If there ever is a zombie attack, I'll be the first one to go.
That's what I've learned today. After laying on the couch for hours watching bad nineties horror flicks. I had never made the connection between the nineties and terrible horror movies, but there is one. I think we were all wrapped up in Y2K terror so at the time we were all thinking, "Hey, this could actually happen. Aliens could invade a high school and take over the faculty, their only will being to win the big state championship football game...you just never know, do you?" I watched three or four relatively similar horror movies today with the same heavy thought weighing down on me - I'm a prime candidate to either a) become a host body for some alien organism or b) die in the first wave of zombie attacks. I would never be one of the chosen few to make it into the safety of the mall, hospital or grocery store to map out my escape.
Here's why - I never have gas in my car. Think about it. Zombies come after you, your only real option is to hop in your car and get the hell out of Dodge. Try to make your way to the next town over, hope to God they haven't infiltrated Meaford or Port Elgin (my next towns over...thankfully they both have Tim Horton's) and try to warn the general public about the imminent zombies. Nobody will believe you, of course, but at least you'll have a head start.
If and when zombies make it to Owen Sound, I would probably make it to my car despite the fact that I have a perpetual thirty second delay in literally every crisis situation. Maybe a zombie would trip over my Swiffer Wet Jet or something. So I would get in my car, start up the engine and back out of the driveway. I would probably feel really smug too, maybe flash my highbeams at the zombies to mock them. They would start chasing me and I would make it about three bocks away before my car would crap out. And then...oh Nelly.
Another reason zombies would get me first? Location. Zombies love small towns. I think it's all the cute little cafes and boutique shops myself, our homespun friendly natures. They seem to always start out in a sleepy little town a few hours from the city. And I tend to do alot of hanging around in town...plus I'm just really absent-minded alot of the time. I can't remember how many times I've been sitting in a cafe, reading or writing and had someone come up to me and say, "Jen? Jesus, I said your name about five times!"
So if I were in a zombie movie I would be billed as 'Zombie victim #1', which is a place of distinction, I guess. I'd be the girl who is in the shower when her boyfriend comes in behind her, blood dripping from his mouth, skin melting off, black eyes rolling. And I would say something like,"Bill! What's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like....aargh!! Choke! Sputter! Die..."
Happy Halloween all. And if I'm turned into a zombie this year...I'm coming after one of you...
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Jen Show
(Wendi has lady bug issues, Laura is all over H1N1, Kate wants an invisibilty cloak and Bonnie hit a deer. Check them out.)
Do you ever feel like your life is a sit-com? Not like 'Friends' with their fancy apartments and designer clothes, but more like something on HBO...gritty, darkly funny and rather unbelievable?
I do. There isn't a day that goes by in my life without incident. A friend of mine said to me the other day 'You know what I like best about being your friend? It's never boring.' See, for the people around me it's a blast. They make themselves a little snack, curl up in front of my life and let the hilarity ensue. What will I do this episode? Will I fall down the front steps of a church, bringing an old lady - and her cane - with me? Done. Will I have too much to drink and 'drunken dial' an old boyfriend, maybe cry a little and tell him things I never, ever should tell anyone? Maybe. Will I go out on a first date with a lovely boy and snap a bra strap on the way to dinner? I mean, what the hell does one do in that situation? Say, 'Must go, I've just lost half my bra and I don't want the girls swimming in my soup.' No. Just hold tight to the half you've still got and pray for the date to be over. Which was a shame...he seemed lovely.
The thing is, regular sitcoms only last half an hour or so, which is why they're funny. My sitcome never, ever ends. Ever. It's like I'm Lucy, and Ethel and I are running around town causing mayhem but Ricky never jumps in to save me before I fall flat on my ass. We're at the chocolate factory, stuffing our faces with chocolates but the damn conveyor belt never stops. Ricky never asks me to 'splain anything. He just lets me screw up over and over and over again.
And it's not just always me screwing up. Things always seem to happen to me. Or around me. I'm a bad omen. I was in a friend's car recently - a car that seems to work just fine on a regular basis - and her hood came flying up in our window while we were doing, like, 80 clicks. She says she doesn't blame me...
