megfowler.com

1. America Ferrara is exactly the kind of star I love to see achieve success. She’s humble, bright, funny, talented, adorable, classy, and NOT a stick figure. But while everyone wants to say that her upward mobility in the industry is an indication that our cultural values are changing, or that real bodies are slowly becoming more welcome in Hollywood’s ranks, I’m going to give that a flat NO. Actresses are still starving themselves for their agents, their films, and their clothes, and women everywhere are still taking “before” photos for weight loss projects that deserve to be “after” shots. Fitness, yes. Health, yes. But even in this wee, supposedly liberated space we call the blogosphere (I know. But what else can I call it? Blogtown? Blogland? Blogville? Blogiverse?) I can’t click through more than three blogs written by women without coming across some sort of self-deprecation, body-bashing, or calorie-counting remark, even by the ladies who say “all bodies are beautiful.” What? Did you mean all bodies except yours? Seriously! The most feminist voices out there turn into high school girls poking at their thighs and fretting aloud about their hips and bellies. Do you see how ironic you are? Putting up that freakin’ Dove commercial in one post, and then using the term “muffin top” to describe their body in jeans in the next. AND — while I’m at it — since when should someone like America (or Jennifer Lopez or Jennifer Hudson or Beyonce or Kate Winslet (!) be considered “full figured”? Gah! Stop comparing people to the thinnest possible example of womanhood. That’s NOT how our bodies work, save for women who are naturally disposed to that kind of frame. And if you need to starve yourself and work out for two hours a day? You’re not naturally disposed. Sorry.
2. I am redeveloping my love for singer/songwriters who perform as solo acts, with only piano or guitar to accompany them. I love how the lyrics, rhythms and chord progressions shine through when everything else is stripped away. Don’t get me wrong — I love a good Justin Timberlake throwdown, too — but I’m discovering a lot of talented voices lately, and they give me a lot of inspiration and joy.
3. Has anyone tried Crest Whitestrips? Or any kind of whitening system? I’ve abused my teeth a little more than I should have with coffee and karaoke microphones (don’t ask) and I’m curious about whether or not they damage teeth or create sensitivity.
4. Sometimes you just have to acknowledge incompatibility. The nicest, most lovely people in the world can be horrible in the wrong combination. That’s just how it is. Everyone thinks that being nice and being kind and being a decent human being means you should be able to make it work. Again, nah.
5. Fog is trying to take over the city of Vancouver. Last night, we couldn’t see the house across the street. Creepy? Yes. BUT… it’s not RAIN. And I like anything that’s not rain. And even rain sometimes. But not right now.

Me: I wish life were more like Super Mario.

Cath: Oh?

Me: I would totally bump my head against random things if I thought coins might come out.

Cath: Yes, I could see that.

Me: Also? I would love it if a free life just popped out. I mean, hello, I see a cartoon mushroom, I’m chasing that thing. No two ways about it.

Cath: Who wouldn’t?

Me: Exactly. And if I already had a free life, I would chase it for you.

Cath: Thank you!

Me: There just aren’t enough cartoon mushrooms around, you know?

This is Masey.

She’s cute.

And this is where we hung out:

Did I mention I like where I live?

Dealing with Vancouver weather is like living with a particularly attractive manic-depressive guy.

Things always look great, but then the clouds! The rain! The angst!

You start to wonder if you can take it any more… hell, you might even consider moving on.

But when the sun rises bright in the sky?

Oooh. Wow.

You know you’ll never actually leave.

If you live anywhere near Vancouver, you’ve been inundated with coverage of the Robert Pickton murder trial.

It’s on the newsstands.

It’s on the television.

It’s on the radio.

It’s on the Internet.

And it’s not just “trial coverage” in the generic sense — this person testified, this person will be called to the stand, the accused looked remorseful, etc. — but coverage in graphic detail. So much so, in fact, that most news agencies are forced to offer “viewer discretion” notices before their pieces.

