Last night I dreamt that I was trying to convince everyone that I had written a series of well-known bestselling novels. I cannot decide if this is better or worse than trying to convince everyone that I invented post-it notes.
Okay. Look. I feel really bad. It's not a natural thing for me to appear that I hate children, and I realize that I'm alienating most of the people in the world, but duuuuude. I swear, I could have killed YOU this afternoon, at about 6:15 pm MST.
I know that you have to transport your childrens across the country somehow, and lord bless you, you didn't want to drive in the interest of time or your own sanity. But for future reference, I am providing a succinct list of things that need to be considered when travelling with your spawn in cramped quarters with others, in the interest of THEIR time and sanity.
Apparently a well-used tactic to appease those babes of yours who have to sit still for more than five minutes is to surprise them with new and different toys at regular intervals during the flight. Cool! New books! A new doll! A hot-wheels for every day of the week! Groovy. Toys that talk, spin, talk, screech, spin with lights, talk, or make noise of any kind are NOT APPROPRIATE. I did not bring a personal set of speakers to listen to an NC-17 Rated movie on the plane, nor am I sujecting you to four hours of Disco Heat Hits. Also, I have an exceptionally short attention span, too, and I sure as hell didn't get any new toys.
Asking for nine glasses of apple juice for a child that is approximately knee high to a grasshopper is going to result in several trips with said locust-height child to the bathroom. Unpleasant for you, unpleasant for me because I have to keep moving so you can get past me, unpleasant for the flight attendants who are just trying, for the love of god, to do their jobs.
God invented Gravol for a reason. Dope those kids UP.
Hugs and Kisses,
Meg, Who Smiled Through Her Pain and Wished for Some Ever-Loving Gravol
Today the line between being a civilized and functioning adult and stripping my tights off in the lobby of my office tower, twirling them around my head and screaming, "take THAT, patriarchy!" became very thin.
About a month ago, I cut off the cable in my house.
It's funny, i didn't realize exactly how much time I wasted sitting in front of that stupid box, while elsewhere, the world was happening WITHOUT ME. Yes, now that I don't watch television, I'm much more mindful of my time, and use every minute to it's full advantage. Seize the day, Bailey! Live your life! Do something astonishing, and mezmerising, and full of thrill and vigor! Something like...
Surfing the interwebs. Because that's a worthwhile pursuit if ever there was one.
Dear Cute Blockbuster Guy (not to be confused with Not Cute Blockbuster Guy),
I'm sorry I couldn't hang around and talk about James Spader movies with you tonight. I seriously would have, if I wasn't so late already in picking up my takeout order from the Tandoori Hut. I mean, that naan is only good hot, y'know?
And please don't judge me based on my movie choices. I swear to god, I rented The Notebook for someone else. Um, the someone else who occasionally inhabits my body and mind. Okay, I rented it for me, and yes, I've had that damn copy of that stupid Cameron Diaz movie that I didn't even WATCH since February, but dude, your store is like THREE QUARTERS of a BLOCK away from my house! It's so far! I didn't make a fuss about paying the late fees, so uh...wanna hang out sometime?
Hugs and Kisses,
PS- How do you stand working with Not Cute Blockbuster Guy? Seriously, does he need to comment on every single movie rented by someone? And does he have to say Kirsten Dunst and then sort of make that weird panting vibrato noise? Like, "ooohhhhhh, Mark Ruffalo" except substitute Kiki's name in there for Mark Ruffalo (oooohhhhh, prrrreeoooowww). Ruffalo.
PPS- I promise that this time I'll bring my movies back. On time. Ish.
Is delicious. Especially when you live alone- because you can put whatever the heck you want on there. No weird chicken, or strange sauces (bbq? alfredo? wtf?) or salad-type options. I'm a prairie girl, I want my pizza with meat, cheese, and mushrooms.
I would like to know why the sound of rain makes me feel cold. Why the smell of slightly stale popcorn reminds me of football. Why I can never keep track of the lip balm I carry with me in every pocket.
I've said it like three times today, to different people, but I feel that it's worth repeating.
I knew the learning curve would be steep, but this is very much like pressing my nose against a tall vertical wall, with nothing but up and nowhere to stop to catch my breath.
Thank god for suction cup spiderman powers and a life motto that depends on making bold, marvellous, gloriously catastrophic mistakes.
In other news, there is nothing better than sliding out of summer (Idon'twannatalkabouthowitsnowedtoday) with one last hit to the Farmers' Market down my street for peaches and blackberries, which then became the most awesome crumble (Amanda...you know the one...) and which I am currently eating. Mmm, crumbly.
Say you get home from out of town at about 9:30pm. Whatever, it could be 8, it could be 11, it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that it's way past dinner time, it's late and you're really tired.
So you get home, fling off your jacket and put the stuff in your suitcase away and wander into the kitchen. Oh, but nothing lives in the fridge. Surprise! The Kitchen Gnomes did not sneak in while you were gone and refil the fridge with lasagna, or delicious baklava, or anything, really. Nothing in there is appealing, least of which the leftovers from before you yourself left, or the milk that went off while you were away.
So what does that bring us to? No freezer backups, no bread, no peanut butter. There's a box of KD and some margarine.
But it's 10:30 pm, and you know that if you eat a box of KD this close to bedtime that you will not be a happy camper.
But day-am! The last time you ate was at lunch! And airplanes don't have food anymore!
What to do? Go to bed hungry, or risk the orange-fuelled lucid nightmares?
Things I have learned about business travel so far (please keep in mind that this is only my second time travelling for business, but I'll be doing it often so get used to this theme).
