Thursday, October 20, 2005

three little rants. Okay, so maybe I haven't gotten it completely out of my system... What is the deal with combining the names of celebrity couples into annoying little monikers? And why only some celebrity couples? I'm sick of hearing about Brangelina and TomKat and Bennifers One and Two (which actually makes me think of Dr. Seuss). It's an idiotic trend in entertainment media, right up (down?) there with extensive starlet coverage (is it just me, or should two people named after cities be forbidden to marry?) and prurient descriptions of celebrity sex tapes. You never would have heard the press messing in a like fashion with dignified couples like Hume and Jessica (Hussica? Jume?) or Paul and Joanne (JoPaul? Paulanne?). Why? Because they didn't trade up partners in some flashbulb-lit Do-Si-Do or carry on for the paparazzi while claiming not to be involved! Well, Liz Taylor did, but at least she married the fellas! Honestly, you'd never catch me referring to my coupled friends by odd combo-names or nicknames. They'd put a stop to that right quick. Although, if I combined my parents' names, they'd be 'Rudy'. And that's kinda cute. I understand that some people don't swear. I understand that they don't want to swear. But if you don't want to swear, why in the name of Andrew Dice Clay are you using half-assed swear replacements like 'freak!' or 'that effing guy!'. Are you joking me? Everyone knows what you're not saying. You're even thinking it! You're just editing before it comes out. And okay -- there's honour in that, perhaps. But why don't you just say nothing then? Why use some goofy word as a substitute that makes everyone think of the word you're trying not to use? And why co-opt nice words like 'sugar!' and 'fudge!' to use instead of swear words? Don't desecrate candy to serve your subversive lingual needs! I cannot watch news magazine shows before I go to bed. I just can't. And I just did. Sigh. Not only am I concerned with the accuracy of the mainstream media on a thousand different fronts anyhow, but I am so easily riled by certain types of stories that I am now sitting with my laptop in bed willing myself not to stay awake all night and research the repugnant topic of one of the segments. Because then I'd end up writing indignant emails to people that would Google me back to my blog and oh... oh then... you'd see why Meg should avoid writing about certain issues. I always encourage forgiveness and grace in people because I know that when I'm righteously angry about a few very specific things, I have a tendency to chuck all that stuff out the window. I get inflammatory. Fast. So all the pointers in the direction of love are as much for me as anyone else. But it's only in response to two issues that I seem to have zero control over my temper: child endangerment and racism. Many, many other things anger me, but I just go... well, a tad bananas about those two concerns. The story tonight touched on both of them and I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. I'm still reminding myself to breathe. And I'm avoiding Google, because the last time I got riled up there, I ended up corresponding via email with Fred Phelps for two weeks and being ordered to stop by my friends because of the things he was saying to me and wishing down on me for disagreeing with him. I mean, I suppose it's cool that Fred Phelps thinks I am a "hellbound whore"-- I'd rather he took offense to me than think for a second that we see eye to eye -- but I'm one girl with a very big mouth who tends to compromise her personal safety on occasion when said mouth is at peak performance. I won't tell you about my exchange a while back with a man who called a young Asian woman a rather unflattering name on the bus. Because I didn't use words like 'sugar' and 'fudge' and he got off at my stop to "teach me a lesson". Oops. Fortunately, bravado and my tone saved me from that bully. But... yeah. I'm giving myself a few hours to cool off before I open a search engine of any kind... Ahem. I should go to bed now. I'm going to develop a reputation for my cantankerousness if I keep this up. I'll post something cheery in the morning, I promise. No, no... wait, I'll do it tonight. Hmmm... what would be joyous enough to redeem me? That's it! Dave Pollard has inspired me! EVERYONE LOVES BABY ANIMALS! So, one to make up for each rant: wee penguins wee duckies wee lambies There! That will help everyone forget that I'm an ranty, clumsy caffeine addict who occasionally embraces the salty and colourful dialect of a merchant marine... right? RIGHT?!?! Super. 11:44:37 PM    well, yes, but...  [] @#!