megfowler.com

By a window!

Oh my gosh!

It’s so LIGHT here.

WOO!

What do your immediate surroundings look like?

It’s conspicuously quiet around here.

But I know you’re all still out there, because I have the kooky stats to prove it.

I’ve actually noticed the comment dropoff on quite a few blogs, as well as a major posting dropoff. People are feeling… unmotivated? Quiet? Novembery? Busy? Seasonally affected? Ticklish?

It’s hard to say. How are you?

I have always had a large amount of beloved and loving lurkers — especially you Salon alumni — who tend not to comment here, anyhow, so I’m not worried about it. It’s just a curiosity.

The big kids still have stacks of comments , but much of that seems to be stemming from an odd crop of personal blogging controversies that have sprung up as of late (stemming! crop! sprung! You’d think it was springtime in my head), none of which I’ll mention here, since a) I don’t want to show up on search terms, and b) I think meanness on the Web is deserving of nothing but silence.

Unless you insult my mom. Then you get your ass kicked. And smothered with a lovely blanket. (Joking. I’m not messing up that blanket.)

I’m pretty happy to skip controversy here, to say the least.

But what’s going on with you guys? Everyone okay?

Before I say another word, thank you for the sunshine.

It’s very, very pretty, and a lovely thing to wake up to. Or see about an hour after I woke up. Whatever.

Also? Thank you for coffee. I know you didn’t make it for me, but I assume you’re fine with it, and I’m REALLY fine with it, so can I get an amen?

Thank you.

All that aside, however, what is the deal with you taking on my manicure?

I don’t normally manicure, Vancouver.

I have odd little potato chip/ski jump/upended contact lens fingernails, so it’s usually a better idea NOT to draw attention to them. When people DO notice them, they poke oddly at them — without fail — and say, “What happened to your fingernails?”

Genetics, my friends. Specifically? My maternal grandfather. Who also passed down an odd yen for making bad debate points and taking inappropriate amounts of vitamins. None of which seems to cure our shared weird nails.

Or maybe they were squished in the womb or something, but I doubt I spent nine months trying to pry my mother’s uterus open, thus permanently deforming my nails.

That’s kind of an unpleasant mental picture, I know. But that’s what you get for TRYING TO SMUDGE ME.

Anyhow.

I put on nailpolish in a dark garnet-y shade on Saturday, since I was bored waiting for my friend to arrive and meet me for dinner. The bottle was there, and I did it. It’s really more of a toe shade — unless you’re some crazed fashionista — but it also seemed like it might be fun to try.

I know. Painting your nails as experimental fun. I’m clearly a ball of excitement and mirth, no? This is why you need me in your city, Vancouver.

So I did it. And it dried. And lo, it looked okay. It actually made my nails look less potato-chippy. I’m still not a huge fan of the dark mani, but eh. My nails are short and un-claw-like, so I don’t look like Mistress X of the Dungeon.

(Hmmm. Halloween idea?)

Of course, I’d chipped the hell out of it by Sunday. Which either speaks to lack of topcoat or lack of skills or the fact that I am constantly putting my hands in peril. I’m betting it’s a combination of all three.

But I wasn’t quite ready to let the glamour go. So, Vancouver, I took all the polish off and re-did it last night. It was even better this time around!

(Yes, this story is going to go somewhere soon.)

And then this morning, after noticing some textural oddities on my thumbnail, I gave myself another coat. On the way out the door. I’d taken my keys out of my bag, set my bus pass in a convenient, non-smudge access spot… I was ready to let things dry properly.

Then I got on the bus, folded my hands delicately in my lap, and zoned out while drinking intermittently from my travel mug, and — of course — letting my fierce nails dry.

Apparently, sweet city, you took issue with this plan.

Because the next man that got on the bus literally FELL INTO MY LAP.

ON MY HANDS.

He didn’t even apologize, choosing instead to swear at the driver. And somehow, miraculously, his sudden collision only resulted in a slight smudge on my pinky nail, which barely exists anyhow.

If all my fingernails were countries, my pinky nail would be Andorra.

After this mild trauma, I thought I was safe. My nails would be nearing the “hardened” stage soon, and then I wouldn’t have to flutter them out of the way of danger like small birds fleeing a cat.

But Vancouver? Apparently you had other plans for me.

