950!

Summertime. Sandy shoes, sunburn, salty ripple chips and hot dogs. Crystal lite. Country time lemonade. Beer me! And room-temperature diet coke.

Bushpies. Make mine PB&J.

Oldies radio, The Eagles on tape. Maybe some Billy Joel, the Beatles for good measure.

Camp stove cookout, fried eggs in bacon grease. The way God intended.

Hot chocolate with a marshmallow in plastic mugs, olive green, brown and orange. Little fingers wrapped around to keep warm.

Shower shoes, bar soap- probably Zest.

Fighting over who does the dishes. I can't, I broke my arm! followed the next year by I can't, I have stitches in my leg!. Not a good excuse.

Tarps, bungee cords, elaborate campsite markers. Stacks of bikes. Velcro-pad catch with a fuzzy tennis ball.

More patio lanterns. Vegas looks dim in comparison.

Feels like back-to-school

Tomorrow's the day, friends!

I'm anxiously preparing my back-to-work outfit. I still haven't decided- will the blue cotton top from H&M look better with the black pencil skirt or the black bermuda shorts? Or should I skip to a navy tie-neck top with a brown skirt and cute, retro-looking pumps? Definitely not a suit, though.

So many decisions. Such a limited closet.

Straight hair or curly? Do I remember how to apply eyeliner and not look like a racoon? (I am mostly opposed to wearing makeup on weekends and days that I don't go to work, so it's been a while)

I've got my lunch plans laid out (PB&J, for luck) and comfy shoes for the walk. I've got a clean new notebook, some good pens, and a coffee cup. I'm set to go. Wish me luck!

TGI...what does it matter to me, I've been non-stop Fridays since May

Ahhh. Friday.

I'm really, really, supremely excited to start my new job on Tuesday. As nice as it was to have most of the summer off, it'll be even nicer to be contributing to society again. (Oh, and getting a paycheque sometime this year would be super nice, too.)

I've pretty much run out of things to occupy my time with. Granted, I still have 10,000 words of fiction to write- I got to about 4,500 words and then came up with a brilliant, completely different idea that I am burning to persue.

I didn't read The Grapes of Wrath, but I did get through Pride and Prejudice. And the last two Harry Potter Novels. A trashy romance novel (or 4), and the greatness that is The Book of Negros.

Seriously, READ IT.

I'm looking at the start of our recycling project. Can you believe that Calgary just recently adopted curbside recycling, but it doesn't extend to apartment buildings? And our apartment building has no recycling program?!

(Something deep inside me tells me that I'm the one who needs to spearhead that campaign)

All in all, my May-July term of kickin' it, burden-to-society style was both relaxing and productive. I needed that. Time to heal after my last experience was really important, I have realised, to prevent me from being imbittered and unproductive for the rest of my working years.

I'm excited. I'm enthusiastic. I'm wound up and feel really fresh. I can't wait to get started...

and now I just have to think of something to do with the 4 remaining days of leisure I have left.

Are you a muggle?

Conversation I had last night with Gary:

G: Are you excited about the Harry Potter movie you're going to tomorrow?

M: YES!!! Are you a wizard?

G: Uh, no.

M: Are you a squib?

G: No, I am not a Squib. What is a squib?!

M: Are you a muggle?

G: No.

M: But you're not a wizard.

G: No...

M: OR a witch.

G: NO!

M: So then you're a muggle.

G: I don't know this terminology! Leave me be, crazy one!

M: From this angle, you sort of look like Alan Rickman.

So wrong.

Dear Alan Rickman,


Gaaahd, I love you.

You dirty old bastard.

Sigh.

Wrong on so many levels,
Hugs and kisses,

Meg

ps- yes, even in Die Hard. Maybe even especially in Die Hard. Not so much in Harry Potter, but a girl's gotta make do.

Babies 101

I've hit that magical age where everyone I know is getting frothed up in lace and wed, or procreating. As such, my life is full of showers and registries and very precious gift wrap.

When I start to feel angsty about it, my mother reminds me that someday, I too will get to haul a scanner gun around the Bay and select homegoods, towels, and other grown up things that my distant relatives will feel obligated to purchase for me. What fun.

