Blogcabin

Sun, 28 Nov 2004 10:52:48 GMT

Sleep It Off? I Wish.

When I was little, I hated to go to bed. I always thought (or perhaps this is my mother's theory that I have co-opted because it just sounds like a Meg thing to think...) that I was going to miss something by heading off to slumber, as though the whole world would have a party just as I shut off the lights and pulled up the covers.

Times have most definitely changed.

I love to go to bed now. I just can't manage to sleep once I get there. I don't care what I'm missing anymore. Let the world party like it's 1999. I want to lie beneath my duvet, and slowly, gently, drift off to blissful slumber. I want to wake at a normal hour, stretch my limbs, blink my eyeballs in glorious recollection of REM sleep, and leap from my mattress feeling rested. Instead, I get this:

A NIGHT WITH MEG

It's eleven o'clock, and I'm 'neath the covers

Alone with my quilt, and a paucity of lovers

My tea is half-drunk, cup bottom in sight

I'll now have to pee later that night...

My room feels too hot, but my window, it shuts

To prevent potential entrance of homicidal nuts...

I stick my feet from the covers to hasten their chill,

And wish the thermostat to die by the power of my will.

I set the alarm for an hour much too early,

When I will awake, inevitably surly.

Because of yet another night of tossing and turning

Dreaming of beauty sleep I must needs be earning.

I write to-do lists, I worry about money

And recall bad jokes I made that really weren't funny...

I make lists of people whom I may have offended...

And mourn silly crushes long since upended.

I dream of the future and cringe at the past

I reopen the window, to get a cool blast...

I wander down the hall to get me some milk

And come across a spider, and two more of his ilk.

Now I think about spiders, creeping about

And not just the one going up the water spout!

I check the clock again...has it been an hour?

Another night of insomnia making me dour.

I try for some stretches, I ponder meditation

I listen to music with soothing instrumentation.

I flip open the laptop, and turn on IM

Searching for another insomniac friend.

But alas and alack, everyone is in bed

With visions of sugarplums they stole from my head.

I lie on my side, I lie on my back

I tug at the covers, and then they attack

I end up in a tangle, claustrophic to a t...

How uncomfortable can one stupid sheet be?

The clock keeps on shining in sinister red

Showing two wasted hours lying sleepless in bed

I consider getting up, but I am too damn tired

How can I be both exhausted and wired?

I try special breathing, I close my eyes tight

Willing some rest to stop by tonight

But my mind is racing, and my stomach's in knots

And the window is wide now, but it's still too damn hot

The thing, though, that will keep me awake above all

Isn't the tea, nor the spider in the hall....

Not the sheets round my ankles, nor my faulty room heater

But that this poem is awful, and so is the meter!

Here is to wishing you sleep better than I.

Fri, 26 Nov 2004 22:22:58 GMT

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On The Plain...

It is, apparently, impossible to be attractive on the West Coast of Canada.

Intellectually, I know this cannot be true. I see attractive people everywhere I look! They brush by me, lovely below layers of Goretex and microfleece, their doe eyes batting beneath hoods and umbrella edges and awnings...

The thing is, you can't have any FUN with it here.

If you wear makeup, you will notice it departing from your face in colourful, sparkly rivulets when you step out into our daily monsoon. Even if you manage to shield yourself from the falling drops, the humidity will melt it from your eyes and lips before long.

If you are one to wear pretty shoes, with straps and bows and heels (or really, something other than a rubber boot tread), you will find your feet sodden to the core. And even as your feet dry indoors, the glue that holds your shoes together will disintegrate, and cause your beloved footwear to fall away in a mess of dye-bled fabric and/or shrunken leather. Most of us just end up in lug soles and wool socks, because those are the ONLY things that show any staying power in the midst of our torrential sunshine.

If you buy a new shirt or new sweater, forget showing it off. Rather, you will, by necessity, cover it in multiple layers of the aforementioned Goretex, and end up making that age-old argument that single-women-not-getting-any-action make for buying themselves lovely lingerie: "At least I know it's pretty...no one else needs to see it!".

For women, a skirt is always a fun fashion choice, unless you live, as I do, in a climate that leaves your legs drenched by a simple walk from the house to the car. As a child, did you ever wet yourself by accident? Do you remember the unsettling sensation of that awful stream heading down your leg into your shoe? Well, imagine that (without the accompanying sweet bladder release) on a daily basis. We are the pantsuited, chino-ed, trousered legion here, because one should only have to towel one's legs off once a day...when you emerge from the shower.

I've saved the most aggravating West Coast beauty issue for last, since this is the one that gets the most conversational play from my friends:

You CANNOT have a hairdo here. You simply may not. They should really have signs to indicate this when you enter the province: 'Welcome to Beautiful British Columbia. Here's Your Hat.' And sure, sure, there are other parts of BC up north and in the interior that have bone-dry weather, but since I don't live there, I shall simply pretend the world revolves around my region (you'd think I was from Toronto!).

The curly girls go mondo-frizzo. The wavy girls either find their lively hair flopping, going uber-curly, or poufing into a Brillo-esque unit. The straight-haired might as well give up on anything other than straight hair, because whatever you blowdry or curl will soon be reduced to prairie-flatitude. You can try an umbrella or a hood, but guaranteed, the wind and the mist will find you out! I have seen people with uncommonly lovely locks wrestle with snarls the size of yarn balls just trying to 'comb out' first thing in the morning. The humidity is everyone's natural coif enemy. You cannot fight it. You simply must accept it, and purchase a toque.

Alas, there is not much that can be done to aid us here on the Coast in our pursuit of good looks. I suppose this is where we got the reputation for being 'natural beauties'. Everyone thinks we roll out of bed, do nothing with our hair, skip the makeup, and head outside. But the reality is, we did A LOT...it just evaporated the second we walked out the door.

And that 'athletic style' people appreciate so much? Underneath, we're as fruity and tarty as anyone else. But without the requisite North Face/Mountain Equipment CoOp/Taiga/Columbia/Helly-Hansen gear, we end up with see-through shirts. And unless you're in Fort Lauderdale, nine Coronas to the wind, that's generally not considered cool.

I would keep going, but there's a chance the sun might be out on Saturday. I want to start choosing my outfit now!

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 01:39:03 GMT

Standing Together...

In recognition of the Canadian Remembrance Day holiday yesterday, I attended a commemoration at the Victory Square Cenotaph in downtown Vancouver. I arrived about twenty minutes in advance of when the ceremony was to begin, since the Vancouver Bach Youth Choir was scheduled to perform for a few minutes beforehand(I love me the choirs). As my trek there ended, I found myself in the midst of a giant crowd of people heading towards the site, including masses of seniors in uniform, pipe bands, awkwardly marching cadets, and 'civilians' like me. I was pleasantly surprised by the diversity of the group demographics, and thrilled by my vantage point when I found a spot at the square to stand; there were only about three rows of onlookers in front of me against the rails that blocked us from the official seating, and I was right behind the choir and to the left of the dignitaries.

It had been a while since I'd been to an event like this, and on Wednesday, I took some time to try and figure out why that was the reality. I've always observed the moment of silence at 11:00 am, as is customary, and during my school days, we'd always had a ceremony of some sort; I read 'In Flanders Fields' one year for the assembly, and sang every other year with the ensemble that led 'O Canada'. I wasn't sure why I hadn't made much of a point of remembering the fallen and the veterans in concert with my community since then. I did remember spending an extraordinarily emotional Remembrance Day with friends in 1992, as I dealt with a host of personal objections to my brother enlisting in the US Army that same year. It seems like a massive overreaction now, but at that point, I equated his choice with certain death. I have no lack of respect for the people that defend the borders of their nations from threat and participate in peacekeeping missions, but I selfishly did not want my brother to be one of those people. I'd always been dead set against it. He'd been a military/cop buff from way back, though, and wanted desperately to serve in the armed forces or with a police force in some fashion. I couldn't begrudge him the right to choose his path, especially not one he felt called to so strongly. But I could choose, and did choose, to panic at all the stories of death, injury and loss as our college memorial ceremonies proceeded that day. It soon clicked in my 2004 mind that this was probably the last time I'd participated in any such events, despite the fact that my brother is alive and well and fighting only the Northern cold at this point in time; it appeared that I had some sort of subconcious aversion to the whole scene. Now that it was no longer subconscious, though, I could choose to continue to be a brat about it, or show some respect in a more tangible way.

And that's what put me amidst a crowd of other red-poppied Vancouverites of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities and ages on a bright, cold morning in November. We sang 'Abide With Me', we stared skyward at a flyover, we waited patiently for a ton of wreaths to be laid, and we choked back tears to the strains of 'The Last Post'. Little ones looked on uncomprehendingly from perches on railings and grassy knolls, old men and women clung to one another and to their children as they reeled a bit in genuine recollection, and people my age looked on with any number of different expressions and reactions. I no longer felt my collegiate angst, but I was both weighed down and buoyed by a couple tiny scenes:

A young Korean woman hoisted her fidgety son onto her shoulders, both to improve his view and to stop him from dancing about her, oblivious to the gravity of the occasion (just as he should have been). When people spoke to her, the English she replied in was halting, and I heard indications that they had only been in Canada for a few months. I thought it was wonderful that she was there, but a guy my age standing next to me hissed an unrepeatable, entirely audible racial slur when she blocked his view with her child. She blocked my view, too, but how ironic was that? We were there to remember what we did not wish to happen again, but even with that purpose uniting us, intolerance reared its ugly head. An older woman next to her did better though...she squeezed the girl's arm and thanked her for bringing her child to be a part of it all.

