where are we?...

Second Change Idol - Week 2

2012-02-23T19:44:19Z

A note: Second Change Idol is an opportunity for me to explore a character I created about a year ago. Because of the nature of the prompts her story may jump around a little. Each week's entry is not meant to be a linear continuation but rather glimpses into the life of the character.

“Lady Gwendolyn, you are meant to be attending a tea this afternoon, not competing in a silly boys’ competition!”

It seemed her nurse has some questionable notions as to how Gwen should spend her time. Perhaps she failed to remember what happened at the last tea she was forced to attend. Gwen sat with the other girls her age, eyes glazed over and food untouched, until she saw the brother of one of the girls ride by on a horse and unthinkingly got up and ran after him. It was quite the scene, especially since there was a small pond between the girls and the horse-rider, and it hadn’t seemed to prevent Gwen from following him.

Gwen decided weeks ago when she was first invited to this tea that there was no way she would attend. But convincing her nurse of that fact was another matter entirely.

Gwen put down the britches she was attempting to put on under her dress and turned to face her care-taker.

“Nurse, I’m sure you would like nothing better than a free afternoon while I attend the tea. Rest assured that, while I will not be attending the tea, you may still have your free time. I can amuse myself”

“Oh no you don’t, m’lady. Your mother gave me strict instructions that you are to go to that tea. There will not be a repeat of what happened last time. Lord Almighty, it must have taken me ages to get those grass and mud stains out of your petticoats.” The nurse replied.

Well, that didn’t work, thought Gwen. Changing tack, she said, “Well if I must go at least let me walk there by myself. It’s mortifying to be escorted everywhere by a nurse, like I’m helpless. Albert and Simon can go anywhere they want with no supervision. It’s simply unfair”

The nurse sighed. Why must everything always come back to the difference between Gwen’s treatment and that of her brothers?

“I won’t allow you to walk the entire way yourself, it’s over a mile. But you can walk the last bit on your own. I’ll walk with you as far as the footbridge by the birch glade. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Very,” Gwen replied. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish dressing. I’ll meet you in the foyer in twenty minutes.”

“Very well, m’lady” said the nurse, and left Gwen alone to get ready.

This should work out after all, Gwen thought, as she pulled the britches up and tied up the laces. She would have to get the rest on once the nurse left her at the footbridge. Gwen packed a shirt, vest, and shoes she’d stolen from Simon, along with a hat and socks she took from Albert, into a very feminine-looking bag. It would look a little odd bringing a bag with her to a tea, but then again, she wouldn’t make it to the tea for it to look odd anyway.

Second Chance Idol - Week 1

2012-02-17T00:08:38Z

Sometimes, if a spring morning was clear and bright enough, Gwen could see from her bedroom window all the way to the games pitch. Luckily, today was one of those days, and so she eagerly dressed for her day in front of the window (which was rather large) despite any care that someone might see her.

Outside were townspeople making their way through the streets and along the road to the pitch, chatting excitedly and carrying picnics and blanket, ready for a full day’s action. It was still quite early in the day but most people headed down as soon as they finished their morning meal so as to secure good seats and not miss a minute of fun.

Once she was dressed Gwen surveyed herself in the mirror. She smoothed her hands over her plain green tunic gently running her fingers along the outline of her family crest that adorned the middle. She laced up the boots she ‘borrowed’ from the stables the night before and tied her hair back in a simple plait and left the room.

Standing at the entrance to the grounds, Gwen took a deep breath. “Right,” she said, “It’s now or never,” and made her way toward the competitors’ tent.

Two officials sat behind a large wooden table, taking patents of nobility and marking the events each competitor would enter - joust, sword-fighting, wrestling. Gwen strode up to the table, mustering all her power to look strong and imposing. She placed her patents on the table.

“Sorry miss, but your competitor must be here to enter the events himself” the first official said, not looking up from his papers.

“These are my patents,” Gwen said. When it became clear the officials still didn’t understand, she added, “I mean to compete myself.”

Both officials looked at the girl, fully taking her in for the first time. One official recognized her, for it was not uncommon for people in the area to know the face of the daughter of their Lord.

The official sighed impatiently. “I’m sorry, Lady Gwen, but I can’t let you--”

“You can’t compete!” the other official interrupted. “You need a... you know...” he trailed off, making phallic gestures with his hands.

“Oh, that’s quite enough!” Gwen said. Really, getting into the competition was much more trying than the competition itself!