Then there was my wedding dress, the Mother of all Bad Omens. When I was going through some things years ago, I came across my dress. I have to tell you - my dress was kick-ass. Gorgeous. This filmy sort of thing that was as comfortable as a nightgown and made me look a billion times better than I've looked since. I was looking at my dress and thinking, What do I do with this? It's not like I want to keep it- once you've gotten rid of the husband, you probably shouldn't keep the dress. So, in a moment of pure selflessness, I donated my dress to a local not-for-profit second hand store. Filled my head with dreams of some woman finding that dress for fifty bucks and weeping with gratitude. Sigh.
The building burned to the ground the next day. Seriously. I still wonder if I should write them some sort of formal apology.
Well, that's all for now. Off I go out into the world...gulp. What the hell will happen today? And when does this show end? I'd even settle for a commercial break, honestly.
Do you ever feel like your life is a sit-com? Not like 'Friends' with their fancy apartments and designer clothes, but more like something on HBO...gritty, darkly funny and rather unbelievable?
I do. There isn't a day that goes by in my life without incident. A friend of mine said to me the other day 'You know what I like best about being your friend? It's never boring.' See, for the people around me it's a blast. They make themselves a little snack, curl up in front of my life and let the hilarity ensue. What will I do this episode? Will I fall down the front steps of a church, bringing an old lady - and her cane - with me? Done. Will I have too much to drink and 'drunken dial' an old boyfriend, maybe cry a little and tell him things I never, ever should tell anyone? Maybe. Will I go out on a first date with a lovely boy and snap a bra strap on the way to dinner? I mean, what the hell does one do in that situation? Say, 'Must go, I've just lost half my bra and I don't want the girls swimming in my soup.' No. Just hold tight to the half you've still got and pray for the date to be over. Which was a shame...he seemed lovely.
The thing is, regular sitcoms only last half an hour or so, which is why they're funny. My sitcome never, ever ends. Ever. It's like I'm Lucy, and Ethel and I are running around town causing mayhem but Ricky never jumps in to save me before I fall flat on my ass. We're at the chocolate factory, stuffing our faces with chocolates but the damn conveyor belt never stops. Ricky never asks me to 'splain anything. He just lets me screw up over and over and over again.
And it's not just always me screwing up. Things always seem to happen to me. Or around me. I'm a bad omen. I was in a friend's car recently - a car that seems to work just fine on a regular basis - and her hood came flying up in our window while we were doing, like, 80 clicks. She says she doesn't blame me...
Then there was my wedding dress, the Mother of all Bad Omens. When I was going through some things years ago, I came across my dress. I have to tell you - my dress was kick-ass. Gorgeous. This filmy sort of thing that was as comfortable as a nightgown and made me look a billion times better than I've looked since. I was looking at my dress and thinking, What do I do with this? It's not like I want to keep it- once you've gotten rid of the husband, you probably shouldn't keep the dress. So, in a moment of pure selflessness, I donated my dress to a local not-for-profit second hand store. Filled my head with dreams of some woman finding that dress for fifty bucks and weeping with gratitude. Sigh.
The building burned to the ground the next day. Seriously. I still wonder if I should write them some sort of formal apology.
Well, that's all for now. Off I go out into the world...gulp. What the hell will happen today? And when does this show end? I'd even settle for a commercial break, honestly.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Lazy
I’m a big fan of checking out mom blogs, particularly fancy-pants mom blogs as I obviously dream of some day becoming a fancy pants. And I notice that the longer you have a successful blog, the more entries you have that start with things like “Sorry it’s been so long since my last blog” or “Just back from Spain – thanks (place sponsor name here)!” That sort of thing. Which means that if I play my cards right and work really hard and toil as best I can, someday I will be able to write to you all about how I am too busy.
That day has come, though without the fame and wealth unfortunately. I’m sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t been updating my blog as frequently as I should. In fact, I’ve even recycled a column here and there to supplement my meagre entries. Is it because I’ve gotten too big for my britches? After all, I am a whopping seven weeks into the blog...I guess it is time I take a rest, right? I mean who the heck do I think I am?
