megfowler.com

Seriously.

Look at this child.

The beautiful Edmund, son of the equally beautiful Jaegen and Jenn:

Please to let me eat the cheeks.

That’s really all I can say that isn’t “ohhhh!”

soy milk or cow’s milk?

shared couch or chair of your own?

slate/marble floor or wood?

traffic jam in your car, or overcrowded train?

carrots or celery?

wristwatch or wall clock?

winter vacation or summer vacation?

take-out or cook for yourself?

Justin Timberlake or James Blunt?

milkshake or fruit smoothie?

visit to the doctor or visit to the dentist?

country or rap?

early shift or late shift?

Colbert or Stewart?

Letterman or Leno?

Colts or Bears?

New York Times or Wall Street Journal?

CNN.com or BBC.co.uk?

Fear of commitment or tendency to fall too often?

DIY or call a repairman?

Idealist or realist?

Right brain or left brain?

There are two words that I’ve heard both men and women use to describe people who tend to have a little (or a lot of) fun with their grooming rituals: “high maintenance”.

I think it’s wickedly unfair that I get lumped in with the plastic surgery junkies, the people who take four hours to get ready each and every morning, and those who spend more money on clothes than Canada does on national defense (that’s actually not that hard…)

I’ve been accused of being ‘high maintenance’ strictly by virtue of the fact that I use more than a bar of soap and a box of baking soda to get myself together in the mornings. And I don’t think it’s fair.

There are those among us who view cosmetics as an affront to their natural beauty — for them, ‘product’ is not just ‘product’; it is a conspiracy aimed towards affirming a soul-killing sense of inadequacy in all of us, not to mention making us spend money on things that are no more necessary than another Paul Walker film.

Then there are those among us who simply don’t have the time or patience to invest in learning how to use the tools of the trade. Apparently, they have “more important things to do than fuss with that crap.”

My friends who fall into these categories often scoff at me when I apply lip gloss, or curl my hair. They wonder what kind of existential damage I am doing to myself by dusting on eyeshadow, or if the various lotions and potions I use are soaking a sense of false security into my epidermis along with aloe and coconut oil.

The fact is, I have fun with it all. I like being a girl. I like being a girly girl.

It doesn’t define me to my core by any means; I leave that kind of dramatic impact for things like integrity, honour, love, justice, and learning. But I do like to get up in the morning and spend a little time primping.

And I like things that smell good, and feel good — things that make my elbows less sandpapery; things that make my eyes less baby-birdish; even things that make my hair relax a bit and reflect the sun, rather than attract passing insects with a majestic web of frizz.

I am by no means ‘hot stuff’ — just another dorky chick. But I still enjoy it all.

I’m quite aware that all the high maintenance efforts in the world don’t cover up a black heart, and that a pleasing outside doesn’t guarantee a happy inside. I also don’t buy in to traditional notions of what is (and isn’t) beautiful.

I see loveliness in all manner of faces and places, and the existence of such rarely has anything to do with choosing the right shade of blush, or trimming your bangs just so.

I simply figure — since I’ve done (and continue to do) work on the insides of me — that perhaps I can fuss a little with the outsides if that’s what I like to do. It doesn’t make me shallow to enjoy having interesting colours, textures, and smells creatively applied to my own physical canvas.

From Summer 1996 to Summer 2005, I was in charge of a short summer getaway specifically geared towards single moms and their kids. It was much easier when my good friend Kristy came on board to co-direct with me from 2000 to 2005. She was the soul of organization, giving vital anchor to my last-minute ways.

It was an absolute labour of love for both of us, because it always felt worthwhile; the stuff that some of these women have been through would curl your toes, not your eyelashes. I loved their strength, their resolve, their devotion to their kids, and their ability to walk down a hard road alone.

Women are left single with their kids via a million different circumstances, but these women in particular had often come from tough places, and the break was one that they looked forward to all year.