The first official pushed Gwen’s patents toward her. “Look, I wish I could help. But we’ll lose our positions if we let a girl into the competition. And besides, it’s just not done! Now run off and go watch the competition. I’m sure the other ladies are in the stands somewhere.”

Grabbing her papers, Gwen stalked off in a huff. It was always the same - all excuses and deferrals of judgement. No one ever had the sense to realize it was foolish not to let her compete.

“Never mind that,” Gwen murmured to herself, walking toward the stalls to fetch her horse, “It’ll take more than one refusal to keep me from the joust.”

Gwen mounted her horse, put on her helmet (making sure her long plait was tucked up into it) and steered her horse toward the jousting ring.

oh, what the hell...

2012-02-12T20:54:34Z

Glad to have another chance to get back in the game. Second Chance Idol, here I come.

LJ Idol - Season 8, week 8

2011-12-16T01:24:26Z

Let me tell you about my first time travelling alone. Well, not completely alone, and not completely the first time. But it was the first time I was the one making the decisions and mapping the trip out, so it counts as ‘alone’ to me.
On the whole the trip was a success, but in another sense it was a complete disaster.

In the fall of 2007 I took part in a semester abroad. The entire semester was set up to allow for the students to take advantage of living in Europe, including giving us three day weekends every week and a week off to go travelling. My roommate and I decided to do just that – we would go to France for half the week and then head to the Lake District in England to visit family of hers.

To say the trip went smoothly would be a gross over statement. Our week-long break came about half-way through the semester, and my roommate Sarah and I had been having kind of a rocky time to date. Being girls, we didn’t actually talk about what was happening, but by the time we stepped on the plane to Paris the level of discomfort and annoyance between the two of us was palpable. And, like it or lump it, that set the whole tone for this trip.

We had originally planned to take the Eurostar train to Paris – it was cheaper and I liked the idea of taking the Chunnel. However, we didn’t know that prices for the train tended to fluctuate wildly and then get exorbitantly expensive the closer you were to actually taking it. By the time we sat down to book our tickets it was actually cheaper to fly British Airways into Charles de Gaulle airport.

We get there, and unbeknownst to us (add it to the list) we find out the Parisian metro is one strike. Great. So we stand in line for about 45 minutes with all (and I mean ALL) the other passengers coming out of CdG to get a taxi and go to our hotel. Or hostel. To this day I still don’t know which it was.

At this point I’m disappointed but still pretty optimistic that once we get into the city things will be fun. Paris turns out to be gorgeous and interesting and adorably French, though I often find myself thinking there must be more fun somewhere if we can just find it. We spend three days there before heading into the Loire Valley to experience the French countryside.

Here’s a little tip – if you ever think you might want to rent and car to drive around Europe, do yourself a favour and learn to drive standard. Otherwise you’ll become a chump like me who only drives automatic and was reduced to renting a ‘people carrier’ for yourself and one other person. Although not everyone gets to enjoy the pleasure of a frantic argument in broken French about the validity of your driver’s license and the existence of your original reservation. Sorry, that fun belongs only to me.

But hey, it’s not that bad, right? This trip can still be saved!

Cut to Sarah and I at a deserted off-season French resort with nothing to do, nothing to eat, and no idea of what the local sights are. We managed to play some freezing rounds of deserted mini-golf, find some good vineyards (where more broken French afforded us some free tastings), stumble into a very well-regarded wine-making area of the country (Saumur), and visit an old Abbey where we could wander through at our own, sloth-like, can-you-tell-we-have-nothing-better-to-do pace.

Finally, thankfully, it was time to go back to Paris to catch our flight to Manchester.

Another expensive but luxurious flight (Air France this time) and we find ourselves back in Britain. Happy to begin another leg of our trip (and even happier to have some buffers between us), Sarah and I obtain our luggage and make our way to the arrivals section to meet her father and brother, who had flown in from Ontario to visit family as well.

We get there, and the place is deserted. Not a single soul greeting loved ones or picking up their bags or checking boards for arrival times. At this point something is tingling for both of us. We look up at the arrivals screen and the flight we’re looking for isn’t listed. Did we miss it? It is delayed? Maybe her father and brother are already here and renting a car for us to drive to her aunt’s in.

We decide to ask someone, since we are obviously not getting to the bottom of this on our own.

A very nice British woman by the name of Wanda is standing behind the customer service desk. We explain our situation, telling her we’ve flown in today to meet Sarah’s father and brother, but that we can’t find the flight listed on the arrivals board and do you know where it is? We give her the flight code and she looks it up on her computer.