An old man standing next to me struck up a conversation to tell me that I looked like "a gal out of the 1940's". I wasn't dressed in anything remotely vintage, so I pressed him with a giggle as to why he would say such a thing. He told me my features reminded him of the fresh-faced, bright-eyed farmgirls he'd known back in Manitoba...all rosy cheeks from the cold, rouged lips just for a trip into the city (I was wearing red lipstick), and hair up in a twist. He informed me that I looked just like the girl he'd married, and then dissolved into chuckles when I commended him on romancing 30 year-olds, at his age. We shared a wink when the ceremonies were done, both of us red-eyed from crying. He, like the older woman to the Korean mother, thanked me for coming out that day. I replied that it was the least I could do, and he shook his head. "No, dear..." he interrupted, " The people who didn't show up are doing the least they could do." I knew I'd been one of those people for all those years previous, so I just nodded and headed off down the street.

This earth has always been at war in some fashion or another, and however you feel about the 'whys' and the history and the causes behind it all, the fact remains that lives are devastated every moment of every day, in hundreds of battles and disasters, in both defining and unnecessary moments of conflict. We barely blink at reports on the news anymore, but few families have not been touched in some way, in this generation or one past, by the constant turmoil that rocks our planet daily. I don't think I did much for any of them by heading out to that ceremony yesterday, but I did something for me...I took a minute to get over the little details of my life and be a part of something bigger. I'm glad I did, whatever else I might feel towards, and expound about politics and policies on the international stage. As far as I am concerned, needing to remember and care should transcend all of my personal rhetoric. I could preach a whole sermon on all of this, but I'll skip it and spare you.

Rather, I shall just be silent for a couple moments, then live my life with respect and dignity towards others for many, many moments more.

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 04:58:07 GMT

Tales From The Old Blogcabin...

In a mission to eventually get all my old content over to this web address, I will be cutting and pasting some selections of work over here from my old Salon Blog. If you've read it before, more new stuff is on the way. Otherwise, dig in!

Do These Genes Make My Butt Look Big?

The summer before I entered university, I realized (via a terse letter from admissions) that I needed two more credits in order to qualify for admission to my program. I'd taken all academics (no electives, save for Visual Arts) in my senior year, and I couldn't believe that I'd missed something. I'd planned my whole courseload based on getting into university! But, then again, I'd changed my mind about which school I wanted to enter, partway through my last year. Apparently, my new choice was more rigorous in their expectations; my Geology would not cut it as a science credit, and my tenth grade French was deemed insufficient for my secondary language credit.

In order to get into university, I had five weeks to complete Biology 12 and French 12. By correspondence. Having not taken Biology 10 or 11, or French 11. How the freak was that supposed to work? I'd avoided taking Biology or Chemistry because I didn't think I could keep a 90 + average in those classes....I was no great science brain. Geology just felt easier..... I could study boulders, instead of blood and Bunsen burners. The choice made sense then, but now I was faced with the option of hustling through bewildering courses, or not moving away to glorious independence in September.

I signed up for both courses, and went to the Distance Learning Center with my dad to pick up my books. The French course textbooks weren't too horrible looking size-wise, but they were in French, and that wasn't good. The Biology package was a terrible stack of thick texts, videos, and workbooks glowing with awful pictures of fetal pigs and human guts. The two courses seemed impossibly complicated, and I cried all the way home.

My parents sat me down to discuss my study schedule, but I'd already thought it through; I refused to miss all the afternoons at the lake, and the sheer amount of tanning hours my friends would be enjoying sans correspondence. I developed my schedule thus:

9 pm: Begin studying Biology.

2 am: Begin studying French.

6 am: Go to sleep.

11 am: Get up, go lie on deck in sun, finish sleeping.

12:30 pm: Call friends, leave house to do whatever.

8:30 pm: Come home, eat dinner.

9 pm: Begin studying Biology again.

They were not thrilled by the whole plan, since it only involved 6 and a half hours of sleep per day, 9 hours of studying, and 8 and a half hours of playing. I thought it made perfect sense, though...I could sleep when it was coolest, study when there was nothing better to do, and be outside in the sunshine when it was high in the sky. Eventually, they gave up trying to convince me to take on a more normal schedule, and I embarked on my 35 days of academic hell.

Every night, I would sit at my computer with my feet in a bucket of ice water, trying to stay cool and focused. Sometimes, I would have to sneak quietly downstairs to watch a video about dissection, or some other horrid thing I never, ever wanted to see.. I'd stop off at the kitchen for a snack on the way, and grab watermelon, or Mallowmars, or chips, and sit munching and gagging at all the carnage. To this day, Sour Cream and Onion chips make me think of fromaldehyde-soaked kittens.

I finished the courses with a few days to spare, pulling a B in French and an A in Biology. I felt amazing relief on the day I sent in my last assignment...I'd conquered my most hated subjects, and I could breathe again. The university accepted me, and I was set to go.

Within a couple of weeks, I think I'd forgotten everything I learned. My vocabulary words had vanished into thin air, and I couldn't remember a friggin' thing about how to take apart an eyeball. The only thing that stuck with me in even the most limited fashion was my unit on Genetics. I took away the following flawed understanding:

Two really beautiful people could end up with a weird looking kid, and vice versa.

The whole notion of dominant and recessive genes, and figuring out what you got from which side of the family, was pretty damn cool. I knew my green eyes and curves came from my mom, and that my dark hair and rosy cheeks came from my dad, but I loved that everything else seemed like a crapshoot.

I'm sure my take on these concepts would horrify a geneticist. My friends in Sciences didn't even try and explain it to me....they just let me prattle on in delusion. I found myself staring at kids' parents, trying to figure out how they came to look the way they did. Eventually I got over my little fixation, and went back to being a Science avoider. Until I went to work at Starbucks, that is.

My store was in an extremely affluent neighbourhood near the university, and most of my customers spent more on lattes in a week than I actually made serving them. Most of the rich people were obnoxiously beautiful, given good dentistry, access to home gyms, and layers of expensive makeup and clothes. Some of the mothers would bring their children in and treat them like little dress-up dolls....tiny versions of Mom in Gap Kids. If their babes were as gorgeous as they were, all was well. But if the child of a beautiful mother happened to look a bit odd, then things went horribly awry. This was the case with Mrs. Bridgeman and her only daughter.

Elsa Bridgeman's parents looked like models. Elsa looked like a garden gnome. She was short where they were tall, chubby where they were lean with muscle, and dark and hairy where they were blonde and smooth. She looked like she'd emigrated from Greece to join a Swedish family. She wasn't adopted, though....she was just an odd quirk of genetics. This was the source of much angst for Mrs. Bridgeman, who was constantly fussing with her child's clothes (too tight....they couldn't deal with the size she really was), her hair (kinky, sooty and perpetually triangle-shaped), and her face (mottled with acne). Elsa would get nonfat drinks at her mom's insistence upon their daily morning stop-in, and then sneak frappucinos on her way home from school. She was never going to look like her mother; clearly, this was the bane of Mrs. Bridgeman's existence. You could see her friends looking on at the child in pity, while secretly thanking God for their lithe, smooth-locked daughters. As a result of all the scrutiny, Elsa was awkward, shaky, and perpetually startled. I'd put extra chocolate into her afternoon drinks out of sympathy for her sorry fate. She would probably grow out of all the stuff she was experiencing now and end up looking quite striking appearance-wise, but the damage inside was long done.

One morning, the squabbling Bridgemans were debating in line about how many calories were in a Caramel Machiatto, when an absolute vision appeared behind them. It was a Norse Amazon of a teen: buttery-blonde, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked. Elsa looked daggers at her, but Mrs. Bridgeman was immediately focused on the woman behind the junior supermodel. She was probably 300 pounds, almost a foot shorter than the girl, and clad in a sweatsuit that could only be described as "snug".

I'd seen them before; another mother and child pair. They were tremendously affectionate with one another, and joked about getting extra whipped cream on their Mochas. This was the kind of connection the Bridgemans would never, ever have, and it was obvious after only a moment's observation.

I thought Mrs. Bridgeman was going to faint dead away. Here was the daughter she'd always wanted, and she belonged to THAT. She caught the woman's eye and said in a breathless voice, ragged with envy, "Wow"....here she pointed to Elsa and then to the blonde girl...."Switched at birth, hey?" A terrible silence followed.

Elsa's cheeks turned to fire, and she looked at her mother in abject horror. The woman and her daughter looked back at Mrs. Bridgeman in bewilderment, until she finally skulked away from them to go to the register down the counter from mine. She tugged wildly at the waistband of her daughter's pants all the way, ("Nothing more than herbal tea!") until Elsa pulled free and ran from the lineup.

The fat woman and her thin child came to my till, and as I rang in their drinks, she gestured towards Mrs. Bridgeman.

"That lady is seriously nuts. What the heck did she mean by that?" .

"Yeah....I dunno, she's a little intense." I didn't know what else to say. The mother grabbed her daughter's hand, and pulled her close with great indignance. The two of them turned and smiled at one another, and as they walked away, the mother spoke to me over her shoulder:

"I mean, come on......my baby looks just like her mama."

they lie with you when you're asleep.

When I was 18, I spent some time volunteering at the Children's Hospital, in the pastoral care department. I went with a few friends, all of us "wanting to make a difference'....we were naive, I think; we hadn't known enough disappointment in our lives to think twice about trying to change the world. We never really questioned our motives for doing what we did, because how could hospital visitation be a bad thing? But I think we were trying too hard to be "noble"....and I don't know that nobility should be such an effort. Still, we went once a week, and I fell in love with it.

Two of my friends went to visit on the floor that housed all the post-op kids. Those patients were usually fairly restless, having been webbed with tubes and set in casts for weeks on end. But the girls I came with were naturally gregarious, and would entertain their charges with dumb jokes and wheelchair tours down to the cafeteria. I loved watching them coax smiles from the frustrated patients they came to know by "name and game" (usually Nintendo, in the teen lounge).

