalism school in Ottawa. I have no choice now but to call him OAF.
"There are lots of Winnipeggers in our program, by the way," he informed me.
"If any of the transplanted Winnipeggers are attractive young males between the ages of 27 and 34, send them my picture," I said.
"Heh, no, all attractive young females," he wrote back.
Naturally. Why would it be any different from home?
This morning at work I got a call from the volunteer coordinator with the Winnipeg Writers Festival. She had my shift schedule for me. I called to Michael over the cubicle wall to tell him about it.
"You volunteer for a lot of stuff, don't you?" he asked.
"Well, no more committee work. I've decided that stuff isn't for me," I said. "This I signed up for because I went to the festival last year and saw an author who said she had been volunteering for the festival for so long the organizers told her she couldn't come back unless she had a book to read from. She read and I thought, huh, really? I can do better than that. So I figure this will get me into the circle, get me meeting inspiring people, you know? And besides, volunteering is good for career development."
"I think I volunteered once years ago for the Australian pavillion at Folklorama."
"Yes, but you have a career," I said.
"But our careers are only this far apart," he said and held his thumb and index finger over the top of the cubicle wall separating our cubes. Where Michael sees two inches I see five years, but I like his encouraging perspective. Maybe I'm not so far away.
We had a department fun day today. We went to Grand Prix Amusements for mini golf, go-karting and bumper boating. I am proud to say that I helped contribute to my team's dismal mini golf score which landed us in last place but earned us $10 gift cards for Starbucks.
Naturally, I loved the go-karting. My life needs more go-karting. The funniest part of the day though was when I joined about half of the group on the air pillow--essentially an inflated trampoline. Picture a dozen 25-45 year-olds bouncing around like 10 year-olds. It was something beautiful, it really was.
I was at Lisa's tonight for dinner and TV. We watched the new vampire show and 90210. I told Lisa I've always wanted to be a part of a teen drama show. I love the stories of first love and I love that they always have a killer soundtrack.
"You should write one," she said. "You'd be good at it."
"Maybe I will in my creative writing class."
"I feel good," I said to her as I was leaving. "I feel like whatever happens next, it will be the right thing."
As I walked outside the air was still warm and humid. Lightning flashed and I kept catching it in the corner of my eye. It was like the heavens were capturing the moment by taking photos of me. I hate getting my picture taken, but tonight I couldn't stop smiling.
I feel real loose like a long neck goose like a whoa baby that's what I like
--Jerry Lee Lewis, Chantilly Lace
Monday, September 07, 2009
The summer that stole my innocence
Remember when the days were long
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn't have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standing by
When happily ever after fails
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales
Don Henley, The End of The Innocence
On the Friday of the long weekend I got an email from George that sounded like he could use some fun company. I had actually been thinking that I'd like to get together for drinks with him so I set things up with Judy and Cindy to meet us after work at Earl's. Service was kind of lousy and I really should learn that I just don't like their drinks.
Late Saturday afternoon Judy and I escaped the city and headed up to my family cottage. I hadn't been out there all summer even though we talked and talked and talked about going. Judy ended up following me out there and so while I waited for her to catch up to me I happened to park next to what I can only describe as Truck's twin sister--a 2006 sunburnt orange Chevy Corvette. I snapped a quick photo.
At one point I pulled out to pass 'Vette and Judy texted me that she wished she could have taken a photo of the two of us side by side. It was a special moment for Truck.
We arrived at the cottage around 5:30. As always, I had to fumble around in the swarm of mosquitoes with the janitor's collection of keys I have for the doors before we could gain entry. The side door that we normally use was sticking a fair bit. Likely the cottage has shifted and thrown things off. This was the first of many things I noticed that needed some handy help around the place. Sadly, the cottage appears to be on its dying days with the B@rr0tt family. Once affectionately called The B@rr0tt Hilton, during its glory days it would be buzzing full of guests every weekend. No one went out all summer this year. The family that my grandma was renting it to for a week every year for the last while didn't even make it out. I spent a lot of summers out there as a kid making friends and getting sunburns while building castles in the sand so it has a special place in my heart, but I know it's not going to be with us much longer. Each time I go out now it feels like it will likely be the last.
