megfowler.com

Sending love and congrats out to my dear friends Brent and Michelle on the birth of Miss Claire Julianna MacArthur last night.

I worked with Michelle at camp and enjoyed three months of a terrific summer with her… not to mention all the delicious hours I’ve spent since then at her house in Kelowna receiving the best hospitality this side of the universe.

Brent? I watched him weep like a little girl at his first U2 concert. Seriously. Weeping.

Love you guys!

And welcome sweet Claire!

I love that there was enough frost on the ground this morning to crunch beneath my boots!

I love research! (Is that weird?)

I love that the sky was at least nineteen colours on my way to work!

I love how good-smelling men smell!

I love the way fog sits in marshmallow-y blocks all over the city on days like this!

I love that no matter how difficult things get, there is always a coffee waiting to be sipped!

I love that I got ten free iTunes songs from Shannon yesterday, and that the first one I chose was Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas”!

I love that my new toothbrush has Sonic Power!

I love that I get to sleep in tomorrow!

I love the whole idea of love!

I love singing in the elevator!

I love that there was just enough of my favourite lip gloss left this morning to slick up one more time!

I love YOU! Corporately! And sometimes individually! It’s complicated!

Well, hello there!

My body continues to fall apart rather charmingly, but I’ve decided to say FINITO! to complaining about it or dwelling on the fact that my $#%@stomach@#$&$knee@#*&$lungs@#&$head hurts.

Pain is a part of life, right? If we never hurt, we’d never know the sweet relief when that hurt passes away.

Yeeeeah. Uh huh.

But enough of the whining. Moving along.

Today is a glooooooriously sunny day.

And when I say gloooooriously, I like to use a different amount of ‘o’s every time.

I love it when Vancouver spends a few days being crisp and cool like my home of yesteryear, the Canadian Prairie.

(Cue noble, sweeping music and an aerial shot of snowy fields…)

Now, when I say that I lived on the Prairie, it sounds like I was all Laura Ingalls Wilder in a dugout in the middle of nowhere, when really, I lived in actual towns and cities. With running water and electricity and nary a wall constructed from sod. And cable. But no internet, since there was no internet yet. At least not an internet for everyone. It was just for geeks back then.

Mmm, geeks.

I’m getting off track here.

Clear and cold weather is my favourite kind of weather, in a near tie with clear and warm weather, which is kind of ironic, since I live in the Clouds (I’m enjoying capitalization today!)

The Clouds have lifted for now, though. I celebrated the Lifting (see?) with a Peppermint Mocha (now it’s just getting out of hand) which thrills me with After Eightish deliciousness (why is there a Wikipedia entry about mints?)

I’m also thinking about all things Christmassy, including the Christmas Train (I HAVE TO GO THIS YEAR, DAMMIT) and my work Christmas party (I’m trying to think up something to wear. I’m not big on buying some spectacular new dress, since all the rest of my holiday parties are of the jeans-heels-pretty shirt-giant earrings variety, rather than the cocktail variety. You feel me? Okay, maybe you don’t, but any suggestions for how to work up the same black, v-neck, mildly cleavage-y, sleeveless, knee length little black dress? I’m thinking a cute red wrap and some heels and an ostentatious piece of jewelery… and also thinking this is much too long for a parenthetical remark.)

If I could be doing ANYTHING today, I’d be on a sleigh ride somewhere snowy, wrapped in blankets and all cozed in behind horses puffing steam out of their noses. HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE? I love that stuff.

The last “ride” I was on was on a cardboard box behind my grandfather’s LeBaron on country roads outside of Devon, AB. He attached it to the car with luggage straps and whee! we were on our way.

To this day, I have no idea why my mother was okay with this. I mean, one sudden brake and I’d have been one with the undercarriage of his car. But I think he was careful. Maybe? A little?

At least until he threw me off the box into a ditch full of brambles on a sharp turn. Did I mention I was six? Yeah.

My parents were watching from the front window of my grandparents’ home and were ready to run out and get me, but then they saw my little snowsuited body emerge from the ditch, running at a full clip. My grandfather spotted me in his rearview and slowed down (how kind!), at which point I hopped back on the box and rode for another half hour. Awesome.