Another friend and I chose a different spot for our Wednesday nights; we went to the floor that housed the infant ICU and oncology units. I would inevitably end up spending most of my time on the nursery side...my pro-nanny skills at getting babies to stop crying were well-used there. When I would arrive, the nurses would find me the most fussy, lonely soul among the pale green rooms, and let me go to work. I think it did as much for me as it did for them....I could feel my whole week fade away in the soft breathing of the one swaddled in my arms.

Some of the babies were well attended by parents and relatives, who would hover close to their incubators and will them with nervous smiles to get better. Most of them would; I'd come in every week to note the new 'grad' pictures on the nursing station wall. Some would return for further operations, or because of some relapse or other....but I was amazed again and again by their resilience and capacity to heal.

But I remember other circumstances as well.

Jenny was eight or nine months, and had a disorder I didn't understand in the least. The nurses tried to explain it to me...some sort of rare cancer-related blood sickness. I didn't know how someone so small ended up with such a huge problem, but she seemed totally fine. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were huge and blue, and she had the same dark hair I did. Parents coming in to see their kids would see me holding her, and assume she was mine...I would usually correct them, but sometimes I would just smile. That girl was a glorious break from my usual wailing patients...a cherubic, wiggling treat.

One of the doctors called her 'Little Miss Flirt', since she was easy with a smile, and would go to almost anyone. She was used to strangers, having been in CH care since she was only a couple months old. Her parents were in every day, sometimes accompanied by their three year old, who would tear up the place, running and yelling and causing havoc. He was completely healthy, and eager to have his sister join him at home. From what I understood, that possibility looked pretty solid, and when I went home for my Christmas holidays, I thought for sure I'd come back to find Baby Jen on the grad wall. I knew I'd miss her, but that was always the goal.

The first Wednesday of the New Year, we were back at our duties, and I was greeted warmly by the nurses, who handed off a little guy named Jacob, bright red and screaming from a shot he'd received. I held him close, rocking gently and humming, and walked slowly over to the pictures on the wall. No Jenny.

I caught one of the nurses on my way back to Jacob's room, and asked after my girl. She cringed a little.

"Yeah....Jenny. She's still here, but she's in the ICU. Not doing so well." I was a little startled, and went to find her across the hall, as soon as I laid Jacob down for his nap. Three weeks had made more difference than I could have believed possible.

She was in one of the rooms outfitted with a sliding glass door, and a marker-written list of regulations labeled "Before You Enter". I put on the yellow smock, mask, and bonnet given to me by a stern senior nurse, and headed into the dimly-lit space. She'd explained why Jenny's condition had gone downhill, but I wasn't really listening. My stomach hurt, and my ears were pounding. There were needles and tubes everywhere on her little body, and the pink circles that usually framed her smile were gone, replaced by pale, flaky skin. It was Jenny, but her eyes were shut tight; she didn't greet me at all. I was allowed to hold her, but I was nervous to navigate all the feeding apparatus and IV drips. I'm glad she wasn't awake, because the look on my face might have made her cry; it was more indignation than anything, brewing deep in my mind. What the hell had happened? I couldn't believe it, that this baby was the one I'd bee-lined for every week, the one that was always about to go home. When my friend came to collect me, he could see that I was upset, but he let me be. I was not one to voice sadness, and I hadn't really managed to process what I'd seen yet, anyway.

Babies had died between my visits before. I'd always gotten choked up, but there would quickly be another one that needed me, so I'd put aside feeling sorry for myself. Why was this any different?

I came back twice a week from then on, finding rides to the CH, and staying longer than usual. Jenny's parents weren't there very often anymore, having decided, as one of the nurses told me, to "focus on the boy for a while". I yelled about this on the phone to a friend, and she shared my disdain. How could you not be there every minute? But my mother urged compassion, as always. How did I know what they were going through? Could I imagine for a second what they were feeling? I'd mumble agreement, then hang up and damn them in my heart. My 18 year-old soul was all black and white, and it had no room for grieving parents.

She still wasn't responsive at all, even after I'd been back a few weeks. I'd rock her and talk to her just the same, waiting for the movieland moment when she would open her pretty eyes and drink me in. I really believed things would improve, despite the fact that no one had ever indicated to me that positive change was possible for this little one. They would just tell me what a "good thing" it was that I was doing, and smile sadly when they closed the sliding door on Jenny and I, sitting in the chair. I sang my way through the whole Beatles catalog, and into Simon and Garfunkel (babies dig sixties folk-pop, it's a proven fact):

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls

My mind's distracted and confused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
Kiss you when you start the day

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There before the grace of you go I.

Jenny didn't wake up, but I kept going. Maybe my endless singing would bug her so much she would cry. But she slept on, breathing in fits and starts, quiet in the midst of beeping machines, soft noises beyond the glass, and my shaking voice.

One Wednesday, I came in, and headed anxiously for her room. She was there, silent, impossibly still. I went to get on the yellow scrubs, since I now knew where they were kept without asking. As I slid back the door, I heard one of the nurses greet me. I didn't even respond...I just headed over and picked her up. The audacity of my feelings of ownership are obvious to me now, but they seemed righteous, at the time. I sat down to rock her, thinking of a song, and cooing softly to her little face.

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again.

June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember
A love once new has now grown old.

I don't know if the words were audible, this time...just whispers, sometimes moans. I was blinking furiously, and smiling with abject determination beneath my mask. One of the nurses came in to check on us, and she reached and pulled down the yellow cloth from over my face, so my trembling lips were in view.

"It's okay, " she said. "Let her see you sing." She left us alone again. And then the song was gone.

Instead my noises became a prayer, a prayer of two angry words, uttered over and over. Nothing else came into my head.

"Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus." I don't know what that meant. It may have been a request for mercy, or an incredulous query of some sort. But I must have said it a hundred times, adjusting her blankets, watching tiny dots appear on them, falling wet from my face. I kept glancing up at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. Then my eyes grew too blurry to see.

My friend knocked gently on the glass door that it was time to go. When I set Jenny back in her bed after a few moments, I told her I would be back, that she was beautiful, and that things would be fine.

According to the nurses, she died a few hours later.

I don't believe that babies become angels when they go to Heaven...it doesn't make sense. It's a typically lame Hallmark idea that I cannot abide. The work of an angel seems to be that of protector and servant, and I don't see God burdening little ones with such a job, no matter what we adults want to believe. I think babies just get to smile at everyone, to lie in warm arms, and to hear songs that send them to good, good rest.

"Please, Jesus."

And He is there.

Sat, 06 Nov 2004 01:30:55 GMT

Five Random Rants.

1. It is a profound wonder to me that more people aren't in car accidents every day. I mean, yes, we have long-established rules of the road enforced by armed police, and cars that are increasingly designed for effective handling and comprehensive safety, but have you SEEN some of the people that are toodling about (yes, I meant to use that word, it fits profoundly well)? People who look as though they've turned either 12 or 103 in the last ten minutes; people who look like their Ritalin-Valium-Viagra cocktail might not be giving them that ' emotional uberbalance' they were hoping for; people who have wires coming out of every orifice on their faces, enabling them to communicate with home, office and Uranus (cheap humour, but isn't that the best kind...); and last but not least, people who have fourteen children stuffed in a five-passenger car, each holding an ice-cream cone and a toy that launches projectiles. How do these people concentrate? I won't even get started on the rearview mirror museums that they are cultivating, complete with wooden shoes, tiny plaques reading 'Aloha!' , mortarboard tassles, "Vanille Francais" deodorizers, and tiny crystal squirrels. I won't even broach the stereo systems blasting Barry Manilow, Tool, or P.Diddy ft. Josh Groban. I won't mention the onboard VCRs, the radar detectors, the under-chassis lights in festive blue and pink, or the tiny Japanese dashboard ornaments that say "Fun Time GOOOO!" every time you stop or start the vehicle. And last but not least, we'll try and ignore the lonely men flirting with the OnStar girl when they didn't need directions or a rescued key at all. The point is, in terms of mental focus and positive vehicular environment, the vast majority of the population is sorely lacking. Yet most of them trundle through life daily without incident, driving between the solid and dotted lines, and using their signals correctly, even when some poor souls look as though they hadn't used soap since the Carter Administration. I've been in my share of accidents, as have my friends and family, but it should be so much more perilous than it is now. Just take a look around next time you are out and about. The line between order and chaos is by its very nature thin, but most of us are only really a thread away from an MVA with a guy in a camper van with wall-to-wall shag and a teardrop feature window.

2. I really, really don't care if coffee is good for me or bad for me anymore. Let me state this unequivocally, so that the world can sit back and marvel at my show of brazen confidence. I have kicked the habit for a month at a time, only to dive back in wholesale with an eight-shot nonfat latte. I have tried doing one cup a day, just for kicks, to see if my desire for it would wane, only to finish off the pot I made "for everyone else" (while neglecting to tell them it was there, hidden underneath the sink, in a room no one uses). I have tried doing decaf, but found this to be roughly the equivalent of kissing without lips. If the caffeine is going to take me out, it's going to take me out. If the caffeine is going to help me, it's going to help me. If there is some secret chemical in there future-curing cancers I may one day have, well....cool. If there is some secret chemical in there that is going to result in me growing a third ear, well, all the better to rock out to my P.Diddy ft. Josh Groban. Coffee rocks. And the hotter the better, just like pool boys.

3. I really get tired of cute bumper stickers, pithy little quotes on mugs and t-shirts, and wall plaques proclaiming tidbits of conventional wisdom. I don't want to "Bless This Mess", tell the world I am a raging sufferer of PMS (via a limerick rhyming the word 'cramp' with 'champ'), or advertise my freakish need to consume chocolate. Messing up the English language in order to simulate drunken rambling is a tired device (I'm not as think as you totally lame I am!), and anything with a heart has GOT to go, whether it be a declaration of love for Bush-Cheney, Minneapolis, Nerds, Rottweilers, Obscure Martial Arts, or Todd Fields. Some of them are witty, but for the vast majority that aren't, I would consider a comprehensive ban. Everyone I know has something along these lines, so this is destined to get me some snarky feedback. But if I see another preteen girl rocking out a baby-t with "My Boyfriend is Out Of Town", I might pop...evidently your parents' brains and eyes are off on vacation, too.

