megfowler.com

I’m up for Best Personal Blog and Best New Blog… and voting ends SOON.

Remember:

• You can vote daily from ANY computer
• You can vote from ANYWHERE
• You don’t have to give any personal information to vote
• You will earn my undying love

It’s easy-peasy, really.

UPDATE BECAUSE I AM A TRASHY BIMBO: Thank you to JENB, CANADIAN BLOGGING LEGEND, for nominating me for them there awards.

AND…. vote for the amazing and talented Kristin for Best Blog and Best Family Blog. Her blog supports her and her gorgeous family in a lot of ways (as the connector to her other jobs) and THAT is worth supporting, not to mention the fact that she is a gifted and compelling writer. When I grow up, I wanna be like her (except I think I’m older, so that’s not going to happen.)

Thanks for all your votes so far, guys — for me AND Kristin. You’re the collective bomb.

AND… one more note.

I know that a lot of people feel that awards like these somehow diminish the blogging community in some way, and I’ll admit… I get my twinges of HMMM when I remember the days of working with kids and wanting everyone to feel like a winner, and to feel motivated to keep going. And there are gazillions of blogs out there who don’t get the attention they deserve.

Just a couple things, then:

My blog is not NEARLY the most read one around these parts, and I know that it never will be. I don’t have a particular niche I can address my blogging efforts towards, so I will always be dangling out there in some sort of topicless ether with my words. I love many, many portions of the blogging community, and have connected with some amazing people as a result.

So far, that’s been the best damn thing about having a blog, period. But blogging will most likely never be my job.

And that’s okay.

Because writing is. And always will be. And writing is my art and my science and my passion. This is the thing I love. This is the thing that drives me towards excellence, that makes commendations matter, because the more people that read my writing? The more writing I will get to do.

While I blog as a form of self-expression, I also blog as a working writer always on the lookout for freelancing connections and opportunities. This is my bread and butter. That’s what makes traffic matter, what makes awards matter, what makes links matter, the whole nine yards. The more of that stuff that happens, the more I get to do what I love and make a life out of it.

I DO care about being read — I would write all of this in a bound paper book otherwise. I care about connecting, I care about dialogue, and I care about growing as a writer and as a person through all of this. I have always thrived off of the response I get to my words, and I think that’s something writers NEED to do… you need to balance self-expression with the demands of audience engagement if you want to make a career of your words.

So thanks for voting. It’s just one little pebble on the beach of a whole life of writing — seriously, 28 years now — but that pebble will bring other pebbles to the shore. And then I get a whole beach. And then this metaphor dies, except now I want to go back to California. And that took me far too long to say. Awesome.
Dammit.

Oh, guys.

It seems like forever since we chatted about things other than Ernie vs. Bert and the snow in Vancouver.

Not that those aren’t important topics, because LORD KNOWS a) Ernie! and b) the rain is about to take it all away from me.

But.

How are you? What’s going on? How are you feeling? How is the gout? Aunt May? The business at the shop? Your relationship with that no-good, lazy-ass…

Seriously, though. Everyone. Let’s chat. And meet everyone else, because HEY some of you are new here and HEY some of you aren’t and HEY I’d like to know about all y’all. And there’s no time like the present. And nothing like presents. Which reminds me…

Here is my gift to all of you:

Here’s where nine of you just went, “Ewww! I don’t drink coffee! Now I won’t vote for you, bitch!”

Okay, tea drinkers:

Now around five of you just went, “Does that have caffeine in it? I can’t handle caffeine. Are you trying to kill me?”

FINE.

It’s herbal! CHILL.

And now ten of you just went, “Ew! I hate coffee and tea!” Well then, if it’s not coffee or tea, how about ME?

I’m just kidding. Here’s some cocoa:

And at least one of you freaks wants this:

Now that we’ve all got beverages, let’s get on with it:

1. How are you today… really? Happy? Sad? Chagrined? Tired? Blissful?
2. What has been the best moment of your week?
3. The worst moment (that you can share, that is…)?
4. What would you change about the previous four days, if you could change anything?
5. What has made you laugh this week?
6. What has made you think this week?
7. If you could be anywhere but where you are right now, where would you be?
8. If you could tell people one thing they can do for you, what would it be?
9. Do you feel understood?
10. Is there anything you should be doing for yourself that you’re not doing?
11. Can I get you a warm, moist towel?

