Saturday, March 31, 2007

Shopping is Hazardous

Saturday, March 31, 2007
But not only to the wallet.

Imagine if you will my awkward predicament when I found myself stuck today.

Not stuck in a parking stall like usual, because the intrepid is so damn huge that I need three or four navigational beacons and a stunt driver to get out of a standard sized parking spot.

Not stuck in mud, like when I was wee and my Dad had to lift me out of my boots and carry me into the house- I can only imagine how well it would go down if I called Lauren one day from outside the house...

"Hey, Diggs, um...I'm stuck in a mud puddle, can you come haul me out of it?"

No, instead, I was shopping for a sports bra and got stuck.

I decided this morning post-elliptical that perhaps the time had come to get rid of the calvin klein undergarment that served me so well through years and years of high school volleyball, basketball, badminton, track and field and phys ed. I mean, I'm almost 23. It deserves a rest.

So I ventured out, made the brave step into the Lululemon, and disaster struck.

One arm straight up in the air, wedged firmly against my ear, the other sort of bent at an awkward angle in front of my head, and nothing is budging. There I am, half topless in the fitting room, an $80 piece of fabric wrapped around my body and slowly cutting off circulation to my brain. I'm going to die like this, I think, and my family will have to fly back from paradiso and be all bitter, so bitter that they don't cut me out of this damn thing and they stick me in the ground, half nude and red in the face from all the effort.

Now does one call for help in this situation?

Oh no.

One throws oneself on the ground, squirming, a muffled "ohnoI'mfinethanks" when the sales assistant comes to offer half-assed assistance, tugging with the one arm and flailing like a dying fish with the other.

But I got out, the damn thing twisted inside out, huffing and puffing and causing quite the scene when I threw it at the mirror and hightailed it out of the damn store before you could say 'badminton racket'.

Maybe I'm not so cut out for sports.

Where The Boys Are, and Why I'm Too Terrified To Do Anything About It

This evening, after a viewing of what actually is the BEST. MOVIE. EVER. (Blades of Glory for those of you not so good with the keeping up with the Megan) I discovered where in town all of the attractive, mid-twenties-to-early-thirties dudes hang out. Apparently they all keep up appearances at one of my Local Pubs. Just not the one I ever go to. Because it's not MY local.

Because all the reasonably hot straight dudes hang out there.

So the Chapmaneroniopoluses, Kim and I enter, get a table, bitch about the acoustics and lack of fun. I'm pretty sure that I was noticeably more awkward than usual.

I don't go to places with lots of dudes. Because then there is actually a remote chance that one of them might notice that I exist, and then I'll try to get all smooth and chatty, trip on my own awkwardness like a pair of cheap shoelaces (not the day-glo curly elasticy ones) and get horrifically rejected. It's all in the name of self-preservation, one can not have me if I don't hang out in places where one offers oneself up for option.

And so we left, and wandered, and squandered the remaining fun, and closed down most of the 'hood.

But the movie-

the movie!


Thursday, March 29, 2007

Too Many Hours in the Day

Thursday, March 29, 2007
Gawd. I really wonder what people did to occupy all the working hours in the day before the internets were invented.

I have this problem, see. I work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. I've been doing such for over 9 months now.

I'm a natural procrastinator. A natural procrastinator who finished her degree in 4 years. Which must mean that logically, this natural procrastinator is pretty good at quickly finishing her work to reasonable quality at the very last moment.

Now I find myself in an environment with fewer deadlines, more work, and a never-ending cycle of "rush to finish everything by Wednesday, have nothing to do for the rest of the week"

For the first 8 months, it was fine. I mean, there was that 6 week period of time I don't want to talk about because it's too soon and it was traumatically busy. But now, I'm so...desperately bored.

I've blogged. I've trawled the blogosphere. I've facebooked for hours. I've read scripts, handbooks, old files.

But I definitely don't want to appear as if I don't have anything to do...because I do. I just do it quickly.

HELP ME. I'm DESPERATE. How do I learn to do my work at a slower pace so I actually have something to do all week??

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Just Another Day in My Fabulous Life...

Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Overheard at tv station to remain nameless (maybe Channel 8 in Calgarah):

Gee, you know what would really jazz up the segment we're running on that Theatre Company's season launch?


Sometimes it's so hard being me.

Oh, the Joy!

I don't think you could ever understand exactly how happy this makes me.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Danger, Will Robinson

Monday, March 26, 2007
So this weekend I saw a deeply disturbing (the pc way of saying really effed up...) play about killing children. You may say to yourselves, "Selves! Is there not anything Megan would delight in more than the maiming and slaying of her greatest foes, the childrens?" but you may be surprised to know that you would be wrong.

