Peeeeeves

There is an automatic, motion-sensor air freshener device in the bathroom at my office.

It's a great idea in theory. I appreciate always walking in to a fresh loo, and with 10-15 of us using one biffy all day long, it makes a difference in the quality of life at work.

But the unfortunate side of this is that every single time I open the bathroom door, I get hit with a fresh burst of aerosol scent. This means that I spend most of the day smelling like 'clean laundry' or 'spring rain', or what is essentially the smell everyone associates with covering up poo odors.

I try so hard to be a grown up lady. Seriously. I do. Why, Universe, must you make it so difficult for me?

Frustration. In bulk.

Dear nice man standing behind me in line at Costco,

I'm just trying to buy my netbook, giant container of kraft parm cheese dust, multipack of yoga pants and case of pineapple. Why must you continue whistling Que Sera, Sera over and over and OVER again?

I compliment your ability to whistle in perfect pitch, but FORTHELOVEOFGOD, it took all my willpower not to turn around and smack you.

Gary was already embarrassed enough with all the crazy eyes I was tossing out in your direction.

Do me a favour and don't make me shove my 1.99 all-beef hot dog of deliciousness somewhere unpleasant. I'll show YOU a whistle!

Hugs and Kisses,

Megan

Great Ball of Light-Energy

This afternoon I went for a massage.

I was never a person who liked to be touched. I'm still not a hugger, unless you're in my inner-circle of hugdom. I like my personal space, and two years ago, the idea of stripping naked and having a stranger rub me down with oil would have made me throw up.

It still makes me panic, a little bit, when I think about it. But I try to focus on the good, the relaxation, the physical working out of kinks, and by some miracle of God, I don't hurl on the massage table.

That's progress.

But anyway, I've been going to a massage therapist to work on some back and neck pain I've been experiencing.

Today, as the excruciating pain of having really firm pressure applied to really tense hip muscles seared through my body, I tried to imagine the pain as a great big glowing ball. I focused on my breathing to relax my muscles and I let go of the glowing pain-ball.

(Okay, I totally got that off someone's annoying mommyblog as a description of labour pains. But whatev, I stored it in my mental file and pulled it out when it seemed appropriate. Don't judge me for using random knowledge to my advantage!)

This is when I realized that for the first time in my life, I was experiencing, and not ignoring, the actual physical pain of stress, and that I was letting the great glowing stress ball go.

And so I inhaled more heeby-jeeby aromatherapy hippy oils, breathed in deeply through my nose, and let go of that ball. That ball of guilt, of indecision, of self-doubt and pity and "feeling bad" and caring too much about an entity that would, given the opportunity, use me up and spit me out without a second thought.

Aaaaaaahhhhh.

And wouldn't you know it - I feel miles better. I bet I'll feel even better after a cold, frosty beer.

Massages, holistic therapies and mild alcohol abuse. That, my friends, is the best Friday-night therapy money can buy. Though I'm a bit concerned that the black spruce oil might have gotten to me brains a little bit.

Likes and Dislikes of a Megan

This weekend in Vancouver I discovered that I'm really, really not fond of sassy restaurant servers.

I don't need colour commentary about the fact that I'm dining alone, wry quips about whether or not I'll be able to consume an entire plate of pancakes (I can, for what it's worth) and attitude about the amount of coffee I drink.

I was never a waitress, and I'm sure it's a rough gig, but seriously. Shut up, bring me my eggs, leave me alone. I'm clearly busy enjoying my own company and reading the Arts and Leisure section of the paper.

I do, however, appreciate the energy and humour of WestJet Flight Attendants.

Let's get this Boeing going. Hilarious.

Enable me

A liquor store is opening across the street from our apartment building.

I've never lived across the street from a liquor store. I've lived beside gas stations and a half block from coffee shops and for 18 years, 57 footsteps from the school I attended from Kindergarten to Grade 12.

This new business could not open at a more opportune time. The past week saw acceptance of a job offer, resignation from my current position, a flight across the country to handle our production and a major VIP event - being the opening night of the Vancouver 2010 Cultural Olympiad - and struggles with a swirling mess of emotions unlike anything I've ever encountered in my life.

While the responsible thing to do would be rise from the ashes, shake myself off, pull my personal relationships and life back together and move on in shining, relieved, stable glory, the realistic thing I'll be doing for the next 2 and a half weeks is collapsing on the couch in exhaustion, catching my breath and unwinding with the assistance of a few bottles of pinot noir.

That I no longer need to actually put on shoes to go purchase. Hallelujah! I'm finally becoming that crazy person in the bottle-o wearing bedroom slippers. My parents are so proud.

NoMoo!