For me, the key night at the retreat was a spa night that the female staff at our camp offered the moms. We’d do facials, massages, all manner of hair treatments, pedicures, and manicures — all in a setting designed for tranquility, with candles, good music, chocolates, frosty drinks, and bright, fragrant flowers.

We did it because most of them don’t have the time or money to do it for themselves, and we did it because it gave us an opportunity to touch them in ways that were healthy, joyful, affirming, and positive — especially when many of them had been the recipient of touches at some point that were just the opposite.

Some of them couldn’t wait to get a few inches trimmed from their locks, while others simply wanted the chance to sit still for a couple hours and let someone take care of them. These were not ‘high maintenance’ women, and they didn’t love the spa night because they felt ugly and in need of fixing up.

In fact, many of them had a level of physical confidence I would gladly take in exchange for every product I own.

No, they loved it because it celebrated the beauty that they already possess, and because it gave them a chance to revel in their own physical being for a few hours, before they went back to being sacrificial on a level I simply cannot fathom.

Often they would cry as someone rubbed peppermint cream into the soles of their feet, or ylang ylang oil into their shoulders. It’s wasn’t sadness, though — it was emotion born of connection, of affection, and of simply feeling good. Like a longer-lasting hug, or a directed caress.

It brought down walls, and it built relationships. It let those women know that we saw them, and that they were lovely in our eyes. Not because they had candy-apple red toenails, but because that is how they were made.

One of the women told me the second to last year that I ran the camp that, while she’d still come to the camp with her three little ones no matter what, she’d be sad if the spa night ever ceased to be a part of the week’s agenda.

When I asked her why, expecting her to say something about how much she loved the facials (her favourite treatment), she told me a story about brushing her grandmother’s hair as a child, and how that made her feel.

“I’d see her whole body relax, much more so than even when I would rush to hug her when I ran up the steps to her house. She’d close her eyes and sing a little song to me while I did it, and make me feel as though we were exchanging lullabies. I knew she loved those times, and it was wonderful to do it for her.

Certainly, she could have fixed her own hair, and done a better job, at that; I left knots in it all the time, and the big brush was awkward in my small hands. But it wasn’t about that — it was about giving her affection in an uncommon way.”

My own grandmother had a crown of curls that I probably would have snarled into oblivion if I’d gone at them, but I understood perfectly what she meant. And then she drove it home.

“You are teaching those young women to honour other women in a manner that is as old as history. It’s far more about the ritual than the result.”

Amen.

Quite frankly, I leave my house fairly often without a stitch of makeup, and I figure that a baseball cap is an excellent substitute for a hairdo if that’s what I decide works for me that day. But if I feel like rubbing some lotion into my legs, or putting on some mascara, or twisting my hair into a dark jumble of curls, I don’t think that makes me ‘high maintenance’.

And if it does, then so be it.

Because I know for a fact that I’m a damn good cake before I apply even a bit of frosting.

Wouldn’t life be grand if the only falling we ever did was in love, or asleep?

Well, my boy and his Patriots lost their championship effort. I’m still a huge fan of Mr. Brady, though. He is a good man and a GREAT football player.

And I’m a Chicago fan from the days I would watch MNF on my dad’s knee, all the way back to Perry and Payton and McMahon.

So here’s to the Bears over the Colts in the big game! GO BEARS GO!

I’ll be watching.

I used to have a fireplace in my first basement suite.

Now, when I say I had a fireplace, I mean I had a glowing heater in the shape of a fire.

It was one of the weirder things I’ve ever seen, although completely in step with the motif of the suite — a motif which I would label, “How Many Weird Architectural Quirks Can You Put In 150 Sq Ft?”

I would only turn the thing on for a few moments now and then, because it kicked out heat like a female cat in Springtime.

I’m what they call a ‘warm person.’ I can crack 100 F without a sweat. Or maybe with a sweat. Though I try and avoid that.

One weekend, I had some nice, recently-married house guests.

They were ‘cold’ people — not in the sense that they were terrible, heartless CEOs, but in the sense that their bodies were less efficient at supplying them with heat than my own.