4. Corners. I don't like corners. They are excessively problematic, from my vantage point. Drug deals happen on them, they reach out from coffee tables to dent my shins, they rip off of money, they get tattered on books, they dry out on sandwiches, and they house the table in your local cafe where you can't really see the jazz trio unless you crane your neck and risk spilling the house red down your shirt. They are where the spider lurks, where the fridge does not fit, where you are sent for being bad, and where houses crack like fortune cookies under an overfull carton of Mah Gu Gai Pah. Personally, I don't really embody the corner aesthetic with my natural born curves, and since shoulder pads were put on my personal no-fly zone, my clothes don't either. Let's make everything circular, and save my legs from another bruise.

5. I don't like insinuations. They render me red-faced in conversation. Just say if you think I'm nuts for having quit my job, don't say, "Wow...that was really a gutsy move. I tend to really think through my decisions, personally." Just tell me the pants don't suit me, instead of, "You must really be comfortable with your lower body.". Feel free to tell me you don't get the joke, rather than offering up, "Gosh, you really have a unique sense of humour." (and Sean, don't even think about putting that in the comments, I'll beat you silly). It's not that I don't appreciate politenesses, and that tact is something to be avoided, but come on...you and I both know what you're saying, and we'd all just feel better if you just said it.

Well, that's that for now. I'll save my feelings on ACTUALLY important things like the Electoral College, why Michael Vick makes me spit nails, and yet-another-fruity-vinaigrette for another entry.

Sun, 31 Oct 2004 21:03:27 GMT

Sunday Morning...

A band I love by the name of Maroon 5 has a song called 'Sunday Morning', released ages and ages ago (under a year, actually, but my, how time flies!). It's a rather romantic little tune about love, longing, perfect moments in time, letting go, remembering...all that delicious stuff that keeps everyone from John Mayer to Celine Dion rich beyond my wildest dreams.

When I went to do a lyric search for the song (since I learned from CCR that you never really know what artists are singing...is it a "bad moon on the rise", or a "bathroom on the right"?), I came across a horde of others by the same title, sung by everyone from No Doubt to Johnny Cash to The Velvet Underground to Earth, Wind and Fire. It would appear that (aside from EWAF, who shamelessly use the phrase 'sweet love' in their song...something I think I need to do more often), everyone wakes up on Sunday Morning with twinges of regret, pain, and nostalgia (and apparently, if you are Johnny Cash, a hangover).

This Sunday morning, I am on the precipice of a totally new era in my life. A petrifying new phase, with an uncertain job future, and a million dreams left to realize on the long list I have never actually written out (I will have time to, now...). I quit my nonprofit job as of this last Friday to freelance full time, and will apparently now see if I can 'cut it' as a writer.

I don't know how it will all work out, and it would be easy for me to sit here, in a coffee shop, on this Sunday morning, and wish for all my structure and security back, as hard as it was to deal with at times. But I refuse to...I never take risks on this level, and even if I fail miserably, I can say with all honesty that I tried. And I don't try nearly often enough at things I'm not absolutely confident I will do well at...

It's not even the triple latte talking. I'm truly excited. And though that feeling of optimism may waver in the months to come from time to time, I really want to make this work.

Stick with me!

Sun, 31 Oct 2004 21:02:28 GMT

Someone Saved My Life This Morning...

His name is Corey, and he figured out my blog woes, in terms of being able to reaccess writing from my old blog. So, here for you, highlights from my old blog, re-posted here as a portion of my portfolio. Enjoy. And thank you, Corey. A lot. Please note, the things below are pieces written over the period from January to March 2004, and not even all of what I wrote (I only copied what I really liked). There will be more to come as I deal with copying and formatting, but this is a start.

Time Wasting 2.0

I'm a busy person (hence no blogging of late). I cannot deny it. My days are sometimes packed far too full, and I end up wanting to squirm free of all my responsibilities and hindrances and run into the woods like Thoreau. This is not to say, however, that all my pursuits are defensible, and that I use every second as I should. Just because I'm occupied doesn't mean that I'm occupied gainfully. Sometimes, I'm on MSN.

Instant messaging, like all instant things, purports to be a time-saver, a fuss-minimizer....a veritable communications accelerator. But instant messaging, like all things computer-related, eventually ends up obsessing you, and sucking your life dry of hours at a time. And like instant noodles, it can leave you with a completely weird taste in your mouth.

I have contact lists on both my IM programs that contain family, close friends, acquaintences, and former staff members of mine. I officially use IM for talking to the staff who wish to keep in touch with my organization, for talking to far-flung friends, and for daily check-ins with my family. I even use IM in the office, as a sort of intercom system, rather than our phone set-up. It seems more private, and less disturbing to the coworkers in our open-plan setting. All of these uses are the kind of uses that AOL and MSN glowingly describe in ads to promote their products. In these moments, I am the smiling girl in the online ad, clicking her way to meaningful connection.

What they don't reveal is the stupider side of instant messaging: why a 29 year old woman with an English honours degree (who works in the field of recreation, no less!) sits at her desk, and types "ZZZZZZZ" to a coworker not six feet away. Not only that, but eventually conferences in another coworker not five feet away, and says to both, "Ummm....did you guys bring lunch today?". Clearly, the efficiency quotient of the software has become watered down by my sheer need for endless, at-my-fingertips distraction.

After I've been typing a report, or answering emails, or designing a newsletter, or crunching numbers for an hour, I will look and see who is online. I will take five minutes that I could have spent doing yoga or eating nutritious grains, and type about nothing at all to someone who is either in dire need of avoiding distraction, or desires it with the same fervor that I do. How else to explain the following:

meg: heyyyy

meg's friend: what up?

meg: nah much. choo?

meg's friend: just doing stuff. fried like KFC.

meg: dude. aight. i should get back to work.

meg's friend: ya! slacker!

meg: shut up. i am so busy.

Riiiiiight. Just as bored secretaries used to spend time doing their nails and gossiping on the phone, so have we taken vapid conversation to a whole new cyber level. We've developed our technology to the point where we say little or nothing with pretty fonts, annoying noises, and yellow-faced, angst-filled emoticons. Now, adults ideally use basic grammatical structure when they IM. When I talk with teens online, though, I don't have a clue what they're saying:

meg: hi sweetie! are you coming in for your interview?

teen: (some random stream of emoticons with a clock, a rose, a blushing face, and a sheep)

meg: oh....does that mean yes?

teen: ROTFL.

meg: uh....does THAT mean yes?

teen: URAQTPA2T!!! LMAO!!!

meg: Okay, I'm gonna go now.

teen: CYA! TTFN! LYF!

Essentially, what was created to make us a more efficient society has yet again done what all electronic innovation eventually does: shown us new ways to waste time, created further abandonment of social graces, and widened the generation gap. So why do I stick with my IM?

Without IM, I would not have the pleasure of watching my dad mistype words and claim his typos as "eurospellings". Without IM, I would never recieve random links from my friend Tom....some of which have gotten me through some hard days, like that "Smack The Pingu" game (602.5....eat my dust!). Without IM, I would not get to talk to my friend Kaida in Cambodia very often at all. Without IM, I wouldn't be able to get ahold of anyone ages 14-17. And without IM, I wouldn't be able to read the quickly-sent frustrations of my friends in seconds flat, and answer them with a totally sincere: "I love you....thinking of you.".

I can't truly defend my messaging habit, but I'm not giving it up. Like instant coffee, it's cheap and dirty, but it sure works when you need a pick-me-up.

elementary psychology.

I began fifth grade in Mr. Teitzen's class with long, glossy hair, a red skirt, and a spot on the soccer team. Life was about as difficult as a last minute geography test, and about as sunny as an Alberta fall day. Mr. T was a tougher teacher than any I'd had since I started school; I'd been allowed to do what I wanted every year previous, since I was operating under the pseudo-halo of the "gifted child". He figured that thinking was backwards, and beset me with extra assignments and difficult questions in class. I loved it, and confirmed his views about my need for challenge...I even did well in math, which was unheard of, before or since.

Somewhere around the time our team won the citywide championship, my parents informed me that we were going to be moving to a different city, in a different province, during the Christmas holidays. This shouldn't have been that much of a shock, since grumblings of a departure had been in the wind since summertime. I didn't react well, though...tears, moping, pleading, the whole nine yards. My parents weren't insensitive to my angst, but there were bigger issues under consideration than the frustrations of a 4-and-a-half foot family dissident.

When I told my friends, they were sad, but we all promised to keep in touch, of course. Shelley, my dearest pal, was most disheartened by the news. We had plans to go to junior high together, and to prom in pale pink or blue dresses, wearing corsages chosen by gangly dates. I can remember her mouth twisting in the middle of her freckled face as she considered life without me: "Now I have to hang out with Stacy. I don't really like Stacy."

I was determined to live life to the fullest until we left, so I tried out for, and won, the lead role in the school Christmas play: 'The Gift of The Magi'. I was to play Della, the young wife who sells her ravishing locks to buy something precious for her husband. I'd like to think I got chosen for my dramatic skill, but the reality was that I simply had the longest hair in my grade. I did just fine in rehearsals, though, because I could memorize lines well, and I didn't mind being in front of people. Mr. Teitzen even purchased a short wig for me to wear after the haircut scene in the play. I should have been thrilled with the whole situation, but I was a terrible tangle of emotions as the date of the performance moved closer; I couldn't wait to get onstage, but our move would be only days thereafter.

I'm not sure to this day what my mother and I were thinking, but I'd been begging her to cut my hair for months and months prior to December. She loved my hair, and was determined not to give in. I kept begging, somehow forgetting in my moments of request that I needed to hang on to the length for my big role...that the length was my big role. I was so used to repetitively asking that I didn't even consider what a dumb time it would be to lose those inches. Finally, one night, about three days before the play, she caved, and chopped it to shoulder length. We both thought it looked pretty good. I think we even talked about the play while she cut it. She's a brilliant woman, but somehow, neither of us thought twice.