Here it is - we’re moving this weekend. I am right now sitting in my office surrounded by desk drawers and boxes and a load of junk to take to the dump. My car is out of commission for mysterious-yet-frustrating reasons. And I can barely look around my little house, my adorable little teeny tiny house without bursting into tears. Because I know this place is way too small for us. I know we’ve worn out our welcome. But...it’s pretty! It’s a girl house! And I’m a girl!
We’ve lived here for almost five years – which for me, a natural nomad who doesn’t like to stay in place for too long, is considerable. I started and finished the first draft of my book here. I’ve hosted Thanksgivings and Christmas and the odd girl’s night here...though not in ages. This place is pretty freaking small. And two of my sons are six feet tall, which means they take up half the space.
This new place is going to be great. We will have two – TWO! – bathrooms with actual showers. I have a separate living room for reading and such that I will probably never use but will decorate with pretty pillows just the same.
And I will get more writing done. I promise. On the off chance that there is a single reader out there who is waiting to hear what I will say next...just give me a week. Next week, I’ll do better (why does that sound so familiar?)
That day has come, though without the fame and wealth unfortunately. I’m sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t been updating my blog as frequently as I should. In fact, I’ve even recycled a column here and there to supplement my meagre entries. Is it because I’ve gotten too big for my britches? After all, I am a whopping seven weeks into the blog...I guess it is time I take a rest, right? I mean who the heck do I think I am?
Here it is - we’re moving this weekend. I am right now sitting in my office surrounded by desk drawers and boxes and a load of junk to take to the dump. My car is out of commission for mysterious-yet-frustrating reasons. And I can barely look around my little house, my adorable little teeny tiny house without bursting into tears. Because I know this place is way too small for us. I know we’ve worn out our welcome. But...it’s pretty! It’s a girl house! And I’m a girl!
We’ve lived here for almost five years – which for me, a natural nomad who doesn’t like to stay in place for too long, is considerable. I started and finished the first draft of my book here. I’ve hosted Thanksgivings and Christmas and the odd girl’s night here...though not in ages. This place is pretty freaking small. And two of my sons are six feet tall, which means they take up half the space.
This new place is going to be great. We will have two – TWO! – bathrooms with actual showers. I have a separate living room for reading and such that I will probably never use but will decorate with pretty pillows just the same.
And I will get more writing done. I promise. On the off chance that there is a single reader out there who is waiting to hear what I will say next...just give me a week. Next week, I’ll do better (why does that sound so familiar?)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Paging McSteamy...Dr. McSteamy...
Today I was planning on writing about Thanksgiving. I woke up feeling all warm and fuzzy...figuring I have a lot to be thankful for. Four cool kids, a good-looking canine. A belly full of sweet, sweet turkey. A job that pays me to think about little beyond my own existance, which suits me just fine. A Chester who I will see next weekend. Who I hear is planning on pampering me quite nicely, thank you. Great friends, a nice family...pretty lucky.
But then Callum woke up this morning with chest pains. Before all of you caring mothers out there take in a collective gasp of horror – he’s fine. Just fine – a bit bruised from bloody football (and yes, that’s how I see it now...bloody football) but otherwise in tact. And do you want to know how long it took me to find out my son was fine? Six. Long. Hours.
We went to the hospital as soon as I dropped the rest of the brood off. I was thinking we might be there for three hours or so. And I’ll admit it – I don’t mind the hospital. I like the enforced closeness it presses on me and whichever one of the boys is injured. I know – sick and deluded. But there you have it. And I wasn’t too worried about Cal. So I figured, hey. I’m sort of tired this morning. I can escape the dishes, the laundry and making my bed for a few hours whilst proving myself to be an excellent mother to boot.
At first it was kind of fun. Cal has inherited my strange obsession with people watching so we bonded in the emergency room. Watched that guy come in and use the hand sanitizer as hair gel. Tried not to look at the young couple sitting across from us alternating between manic French kissing and texting. Discreetly moved away from the lady with the little girl who was vomiting loudly into a big pink bowl beside us.
We passed the time watching the staff closely, hoping to sense some sort of Grey’s Anatomy-esque sexual tension and/or drama. Would the triage nurse blush furiously and look away when the handsome Paramedic leaned down to talk to her? Would we notice a certain something in the way the doctor took Cal’s chart from the nurse? Would one of them suddenly contract a little known wasting disease and faint in the hallway, causing general uproar and drama? Would one of the doctors turn out to be the long lost love I’d never known I had?
