megfowler.com

My grandfather has been sick for a long time.

Cancer, heart problems, lung problems… you name it.

In the past year or so, however, things have definitely gone downhill.

Mr. Tough Ass no longer rebounds.

If you know him, you know why it’s hard to watch that happen.

They don’t make guys like him anymore — old school, crew cut, workbench, waxed car, perfect lawn… all pride and dignity and earsplitting laugh.

Mind you, we don’t always see eye to eye.

He doesn’t get what I do for a living. He asks me every time he sees me why I’m not married yet. He rolls his eyes at my liberal opinions. He makes fun of my earrings.

But he also updates me on the hockey score as soon as I walk into his house. He cried at the poem I wrote for my grandmother’s funeral. He cried again when he heard I couldn’t have my own babies.

And he thinks I’m smart (-mouthed) and beautiful and funny. Even when I’m not.

That’s why the thought of losing him always makes me feel a little adrift.

I hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon.

He’s in hospital tonight, though, so he’s on my mind.

Your Schmeaghan loves you, Poppa.

And I’m so sorry it hurts.

We babysat the cutest girl ever tonight (top-notch parental genes, you see):

But she was more interested in chewing on her elephant (teething is ROUGH):

So fun. Thanks for letting us play with your little one.

And can you see the evidence of a sunny day on my face?

Huzzah!

Is it even POSSIBLE to be this tired?

Everything coming out of my mouth is nonsense, and I can’t even vouch for any correspondence I’ve sent. I’ll try not to think on that.

If someone asked me right this second what ten things I want more than any other, I think I’d say:

1. A bigger mattress with a feather bed.
2. A hot tub out back.
3. A golden retriever, sighing at my feet.
4. A peach.
5. Someone to make me the best brunch ever tomorrow.
6. A beach on my doorstep.
7. Eight uninterrupted hours of sleeping bliss.
8. To not be misunderstood or mumbly or apologetic all weekend long.
9. A tiny pack of cash, just enough to get a pedicure and a big latte and a soft new hoodie.
10. Love. In whatever form.

Ah, well.

One out of ten isn’t bad, you know.

And I love you, too.

… the most complex thing about communicating with the opposite sex was whether to write a note in math class or ignore them in homeroom

… title pages were the toughest part of any project

… t-shirts had gummy, sparkly letters that puckered in the dryer

… “insomnia” wasn’t even a part of anyone’s vocabulary

… gym class involved running laps around nearby neighbourhood blocks, even past the house with the weird old man who may or may not have been a murderer

… they actually played Stairway to Heaven at the end of dances

… coffee was something your teacher drank

… no one considered that the dog might not live forever

… welding a golfer out of nails seemed like a life skill

… Downtown Vancouver was a day trip, not a parking puzzle

… you could plan your whole life out with a single game of MASH

… 32 might as well have been 100

Well, hello.

I know you’re not used to me talking to you, and CERTAINLY not used to me listening to you, but yeah… I thought I’d drop you a quick note today.

Part of the new plan, you see. Communicating. Yadda yadda.

I’m not really sure how to launch into what I need to say, though, so perhaps I’ll just wade in like a bull in a china shop, and let you do with that what you will.

I’m quite tired of you. Literally. Fatigued.

I mean, I’m thankful that you work hard at some of the things you’re supposed to do — circulating blood, walking around, picking stuff up, looking at things — but you’ve really dropped the ball otherwise. And I don’t just mean growing crooked teeth or freaky fingernails, though that does indeed irk me to NO end.

No… I’m spending serious cash pumping you full of everything from hormone replacements to antihistamines to weird vitamins to anti-inflammatories to leafy greens to coffee, just to keep you in some sort of reasonable shape.

And you know what?

YOU’RE NOT HOLDING UP YOUR END OF THE BARGAIN!

You’re supposed to feel BETTER when I give you the chemicals you need, not exponentially worse. Adjustment period my ass, body!

It’s time for you to get in gear and let me get some rest and look better and stop with the damn hot flashes. I’m not a 57 year old woman with mom jeans and grandkids on the way. I’m supposed to be in my “prime”, and instead I feel like a joke.

This is not CUTE at 32. I don’t foresee it will be CUTE at 33.

I don’t want to explain to anyone else why I’m overweight or what my autoimmune issues are or why you won’t think I’m cute off the internet or why I am cherry red-faced or why I can’t have kids or what the deal is with the migraines or the nausea or the strange pains in my bones. I don’t want people to think I’m lazy or not trying hard enough or a freak of science.

I just want to be average. Standard.