They slept in the living room, and kept the glowing fire-shape going all night. My bedroom, directly adjacent to the living room, slowly became one of the latter levels of Dante’s Inferno, and I was left sticking my head out the tiny basement window and gasping at the -35 C air every two minutes or so.

I could have asked them to turn it off, but I figured the comfort of my guests was paramount.

And, by some divine provision, I happened to have a bottle of water in my room. So I slugged that back, hoping to drain it before the water came to a boil.

Then, of course, I had to pee.

This meant I would have to traipse across the married couple to go to the bathroom. Well, not across them, but right next to them. Opening and closing doors in this place created a noise akin to shots going off in Beirut, so I wasn’t too eager to make my move.

I just wanted to be a good host.

And I was 20 years old.

But none of that is excuse enough for the fact that I climbed out my window, and peed in the snow.

In my flannel nightgown.

In subzero temperatures.

I peed in the snow.

And then I crawled back into my bedroom, strangely relieved and refreshed, and fell asleep. They never suspected a thing.

However, the next day, my elderly upstairs neighbour thanked me for “… getting up to shoo the cats away. Those damn things always pee on our backyard snow.”

Erm.

You’re welcome.

This is when I began to develop my theory that old people never sleep.

They go to bed at ten, read for six hours, sigh deeply, turn over twice, and get up again at 5 am to make tea and toast.

Sure, they nap in the afternoons, but don’t let them fool you with the removal of glasses and the leaning back in chairs.

They are like coils, waiting to spring! Like rattlesnakes with walkers!

That’s why nursing homes are like New York City (without the Rockettes and Hello Deli.) Someone is always awake.

Children you can trust. They nap and drool and lie with their mouths hanging open like Pac Man going for the 100-pt cherry.

But old folks?

They’re the ones running the world.

that day

the leaves seemed more green

on that tree out front

we discussed what shade of green that might be

celadon? no, you said

too pale.

emerald!

that’s darker –

apple?

no

– more blue

jade?

maybe jade!

like your mother’s necklace –

the one from chinatown

on the silk cord

a rose carved out of smooth, cool stone.

is it still in the box with

her rings and your grandmother’s pearls

in the drawer at the end of the dresser?

we blinked at the sun through the branches.

so that’s what colour that is?

jade?

I don’t know, you said.

there are so damn many shades of green.

I wish I had a pet penguin. I think I could make him happy. Certainly I would never mock his waddle, and I’d wear black and white to make him feel at ease. But how at ease can you feel when you’re short, round, and fall over a lot? Oh, wait  think I already know the answer to that. I don’t trust people that don’t have any favourites in life. I can’t imagine being that magnanimous or that malcontent. I wish I had a car that was powered by Kool-Aid — one that would change the colour of the Kool-Aid you chose every time you filled it up. I think I’d fill it with Cherry Kool-Aid more often than not, but never, ever Sharkleberry Fin. So much can be accomplished by staring into space — the more I do it, the more I find that my mind clears, and thoughts come one at a time, rather than fifty at a time. The only problem is when the one thought is something like, “Sky is blue” or “toe itchy”. I’m not gonna save the world with that crap. I thought for about ten seconds that I was technologically astute, then I repeatedly typed ‘giggle’ instead of ‘Google’ into my URL line in Firefox today. Six or seven times. I kept wondering who stole Google, and if the world had suddenly slipped off its axis a little more, and then I realized it was just my mind that had slipped into space. On the other hand, I heard someone talking about the Port of Vancouver today, and I pictured a USB. I feel really badly for carbs and the horrid reputation they’ve gotten from diet doctors and the media. I mean, they are often the sweetest, nicest things in the world, and yet we’re told that they’re BAD! BAD! It’s like slapping your grandma when she offers you some pie. Sure, she’s a little slow and heavy, but she’s just trying to fill you up, for heaven’s sakes! And PROtein just sounds arrogant! Is the correct pronunciation ‘jujubes’ or ‘jujubees’? I’m confused by that more than I care to admit, but I can never bring myself to ask. It seems like something I should already know. I spilled Hawaiian Tropic Oil at the beach once, and sure enough, a duck walked over and got stuck in it. But he got a sweet tan.