“I’m sorry girls, that flight doesn’t arrive until this time tomorrow. You’re a day early I’m afraid.”

Sarah forgot that most flights from Ontario to the UK are overnight ones, and so when her father told us they were leaving on the 17^th of October that meant they were actually arriving on the 18^th.

At this point it was as if the last tiny strand of optimism and sanity in me snapped. All the stress of that trip, all the things that went wrong, all the discomfort for travelling with someone I felt didn’t really want to be there with me, all collided into one big ball of emotion.

Without thinking, without doing anything really, I heard loud, raucous, almost hysterical laughter. Tears came down my face. I actually had to double over at one point, clutching my stomach and gasping for air. It seemed the recesses of my mind had made an executive decision – either laugh or cry.

It was much better to laugh.

LJ Idol - Season 8, Week 6

2011-12-01T16:59:01Z

Sitting there, languishing on the slick metallic surface, he looked positively delirious with contentment.

His eyes shone with a brightness not normally seen in this world. The buttons down his front coordinated perfectly with the rest of his ensemble. His smile, ever so gently turning upward, offered the idea that something was going on beneath the surface.

Sophie looked down at him, knowing it was too soon to pick him up. It didn’t, however, stop her from poking at his hot body with the tip of her index finger.

‘Mommy, does the gingerbread man remember being all the things he was before he was gingerbread?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, honey. Do you remember being a peanut in mommy’s tummy before you were Sophie?’ her mother replied.

Good question, Sophie thought. She of course has no recollection of being an assortment of cells, in fact her memory very vividly starts at the park when she was three, being pushed over by a very mean boy who pulled her pigtails and called her a poopy-head.

Still, Sophie was fairly certain that her gingerbread man remembered a time when he was molasses and eggs, or at least remembered being an unformed mass in the mixing bowl. She thought he must have been very happy indeed to be given a shape and a face and buttons down his front.

Something clicked in Sophie’s mind, a childhood epiphany so crystal clear it was as if her whole world re-aligned in that one instant.

If he remembers before he was baked, she thought, I wonder if he’ll remember after he’s eaten too?

Sophie tried to hypothesize what kinds of things a gingerbread man would remember after he’s gone into someone’s tummy. Maybe it would be like that show she sometimes watched on tv where the school children shrink down and go into someone’s belly to learn about all the organs that people have. She imagined her gingerbread man sliding around inside her body, having escapades in her tummy and her lungs, floating down her bloodstream like that time she floated down the lazy river at the waterpark.

Sophie decided it was time for the gingerbread man to find out.

Picking him up, she brought him to her ear like she was holding a telephone.

Whispering quietly, she said, ‘Ok, Mr. Gingerbread Man, it’s time for your big adventure. Have fun, and come back and tell me what happens, ok?’

CRUNCH.

And off he went.

LJ Idol - Season 8, Week 5

2011-11-21T22:01:17Z

I have only ever known one of grandparents. There were others, of course but by the time I was born only one remained – my maternal grandmother (and namesake), Margaret.

My parents divorced before I was out of diapers. My father remarried when before I started school and moved out of town to start his second family. My mother was left with a brand new mortgage and three hungry mouths. That’s where my Nan stepped in.

A widow herself, she knew how hard it was to be a single mother, and took up the role of second parent to my two brothers and I. Hosting Sunday dinners and every holiday and birthday celebration, collecting us when we were too sick to stay at school, looking after us when my mother had to work or needed time for herself. Nan would sweep me up in stories from her youth as a professional opera singer as she taught me how to make cheese blintzes and hold myself with confidence. It seemed she knew just how a lady should act, and made sure I knew it too.

When she retired instead of slowing down and enjoying the easy life I soon saw that she was just beginning a new life. She travelled to Hawaii, Antigua and the United Kingdom. She drove herself across the mammoth province of Ontario to visit her sister and daughter. She took up Aquafit lessons and enjoyed it so much that when her young, twenty-something instructor told her she wouldn’t be able to teach anymore she organized and taught the group herself. She was a Scottish Presbyterian who has lived through the depression and the Second World War - she is as tough as they come. Nothing could stop her if she put her mind to something.

Until now.

Two weeks ago she was diagnosed with kidney cancer. It’s spread to her lungs.

While I sit in shock she continues to bake and run errands, her mood not even the slightest bit changed. She does talk more about her will and has taken to encouraging me to be vocal about things of hers I’d like to keep, though she keeps it under the guise of if she needs to ‘sell her house.’

