megfowler.com

In honour of my neighbours to the South — and I don’t mean the dude that lives downstairs — some Thanksgiving haiku.

Tryptophan is good
White meat brings sleep of the dead
Birdie Lunesta.

Let us watch football
Grunting men in tight-ass pants
Boy, am I thankful.

Cranberry jelly
Cylinder of rosy red
Oops, the tablecloth.

Cornucopia
Why so many syllables
For such a short word?

Bread up the bird ass
Oh, delicious cavity
Stuff it. Stuff it good.

Wow.

The results from Round One of the Canadian Blog Awards have been posted, and Round Two voting begins on Saturday.

The top five blogs from the first round continue to Round Two.

Best New Blog: First place, currently (VERY close race.)

Best Personal Blog: Third place, currently (I’m WAY off, though, and after checking out my competition, I think I’ll be staying there… yeah.)

WOO!

(picture me doing a major Kermit the Frog flail here.)

Thank you all so much. Even if I completely tank in the second round, this was a sweet moment in a rough week.

And make sure to vote for Kristin as Best Blog!

KISSES FOR THE INTERNET! (And mints for a few of you… ew.)

I wrote a post about the following (and you can tell I’m annoyed, I’m resorting to bullet points…)

• why I delete my crazyhead, hormone-jaggy posts
• how RSS readers are like men — they never forget the nutty things you say
• how hard it is to get the balance between being real and being chill — because as much as people say you should only stick with people who accept you no matter what, I think that’s pretty willfully naive about how relationships work AND unfair to the people in your life
• why it’s dangerous to be emo on your blog when you want people to hire you or just throw scads of cash at you for writing anything
• how my mom never forgets anything I tell her
• why it’s SO MUCH better to get sick IN a relationship instead of BEFORE one, because then a guy stands a better chance of loving you enough to stick around — although there are no guarantees
• what this experience is like, physically and emotionally
• also? had a very meaningful looking picture of me

And when I went to save/publish it? Our internet connection went down for a split second, and it was gone forever.

WHY DON’T YOU DO THAT WHEN I POST CRAZYHEAD THINGS, INTERNET?

But noooo, those ones do FINE.

Man. I shake my fist at connectivity.

Peach or nectarine?

Sweater or sweatshirt?

Gwen Stefani or Fergie (the Black Eyed Pea, not the former Duchess of York)?

Juice or water?

Shower at the gym or shower at home?

Lemon or lime?

Herb garden or flower garden?

Water fight or run through the sprinkler?

Sourdough or multigrain?

Oak tree or rosebush?

Stewart or Colbert?

Oboe or trumpet?

Apple pie or key lime pie?

Lake or ocean?

Tickle or pickle? (I literally can’t believe I just typed that)

Sit at the front or sit at the back?

Organized spaces or total frazzle?

Muppet Show or Sesame Street?

Homeopath or Pharmacy?

Jazz or Country?

Arena concert or small club?

Go to the doctor or self-medicate?

Chicken or Cow?

I found these people in a pot on my stove this morning! Good times, good times.

And for you, The Top Ten Things That Are Good About The Turbidity Crisis in Vancouver:

1. Need an excuse to stay home from school, kiddies? DRINK UP.
2. Sneaky non-flushers can escape discovery 50% of the time.
3. Want to get “dirty in the shower, baby”? Easy. Turn on the tap.
4. OCD sufferers not ostracized for a week because EVERYONE is dabbing at themselves with bottled water.
5. Add a slice of lemon — and it could pass for iced tea. White Spot credited with this discovery.
6. Constantly boiling water adds humidity to homes, thus saving residents from their usual parched-air suffering. NOT.
7. A fun addition to those at-home versions of Fear Factor
8. Non-coffee drinkers enjoyed spectacle of caffeine addicts denied Starbucks nourishment for 24 FULL HOURS.
9. Hot tubbing? NOW A NECESSITY.
10. You don’t have to shell out for a cruise to get the Norwalk Virus anymore!

Yes indeed — the 400th post since the official launch of this blog on June 8th, 2006.