%? toes. Ow. Those cute leaf shadows I was going on about last night? Deadly. Or the pre-shadow mess, to be more exact. Today, as though it were the proverbial banana peel, I slipped on a small sludge-pile of wet leaves on the sidewalk outside my office building. I was heading for the coffee shop at a breakneck speed when the fiasco occurred and in a second, the whole course of my day changed. When I hit the leaf pile and began to slide, my body did what my iBook does if you drop it: it tries to protect the hard drives. My hands flew out to try and restore my balance and I turned my head so as to avoid smashing my face head on if I fell. I mean, I've fallen before. This is not a new experience. I know what to do to minimize the damage. Instead of bailing and kissing the cement, though, I simply twisted oddly on my left foot and crushed my toes beneath my crumpling leg. My toes did not enjoy this. I did not swear. I didn't even fall. I righted myself, and limped away from the leaf danger area while shooting pains echoed up to my knee. I could still walk, so I knew nothing was truly broken, but the blood was alread gushing and my toeflesh was an angry reddish-purple. I limped like a pirate with a pegleg for the rest of the day. When I had a major staph infection threatening my leg in the Summer of 2003 -- complete with an IV shunt in my arm for two weeks trying to save my limb and my immune system -- my staff joked about amputating the offending appendage and carving me a Megleg. Right now, I'd settle for a wooden toe. 5:09:42 PM    well, yes, but...  [] also. Is it wrong that I want to write an advice column without having any clue what I should tell people to do? I think mostly I would write either, "Holy crap. That sucks. What are you going to do about that?" or "Try removing your head from your..." Maybe not, then. 7:07:19 AM    well, yes, but...  [] pop quiz, hotshot. Five questions for my regular visitors (I swear, I have some... I do!). And the irregular ones, too. 1. If you had to choose a ten song iPod playlist for me -- stuff I NEED to hear -- what would it be? 2. What fruit reminds you most of Blogcabin, and why? 3. Give me the URL of your favourite blog and tell me why you love it. 4. Share your best penguin link. 5. For the love of all that is good and coherent, tell me how to wake up. And Frances and Bonnie, thanks for the concern for my much-abused head. I think if you did a brain scan on me, you'd quickly see that these are the complete contents of the inside of my dented skull: 1. A nerf ball 2. A cassette player 3. Those things you put into pop guns 4. Half a quart of melted ice cream 5. Wood shavings Crazy, but it works for me. 7:04:27 AM    well, yes, but...  [] rhapsody. I've been ranting a little. You may have noticed. And whenever I get ranty -- when life seems a little more like a firecracker than a candle -- I know that eventually, I'll need to take offensive action. Not the kind of offensive you're thinking, though... no middle fingers or growled curses or Linda Blair 360's. More of a flip. And you know how I love to be flip... I think I shall speak of things I love for a few moments. Lifelong devotions... momentary infatuations... temporary enthusiasms. Essentially, whatever makes the corners of my mouth turn up or my heart beat a wee bit more quickly or the zip zip zip! of violins sound in my ears. What do you say? I think that twilight is my favourite time of day: the late aft-early eve hours when the sky is violet-navy-fuschia-rust and velvety dark and deep. When people switch on lamps and turn on ovens and take off shoes and exhale from mornings and afternoons of holding it together. When evening falls behind closed curtains and homelight creates butter-pat squares on lawns and sidewalks and streets. Some people I know call it the sleepiest moment in their waking hours, but I find that I come alive. I invent recipes out of thin air. I turn on the hockey and throw my hands up at bad officiating. I put on yoga pants and dance around to shake off my cares. I blog. I laugh. I put my needs-to-be-chopped-off hair in a pile atop my head and wash the world off of my face. Sometimes I don't even do any of those things and I find myself out to dinner and conversation with people I love. But regardless, no hours are sweeter than the ones when I've done what I need to do and my soul has some solid minutes just to be. Twilight is the part of the song where you know all the words and can belt them out. Twilight is the Tootsie Pop centre. Twilight is the middle of the bridge with a panoramic view up the Inlet. Twilight is the red jelly middle of the Peek Freen. Twilight is the sound of the ocean in the seashell. Seeds. I love seeds. Pumpkin, sunflower, pomegranate, sesame! If I have quadruplets, those are the names for sure! Seriously, though -- I love the nutty, woodsy crunch of edible plantables. Then again, I'm the kind of girl who eats the half-popped popcorn kernels and chews on ice (yes, I know what they say) and whose parents have invested in dental work because everything was masticated and not dissolved. Seeds are the epitome of munchable bliss. 