Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I believe that she then slams the door, but it's been almost a year since I've seen it, despite the fact that it sits on the shelf in pretty bluray extended cut packaging. Someone in our home needs to watch the full 6 seasons of the TV show before I'll let him know what happens at the end. You can't just jump right in- you need to really feeeeel that Carrie/Big relationship.
But I digress.
Miranda's point up there- that's one of my big fears. That's right, I have fears, and I don't like to talk about them, but heck, I don't need to- I can blog it out.
Losing my self- or my sense of self- is a huge concern to me. Whether it's through my work, my friends, my hobbies or my relationship, I trip that line of forgetting who I am every single day. And it's a slippery slope. The things I swore I'd never do, I find myself doing without a second thought (ordering a soy latte?).
I make light of it, but it's a serious concern of mine.
I'm young enough to have not quite figured out who I am and to still care about it. I'm sure that my journey of self-discovery (barf) will continue for the rest of my life. I'm not sure that I'll ever know who I am, and I don't live in a vacuum. People grow. They change. They shift. They do it as a result of external forces. For internal purposes. For spiritual reasons they might not understand.
But I am afraid of losing sight of who I am.
Or, more accurately, that ideal version of who I'd like to be. And that person, ideally, will never slam the door in my partner's face and scream something like, "I left my 3 bedroom house in Kensington for you!"
Because I'll admit, that place, after all, was kind of shifty and quite lonely.
Last night, Gary and I ventured out of our downtown core comfort zone to a television preview event in the southern-most bowels of the city. Ok, it was just across the street from the Walmart on Macleod, but man, it felt like we were waaaayyyy down there.
We watched two shows from the uncomfort of shoddy hotel conference seating; one hour-long drama about soulmates and past lives, and one half-hour sitcom about the wacky hijinks of Dads. We also had the novelty of watching TV on a screen much, much, much, MUUUUCCCHHH smaller than the one we have at home, and the evening even included commercials!
We watch all our TV either on DVD, streamed over the interweb, or downloaded from some pirate site. I don't get involved in the pirating because I'm legit and also, Gary's computers scare me.
Seriously. The thing has 5 monitors, many towers of doom and data, and takes up like a third of our living space.
But at any rate, we never.watch.commercials. Every year I trek to the World's Best Commercials reel at the Plaza because I'm never exposed to televised advertising at any other time. For someone with a marketing degree and an original intention to break into the fast-paced world of advertising (ha! shattered dreams), that's pretty blasphemous.
It was weird, watching ads for fabric softener and in-shower body lotion. I suddenly feel the need to coat my person and my home in fresh lavendar scent- and thanks to that new Pinesol, it's totally possible.
Also, other people are weird. Watching an evening's worth of strange television pilots with a room full of strangers has got to be the strangest thing I've done in a few weeks. I'll do it again (because who DOESN'T love previewing a show about past lives? Hellooo, I'm all about my soul mate getting killed at Pearl Harbour and then materializing decades later in the waiting room of a hypnotist!), but I've gotta say- given the choice, I'll take snuggling at home on our hideous, heat-bearing green sofa (sorry, Gary, I know you love that sofa) watching Terminator, sans commercials, on a 92 inch screen any day.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Anyway, an update on my day off:
My meeting was awesome, my soy latte was awesome, the treadmill was broken so my jaunt on the stationary bike was ok, I opted to not bake cookies, and now I've got a bird in the oven waiting for Gary to get home.
That's right, I'm roasting a chicken on a Monday to feed my man, who worked hard all day. I'm even wearing lipstick. How mid-century domestic!
Anyway. So here's some shocking skin picks of the bird, who I felt an odd amount of affection for, right before she was popped right into the oven:
Here's a shot from a rather vulgar angle- too bad you can't see the lemon and head of garlic I shoved up the butt o' chicken, but I wanted to show off my poultry-trussing skills.
And here's a photo of me looking particularly hot.
Stay tuned for the results!