But after the gift giving and cute little party games and drunken debauchery involving driving to Edmonton (of all places) for a Bachelor party (gross), real life sinks in and our friends are faced with the realization that they are a) Married or b) Parents.

If B is the option selected, well ho! What sleepless fun abounds!

Eventually, a few weeks pass and they trot out the little bundle of joy to their single urban amigos inner city barbecue party and watch the awkwardness ensue.

So, to help my peers get through this life stage, here is a field guide I put together, titled, "How to Approach a Baby in Your Own Home". Enjoy.


1. You have spotted a baby! Congratulations. Please mix yourself a strong alcoholic beverage. You'll need it.


2. Approach the baby from the side. Allow it to become accustomed to your scent. Remember, they look cute, but they can smell your fear.


3. Moving slowly, scoop the baby into your lap. It might help to make a weird face and point at random things in the distance, as to confuse and distract the baby.


4. At this point, if you feel a rapport has been developed with the baby, you may move into a full-frontal snuggle. However, don't be alarmed if baby confuses you with its mother and attempts to get to second base.


5. By now, you have bonded with baby. But no bogarting that tot! Time to pass baby off on your unsuspecting partner!!

Sunday nights are alright for mind-numbing bloggery

There are some really unfortunate times in life to be bored. On a fourth date, for example.

By the fourth date, one should have figured out if they are interested in actually "dating" someone. You've become invested enough to enter someone's contact info into your phone, you've referred to them in conversation with your friends by just their name, not by "___, the guy/gal I'm seeing", you've shared numerous things including several meals, likes and dislikes, and potentially a toothbrush (but not me, that's weird, and also, I'm a devout Catholic. Minus the living-together-before-marriage thing. UNLESS we actually ARE married. Wouldn't that throw you all for a loop?).

But if it occurs to you on date four that your paramour is already boring...my friend, you have a long and desperate road ahead. Now you're facing a real 'break up' scenario. You're a jerk if you end it abruptly on date four, using my favourite tactic of "Fade Away", whereby you merely fade. away.

Someone pulled the Fade Away on me once after three months of dating, and the words I refer to that gent as in my own head are none too kind and would probably get me excommunicated.

But I digress.

Fourth date. Bad time to be bored.

An equally bad time to be bored? The fifth inning of a baseball game.

You've got a loooong way to go, brother. You haven't even reached the bit where you're allowed to stretch yet.

Let's see. During an exam. Bad time to be bored.

During an awards ceremony that you are hosting. Not an ideal situation to experience ennui.

As a contestant on Jeopardy.

As a member of a bridal party DURING the ceremony.

Oh, and at 10:30 or so on a Sunday night when you don't work the next day.

Too early to go to bed, too late to start to do anything. And if you're me, your roommate/domestic partner/boyfriend/secret hubby/whatevs is getting up at 4:45 to go to the gym and told you, without actually using words because that would be cruel, to stop squirming and sighing and tossing around in bed already and go out to the living room where you can be awake and LEAVE HIM ALONE.

This sucks. I'd ALMOST rather be on a mind-numbing fourth date right now. ALMOST, because while I wouldn't have to be verrrry verrrry quiet...I would be on a crappy fourth date, listening to some dude tell me some lame story about his childhood experiences with the neighbour girl and how they shaped his attitude towards women, lemon gin and the Liberal party. True story. That was one relationship that was clearly going nowhere.

The Butterball is landing

Ladies and Gentlemen, brace yourselves:

A baby is coming to visit our apartment.

The apartment Gary and I live in is quite possibly the least baby and child friendly place in the entire universe. We live on the 23rd floor. It's full of expensive, jaggedy electronics and a floor-to-ceiling unsecured bookcase.

Not to mention the magnetic knife rack gracing the kitchen.

I have visions of a wee toddling tyke stabbing himself, tipping over hundreds of heavy dvds onto his head, and then pitching headfirst through the patio door off the balcony.

Fortunately said tyke is 2 months old, and Gary assures me he's not walking yet. I still have time to baby-proof this shack up.

For now, I'm just making sure all the liquor is out of reach. Babies are wiley little things. You can never be too sure...