Nope. Nothing. After about hour two of people watching, we got bored. Our doctor was just a nice, normal woman. She and the nurse seemed pretty dispassionate about each other. They closed our curtain. Nothing to see here.
We started re-enacting some favourite episodes of The Office. (American version...we’re so sick of everyone saying the British version is better. Just because they have British accents...) Cal told me about some funny stuff he had been watching on Youtube, causing me to marvel at how much time he actually spends on the computer. We went quiet for a bit, eavesdropping on patients in the next rooms.
About hour four we started getting hungry. Neither of us thought to eat breakfast and Cal was due for an ultrasound so food was out of the question. We were the sort of hungry when all you want to talk about is food. When you start reminiscing, saying things like ‘Remember that beef stew you made? And those biscuits? Those were the best.’ And planning out what you’ll eat once you get home.
By hour five we started thinking about making a run for it. I started to feel claustrophobic, felt like I was never going to be let out. We listened to everyone’s footsteps as they passed our curtain and got to know who was wearing which shoes. (Note to the woman in the high heels who paced back in forth outside our curtain at ten second intervals...I loathe you.) Cal tried using hypnosis on the doctor to force her to come back and see us, but I guess his powers don’t work so well through walls.
Finally...hour six. When I’ve just realized I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee around hour three. The doctor comes back in and tells us he’s fine. Smiles indulgently and tells us we can go and I seriously don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful as her in that very moment. I loved her. We can’t get out of there fast enough. We feel like we’ve just been let out of prison early. The world is our oyster. We can do whatever we want.
We came home and ate eggs. Way to take the bull by the horns.
\
But then Callum woke up this morning with chest pains. Before all of you caring mothers out there take in a collective gasp of horror – he’s fine. Just fine – a bit bruised from bloody football (and yes, that’s how I see it now...bloody football) but otherwise in tact. And do you want to know how long it took me to find out my son was fine? Six. Long. Hours.
We went to the hospital as soon as I dropped the rest of the brood off. I was thinking we might be there for three hours or so. And I’ll admit it – I don’t mind the hospital. I like the enforced closeness it presses on me and whichever one of the boys is injured. I know – sick and deluded. But there you have it. And I wasn’t too worried about Cal. So I figured, hey. I’m sort of tired this morning. I can escape the dishes, the laundry and making my bed for a few hours whilst proving myself to be an excellent mother to boot.
At first it was kind of fun. Cal has inherited my strange obsession with people watching so we bonded in the emergency room. Watched that guy come in and use the hand sanitizer as hair gel. Tried not to look at the young couple sitting across from us alternating between manic French kissing and texting. Discreetly moved away from the lady with the little girl who was vomiting loudly into a big pink bowl beside us.
We passed the time watching the staff closely, hoping to sense some sort of Grey’s Anatomy-esque sexual tension and/or drama. Would the triage nurse blush furiously and look away when the handsome Paramedic leaned down to talk to her? Would we notice a certain something in the way the doctor took Cal’s chart from the nurse? Would one of them suddenly contract a little known wasting disease and faint in the hallway, causing general uproar and drama? Would one of the doctors turn out to be the long lost love I’d never known I had?
Nope. Nothing. After about hour two of people watching, we got bored. Our doctor was just a nice, normal woman. She and the nurse seemed pretty dispassionate about each other. They closed our curtain. Nothing to see here.
We started re-enacting some favourite episodes of The Office. (American version...we’re so sick of everyone saying the British version is better. Just because they have British accents...) Cal told me about some funny stuff he had been watching on Youtube, causing me to marvel at how much time he actually spends on the computer. We went quiet for a bit, eavesdropping on patients in the next rooms.
About hour four we started getting hungry. Neither of us thought to eat breakfast and Cal was due for an ultrasound so food was out of the question. We were the sort of hungry when all you want to talk about is food. When you start reminiscing, saying things like ‘Remember that beef stew you made? And those biscuits? Those were the best.’ And planning out what you’ll eat once you get home.