So today, my day off, starts with me propped up in bed, blogging, reading annual reports for other non-profits and listening to Jack Johnson. Later today I'll have a shower, venture out into the world for a soy latte (apparently my tummy doesn't like dairy- who knew?) and a meeting. Then I'm going to either go for a run or make cookies (feel free to vote), read a little bit and then roast a chicken so we have food for a few nights.
Tonight Gary and I are going to see a few new tv pilots. He got the tickets free through some survey or something he filled out long ago, and now we reap the benefits. I'm interested to see what television has come to be- for two people who don't have cable and only watch tv on dvd or download specific shows (that have mostly been cancelled- Veronica Mars, Firefly, etc), we're maybe not the average tv viewers.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
"I just really like clean!"
No, seriously, he really. likes. clean.
That much clean was considered a sign of a mental illness in the household I grew up in. And now we're out of "cleanser" again.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Sage Theatre "Underground Imagine Factory" party was a lot of fun. The theme was sort of a rave/circus/prom, in the Calgary Opera Centre, this super cool old church that manages to not feel old churchy. I think it'd be a rocksauce place to get married, if you have a lot of friends that are into raucus partying and want to hire a live band.
I am tetering on the edge of wanting to elope.
At any rate, Gary and I were challenged by the dress code: "Wear What You Dare", and we dared to arrive under dressed. Next year, it's fishnets and corsets all around- and I'll be in a swishy ball gown.
This was the first fundraiser I've been to where I bought 50/50 tickets, the fancy cocktail that came in a souvenier blinky martini glass, extra drink tickets, and bid on silent auction items.
I guess the fact that I paid to get in, woke up without a hangover and wasn't just there to scam free booze is definitely a sign of Grown Up Ladydom.
*Yeah, okay, the title had absolutely nothing to do with the post, but Gary is vaccuming and blasting the Bon Jovi.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Apparently this is because I take after my father.
Now, to be fair- yesterday I discussed how I inherited one of my mother's most annoying traits, and today, I'll talk about how I'm also just like my dad.
My dad's birthday is 10 days before Christmas. This makes him doubly difficult to buy for. At least mine is spread out a few months!
Here's the thing- when I see something pretty that I like, I usually buy it for myself. I cut to the chase, pull out my debit card, and take it home. I am filled with pride and joy and material goodness.
But it makes it hard to buy me presents.
Dad is exactly the same. If my dad wants something- he cuts out the BS and buys it. Which is awesome. Except in December. Or around Father's Day.
So here you are, people who love me, a list. My birthday is less than 2 weeks away, and I promise I haven't bought any of the things on this list (nor do I really expect you to, either).
My dream birthday wish list
Beach Cruiser bike in seafoam green, red or sparkley blue
iPod Nano in Red or Purple
Statment piece of jewelery- a cocktail ring, earings, a pendant. Classic and demanding attention, much like its wearer.
New shoes- exceptionally well made everyday shoes. Comfortable for walking! Also, runners.
Lulu Lemon Hoodie
Red (or Emerald Green) Trench Coat with coordinating wellies
Fresh and lovely scented body lotions
New music suggestions - FREE!
A giant chapters gift card- or even better, a small chapters gift card for every month of the next year
A gift certificate for yoga or bellydance or some kind of fun fitness classes
A really luxe, buttery leather purse. Big enough for the essentials (lip gloss, phone, wallet, books, notebook, bottle of water, iPod, pens, occasionally laptop), light enough not to dislocate my shoulder.
A new MacBook
Sunshine and fresh flowers
And for those of you who are all, "Damn, Bailey, I'm a visual learner!":
Meg's 25th Birthday Wishlist - by Meg in the City on Polyvore.com
Happy Birthday Me!
I'm about thirty pages into a new book, and so far, I love it.
You know what I want to be when I grow up? I want to be that Heather at Chapters. If I was really on top of it this morning, I'd link to her bio and perhaps even go so far as to include her last name. Anywhoodle, she's the CEO of Indigo/Chapters, and I want her job.
When I walk into a Chapters, invariably I always notice the books set on a table or shelf, all bearing that little purple and white sticker that says "Heather's Pick".
