Today, I was interrupted on my progress work-ward by a train. A long train. A really, really long train travelling directly in my path. As I stood there, waiting calmly, watching a crowd of people gather around me, I thought, “I don’t think I’ve ever been unable to get to work before as a result of grain shipments.”
And that’s the truth.
I’m not fond of things that smell like watermelon, but aren’t watermelon. Nor things that smell like banana, but aren’t banana. Actually, I’m not always fond of bananas that smell like bananas, though I don’t wish them to smell like anything else. Unless they could smell like lemons.
I like it when trees appear a bit insurmountable. I don’t like the thin, reedy trees of new subdivisions, or the spindly trunks of various ornamental foliage (foliaii?). They seem wretchedly halfhearted, and much like they’d be lacking in roots — like Lindsay Lohan’s hair, five minutes after it gets done.
No, I like a big oak or a big maple, resolute of trunk and ferocious of leaf. It should take a hurricane to knock a tree down — not the high setting on the A/C.
I nearly stepped on a caterpillar today, but swerved (well, I was walking, so I just stepped a bit to the side) out of the way, just in time. He didn’t appear particularily startled — I admired his composure. I actually stood and watched him for a moment, and the rascal showed his gratitude toward my careful footfalls by climbing onto my toe.
That’s right; he just climbed right on, like I was some sort of rock or something, just waiting for him to grace me with his presence. I decided to see just how audacious the wee thing was, and kept walking with him clinging to me like an untrained puppy, making a slow ascent up my leg.
He got to my knee before I lost my patience with striding protectively and gingerly, and I picked him off to set him on a leaf. For all I know, I may have resulted in that tree being eaten, when normally, it would have been just fine. I disturbed the flow of nature, and now what will happen?! Ah well, perhaps I was just a tool of nature.
Or perhaps I was just a tool.
Speaking of tools, I really like wrenches. I love the whole notion of torque. Or maybe it’s Peter Tork I love… I get confused sometimes.
The Monkees, while not always responsible for playing their own instruments, were pretty damn fun to watch on TV. I liked it when they would speed up the scenes when they played ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ or something — it was always them running from some villain, or a pack of screaming girls. Those two things could be the same thing in some cases, but only if they were high school girls.
You could not pay me enough to make me go back to high school.
It wasn’t all that traumatic for me, since I had friends, and I liked lots of subjects, and was active in various areas, but I tell you — I have enough random fits of insecurity at 31; I couldn’t go back to the fits I had at 17. The fits I had at 17 led to some scary hair at my senior prom, and one particular awkward moment involving the captain of the basketball team’s jacket.
I spent those years in a weird rural community with heavy drug problems (the community had them, not me — although erythromyicin made me throw up when I had strep…that was a bit of a problem), and the kind of student body that cheered when they put Iron Maiden on at pep rallies.
But I digress. It wasn’t so bad. I did tip a cow once; contrary to what some urban people will tell you, that tradition is not a myth.
And it was more than 15%, thank you very much.
What is it with weddings that turns everyone into Barbie? I mean, I love it, I make no bones about that, but no matter how edgy (or pretend-edgy) a girl might be, very few of them appear remotely edgy at all on their wedding day. I submit:
becomes….
Avril Lavigne? Seriously? That’s EXTRA girly, with a side of glam. I used to gag when I heard people say, “Everyone wants to be a princess on their wedding day!” but is it true? Who am I thinking she looks like…. hmmmm…. oh, wait…
That’s right. AvJess lives.
So tell me, married girls: did you look more or less girly than you thought you would? Did you end up with a different kind of dress or hairdo than you’d always said you’d have?
Did your wedding turn you into someone else? Or just the wedding version of you?
SECOND QUESTION:
Okay, it’s not really a question, more of an incredulous demand. JOIN MY FOOTBALL POOL. DO IT NOW. Scroll down the page for links.
THIRD THINGAMAJIG:
Any good salmon recipes? I have good ones, but I’m alllllways curious to see what other people do…
FOURTH WHATEVER:
In my lifetime, I don’t think I will ever have a “spa day”. These people who have those? Not me. As much as I’d like one. I just don’t see it occuring unless I win a contest or go into a spa with a bomb strapped to me.
Which I wouldn’t.
But if you were me, which of these would you save for? You know your eyes have become giant puffballs and your skin is haywire and you’re overtired if you browse spa packages for fun on your lunchbreak (of peanut butter and crackers and starfruit. NO I’M NOT ON SOME WEIRD DIET, WHY DO YOU ASK?)
I should probably save for a new mattress instead. Since my mattress swore at me when I got out of bed this morning.
No, wait, that was me.
I write scenes in my head all day long.
Everything I see gives birth to something else, to a story, to a series of images and dialogues that make me want to close my eyes and let the movie play out.
Except I can’t close my eyes, because then I’d just be dreaming, and that doesn’t usually work out for the whole walking upright and being functional thing. And there is no movie. It’s just a jumble of thoughts.