By hour five we started thinking about making a run for it. I started to feel claustrophobic, felt like I was never going to be let out. We listened to everyone’s footsteps as they passed our curtain and got to know who was wearing which shoes. (Note to the woman in the high heels who paced back in forth outside our curtain at ten second intervals...I loathe you.) Cal tried using hypnosis on the doctor to force her to come back and see us, but I guess his powers don’t work so well through walls.
Finally...hour six. When I’ve just realized I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee around hour three. The doctor comes back in and tells us he’s fine. Smiles indulgently and tells us we can go and I seriously don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful as her in that very moment. I loved her. We can’t get out of there fast enough. We feel like we’ve just been let out of prison early. The world is our oyster. We can do whatever we want.
We came home and ate eggs. Way to take the bull by the horns.
\
Friday, October 9, 2009
Minister Of Magic...and Chester
Chester is in to politics. He is in to politics the same way I am into chocolate and movies. If Chester had to make a choice between me and watching ten hours straight of political shows on CNN...well, let’s just say that my tender ego would never survive. Which means I’ll never ask.
Now I’ve never been one of those girls who changes what she likes for a boy. Except that one unfortunate boy who liked me to wear baseball caps all the time...maybe I gave in to him a little. He was a very good kisser. Allowances needed to be made. But other than him, it’s just not my scene. I figure you’re not really meant to have all the same interests anyways, right? Like shopping. The last thing I ever want a man to do with me is shop. I have friends who are much more fun and have much better taste to take shopping with me. Plus, they won’t sigh when I say things like ‘just one more store, I promise.’
But Chester and politics go together like peanut butter and jelly. It’s not just a hobby of his. It’s his whole life. He is politics. On one of our first dates we were sitting in a pub and he was telling me a story about a girl who didn’t know who David Miller was. We both laughed heartily at her ignorance. He went to the washroom and the bartender whispered to me ‘He’s the mayor of Toronto.’
So I’ve decided to take a marginal, begrudging and taciturn interest. For his sake. Because it seems to make him happy and I guess I’m sort of a nice person on some level. So the last time I visited him in his disturbingly clean apartment and he wanted to talk politics I thought, fine. I have a glass of wine. The sun is shining. I can afford to be generous. Besides, how boring could it be?
Mind-numbingly boring. Wanting to scream and run from the building boring. Lose my appetite and maybe even take a little nap while he’s not looking boring. Not that Chester is boring...no. Chester if you’re reading this, you are not boring. You are more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
Let’s be honest here – there’s only so much you can say about politics. Particularly if you’re discussing it with someone like me. I have the attention span of a gnat. He was trying to tell me something about a no confidence vote and all I was thinking was “Hmm, his patio door is wide open. I wonder if a bird could fly in here? Would it be rude of me to ask him to go shut the door? I wonder where we’re going for dinner? Should I wear my new black top?” You see what I mean.
However I do have a solution. Screw the Liberals, the Conservatives, the NDP’s. We need a Magic Party. We need a Minister of Magic, just like in Harry Potter. How much more fun would that be? You want me to get behind a candidate? Tell him he has to transfigure my cat into a laptop. Michael Ignatieff wants us to support a no confidence vote? (see? I did listen a little) Sure. As soon as he can levitate and use non verbal spells, I’ll be happy to hear anything he has to say about the budget.
After all, why the hell are we voting for these people? They aren’t any different from us. I want them to be significantly better at something before I vote for them. Even if one of them was a superior juggler...I might be able to jump on board with that. Or an excellent thumb wrestler – I bet I could kick Stephen Harper’s butt at thumb wrestling. And if that’s true, doesn’t that mean he shouldn’t really be allowed to run the country? Shouldn’t he have to win at everything before he can run the country?
So that’s my solution. If we want people to get more interested in Canadian politics, teach some of these stodgy fools how to joust. Or compete in an arm wrestling tournament. You’ve gotta trust a good arm wrestler, after all. I bet that Iggy would get thrashed. He looks like a pansy to me.
Now I’ve never been one of those girls who changes what she likes for a boy. Except that one unfortunate boy who liked me to wear baseball caps all the time...maybe I gave in to him a little. He was a very good kisser. Allowances needed to be made. But other than him, it’s just not my scene. I figure you’re not really meant to have all the same interests anyways, right? Like shopping. The last thing I ever want a man to do with me is shop. I have friends who are much more fun and have much better taste to take shopping with me. Plus, they won’t sigh when I say things like ‘just one more store, I promise.’