Love to all today. And HOLY CRAP IT’S CHRISTMAS SOON.

• Britney leaving Kevin to hang out with Paris is like sleeping on an ice floe right after getting over a cold.
• I have gourmet thoughts galore at work. GALORE. And then I’m too tired for the execution of the gourmet when I get home. I wish I had some good knives and an island at my desk to get the prep work done.
• Being startled by Pam and Kid Rock getting divorced is like going into hysterics when your natural peanut butter separates.
• Why do people assume your life is really, really easy if you don’t constantly write about your scars and fears and negative experiences? Why do people assume innocence in the absence of confessional writing?I will dig to different depths as I work in this space, but please don’t think because you know my shoe size or my favourite smell or how I feel about snow or what I had for lunch that you know everything. I would think that goes without saying, but I keep getting emails characterizing me as some overgrown five year-old. My hips may be overgrown, but the wrinkles around my eyes say, “NOT FIVE ANYMORE, BABY.”
• Now that the water advisory has been lifted, I’ve been drinking more tea again and — yes, I know tea requires boiled water and boiled water was okay and WHAT’S YOUR POINT — can I tell you? TEA IS AWESOME. Especially tea with “cha” in the name, like Bancha or Genmaicha or Chai or Matcha or Sencha.They all make me feel very holistic and healthy and proactive and pure, as though I’d done yoga for an hour and had my ears candled or something. I originally wrote “candied” there, which sounds at least 67% more fun.
• I don’t think George Clooney is the sexiest man alive. I don’t think ANYONE is the sexiest man alive, unless we all are operating on the same definition, which I KNOW isn’t so because my director Christina thinks Hugh Laurie is the sexiest man alive and my mother still has a bit of a thing for Tom Selleck and someone ELSE I know thinks the lead singer of Nickelback has “soulful eyes.”All of these admittances give me the chills. I would say the sexiest man alive would have to be combination of Paul Bettany, James Blake, Tom Brady, Garrison Keillor, David Letterman, Al Green, Jimmy Carter, Steven Colbert, Jon Stewart, Paul Newman, and someone who dresses really, really well. And that dude is going to LOOK WEIRD.
• I’m absolutely paranoid that I’m in trouble or about to be in trouble or that someone is mad at me a good portion of the time. This makes me think I’m both hinky and incredibly self-centered, both of which are qualities to FIX, rather than EMBRACE.My mother used to tell me that people think about themselves too often to really think about me that much — also, though she loves me, I’m not that fascinating — but if the internet has taught me anything? It’s that people are NUTS. All bets are off. So the paranoia still sneaks in now and then in most areas of my life, but I’m working on it.
• Why must the snow turn to rain? Ever?

This whole snow-turning-to-rain thing?

Laaaame. And they keep updating and changing the forecast every six minutes. CHOOSE SOME WEATHER. STICK WITH IT.

And me? I foresee precipitation from my nose.

That’s right.

That itchy, nasty, drippy, hacky cold I had before?

Back with a vengeance. And a kleenex. And perhaps? A choice cough that makes people weep on the bus.

It pretty much appeared overnight, really. I thought it might be asthma from all the temperature and humidity changes rocking us lately, but noooo… now we’ve officially crossed the line into Advil Cold and Sinus land.

In fact, it got so bad that I ACTUALLY SHUT MY WINDOWS LAST NIGHT.

Whoa. I haven’t done that since I MOVED IN.

I was SHIVERING under a duvet and the blanket my mom knitted me. Shivering really irritates me.