Five things that have defined my day thus far:

1. Rampant and inexplicable sneezing and a tremendously itchy ear
2. The fact that the weather seems to change every time I look out the window
3. Curtis says my cinnamon tea smells like a urinal puck
4. I am absolutely convinced that it’s Tuesday, to the point where I have checked the calendar three times
5. A deeply-rooted desire to lie on the beach, toes in sand

I didn’t say these things would be related, did I?

This week has been a bizarre cocktail of moodiness and grinning optimism.

Half the time I’ve been raring to start new civilizations and sing arias, while the rest of the time I’ve wanted nothing more than a clubhouse sandwich and a long nap.

I’m not sure what’s up. Perhaps I’ll achieve some sort of balance this weekend, but I wouldn’t hold out for normalcy.

The only thing I seem to have in abundance is rain.

So:

1. Plans this weekend?
2. Song currently playing?
3. Favourite shade of food colouring?
4. Cold cut of choice?
5. Word used most often today?
6. If you could set Meg up with any celebrity, it would be?
7. Your middle name is?
8. Your favourite office supply?
9. If you were a film genre, you would be?
10. Complete this sentence: “I often wonder why…”

Did you know I used to be a camp director?

If you’ve been around here for very long, you’re well aware that I spent most of my teenage and young adult summers either counseling or program directing at a summer camp on a lovely little island off the coast of BC.

When I got older, I ended up running the program full-time for three years. Year-round. 50 + hours a week in the off-season, and then 16 or so hours each day on the island in the summer. I started as the assistant, and ended up in charge. I started by working with another director, and ended up alone. Woo!

At the full zenith of my responsibility, I hired the 100 + member staff, I planned parts of the program, I co-ordinated the marketing and communications, I planned and monitored the million-dollar budget, I ordered the equipment and supplies, I designed the t-shirts, I dealt with the problems, and yes… I did night watch, and busted twentysomething drunken men trying to mack on my 16 year-old girl campers.

You wouldn’t want to come across me in a field with a MagLite. They certainly have no fond memories of the experience.

Ah, it was a busy time.

And by the time I was done… I was DONE.

But when I was in full swing, there were many, many moments that I absolutely loved. Those moments made up for the panicky ones in-between.

I loved watching kids play and find their freedom and leave the stresses of their home lives behind. I loved watching our single moms get pampered beyond all recognition at one of our special “Mum and Me” weekends. I loved watching nerdy teenagers discover things they were impossibly good at — things that would change their career aspirations and confidence forever. I loved watching young people become leaders and solid friends. I loved going to the endless stream of weddings that came from summer romances. And I really loved being thisclose to the ocean every day, close enough that I could smell the salt and feel alive, alive, alive.

I can forget about all the times I was sick, the times the budget would not stretch, the times I was understaffed, the time I got sucker punched by a 17 year-old boy, the times of dealing with the odd sociopathic grade schooler, and the time the entire dock began to sink. With 100 children on it.

Well, I can’t really forget them, but I know I lived through them. And that’s saying something.

Anyone who has ever done that job will tell you: if you can run a camp with those challenges, you can do a few other things in life, too.

Like, say, help celebrities.

Not that they asked me to. Or plan to ask me to.

But sometimes I’ll find myself reading some gossip tidbit or watching some famous person do a nosedive on TV, and I think, “Damn. What you need is to scrub pots for a whole day and forget about how attractive you are.” Or, “Yeesh. I could save you from the paparazzi with my MagLite.” Or, “If I caught you doing that with a girl down at the archery range, I would stick an arrow up your…”

So.

