I have an iPod.

Now that I can infuse the formerly silent moments of my life with sweet, sweet music (except those moments which should remain silent… like those in restrooms and confessional booths… if I went to confession, that is…), I seem also to have cottoned on to a more directed form of daydreaming.

I mean, I always used to daydream — I have always been a daydreamer — but now, my daydreams have taken a unique and dramatic turn.

And soundtrack is everything.

I love a kazillion different kinds of music: classical, opera, jazz, pop, folk, alt-country, rock, reggae, etc. The pure joy of transmuting melody, harmony and rhythm is something that is impossibly dear to me. My iPod is loaded up with such a variety of moods and sounds that a simple shuffle of songs can send me sprinting in a plethora of mental directions.

I close my eyes (as long as I’m not walking across a street) as the tune fills my ear buds and, almost instantaneously, a scene is set. Sometimes the details are clear, sometimes not. Sometimes I can see everything, while at other times, I just have a vague idea or a feeling that slowly brings a picture into focus.

I write little movies in my head. I have adventures. They don’t involve snakes or planes. And I never quite know what will happen until my iPod chooses a song.

Why, just today:

Song: Something’s Gotta Give (Ella Fitzgerald)
Location: Bus, 7:09 am
Mood: Sleepy, but then…

Meg — clad in a cherry-red suit complete with obnoxiously high Manolosomethingorothers traipses through the lobby of an upscale NYC hotel, luggage trailing behind her on a giant brass cart navigated by a tall, quirky-looking bellhop (think Paul Bettany) who addresses her as “Miss! Miss!” in a delectable British accent. She is obviously on her way to the Penthouse, since the elevator they hop on just won’t stop climbing to the top.

As the song struts through riffing horns and hops along with a fabulous bass line, Meg enters the most expensive suite in the house, complete with gold fixtures and overstuffed velvet furniture. She wheels around to face the bellhop unloading the cart and fishes around in her Birkin bag for a $50 to toss in his direction. He sets the last monogrammed case down and steps forward to receive his tip.

But suddenly, impulsively, she tosses the cash behind her and kisses him on the cheek. As she stands back with a grin, he winks mischeviously. “Enjoy your stay, Miss.” And with that, he takes her in his arms, kisses her far more deeply, and says, “Undercover work is such a pain, darling. This suit is made of polyester, for heaven’s sakes!” She grins, sighs, and says, “It’ll be over soon, love. But I’ll make sure to order plenty of room service until the mission is done….”

And with that, she pulls him in for another peck and the elevator heads back down without him in it…

Mmmm hmmm.

Song: Easy Plateau (Ryan Adams)
Location: Elevator up to actual job, 7:42 am
Mood: Still a bit jazzed by the jazz… but what’s this? A steel guitar?

There’s no use, Meg thinks, turning the key again to set the engine wheezing. I won’t be getting out of here tonight! She pushes open the rusty old door and hops out of the cab of the truck, cowboy boots kicking up dust on the ground below. As she surveys the scene and notes the utter and complete lack of payphones on the main street of this hick town, she hears a voice behind her.

“Excuse me, darlin’. I’ve been listening to you flood that engine for nearly half an hour and I’m pretty sure you’ve done it in. What’s a fine thing like you doing driving a heap like that?” He is fortyish, craggy, and weatherworn (think Redford crossed with Eastwood crossed with Pitt), but about as fine a figure as any she’d seen for miles. The shoulders! But why was he smirking at her?

“It’s my grandfather’s truck. It’s a bit temperamental, is all. This town have a phone anywhere?”

“Closest one is at the bar down the road, but it’s a bit of a walk. It’s a Sunday. Everything’s closed around here that doesn’t cater almost exclusively to sinners.” His smirk made her squirm in her jeans.

“Well, good thing I’m not perfect, then. Which direction should I head?”

“It’s a fair piece down the main drag. I can’t drive you up, if you like.” He gestured back at his huge old gorgeous boat of a convertible. She imagined herself perched on those beaten old butterscotch seats and smiled almost involuntarily. If she didn’t fall in love with the car, she knew she’d fall for him if she got inside.