Actually, much is irritating me right now. A quick list:

• people who bash awards
• my finances
• my hair
• Wordpress formatting
• men who are more like teenage boys and don’t seem to care
• the giant cut on my thumb which keeps reopening unexpectedly
• not knowing how to handle a friend thing appropriately
• self-editing
• guilt
• skin that is dry yet oily
• feeling nauseous
• Dreamweaver is crashy
• trying to figure out the audience for something I’m writing
• people who don’t follow through with promises
• the week is passing too quickly
• the weekend isn’t coming soon enough
• my hockey team is being wildly inconsistent right now
• my jaw is clicking
• when people say, “it’s just how I am” without acknowledging they can change
• the fact that this is a fairly vapid list of things that don’t matter and yet I’m posting it anyhow
• my own laziness

Wow. So. Something more pleasant to follow soon.

briefcase or backpack?

sparkling water or still water?

donut or bagel?

lemon-scented or vanilla-scented?

white sheets or anything but white sheets?

clean the kitchen or clean the bathroom?

lettuce or spinach?

sunglasses or baseball cap?

gummi bear or licorice?

bob barker or wink martindale?

cheddar or mozzarella?

sarcasm or wit?

manic or depressive?

carrots or turnips?

coke or pepsi?

diet or regular?

chewy or crunchy?

Fresh or frozen?

Glasses or contacts?

Chocolates or flowers?

Cheech or Chong?

Siegfried or Roy?

Bert or Ernie?

Rum or Raisin?

Waffles or pancakes?

Learning to walk in the snow requires practice.

It’s not difficult, really, but it does take some diligence.

You have to plant your boot just so to avoid slipping or turning an ankle or tumbling into a drift.

It wouldn’t necessarily hurt too much if you fell, of course. Snow is forgiving. But there’s also not much to support you on your way back up.

I have been walking in the snow since I could walk anywhere, so my footfalls are solid and sure.

I can remember trudging through crisp-crusted drifts in Whitehorse and then Edmonton when I was younger, on my way to school or the rink or Shelley’s house or the Red Rooster store on the corner.

I can close my eyes and see the way it sparkles under the streetlights at midnight, and hear the soft, squeak-trudge noise of boots packing it down with each step.

There are a million textures and seasons of snow, from the slushy Spring surprise storms to the early-January ice-flecked winds that bite at your cheeks and make your eyelashes frost shut.

I know snow, really.

And I know how to work my way through it, up to my knees.

But this snow is something else.

This storm that came into my life and covered everything with a blanket of cold, immutable heaviness.

I went to bed one night and the world was warm and dry and normal and there were horns honking and voices on the street and cars hissing by on the pavement.

And when I woke the next day, the colours were gone and the temperature had dropped and the babel sounds had been muted by crystalline, deafening silence.

I know it didn’t really happen overnight, but the millions of factors and events and genes and experiences and choices that led me here seem like they shouldn’t have amounted to this.

How many damn snowflakes does it take to cover the world, anyway?

I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t see it coming.

And I know nothing has really changed below the surface, below the blizzard-weight.

Then again, I don’t know how long my world is planning to stay this way. How do you gauge a season you’ve never lived through?

So I can’t promise that things won’t eventually freeze away to nothing.

No matter how hard I dig, though, I can’t get down there to make sure everything is still alive.

This is what I have now.

This is the chill that sets in my belly and the wind that twists my hair into knots and the bleached-out world I see when I open my eyes.

Sometimes it feels cold and sometimes it feels numb. And sometimes it feels so numb that I have to pinch myself to bring the blood back to my skin and remind myself I’m still alive.

I can still see beauty in the landscape.

I can still see lights in the distance.

I can still see things sparkling.

And I am learning how to stay upright, how to put my feet down with confidence, how to trust the ground to hold me up.

But I don’t even know where I’m headed half the time, and when I look back, the wind has stolen my tracks.

Have you ever tried to explain snow to someone who hasn’t seen or experienced it?

Have you ever tried to explain how it accumulates and builds on everything it touches?

Have you ever tried to explain what it means to feel cold to the marrow of your bones and to know that you have to create your own warmth because there is no shelter in sight?

Tuck your chin down.

Arms crossed over your chest.

Hands tucked under your arms.

And keep moving.

Because it’s standing still that kills you in the end.

• no more hiccups
• no more attempting to deal with emotions before bedtime
• no more The Bachelor
• no more late night hummus
• no more overly cold bedroom
• no more underly cold bottled water.

More tomorrow. Sincerely.

Have faith. Vote.

Straining fabric and reason, all at once.

We are saved.

Or at least at my desk.