The thing about these books is that the company's Chief Booklover loved them so much that she guarantees that you'll love them too- or your money back.
I've read several of the Heather's Picks, because she seems to have taste similar to mine, which we all know must be good taste. (I'm not going into how perhaps I have taste similar to hers, because that's how Megans roll)
There have been a few I haven't looooooved, but the thing is- I don't have it in me to return a book I've read to a bookstore. If I didn't love it, I'll give it away- hoist it on a friend or family member who might, or trade it in at a used book store.
Them Booklovers are smart cookies.
But anyway, the book I'm currently reading is The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It's a lovely epistolary novel set in post WWII England. I've got a mad crush on post-WWII era England- how commonwealth of me- and this is only encouraging me to write letters, wear hats and knickers (but not just knickers and hats, don't worry, Mom) and plant a victory garden on our balcony, all while sipping tea with lemon out of fine Royal Doulton china.
Do you think Gary would let me turn our entire balcony into a victory garden? hmmm...worth a shot.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I am surrounded by almost empty bottles of diet soda. Everywhere I turn. In my car, around my desk at work, in the fridge at home. Even sometimes in my handbag. There they are; plastic bottles with red caps containing, at most, two hearty swigs of flat, sugar free, room temperature cola.
This is a habit of my mother's that I have apparently inherited.
Nothing bothers my father more than my mother's knack for leaving an almost dry glass of water on the table. My brother picked up on it, and in a classic boys-versus-girls battle royale, mocks her on every possible occasion.
I understand my dad's annoyance, I really do. An almost-but-not-quite empty glass gets knocked over and spills rather easily. A bottle of pop takes up precious space in the fridge. It looks like garbage, and to be honest, how often does one really savour that last sip?
But I do it. And I don't know why. And today, I swung my elbow around while explaining my latest, greatest work-related idea to my colleague and knocked three of them over like bowling pins.
And here I sit, stubbornly refusing to throw them out until they're empty, drinking warm flat diet coke instead of pouring the damn things out and getting myself a refreshing, crisp, cold new bottle.
Oh woe, woe is me.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Hot and Sweet glazed salmon, steamed asparagus and new potatoes.
This of course could turn into an epic disaster, but at the risk of cursing myself, I doubt it.
I don't know why I do that. I frequently blog about my so-called misadventures in cooking when I have yet to give anyone food poisoning directly related to undercooked meatloaf finished with a raw egg/canned pineapple garnish (Happy 13th Birthday, Megan!!).
I'm a good cook. I can follow a recipe and improvise fairly well. What I make, though often simpler than the grand dishes of my imagination, is edible and most often exceeds my expectations of deliciousness.
So screw being charmingly pessimistic. I'm making dinner and it's going to be awesome, dammit!
Now, uh, if someone could just maybe fill me in on how to remove fish skin, exactly, without touching it? 'Cause fishes, they are pretty gross to touch.
Sorry, readers. Some changes to my schedule, plus a general apathetic attitude towards doing anything in the evening hours that isn't eating something Mexican-themed or watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles has resulted in a blog drought.
But I'm back. At least, I hope so. I think. If I can figure out this Mail2Blogger thingy- but of course, if you're reading this, that means it works.
Last night, after a quick dinner that was sadly, not Mexican-themed in any way, and a sprint through our local downtown grocery store, Gary and I settled in for a viewing of a movie that had nothing to do with the apocalypse, zombies, machine-based-terror, really fast cars or any obstacles being overcome through rhythmic movement, fancy choreography or dance.
"Definitely, Maybe" was a cute movie. I really enjoyed it. The premise did remind me of our favourite sitcom, HIMYM, but what stuck with me wasn't the spunky adorableness of Abigail Breslin (who is the exact mental image of my imagined future offspring) or the forced, High Fidelity-lite quirkiness of the women our main dude falls in love with.
No, it was a few scenes early in the film, with a young Will Hayes, circa 1992, living in a sketchy hotel room in New York working on Bill Clinton's presidential campaign.
