Wednesday, November 9, 2005

oh, CRUMBCAKE! How could I be so dense as to navigate away from the window of an almost-done post? And a FABULOUS post, at that? *bonks self in head with small, milky-cute laptop* Honestly, when will I stop doing things like that? One of these days I am going to accidentally delete a novel, or perhaps even some sort of legal contract (not that one blogs legal contracts, but STILL. For the LOVE OF PETE.) I'd like to note at this juncture that I was mocked at work today for my standard set of exclamations. "Oh my gosh!" "Oh my stars!" "Oh my land!" What is wrong with those? Hmmm? Can no one channel June Cleaver anymore without becoming a lightning rod for postmodern scorn? But honestly, it's not like I don't swear, too. I just prefer those to any other options in that category. And speaking of things I prefer, two words: GINGERBREAD LATTE. I know, I know -- way to buy into a holiday marketing gimmick, Meg. Way to be a sheep. But oooh! The spicy goodness of it! I love black coffee, I love espresso, I love a good, nutty, extra-espressoed latte. I can take the hard stuff; hell, I'm the girl who drank the ten-shot latte without blinking. But even I can acknowledge the fluffy, sugary, over-the-top appeal of the gingerbread latte. In fact, every time I get one, I picture a gingerbread man making it for me. Seriously. Picture that. Tell me you don't want one now. And speaking of things to picture, picture me doing an interpretive dance to "Blue Christmas" by Dean Martin. Because I did. Just for me. In my pajamas. About ten minutes ago. THAT'S HOLIDAY SPIRIT, FOLKS.  STAND BACK. And speaking of standing back, if one more person pokes me in an awkward place with their umbrella before 8 am, I may well give up the West Coast lifestyle and move to Phoenix. In Phoenix, no one will poke me with an umbrella. If anything, I will be attacked by roving gangs of tumbleweeds and Mormons. NOW THE HICCUPS. Argh. *hic* I am not a quiet, subtle hiccuper. *hic* I am a convulsive, spastic, *hic* audible hiccuper who startles people every time she *hic* does it. I lose all control. *hic* I am the hiccup equivalent of *hic* Chernobyl. I wreak hiccupy devastation. *HIC* (whoa, I think I pulled something with that one...) Speaking of devastation, just WHEN did I pick up a recording of the Cocteau *hic* Twins singing 'Frosty the Snowman'? Why did that just pop up on my iTunes? MY ACCOUNT HAS BEEN HACKED. There's no other explanation. *hic* That's my favourite computer newbie complaint when *hic and some other odd noise* something goes wrong. "I think someone has hacked my computer!" Now, never mind that they have nothing on their computer but a bunch of cheesy FW: emails and Windows 98 and Spider *hic*Solitaire... no, someone out there must want to grope their hard drive and leave them cyberviolated. And speaking of cyberviolation... That's right. I'm not suffering alone anymore. Wow, I think that scared off my hiccups. Neato. Seriously, considering the amount of time I spend awake, I should really stop fretting about the lost post and just hit the sack. Get some ZZZZZ's. Saw some logs. Drift into dreamland. But before I do, let me offer you... four true things: I enjoy words that sound like a sneeze: cashew, bijoux, mushu, Huutu, Ruutu... I should install a salt lick in my bedroom. The skunk that walks outside my window every night is like... stalking me. If you could make money for sleeping, I might work harder at it. *hic* Bahhhhh! 10:57:29 PM    well, yes, but...  [] 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? 8:23:30 PM    well, yes, but...  [] I Thought This Only Happened In The Movies? Romantic comedy heroines (if you can call them that... I hate to ascribe heroism to women who don't have to think up their own lines in awkward situations) seem to say things like this while clutched tightly in the arms of their man at the conclusion of a film. It's the kind of self-conscious ironic statement that is supposed to make the moviegoer smile warmly, as they snuggle close to the one they adore. I've also heard this out of the mouths of brides on their wedding days, usually during the reception, usually during a toast or a song to their groom (three, at last count). Apparently, we all want movie-style love in our lives. I beg to differ, but only because my life seems to be rich with the OTHER side of cinematic romance, i.e. the pratfalls and plot devices that make you cringe and wonder if the two star-crossed babes will ever