So wrong, in fact, that last night I slept with the light on and this morning I was almost having a panic attack in the shower, scared to close my eyes for fear that someone would leap out from behind the curtain and cut my toes off or bury me alive or shove razor blades down my throat, and there I'd be, all burried alive and choking on razor blades, with no toes and no way to run away- plus, I'd be all wet and cold and nude. Not fun.

Needless to say, I was petrified.

So now to add to my angst about heading towards the land of grocery pull-trolleys on the bus and sagging stockings and hideous shoes, I have to worry about being maimed and tortured in the comfort of my own home as I round the bend into Eleanor Rigbyville. Dying alone is one thing, but nothing is more perilous than dying alone with a vivid imagination.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Burnout, Baby

Sunday, March 25, 2007
That's it. I'm done. No more. Can't take it.

I hereby pledge to go a full week- seven days!- without any theatre. I will not attend any productions outside of work-related commitments between the hours of 9-5. No plays, no performance art, nothing with lights and costumes and lines and audiences and sound cues; nor will I expose myself to anything that butchers any combination of the above.

I'm out, folks. No more. One week.

Blades of Glory, there has never been a time in my life when I've needed you more. Hurry up and get here!

Friday, March 23, 2007

What's New?

Friday, March 23, 2007
Not a lot.

Going to excessive lengths to see even more theatre, because god knows I just don't get enough art in my life.

Made fish. You can read about it and see pictures here

Counting down the days until Blades of Glory.

I'm boring...

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Return of Train PDA: Teenage Gothic

Tuesday, March 20, 2007
A few months ago, I was outraged. Now I'm just disgusted and confused.

This morning, I sat directly across from a gross teen couple making kissy faces at each other on the train.

No, if they had just been making kissy faces, perhaps I would have just been bitter. This was far worse. Far, far worse.

Imagine,if you will, a long-haired teen boy, with blond roots but dirty stinky black dyed hair,picking the nose of his female companion (same hair style, but with less eyeliner)with his tongue Then, if you will grant me such liberties, imagine that he STICKS. HIS. TONGUE. IN. HER. EYE.

I don't get it. Is that supposed to be hot; intended to get one's juices flowing first thing in the morning? Is this something the kids are into now, and this is hammering the nail into the lid of the casket bearing the cold corpse of my hipper, younger self?

Who am I kidding, I was never hip.

You know what gets me going in the morning? The prospect of crawling back under the covers BY MY SELF.

Also, a really great brunch.

But definitely- definitely not someone sticking their germy ass Gothic-bedecked silver-dragon-handled-cane-bearing tongue up my nose and then into my eye ball.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better...

Monday, March 19, 2007
How did you spend your Saint Patrick's Day?

Eschewing the asshattery of the whoo-yahs out on the street, Lauren and I opted for the untraditional and bellied up to the booze at Julio's Barrio. In the tradition of my parental units, we layered on the ole!

First up: What's green?

Not the cerveza verde, my friends, but a healthy dose of limey goodness. Hola, Margaritas!

Next on the docket- the "asiatic v", also known as a tourista hand sign. Holla! Also, guacamole. Mmm, guacamole. (on nachos, not by the spoonful- I'm not that into the guacamole)

Another round of margaritas, this time in pink, to match my lushy-flushed mug.

See, it's not only Snowflake and Senor Ping who can party it up south-of-the-border style!

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Unposted: December 1, 2006

Saturday, March 17, 2007
I threw out your toothbrush today.

I took the train home. I sat by the door, swaying as it lurched and started, stopped and stalled. Beautiful women, tired, middle aged men, gender-neutrals smelling faintly of urine and sweat sat with me. I sat and thought of how last night, too good for tears caused by you, I prayed. Out loud, to a God not forgotten nor discredited, but put aside years ago. I prayed that one day I'd love someone, that the hurt and the pain caused by the drop and shatter of my heart would cease and I wouldn't hate you anymore. I prayed that God would forgive me, forgive me enough to let me forgive you.

I'm not sure if He listens, late at night, to misguided Catholic girls who disobey, then beg for salvation.

I thought about this on the train, on the walk up Gladstone. The neighbour was stringing bright green lights on the shrub outside his door. Too green, too bright. The new lights, the LED ones they sell at Canadian Tire and Superstore and every Walmart in the city- while they shine brightly, do nothing to remind me of the holidays of my childhood. Too bright for my golden, soft-focus memories, fabricated or not.

My ears were frozen, my pink hat strewn across the living room the night before.

