megfowler.com

One of my posts is currently up for a Canadian Blog Award. Want to vote? Head here. And vote for Best Personal Blog here.

Every Friday for months and months (well, almost every Friday, but consistency is boring, no? No? Okay, fine. MAKE ME FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF) I’ve put up a Love List here, and you’ve been gracious enough to respond by posting Love Lists on your blogs or including your Love Lists in the comments.

And it’s awesome. Because LOVE IS AWESOME.

Which apparently Oprah now knows, since the big headline on her new issue of ‘O Magazine’ is LOVE LIST.

Did she rip it off from me? No. Of course she didn’t. Although her company IP has been in my referrers more than once.

STILL.

HEY.

MINE.

That means that today, we must do the MOST LOVING LIST OF ALL!

Which means we’re not dealing with stuff you love right now… no. Not stuff you loved last week. Or stuff you might love next week. Or stuff you kind of like a lot and it might turn into love but you’re just coming out of something and you’re not totally ready?

WHATEVER.

We’re dealing with THE STUFF YOU LOVE MOST. THE MOST LOVING STUFF. THE ULTI-LOVE. THE LOVE THAT ATE **INSERT YOUR CITY NAME HERE**.

And with that much love, can Oprah possibly out do us? I DON’T THINK SO.

THINGS I LOVE MOST AND BEST AND WHOA! THE LOVE OVERWHELMS ME!

My mom and dad, married for almost 38 years
My big brother who really IS bigger… like, almost a foot!
All my amazing and talented and gorgeous friends, all of whom show great patience in putting up with me, especially the one that lives with me day in and day out
Sunsets by the ocean
Hockey
Moonlight
Being high up in the mountains
Football playoffs
Sushi
Laughing so hard you can’t breathe or stand up straight
“Modern” design
Penguins
Big, soft chairs that fit two people
Worn-in leather with that perfect, smooth patina
Old alarm and wall clocks
Cashmere
Old-school oxford cloth shirts
The sound of waves crashing
Sand between my toes
My fireplace
Falling asleep on the phone
Sundresses
People with rich, deep laughs
Road trips
Roller coasters
Dark wood floors
Snowy days
Lemons
BBQ grilling
Paul Newman
Hoop earrings
Imperfect smiles
Perfect ballet flats
Hugging
Grace
David Letterman
Christmas lights
San Diego, CA (and Eric)
Encouraging people
Debating stuff and things
Soul music. And music in general.
Babies
Dark jeans
Potatoes
Live theatre and music
Horn-rimmed glasses
Four blankets, window open, -10 C
Sleeping in
Martin, my iBook, and my future MacBook Pro, Oliver (joining Toby and Rory and Quinn, iPods past and present)
Small pandas
Blue skies
Hot wings with bleu cheese dip
Watching CNN coverage of big things AS IT HAPPENS (I know, I know…)
That sticky-uppy man hair with the bit of product… so cute!
Blogging (really, can you tell?)
Lattes
Sephora
Club seats at sporting events
Magazines… non-fiction reading in general, actually
Foot rubs (ahhhhh…)
White sheets
Flipflops
Sophia Loren’s style
Big sunglasses (not Elton John-esque, more Audrey Hepburn)
Witty boys
Musician boys (apparently, pianists, guitarists and drummers…)
Intellectual boys
Boys who wear their pants the right length
Boys who can say, “I love you” without freaking out
Dancing for hours and hours
Cooking for parties
Down duvets… bigger the better
You

AND WHAT DO YOU LOVE MOST? Blog it, comment it, but DO IT TODAY. We gotta out-love the Big O.

Well, not that Big O… oh, you know what I mean. Yeesh.

LOVE!

1. That I’m currently involved with Tom Brady on the sly. Or maybe just that I’m a supermodel. Same difference.
2. That I had a catfight with Oprah Winfrey in the lobby of a Jack In the Box.
3. That I’m releasing a tell-all memoir about my experiences as an NHL rinkbunny.
4. That Angelina and Brad are planning to adopt me.
5. That I’m a CIA operative trying to infiltrate the Scientologists by stowing away in John Travolta’s plane… or Tom Cruise’s dimples.
6. That I’m going to rehab for my coffee addiction.
7. That someone caught grainy footage of me blogging with John Mayer.
8. That I’m a celebrity. Period.

Someone once told me that the most important thing a writer could possess was a good imagination.

I suggested that coffee might be a more crucial ingredient in my success, but I couldn’t disagree with the premise.

Whatever lens you might see the world through, the ability to create and extrapolate and envision and engage beyond what’s right in front of your eyes is integral for any scribe.

But it’s not just writers that need that skill… no way. Children do. And parents, too. And artists. And scientists. And architects.

And marketing departments.

I have a good imagination.

I can close my eyes and picture things in my head that may or may not be anything I’ve actually experienced. I can create whole scenes complete with sounds and smells. It doesn’t have to be anything fantastical, either. Just something beyond the moment I’m in.

Funny thing, though… I can’t write fiction at all.

Or maybe I could if I worked harder on it, but right now? No way. Either the words get so wonky the moment they leave my fingers that I want to delete them immediately, or any type of scene I imagine never gets past the point of being, well… a scene.

Not a plot. Not a flow of events. Just a picture.

A pretty good picture, mind you, but not the stuff of a novel or screenplay or even a short story.

More of a camera flash.

But I love these scenes that take root in my mind and my chest.