“Why, that’s mighty friendly of you, sir…” And with that, he held the door open for her and she stepped into destiny…

Hey, listen. It was early. I can’t vouch for quality before 10 am.

Song: Ready, Steady, Go (Oakenfold)
Location: Downtown street, headed for first latte of the day, 8:56 am
Mood: Longing! Driven!

The insistent click of her heels on the pavement formed a backbeat for the crazy spiral of thoughts in her head.

Where was the damn briefcase, anyhow? She’d seen him carrying it, but when he’d been taken into custody, it was nowhere to be found. And now the agents were working on him. Hoping to crack his steely resolve. Hoping to find the answer before the clock ran out.

And where was she going? Back to the place she’d met him first — that smoky, half-lit place in the bowels of the city where angels feared to tread and fools rushed in. Not to mention bomb-building master thieves.

Suddenly she heard a voice in her earpiece.

“Meg?” Her heart stopped. It was Lennox, but something was wrong. Even in a single word, she felt her heart and mind connect with his — and the transmission was dire.

“Jake? What’s wrong?” She hissed a response into her lapel, trying not to attract attention to herself — beyond the obvious gawk-appeal of the stiletto boots and short black trench she wore, a siren-red scarf at at her throat. Men looked at her interested, appraising. But that voice (think Clive Owen) was her only concern now.

“We’re running out of time and we can’t crack him. Are you headed for the Den?”

“Of course… that’s where the Intel leads. But we’ve got nothing else? Nothing to tell me how to get back into the secret offices once I get there?”

“No.” The gravity in his tone made her heart skip a beat. “And Meg — we think the entrance to his lab could be rigged.”

“Rigged?”

“I want you to stop where you are right now and tell me how to find you. I won’t let you go in alone.”

Okay, clearly someone’s been watching a bit too much Alias.

Song: Maybe God Is Trying To Tell You Something (Mississippi Mass Choir)
Location: In line for latte, 9:05 am
Mood: Jubiliant. Coffee is in the air.

She’d always managed to blend in, never attracting attention to herself with the showy hairstyles and talonesque nails favoured by the most flamboyant of the choir members. They would step up for their solos and bring down the house, jabbing a hot pink finger into the air to punctuate their praises.

But Meg? Nah. She was the quiet type, not the solo type. She filled in the alto section with her deep yet moderate tone and stayed out of the gossip and choir politics that seemed to keep everyone else constantly occupied with drama.

Today was her first solo, though, and suddenly she was thrust into the limelight. And it was oh-so-unforgiving.

“You know, girl, I would not have thought you ready to do a solo. How long you even been here, a month or two?” Doris looked her up and down with a mean little twist of her lips.

“Three years, Doris, three years last month.” Doris sucked in her breath.

“Damn! Well, I guess you just ain’t that memorable. But good luck with the song.” She walked away, leaving Meg standing there, dripping dark tears onto her black music folder. Why could no one take her seriously? Was she destined to always perform a back-up role? Her director appeared and shot her a look when he saw that she was crying.

“Shape up, Fowler — you’re up in this song. You ready, or do I have to get Doris to fill in? She knows this solo fine.”

That was all she needed to hear.

The piano started off with a gorgeous crescendo of notes and she felt that chill up her spine that she always did when she was going to sing something marvelous and holy. As soon as she opened her lips to sing, the chill became a fire and her voice broke into the stale air with a lightning crack of soul.

Doris may know how to sing, Meg thought, but you can’t fake passion…

And with that, she showed them how a real gospel girl gets it done.

Before long, the crowd was on their feet and the pews were rocking and the Spirit was raising hands all over the church. Even Old Rev. Simpson was swaying in his seat and as she closed her eyes to belt it out above the choir, she thought she caught him smiling at her. It was that smile that let her know that, while this may have been her first solo, it most certainly wouldn’t be her last…

The coffee was awesome, by the way.

Song: Concerto in D Major for Flute, Oboe, Violin, Violincello, Theorbo, Strings and Continuo (Dresdner Baroksolisten)
Location: At my desk, working on a draft. 10:13 am.
Mood: Oddly giddy.

The air was so crisp that Meg was tempted to take a bite.