1. Be really, really, reaaaalllllly nice to the check-in desk people, the concierge and the check-out desk people. Also, the people that deliver your room service, the bellhop, the doormen, and the chambermaids. Because you never know when you're going to have to ask stupid questions, or beg for a free toothbrush because you forgot yours at home (again, for the nine millionth time). Asking for something or looking stupid is forgiven quite quickly when you're a nice person.
2. The hotel lounge will usually have a jazz piano player, and he appreciates your groovin' as much as you appreciate his tunesin'. So if you dig what he's puttin' down, show it. If not, keep your mouth shut and utilise the in-room minibar.
3. Things in the in-room minibar cost about eight times their street value. But nothing says "Hey, bitches, I've made it!" like twelve dollars worth of bottled water at eleven pm on a Tuesday night.
4. Rooms that come with a hair dryer and an ironing board for your use are cool- rooms that come with a robe, an umbrella, and slippers are SUPER cool. And SUPER COOL things don't need to make their way into your suitcase...
5. On that note, you don't really need to take the little soap home with you.
6. $25 croissants are just better. Can't explain it. But they are.
Here I am, writing to you from my hotel room in beautiful downtown Vancouver. I'm wearing a hotel-provided robe, sitting in a swanky hotel-provided chair and about to go down and dine in the ritzy hotel lounge and listen to some hotel-approved jazz. Oh, this is the life, she says, business travel when someone else is paying.
That said, I was up at 4:30am to catch my flight here, and then worked a solid day with a whirlwind of meetings. Jesus christ, were there a lot of meetings.
But the Megan is settling in nicely here. I would not be surprised, blogfriends, if perhaps the home base of this blog went west-coast. And soon.
I feel like anytime something exciting or novel or even just good happens to me, I have to reign in my enthusiasm. When did it become so uncool to be excited?
For example: let’s say that I’m going on a date with someone. Well, god forbid I get excited and raise my expectations a little! That might jinx it! Or make me look stupid, or like a naïve believer in fairy-tales! While I don’t think that it would be healthy or productive to flounce around in a princess hat (you know, the pointy ones) all day, waiting for Prince Not-Completely-A-Loser to show up on his white steed (maybe those hats look like dunce caps for a reason), I wonder why we have to be so cynical all the time. Why does hope have to be such a bad thing?
And say we’re doing something new. Like going back to school, or thinking about starting a family, or even planning for a new career. What would be so harmful in hoping for the best? In enjoying what you’re doing? In focusing on the positive parts of the day and the task at hand, not the negatives?
This is my new challenge: be unabashedly hopeful. Hello, rose coloured glasses, adieu sarcastic smirk.
Chockablock full of crazies, and hipsters and underaged kids soliciting for cigarettes and booze; with high end shoppes and ye olde pubbes and three gelato serveries, my neighbourhood is a special place.
A place where the air smells like cupcakes on my morning walk to work, but by five they're frying fish and chips. I know where the cupcakes live, but the halibut is a mysterious scent. Doesn't matter- my house smells like cheap vanilla candles.
No matter the weather, there will always be someone parading about in a halter top and miniskirt, or on the flip, a pair of skinny skinny jeans, a leather jacket and a ski touque.
The houses around mine are built to look old, but they finished construction three weeks ago. My safe little street, stripped of a Christian name and numbered like the others around it is closed on one end to protect the innocents. I'm okay with that.
When I'm an septuagenarian, I'm spending my days in fiendish wigs and bejewelled sunglasses, drinking espresso con panna and eating artisan cheeses on the street.
On the advice of a friend far enough away to be out of punching arm's reach, I glammed myself up tonight to hit the supermarket, where I planned to purchase my carefully budgeted-for and selected groceries. (I ain't understating, here, I'm broke-five. Only until Friday, though! And apparently my financial situation is also preventing me from using five-dollar words and phrases, like "am not".)
Well. Never again will I brush my hair and put on lipstick to pick out stewing beef. Sweet Jesus, a freaky old man chased me through the deli, the frozen goods section, and the fish counter! I am not interested in hearing about how your consumption of liver and onions allows you to stay alive despite your "debaucherous lifestyle". Don't you have old ladies you could be out chasing somewhere?
That's it, I'm officially dying alone. But when I do, I promise I won't chase cute young twenty-somethings through the produce section talking about radiation therapy and my libido.
I can run my fingers over and around the edge and curve and the dips in the piece, but no matter how many times I turn it around or flip it upside down, it won't fit where it's supposed to. The picture isn't complete but I can see enough of it to know what I'm looking at, but not enough of it to understand exactly what it is that I should be looking for.
Hey! Don't judge, you. I'm a consenting adult of legal age, and it is well within my rights and freedoms to enjoy a beverage in the comfort of my own Fortress of Smoothitude. I'm not saying that I'm going to get rock-out hosed every night at 5:30, but I feel that a wind-down after a day of examining spreadsheets and reading financial briefs that I only half understand is a good idea. And that wind-down, when paired with some kicky UltraLounge music, is exactly what I need these days.
Also, I would like to know if anyone else has the following problem, or if it's just me: does anyone else frequently think that the "M" on the washroom door stands for "Megan"? Um, 'cause it's really embarassing and I'd just like to know that I"m not alone in my shame.
I have been without internet access at home (and with limited access at work) for almost two weeks. I feel that this is proof positive that I should continue living in a technologically wired world. I survived, but it wasn't pretty. I played lots of solitare (with real cards!), mopped my kitchen floor so very many times, and actually stooped to reading a copy of Dr. Phil's Love Smart that the woman who used to live in my basement left in our kitchen almost a year ago.
What have I learned?
That the internets are really important to the way I live my life and communicate with my network of family, friends, coworkers and other peoples.
That when I buy a home, it is not going to have white tile floors.
That even when I play cards by myself, I will invariably lose.