Now, I know it was a movie.
I know Hollywood has a way of turning that soft-focus light on even the most mundane task and spinning it into a delirious romance/makeover/wardrobe montage sugar trip.
But what got me last night at 9:45 was that all I could possibly hope for in my life right now is to be as excited about ANYTHING as those young, keen Democrats were about Bill.
This is the time in my life to be that passionate. To be lively, vigorous, to fight. To find what I believe in and scream it from rooftops, write it out in boldface, banter it back and forth over a round at the pub.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Then I had a shower, lolly-gagged a bit more, and made myself a snack.
I took the peanut butter out of the fridge, slapped it on some toast, and experienced sheer bliss. Now this could be because I have deprived myself of ripple chips, cadbury easter treats and pretty much everything that is bad for Megans for like, three months, but have you NOTICED how good peanut butter is?
Now, if you're my Mother, Brother or Father, you just noticed something odd and potentially qualifying me for disownment in the above statement.
At El Rancho Doug and Lenore, where does the peanut butter live?
And what have I done to become this kind of awful, horrible, organic-natural-peanut-butter eating communist that stores her peanut butter in the fridge?
Must be Gary's fault.
Oh, lord, whatever you do, don't tell them about the kilogram of Almond Butter waiting in the cupboard...
From birth to the end of Grade 12, I lived about 20 feet from the school. It was our neighbour. I could hear the bell ring while I was brushing my teeth and still make it to class on time.
For 4 years of University, I lived on campus. It was further than 20 feet to get from my dorm to lecture, but not by much. I pretty much lived in the tunnels connecting the buildings and wore flip flops year round.
When I started working, I lived in Kensington, which was a 15 minute train ride to work- on a bad day.
And now, four blocks are all that separate our apartment and my office.
I don't have any desire to live in a sprawling home with a giant yard and a bonus room. We don't need a three-car garage- in fact, to be honest, I didn't even really need to buy my beloved Mazda3. I don't need to live near a Costco or a Revy or a Sobeys. I live 3 blocks from the best Co-op Grocery Store in the city, a stone's throw from pretty much any ethnic cuisine or pub or night club or theatre I could ever imagine wanting to go to and I love it that way.
I will take congestion, a lack of storage space and a suspicious pile of vomit that seems to never, ever go away outside the door over a 40 minute, twice-a-day commute ANY TIME.
Which reminds me- I'd better get my butt out of bed...I still need to shower, eat breakfast, read the paper and leave for work.
Monday, March 16, 2009
A few tears later, we had a plan: I would go buy the most disgustingly delicious convenience store pizza sub, he would fire up the projector and we would settle in for a screening of Back to the Future. Oh, Michael J. Fox, curer of all ails.
The grossly awesome submarine sandwich (yum) and the 80's cheese helped for sure, but what really broke my down in the dumps bad mood was singing.
That's right. I actually sat on the couch and sang the blues.
I'll spare you the gory details, but let it be known that in the future, I'm sure you'll hear many renditions of "I got the middle-class quarter life crisis yuppie blues".
Ooooooooh. The bluuuuuuuuuueeees.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Every once in awhile I crawl into this dark corner of my head and I have a hell of a time getting out. In that corner, nothing good lives. It's full of extremely negative self-talk and absolutely no hope.
It's really similar to the space somewhere between my gut and my toes, where I push all of my feelings and anger and then stand on them all the time.
Neither are positive spaces, and that's where I'm spending all my time.
It used to be so much easier. I knew what I was good at: Megan is good at reading. Megan is a good writer. Megan is good at crafts, at listening, at thinking creatively and solving problems. Megan has a vivid imagination. Megan is confident and isn't afraid to try new things, even if she's terrible at them. Megan makes people laugh.
At this particular moment in time, I feel like I'm good at nothing. That I make no valuable contribution to anyone, at any time, or any point. I feel useless, I feel worthless, I feel like I don't fit in my skin, I feel like I failed.