I have since moved away from my hometown, so I don’t see her daily or weekly, like I used to. I have no idea what the physical effects this thing is having on her. I refuse to think of her as a frail old woman. I can’t even picture it. Instead I picture her as the youthful looking woman in her 60’s, picking me up from school or taking me to the cottage. Or, better yet, I picture her as I’ve seen her in old photos: a gorgeous twenty year old with an equally beautiful voice and a long line of suitors.

I just can’t fathom my 86 year old grandmother, who has had so many lives and taught me so much, as one of those fragile-looking people in the cancer ward.

LJ Idol - Season 8, week 4

2011-11-14T19:49:19Z

Whether you look back fondly or not I’m sure everyone remembers high school. The anxiety of your first day, the chaos of the cafeteria, the natural ebb and flow of the semester system. What I remember most clearly are the people who populated the school I attended for five years*.

Being a drama nerd and self-proclaimed band geek the people who first come to mind when I reminisce are fellow actors and musicians; the people I spent years taking classes, going on trips, competing in competitions with. These people made up my best friends, my first love, my confidantes. They were the lifeblood of my high school experience.

Then there are all the others who attended high school at the same time I did. The sporty kids I never really got to know because sports practices and play rehearsals always took place concurrently. There were the smokers and potheads who never spent a minute more than they had to in the building. And there was another group, a very special group I have and will forever call chicken-heads.

Now, in my further adventures through life I’ve realized the most common meaning to that term is quite different from mine (a quick check on Urban Dictionary will explain if you’re unfamiliar) but suffice to say to me a chicken-head is a phoney, vapid, popularity-hungry girl who, despite her actual level of intelligence, acts like she’s dumb as a post and spreads fake friendliness anywhere she goes. I’m sure you’ve encountered such a specimen before. If you haven’t, I’m impressed, and a little jealous.

In my white, middle-to-upper middle class public Catholic high school, there was a fairly large amount of privilege happening on any given day. Even by that standard these girls were a special breed. They walked those halls like models strutting down a runway. They smiled and flipped their hair with the best of them. They moved with a kind of hive-mind, cutting their hair in the same style (long and blonde, no bangs), doing their make-up the same way (powder and mascara with just a hint of lip), coordinating their outfits for non-uniform days (skirts or dresses the first day, sweatpants the second), always commanding the awe and adoration you could tell they felt they deserved.

Because of the different circles we ran in my exposure to girls like this was low. In hindsight, this was a bit of a double-edged sword - I was grateful to escape the infuriating experience, but because of that I lacked a certain expert knowledge in how to deal with these girls. As a result I was constantly astounded by their sheer egotism, especially in the face of the Catholic school teachers and administrators, who seemed to dote on them and allow them any and every concession.

In my second-last year at the school I thought it might be a good idea to run for student council. It was rare to see someone from outside that in-crowd holding court in the council office, but I had an appetite and an aptitude for leadership and felt I would be good for the job. I planned a campaign, daydreamed about slogans and speeches, and picked up a nomination form when elections were called. I was quite excited about it, until I heard that one of the chicken-heads was planning to run for the same position. I was paralysed. I desperately wanted to stand for election but felt I had no chance against one of them. I debated with myself for a week before deciding not to turn in a nomination form. I bought into the over-confidence she exuded and absented myself from the process before it had even begun.

I will forever regret not running. She got acclaimed and spent her entire term working on a boy who didn’t want to be with her. I would have at least spent it working on the things I’d been elected to do.

* In Ontario, at the time I went through high school it was a five-year program.

LJ Idol - Season 8, Week 2

2011-10-29T16:13:15Z

Rolling down the highway, my mom behind the wheel, I though I was going to be sick. The weight on my chest and the rock in the pit of my stomach made it near impossible to breathe, and the ominous feeling of being driven into an abyss wasn’t helping. Why again did I think going away for university would be a good idea?

The campus was pretty I guess, but none of it sticks in my mind when I think of that day. There were the overly friendly people in odd costumes and coordinated t-shirts that whisked away my things up to my second-floor room, I remember that. And the constant commotion of 50 people moving into my residence, and 2500 moving in across the rest of campus. I usually thrive on the buzz of events like that, but on that day I retreated into my new room, and into my head, paralyzed by all the newness. Looking out my window at all the people taking part was all I could do for the first hour or so.