I have friends who won’t touch the top section of their paper or listen to the top of the news or check their usual internet journalism sites right now, simply because they don’t want to be subjected to the images and descriptions that are accompanying the reports.

The reality is this: the things this man is accused of doing are heinous beyond belief. There’s no other way to say it. If you disappear too far into the details, you end up with a churning stomach and an aching heart. I’m not sure how anyone can read about the events and not feel a serious level of disgust, even in this world of slasher films and true crime dramas and sensationalist media.

We’re jaded, but we’re not this jaded.

And if we are… well, that’s a problem. Sure, we have to be able to deal with horror capably enough to continue functioning. People in war zones have to live their lives under the constant pall of death and mayhem. But there’s a difference between coping and becoming numb. Between survival and acceptance.

At least I think so. Which may be naive, or perhaps just idealistic. I can live with either.

I know violence on this level is not new to the planet. People have yet to run out of methods of abusing or torturing one another, or to grow sick of seizing power over others’ lives. And these things happen daily, all over the world, at every societal level, to people who run headlong into it, and people who never see it coming.

But where does the line exist between exposing these nightmares and celebrating them? Between veracity and prurience?

We want to know what happens to people like Robert Pickton because the idea that he could face consequences for his alleged actions allows us to sleep better at night.

If one of these women was a sister or friend of mine, though, I’m not certain I’d want her experiences splashed across the front page for strangers to read during their coffee breaks. I’d want her agony avenged, but could I stand to watch people take in all the details?

When does coverage cross the line?

How much do we need to know?

And when does notoriety become exploitation?

Where do you stop reading/watching and why?

For those of you who are either new to this blog or completely oblivious (two states I both respect and affirm) — I’m not in a couple.

I don’t have a baby, either. Except everyone else’s.

I’m cool with these facts. For now.

But it’s funny to see how people navigate my singleness, in the most well-meaning ways. When I hold babies, they smile wistfully and reassure me that I will have my own. When they discuss their relationships, they make sure that I feel empowered to seek out my soulmate, whomever he may be.

Because we all have one.

Right?

Don’t we?

Should we worry about it?

Probably not.

In an odd twist of events, the older I get, the less I’m consumed with the questions or the possibilities. I’m not hung up on the pursuit. And I’m certainly not consumed with ideals.

I might love the notion of romance and the soundtrack of romance and all the trappings, but I know that there is no such thing as a flawless relationship.

There are choices and hard work and inspiration and passion and hope. And that’s it. There is no “one.” Maybe effort, maybe chemistry, maybe desire. Maybe all of those things. But a lid for your pot? A piece to complete your puzzle? The sun shining through your cloud? Nah.

There are songs and dances and memories made together and evenings out and stars and kisses, sure.

At the end of the day, though, you decide to make it work. Because nobody’s perfect and nobody’s right all the time. As long as humans are humans and we remain unpredictable in our needs and whims, we will fall in love and still go to sleep now and then slightly pissed off.

I look forward to it. If it happens. If anyone chooses to put up with Meg Fowler: Pain In The Ass.

I’m of a mind to suggest that having someone you care enough to be angry at is one of the surest ways to tell that you’re not alone in this big old world. As crazy as that might sound.

Whenever my friends come to me — me! — for relationship advice, I eventually have to raise the white flag and claim massive levels of ignorance. I don’t know! How does anyone know?

How is anyone ever sure of anything?

But then I end up giving ignorant advice (or as Nancy calls it, assvice) anyhow, because that’s just how I am. And here’s my advice (assvice):