connect. Those are the things that define my relational history...and usually without the payoff at the end. John Hughes, Nora Ephron and the Farrelly brothers would do well to send someone to watch me...I could be the source of their next great inspiration. Here, for you, my top five actual embarassing moments in romance (chronologically): *** Boy #1, Grade Seven: Tom was everything a girl could want in Junior High....he was taller, two years older, a million shades blonder, and 90 or so degrees hotter than any guy in my grade. I thought we'd marry for sure, but the problem was that he didn't really know I existed yet, beyond being a tagalong to my friend Christal, who apparently was blessed to appear 18 when she was 13. She told me he was into me, but I sensed that this might not be true after I phoned him and he asked, "Describe yourself again?" One really gutsy day in Meg-land, as the last-period bell rang, I decided I was going to march right up to him and start a conversation. I was wearing my best black mini, a red sweater that fell off one shoulder (it wasn't meant to, but I had stretched the heck out of the collar on the way to school), and these giant red hoop earrings that looked like airborne hula hoops. I spotted His Loveliness at the bottom of the Senior stairs, in the foyer. He was amazing as ever, and for once, there were no girls nearby. By some trick of fate, he even looked up at me and smiled. My heart was pounding, and as I began my descent, I neglected to notice a dressing-slimed piece of lettuce ('Ranch', I believe) on the third stair, discarded, apparently, from the Devil's own sandwich.. I noticed it when I stepped on it, however, and felt my entire body leaving the firmament. I tumbled face first down the remaining eight steps, and then rolled....rolled, I tell you....through the foyer with the momentum, to land at Tom's feet. No one laughed...they were waiting to see if I was injured. He looked down at me, and I tried to formulate a sentence to say something, anything to put the moment right...but nothing was coming. After a full minute of stunned silence (during which I neglected to notice my skirt was hitched up around my waist), the following came out of my mouth: "Ummmm....whoa....lettuce, hey?" That's right. Miss Debate Team, Miss Public Speaking, Miss Never-At-A-Loss, and that was all I could come up with. He was the first to laugh, and he didn't stop laughing until I had righted my skirt, replaced the contents of my vinyl purse, and walked out the front doors of the school. I went all the way home, didn't say a word about it to my mother (even as she pointed at the collar of my sweater in bewilderment), and went on with my life. When Christal phoned later that night, she tried to convince me it was a sign.....that God had delivered me right to the feet of the one I loved. I didn't buy it. Tom and I did not end up together, but I'm still really okay with salad. Boy # 2, Grade Nine: I wanted to be Jesse's girl. He was tall, dark, smart and really witty, while still looking as though he could be a tight-end in a football game. I wasn't going to go to the ninth grade dance, since our proms often just seemed like the aftermath of a Def Leppard concert, with hordes of drunk young men, lots of underclad girls, and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" ringing in your ears for hours afterward. But my friends wanted me to go, if only to dance with Jesse. So I got myself all partied up in a blue taffeta dress that had three tiers of ruffles right at my hips. In retrospect, this was probably not a great accentuating move, but it suited the moment perfectly. I spent the night dancing with other people, and not Jesse, since I didn't have the guts to ask him, and every other girl at my school did. My friends got sick of watching me look over my partners' shoulders at him during the 'slow jams', so they took matters into their own hands. They went and asked Jesse on my behalf. Remarkably, he said yes. They then raced around the prom venue searching for me. I was by the table that had the McDonald's orange drink fountain, sipping away and trying to avoid conversation with the guy I had just danced with. I saw my girls heading over en masse, a quivering miasma of lace, satin, and teased hair. I could hear them from ten feet away, shrieking "He wants to dance with you! He wants to dance with you!" In their haste to arrive, they landed rather forcefully on my timid conversational partner, who jumped to avoid