Well, awesome until I walked into the house and the hot air hit my scratched-up, frozen little face. Then I was a scene from Carrie (I was going to link to an image there, but EW. EW.)

Really, I’ve always been this way.

I was putting together a Holiday Online Shopping Guide for my blog, since I am the shopping link queen on Facebook, but then it occurred to me that EVERYONE ELSE WAS DOING THAT, TOO. Meh. We’d probably all end up linking to the same things, right? And I don’t shop much online… I just BROWSE LIKE A PRO.

But if you want some holiday shopping links, I’ll post them later today.

This mocha is still awesome.

Love to all!

I’m a little wonky today for a number of reasons related to both my disorder and my gender (what? I don’t know what I’m talking about either) so posting might be a little wonky as well.

Granted, now that I’ve said that, I’ll inevitably post 90 things during the course of the day, which will lead six people to leave the comment that “we thought you weren’t feeling well?”

Which may lead to me raising an eyebrow and waggling my finger at the screen, but you won’t see that, will you? No, you won’t.

But, because I love you, I’m going to link to six old but fun — just like William Shatner! — posts here, just in case you needed something to read. I care about your reading needs, you know… I really do. Much in the same way I am concerned for your dental hygiene and iron intake. And the cleanliness of your underwear.

Consider me your cybermom.

Wait, no, don’t. That’s creepy.

Anyway:

Donettes, yo.

The infamous “Dear Him” letter.

Apparently, I’m an easy lover.

Remember?

No real excuse for a photo of Ryan Reynolds. But a lot of opinions.

A manifesto.

Proof I’ve always been this weird.

***

I used to love flossing until I had a violent hygienist floss my gums to ribbons on a horrible, fateful visit to the dentist. I still own floss — Tom’s of Maine Natural Floss, actually — but every time I try to use it now, I feel a wash of fear rush over my mouth. A mouth wash, if you will. Why am I laughing so hard right now?

Sometimes, when I am in conversations with people that are awkward — disciplinary sessions, dealing with negative feedback, hearing bad news, trying to pour my heart out to someone who just doesn’t get it — I just want to jump up and run away yelling, “This is aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawkward! Someone heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp me!” Instead, I just stay there and keep trying. But know that I’m thinking it next time I have an awkward conversation with you.

In the middle of the night, when I am dying of thirst, I never want a drink of water. I just want a really cold glass of skim milk — which is kind of like water with clouds dissolved in it. But still really good.

Today, at the coffee shop, the guy who was making my latte was wincing as he moved his shoulder. I gave him a look of concern — non-invasive, but open to bitching if he wanted to bitch — and he informed me that his shoulder was dislocated.

Remembering all the weird physical motions I used to make when I was a barista, I offered him sympathy: “Oh, this job really sucks for having a dislocated shoulder!” To which he replied, without skipping a beat : “In exactly what job does having a dislocated shoulder not suck?”

Right now, I’m listening to a song that goes:

“When will you say ‘yes’ to me?
Tell me quando, quando, quando…
You mean happiness to me,
Oh, my love, please tell me when…”

It seemed all yearning and charming and sweet, and the little bossa nova thing going on in the background made it even more sweet. It’s a twirling-around-the-dance-floor-at-some-ballroom-in-NYC song. But when I went to look up the lyrics on Google, I typed in “panda panda panda”. I didn’t mean to — I only realized on the third panda. What is going on in my head?

I love the love songs. I really do. Even in my cynical, singular, narrowed-eyes state, I swoon and swoon and swoon. It’s like a sickness I cannot heal. An addiction that I cannot shake. A mental bent that I cannot straighten. A hope that will not die. Anyone else with my romantic history would have gone goth by now, I think, but I still end up plugged in to my iPod in public places, grinning to myself when Louis sings back to Ella or Tony Bennett tells me about the way I look tonight.

And when people give me a funny look and ask me what I’m listening to, I usually pull out an ear bud and say, “Oh — love song.” Without fail, everyone just nods. What better reason to smile?

Oh — besides actual love.

I’ve always been one to think a single thought at a time.

Usually I’m cycling through four or five different processes: making plans, rethinking old conversations, problem solving, problem creating, detail fixating, general bananacrackerdom…

You get the idea.