Never have so many people swung their laptop bags and purses and umbrellas (IT’S NOT RAINING) and briefcases and kantanas at my hands EVER. I probably looked completely spastic trying not to get chipped.

Probably? There is no probably.

During the course of that ride, I swore off dark nailpolish. Nailpolish in general! Damn the nailpolish! Enough! No more high-maintenance living for me!

This decision was confirmed when the bus driver closed the door on my hand. What?

SERIOUSLY. I GET IT. WE ARE A CITY OF NATURAL BEAUTY. NO ONE LIKES AN UPPITY MANICURE AROUND HERE. AND NO, THE POLISH WAS NOT TESTED ON BABY SEALS OR BUNNIES.

Dammit.

I was about a block away from work when I was forced to weave through a construction site. This would normally be no big deal, but this construction site was fairly crawling with odd vehicles and machines that were doing things and stuff and being piloted by slightly enraged-looking men with steel jaws and hardhats and clear malicious intent.

(Vancouver. Come on. You’re supposed to save these men for our hockey teams.)

The final step of this gauntlet was created by the angriest of all the angry men in the world — NO, I’M NOT EXAGGERATING — who was perched on a mini-forklift laden with a bunch of cement blocks.

Maybe he was mad because his forklift was so tiny. I’m not sure. Some men struggle with a reduced capacity to fork.

Angry Man was parked across the sidewalk, almost to the point of colliding with a giant truck that was — I kid you not — suspended in mid-air by cables of some sort. Holy crap.

There was less than a foot between them.

But unless I wanted to step into traffic — and Vancouver, seriously, what’s with your drivers? Since when is road rage a lifestyle? — I was going to have to shimmy through this space.

I saw a man ahead of me do it. I assumed I’d be safe. The driver didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon.

So I went for it, dropping my bag low to make myself as small as possible.

And right at the exact moment when I was pressed like an autumn leaf between the two vehicles, the driver moved.

Forward.

GAH.

I lunged to the side with a sort of saut de chat and nearly ended up flat on my ass.

But you know what I was worried about, Vancouver? Not my ribs, no.

Not my spleen.

I was worried about my damn fingernails, because my hand felt cement and I felt panic and JUMP FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY AND SAVE THE MANICURE.

I’m quite aware of how ridiculous this is.

I’m also quite aware of how ridiculous — yet dramatic and ferocious and chic — my hands look.

But sheesh, Vancouver. Can’t I just keep them for ONE DAY?

No?

Oh, now we’re playing hardball.

Next bunny I see? He’s TOTALLY GETTING A MANICURE.

Love,

Meg

Storms are beautiful from one side of the window.

Slick rivulets slide like mercury down the glass, night skies glow orange and violet through charcoal fog, and trees and telephone wires bend startled how-do-you-dos as the wind whips their backs.

And then there are the sounds.

Drops click-clack-tap like fingernails on a counter, wind exhales raggedly like my grandfather settling into his chair, and cars rush by on washed-out streets, hissing like alley cats running for cover.

You can hear it all with the ear you don’t have pressed into the muffle of pillows, but there is nothing to feel but the woolen weight of blankets and worn sheets smooth against your bare legs.

Drowsy, dreaming, lulled by the drumming on the panes.

Safe.

***

Storms can be beautiful from the other side, too.

But this is a wilder thing.

This is blinking and laughing and shouting through the assault of icy drops and freight-train gusts.

This is looking for familiar shapes in the watercolour-blackness around you.

This is shivering, this is shocking, this is sharp.

But as scared as you might be when lightning cracks overhead, there is no denying that you are alive and awake and in the moment.

Electric.

***

I used to love storms either way.

Until I got stuck in this one.

I feel as though this downpour would rather drown me than bathe me in adrenaline.

I feel the seams of my jacket soaking through from the constancy of the damp.

I feel my face growing red and bitten by the cold and framed by seaweed tendrils of hair clinging in icy streams down my neck.

Then I feel myself going numb.

I can still see the butter-pat windows of warmer places from where I stand and I’m tired of trembling at the thunder above and below and everywhere, but the blackness between my body and shelter seems nearly impossible to navigate.

I thought I could tough it out.

I thought I could turn my hood against the fierceness of it all.

