megfowler.com

All the fluorescent lights on our floor have been replaced and the result is SO BRIGHT.

SO BRIGHT.

SO BRIGHT.

SO FREAKIN’ BRIGHT.

A few bulbs will be unscrewed to take us back down to a non-napalm state by the end of the week, after a landlord inspection.

BUT. SO BRIGHT.

I didn’t have my sunglasses on me this morning. So now I’m wearing my co-workers glasses in the hopes that I won’t end up with a migraine in a couple of hours. Fluorescents are one of my big triggers.

Cross your fingers!

That I buy the flowers when I want them.

That I finally bake a decent loaf of bread.

That I send off the submissions.

That I actually buy the canvas and the paint and do it.

That I get over the shy when there’s just no reason to be.

That I stop apologizing when I’m really not sorry.

That I get past my habit of last-minute scrambling and organize myself.

That I stop getting irritated at curmudgeons and critics, and let them make themselves happy.

That I play games for fun, and not just to win. Except Trivial Pursuit and Air Hockey.

That I am thankful for every Oreo.

That I put as much stock in waiting for the right thing as I do in the necessity of compromise.

That I become impossible to bait.

That I get on the surfboard again.

That I find a way to make shoes my friends.

That I think before I speak.

That I pay attention to pain.

That I stand up in front of a mic and sing just to feel that again.

That I find the perfect running shoes and do something good with them.

That I only need people I love to love me back.

That I value consistency in myself and others.

That I fall in love. With whatever. Or whomever. Whenever I like.

What is this year about for you?

Tiffany or Debbie Gibson?

Michael J. Fox or Rob Lowe?

Simon and Simon or Magnum, PI?

George Michael or Andrew Ridgeley?

Jelly bracelets or leg warmers?

Schoolhouse Rock or Electric Company?

Hill St. Blues or St. Elsewhere?

Poison or Motley Crue?

Diff’rent Strokes or Facts of Life?

Bon Jovi or Def Leppard?

Reaganomics or Thatcherism?

Atari or NES?

Cabbage Patch Kids or Rubik’s Cube?

Swatch watch or Ray Ban glasses?

Phil Collins or Huey Lewis?

Band Aid or USA for Africa?

Parachute pants or ripped-neck sweatshirt?

Cheers or the Cosby Show?

Oprah Winfrey or Phil Donahue?

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or He-Man?

The Police or U2?

Hey! How are you? I’m doing OK here… but man, I miss you.

I know that a lot of people need you, and you’re really busy, but when you don’t come around?

I just don’t feel like myself.

I mean, I know we’re just casual friends, at best. But haven’t you always known that deep down I wanted you?

Yes, yes… I remember when I was younger and I didn’t need you at all. I know that hurt you. I’d ignore all those messages you’d leave, and pretend I didn’t see you watching me wistfully from across the room.

But Sleep, I had so much to do then! So many places to go! My body was like a perpetual motion machine! I was young! And I was in love with Awake. I know that I shouldn’t say that to you of all people, but he really was stimulating.

And he got shit done. That was kind of hot.

Now, though, all I really want to do is settle down. To rest with you and catch up and spend all that time I never spent before, just getting to know you and learning about you and drooling on you and my pillow.

And where have you gone?

I lie awake thinking about you when you don’t come by.

I rouse much too early in the morning… and find you’ve left me.

I see your absence written across my face, in my eyes, my skin, my wary smirk.

What other beds are you spending time in now?

Who are you snuggling while I lie under my duvet at 2 am, clicking through Wikipedia, bug-eyed and puffy-haired?

Who shares your glass of warm milk?

They tell me the hormonal issues put you off. They tell me the coffee puts you off. They tell me the spicy food puts you off. They tell me I’m overstimulated, and that I’m not your kind of girl. That I’ll have to change everything to get you back.

But those things are ME, Sleep! You can’t ask me to be someone else.

And I’m not ready to sell out for you yet.

Even if I have been awake for two hours already on a Sunday morning.

Bastard.

Love,

Meg

It was a gorgeous day in Vancouver today.

I actually sat out on my deck in a tank top, my jeans rolled to the knee, drinking a smoothie and blinking at the sky.

Lovely.

But I missed California like you would not believe. It seems like I do that every time the rain stops here. Or starts.

I miss all those miles logged with my arm out the window, SoCal sunshine tanning half my face, drinking an iced latte from the first Starbucks off the 1-5 exit, and feeling goosebumps rise on my knees from the air conditioning.

I felt free and far away and alive and all sorts of other things that you can only feel on vacation.

And it was only September, but it feels like a thousand years ago. And it was just two weeks away and a road trip, but it changed me.

I think it was the first moment in such a long time that allowed me to see that things could be different. That I didn’t have to accept exactly what I had. That there were other things out there.

That there could be a time in my life where the sun shone and shone and shone and the clouds never closed in.

I want that again.

And I don’t think I need to go to California to get it.

I need to take all this longing I have in my heart, all these hopes and dreams and desires as yet unrealized, and figure out a way to make them happen.

It sounds so cheesy and Chicken Soup for the Soul, but I’m just not fond of the feeling of wanting anymore.

I’m much more into having.

And however far down the road all that might be, I’m willing to go the distance.

