megfowler.com

Hi!

How are you? I’m fine. Pretty busy, actually.

But I thought I’d write you a short note just to say, “Hey!” and let you know what I was up to.

I’m kind of tired and foggy today, which I think is a side effect of one of the two allergy medications I’m taking. I wish the one would suffice, but sometimes my face is all PUFF and my eyes are all ITCH and my skin is all BURN so it’s necessary to double up.

Then I feel slightly high all day. Is that better than sneezing?

I’m going to have to say yes. At the very least, it’s less messy.

What else can I tell you?

Oh! We saw Ocean’s Thirteen last night, and maaaan… I still love Mr. Soderbergh with all my heart. He gets so much flack for being a “stylish” filmmaker, but I think he knows perfectly well how to do substantial pictures, too. Traffic, anyone?

And I’d argue that a film doesn’t need to be about something depressing or have anyone die or contain awkward sex scenes or feature people pretending to have psychological issues to be a quality viewing experience.

I love a good shot.

I love snappy writing.

I love old Hollywood panache.

I buy right in, thank you very much.

And speaking of panache…

I really need to work on my personal elegance factor. I’ve slipped into a haze of jeans and rather boring shirts and flip flops. I barely even accessorize! Which sounds like an absurdly vapid statement, now that I read it again. But let’s leave it for posterity, shall we?

I’m not sure what will pull me out of this sartorial malaise… perhaps I need to make an investment in a bunch of new stuff (and I don’t live on credit, so that takes some serious saving), or perhaps I simply need to carry myself with a little more pride.

When you spend a lot of time trying to convince people that YES! You can still have style, even if you’re not a tiny mite of a girl (why I should have to prove that to anyone is beyond me, but there you go!), I think fatigue inevitably sets in. You just get tired of working it. Maybe I never really was working it. But I did try. Sometimes.

Speaking of working it…

That’s not me.

But I have a yoga ball now. Mine is a pale metallic-y mauve-ish shade, and is tons of fun to roll around on. Catherine knows all sorts of good exercises to do with my ball, but instead I like to flop around on it like a two year-old, simply amazed at the magic of it all.

I also bought a jump rope with a digital readout, so I could go into the lane behind my house and skip my way to fitness.

Picture it for a second.

Yeah, I laughed, too.

But I mean it! That’s some good exercise, and I’ve always been one of those people who could do it freakishly fast for long periods of time. Usually I only stop because I’ve tripped myself in a dramatic fashion trying to do a cool cross-over trick.

I’m not cool. No tricks for me.

Speaking of tricks…

Holy cow. Criss Angel is ODD (”Criss”? Really? I bet not. Let me check… ah HA! Christopher Nicolas Sarantakos, I like your proper name faaaar more. Was it Peter Criss you were looking to emulate?

Yeah.

I want to rock and roll all “nite” as much as the next girl, but…)

Anyway.

Criss Angel. Creepy.

It’s like taking a page from Houdini’s book and stuffing it into a copy of Fangoria. Or a Fall-Out Boy video. Something vaguely unsettling and emo.

I used to think David Blaine was kind of cool when he did all those card tricks. I didn’t even mind that he looked sedated a good portion of the time. But Criss Angel just adds an extra shiver to the whole formula. And a lot of hair product.

Why are all these modern magicians trying to kill themselves for the sake of entertainment? Is that really what we want to see?

Whatever happened to David Copperfield making his love life disappear? Or Doug Henning?

Sure, he was a complete bananacake, but he knew how to smile.

And speaking of bananacake, it’s time for me to get back to my crazy life.

But hi, Internet.

Much love,

Meg

1. Calming a fussy baby into a warm bundle of sleepiness.

2. Renting two DVDs and discovering that BOTH were actually worth seeing.

3. Windy nights that blow the clouds away.

4. Clean sheets.

5. Dumb mistakes that don’t hurt anyone but make you laugh for hours.

6. Hiding my digital alarm clock from sight on the weekends, and getting up when my body says to get up.

7. Hot pink toenails.

8. Peace.

9. Love.

10. Understanding.

Let’s see how closely you’ve been reading…

1. What is Meg’s full name?
2. What province was she born in?
3. What does her father do for a living?
4. Name three male celebrities she is somewhat gaga for…
5. Name three celebrities that she is consistently irked at…
6. Name three items/entities that she has an unhealthy attachment to…
7. What colour are her eyes?
8. Do you have a favourite post?
9. If you could compare MegFowler.com to any other object on earth, what would it be, and why? A head of lettuce? A fig?
10. Would you buy a book if I wrote one (no, I haven’t written one)?

Go to this page, and click on “see the video” in the upper right hand corner.

Completely involuntary laughter.

No “neither!”s, no qualifiers, no chickening out!

***

Kenny Rogers or Kenny Loggins?

Houseplant or cut flowers?

Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?

Strawberry or raspberry?