But I think I need someone to open a door and tell me to get the hell out of the rain.

I’m just not sure they know I’m out here.

Today brought a lot of sweetness to our house.

This is Olivia.

Olivia and her lovely mom, Erica, came to see us today.

Seriously. The cute. Wow.

And when they went home, I decided to whip up something almost as sweet…

Not as cute, but mmm.

… and all I got was this blanket.

I love my mom. And so should you.

Holy cow!

I forgot to blog!

When was the last time THAT happened?

I look back at my day, and all I see is a combination of work and umbrellas and giggly co-workers, donuts I brought in for said co-workers… and a small dose of leftover sadness.

Because it lingers sometimes. But.

Soon I will be in bed, and then I will be sleeping in, and then I will have a day of whatever I want to do. And whatever I want to do?

Is what I like to do best.

So, because I am a lazy, lazy girl, I’m pretty much leaving you to come up with your own post here, by filling in the blanks:

1. This weekend, I will feel like I spent my time well if I manage to _______.
2. I really, really hope I get to eat some _______.
3. If you could dedicate a song to your weekend, it would be _______ by _______.
4. You better not have to _______ this weekend, or someone’s getting poked in the eye.
5. If you could be anywhere doing anything this weekend, you would be in _______, doing _______.
6. I wish I was going to be hanging out with _______ this weekend.
7. Here’s a blank you can fill in with whatever you want: _______. I sure hope you used it wisely.

I had my first reader from Andorra today. And call me an idiot (for so many reasons), but I didn’t even know there WAS an Andorra. Isn’t that horrible?

Why did I get A’s in Geography?

Do you type “George” before you type “Geography”? I always do.

Anyway… ANDORRA!

It’s super pretty, and it has about the same number of residents as the town I grew up in just outside of Vancouver.

Look!

And look what you can do there!

Yay for Andorra.

It sneaks up on you, the heartbreak.

And it doesn’t matter how well you’re handling it. It doesn’t matter how you’ve made it okay in your head. It doesn’t matter what people have said to you.

The only thing that matters is how it hurts.

All it takes is a stupid episode of ER that you’re watching in your pajamas, fireplace on, laptop open, not really paying attention.

And then one character asks another, “Is one baby going to be enough?”

Then all at once you think, “One baby? You get a whole baby of your own?”

You cry and you cry even though the news is five months old.

You make a joke about your ridiculous barren body.

You wonder if you’ll get to love someone else’s baby one day.

You wonder if you’ll remember to love yourself again one day.

This ache is a hollow one. I’m still broken.

I will be okay.

But it sneaks up on you, the heartbreak.

At that point, all you can do is be enough for yourself.

That’s right.

I realize I wrote about it a little as it was happening, and I also realize that I wrote about it when I got home, but do you REALLY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?

DO YOU?

Well, truth is, it was more than a month ago. I’m not sure I remember anymore.

Okay, that’s not true. Because I just looked out the window at the pouring rain and then online at the weather in San Diego and DAMMIT ALL TO CARLSBAD I WANT TO GO BACK.

So, for you, some random observations and memories from The Trip ™ AND enough California lovin’ to make the sun shine for me through all this downpour and graycloud and wetfoot Vancouverishness…

The first city I really experienced in the great state of California (and I’m using that term loosely, as you will soon see) was Redding, CA.

We’d been driving for more than nine hours at that point, since we were hellbent on getting that far from Cannon Beach, OR.

Look that up on Google Maps. That’s a fair drive in one day, I’d say.

And I’d also say that one of the most alarming things I’ve ever experienced was watching Catherine’s “external temperature” gauge — that which tells us how warm it is outside — slowly climb from 19 C (66 F) to 43 C (109 F) in the space of nine hours.

Just FYI, the peaks on the Oregon-California border aren’t much like the mountains that sit stoically near my home here.

Our mountains are gray and rocky and covered in dark green trees. The high elevations in our first peek at California, however, were all parched earth and pitch black pebbling and odd scrubby bushes.

And — in my fertile imagination — absolutely laden with scorpions and tarantulas and other sunbaked creepy crawlies.

Catherine threatened to take my computer away if I continued to look up “species of tarantula in California” one more time, so it’s really hard to tell you what was actually there. But man — warmth? To me?

Means bugs.