If you ask me what I’m thinking, you’ll get a shrug because the list is too damn long.

I don’t really settle down, ever. Not when I’m falling asleep. Not when I’m actively engaged in a pressing task. Not when I’m watching tv or reading or doing anything where my thoughts should ideally give way to a little bit of fantasy or escape.

It’s kind of crazymaking at times, but I’m used to how I think. I can accomplish pretty much anything I need to over the white noise.

Most of the time.

Some days, it gets so loud in there that the noise trickles down to my heart.

Those are the days when I have a million questions, when I’m wondering what will happen, when I’m torn between things I need to do and things I want to do, when I’m frustrated but holding my tongue because saying something out loud will only turn up the volume inside, when I’m so close to agitated that I can practically see static on a screen.

I’ve had more of those days lately.

I’m tired of how quickly time is passing with so little to show for it. I’m realizing I’ve convinced myself I’m achieving something because I let myself get stressed out.

I’m using the white noise as an excuse not to drill down and figure out my own life.

Today, I woke up so frenetic that I could barely settle on an idea for longer than two minutes. I just kept thinking of lists and ideas and tiny crises and big crises and by the time I got in the shower, I could barely differentiate between the shampoo and the conditioner. I was too busy trying to do a mental budget for February and worrying about a conversation I’d had and cursing my lack of discipline.

What?

I only get like this when I’m unsatisfied. I only get like this when I want to make real connections and real goals and real achievements and can’t seem to get there.

It’s clear that flailing isn’t much of a substitute for living. And getting stuck in your head is like rolling up all the windows in your car on a hot sunny day.

Someone asked me last year if I could name three things I’d like to be by the age of 35. I think they were speaking of roles I’d like to inhabit, but I’d just gone through a major readjustment of my expectations, so all I could think of for a moment was “grateful.”

Now I’d add “peaceful.” Which is different than slow or quiet, because I don’t think my brain will ever be these things.

But a little peace would not go amiss.

Well, okay, for some of you, winter might already be here. And we all do different holiday things. But…

Snow or rain for your winter weather?

Ski or skate?

Hot cider or hot chocolate?

Exercise outside or inside?

Gas fireplace or real?

Mountains or prairie for the winter scene?

Snowy city or snowy country?

Underdress or overdress for the cold?

Mittens or gloves?

Real tree or fake tree?

White lights or coloured lights?

Wool or cashmere?

Intimate parties or big bashes?

Shovel or blow the snow?

Palm trees or pine trees?

It’s a bit rag-tag as far as measures go. But here are the essentials…

Melt some butter along with olive oil in a deep frypan.

Slice up a medium-sized onion, and saute it with a couple minced cloves of garlic in the butter and oil. Sprinkle on a bit of sugar as they cook, and wait until the onions are nice and translucent without burning at all.

In a large pot, pop in the sauteed onion and garlic, and a couple litres of chicken stock — either homemade or storebought. I like organic. If you’re a vegetarian, try some storebought veggie stock.

Into this pot, drop five peeled and chopped russet potatoes (you might want to soak them in advance to get rid of a bit of the starch. I like russets for the earthy flavour. Contrasts nicely with the tartness of the apples…) and five large peeled and sliced green apples.

Heat up the stock with the potatoes, apples, onions and garlic, and add some salt, pepper, and dried sage.

Cover the stock and simmer until the potatoes and apples soften. Once they’re cooked through completely, either blend in the pot with a hand blender, or let it cool and do a couple loads through your upright blender.

It should make for a smoothish, thickish soup. You can tweak the amount of stock or potatoes and apples if you wish to make more (and if your potatoes or apples are small.) The more you reheat it or simmer it, the thicker it gets.

It’s lovely with a nice nutty bread. You can even shave a bit of Parmesan on top.

While I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed or anything — shut up! I’m not! — I do have a love for “product” and beauty rituals and treatments. There’s just something appealing about the way the lotions and potions smell and feel… and how they feel on me.

Not to mention that I usually end up looking at least a little bit better for the time I spend. Usually.

(We won’t get into that one masque I tried that turned my face green. Or, uh, the wax that left giant welts on my… legs.)

(Ahem.)