Judy had brought steaks for us to cook up that night. I went to light the barbecue and get things going, but the barbecue wouldn't light. I tried to clean the burner a bit of the old charcoal and dust but it wasn't helping. I tried and I tried and I tried. And then finally it did light, but more in a fireball kind of fashion. It scared me a bit and I backed away. Judy came outside and I could tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong.
"What? Oh my God, my hair?" I reached up to touch it, for some reason fearing that it was still on fire.
"It's just a bit singed is all," she said to me. I rushed inside to check things out. Yup, for the second time in my life I had singed my bangs and my eyelashes while trying to light a barbecue. I think it was worse this time than last. I could smell the burnt hair. Why? Why must I be that girl? I love me, but sweet Jebus, why am I the girl who does things like burn her hair while trying to light a barbecue? I think I am going to install a new counter on my blog: number of days since last stupid accident. Ah well. Stupid eyelashes were too long anyway. And hey, this was a cheaper way of getting my bangs cut, right? Oye, Jillian. If you make it to see the age of 40 it will be by some miracle.
I didn't notice it at first, but while I was in the bathroom assessing my new hairdo I started to feel a stinging, burning pain around the knuckles of my index and middle finger on my right hand. Then I remembered that just before lighting the barbecue I had sprayed myself with mosquito repellent. My word, I was practically a human torch. Miracles happen every day, trust me.
Even the slightest burn is some of the worst pain a human can endure, I think. Judy put some ice in a bag for me and sent me away from the barbecue while she finished preparing supper. Never mind the screaming pain I was feeling from the skin burn, my triceps were also screaming at me because I had put them through the Chiseled weights class that afternoon at the gym. For some reason the right arm was worse than the left. I could hardly bend it. I downed my Advil with wine. Between the burned hand that I had to keep in a bath of ice water and the shredded, protesting tricep, my right arm was pretty much useless to me. Drinking wasn't even much of an option since it hurt so freakin much to raise the glass to my mouth. Oh yeah, I'm going back to that class this week for sure. Gotta get those arms in shape some how.
We spent a good part of the weekend watching Sex and the City episodes and then capped that off with watching the movie as Judy had never seen it from start to finish. I also baked an apple pie that Judy marked with a J in honour of the two special J people who would be eating it later.
I knew that Judy was going through a rough time. That on-again-off-again guy of hers that I mentioned before? They are finally off for good. I didn't know how she was really handling it though until I was sitting on the beach with her on Monday morning. Judy is such a strong and together person that she can put on a very believable face. I had no idea she was struggling so much inside and I felt bad for not being more inviting to her to spew if she needed to. I never push for people to talk to me, I just do my best to listen when they do. I pride myself on being a good listener. But I know too what it feels like to want to talk but be ashamed of of admitting out loud and to another person what's really going on inside. I usually don't have much advice to offer. I always feel like I haven't lived enough yet to really offer much anyway. After telling me about what was bothering her she thanked me for organizing the drinks outing on Friday and for getting her away from the city this weekend. I had no idea that I had been so helpful to her when she needed it most. I'm so glad I was able to do that.
I'm back home now. Summer is pretty much over despite what the thermometer has been saying lately. I love fall. To me it has always meant a time of new beginnings and fresh chances. I'm ready for my next beginning.
Don Henley, Boys of Summer
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn't have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standing by
When happily ever after fails
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales
Don Henley, The End of The Innocence
On the Friday of the long weekend I got an email from George that sounded like he could use some fun company. I had actually been thinking that I'd like to get together for drinks with him so I set things up with Judy and Cindy to meet us after work at Earl's. Service was kind of lousy and I really should learn that I just don't like their drinks.
Late Saturday afternoon Judy and I escaped the city and headed up to my family cottage. I hadn't been out there all summer even though we talked and talked and talked about going. Judy ended up following me out there and so while I waited for her to catch up to me I happened to park next to what I can only describe as Truck's twin sister--a 2006 sunburnt orange Chevy Corvette. I snapped a quick photo.