them. His orange drink pitched through the air, and landed in my bangs, my eyes, and down the front of my ruffled wonder. The quivering miasma shrieked, shoved him into the table, and bore me off to the washroom, where they took paper towels and dabbed fitfully at my chest (violating), my mascara (blinding), and my hair (pointless). I simply did not have the panache to head back out and dance with Jesse in my fruit-flavoured garment, so I called my dad to come get me and take me home. He was about to go out and work a shift with the RCMP as an auxiliary constable at this point, so he joked about bringing a police car and cuffing my beloved to me. When I burst into tears, he simply came and took me home, where my mother worked on getting the mark out of my dress, and my brother tried to comfort me as only a guy in his late teens can: "Wow. That totally sucks." Boy #3, First Year University: Glen was really tall, really sweet, totally not interested in me, yet somehow still the object of my affections. He was a friend of a friend, and I loved hanging out with him, because he would discuss Plato and Joyce with me, and allow me to feel truly clever. I was always trying to finagle invites to events Glen would be at, since I knew that would be my only opportunity to engage him in stimulating repartee. After months and months of trying, I ended up in the right place at the right time, and my whole group of friends was going to be heading out for a late dinner from a concert we'd attended at a hall. Glen was there, and I knew I could sit with him if I manouvered well once we got to the restaurant. On the way out of the building, I bounced up in the air, attempting to touch the bright-red EXIT sign that hung over the door. I was a good foot too short even to get near it, but the gauntlet had been thrown down. Now everyone, in true lemming fashion, was trying to hit it as they went through. Most of the guys were too small to pull it off, and they just looked goofy trying. Glen wasn't. With one graceful Jordan-esque move, he ever-so-lightly tapped the surface of the glowing box. What none of us knew was that these boxes were extremely delicate in their casing. Or at least we didn't know that until Glen's hand went through the glass, and came back down the same colour as the sign. I'm not sure how many stitches it took to close the wound, but Glen didn't come for dinner. I had to go, because my ride did, but I sat there the whole time feeling responsible, and NOT enjoying my wings. Glen is married now, to a lovely girl who isn't me, and I don't think the scar is too bad. I think of him every time I see one of those signs. Boy # 4, Summer At Camp: In yet another instance of "Meg Is In Love With Her Friend", I was working alongside my friend Ron at camp, while dreamily gazing at him when he wasn't paying attention. He was tall, dark, and sang like Harry Connick, which was one of the items on my list of the perfect man. I wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for in a woman, but I tried to appear as daring and diverse as possible, so as to potentially hit upon as many of the items in HIS list as possible. He was an active guy, and he never really sat still. I wasn't really all that daring, although I never had much problem making a fool of myself (see above). I'd learned by this point in life to not take unnecessary risks, since, as a klutz, they generally ended badly for me. It seemed the wisest course of action. But even a practical girl like me can be dissuaded from her resolve by love... The big cool activity that day at camp was "ice blocking". Essentially, this involved sitting or lying face-down on a block of ice about 1 and a half feet square, and sliding down a hill. It looked fun. But certainly not Meg-safe. Everyone called me a chicken for not trying (including Ron), thinking I was scared. I was just trying to be smart about my tendency to court disaster. But, like in every afterschool special ever made, peer pressure won out, and before I knew it, I had my beloved himself picking me out an ice block upon which to hurtle. "It's awesome that you're going to do it. Maybe we could go down at the same time?" SWOON. I was definitely into that. We placed towels upon our blocks, and he laid down face first on his, while I sat on mine, legs sticking forward (ready to act as brakes). I don't even need to tell you what happened next. My ice block went horribly off course, and my flip-flop shod feet could not stop my trajectory on