And I just can't figure out why.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
One entailed being on vacation, and going on an assisted scuba dive. It was really awesome, and though I've never really been keen on the idea before, I really want to try it now.
The second was considerably more epic and unnerving.
In this dream, the police came to my house (which happened to be my Grandma Olga's, for unexplained reasons). Apparently there to bust me, they found three dead sex trade workers, a boatload of illegal drugs, and some unpaid utility bills. The charge they called me in on?
Unpaid utility bills.
I'm concerned. This does not say positive things about my subconcious, internets. It says that in my mind, not paying the gas bill is worse than harbouring dead prostitutes and enough drugs to rival even the most sophisticated Hollywood drug lord.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Previously, I spent my weeknight evenings at the pub, having coffee, reading, gabbing on the phone, and mostly going on pointless dates with losers. Er, I mean, meeting interesting people.
Now, "we" spend our Tuesday evenings surfing condo porn and drooling over 3 bedroom, $600,000 downtown properties, though last night we also scoped out some $360,000 dream homes in the sky.
The other night, we spent an outrageous amount of time trying to determine what the baby toys listed on our friends' baby registry were, exactly. Oh, Babies Backwards-R Us, why you gotta be so hard to navigate and full of things we don't understand?
(You try explaining to your 28 year old only child boyfriend what a diaper genie is. Go ahead. Just try. And then try to explain to him why you know this)
And sometimes we watch downloaded episodes of tv shows like Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (his) and How I Met Your Mother (hers).
But tonight, I'm going over to Chez Rose to watch the Brier, drink diet cola and gossip. Oh, a taste of the single life. How sweet it is.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I'm pleased to report that my zombie plan would also be effective in the event of a world-wide plague or epidemic- which we all know would likely cause the zombie apocalypse. This helps me sleep at night.
But you know what? I think I just scratched my zombie plan for a newer, simpler, less-BS plan: Stay right where I am. Zombies are cold-blooded and would freaking freeze to death here.
Ah, safety in snowstorms. Something warm and comforting about that, isn't there?
Unfortunately, this plan would be completely ineffective in the event of a machines-taking-over apocalyptic event. In that case, we're all totally screwed.
Monday, March 09, 2009
So I'm making a list of the exciting things I'll be doing on the next few weekends to keep me going. I'm barely hanging on, internets- and I just burned my 3:30 pm snack in the stupid microwave.
This weekend, I'm going to a birthday party with a mexican theme. I'm working, but really that means running a registration table and then doing crafts with kidlets and eating a free lunch. Gary is going to a baby shower to play dorky baby shower games and eat stale crustless watercress sandwiches and watch someone open lame gifts like breast pumps while I stay at home and leisurely enjoy a Sunday of sitting on my backside. Mwah-ha. Gender-role THAT!
Next weekend we are going to spend two nights in the Honeymoon Suite at the Banff Springs Hotel. Gratis (well, for the most part). I gots connections.
The weekend after that, nothing is happening and I plan to fall into a deep depression.
Ditto on the weekend after that one, too.
Easter weekend, I'll be older, more tired, and heading to the Kootenays for a weekend at Gary's mom's! Where they have the best restaurant in all creation. Seriously. BEST. I have never had meatballs and spaghetti like that before. I've been thinking about it pretty much non-stop since Labour Day, and there's at least a 60% chance that the reason I'm still dating Gary is so that I can eat those meatballs again.
It's more like an 80% chance.
(Mutter mutter optimization of national energy savings mutter mutter)
But then, to add insult to injury, I wake up yesterday and the ground is covered with snow (AGAIN). And TODAY, it's -25, with a windchill factor of -33! What the heck!
I swear, someday I'm moving somewhere where Spring actually arrives in March, and the snow stops in February. Somewhere like British Columbia. Or Miami.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
It's dangerous, letting two inner-city yuppie wannabes loose on a warehouse full of EVERYTHING you could ever imagine wanting/needing/not needing/wondering who the h-e-double-hockeysticks could EVER USE this?!