We arrived at the cottage around 5:30. As always, I had to fumble around in the swarm of mosquitoes with the janitor's collection of keys I have for the doors before we could gain entry. The side door that we normally use was sticking a fair bit. Likely the cottage has shifted and thrown things off. This was the first of many things I noticed that needed some handy help around the place. Sadly, the cottage appears to be on its dying days with the B@rr0tt family. Once affectionately called The B@rr0tt Hilton, during its glory days it would be buzzing full of guests every weekend. No one went out all summer this year. The family that my grandma was renting it to for a week every year for the last while didn't even make it out. I spent a lot of summers out there as a kid making friends and getting sunburns while building castles in the sand so it has a special place in my heart, but I know it's not going to be with us much longer. Each time I go out now it feels like it will likely be the last.
Judy had brought steaks for us to cook up that night. I went to light the barbecue and get things going, but the barbecue wouldn't light. I tried to clean the burner a bit of the old charcoal and dust but it wasn't helping. I tried and I tried and I tried. And then finally it did light, but more in a fireball kind of fashion. It scared me a bit and I backed away. Judy came outside and I could tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong.
"What? Oh my God, my hair?" I reached up to touch it, for some reason fearing that it was still on fire.
"It's just a bit singed is all," she said to me. I rushed inside to check things out. Yup, for the second time in my life I had singed my bangs and my eyelashes while trying to light a barbecue. I think it was worse this time than last. I could smell the burnt hair. Why? Why must I be that girl? I love me, but sweet Jebus, why am I the girl who does things like burn her hair while trying to light a barbecue? I think I am going to install a new counter on my blog: number of days since last stupid accident. Ah well. Stupid eyelashes were too long anyway. And hey, this was a cheaper way of getting my bangs cut, right? Oye, Jillian. If you make it to see the age of 40 it will be by some miracle.
I didn't notice it at first, but while I was in the bathroom assessing my new hairdo I started to feel a stinging, burning pain around the knuckles of my index and middle finger on my right hand. Then I remembered that just before lighting the barbecue I had sprayed myself with mosquito repellent. My word, I was practically a human torch. Miracles happen every day, trust me.
Even the slightest burn is some of the worst pain a human can endure, I think. Judy put some ice in a bag for me and sent me away from the barbecue while she finished preparing supper. Never mind the screaming pain I was feeling from the skin burn, my triceps were also screaming at me because I had put them through the Chiseled weights class that afternoon at the gym. For some reason the right arm was worse than the left. I could hardly bend it. I downed my Advil with wine. Between the burned hand that I had to keep in a bath of ice water and the shredded, protesting tricep, my right arm was pretty much useless to me. Drinking wasn't even much of an option since it hurt so freakin much to raise the glass to my mouth. Oh yeah, I'm going back to that class this week for sure. Gotta get those arms in shape some how.
We spent a good part of the weekend watching Sex and the City episodes and then capped that off with watching the movie as Judy had never seen it from start to finish. I also baked an apple pie that Judy marked with a J in honour of the two special J people who would be eating it later.
I knew that Judy was going through a rough time. That on-again-off-again guy of hers that I mentioned before? They are finally off for good. I didn't know how she was really handling it though until I was sitting on the beach with her on Monday morning. Judy is such a strong and together person that she can put on a very believable face. I had no idea she was struggling so much inside and I felt bad for not being more inviting to her to spew if she needed to. I never push for people to talk to me, I just do my best to listen when they do. I pride myself on being a good listener. But I know too what it feels like to want to talk but be ashamed of of admitting out loud and to another person what's really going on inside. I usually don't have much advice to offer. I always feel like I haven't lived enough yet to really offer much anyway. After telling me about what was bothering her she thanked me for organizing the drinks outing on Friday and for getting her away from the city this weekend. I had no idea that I had been so helpful to her when she needed it most. I'm so glad I was able to do that.
I'm back home now. Summer is pretty much over despite what the thermometer has been saying lately. I love fall. To me it has always meant a time of new beginnings and fresh chances. I'm ready for my next beginning.
Out on the road today I saw a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
A little voice inside my head said, don't look back
You can never look back.
I thought I knew what love was,
What did I know?
Don Henley, Boys of Summer
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)