How would it taste? How would it sound? She imagined the cold, juicy snap of an apple picked early in the morning. It was an apple-cold day, for sure.

Icy flakes swirled in the trees like wedding confetti and the snow-covered willow served as a lovely bride. But where was her groom? And speaking of grooms…

“Are you sure it’s not too cold to get married?” His wry smile was almost as warm as the steaming coffee in the cup he handed her (I’m not even telling you who to think of in this one. That’s just for me…!).He kicked a bit of snow off the deck and put a sweatered arm around her. She settled into his embrace, but not before giving him a quick jab with her elbow.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before you get out of this one, buster!” With that, she looked into his gentle brown eyes, completely certain that about the only thing that stood in the way of their wedding was a snowbank on the way to the Christmas light-strung, hay-scented barn in the back field.

For that was where they would create a makeshift chapel with family and friends to get the rest of their life together underway… complete with a banjo-picked Wedding March…

Heh… and they say technology is robbing us of romance…

peppercorn
inside my jar
do you know
how hot you are?

if I grind you
will you burn?
you fire my lips
I never learn

next to the salt
the picture of calm
my mill of
casual napalm

peppercorn
inside my jar
cracked and round
like me, you are

Whenever I write about being sad or not feeling well on my blog, I know that four things will occur:

• my mother will worry
• some people will go, “Meh!” and come back when I am cheerful
• some people will leave comforting/”feel better!”/slightly mocking comments with the goal of making me buck up a little
• I will immediately want to delete said post

See, I’m all over wanting to be real, and to genuinely communicate the person I am and what I’m going through, but then I think, well, does anyone really want to hear this crap?

Or people will have linked to a funny post on the blog, at which point poor humour-loving visitors will click through, end up at my blog, and go, “Meh!” when they see I’m being melancholic.

I hate how awkward and schizo and unprofessional this can make me seem.
But the truth is, I go very cheerfully through my day. I don’t miss work, ever. Ever. I take my medications, I make fun dinners (even though I am cooking for one), I dance around with my roommate, and I enjoy sunsets.

I just happen to do it while being very sick and sad sometimes.

So. Yeah. This sucks.

But I’m okay, I think.

tonight, there is no way to pull it all around to a happy ending.

tonight, there is a headache from crying.

tonight, i said what i thought, and it hurt.

tonight, people love me anyway.

tonight, i looked into the face of what i must do, and it made me so very tired.

tonight, it seems impossible.

tonight, i was so angry.

tonight, i don’t know what to tell you.

i am so very, very far from perfect or knowing myself well or having a damn thing figured out. i am always two steps away from falling into the grand canyon.

or, of course, there is the mountain — two steps in the other direction.

good thing i’d rather climb than fall.

but, dammit, enough. for. now.

enough.

• houses creaking in the afternoon sunlight
• shell and silver earrings catching the breeze
• ice clinking, adrift in tonic and lime
• early morning crows
• motorcycles challenging the hill
• flip-flopping in the grass
• the whisk-whisk-whisk of sprinklers in the evening
• next-door grill sizzling
• faint beats from house parties down the block
• porch swing squeaks
• whirring fans in the heavy nighttime air
• fat buzzing bee in the basil
• ice cream trucks with drunken organ jingles
• kids splashing in foot-high pools, squealing like door hinges
• idle singing over the weeds in the garden

And you? What do you hear?

Does he look innocent?

Because he’s not.

Today, I hung out at Granville Island with my mom. We had a Mom-Daughter day. I love spending time with her.

Another thing we love?

Chinese food!

Granted, it’s not always authentic, correct cuisine. Sometimes it looks like it’s coated in jam or shellac or lip gloss.

But, damn. That’s some tastiness.

So, today, while hanging out, we decided to get two plates of the good stuff and sit outside, along with our Snapples and the ongoing conversation about decorating my apartment and why I’ve become obsessed with pink and brown or pale blue and brown colour combinations in all my personal environments.

We got our food.

It looked AMAZING.

We left the building.

Ten feet out of the door, I was attacked by six of the largest seagulls you’ve ever seen. The crowd around us on benches and boardwalk gasped and screamed. My mother ran to the side with her plate.