the damp grass of the hill. I went legs-first into a large, wooden camp sign, and slammed my naked toes so hard that two of them split open, and I had to go to the hospital. I remember lying on the wet hill thinking, "I thought drowning was the only way water could hurt you..." Ron was very sympathetic, but a girl hobbling on bandanged feet can't keep up with an active guy. He ended up marrying another friend of mine from camp that summer, who is both amazing and active, and NOT a klutz. And my toes work fine, though one of the nails grows a little weird. Boy #5, Five Years Ago: Mark worked with me at my Starbucks, and was in a Master's program at school. He was gooooorgeous, very funny, and always pleasant to be around. We'd talk philosophy on our breaks, and hang out outside of work hours, laughing and goofing on one another. He really seemed to care about who I was as a person, which was amazing. He'd recently split from his longtime girlfriend, so we'd spend some time discussing that...I did my best to be comforting, but I was really thanking God he was single! One of our shared activities was DJing...we'd done a few parties together, since Mark was contracted out by a friend of his to do events for his company now and then. He didn't know popular music very well, so I would go along to pick songs and help him with his mix, as well as do all the annoying vocal things that DJs do, like say, "Okay, all the ladies on the floor for this one!" (Mark didn't like microphones). We were a great team. I got a voicemail at home one day that Mark was doing another gig, and was going to need some help. I went to call him back, but remembered his weirdo roommate would likely be home, and would forget to give Mark the message. I knew that I could send one through the voicemail network without the phone even ringing at his house, but I didn't know quite how. So I tried wrestling the system prompts, and eventually figured it out, leaving him the following message: "Mark, hey....good to hear from you. It's Meg...I would love to help you out with that party this weekend, as long as you don't try and spin "Play That Funky Music" more than once! I'll try to remember to bring my Van Morrison CD so that we can play some of those tracks for the slow songs, like we discusssed at the last gig. Maybe you could save me a dance to one of them? Or maybe I could teach you to dance, period? Ha ha. Call me back...." I thought it was nonchalant and witty enough to make my point without seeming aggressive. I was darn proud of myself. I went out with my friends, secure in the knowledge that I had bypassed the lame roommate who would forget the message, and that I had communicated my intentions to Mark in a subtle way. Security is a bad, bad thing. What I'd really done was change my outgoing message, which was heard over the next three hours by everyone from my parents to my best friend to my manager at work, to (ohhhhhh!) Mark himself. Everyone was breathless with laughter by the time they got to record their own voicemail to me, except for Mark, who was calling to say the party had been cancelled. He got back together with his girlfriend about a week later, and they're married now. Mark and I remain friends, though no one....NO ONE.....refers to that incident. Every time I hear Van sing "Have I Told You Lately", I curse my phone company for not being clearer in their instructions. *** I could probably think of many, many more, but I probably have you in disbelief at this point, too. No one could possibly have so many stupid things happen to them in the pursuit of true love, right? Wrong. I am living proof that there is no limit to the embarassment one woman can experience, and the mayhem she can inflict on other's lives. I don't even think my run is over. Every time I meet a guy, I wonder what I'll do THIS time to make a spectacle of myself. Stay tuned.... 7:59:19 PM    well, yes, but...  [] morning Well, another rainy day has dawned in fair Vancouverland... no shock there. Still coughing... no shock there. But you know what? S'ok. Everything is doable. I'm going to give you the lyrics to the Nina Simone song I've been tossing about here lately, just to let you know where I'm at right this moment, Wednesday morning, November 9th: Birds flying high You know how I feel Sun in the sky You know how I feel Breeze driftin' on by You know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good Fish in the sea You know how I feel River running free You know how I feel Blossom in the tree You know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know Butterflies all havin' fun you know what I mean Sleep in peace when day is done That's what I mean And this old world is a new world And a bold world For me Stars when you shine You know how I feel Scent of the pine You know how I feel Oh freedom is mine And I know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good That's right. People out in blogland, you know how I feel. No matter what else might pop up in terms of temporary circumstances and momentary pains, I know that I'm blessed, safe, loved, lifted up and known by an amazing family (hi guys!), a stellar group of friends (hi guys!), and even a whole bunch of people who I've never met but who send me encouragement each and every day. How cool is that, I ask you? From the Pollyannas to the curmudgeons, we all show our true colours at the end of the day when we step up to support one another in times both blissful and bad. Do you know how blessed we are, you merry band of bloggers? *twirls dippily off to work, wrapped in GoreTex and satisfaction* 7:00:38 AM    well, yes, but...  [] oooh! try this! Tonight just feels like a Top Ten kinda night, really. And that's that. Top Ten Songs You Should Listen To For The Full Meg Experience: 'Feeling Good' -- Nina Simone 'Open the Door' -- Betty Carter 'Some Kind Of Wonderful' -- Joss Stone 'A Woman's Worth (Live)' -- Alicia Keys 'Eleanor Put Your Boots On' -- Franz Ferdinand 'Don't Think Twice' -- Bob Dylan 'Basement Apartment' -- Sarah Harmer 'It's the Sun' -- Polyphonic Spree 'Bestfriend' -- Musiq Soulchild 'Head Over Heels' -- Blue Rodeo (Bonus Track) 'Rosebud' -- Ryan Adams Top Ten Beauty Products You Should Really Try Not Because You Aren't Beautiful Already, But Because They Are Like Crack -- And Meg Uses Them (or will one day, when finances allow)! Body Shop Mango Butter -- because it's probably the only thing that cures dry skin AND makes you smell like a tropical drink... Philosophy 'Kiss Me' Lip Balm -- because you would! Benefit 'Benetint' -- for the glow that only comes from the Swiss Alps and liquid made of rose petals Cocoa Butter -- any kind... Queen Helene Mint Julep Mask -- heals all skin afflictions, pronto! Gehwol Foot Cream -- because we all have feet and they deserve LOVE. Terax Crema Conditioner -- Your hair needs to CHILL. Kiehl's Creme with Silk Groom -- Ditto! No frizz! Witch Hazel -- for zits, booboos, feeling OCD-clean!  Fresh Sugarbath Cubes -- in an extra warm bath. Men! Your women deserve these things! Ten Words/Phrases/Sounds To Use Today, Because Meg Will, Too "Gosh!" (common exclaimation) "AAAAAH!" (joy, horror, delight -- sounds the same) "Are you SERIOUS?" (incredulity) "Freakin' freak argh!" (whispering at comb stuck in hair, trying not to wake roommate) "Oh, THANK YOU!" (when receiving beverage of choice) "Nooooo!" (when you wake up to no emails in your inbox) "Mmmmm!" (when you step in the shower) "Eeeek!" (when you realize it is raining outside -- as per usual) "Dammit." (when you see the croissant you wish you could eat but notice it is some absurd, extortionistic coffee shop price) "Look!" (when you email your friends screen shots of the PandaCam) Top Ten Meg-Considered Topics For You To Consider, Too: How to be thoughtful when you have no thoughts of any kind Why the shower wall keeps bumping into you Why shoes are still unnecessary, even when it is a balmy 5 C Why that man wore THOSE pants in particular How to type quickly on the weirdo keyboard How some people maintain such a profound level of anger How to find grace deep down inside your core when you feel more like biting people Why Dreamweaver freezes just before you do your end save What might be a good afternoon snack What the heck the future has in store Top Ten Reasons This Post Is So Short Meg is tired Meg apparently has yogurt in her lungs (cough! cough! cough!) Meg has a blank brain Meg deleted four other posts already for their dubious and grasping tone Short isn't bad, right? Did she say she was tired? Meg fell asleep once with ear buds in and woke up thinking it was morning Holy cow! Meg fell asleep? Who has time to WRITE?!? That's amazing! Short Posts, Warm Heart? Wait, that's not the adage... Because sometimes, they just are. Love to all. If you like, leave some of your recommendations for the above categories. After all, most of us could use a little inspiration/direction! 12:12:51 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:29:49 PM.