Tonight sirens, flashing lights and crowds cheered as I served dinner.

Well, actually, they cheered as the Olympic torch passed our apartment - a total surprise, because without tv we miss out on most of the crazy on-goings in the city, unless we seek them out. It was really cool to watch the torch pass by, standing on the balcony in our bare feet while spinach wilted in peanut sauce on the stove.

The first time I ever heard of tofu I was in grade four. I had to ask what it was, and it remained a mysterious substance until I left Bugtussle for the big city.

Of course, I promptly went out and purchased some to prove that I was a BIG CITY GIRL. And then I had no idea what to do with it. So I let it go bad, and threw it out.

But tonight I bit the bullet. Tofu-free no more.

And to tell you the truth, I actually enjoyed it. Despite the fact that this entree contained no meat, it was satisfying, tasty, and the texture didn't make me gag. It's not going to become a favourite, but it's worth a try if you're looking for something new that won't blow your mind on a post-work Monday evening.

Oh, and it's heaaaalthy.


(Recipe from Chatelaine, Jan 2010 issue. Yes, I read Chatelaine. Sod off.)

Spicy Peanut Tofu and Spinach Stir-fry

1/2 cup (125 mL) orange juice
1/3 cup (75 mL) smooth all-natural peanut butter
1/3 cup (75 mL) vegetable broth or teriyaki sauce, preferably low-sodium
2 tbsp (30 mL) hot chili-garlic sauce
454-g pkg extra-firm tofu
1 red pepper
6-oz (170-g) bag baby spinach

In a small bowl, whisk juice with peanut butter, broth and chili-garlic sauce until mixed. Set aside. Slice tofu into thin, french-fry-sized sticks. Slice pepper into thick strips.

Lightly coat a large frying pan with oil (or if you've got a non-stick wok, skip it) and set over medium-high heat. When hot, add tofu and pepper. Gently stir-fry until tofu is hot and pepper is tender, 3 to 5 min. Don’t worry if tofu breaks a bit. Stir in sauce and spinach. Remove from heat and stir until spinach is just wilted. Serve over cooked couscous or rice.

Kids today?

At Chapters on Sunday morning I purchased a new paperback and a bookmark I found particularly inspiring.

Usually I use one of my business cards as a bookmark, though lately I've been using one from the Women's Health Clinic on 17th avenue to mark my spot in whatever frothy romance novel I've been reading.

But this slim wooden bookmark with a quote that manages to be inspiriational but not"hang in there, baby!" caught my fancy. It has a dangly little bead on it I like the texture of it, it's soothing and calming and not bulky to warp the pages.

But when I took it out of its little package, I noticed the warning on the back.

Not for children under the age of 12.

And it made me wonder...do 11 year olds still put small objects in their mouths and noses?

Or is it the somewhat depressing "our greatest glory is not in never falling, but getting up when we do" that is pre-teen inappropriate?

Rom-Vom, or, Let Me Save You a Few Bucks on that Next Rental

This week I had the pleasure of watching two films with two friends. Because a cliche is nothing but the honest truth most of the time, both of these chick-flick outings involved eating a meal comprised solely of junk food - specifically, a salty carby treat and something made entirely of sugar.

Over a scrumptious dinner of buttered popcorn and plain M&M's, my friend Dana and I caught a Thursday night showing of the new Amy Adams film, Leap Year.

Skip it.

Unless, of course, you like pretty pictures of Ireland, drool-worthy shoes, Boston condo porn, total and utterly predictable 'plot twists' and hot Irish dudes who work in a pub.

Now that I think of it like that, it was pretty satisfying.

But yesterday. Whooo, yesterday.

Amanda and I went out for a pub lunch and then settled in on couch island for a ripple-chip and gummi pig matinee of the new Alexis Bledel feature, Post Grad.

SERIOUSLY SKIP IT.

There's nothing more depressing than a movie about a quarter-life crisis than a BAD movie about a quarter-life crisis, wherein I found myself watching the STORY OF MY OWN NAIVE LIFE circa 2006-2008.

Unfortunately, this movie also featured several disjointed subplots that taught us life lessons like "eating your feelings solves your problems!"; "sure, that cute guy friend you've felt nothing but platonic about will wait around for like, a decade, for you to pull your head out of your ass and realize he's about the best thing going"; "just wait, your dreams really WILL come true, with minimum effort and compromise on your part, if you just BELIEVE in yourself" and "over-the-top romantic gestures (like, say, flying across the country unannounced to profess your undying love) always, and I mean, ALWAYS, turn out well!"

Great.

Now I'm all worked up about it.

I'm going to go eat my feelings now. And then I'm going to watch some TRUSTED chick flickery. And eat something made entirely of sugar.