(Actually, there have been closer to 600, but I’m a bit delete-happy.)

The traffic has increased about 500% since the first day we kicked this thing into gear, and I’ve had a lot of fun getting to know brand new readers — all the while discovering new blogs through your comments.

And I’ve reconnected with old friends, too (thanks, Google!)

Thank you for being here — I can’t tell you how much it means to me as a writer to have all these relationships and all this feedback, and this incredible outlet to share my heart and my weirdness.

I’m still confused at times by how honest and open to be at this site — not in terms of maintaining lies in my life, but in terms of knowing how much of me anyone wants to know at this level. I’ve always had my shyness and my boldness fairly strongly in balance… but here?

I’m not always sure.

I never want to hurt my family or my friends with my words — or, you know, scare off eligible menfolks — by letting too much of the crazy fly.

But quite frankly, I’m not crazy.

I’m not falling apart, I’m putting things back together.

I’m looking for good things out of life, after getting too used to living halfway.

And this blog is a big part of that plan.

I come here to be real, I come here to write, and I come here to get to know all of you. And that’s pretty amazing.
Whatever else happens is cake.

Specifically, this cake:

Dig in, honeybees.

Hey.

Good morning.

It’s actually sunnyish in Vancouver today, though that’s supposed to change this afternoon.

For what it’s worth, I ADORED arriving at work without wet pants for once.

I’m definitely a sunbaby. I love the cold, but I like it clear, too! Woo, clear!

Bring on the Aspen-esque weather, really.

I’d be delirious.

I’m feeling a bit under the weather this morning — migraine, etc. — so I’m probably not appreciating the brief blip of dry weather as much as I should. I don’t think I slept much this weekend, and I’m left with an odd cotton-headed feeling that’s nearly impossible to shake. And a squidgy face. And coffee made from the DEATH WATER. Meh.

All in all? Grouchpants.

So.

Here are some random questions for you, based on things I’m trying to figure out in my life. If you answer them, I will cheer up!

Emotional blackmail!

Yay!

No, no… I’m honestly curious to see what you think about all of this stuff, clever internets. So share your wisdom with Miss CloudBrain ™ and make the world a better place to live (in proximity to me.)

• If you’re in a good relationship now — or had a good one at some point that ended for an obscure reason unrelated to your happiness (I wouldn’t even know how that would work, but people seem to do it all the time) — how did you get to the point of trusting the person you’re with? How did you stop comparing them to everything else that came before in your life?
• Do you think there is a recipe for romantic happiness? Do you think you can line people up according to like qualities, and connection will ensue?
• How important are looks in romantic chemistry?
• If you know you need to change something about your life, do you start slowly, or make a big production of the changes in order to spur yourself onward?
• Do you have a cure for insomnia that isn’t melatonin or calms forte or valerian root or warm milk? And I really don’t want to take sleeping pills. Really, really not.

There. That’s it. Show me the love?

Pleeeeease?

Or I had one.

And in this dream, I was a hip-hop star with the freshest, hottest moves this side of… well, the fresh, hot people.

I didn’t really know who they were in my dream, just like I’m somewhat ignorant on that front in my waking life.

I just knew that I was one of the ELITE.

But the odd thing was, I SUCKED. I really, really sucked. But everyone just kept telling me I was “the bomb, yo.”

And they were doing all the things I did strictly because, well… I did them.

I had this one little dance riff that made me look a lot like a bug stuck on its back, and every time I would bust it out, I’d need someone to help me back up off the ground, because let’s BE REAL FOR A SECOND — I’m no spring chicken anymore.

This move became the big new thing — the offered assistance included, natch — to the point where EVERYONE looked like a white 32 year-old woman with no formal dance training trying to appear (FRONTING, if you will) as though she were born on a flattened cardboard box with a “ghetto blaster” nearby.

It was AWESOME.

Fight the power and pass the Advil.

Wow.

I am the no.2 hit on Google for “emotionally jaded”.

I would be disturbed by this, if I remembered how to care.