They a) took off with my chicken balls in their beaks; b) knocked my chow mein to the cement; and c) gathered all the birds in the world — starlings, crows, pigeons, probably a flamingo — to pick at my ginger beef on the ground.

I was so shell-shocked that I just kept walking. And we walked all the way to a bench thirty feet away, where we shared my mother’s lunch. I said, “Shit.” about twenty-two times. People dropped by with condolences.

Then, only moments later, my mom bought me a small, pink vinyl hippo.

We named her Polly.

Polly Vinyl.

Get it?

I WANT MY LUNCH BACK, YOU MANGY BASTARDS.

dear him:

So, we haven’t met yet. We’re not dating yet, not serious yet, not engaged yet, not married yet. We’re an idea at this point — not a reality. You are a distant dream. I don’t even know you.

But I know you exist, because if you don’t, well — I’m going to kick your ass.

I suppose I’ve spent a good portion of the last 32 years of my life becoming the girl you’ll end up with and I know that, at many points, I could have tried harder to be worthy of your affections. But I’m still difficult, still touchy, still temperamental, still crazy.

Evidently, you’re going to choose me anyhow.

You’re nuts, honey.

I know that without even meeting you.

I like that, though — it means we’re kindred. I don’t want to say that I’m clinically insane, per se — I mean, it’s not like I’m familiar with white coats and padded walls.

Mostly.

But I digress.

I just wanted to cover a few things in this letter so that you know what you’re getting into. I mean, any guy who gets into a relationship with me is going to want to be a bit of a boy scout: prepared for anything.

Let’s start with my family:

My mom is going to want to hug you and feed you a great deal of food. The food is good, I promise. But you’ll need to eat a lot of it to satisfy her, so bring your appetite. You should go look at her art and her handicrafts, too. See how talented she is?

I don’t know how to do any of that stuff, so don’t ask me to.

That’s what my mom is for. She does stuff, we enjoy it. It works.

My dad is going to want you to have a clue about life in general; he’s not a fan of his daughter marrying into ignorance. Thing is, I chose you because you were bright and amazing — hopefully much more so than I — so now it’s just a matter of getting past his filter. He’s going to default to thinking that you’re not smart enough to be with me (without any real evidence to back up his theory), so this is a good time to haul out your knowledge of everything from current events to literature to NFL history.

This is NOT a good time to mention that you have ever rooted for the Cowboys or the Broncos. Maybe stop doing that.

Don’t mock his pink tie, either.

My brother is going to want to beat you up. Just stay below the radar and say soothing things about Star Trek and Canadian bands. Maybe offer him a mocha.

I’ll protect you as best I can.

As far as my friends go, they’re a pretty open lot. Mostly they just want me to be happy, just like my family. Ashleigh and Kerry will give you the eagle eye, Kristy and Jenn will ask all the right questions, Jay and Jaegen will talk to you about sports, and Catherine will make you laugh like an idiot. All my work friends? Will just be shocked I brought someone to the Christmas party.

If you can’t manage to keep up with my former and current and future roommates, you’re not likely going to find me funny or fascinating, either.

And as any good lover knows, laughing and communicating are an essential part of any true romance.

But… let’s say you make it through these hoops.

Once you’ve run the gauntlet of my family and friends — well, there’s still me.

I’m a little bit strange, honey. I don’t know quite how to describe it, but there it is — I don’t always make sense. I usually manage to entertain people with my quirky ways on occasion, but not all my angles and edges might suit you for the long haul.

I might confuse you.

I can talk a blue streak about almost anything, but some days I really, truly have nothing to say. I can stay awake for hours and hours on end, but oh — I really like my Saturday morning sleep-ins. Do you mind if I lie like a lump beneath the covers until the sun is high in the sky?

You can try and wake me up. I might even pretend to be awake until you leave the room again. Then zzzzzzzz…

Here’s a big worry:

I don’t know quite what I’ll do if you hate coffee. You’re never going to want to bring me a latte in bed if you don’t understand the nature of my affection for the sweet nectar of the humble bean. I can’t really explain it either. If you don’t like coffee, you’ll just find the taste exceedingly bitter.