My mom stayed with me for a couple hours after we got there. Whether she sensed my reluctance to be left alone there or whether she was also having similar separation issues, I have no idea. I didn’t bother to find out; I was just grateful that she stayed with me. We decided I should try and meet some of my new friends and classmates, so we ventured out of my room and into the great wide world of the campus. We got lunch and I chatted with people who has also just moved into my res. It made a big difference being able to start those conversations with someone I knew standing by. I know now why people make these moves with best friends, or follow siblings to similar places.

Soon after lunch my mom informed me she was leaving. She had a 4 hour drive home and wanted to get there before dark. The weight was back, with the added bonus of a debilitating tightness in my chest. I’d just begun to think I could do this and my lifeline was leaving me! We stood by her car hugging for about fifteen minutes. I was fighting back sobs and she was trying hide her tears. Finally, she pulled away and said she had to go. “You can do this. You’re a friendly person! You just need to get in there. And I’m only a phone call away”. Barely able to speak, I said I would, and said goodbye. She drove away and I felt completely untethered.

Not having any idea what to do about dinner that night, I ended up following a contingent of residence-mates to the campus dining hall. We got our food and people began taking over tables in a nook off to the side of the hall. I recognized only a few faces, and hadn’t talked to any of them, but felt I should get down to the business of making friends, so I walked over as well. As I passed a couple people I heard one of them ask “Who’s that girl? I haven’t seen her today”, and the other replied “She’s with us!”.

These people - who I didn’t know at all, who didn’t know me, who were so full of life - had claimed me. They welcomed me in before they even knew me. Gratefully, I sat down, and began chatting.

The weight lightened a bit, and I thought, “This is going to be ok”.

lj idol - season 8, week 1

2011-10-24T00:54:55Z

I have always wanted to be a dancer.

When I was six my mother enrolled me in a highland dancing class. Looking back, I have no idea why she chose that particular class as my introduction to movement, but in hindsight I’m quite happy with my highland dancing abilities, especially since I now think of it as an extension of my Scottish heritage and am perhaps absurdly proud of the fact that I can perform a Highland Fling on a moment’s notice.

My formal training ended there, however. Growing up in a single-parent home with two older siblings is not conducive to weekly instruction in jazz, tap or ballet. Instead, I spent a large portion of my formative years pining for dance classes, day dreaming of the wonderful sound of tap shoes and pretty pink of ballet skirts, and watching movies like Centre Stage while imagining myself at the American Ballet Academy.

At sixteen it seemed the universe had conspired to give me what I’d been wishing for for years. Well, in a way. I was cast, as I usually was, in the annual school musical. This year my humble Catholic school was to re-create the drama and tumult of 1940’s New York that was Guys and Dolls. Not being popular enough with the vocal director to land one of the lead roles, I was instead the only non-dancer cast as a Hot Box Girl. I didn’t think it would be a problem since most of the dances in our shows tended to focus more on general movement rather than set steps that resembled any specific style. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening. Early on in rehearsals it became clear to me and the two Hot Box Girl numbers were to be the most ambitious of the show - A Bushel and a Peck in particular - incorporating actual tap steps as well as the singing that was required for the number.

Having no idea what these steps were called and only a cursory idea of how to move my body to do them, I jumped right in. Or rather, I lopsidedly fumbled my way in. While the rest of the girls picked up the routines like seasoned professionals, I needed all the concentration and coordination I could muster to teach my feet to move in the proper way so I didn’t look like a total spaz. I managed to get most steps under my belt but one in particular proved to be my Everest - something resembling a single time step from tap dancing. An intricate combination of moves and steps, this move and my feet just did not get along. I couldn’t get into the right rhythm of when to shift my body weight and routinely missed middle parts of the sequence because of it. I started going to rehearsal early and staying late, asking the other girls to help me figure it out. There was no way I was going to be the weak link in this chain!

By the time the show opened I was doing the sequence in the halls between classes, at home while helping make dinner, pretty much anywhere where there was enough room to practice. I went to bed at night memorizing the moves and woke up in the morning from dreams of performing them perfectly in front of a full house. I was ready! The show ran, our numbers were performed flawlessly every time, and for one shining week I thought of myself as a real dancer.

Of course I’ve since forgotten the steps entirely. But that’s entirely beside the point, don’t you think?

it's gonna be a good life...

2011-10-14T15:26:49Z

I think I might be crazy, but I'm going to give this another try.

therealljidol, I'm in.

where you lead, I will follow...

2008-05-30T00:27:24Z

my journal is friends only.
I love making friends, so feel free to add me, but please ask first.
:)