In the steaming shower, water running over my head and down my back, I bit my tongue and thought of a thousand ways to tell you to fuck off.

Wrapped in a towel, smoothing lotion down my legs, I leaned over, opened the drawer. Pulled out the only thing of yours left.

And dropped it in the garbage can.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Father Figure

Friday, March 16, 2007
That's right, you just try getting that George Michael song out of your head now...

Seeing as how my own family has deserted me during this, the most stressful year of my life to date, I have been forced to reach out and adopt a foster family. I have assigned close friends with family-type roles, whether they realize it or not.

And lo, JC has become my father figure, full of sage and logical advise about things like career and goals. Lauren and Bree are kind of like my sisters- if I had sisters, I guess. My own brother is actually on the scene, but I don't see him so much. I'm currently motherless, however, and accepting applications...and Lady Rose is sort of like a hip aunt. Hip like, gets you drunk and listens to your whining, not hip like replacement.

So, no longer am I familyless and deserted. If only I could convince someone to bankroll my lifestyle, blood related or not...

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Stop. Think. Consider the Consequences, THEN Write.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I frequently practice self-censorship. I write dozens of blog posts that don't ever end up online. I frequently save drafts of emails before I send them. I write, stop, edit, erase, and sometimes, save for purposes of later reflecting on my momentary passion and insanity.

But sometimes I become so paralyzingly anxious about my writing ability that I self-edit to the point of not having anything to say. That's why I have not updated le blag of late- I have things to say, but I'm so afraid that if I actually post them here, I'll reveal a side of Megan that I'm not really sure I want you all to know.

Audible sigh.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Cut Out The Middleman

Friday, March 09, 2007
I will admit, before I proceed with this post, that I got up on the Cranky Side of the bed this morning. It is possible that I am just bitter and tired and therefore am viewing things through a bitter and tired lens, but this is my blog and you read it and therefore I can do whatever I want, including write in a bitchy, condescending and impatient tone. I need not remind most people that I inherited not the patience and grace of my Grandma Clara.

So. On with the goods.

1. When I say to you, "I loved your show", and in response you say to me, "I like your shirt", why don't you just come right out and say what you mean, which is "I like your boobs", and then I can get on with my awkward stuttering and mildly offended-ness elsewhere. Like by the cheese platter.

2. When I say to you, "He-ey! Loong time no see!" which is obviously me trying desperately to rack my brain to remember your name and the name of your companion, please don't launch directly into a tale of how you are living in a home with a mirrored elevator. That's distracting me from remembering your name. Just say your name. Talk in the third person. I do it all the time. It's what the cool kids are doing. Or I'll be forced to call you Borris. And you will like it.

3. When waiting in line at my hallowed hall of peace, also known as the Starbucks in the Marriott, don't bitch about how it's a shitty Starbucks because they move so slow and it's not really even a reaaaaal starbucks after all, it's one of the shady 'retail starbucks' and they don't train their baristas well.

DUDE. I see those Baristas more than I see most of my friends and all of my family. It's not called the "Shady Retail Starbucks", it's a "Concept Store", and the freaking line would move at a much brisker pace if assholes like you weren't ordering ELEVEN coffees for their chumpesque coworkers. Tell Bob from Accounts Receiveable and Nancy in HR to go get their own damn extra-hot-no-foam-organic-soy-chai-lattes. And, if you could, please take your business to the Bankers' Hall Starbucks. I want nothing to do with you, and you are ruining my day.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Such a Lovely Way to Start The Day

Thursday, March 08, 2007
On my morning tromp from my house to the train station, I almost always stop at Second Cup for coffee. On my morning train ride from Sunnyside to Centre Street, I almost always spill said coffee on myself and/or others. This morning, however, was a grand exception.

It's a lovely morning, and Breanne and I are walking through Olympic Plaza Park on the way to the office, catching up on the previous evening's events and television. Breanne slips on the ice that deceptively appears to have melted, but is still, in fact, slippery slippery ice. She narrowly avoids the fall and catches herself and we laugh.

Oh, how heartily we laugh.

15 feet later, I slip, and fall, and skin my knee, and drop my purse, and splay awkwardly across the pavement, and once again, we heartily laugh, for it was embarrassing and there is much pedestrian traffic.

But let it be known that I did not spill my coffee, for my buffed core developed through hours and hours and hours (about 4) of Pilates practice has left me graceful with perfect posture and a flexible and healthy spine.

And apparently, an improved golf swing. Dad, you should look into this Pilates thing.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Okay, Vacay

Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Alright. My parents seem to think I need to go on vacation. I feel I agree. Unfortunately, I only get two weeks of paid vacation a year (then again, at least I get paid vacation...) so I must use it (and the money I will recieve for not evading taxes) wisely.