I’m going where the sun keeps shining
Thru’ the pouring rain,
Going where the weather suits my clothes,
Backing off of the North East wind,
Sailing on summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone.

I was ranting about formatting in Dreamweaver today.

So they made me a sign at work:

This is how you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ve become a complete dork.

This upcoming Valentine’s Day (a day thus far only notable to me as my parents’ 37th anniversary — because, dude, that’s notable) I will not be on a date with a hottie/delectable geek/difficult man, nor will I be crying in my boots at my lack thereof.

I don’t think single people should be upset on Valentine’s Day!

I rail against the notion!

It’s a hearts/flowers/dinner out/goopy romantic kind of event, yes… but I think you can love all that stuff without being a “plus one.”

If I want Godiva hearts, I can get ‘em for myself. If I want Illy in the red tin, I can swing it. If I want pink peonies, I have a debit card. If I want cherry blossom stationary, I can ante up. If I want some delicate whisper of a ring, I can save up my pennies and self-decorate.

When February 14th rolls around in 2007, I shall spend the evening babysitting this little monkey…

… so her parents can both work at their respective restaurants and make the cushy/swish Valentine’s tips off the boys and girls looking to impress one another.

Because tips = love.

I’ve written about design here before, and I’m still obsessed.

I just love lovely things.

I’ve been working lately on finding some images and colours on the web to inspire my future site design, and in the midst of my search? Oooh, the things I’ve found and the places I’ve been! I’ve been in a design twitter!

I guess it helps that I have eclectic taste… it means I am both picky AND easily enchanted (don’t even try and wrap your head around that… I’m the same way with men.)

So I thought I’d share a little, for the fellow design nuts out there:

• These plates make me want to serve strawberry cheesecake on the deck in a dirndl skirt.
• I would love to have this in my room, and stack it with celadon jars.
• If I had a valentine, he might give me this. And this, because somehow I ended up with little wrists. If I had a neck, he might even get me this. But, unfortunately, my head just floats around on my shoulders like a roulette ball.
• This would make me feel like I was starring on the Partridge Family. And then I would surround myself with these.
• This side table for my bed would not clash with my great grandma’s oak writing desk.
• I shall lie upon a pile of these and think natural thoughts.
• This might make me smile on rainy days.
• I shall buy this for my next knocked-up pal.
• Oh, the happy.
• And a tiny Etsy freakout: this would be marvelous with jeans, a white t-shirt and ballet flats; this would look lovely under a crisp white shirt; these could be great staples for my danglies; I could write a thousand thoughts in one of these.

So what is prettypretty to you?

Every time I’ve taken the wheel of a golf cart, eaten yogurt past the expiration date, gotten up on stage, made an unpopular argument, yelled at my mother, said “I love you!” first, jumped off a cliff, eaten at Denny’s, cut my hair, cried in front of anyone, gone to the doctor, swatted at a bee, or written something really personal on my blog, I’ve said to myself, “Meg, it pays to take risks.”

And then I do.

All of those things have bitten me in the ass, mind you.

But I’m still here, still going on and on, still feeling things that seem too large for words right up until I find them.

Your responses to my post down there about body stuff? So kind. The links to it? Very sweet. The emails about it? Amazing. And the fact that I’m not yet regretting opening up to a roomful of people I don’t know about something I struggle with daily?

Unheard of.

You might think I’m a pretty open person. After all, I have a blog! About me! About my life! Bloggers are open! They tell you everything! They want you to know the minutiae!

Well, yes. To a degree.

But there are things I’ve never really touched on here, never explored in my writing, and so when I do… oh my. The fear of coming off like an idiot, coming off as obtuse, coming off as self-centered, coming off as internally ugly in some way (though I can be all of those things, in spades. And in flip flops… ) is very real.

You showed me I could stand to be a little less scared.

This has been a hard couple of years. A couple of years full of huge changes.

Blessings, too, yes. Of course. I cannot cry without feeling laughter bubble up shortly thereafter.

I have felt disappointment rock me to the core, though. And experienced the cold sting of rejection. And done stupid things to deal with both of those realities.

But the smartest damn thing I’ve done in a long time is walk through a little bit of it here.

Thanks for reading.

Thanks for responding.

Thanks for being real in return.

Thanks for not rolling your eyes so hard they bounced onto your keyboard and hit the back button. I mean, you may have, some days.

But that’s okay. So do I.

You guys, in every book I write, every anything I accomplish, will always get a mention.

Because you kicked ass first, you kick it well, and you keep kicking me forward to do the next thing I need to do.

Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes. — Oscar Wilde

Blunt or tactful?

Dickens or Joyce?

eBay or Amazon?

Jimi or Prince?

Bill Gates or Steve Jobs?

Sunlight or starlight?

Vince Vaughn or Ben Stiller?

Biology or chemistry?

Homemade or store bought?

Bold or underline?

OMG or WTF?

Cynical or idealistic?

Foreign cinema or blockbuster?

Embarrass yourself or embarrass someone else?

Lemonade or iced tea?

Hammer or wrench?

Say too much or say too little?

Collaborate or do it alone?

Laser tag or paintball?

Daytime cold drugs or nighttime cold drugs?