I did see one scorpion by the side of the road in Bakersfield. But that’s not someplace I ever really wanted to stop ever again, anyhow (DAMNED ATM CHARGED ME THREE DOLLARS FOR A TRANSACTION! HIGHWAY ROBBERY! LITERALLY!)

So we’d camped in Cannon Beach, and we intended to camp in Redding. After all, we’re hard core. We’re outdoorsy girls. We like nature. And we even liked our tent, despite the fact that we ended up spending the second night in Cannon Beach sleeping/sitting up in Catherine’s car because I had an insane stomach issue as a result of hot dog consumption only hours earlier by our pretty, pretty campfire.

I’d never had a problem with hot dogs before. I have an iron stomach, you know. I can literally eat iron filings — no problem. Don’t ask how I know that.

But this hot dog?

IT TOOK ME DOWN.

I felt like Johnny Cash had actually written “Ring of Fire” about my esophagus. Which he may well have, despite the fact I had not yet appeared on this earth when he penned the song. He was a forward-thinking man, though. And my pain was significant enough to have resonated through the ages.

Since I could not lie down without thinking I would die, and Catherine didn’t want to sleep alone in the tent without me, we both swaddled ourselves on slightly-reclined seats and enjoyed a night of luxury in the Corolla.

I think this slightly off-kilter slumber may have contributed to the fact that we thought so much of the terrain on the way from Portland to Redding was kind of… well… ugly. Or flat. Or dry. Or something.

Everywhere we stopped, the people seemed to feel the same way. They looked uncertain in their own surroundings and slightly overheated. And in Grant’s Pass, where we stopped at the Tourist Information Center to ask how the hell far away WAS freaking Redding now, anyway, we also spent about 15 minutes ordering a cheeseburger from the most disoriented and startled McDonald’s employee I’ve ever met.

It may have been that the aggressive air conditioning in her store had frozen her brain solid. I know I was shivering. Or it may have been that she was just starting out.

But, really. This girl responded to my order as though I’d asked her to offer me a fresh variation on the Pythagorean Theorem, and not just a slightly-smushy bun laden with gleefully-processed cheese.

All things considered, it still tasted road-trippin’ good.

Redding was about four hours away at that point, and this is where the temperature really started to concern us. I mean, Grant’s Pass? Freakin’ hot, but not in the 40s yet. In Vancouver, a day at 32 C feels melty. We were at 36 C ALREADY and how much warmer could we get before our Canadian bodies would melt away like the Polar ice cap?

Two hours out of Redding?

39 C.

An hour out of Redding?

41 C.

Sweet flaming monkeys of DOOM, we were unprepared for this.

The sun was still high in the sky, and in a matter of minutes? We were going to put a tent up and crawl inside and bake like two junebugs in a Ziploc on the Interstate.

Then it was 43 C, and the only option really seemed to be spending three days worth of our holiday budget on a hotel.

A cheap hotel.

But not a motel, because we’d watched enough Cold Case Files to know that this was a recipe for death.

Two out-of-towners and Room 5 and the free HBO and as-yet-unfound body under the bed? Yikes.

So we got a room at the La Quinta.

The current advertising campaign at our La Quinta had all sorts of signs that said, “La Quinta. Spanish for… somethingorother.”

Like, “La Quinta. Spanish for free in-room wireless.”

Which seems really forward-thinking on the part of the Spanish people, coming up with a word for that.

We took this little saying on the road with us — really, how could we not, being who we are — and soon La Quinta meant everything from “Spanish for PLEASE PLEASE I NEED A BATHROOM” and “Spanish for WE’RE GOING TO DIE IN FRESNO.”

I still don’t know what it actually means.

Our hotel room was air-conditioned, and only seconds from the pool, which TELLS YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT WHY I MAY NOT LIKE REDDING BUT I’M DOWN WITH THE LA QUINTA.

There were many creepy mid-week business-travellin’ men who watched us swim in that pool, standing on the balconies of their rooms, pay-per-ewwww porn flickering in the background. As I wrapped my towel around me to return to the air conditioned paradise of our lodgings, I even thought I saw one man try and snap us with his camera phone.

I comforted myself with Stuffed Jalepenos at the Jack In The Box.

The next day we left for Fresno.

But I’ll tell you about that later.