I’ve done this for as long as I can remember, which is why I used to think I was going to write screenplays when I got older and my daydreams grew up enough to be interesting to anybody but me. But the thing is, as soon as I try to put any of it down on paper, it loses the lustre it had in my head. The exchanges seem stilted, the landscapes seem impossibly fantastical, the characters — my character — a bundle of cliches.
As long as I leave them walking that fine wire between my heart and my brain, however, they stay beautiful and silly and perfect.
Sometimes, when I really trust someone, I’ll tell them how the world looks in my head.
I’ll tell them that when I look up at a starry sky, I can imagine what it might be like to fall in love in that moment, to lean on the railings of a patio somewhere and feel my pulse quicken and watch how the moonlight paints shadows and light on the face of someone I suddenly want to know better than anyone else on earth.
When I see a sunset, I imagine standing at the top of some mist-cloaked mountain, sweat running down my back and pooling in my shoes but being exhilarated by the climb and the horizon and the thousand shades of green that make up the valleys and creeks and waterfalls that swirl together as far as the eye can see.
When I look up at a bright blue sky framed by sharp skyscraper angles gleaming in the midst of my city day, I can imagine myself unflipflopped, clad in something that skims my body with elegance, something un-t-shirt, un-jean-skirt, something appropriate for someone more successful, more important, more accomplished, heading to an office full of shelves and shelves of books that bear the stamp of my counsel or editing or my voice.
When I wake up in the morning, I can imagine what it would be like to step out onto my deck and see the ocean instead of a quiet street. To continue walking out to the waves and dive in, spine straight, arms outstretched, skin tingling from the cold. I can taste the salt and feel the force of the undertow. I can imagine lying in the sand to catch my breath, to tug on a sweater that soaks dark from my still-wet skin and walk back inside to begin the rest of my day.
And when I fall asleep at night, I imagine the heat coming off of a body only inches away, stilled by rest, but charged with a sort of current that runs through me and back into him over and over and over until it gives birth to something bigger, to something lasting, to an “us.”
Really, all my daydreams aren’t potential movie treatments, but potential me.
The me I have been planning as long as I can remember, but the me that is derailed by insecurities, by accidents of health and circumstance, by fear and loss.
It makes me feel almost guilty that I do this, because who am I not to live my own life, my own hours with as much contentment and fulfillment? I know I am blessed to have what I have, to have who I have, to be in this place, and to do the things I do every day. I love so much of it, squeal with delight at a million moments, thank God for my safety, for my dear ones, for what I’ve been given.
And I am achingly aware that so many people would look at my life and see all the things I could do in a day to better myself and to grow as a person.
They would know that anything is possible, and not just when I close my eyes.
But I’ve spent so long believing everything I see in my head is an unreachable fantasy. I’ve spent so long accustomed to regret as the dark twin to my daydreams. I’ve grown used to being ungrateful.
Somehow I need to turn my wishes into plans.
To stop treating hope like a movie script I am writing for someone else, just subbing myself in until they cast the real star. To figure out the choices it would take to get there, and what I’d have to believe about myself to make it all come true.
Or even a little bit of it.
Imagination can be a blessing and a curse, depending on what you do with what you see, and I think I’ve been letting mine run free without trying to keep pace. Something tells me I’m ready to change that now, though.
Sleeping and dreaming through your waking hours just turns you into a zombie, and I… for better, for worse, for whatever comes… would rather be very much alive.
Why?
Why do I always want a pastry with my coffee now? I don’t NEED a pain au chocolat or a croissant or an apple turnover or a blueberry muffin, but for some ungodly reason, I start sipping the java and I want something flaky or uberstarchy to eat.
I’m NOT a breakfast person. In fact, the thought of breakfast used to make me ill. Several shots of espresso and a big glass of juice, and I was DONE.
But NOOOO, not anymore. Now I have to get crumbs all over myself and slide into a carb coma. I might as well just eat a stick of butter and dump sugar packets into my mouth for half an hour.
(Mmmm….)
They say that your body tends to crave things that reveal what you’re lacking, but that most people misinterpret the craving and try and fill the space with the wrong thing. I suppose my body is saying my blood sugar is crashing, but shoving it full of sugar probably isn’t what it wants.
Well, yes it IS, but it shouldn’t want that. As Pamela Anderson is to greasy rock stars, so am I to the cranberry streusel.
And I realize that you ARE, in fact, supposed to eat breakfast to achieve your best energy and health during the course of a day. Yadda yadda protein and whole grains and fruit and nine kinds of vitamins.
There’s nothing in there about banana loaf, though.
Man, that’s what I desire. As soon as coffee hits my lips. The thought of eating an egg still makes my stomach do cartwheels of death, but ooooh.
I totally want a donut.
Stella Reese Quarry. Born July 12. 8lbs 11oz.
You, little one, are one of the most loved, long-awaited children on the face of this earth. Your mom and dad have been through more than you will ever know.
You are the second gift in their lives, but the only one they can hold close for now. Take good care of them, Stella.
Love you, Ames and Will. Always.