And we don’t need any bitterness in this relationship.

By the way, I sing along really loudly with things in the car.

Sometimes I don’t even know the lyrics; I’ll just make them up. I might write a song about being stuck in traffic or your need for a haircut or the fact that I just spilled hand santitizer all over my jeans or the weird guy in the next lane over.

I also sing along with soundtracks and Muzak in grocery stores, elevators, and hotel lobbies. Is that okay? I’ve got pretty solid pitch and I don’t wail it out too loudly. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.

Speaking of offending, I can be a wee bit argumentative and competitive at points. And not always about stuff that matters like world crises or our eternal bond as a couple. No — sometimes it will be nothing more than the words to the theme song from ‘Diff’rent Strokes’.

I know the words, you know. I bet I know them better than you. Did you realize that it was Alan Thicke singing?

I didn’t think so.

See?

I win.

I like to cook weird things late at night. Will this interfere with your sleep? I mean, go to bed anytime you want — we both know I’ll be up later with my insomnia.

But do you mind if I whip up a little carbonara? You can always tear yourself away from the pillow and have some. And your dreams will then be as weird as mine (hopefully).

My dreams are an endless well of office stories and wacky emails to faraway friends.

Now, if you’re one of those people who won’t eat or smell food after 6 or 7 pm, though — getting back on topic — you’re not going to appreciate the sound or scent of me deglazing a pan at 2 am.

Oh!

One more thing about food — I really like things to be spicy. I might add a few too many peppers or too much curry powder or Tabasco to things in my pursuit of beautiful, transcendent heat. If you try something I’ve made and you feel that your esophagus has just caught fire, please tell me. We can find you a glass of milk or a fire hose — whichever seems more apropos.

In regards to travelling, I haven’t been to a lot of places or seen a lot of amazing things. I will invariably embarass you a little when I stand with my mouth hanging open as we stand in front of major sights and scenes.

Whole swarms of flies might take up residence in my gaping maw before I get ahold of myself.

I hope you won’t cringe at my overdeveloped sense of wonder, because I do have my cynical spots, too, you know. A profound example of this is my disdain for certain grandiose romantic gestures.

I don’t feel any need to hop in a hot air balloon, or find the floor of my hotel room lined with rose petals, or receive a very large embossed Hallmark card. I am not obsessed with anniversaries or notorious moments or unwieldy milestones on our journey together. I am plenty pleased with receiving the prize from your CrackerJack box, you know.

In fact, gimme.

I like the occasional bouquet of flowers, but no roses please. And no bad poetry, either.

I do love the idea of an expensive dinner out, but at this stage in the game, I can’t reconcile blowing what we would spend on groceries in a month just to go out and test our ability to ask for a glass of water en francais.

C’est dommage.

Now — before I close out this letter, I should tell you what I need from you most, now that we’ve covered what you need to know: I want you to be honest, transparent, and entirely revealing of anything that might be useful for me to understand about you. I don’t need all the details, but a general idea? That would be grand.

I also need to trust that you are someone who genuinely, truly, and unabashedly loves me. Loves me back, that is, since that’s how I feel about you.

I can’t wait to go camping with you, to overstuff a hall closet with our shared acoutrements, to drag you onto a roller coaster, to make meaningless, nearly silent calls to you at work every day just to hear you breathe on the other end.

I can’t wait to write our history. I can’t wait for us.

As crazy as I am, I think I can make you happy.

So hang on.

You didn’t choose the easy path, but you chose the one that leads to happiness.

With me.

Thanks — I wasn’t sure that would ever happen. And look at us now… err… then.

In the future, that is.

Love,

M.

You may have noticed that my dad likes to send me lovely pictures on Fridays, pictures that he has taken during his daily walks through his beachside community. They’re usually pretty gorgeous and envy-inducing. Like this:

Today? He sent this:

Did you get that? Wait, let me zoom in:

A memorial for this man’s pants will be held a week from Tuesday, at your optometrist’s office. BECAUSE I JUST BURNED OUT YOUR RETINAS.