But Chester and politics go together like peanut butter and jelly. It’s not just a hobby of his. It’s his whole life. He is politics. On one of our first dates we were sitting in a pub and he was telling me a story about a girl who didn’t know who David Miller was. We both laughed heartily at her ignorance. He went to the washroom and the bartender whispered to me ‘He’s the mayor of Toronto.’
So I’ve decided to take a marginal, begrudging and taciturn interest. For his sake. Because it seems to make him happy and I guess I’m sort of a nice person on some level. So the last time I visited him in his disturbingly clean apartment and he wanted to talk politics I thought, fine. I have a glass of wine. The sun is shining. I can afford to be generous. Besides, how boring could it be?
Mind-numbingly boring. Wanting to scream and run from the building boring. Lose my appetite and maybe even take a little nap while he’s not looking boring. Not that Chester is boring...no. Chester if you’re reading this, you are not boring. You are more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
Let’s be honest here – there’s only so much you can say about politics. Particularly if you’re discussing it with someone like me. I have the attention span of a gnat. He was trying to tell me something about a no confidence vote and all I was thinking was “Hmm, his patio door is wide open. I wonder if a bird could fly in here? Would it be rude of me to ask him to go shut the door? I wonder where we’re going for dinner? Should I wear my new black top?” You see what I mean.
However I do have a solution. Screw the Liberals, the Conservatives, the NDP’s. We need a Magic Party. We need a Minister of Magic, just like in Harry Potter. How much more fun would that be? You want me to get behind a candidate? Tell him he has to transfigure my cat into a laptop. Michael Ignatieff wants us to support a no confidence vote? (see? I did listen a little) Sure. As soon as he can levitate and use non verbal spells, I’ll be happy to hear anything he has to say about the budget.
After all, why the hell are we voting for these people? They aren’t any different from us. I want them to be significantly better at something before I vote for them. Even if one of them was a superior juggler...I might be able to jump on board with that. Or an excellent thumb wrestler – I bet I could kick Stephen Harper’s butt at thumb wrestling. And if that’s true, doesn’t that mean he shouldn’t really be allowed to run the country? Shouldn’t he have to win at everything before he can run the country?
So that’s my solution. If we want people to get more interested in Canadian politics, teach some of these stodgy fools how to joust. Or compete in an arm wrestling tournament. You’ve gotta trust a good arm wrestler, after all. I bet that Iggy would get thrashed. He looks like a pansy to me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Every Second Thursday
Yesterday was a big day for me. First off it was Sunday and I had Chinese food for dinner, which meant I didn’t have to cook. Secondly I worked my way through about half of my laundry pile which meant the boys were all able to wear clean, matched socks to school this morning.
And maybe most importantly...I read some of my fiction for the first time in public. Only three minutes or so and as part of a group of other, better writers. But still...I read. Out loud. With a microphone and everything.
And I didn’t die.
My favourite book store on the planet, The Downtown Bookstore right here in Owen Sound, produced an anthology of short stories called Every Second Thursday to celebrate their third anniversary. (http://owensoundsuntimes.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1917565) And they let little old me write a story for them. Even though the likes of Joseph Boyden (Giller winner and general fancy pants) and Anthony De Sa (Giller runner-up so less of a fancy pants) wrote stories for them. Brilliant stories, cleverly written and everything. They still let me in.
I used to have visions of what it would be like to do an official reading. Back before anyone let me call myself a writer without smirking or rolling their eyes or saying ‘No really, what do you do?’ Elaborate pictures of what I’d do when I ‘made it’. Fooling myself into thinking that there would ever be a definitive moment when I realized I’d made it.
I was planning on wearing some sort of pencil skirt/fitted sweater/stilettos combination. My hair swept up in a gorgeous chignon and maybe I would even need cool reading glasses. Like those cat-eye reading glasses. So a sexy secretary look....I’m always alot prettier in my imagination. And my wardrobe is significantly better. Also, I wouldn’t be nervous. There would be scads of people there. And I would have driven up in my Mercedes or something, my life a perfect cocoon I carry with me that no one else needs to see.