UPDATE: You will need to sign up for a Yahoo ID to participate — if you have a Yahoo email address, you already have one. If not, them’s the breaks, kids!
I love the NFL. I don’t always keep track of it like a superstar, but I love it. Especially Tom Brady.
Every year I join far too many sports pools, and win very few of them, since I tend to draft with my heart, and not my brain. I used to be better at it before I had kids, though.
Wait, I haven’t had any kids.
Crap.
You should join the MegFowler.com NFL pool anyhow.
All are welcome to come, draft, and trash talk. Nicely. NICELY.
Kind of.
I can’t really say it better than Yahoo’s automated systems (if I had a nickel for every time I said THAT), so…
COME ONE, COME ALL TO THE ‘WHAT THE HELL, MIGHT AS WELL’ NFL FANTASY POOL.
Hey! You have been invited to join Meg's Custom League in Yahoo! Sports Fantasy Football. In order to join the league, just go to
http://football.fantasysports.yahoo.com/f1,
click the "Sign Up Now" or "Get Another Team" button and follow the links to "Join a Custom League". When prompted, enter the League ID# and password below. League ID#: 224274 Password: megfowler We will send you a confirmation with further details once you have completed the registration process. --Fantasy Football Commissioner http://football.fantasysports.yahoo.com/f1
Meg Fowler.
11 years old. Likely about 4′10″ with bony arms and ribs that show and track-runner legs. (Hey, I am now a towering 5′3″ — and I only got there at 25!)
Hair down her back, slightly crooked bangs. Ears not yet pierced. Makeup not yet worn. Pale pink nailpolish borrowed from Mom.
Likely wearing black stirrup pants, white slouch socks, Keds, and two oversize t-shirts (one to roll up the sleeves on and show a flash of colour — probably pink and green).
Watching Muchmusic in the basement family room in the first house we had in Chilliwack, with the horribly dangerous deck and the woods nearby. Just moved from Edmonton, less than a year ago.
This song comes on:
Spinning in the old brown chair, eyes closed, imagining the glamour-filled life she would live, say, at 18. Singing at the top of her lungs. Grinning with overly big front teeth.
A million boyfriends would come in high school, right? And then married in her early twenties. And then babies in her mid-twenties after university. And then writing, writing, writing.
And wearing makeup and having pierced ears, of course.
So.
I totally have pierced ears. And lots of lipsticks.
And you’re reading my writing.
See?
Dreams DO come true.
Ah yes.
I guess the weekend passed without me blogging, which is — as many people noted via email — patently unusual. I’m not even really sure why it happened, just that it did happen, and now it’s Sunday night and another week has arrived like a chatty, harried aunt with tales of ailments and ointments and slightly dried-out marmalade loaf.
(I don’t even know if you can make marmalade loaf. But it seems like a very auntish thing to bring, don’t you think?)
(Erm.)
The asthma is pretty much under control at this point, due to massive doses of cetirizine HCl, diphenhydramine, and phenylephrine — none of which are asthma medications, but all of which slap my allergies into something like submission.
It’s the allergies that make my lungs spin like dreidles, which makes those crazy bastards (it helps to anthropomorphize everything, I swear) the first targets when things go awry. And boy, do I attack those targets.
After all, I take breathing seriously. Especially when I can’t.
I am the Sydney Bristow of allergy medicators.
(Although no wigs are involved.)
(I suppose I could say I take on allergies like Chuck Norris, but sometimes you need more than a big belt buckle and a roundhouse kick, quite frankly.)
(Or do you?)
Anyhow. The weekend.
Sunny skies. Sleeping in. Coffee. Sniffling. Beaches. Pink pendant unbought from a street vendor but lusted after. Alias episodes on DVD. Baked chicken with feta in a balsamic glaze (invented!). Big new bottle of olive oil. Irish pub. Sunwashed patio. Singing. Laundry. Floor washing. Produce shopping. Ice cream sandwiches. More singing. Late evening drives. More coffee. Odd fascination with programming about house flipping (Sweet monkey on a trapeze, you are NOT going to fix that roof for less than 1,000…). Sunburnt nose on the pier. Grapefruit guava soap. Tweezing eyebrows in the rearview mirror. Rediscovery of cheesy summer music. Tons of singing. A bit more coffee. Depressing A & E programming about drug epidemics. Cinnamon tea on the deck. And… blogging.
And now you’re up to date.
In between, of course, there are stubbed toes and odd itchy leg rashes and awkward moments and lonely thoughts and fierce discussions. In between, there are moments where I can’t figure myself out even a little bit.
Then there is wondering and hoping and dreaming and wanting.
Not to mention making do and making it work and making it.
These lists (like the one above) always inspire people to say, “Sounds like a great weekend!” or “Sounds like you’re feeling better!” or “Can I have your recipe for the chicken?”
And yes, mostly… and yes, mostly, and yes… but not tonight.
But again I walk that tightrope of wanting to be entertaining and wanting to be real and tell you slightly more than anyone really should. So — tonight I will leave it at neither, and go to bed.
HA!