After we wandered up and down every single aisle sans-cart, we left the warehouse, returned with a cart, and repeated the process. One box of groceries and 6 cans of pressurized air later, we attempted to locate my Mazda in the parking lot, completely exhausted.
Gotta say, spending an entire afternoon scoping out the wares was a great way to spend a Saturday in March.
And we didn't even buy anything remotely ridiculous- even though I really, really, really wanted that $70 dish rack.
Friday, March 06, 2009
At any rate, we have watched and I have enjoyed all of the above action flicks produced before widestream use of the internet was popular. I was sincerely hoping we could sneak in War Games, my favourite sci-fi/actiony film, but I don't think that's going to happen.
Because what Gary doesn't know is that sure, this week was Gary Makes Megan Watch Action Movies Week...
But next week is Megan Forces Gary Against His Will To Watch Movies Where Obstacles Are Overcome Through Dance Week, and as much as I love a young Matthew Broderick, there just isn't any fancy-foot action in that movie.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
I realized something today.
I'll be honest, this epiphany was brought about by a viewing of the critically acclaimed and hugely relevant film, The Terminator.
And yes, it's 2009 and the world has yet to experience the machines taking over and killing us all and making us live underground and in fear of American Senators.
But totally. The future is here.
That movie came to be in the same year that I did. In that movie, the 'far-off distant future' is precisely twenty years from now. By all intents and purposes, people, the future is here. Already. And we have very little to show for it.
Where is my flying car?
Where is my robot maid that does the dishes?
Where is my post-apocalyptic wasteland? (Okay, I don't really want that one so much).
I've totally lost it. One too many sci-fi flicks and I've gone overboard. I'm going to start living for the now, peoples, and in the here and now...
I have a cut on my ring finger.
Come OOOON. As if I would actually do that, and announce any kind of left-hand related engagement on my BLOG. Pshhh.
I'd at least phone some of you first.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
How am I going to justify my evening plans of brooding about the apartment in the dark, drinking earl grey tea, wearing a beret and listening to sad bastard music while scowling and reading poetry?
MY WHOLE TUESDAY IS RUINED.
I guess I'll go home and make fajitas instead. Grumblecakes ole.
Yesterday it was nice, sunny and warm. I pranced down the street bare-legged in ballet flats, twirling and basking in the glow of the warm afternoon sun.
Today it is some strange combination of snow/rain, and everything is covered with a good inch of icy slush.
I don't know how to walk in slush. I'm from SASKATCHEWAN, people. We don't have slush. We have snow up to the eaves, and then bone dry. Those are the two options in Saskatchewan.
If I had wanted weather conditions like this, I would have moved to Vancouver. But I didn't. And so I expect March in Calgary to be grey, sunny sometimes, and if it must snow, then it should be real, legitimate snow.
Also, as a side note, to the jerk who decided it was "fun" to drive really fast through the collected muck on the side of the road this morning to splatter the poor bystanding pedestrians?
I hope you had a ridiculous time finding a decent parking spot that ultimately cost you over $30 for the day.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Yeah, well, I'm a good 5 weeks from my twenty-fifth birthday and that's pretty much all I've got.
I have entered that phase. The horrible mid-twenties phase. The phase marked by showers: baby, wedding, late-coming-out-of-the-closet (there should seriously be a "Hey, I'm Gay!" Shower, don't you think?). Most of the sassy cocktail dresses I buy these days are intended to match those of two or three other women as we stand in front of a group of people and watch one of our friends or relatives flounce about in a white ball gown.
I'm learning the ins and outs of onesies and breast pumps and whether or not the paint on that toy contains lead.
And that's my life. Aside from working, sleeping, watching the occasional dvd and a weekly Sunday morning trip to the grocery store- that's all I'm doing.
For your sake, I sincerely hope that I can shake things up a bit around here, because I highly doubt you want to read posts about the merits of fume-free oven cleaner, why I prefer cucumber-melon scented dish soap, how there will never be enough room in the closet for his clothes AND mine, and why we can't agree on a brand of yogurt.