Here, calling on the resources I built up after 15 years on the job (more or less), is what I would do with five very troubled public figures, if they showed up on my island:

1. Mel Gibson: Every camp has a slightly manic person with grandiose artistic vision and a consistent issue with offending everyone around them. We like to call them the Summer Program Director. I know, because I was one. But as soon as I was in charge of an SPD, I suddenly realized how annoying some of their plans were. Fireworks in the middle of a summer-dry field? An epic theme meal where everyone eats with their hands and can only grunt instead of speaking? A contest to see who can snarf bananas and drink 7-Up in ridiculous amounts without throwing up? Blasting air horns next to nine year-olds to wake them up in the middle of the night to play volleyball? Mel is completely and utterly one of these people. And while that kind of manic creativity can be a form of genius, it also brings out a lot of asshole behaviour that needs to be smacked down and FAST. So I would give Mel the three questions I gave all my summer directors to evaluate their behaviours and plans: 1) Could you explain this to a parent after the fact if their child died doing it? 2) If you said that to ME, would I kill you? and 3) Does it put you over your $500 budget? I think asking these questions would prevent a ton of Mel movies AND Mel news events. Try doing “The Passion of the Christ” with a broken video camera and a bunch of ten year-olds. No. Wait. Don’t.
2. Lindsay Lohan: Well, right off the bat, I would be getting her away from Mystic Tan, and I think that’s a HUGE start. Over the course of my time on the island, though, I dealt with a lot of very attractive, very talented girls who had nil judgment as far as life choices or men or how to handle themselves in front of people. Not to mention a distinct lack of clothing. Having to wear a staff t-shirt and shorts solves two of those problems in one go, and as to the men? The secret is to make them all terrified of ME, so they avoid her like Kryptonite. Granted, I got way too used to being scary to men, but that’s okay. And the odd makeup? Yeah. No time when the morning bell rings. Certainly not when you have 10 grade two girls to get into their clothes and outside the cabin in fifteen minutes. Islands also have no clubs, no shopping (other than the tuck shop), no one with cameras except your fellow staffers, and bikinis are off limits (you can’t waterski or wakeboard in a bikini without losing either top or bottom the first time you crash the wake.) Come to think of it, this could work for Britney, too. But let us turn now to the guy Lindsay was apparently dating before her recent entry into rehab…
3. Joe Francis: I would pay the lifeguards to turn away while I “accidentally” backed the ski boat into him as he snorkeled. I think that’s best for everyone, don’t you?
4. Nicole Ritchie: I seriously defy anyone to lose weight while eating camp food. Starch! Carbs! Candy! Most of the girls were thankful they were so physically busy, or they would have gained their body weight over again from eating cinnamon buns in the morning and mac and cheese for lunch and spaghetti for dinner. With garlic bread. And did I mention the cookies? And the juice crystals? We should have had a program for actors looking to gain weight for roles. We could have bulked up Renee Zellweger in a matter of days. Now, this doesn’t begin to deal with the thought processes and medical issues that might be behind her thinness, but that’s where the camp nurse would come in. Some people may have scary memories of camp nurses who trafficked in horribly tingly peroxide and poked you when they put on BandAids, but my camp nurses were like gentle, benevolent moms bearing Advil. A few porch-chats with these women, and even my most emo camp girls were lulled into peace. Sometimes all you need is a cup of hot cocoa and an ice pack. I believe this with all my heart. In fact, I could use both of those right now. And finally…
5. Kevin Federline: I think he would have given up the rap career before all hell broke loose if he’d ever had to perform in a high-school camp talent show. Merciless, I tell you. MERCILESS. If you think you can do pretty much ANYTHING well, you should try doing it in front of a bunch of tenth-graders high on Mars bars, Coca-Cola, and hormones. This is where I developed my crowd-wrangling skills and my kid-entertaining skills, not to mention about 1,001 polite ways to say, “Be quiet before I bury you all in the volleyball court.” And as to getting a long line of females knocked up? One good run through the mountain bike course with a loose seat and bad shocks would leave him clutching his privates in an entirely non-b-boy way. I’m GOOD with a wrench.

See? Camp.

It’s like rehab, jail, psych ward, and paradise, all rolled into one.