When I arrived at school the next day, I was greeted by a massive wave of shock. Shelley squealed in a combination of delight and horror.

"It looks good, but the Magi! Mr. T is going to KILL you!"

Oh, no. I thought I was going to die before he even got to me.

I crept into class, avoiding the stares of my classmates, and trying not to stand out in any way, so as to avoid the wrath of my teacher. Mr. Teitzen began to drag us through division before he noticed that his Della had been shorn. He fell silent when he saw my head, and I could feel Deanna (the girl with the next longest hair) beaming behind me. Everyone waited to see what he would do, but he simply began to lead us through the exercises again, not saying a word about my makeover. That lunch hour, much to Deanna's dismay, he went out and bought a long-haired wig. My part was secure!

The night of the performance brought glorious butterflies, and a great show, even with the hair fiasco. My mom and dad took lots of pictures, and everyone ran to tell me what a good job I'd done when I arrived backstage. It was dawning on me, though, that the next day was going to be my last in the school. It didn't matter how well I'd brought Della to life, or how many friends I had, or how proud Mr. Teitzen was....I was leaving. I chose my outfit for the next morning with great care; I wanted my final impression to be a great one, so that if I never came back, they'd always remember me. It seems funny now, but it mattered to me desperately that night.

Unfortunately, the next day dawned with me curled up under my covers in horrible pain. My stomach was a mess of nausea and cramping and twists and turns, and I could barely stand up without crying. I would not be going to school that day, even though it was to be my 'last hurrah'. My mother said I could go as soon as my stomach settled a little, but I knew that I was only feeling that way because I was sad and angry.....and those emotions weren't going to change anytime soon.

My dad was dispatched to clean out my desk, and say goodbye to everyone in my class. They made him wait for half an hour while they wrote me notes, and shoved them in my bright blue book bag. I spent most of the day sitting in my closet, wanting to be alone. My closet was huge; it had served as a playroom for my friends and I on many an afternoon. I didn't even know if I would have a big closet in my next room, let alone the girls to fill it. My mom came to check on me a few times, but I wouldn't say much...I just cried, and cried, and refused to be comforted. But the boxes around me were all the evidence anyone needed that change was firmly stuck on the horizon, regardless of my tantrum.

I read all the notes they'd sent along that evening, as packing continued downstairs. My tears began afresh, as I slowly realized that Kevin, Robbie, Tom, Jeff and Mark had used those crumpled letters to profess their undying love. There was a note from Shelley, too, full of promises to stay 'friends forever', and one from Stacy, telling me that "Shelley and I will miss hanging out with you!". The best one, though, was from Mr. Teitzen:

Worth the wig!

Love, Mr. T.

When my mom came in to tuck me in, I asked her one more time if there was a way that I could stay where we were. She felt badly, but assured me, as always, that she and my dad and my brother couldn't live without me. I don't think my brother agreed, but it made sense. We were a family. I had to go.

I can't imagine how it felt for her to listen to me wail. She had concerns and nervousness of her own, transplanting her home to a place that held new challenges, new faces, and new expectations. She was used to moving, for sure, but not to dragging along a weeping 10 year old who thought her life was over.

The day of the move arrived, as all bad days inevitably do, and my stomach pains had given way to an empty feeling that went all the way to my toes. My mom asked after my stomach, and I said it was fine. Nothing could be changed now, anyway, and as we drove out of the city, I didn't even cry.

We arrived at my next home in the midst of a terrible snowstorm, quite unlike anything that had happened there in years. This area was normally wet and rainy and warm, not frigid and ice-slicked. I can remember pulling into the carport, bright blue bookbag at my side, head pounding, full of the dreadful sense that everything had gone haywire...even the weather was wrong.

I knew that my parents were still the same parents, and my brother the same brother. We'd still watch the same tv shows, and eat the same dinners. We'd still go on vacation in Oregon with the MacPhedrans. We'd still laugh at all the same dumb jokes, and listen to the same music in the car. My dad would still sing along, off key, on purpose, just to bug my mom.

But I knew as soon as the holidays ended, and I stepped outside my new home and walked down my new street into my new school, I was going to be on my own. It was the first time I'd felt that way in my entire life, and I really didn't know what I was going to do. All the confidence I'd had in Mr. Teitzen's class seemed to be dissolving into panic.

That night, in my unfamiliar room, in my in-the-wrong-place bed, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds, I started to cry again. I'd forced my mom to leave the light on in the hallway, so I pulled out one of the notes from my last-day collection, and read it once more:

I don't know where you're going.

If you don't like it, come back, ok?

The Fashion Rant.

Warning: Unabashed shallowness ahead, with faint hints of empowerment.

It had to happen. It's actually overdue. I read Seventeen magazine when I was 11, I read Vogue when I was 14, and moved onto W at 18. Now I just read everything that has pictures of people in nice clothes. I love things of fashion, things of design. I don't necessarily have the body to pull off Versace, the cool to pull off Sander, or the weirdness to pull off Chalayan, but that doesn't mean I can't look good.

So why wouldn't fashion show up in my blog?

I'm not an edgy, air-kissing, Hermes-bag-collecting Runway Nazi, though I do enjoy Armani, Kors, Jacobs, Von Furstenberg, and Lauren. Rather, I just like beautiful stuff (at whatever price...money doesn't buy class), and stuff that makes sense. And if you hadn't noticed, fashion doesn't always make sense. People err consistently on the side of total ignorance of, or total slavery to that airy-fairy concept we call 'style'. Neither extreme end of the continuum leaves anyone looking terribly good. My mission in life is to make everyone both comfortable and gorgeous. Can it be done? YES. How? By reading everything below, and believing it to be absolute truth. I can save you. I really can.

Let it begin today.

Disclaimer: If you are a) into avant garde fashion, and think normalcy is for 'chickens'; b) a fashion anarchist who believes rules are just another way 'the man' is keeping you down; or c) of the impression that a certain 'je ne sais quois' allows you to wear what you want, when you want, and pull it off with style, then this blog post may not be for you.

Because a) you look like a nutbar; b) 'the man' likes it when you look bad, because no one takes you seriously; and c) you're not Bjork. You may not be in a place to accept these realities yet. I welcome you to return when you're ready to stop wearing those unfortunate pants.

Essential Truths:

1. Everyone already knows what size you are. There's no use trying to hide it, honey. Why should you hide it? Just be it. Wrapping the underwear equivalent of a Tensor bandage around your hips isn't going to fool anyone into thinking that you're Kate Moss, in the same way that stuffing your bra with oil, water, or gel (or marshmallow or Play-Doh, for that matter) isn't going to convince anyone that you're Anna Nicole Smith. Putting on a freaking bathing suit is not going to tip anyone off that you're not really a size 0, but an 18. They already know. Revel in the body you were given by genetics, activity, or McDonalds. Buy for your size. And stop stressing. Confidence is a better aphrodesiac than subterfuge, anyday.

2. Showing everything is bad. Showing nothing is bad. Seek Balance. Your long, black, stretchy, favourite outfit/tunic/psuedo-burqua is not as universally flattering as you believe it to be. You have lovely collarbones and nice calves, so can we see them, please? Conversely, I have no interest in seeing your buttcrack, your sideboob, or your hipbones in that unfabulous J. Lo ensemble. Put those parts away for now, and take them out to show your loved ones at another time.

3. You must not wear clothing from the decade in which you were a teenager. For me, this means I need not hearken back with nostalgia to Day Glo and legwarmers. For you, that might mean no bellbottoms or tie-dye. For another person, it might mean that 'Vintage' just makes you look like your high school yearbook photo. It's good to let go, and embrace new things. Like that guy that just started working in the office downstairs. But I digress.

4. Knock it off with the knockoffs. It's good to invest in a few items of distinct quality rather than 80 trendy little garments. Your slavish devotion to the 'latest thing' ( especially via the constant aquisition of imitation designer items) is going to leave you not only perpetually just behind the times, but always with the funny feeling that you've been had. A few trendy items balanced against a few classic items leaves you looking current, without looking straight-to-video, like Paris Hilton. The 'Simple Life', indeed!

5. Celebrities wear scary things that are always a snap or zipper away from sure tragedy. Which is why, just because you saw it on Cameron, doesn't mean you should try it. The breezy effect created by a team of stylists and a portable wind machine is not one you can duplicate at home. And ugly is ugly, even when it's stretched across a pretty girl. So find what's good for you, and enjoy it. Let the millionaires be the fashion victims...they can afford therapy when they see the photos in the tabloids.

Invest in:

Good undies: It doesn't matter how lovely the wallpaper is, if the drywall is falling apart. Eventually, everything just looks like a mess, and hangs totally wrong. In the same way, what you wear 'under there' helps you avoid an 'over scare'. Thongs are great for bypassing panty lines, but you're not really fooling anyone when your pants are creeping down, and your fire-engine red g-string is creeping up. Boxers are freeing and airy, but perhaps not the best choice for 'keeping the chickens in the henhouse' when you are wearing similarily breezy shorts or pants. A good bra can make the rest of you look fabulous, ladies, and a bad bra can make you look as though you're dealing with swelling from a rib injury. As in relationships, make sure what is closest to you makes you feel good, and supports you properly. Otherwise....adios!

A happy pair of jeans: There is a pair of jeans out there for everyone. The Gap would have you believe that the 1,001 kinds that they sell meet your needs, but there are more out there. Try them on. See if they make your butt sing. Make sure they don't ride up so that we can see your socks. Make sure that they don't look airbrushed on, as though you were Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair, or so saggy that even 50 Cent gestures for you to pull them back up over your ass. Everyone can wear jeans, and they are truly the only item you can really dress up or down, and go anywhere. Even your own wedding....just ask Britney. Actually don't ask Britney. She's too busy accessorizing with snakes, and Colin Farrell.