The funny thing is, for a girl who loves treatments, there’s a heck of a lot of treatments I’ve never had, or had with such infrequency that it surprises my like-minded (like-treated?) friends.

The only things I’ve really done routinely are brow waxes (I do love my brows) and manicure-pedicures (which would seem silly, given my lack of toenails and my stupid fingernails, but walking around barefoot and typing all day take their toll.)

But.

Massages? One in my whole life. Which is actually impressive for a girl who breaks herself as often as I do. And it was a nice massage, don’t get me wrong. But hello? 80 bucks to make me feel less wonky for about a day? Riiiiight.

Arcrylic/gel nails? Well, a) they scare me, and b) my nails are shaped like tiny ski ramps. You can’t even GLUE a good nail onto those suckers. And they scare me a little anyway, like clowns do.

Makeup application? No one but me has ever done my makeup. Not even at some beauty counter. Not at a salon. Not for an event. Nada. I have no idea why, but I just don’t like people touching my face unless they’re planning to kiss me. And if you’re gonna kiss me, you should probably stop applying my lip gloss, yeah?

I’ve had maybe six salon haircuts in my whole life. And I’ve never had a salon updo (oy, they can go wrong SO fast) or a perm or whatnot. I’m actually a little scared of hairdressers. And the highlights I got? Turned green. Huzzah!

So.

Facials were another pool into which I had never dipped my toe. I think it had something to do with the “Don’t touch my face!” thing, as well as the “I’m not paying you $80 bucks to touch my face!” thing. I can do most of this stuff myself, you know?

I’ve been reading how to’s and trying vials and vats of stuff for 20 years. I ran spa nights for groups of women. Why would I shell out for that?

But, as with all things in my life, eventually I look my choices in the eye and go, “Eh. Try it once.”

So I did. With my dear Catherine. We went to get facials (and our eyebrows done) as a part of her Christmas/Birthday present (since they happen awfully close together, in about a month.)

I think it’s funny I got myself her birthday present, too, but hey… it was a fun shared experience, right?

And an illuminating experience.

(I’m not even talking about the shockingly bright light she shone onto my shameful pores, though I wouldn’t have wanted to see myself like that, no way, no how.)

It was pretty good, I’ll admit. Except for when she kept massaging over my nose and cutting off my one good nasal passage, which would lead me to open my mouth to breathe… and then she’d massage that part of my face so I’d have to close my mouth. I would get half breaths and no more, which isn’t super relaxing.

But I did learn a lot.

Apparently, the following is true of my skin:

1. It’s not oily, it’s dry. Everything I use on it? WRONG. WRONG, I TELL YOU. WRONG. Which sounded like a complete load of crap until she asked me all sorts of questions about how my skin behaves and lo… she was right.

2. Blemishes I get are from a) hormones (out of my control as a function of my disorder… and apparently out of control in general) and b) me stripping the crap out of my (it’s oily! I thought!) face. Well. And she’s like, “Sorry, do you have any?” Well, I THOUGHT I DID.

3. I have giant pores. Wait, I knew that. But! They were not all clogged. Not even most! Granted, she reefed the HELL out of the ones that were, but apparently? Good skin. Not even 33 year-old skin. And minimal sun damage? What? Seriously? That’s just dumb luck at this point.

4. My eyebrows? Wickedly resistant to plucking. Which I always thought. I mean, you have to really PLUCK to get those suckers out. She says it’s the dark hair. I say they are Follicles of Satan.

So. I have to buy new products.

I am grinning. Woohoo!

Dry skin products always seemed more lovely and soothing and intense and squooshy than the oily skin products, which feel kind of like Lysol combined with dish soap and a little bit of sand.

Even if you put the words “refreshing” and “clarifying” all over them — as though you were taking a mini-vacation of some sort, a vacation of clean — they’re still pretty fierce.

So bring on the love!

Any recommendations?

Reality television. In any form.

Pop psychology.

Parents being competitive on their children’s behalf.

Large belts cinching everything.

Heel calluses.

Celebrity pregnancies.

The size of my butt.

Sunday night stress-outs.

Hair extensions.

The term “snark”.

My wireless router’s issue with my bedroom.

Horror movie remakes.

Juices with too many kinds of juice in them.

Passive-aggressiveness.

The monochromatic shirt/tie combo.