Windy or rainy?

Michael Jackson or Michael McDonald?

Work 9-5 or work for yourself?

Stadium concert or small venue?

Diamonds or pearls?

Fight or flight?

James Joyce or James Taylor?

Fish or cut bait?

Rosie O’Donnell or Rosey Grier?

Leaf blower or rake?

Rose or peony?

BBQ or dinner party?

Al Gore or Al Green?

MegFowler.com or… anywhere else?

One year ago today, MegFowler.com appeared on the magical landscape of the Internet.

And that’s kind of fun, I think.

A lot has happened in that time.

A LOT.

I’ll be talking a bit about that in different posts today. And linking back to some big moments. And other stuff.

So stick around. It’s been a hell of a year, and I’m so glad you’ve been a part of it.

Every morning, the lady next door sits on her porch to smoke and cough.

And I mean every morning.

Cough. Cough. Cough.

That’s fine. It doesn’t really affect what I do with my day at all. Mostly I just feel badly for her that she’s got such a horrible rattle going on.

BUT.

Some mornings I have to cough, too. Because of asthma. Because of allergies. Because of changes in the weather. Because of a cold. Because it just HAPPENS and what are you going to do?

Our bathroom window is a) always open; and b) right across from where my neighbour coughs.

So when I cough, it only makes sense that she can hear me, too.

Then she stops coughing.

Like I’m making fun of her.

We both stand, suspended in silence, waiting for the other one to do something so we can clear our throats or hack away like a TB patient.

An impasse.

Here’s how you know you are an overly polite Canadian: you go to the other end of your home — conveniently window-free — to do your coughing, just so your neighbour won’t feel mocked.

I swear, I feel that I should apologize to the sidewalk sometimes.

Here.

From earlier today:

The first time I went to camp at age 10, I came home with a sore stomach, a mouth full of canker sores, and a pronounced limp from favouring a broken toe.

How I got to that point really isn’t important.

What matters is that I wanted to go back.

All I really remembered from the week was how much fun I’d had, how many new things I’d tried, and how exciting it was to be away from home experiencing things that I could only tell my parents about later.

After I took a very long nap, that is.

My counselor probably remembers it differently… carrying me across the field in the middle of the night to get my foot looked at by a very groggy woman with a fridge full of ice packs.

My fellow cabin mates probably remember it differently… how all I ate was ice cream and gingerale for four days straight, and how I cried at the horrible pain of trying to eat a salt and vinegar potato chip with a mouth full of tiny, raw wounds.

But I’d also learned to windsurf! I’d also seen the cutest boy in the universe! I’d also shot arrows into a giant foam target, and nearly into the back of my instructor! I’d made a necklace! I’d been in a skit!

Completely awesome. Even though I still have a scar on my instep to this day.

The moral of the story is this: no matter how beat up I get by life, if things seem to have gone well in the final analysis, I’m okay with a few bumps and bruises sustained in the process. Or fractures. Or giant lacerations.

It seems like a fair price to pay for a bunch of good memories, right?

Right?

No, I know not everyone feels that way. Some people equate pain with disappointment and failure. If you break your leg, the ski vacation was a bust. If you get pinkeye, camping was lame. If you get stung by a jellyfish, you probably won’t feel like surfing again.

But not me. Bring it. It’s just another story to tell.

In the past couple of days, I’ve either connected online or in person with two of the girls that were in my cabin that first year: I saw my cousin Crista at my grandfather’s funeral, and my friend Linda found me on Facebook.

It’s amazing to see what we’re up to now, how we’ve evolved, how our lives have gone, how we evolved from 11 year-olds who screamed at spiders in the shower to the women we are in 2007.

I suppose I still scream at spiders in the shower.

But when I gave Crista a hug on that exhausting day, all I could think was, “Man. It would be nice to be a kid again, and not to know everything that was going to come after… even just for a few minutes.”

That’s not to say that I don’t honour all my scars, all my moments, all my ups and downs since then.

That’s not to say I would give up all the stories in the meantime, all the things that make me… well, me.

That’s not to say that I don’t know it’s been a good run, all things considered.

I just get to the point sometimes where I remember the things that caused me pain a little more than I remember the things that brought me joy. Only sometimes.

I’ll get past it.

You can’t go back, anyway.

But if that skinny-legged girl with the ponytail and the yellow t-shirt and the single crutch knew where her life was going to take her in the next twenty years, I’m willing to bet she’d have taken a slightly longer nap.

Meg: I should go get some salt.

J: Huh?

Meg: Not like, a box of salt. Something salty. I want something with salt on it.

J: You should just get a salt lick.

Meg: Ohh, that brings to mind a dark secret. When I was little, my brother had a hamster with a salt lick.

J: Yeah…

Meg: And one day, when no one was around, I put it in my mouth.

J: You ate your brother’s hamster?

Meg: ….