A signature piece. Here is your moment, 'je ne sais quoi' people. Pick something you love to be your emblem of style. A great coat. A fabulously absurd pair of shoes. A scarf that brings out your eyes. Not a vial of blood on a chain; leave that to Billy Bob and Angelina. Pair your unique find with something simple and lovely, and....VOILA! You're Audrey Hepburn, or Debbie Harry, or (insert your style icon here).

Avoid Like The Plague:

Whatever you just saw Christina Aguilera wear. In fact, take notes of everything she puts on, and carry that with you when you shop. Compare what you've just taken to try on against the points on that list. If you need a gallon of self-tanner and fake eyelashes to pull something off, it's probably not worth the effort. Boys, this goes for you, too, unless your name is Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

That's pretty simple, hey? Oh WAIT....I can't forget:

-try not to overuse white socks

-take a pass on pleats in your pants

-don't pierce over major veins

-don't wear bias-cut silk over 'bodyshapers' undies

-don't make a coat out of it, if it went through your windshield.

AND

-A snazzy vest does not an outfit improve.

Essentially, the secret to style is loving your body without dangling it at us all the time, and choosing clothes that reveal your classiest self, not your history of trend victimization. You're gorgeous, you know. And it's true, you will be no matter what you wear, if you love yourself, and carry yourself with respect. But honey....even self-love doesn't make acid wash okay.

Boys Upstairs.

I moved into my first non-dorm apartment when I relocated to attend university in a city far, far from my parents. It wasn't anything huge or terribly fancy, but it was clean, and secure, and an absolute steal as far as rent went. My parents helped me settle in, and when they left, I sat down on my bed, and stared into space for a bit. I couldn't believe I was actually, truly, really on my own. I went to my new kitchen to make myself dinner there, for the first time, and burst into tears in the middle of my stirfry. I mean, I was actually, truly, really on my own. I was excited, but I was also a little scared.

The upstairs tenants (it was a basement suite in an old house) were due to move in the next day. It was originally to be a young nurse I was living below, but she'd given her notice suddenly, and a couple of students were moving in instead. I woke up at 8 am to hear them stirring above, moving furniture, and dropping things endlessly on the floor. I peered out my window, and spied two guys, who looked to be a couple years older than I was, ferrying things in from a big black pickup truck. They were cute. I smiled to myself, and ran to shower so that I could go and say hello.

They seemed really nice, in a slackerish, early-twenties-university-boy kind of way. Not conformist enough for a fraternity, but certainly not unique enough to be anything but classic Molson-loving lunkheads. After making a bit of small talk, I helped haul a couple things, then went off to meet a friend. I told my pal that I felt pretty good about the whole situation, and we breathed a sigh of relief together. Being 'on my own' was going to be good!

That night, things were peaceful above. Todd was an Engineering student (lethal party faculty at my school), but he told me he was really planning to "buckle down" that semester. Jason was a Recreation major, which didn't typically bode well for minimal partying, either. I could see why they'd moved in together. Still, they both seemed too low-key to present much of an issue, so I figured things would work out just fine.

I bumped into Jason in the basement laundry room the next day, and showed him how to use the washer. The machines were right outside my locked door, down the stairs from their locked door, in our common area. It felt kind of strange that they would be right outside my place a good portion of the time, but I trusted the knob-lock, the bolt, and the chain to keep me safe, if ever I felt vulnerable.

"So good that we have a girl around..." Jason told me that afternoon. "We're domestic idiots. If we don't know how to clean something, can we ask?" It wasn't exactly a message of feminist empowerment, but it made me feel good for the moment.

Right after school that Friday, I headed out to a live show with some friends. When I arrived home, close to midnight, all the lights were on upstairs, and there appeared to be a ton of guys just hanging out. They were listening to Hendrix, which was fine with me, but the volume was up so high that it seemed too loud for comfort, even down in my suite. I wasn't going to do anything, though. Friends told me later that I should have read them the riot act that night, just to set a precedent, but I was 20, and small, and not in the mood to be fierce.

4 am rolled around before "The Star Spangled Banner" (Jimi-style) signaled the end of the partying day, and voices on the front lawn indicated the departure of the madding crowd. Bottles clanked into boxes in their kitchen overhead, and apparently, they both passed out shortly thereafter. I breathed a sigh of relief, and settled into a coma of much-needed rest.

The next day, I was overtired, and a griped to a couple friends about it, but everyone had a party now and then, right? Right. I figured I would be a grown-up, and allow them their freedom of living. This clearly was a mature and measured response.

I spoke too soon. Much, much too soon.

That party was the beginning of a long stream of nightly events at Jason and Todd's. Their apartment seemed to be the preferred location for drinking, yelling, and watching movies in Surround Sound for a lot of fairly agitated young men. It was always guys, from the voices. I don't think they were gay or anything like that...probably just unable to connect with the kind of women who liked hanging out in their squalor and chaos. Jason was also a pretty heavy smoker, in a house that was advertised as 'smoke-free' (I'm allergic and asthmatic), and they seemed to have a dog, even though pets weren't allowed (the dog didn't bother me, but my landlady would have been angry). Anything I'd felt good about with my new place was slowly slipping away, giving rise to an awful sort of despair.

I tried different methods of sleeping through the activity upstairs, including earplugs and a pillow over my head. The most successful remedy seemed to be the following: I would put on music in big stereo headphones, and drown out their noise with more peaceful noise of my own. The CD I favoured most was one that my dad had left me when my parents helped me move in. I didn't have a stereo until he went and bought me a little one that day, in his dad-ish, indulgent way.. He brought me a CD from the car to get me through until I could afford to build a collection. It was called Meditations At Sunset; my favourite track was the first one by Finzi, and was entitled 'Ecologue For Piano And Strings'.

It started very quietly and optimistically (much like things had with Jason and Todd) then erupted into this crashing finale that could cover over even the most raucous CCR singalongs overhead. It was my little musical metaphor, and I can recall several nights of crying as I turned it on, usually after 3 am, completely tired out of my skull. In retrospect, I can see that the pathos of the piece played into my emotions a little more than was healthy. But again...I was 20. Pathos was par for the course.

One night, it all got to be a bit much. They seemed to be screaming at one another in a completely nonsensical way, from what I could tell. Not necessarily arguing or anything like that...just the total and utter absence of volume control. I was getting ready for midterms, and sleep deprivation could not have been less a part of my scholastic plan. I gathered all my courage, threw on my sweats, and headed up to their door, via the laundry room. I knocked hard once. I knocked hard twice. Nothing. I tried yelling through the door. Nothing. So I went around to the front door, by this time fairly enraged, and proceeded to ring the doorbell more times than was probably appropriate. Much swearing came from within, and Jason appeared in the doorway, swaying gently, a glass of something in his hand.

"Hey." His greeting was quite genial, actually.

"Jason, you guys need to turn it down. This is like, the millionth night in a row, and I haven't complained, but it's mid-terms, and I need to SLEEP." I tried to keep my tone level, but it was hard, since Jason was now leaning on me, breathing alcohol into my face. My rationality was slowly, surely slipping away.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, totally. You want to come in for a drink?" No, I totally didn't, thank you very much. I think if they'd been occasional partiers, I might have joined them now and then, just to hang out and have some fun. But the behaviour was so pathological at this point, it held little appeal.

"No, thanks. Just please turn it down." He promised they would, and I went back down to my place to try and conk out for the night. I could hear them talking above me, and the conversation went something like this:

"(muffled)....chick downstairs?"

"Yeah, she goes to the U. She's pretty young."

"Dude, invite her up!"

"(muffled)....pissed off at the noise. She doesn't want to (muffled)..."

"Turn it up! She'll have to come back up and tell us to (muffled)"

"Yeah, Jase...I mean, any good party needs a chick to (muffled)."

Oh....my....gosh. The volume went up on their music, according to the suggested plan, but I stayed right where I was, shaking like a leaf, and blasting Finzi's 'Ecologue' through my headphones until I drifted off into fitful slumber.

The next day, I started looking for a new place. Within a week, I'd made plans to move to a tinier basement suite a few blocks away, below an old woman. She was staying with her daughter at this point, but she'd refused to let her children sell her house, or rent her upstairs to anyone for the time being. She wanted her things left intact, and they were looking for a nice, responsible young woman to live downstairs who wouldn't abuse her absence. That was me. In the end, it turned out that my new landlords even knew my grandparents. It couldn't have been more perfect, and I felt amazingly capable for having solved my big problem, all by myself.

When I gave notice to my landlady, she was fairly upset.

'I like to get rid of the bad tenants, and keep the good, Meaghan...I wish you'd let me evict them, and you could stay on." But I didn't want to be there...I didn't care who lived upstairs. The whole arrangement had been ruined for me. I certainly didn't want to be held responsible for their eviction, either...who knew what kind of ill will that would breed? I didn't need some Damocles' sword of retribution hanging over my head!

The night before I left, I went to stay at a friend's house, even though things seemed quiet upstairs, for once. I just couldn't bear to be there anymore. Before we went for the evening, though, I set my stereo to play U2's 'Desire' on repeat, at an uncomfortable 8 on the volume dial. Let them see how it was! We giggled, and ran out the back door to her car. It was still going the next morning, but they didn't say a word about it when they said goodbye to me. I even got hugs. Weird.

I moved with some help from my relatives and friends, and settled into my new spot with an incredible feeling of peace. It really was wonderful, and remained so for the two years I lived there. It was cramped, but it was quiet, and I would be the only thing around there making noise. Actually, from that year onward, I've preferred to be the loudest thing in any of my environments.

A few months after I'd moved out, I bumped into Todd on campus. He seemed happy to see me, so I figured my landlady hadn't ratted me out too badly. They knew I'd had problems with them, but apparently, he felt no ill will. I asked him how things were going, back at the house of horrors.