I don’t need gorgeous or bodacious or even particularly streamlined. I don’t need to lie around on a beach in Brazil in a bikini or cause men to swallow their teeth when I walk by or reference my former modeling career or inspire weird fantasies.

Perfection was never the goal.

You know this.

I’ve explained it to you.

And yeah, you gave me flack for a lot of years about not doing things I should have done and it’s true. You were right. I was sabotaging myself, for whatever reason. The disconnect between what I was and what I wanted to be was a choice I held in my hands.

But for a whole year now, I’ve given you what you’ve asked for most of the time. Even when it was embarrassing or awkward. And you can bet I’ve been honest with people about where I’m at.

I didn’t sell you out.

Yet I’m still a pudgy, sneezy, potentially-snoring, floppy-haired, moon-faced git with perimenosomethingorother and odd toes and a headache and a giant chip on my front tooth.

I don’t need to tell you how popular that makes me.

But I’m prepared to accept most of it as “how things are.”

Except for feeling like crap. That you could switch up, because you know I’m trying.

Don’t you?

Anyway, have some more coffee and get back to me. I think we need to find a better way of working all of this out. I could keep making jokes about it, but it honestly just hurts me at this point. And I know you don’t like it either.

I’m trying to love you, ok? Give me a chance.

Always,

Meg

Well, I’m not really done with some of them. BUT I WOULD BE IF I COULD BE. Grrr.

1. All products connected to Microsoft Office and Windows Vista and XP.
2. Flip flops breaking at inopportune times.
3. Insomnia when I am SO CLEARLY TIRED.
4. The tiny shocks every surface of my office is giving me this morning.
5. James Blunt.
6. Explaining myself to men.
7. Chipped nailpolish.
8. Our oddly leaky shower head.
9. Fluorescent lighting.
10. All the products I use running out at once, thus costing approximately ONE MILLION DOLLARS to replace.

What ten things are you done with this morning?

My entire office has become obsessed with the demolition of the building next door.

We literally stand at the windows and CHEER — and I’m not overstating this — every time the backhoe makes a significant dent in the crumbly old structure.

Now, it helps that the building is (was) incredibly ugly and housing nothing of use, and also that we’re seeing them salvage materials in an environmentally friendly way. Very green.

But mostly? Breaking stuff is AWESOME.

(I actually screamed in glee when he squished a plastic chair.)

We even do voice-overs for all the guys running around in hard hats, and the major machinery operators. Curtis had me laughing so hard at one point that my coffee came up through my nose.

Ahhh.

It’s like we were all separated at birth.

1. If someone asked you right now, “Is how you thought life might be?”, would your answer be yes or no?
2. Do you believe that cell phone use while driving should be banned?
3. If there was one major award you could win (Oscar, Grammy, Nobel, Pulitzer, Heisman, etc.) which one would you want?
4. What kind of toothpaste do you use?
5. Do you think fish in tanks dream of the ocean? Or do you think they think anything besides, “swimswimswimeateatswimswim?”
6. What’s the last indulgent thing you did just for yourself?
7. What’s the last sacrificial thing you did for someone else?
8. Which thing made you feel better?
9. The last song you heard, the last movie you watched, the last book you read.
10. What thing would make you rich if you had a nickel for every time you heard it?
11. Two words to describe this blog.

Thanks, Darren. You’re a sweet kid.

If you’ve been around here very long, you’ve read something about (or seen comments by) Christina. She’s one of my co-workers, and an all-around good sort.

She even loves the robin’s egg-espresso colour combo that seems to be infecting my wardrobe and interior design efforts as of late. And Starbucks. And musician boys (she married a drummer.) So we have a lot in common.

One thing we do NOT have in common, however, is a fear of rebar.

Christina? Is petrified of rebar. Do you know what rebar is? Let me show you (Christina, don’t look!):

I don’t think she believes rebar will jump out and attack her, but I DO think she is somewhat concerned that she might fall on some rebar, and be injured or impaled by it.

I don’t think there is a scientific name for this fear. But it’s real.

And she probably shouldn’t have told me.

After Johanna noticed a story in one of our free dailies about a man getting stabbed in the face with rebar, she said, “Ooh, we better not let Christina see that.”

I ran to show her.

She feels a little faint right now.

I don’t know why I’m such a jerk, really, especially considering I have some very weird fears of my own:

Clowns
Butterflies
Scorpions
Blue foods
Losing my hair
Cutting my fingernails too short and touching styrofoam

What are you scared of, both rationally and irrationally? What totally makes your skin crawl?