Well- the beat up second hand Pathfinder isn’t quite a Mercedes. My jeans and sweater, not so much sexy secretary as good old mom. And nerves...Jesus. I was a maniac. I realized my story was ridiculous, not funny and whimsical like I intended. It sounded like a feature in Teen Beat circa 1984. I realized it made me sound like a dumb ass. I realized I probably am a dumb ass.
Luckily for me, I have beautiful friends. Who haven’t quite figured out I am, indeed, a dumb ass. Who are smarter than I am, who are better writers (Wendi from this very website being a notable mention...I had to read my story after hers. Her beautiful, haunting, gorgeous story that reads like pure poetry. Bitch.) Friends who make sure to sit at the front of the pack, who listen and laugh even when I’m not that funny.
And I’m lucky to live where I do. To have a column people seem to like and an editor who tries not to edit out my quirks...I’ve had the other kind before so I know how precious that is. Editors trying to de-quirk me...it sucked. Even though the money was marginally better.
Finally, after seven years or so, I don’t want to move. I am precisely happy where I am, shitty winters and all. I am glad to have a place to write, to have people who think I’m better than I am and shout me down if I’m too hard on myself. Lucky that someone wants to read anything I write, no matter how bad. Happy to just be drinking a coffee with my friends and fellow writers, all of us able to say without a hint of a smirk ‘I’m a writer.’
I’ve made it
And maybe most importantly...I read some of my fiction for the first time in public. Only three minutes or so and as part of a group of other, better writers. But still...I read. Out loud. With a microphone and everything.
And I didn’t die.
My favourite book store on the planet, The Downtown Bookstore right here in Owen Sound, produced an anthology of short stories called Every Second Thursday to celebrate their third anniversary. (http://owensoundsuntimes.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1917565) And they let little old me write a story for them. Even though the likes of Joseph Boyden (Giller winner and general fancy pants) and Anthony De Sa (Giller runner-up so less of a fancy pants) wrote stories for them. Brilliant stories, cleverly written and everything. They still let me in.
I used to have visions of what it would be like to do an official reading. Back before anyone let me call myself a writer without smirking or rolling their eyes or saying ‘No really, what do you do?’ Elaborate pictures of what I’d do when I ‘made it’. Fooling myself into thinking that there would ever be a definitive moment when I realized I’d made it.
I was planning on wearing some sort of pencil skirt/fitted sweater/stilettos combination. My hair swept up in a gorgeous chignon and maybe I would even need cool reading glasses. Like those cat-eye reading glasses. So a sexy secretary look....I’m always alot prettier in my imagination. And my wardrobe is significantly better. Also, I wouldn’t be nervous. There would be scads of people there. And I would have driven up in my Mercedes or something, my life a perfect cocoon I carry with me that no one else needs to see.
Well- the beat up second hand Pathfinder isn’t quite a Mercedes. My jeans and sweater, not so much sexy secretary as good old mom. And nerves...Jesus. I was a maniac. I realized my story was ridiculous, not funny and whimsical like I intended. It sounded like a feature in Teen Beat circa 1984. I realized it made me sound like a dumb ass. I realized I probably am a dumb ass.
Luckily for me, I have beautiful friends. Who haven’t quite figured out I am, indeed, a dumb ass. Who are smarter than I am, who are better writers (Wendi from this very website being a notable mention...I had to read my story after hers. Her beautiful, haunting, gorgeous story that reads like pure poetry. Bitch.) Friends who make sure to sit at the front of the pack, who listen and laugh even when I’m not that funny.
And I’m lucky to live where I do. To have a column people seem to like and an editor who tries not to edit out my quirks...I’ve had the other kind before so I know how precious that is. Editors trying to de-quirk me...it sucked. Even though the money was marginally better.
Finally, after seven years or so, I don’t want to move. I am precisely happy where I am, shitty winters and all. I am glad to have a place to write, to have people who think I’m better than I am and shout me down if I’m too hard on myself. Lucky that someone wants to read anything I write, no matter how bad. Happy to just be drinking a coffee with my friends and fellow writers, all of us able to say without a hint of a smirk ‘I’m a writer.’
I’ve made it
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