megfowler.com

WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?

Just yesterday, it was like WEDNESDAY, and I was like, SERIOUSLY, I HAVE HALF THE WEEK LEFT TO DO. But now it’s all like, TOMORROW IS FRIDAY, MEG. HURRY UP.

Whoa.

Some updates from this week:

• RIP, LAUNDRY SPIDER. You know the spider that lives in the wall? Near the laundry room? The giant one? The one that looks like a tarantula? The beast of the ages? Yeah. Dead. See, Catherine didn’t believe he was real until he finally showed up when she was home the other night. And lo, I called out to her to come see before I threw a rock at the wall near him (I used to make him go back in the wall so I could pass by without involuntarily shivering and whimpering.) And lo, she did come (from putting together shelves) bearing a hammer. And lo, she did hammer him, probably tired of hearing about his reign of terror in my life. Now his legs are all arranged in a sort of mangled flower pattern on the wall where he made his last stand. Each time I pass by, I think, EW. Yeah, that’s about it. EW.

• COFFEE IS SUPER GOOD. Seriously. I can’t get enough. And ever since Sheryl made up this hideous scenario for QuestFest about coffee being outlawed, I just keep drinking and drinking just in case it happens. Because this is a crazy world we live in. A crazy world where David Hasselhoff is starring in a musical about his life. Where a woman can break up with Ben Affleck and marry Marc Anthony. Or break up with Michael Vartan and marry Ben Affleck. Where Matt Damon marries a bartender. Where Jenny McCarthy and Jim Carrey make out in public. Where Tom Cruise has a baby he won’t show anyone. Where Angelina Jolie has a baby, and a couple months later, her waxen image rests in Madame Tussaud’s. Where someone suggests coffee might be outlawed. There. REIGN IT BACK IN, MEG.

• I’M NEVER TALKING ABOUT OPRAH ON MY BLOG AGAIN. Why? Because I just want to forget. Everyone keeps calling me mean because I flail in her general direction, and I’ll admit that I’m not sure why I’m SO angsty about all things O. I used to watch Oprah when I was younger because she did the most kickass makeovers. I love a good makeover. But ever since Clinton and Stacy and What Not To Wear? I stopped searching. But Oprah has as much right to do her thing and name it after her as I have to do my thing and name it after me. Because, hello, you’re at MegFowler.com. Maybe I should start MEG magazine. And GEM Productions. And invite Tom Cruise to come over and jump around on my couch. Or maybe I’ll just make Eric do it. Because, you know, he’ll be sitting on it in approximately two days. Or jumping. But I think he’s leaving his imaginary baby at home. And Katie Holmes, hopefully.

• EVERYTHING I OWN HAS A STAIN ON IT. Seriously. Because I own four things, having thrown everything else out in a long succession of moves, and I’m really stupid with coffee and salad dressings, and lo and behold, I am now a slovenly, repetitive mess. Which means that all I do is wear tank tops with stains on them and tired yoga pants at home, and flip flops and heaven only knows what to work. I was surrounded by all these gorgeous, elegant women with gorgeous, elegant hair at the salon yesterday, and I was totally intimidated. They were all avant garde and wearing local designers and sharply tailored and I felt like a frump. Until one of the ladies bent over in her super-sheer little white pants with the odd seams and I saw a “Jockey For Her” waistband on her undies. Because I think “Jockey For Her”, other than being an action phrase, is the goofiest underwear on earth. It bunches, droops, sags, and basically looks like the VERY TIGHTY WHITIES WE TELL MEN NOT TO WEAR. I believe in comfort. And I believe in white cotton underwear. But for the love of Pete, CUTE white underwear. And not under white pants. And not with words on your waistband. And not when you are all EDGE EDGE EDGE and DRAMATIC STYLE and I TAKE RISKS but are actually secretly obscuring that you like Jockeys and watching the Lifetime network and eating Donettes. Because I know you do. And your edgy black shirt? With the Donettes? WOULD GET COVERED IN POWDER. Don’t even front.

Here are my random queries for you:

1. What colour underwear are you wearing? (SO SHOCKING AND EDGY!)
2. Name two things you wish you were eating RIGHT NOW.
3. Have you ever killed a spider with a hammer? And do the words BALL PEEN make you giggle?
4. What is your favourite kind of cheese?
5. What one thing do you hate having to spend money on?

But a crap photog with a fresh haircut? Yes.

See? It even looks okay up!

Better photos when I am not perspiring like a glass of soda on a hot day.

Someone once told me that single women hold the monopoly on high expectations.

“Forget what men want. Women are always freaking out about how perfect men want them to be, but most guys are pretty content with a reasonably attractive woman who doesn’t smell bad and can complete a sentence. Women, on the other hand, want some freaky combo of Tom Cruise, Wordsworth, Donald Trump, and Emeril.”

Okay, try and get THAT mental image out of your head.

But seriously, men, do you think that’s true? Are women the true picky consumers in the dating world? I always thought we were a little more advanced in this respect: accepting of all kinds of masculine bodies, charmed by quirks, ready to “learn to love.”

But from my friend’s perspective — and he said it was more true with every year a woman stays single, contrary to conventional wisdom — women want the whole enchilada and a side of guac.

(And another margarita when you get the chance? Thanks.)

I’m not really sure what I think.

I’m obviously a single girl (no hidden husbands, I assure you) at the ripe old age of 32, and I’d like to think that my standards (or whatever you call them) have mellowed over the years. When I was 22, my friends and I all made lists of the Ideal Qualities In Our Perfect Men.

None of their lists looked ANYTHING like the guys they ended up marrying. And they’re all rather deliriously happy. That was enough to educate me about the worth of our “ideals.”

Now I THINK I just want someone kind, bright, funny, and passionate about what he does. Oh, and if he could smell nice?

I dropped the concerns about back hair, masters degrees, height, etc. a long time ago.

But am I secretly harbouring a list of wants I don’t even realize I have?

Am I picky?

It’s food for thought, really. And as far as my friend’s schtick about men not really being all that picky, on that I call bullshit.

But what do you think? Before you got married, if you are married, did you have a list, written or otherwise?

Do your relationships live or die according to your standards? Have they?

And if you had all your standards met at the beginning of a relationship, did it really matter a hill of beans in the end?

Innnnnteresting….