12-grain bread is like crack in a loaf pan. The only kinds of seeds I can't deal with are poppy seeds, because they make you look like your gums have fleas. I love long emails written just for me. I hate any emails that have FW: at the beginning, but anything that is composed for Meg and Meg alone? Bliss. I mean, obviously if the email in question is highly abusive or filled with ugly gossip or rampant with grammatical errors, I'm not going to rejoice at the correspondence. But if it is rife with phrases like, "And this is what I did today... " or "And then I thought of you and...." or "I often think that..." or "These are the 25 reasons I love you..." or even "Here's what I always wanted to say to you..." then I am delirious and fervent and shall respond with comparable disclosure and wit and enthusiasm. I'm really addicted to the notion of letters, period. I love handwritten ones, but perhaps our day and age has accustomed me to instant gratification so much so that I simply cannot bear the postal delay. The inbox with the sweetly pinging Gmail notifier is like a shot straight to the vein. So -- heh -- feel free to write. I love Firefox Beta for Mac OS X. Precious, precious Firefox. Even the icon with the curly orange renard speaks to me of delicious tabbed browsing and freedom from virii and wacky extensions and crisp, clean design. And I love it even more because it's Beta. Why? Beta is synonymous with being on the cusp of either greatness or failure, and that's where the excitement is. Yeah, yeah... it's just a web browser. I know. But I love it still! Thank HEAVENS that it's finally cool enough to snuggle up at night with the duvet/blanket combo of your choice. At least it is here... and being that this is where I am, I'm stoked! I can't do top sheets -- I end up ankle-tangled like a ribbon around a Maypole. So it's all about a big fluffy down cloud of a quilt for Meg. I light my lemongrass and jasmine candles, I put on the Miles Davis or Willie Nelson or Van Morrison, I prop up against the windowpane-pattern apple-green cotton pillows my sainted mother sewed for me, I swing open my milky-smooth iBook, and I sigh. Autumn, man. I dig it the most. Ooooh, I love debatin'. Not meanness or rudeness or condescension, but a wicked, wild, woolly, wise debate between equal opponents with respect, righteousness and riled-upedness in common. Politics? Sure! Music? You bet! Literature? Ooops, I haven't gotten to that book yet. Relationships? BRING IT ON. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Encouraging people is one of the greatest joys I have in life. I always pray and hope to have the words that other folks need to hear when their gears are grinding or they snag their mental sweater on a sticky-outish branch. Sometimes I get it wrong -- I know I do. I can't read minds, so I end up lending more annoyance than comfort. I try to avoid platitudes (but not platypuses), but eh... they pop up. But when you get it right? Oh -- to know that someone feels comfort or peace because you spoke up is bliss. Limes are cute fruit. Little balls of green bitterness and zest and sour and sharpitude. Sometimes my heart is like a wee lime. That's a totally weird analogy, but I'm going to let it stand. When a single bit of foliage falls onto a wet sidewalk and then the sun comes out and then it rains again and then it slowly biodegrades but not without leaving an odd leaf-shadow on the pale gray concrete? Love that. Dolmathes, new umbrellas, honesty, snow on the mountains, Flannery O'Connor, baby lotion, Emergen-C, Garrison Keillor, cold milk, OS X, my perfume that Tara is sadly allergic to, shawls, Altoids Sours, pomegranates, Bebel Gilberto, parmesano reggiano, donations, babies, salmon sashimi, Joni Mitchell, fresh mint, fresh-cut fries, Kilkenny, Google Blogsearch, forgiveness, spontaneous poems, eschewing wedding traditions, Birdie Jaworski, hot wings, dahlias, winks, puppies, hope, red toenails, Mordecai Richler, Lysol Wipes, the dream of new black boots, William Faulkner, white cotton sheets, Dylan Thomas reading his poetry on my iPod, my dad's photos, my mom's paintings, beating contestants to the answers in Jeopardy, big rings, pictures of Reuben and Rosie, dim sum, Homestar Runner, peonies, sweet lovin' hockey, Sam Mills, cotton candy, madras curry, first editions, Mr. and Mrs. Perils, Ryan Adams, towels from the dryer, the perfect blog entry that everyone comments on because it makes them want to write, latin declensions, sour keys, fresh magazines, Jon Stewart, and a good night's sleep. And if you can't wax rhapsodic about those things, what else is there in life? Oh yeah! PENGUINS. 12:37:55 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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