So, blogfriends, should I:

1. Go to Europe (thinking London or Italy) for 8 days.
2. Go to a warm resort-type location for 8 days.
3. Go to Montreal, Quebec City or Toronto for 8 days.

Help me decide!

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


Tuesday, March 06, 2007
So now I'm all post-partum about the Festival; on one hand, I'm so happy it's over, and that I get my life back and I might start sleeping regularly again- but on the other, the very thing that consumed my entire being for nearly two months is over. I feel like I did when I finished my last exam at the U of C- thrilled but exhausted and sort of unsure about what's happening next.

I feel like now would be a good time to sit down and set some new goals for the rest of the year. Re-evaluate a little. Motivate myself to try some new things. Clean my desk. Do my taxes.

Any suggestions?

Monday, March 05, 2007

Blacklisted (or, The Things I Missed)

Monday, March 05, 2007
What do you do when you feel you've disrupted the natural Karmic balance of the universe? When maybe you've done or said something that could destroy the hard work of someone else? When one single comment can derail years of hard work; a comment with no real basis or reason, just a stupid grudge because someone can be a petty brat sometimes...

Well, you suck it up and subject yourself to that person's work to make SURE that your petty comment isn't really going to destroy someone's future, that they did a pretty damn good job mucking it up on their own.

Thank the universe that was the case, or I'd be in for it.

Now for the Melodramatic Subtitle part of the post?

A list of things I missed desperately in the past 5 weeks:

1. My Friends. I missed you. I missed you all. I cannot believe how much I missed you, and it's stupidly sappy, but I am so relieved that we can go sit in pubs and eat beef dips and rock out once again. Thank. God.

2. Eating the four food groups.

3. Leisurely walks.

4. My friends.

5. Reading trashy magazines and listening to music for an hour with no pressure.

6. Just. Sitting. Still.

7. Movies and TV with little substance.

Thank god I had this modestly amusing blog to get me through the hard times- you know, it's the kind that's only sort of amusing so it don't mess around with other bloggers...

And Then...

You turn around and spend 9 hours in that very bar that makes you feel so awkward, because the Festival is over and you survived it.

In fact, you are still standing, speaking English, employed AND spent less than $20 in that nine-hour period of bar time.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Why I'm So Awkward, And Other Stories

Saturday, March 03, 2007
Okay. I don't do so well at bars. I can't handle the 'networking' and 'chatting' and 'schmoozing' in a crowded space, where the natural heirarchy is so obvious and everyone has sinister ulterior motives. I don't understand exactly why I can function well- often, extremely well- at a house party or pub or even large gathering in space that is not a bar, but as soon as I cross over into the land of stools, tables, low lighting and loud music, I shut down.

I have nothing to say. I am so past the point in my life where I talk merely for the sake of talking- and 90% of the time, at a certain bar, I feel like nothing I have to contribute to any conversation is of merit or value, and therefore I shouldn't say it- furthermore, I shouldn't really even be there. I'm a poseur of the highest order- a corporate souless chump in artsy clothing. Or, if not artsy clothing, because I'm so often poorly put together (I like to sleep in until the very last moment, okay?! I always have, and I have no intentions of changing it, so get used to my shabby looks!).

Maybe I'm like a pair of sturdy workboots surrounded by sexy strapy high-heeled party shoes. All function, no flash.

What a reversal. 2 years ago, I used to complain about not being taken seriously, about the fact that I felt I was 'on display' and that people only kept me around because I was moderately entertaining at times; a piece of outrageous fluff, fun to have around on occasion.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

In Like A Lion...

Thursday, March 01, 2007
Do you ever have those days that end with a glance in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste and the realization that you looked like hell all day and didn't even realize it?!

I swear, I looked in the mirror this morning at 8:30 and thought "okay, that's passable", but by the time I got home after 10:30 this evening, that was not the case. I need a haircut, to not wear my shapeless black Jacob sweater and jeans I bought at Costco ever, ever again. Take them away. Hide them. Mark them permanently with suspicious yogurt stains, fray the hems, rip holes in the armpits!

(there actually is a hole in the armpit of that sweater. That's why it was only $10)

But then god only knows what I'd show up in- probably my grey Spartans sweatsuit circa grade 9. Oooh, elastic at the ankles. Hot.

In other news, walking down the block at night, softly singing "If I Were A Carpenter" and twirling about in the snow is a lovely way to end a day- almost makes up for looking like crapola while doing it.