• You don’t always have to be right. Or get to be.
• Going to bed angry is not the end of the world.
• Accepting anger as a way of life might be, though.
• Sometimes, you’re actually the jackass.
• He really does love your body. No foolin’. And vice versa.
• The colour of the living room is not grounds for divorce.
• You might have married into a family, but you didn’t marry them.
• Never fight before you go to a party. If you feel it coming on, agree to drop it. And drop it.
• Past relationships are not a blueprint. They’re just what you did before.
• Dance at stupid times. At the very least, you’ll get a laugh.
• Being an hour late is actually really disrespectful the 100th time you do it. Or the 10th.
• Have you told them that? Because if you haven’t, you shouldn’t tell everyone else.
• Drama is something that is good on TV and horrible in the car.
• You need not merge CD collections.
• Don’t freak out if you don’t cherish the same memories.
• If you can’t think of something nice to say, say something funny.
• Your mom is not always the best tech support hotline for your marital woes. She’s biased.
• You need not watch the same TV shows.
• Cook together, though.
• Learn to listen NOW. Shutting up is an excellent first step.
• Snoring can cause more problems than you think. Go see the damn doctor.
• You don’t have to tell your friends everything.
• Real or artificial might be a big deal for boobs, but it ain’t for Christmas trees. Let it go. You can live without the Douglas Fir if it makes him sneeze.
• The cat will not be scarred for life if you kick it off the bed now and then.

I love love.

But I know it doesn’t come without sacrifice.

It better not come without laughter.

And that’s all I know.

Bears or Colts?

Woody Allen or Martin Scorcese?

Soft mattress or firm mattress?

Patient in lineups or sigher/tapper/general annoyer of people around you?

Hot tea or iced tea?

Talker/listener?

Learn by taking a class or learn by trial and error?

Baked or fried?

House or apartment?

Thriller or horror film?

Romance or comedy?

Pac Man or Asteroids?

Sheep or goat?

Travel mug or paper cup?

French doors or Japanese screen?

Goldfish or tiny turtle?

Carpet or hardwood floors?

Stairs or elevator?

Radio or CD in the car (or iPod, if you have the connecty thing. Or 8-tracks, for that matter)

Diane Sawyer or Katie Couric?

IT’S SUNNY OUT.

Or it will be, when the sun is fully present in the sky.

I’m not sure how long it will last, but my feet are shod in flip flops in celebration of the dryness. However momentary.

I’m all for reveling in short term joys, really.

Speaking of reveling, if you’re a consistent MegFowler.com reader — the kind that checks in now and then during the day because you’re aware of my tendency to post often and post hard — you’ll notice that I’ve posted a few things over the past 24 hours that I deleted very shortly thereafter.

Now, for those of you on Bloglines or Google Reader or what have you, this makes no difference. As soon as I post it, you have it and I can’t take it back. But you might have realized if you clicked through to comment that “Wha? Where did it go?”

Let me explain.

I’m completely bananas.

That’s the explanation. Did you like it?

Okay, okay… the reality is, I’m going through a fairly “hormonally challenged” phase of my existence. I’m constantly at war with my internal emo-meter, attempting to hold tight to the marble columns of sanity while the Rome of my emotions crumbles around me.

Wait. That explanation was even worse.

I’m going back to the bananas thing.

As I said in a short-lived post (I am saying the word “short” a lot here… complex?) last night, sometimes I feel as though there’s a wee alien living in my body, trying to control what I say and do and feel.

The reason I say it’s like an alien is because the rest of my body doesn’t actually feel the same way the alien does. The rest of my body might be cheery and upbeat… my normally energetic, content self.

Then the alien says, “No, actually, all your muscles hurt and everything makes you cry. Also? NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU.”

And even when I say to the alien, “That’s not how I feel!”, he (oh yes, he is a “he”) says, “Yes, you do. See?”

Then he’s right. Dammit.

While it’s nice to be able to point to tangible and biological reasons for this disconnect, it still sucks when I can’t articulate that I’m fine, I’m really fine, I’m just weeping and my back is so sore I would like to keep sitting down. Also? Can’t sleep.

Because I AM fine. I get up every morning ahead of my alarm clock and hum in the shower and sip my coffee and put on excesses of fun lip balm and dance with my iPod and eat good cereal at my desk and write things I’m proud of.

I crack jokes all day. I laugh with my friends. I call my mom on the phone and giggle and roll my eyes at her motherliness. I deal appropriately with what comes my direction. I work hard.