"Oh, we totally got evicted. Jason was smoking all the time, and we got ratted out by the neighbours and stuff for the parties." I showed no reaction on my face but pity.

"Oh, wow....yeah, your parties were a bit out of control, but I'm sorry. Where do you guys live now?"

"We both moved back home." He sighed at this reality. "We couldn't find another place in our range open at that point in the school year."

"Oh...is that cool?"

"No, man, it sucks. My mother is unbelievable. She's so pissed I'm home again. She just follows me around the house whenever I'm home, lecturing me, and asking me questions, and checking in on me. I feel like I'm in trouble all the time."

"That sucks...sorry to hear that." I was now fighting the urge to smirk.

"Yeah....like, do you know how terrible it is to not feel welcome in your own home? To have these circumstances you can't control?" He looked so pathetic as he spoke, but my heart was thumping with joy.

"Not anymore..." And with that, I walked away, a huge grin spreading across my 20 year old face.

Nonna.

I lost my grandmother today. Which is odd, because she actually died about five and a half months ago.

I remember when my mother called to tell me she was gone. I'd just returned from a trip to a friend's wedding up north, and it had happened the second night I was away. They didn't try to get ahold of me on my travels, because there wasn't much I could have done; certainly, there was no reason to rush home, because the memorial wasn't going to be for another week. I was shocked at first, then sad, then somewhat numb. Despite all her frailty, my Nonna was the type of old gal who seemed like she was going to live forever. My Poppa actually hoped that she'd go first, just so she'd never have to be alone, but somehow I never believed that would be the case. Until it happened.

She'd spent her last couple of years in full-time nursing care, since she had a host of health problems, and not much facility in dealing with them. She would exist on tea and toast, unless pushed to consume more. My grandfather was much more energetic and capable than she, partly because he was eight years younger, and partly because he had a different attitude towards life. Where she was delicate, he was tough. Where she was prone to sadness, he was prone to practicality. She got smaller and paler over time, while he just seemed to maintain his robust colour and unwieldy laugh. Even with all his energy, though, he couldn't handle caring for her alone. Her move was one that brought both guilt and relief to her children, but it seemed the only real choice.

Prior to her stay at the home, I'd spent quite a bit of time with her, chatting and visiting when I would come by their place every couple of weeks to do a top-to-bottom housecleaning. She'd always been a very "grandma grandma"; she would remember your birthdays, slip you candy, listen to all your stories, and praise you unequivocally. I was the only granddaughter, so my place in the firmament was lofty and precious. She believed me to be the 'smartest, prettiest thing', and even when I wasn't, I could rely on her to have more faith in me than I did in myself. Our conversations took a different tone during those later visits, though; I was an adult now, no longer a child, and she seemed to feel that it was important that she open up to me more, and share her life with me in a different way. It was strange and cool all at once, really. Her world was finding colour in my eyes, where it had been old-movie black and white before.

Her decline prior to her death was not one I dealt with well; I'd always had a hard time with watching people I loved get old. Shaking hands and graying heads were reminders of a nearing end, and I refused to go there in my head. I saw her less often in those last months than I should have, but that isn't something that can be changed now.

I wrote a poem for her funeral folder, as requested, and designed the pages we would hand out to those who came to pay their respects. My grandfather loved what I wrote, and asked me to read it at the actual service. I did as he asked, and my parents told me that my reading was the only thing that really made him sob that day. I did everything I did that week with uncommon composure; at least uncommon for me, as I was normally given to tears at moments like these. And I had a few, most notably at her graveside. I was pretty cool about everything for the most part, though. I felt sad, but not incapacitated; I simply accepted her end, and went on with my life.

During the months that followed her death, I came into possession of a few things that belonged to her: a couple of pearl necklaces, an emerald ring, and a bagful of her old bottles of perfume and talcum powder. My mother thought of me when she was clearing away all the cosmetic acoutrements, since I'm a rather girly-girl, and could add her things to my shelves and shelves of lotions and potions. Yardley ' English Lavender', Elizabeth Arden 'Blue Grass', and Violet water were her scents of choice. None of them really suited my tastes, but the packaging was kitschy and fun, so I crowded them in next to my Demeter and Annick Goutal.

And that was that. Christmas had its emotional moments, as did their wedding anniversary in December. My grandfather found it hard to believe she was really gone, most of the time, and when he would remember, he would go silent and sad. My parents would make him laugh about her memory again, at times like those, dredging up stories of her quirks and oddities until he smiled and told stories of his own. That was their way of dealing with it, but I didn't need to cope. I was fine.

This morning, I was in a rush, having slept in past my alarm. I'd wanted to get to work early to get a few things done, but that opportunity had slipped away with a few hits of the snooze button. Now I was pressed for time, and rushing around like the proverbial headless chicken. My clumsy grab for my Angel perfume brought chaos to the bathroom, as a couple of the bottles around it headed rapidly for the floor. Nothing broke but the top of a tiny bottle of Violet Water, shaped like a wee cottage. I think my parents had gotten it for my Nonna years ago, while on vacation in Oregon. The familar smell filled the air, making me blink rapidly, as though the fragrance were passing through my eyes and filling up my head.

And then it happened.

I don't remember exactly what I did, or exactly how it began, but I was weeping before I knew it. A thousand thoughts rushed in on me like an awful wave. It was her, telling me about wanting to please her mother, and not feeling like she'd managed it all the time. It was her, telling me about hurts she'd experienced over the years that were still a part of her heart at 84. It was her, telling me how beautiful I was, and saying that she didn't understand why any boy would want to break my heart; I was her granddaughter, after all....I was a catch. It was her, sad-eyed as she watched my parents grieve a difficult time in their lives. It was her, holding my Poppa's hand, as they walked out the front door of their church. It was her, so old, so small, in a picture I took a month before she died, surrounded by my family, but not me. I held the camera, I kept my distance. And I had, for months.

I went to the mantel, where I'd kept the funeral folder I'd designed. I wanted to read the poem I'd written again, so that I could recover my nostalgic reserve. But it wasn't there, and I remembered I'd put it away a couple weeks previous. I tried to find it on my computer, where I'd done the template, but I'd deleted it to recover the drive space shortly after I'd made it. Who does that? I thought. Who gets rid of these things? Finally, I found something; the picture I'd taken was still in a file on my C drive, and I opened it up. There she was. I got later and later for work, sitting there, staring at her face.

When I finally went to finish getting ready, something in me had changed, just like that. Suddenly, I was without a grandmother. Not in the way I had been, accepting the well-wishes of her old friends, and of my friends, smiling with the right amount of sadness. Now I was hurt, and feeling left behind.

Today, I miss my Nonna. Today, I miss the way she'd say, "Shalom!" in a funny voice when we argued. Today, I miss the strange sweatsuits she wore, with flowers and kittens emblazoned in unnatural pinks. Today, I miss her wrinkled hands, playing old hymns on her electric organ, before she stopped trying because they shook too much. Today, I miss the way she'd chuckle at all my stories of lost love, but never offer useless advice. Today, I miss her wonky penmanship on birthday cards and housecleaning paycheques, and the "X's and "o"s after 'Poppa and Nonna' on everything she'd ever sent me. I even miss the way she dropped everything she ate half on the floor, and half on her shirt.

She was not perfect, and her life was not one that always took a steady path. She felt sorry for herself now and then; sometimes justifiably so. But she loved me well.

She will never watch me walk down the aisle, or hold my babies in her arms, and sometimes I wonder if all the things she'd wished for me are ever going to come true. But I had something that a lot of my betrothed and child-laden friends missed out on: I had a sweet grandmother, and though she is gone now, she has finally taken up a permanent place in the part of my heart reserved for the love that brings both quiet pain, and gentle joy.

I love you, Nonna, and I'm sorry it took me so long to cry for you, the way I should have from the beginning.

The Party Is Over.

I watched the Oscars tonight. I've been watching them for ages, for various reasons: some years, an actor or actress I really enjoy has been up for an award; some years, I've just wanted to see the pretty clothes and pretty people do their thing; and one year, Dave Letterman was hosting, and I couldn't resist (I personally thought the "Uma, Oprah" thing was damn funny, but whatever. Philistines!). This year I tuned in just for the spectacle, and to gather the answers to a few key questions: how many Iraq/Bush jokes would be made? How many people would cry when they received their award? And was Randy Newman up for another damn song for another damn Disney movie?

The answers? Many, A Few, and Thank The Lord, No.

What struck me most this evening was the whole notion of glamour vs. 'character acting'. Charlize Theron won the Best Actress statue tonight for her portrayal of Aileen Wournos in "Monster", following in the grand tradition of beautiful women making themselves homely and/or plain for a role, and thus becoming an Oscar shoo-in (See Hilary Swank, Boys Don't Cry; Nicole Kidman, The Hours; Halle Berry, Monster's Ball; Helen Hunt, As Good As It Gets; Susan Sarandon, Dead Man Walking...my goodness, the list goes on forever!). It's not a universal given, but the pattern is startling. Even Renee Zellweger had to scrub off all her makeup to win for Best Supporting Actress in Cold Mountain. We won't even get started on the honourary "Gain Twenty Pounds and Get Noticed" category, with such notables as Minnie Driver (Circle Of Friends), Toni Collette (Muriel's Wedding), Renee Zellweger (Bridget Jones' Diary), and Kathy Bates (Misery) eating Krispy Kremes to bulk up for a juicy role (Gwyneth in Shallow Hal does NOT count). I won't even get started on the fact that all of these women just ended up looking normal...because we all know that Normal=Hollywood Fat. If the camera adds ten pounds, then of course, actresses must be ten pounds thinner than everyone else on the planet. But I digress.

Apparently, you're not a serious actress until you're willing to become ugly. But also apparent is the fact that we won't accept you in all your ugliness unless we can comfort ourselves that deep down, you're gorgeous, and you won't embarass us come Oscar night.