I wish I had stacks and stacks of art supplies. A million clean canvases — that’s art to me in and of itself.

I’m terrible with small talk. But you wouldn’t know it to talk to me. The terrible part comes later when I whack myself in the head for saying stupid things.

I can snap my fingers almost obscenely loudly.

Once I’ve washed black items of clothing three or so times, I never want to wear them again. But I do. I just look… washed.

I cannot stand condescension, trite remarks, sweeping generalizations, or people who are proud of their own rudeness. If you want to insult me, call me shallow. And then stand back.

The sound of rain first thing in the morning makes me want to curl up tighter beneath my duvet.

I snore. Sometimes.

I don’t look good in necklaces. Apparently, I am neckless.

I hate the taste of artificial sweetener.

I never believed in Santa.

I always preferred Han Solo to Luke Skywalker.

Love is like a cookie. Even when it’s stale, someone will still want it.

The hours between 9 and 11 pm go incredibly fast. The hours between 9 and 11 am crawl.

I have dined at a restaurant alone. On purpose.

I wish I could sit on a windy, cloudy, cool beach in Oregon, wrapped in a quilt, and leave my thoughts behind for a day.

I’ve never gutted a fish.

I have dissected a sheep eyeball.

I am a human furnace. I believe I will self-incinerate one day. And everyone I know will say, “Eh, I always knew she was an ash.”

I have rewired a lamp. It didn’t work again, but I sure as hell rewired it.

I can work many different kinds of saws, but not a sewing machine.

Sometimes I can be incredibly thoughtless and miss cues from people — and I hate being given only one chance to do the right thing. But the older I get, the more I realize: that is all most people will give you.

I’ve never been to a really fancy restaurant. The very idea petrifies and intrigues me.

I’m wary of my own edges.

I fear my softness even more.I hug tightly. I shake hands firmly. And I kiss with conviction.

I have two books on my bedside I still haven’t read. And a copy of the New Yorker that I’ve probably read twice.

I love Christmas carols, especially sung by classical choirs. It takes me back to my days of choir tours and solos in big stone churches. But I should probably wait until December to listen to that stuff. Or, like, next week. Wait, isn’t that tomorrow?

I criticize the writing in romantic comedies mercilessly. And then I clutch a hand to my chest, close my eyes, and wonder why I don’t hear such things.

I don’t like carnations. Really.

I make excellent soup.

I will make endless efforts with some people to connect — and never make a dent. I can try once with others, and find myself at the centre of their heart in seconds flat. I cannot fathom that kind of courage.

I’ve hung up on people more than once. For business and pleasure.

Every time I try and plan ahead to save money, something comes up that requires more than I had in the first place.

The idea of disappointing people makes me nauseous.

I find 99% of corsages to be really, really ridiculous. But that probably goes for weddings, too.

It worries me that no one has ever stayed in love with me.

I’m really not all that into chocolate.

I’m really not all that into cheesecake.

I’m exceptionally claustrophobic.

I’ve never left North America. I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never been to Disneyland. Given three choices of places to see, I choose Belfast, New Orleans, and Prague. I like my locations old, crazy and full of tension between history and the future. Why? Because, every year, that describes me a little bit more.

Extreme Home Makeover makes me cry like a ridiculous sap.

Emotional detachment is good for checking your ATM balance, not living.

Love is like a rodeo. You’re always getting roped into something.

Love is also like a really bad play. You’re confused in the middle, the ending never makes sense, the dialogue is often impossible to fathom — but even if it sucks, you still had to pay just to get in.

Because he hates on the Macs. And he shouldn’t. If you held my iBook, my cantankerous friend, you’d know love.

So. Today I have a migraine. Not shocking, really. I’ve had more of them since the Aliens put the chip in my brain.

This is my friend right now:

Oh, sweet precious orange drops of life.

Today is a day that redefines the meaning of busy at work, so I have to stay out of the queasy haze of giving in to the pain for now. When I head home tonight, I shall sit on the couch with my eyes closed and listen to Curtis Stone say words like “monkfish” and “arugula” and “reduction” and rediscover the meaning of ZONE THE HELL OUT.

For now, though?

Owwwwwwwww.