But all that time, there is the alien, and he is the bags under my eyes and the roughness in my skin and the pains in my joints and the random flushing in my cheeks and racing of my heart. He is the reason for bone scans, for odd vitamins, for medical appointments, for the roller coaster of putting hormones into a body that didn’t really have anything hormonal going on… and for this odd ache in my gut.

He shows up when I least expect him, and rattles me. Not so you’d see it. Just so I’d feel it.

And when I get home, sometimes I crack miserably. Because he’s been pushing me all day, and it’s absolute madness.

Then I write things I want to delete and say things I wish I could take back and confuse people with my odd, crumply soul.

All that time it’s not really me.

But it is.

I know that all of this seems completely odd to people that have not gone through perimenopause, and certainly odd to some people that have. I know few people who have gone through it this early, because only about 1% of the female population does it before age 40. The average age is 51.

And about .003% go through it for the reasons I’m going through it, this early into my 30’s, with an autoimmune disorder.

“‘Autoimmune disease’ refers to a category of more than 80 chronic illnesses, each very different in nature, that can affect everything from the endocrine glands — like the thyroid — to organs like the kidneys, to the digestive system. Underlying all autoimmune conditions is the concept of autoimmunity.

Autoimmunity refers to the process by which the immune system gets confused, and rather than protecting organs and cells, turns around and actually attacks those same organs and cells, producing inflammatory reactions and other serious symptoms and diseases.”

Very few people I know struggle with infertility, though I know there’s a whole little subset of bloggers who write about it all the time.

I can’t really go there. It’s not like I would be trying to get pregnant right now, so my issues are different. I’ll go into my relationships and my eventual marriage knowing what the reality of our experience will be, and that’s what I’m dealing with now. Telling someone. Finding someone who doesn’t mind.

And actually, not leaping at someone because he doesn’t mind, thus ignoring all the OTHER stuff that doesn’t work. Because I still bring a lot of good things to the table. I’m not compromising because I can’t have a baby that looks like an odd combination of us. That’s not my only value.

It’s still hard.

So.

This journey is why I want to edit, this is why I sometimes seem sad and happy all at once. This is why I sometimes feel like I’m in a haze.

And I am tough enough to withstand all of it, alien or no.

It just means that some deleting might happen now and again.

So bear with me. I’m taking control of the things I can take control of, and I won’t apologize for it.

Especially not on a day when the skies are blue.

No one should feel sorry today.

Lukewarm and wet.

That’s Vancouver in a nutshell. Standard weather. What we’re used to. Normal. Everyday.

MEH.

I am a firm believer that if there is precipitation in the winter, it should be snow. And if it is warmish, it should be clear.

I don’t like the combination of almost-too-warm-for-a-coat and definitely-so-wet-you-need-a-coat.

I end up sweaty and wet ANYHOW, because the rain does not fall nicely from the sky the way I ask it to.

I do ask, by the way. I look up at the sky and yell, “STRAIGHT DOWN, THANK YOU. PLEASE AIM AT MY UMBRELLA.”

And I ignore people when they stare.

Every time I think it’s going to finally get cold-snappish here and really dry out for a few minutes, the weather report changes the day before to indicate that my surroundings will be about 200% warmer and 1000% more damp.

I just want a nice two-week period where my hair isn’t sad and limp, and I’m not forced to put on my ineffectual GoreTex jacket to pretend at water resistance. I want to get to work without damp pant hems. I want to escape the giant drips that fall from building awnings right down the back of my neck. I’d like to not sneeze at encroaching mold.

I’d like to go for a walk without returning home looking like a waterlogged cat in a shower:

Vancouver is absolutely legendary for SAD sufferers. I think those radiant light boxes that help seasonally-affected people sell out here all the time.

But that’s not my issue. I’m perfectly happy in the dark.

I JUST WOULD LIKE TO BE DRY. MAYBE FOR A DAY. OR TWO.

Thank you.