It's a wicked dichotomy. There are a million beautiful girls looking for acting jobs in LA and New York, making sure they stay thin and zit-free, just so they can get a walk-on part in 'The Young And The Restless". They diet, they primp, they get fabulous head shots, and eventually, someone notices them, and casts them as the ingenue in a major studio film (See Charlize in The Cider House Rules or pretty much anything else she's ever done prior to Monster). They could continue on in this vein, doing glamourous turns in romantic comedies and big-budget tearjerkers, but they know that isn't the road to credibility. They must become 'ugly', and then the Academy will smile in their direction. Now, granted, this doesn't work for everyone (See Julia Roberts in Mary Reilly, or Meg Ryan in In The Cut...some girls we just like to stay pretty), but the pattern is significant enough that it can't hurt to try.

There are a ton of dedicated actresses working today that don't have the looks of these Hollywood princesses, but have the kind of dramatic chops that Julia, Halle, and Renee can only dream of possessing. Does anyone hand out the tough, gritty roles to these women? No way. Unless you have the face that gets you in the door, you can't even have a shot at playing for wide-release audiences. I've seen a few women on the streets downtown who, given a little training, could have channeled Aileen Wournos like a pro... mostly because they've been there. But would we have gone to see it? Would we have wanted to watch them parade down the red carpet afterwards to accept their due?

I can't absolutely affirm the argument that a significant warp in appearance is the only reason these women get awards. From all accounts, Charlize did an amazing job in "Monster", Halle Berry was heartbreaking in "Monster's Ball", and Nicole Kidman is an icily brilliant performer. But I can't deny that their performances were rendered indelible with a set of false teeth, a few circles under the eyes, or a prosthetic nose. We needed to stop seeing them as "themselves" in order to really get into their characters; once we'd gotten past the image of the girl in "Us" or "Vogue", then we could disappear into the film.

I wish that we'd give some of these meaty roles to women who actually look the part to start out with, and I wish that we'd be less freaky as a society about demanding that the glamour girls drop their 'drama weight' as soon as their 'serious' role was complete. It sends an incredible set of mixed messages to young and old women alike, and creates an incredibly schizo body image in many of these actresses. Renee went from hourglass to chop stick and back last year, which probably put a scary toll on her young frame.

This all being said, Nicole, Naomi, Catherine, Julianne, Jennifer, and Julia looked typically fabulous this evening. But the best looking woman of the whole night was Kate Hepburn, staring down Spencer Tracy in her posthumous retrospective. There is a woman who was beautiful because of her freckles and wrinkles and 'flaws'....and she didn't have them put on to win an Oscar, either.

The Electric Coffee Acid Test.

Within my first couple of weeks of working at Starbucks, I was required to attend a little four-hour session that the company called 'Starbucks University', or more coloquially, 'Coffee College'. Essentially, we were to learn how to taste java properly, and pick out subtle nuances in origin, roast, grind, and brew. For those new employees who did not enjoy coffee, but simply wanted a job in which they did not use a deep-fryer, this class was absolute torture. I watched them make more faces of abject horror while being force-fed Gold Coast Blend than a crowd of Presbyterians stumbling out of 'The Passion of The Christ'. For me, however...a coffee lover from way back...it was rather fun; I could finally discuss everything I liked about my cuppa with the proper terminology, and even a soupcon of flair.

We tried sixteen different coffees during that four hour span, from the most smoky of roasts, to the most citrusy of blends. I learned that lighter-tasting coffees had a higher caffeine content, since the wonder narcotic wasn't as deeply purged (by the heat of the roasting process) as it was with the darker ones. I learned the key flavour differences between Indonesian and Central American beans. I learned which grind goes with which coffee maker, and that the three most important words in brewing were: 'filter the water'. I was taught to speak about coffee like most people talk about wine, using words like "earthy", "woodsy", "full finish", "fruity bouquet" and "spicy". I felt like a pro.

In the midst of all this information overload, the instructor cautioned us to only take a measured sip of each blend, and to pace ourselves according to the length of the class. The thing was, I hadn't had anything to eat prior to the session, so I kept finishing each little french-pressed cup they gave me just to quell the growling in my stomach. No one noticed I was downing all my testers...and they definitely didn't notice the guy in the next seat sneaking me his, so that he wouldn't have to choke them back. By the end of the four hours, I had consumed somewhere between 16 and 20 cups of coffee. It may have been as many as 25, but I stopped counting when I started hearing voices.

When my dad arrived to get me, I was moving much like the Road Runner....little clouds of dust swirled up in my wake, and you would only see me leave a destination, then suddenly arrive at the next. On the car ride home, I proceeded to relate everything I'd learned in the course of the last four hours, in 45 minutes. Not by summarizing, mind you, but by talking exceptionally fast. My dad just remained silent, awestruck by both my information retention, and the light buzzing eminating from my lips when I stopped speaking for a second or two.

Upon our return home, I attempted to begin the tutorial again with my mother. My dad tried to stop me, simply to spare her my diatribe, but my head swiveled around a full 360 degrees, and I focused on him with red, glowing eyes.

"I want to tell her. She must know." I think I even hissed. He backed away, and retreated upstairs.

My mother sensed that something scary was afoot, and brought me a large glass of milk, hoping to create an internal latte of sorts to calm me down. Then she sat down at the table to begin making prototypes for her crafting class the next day. I quickly joined her at the table, much to her horror. I hated crafts. I never wanted to try anything she did, but all of a sudden, I was there, seizing at the hot glue gun and paintbrushes, creating new works of art not destined for MOMA. She let me proceed, knowing that it was best just to ride out the wave of chaotic energy. Whenever I would finish a "project", she would hand me another set of unrelated materials, and off I would go. I got bored of this rather quickly, though, and decided that I would email every friend I had.

Unfortunately, my father was on the family computer. Normally, this would mean that I would just come back in an hour, and see if he'd finished up. That would not be the game plan tonight. I stood directly behind him, and began asking, "Are you done now?" every minute or so. He ignored me after the tenth time, but still I remained, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, muttering under my breath. He stood it as long as he could, then vacated the chair with a sigh. I tried to carry on an MSN conversation with a friend of mine, but I couldn't control my fingers on the keyboard. The simple sentence:

"Hey, how are you?"

came out as:

"heyhowareyoui'mdoingreallygoodijusthadcoffeeclassican'tfeelmyfeetanymoreohohohohohohohoh:)"

He stopped responding after a bit.

When I got tired of speed Minesweeper, I decided to go pick a fight with my brother, who looked at me as though I were the angry, drug-addled teen in an afterschool special. He closed the door to his room.

No one wanted to play with me anymore. I decided to go to my own space, and putter a bit. I remember that I was singing "99 Luftballoons", over and over:

Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer dich
Von 99 Luftballons
Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont
Denkst du vielleicht g'rad an mich
Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer dich
Von 99 Luftballons
Und dass sowas von sowas kommt

I don't speak German.

I tried to call another friend, but he was in a bad cell area in his car; he told me he would call me back when his signal improved. This didn't satisfy me at all...I kept ringing him back, and letting it cut out ("Meg, seriously, I am in a bad zone!"), until he finally turned off his phone.

I had no idea what to do now, until the notion of reorganizing everything I owned popped into my head. Bear in mind, it was midnight at this point, so the crashing of drawers, not to mention the sudden, violent clearing-off of shelves, was not considered kosher noise. My mother came to the door, and opened it just a crack, in case I lunged.

"You might want to start getting ready for bed, dear." She was very pale.

So I did. I brushed my teeth hard for a good twenty minutes, until my gums cried out for mercy. Then I decided to brush my hair, too. I'd always heard that a hundred strokes every night made your hair glossy and growth-happy, so I proceeded to smack at my head with a comb. The thing about brushing hair is that you can only do it in one direction. I was experiencing some confusion with that concept right then, and ended up with the toothy implement snarled just above my ear. I left it there, and went down to grab a midnight snack.

I recall eating maraschino cherries, olives, pearl onions, pickles....anything where you had to shove your hand hard into the jar to get at them. When my hand couldn't do the job, I began wildly stabbing at the floating goodies with a knife. Not a fork, not a spoon, but a knife. Eventually the sound of clanging metal against glass drew my mother to my side again, and she removed the weapon from my hand.

"Time for bed, now. Really." I followed her up the stairs, and she tucked me in, as though I were five again. Except she tucked me really hard, wrapping me up like a mummy, and placing weighted objects on top of me to hold me down....just kidding. Actually, she just used the leather straps that we'd purchased during my flailing phase, and squeezed them up to the last notch....just kidding. Actually, she just tucked firmly, and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. I thought I heard a dresser being pushed up against it, but they all claim that wasn't the case. I went to say my prayers, and it came out like some weird combination of tongues and Tourette's.

Lying there, in the peaceful darkness, I had Timothy Leary moments of creativity. I planned new civilizations. I designed new kitchen gadgets. I cured the common cold. I believed I could speak to dolphins. I wrote free verse. I visualized a Rubick's Cube, and solved the puzzle 18 times. I levitated over my bed for a short time, while being attended by wee angels in Starbucks aprons. I wrote the ultimate Op-Ed article for the Times. I planned my wedding to John Cusack. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, sometime around 5 am, while doing Latin verb declensions in an Inspector Clouseau accent.

I woke to find my family peering in on me, about seven hours later. My head was thumping as though I'd just partied with Keith Richards, and my scalp was sore from the comb lodged in my locks. The sheets were everywhere, having been kicked off sometime in the midst of my purple haze.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" I recalled my father's peculiar tone from the time I'd been on Demerol after wrist surgery. It was careful, measured...ready for anything.

All in all, I think I was okay. I felt a little battered, but ready for the day ahead.

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." I said, swinging my quivery legs out to meet the floor. "I just need a coffee."