Standing in the middle of a busy square of people overarched by umbrellas and pigeons, complete with the soundtrack of a thousand clicking heels… well, it gives me energy.

Standing by the salt-smelling ocean with the expanse of blue sky and jagged white-tipped waves ready to dive in… well, it makes me calm.

Standing in a snowy field with frozen steam puffing from my lips like pipe smoke, the world pale and crisp on every side… well, it makes me feel like hope is possible.

I can draw up these moments whenever I need a little good in my life.

So I guess it comes in handy.

In fact, lately, I’ve felt like my imagination and the ability to fade into those flashes has become my best defense against the less-pretty reality of the rest of my life.

When things are weighing on me hard or moving too quickly or moving too slowly or just plain hurting, I can close my eyes and step into a mental postcard for a moment.

Only a moment.

But enough of a moment to make all the other million moments bearable.

Escape without abandonment.

Perspective without too great a pause.

I can’t go so far as to write a new story for myself yet — because I’m not good at fiction, remember? — but I can disappear for a second into something that has nothing to do with health or sleep or work or pain or worry or loss.

And wait until the non-fiction of my life is just as pretty.

1. Was attacked by a bus door that grabbed my coat sleeve and held me hostage for two stops.
2. Tossed my phone at a man in an elevator because I pulled it from my purse with such gusto.
3. Bumped my own arm while using burny lip gloss, thus creating a burny stripe across my cheek.
4. Dropped half a bottle of Advil into my coffee (no, I didn’t drink it.)
5. Put a Slinky on my arm as a bracelet, but neglected to remove it before running to the store for something.
6. Was listening to WHAM! on my iPod Touch when an attractive man leaned over to check it out.
7. Existed.

Round Two begins tomorrow. I’m a finalist for Best Personal Blog and Best Blog Post, which is reprinted below:

LOOK AT MY BOOBS! I AM VERY SMART!

A month or so ago, Catherine and I were driving along in her car when a song came on the radio that gave us both pause. Not because it was extraordinarily awesome, and not because it was extraordinarily bad, but because it was just so… typical.

So typical that it stood out.

See, I’ve long been of the opinion that girls today are being screwed over by popular music just like the girls in my generation were… except MUCH, MUCH MORE SO.

The lyrics aren’t getting any worse per se, and the women aren’t any more tarty than they once were (though you could argue that, at which point I’d offer you the full Samantha Fox discography, plus a reel of Tawny Kitaen rolling across the hood of a car in a Whitesnake video) but now the messages are being couched in self-empowerment.

We’ve been Madonna-ized.

But.

The song in question:

There’s more to me than meets the eye
so come and look inside
Go deep…
‘Cause beauty’s more than skin deep

Okay, try and ignore for a second there that they rhymed “deep” with “deep”, and that there are two full cliches in the space of four lines.

When you read those lines, you think, “Well, that’s good! There is more to me than meets the eye! And beauty is more than skin deep! Yeah! Boys! Check me out — I have substance, even if I don’t own a thesaurus!”

Then you get a little more understanding of the kind of girl we’re talking here:

Don’t need to know the kind of guy
who’s quick to drop the fly
Wham bam!
That ain’t who I am…

Ah! So you’re not planning to date within the NBA? Good for you.

Then it kinda falls apart.

Don’t a-let my booty beauty
be the only reason you wanna ride
Don’t a-let my hottie body
jack the fact that I got a lot more in mind

It sounds good — I mean, you want people to look past your hotness to your internal awesomeness, right?

But was anyone really paying attention after you said “booty beauty”?

This is the dilemma of late teens/early twenties/(oh, who am I kidding) early thirties women today.

We’ve turned into nudists screaming at people not to stare at our bits.

“I am proud of my body! I love my body! Look at my sexual empowerment! Do you see my ass? It rocks! HEY! STOP LOOKING AT MY ASS! BEAUTY IS MORE THAN SKIN DEEP! BUT I DON’T BLAME YOU, THESE JEANS MAKE MY ASS LOOK AWESOME!”

It’s a little confusing.

Then we get to the chorus:

If it’s just the physical
It would be sensational
But if you really got into me
You know you’d be insatiable

I get the whole point: I’m pretty freakin’ hot and you’d be lucky to have me but DID YOU KNOW I ALSO CAN DISCUSS CAMUS AND HAVE A CERTIFICATE IN THAI COOKERY?

Why do we always need to make such a point of our sexual identity in the first place, though? Why do we have to be so bluntly, obviously, blatantly hot as hell and THEN, once we are SUPER SEXY WHOA, be something else, too?

You’d never hear the song in reverse:

If we were intellectual
It would be sensational
But if I took off my grandpa sweater
Then you’d be insatiable!

I suppose it comes down to this:

The culture we’ve developed for young women has made blunt-force sexuality synonymous with empowerment, and THEN asked those same girls with the visible thong and two-foot cleavage to make sure that men notice their hearts, too.

How about we don’t dress them up like Paris Hilton, and then ask them to tuck a copy of the Iliad in their hobo bag?

How about we keep Joe Francis away from institutions of higher education?

How about we tell them to ignore any man who needs reminding that they have a brain?

Don’t get me wrong — I LOVE a good wallop of chemistry to get things going, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying that chemistry for a while before you go anywhere else. Girls can like that physical spark as much (or more) than guys. And perhaps I own one or two shirts that don’t come all the way to, say, my chin (ONLY THE ONE, DAD.)

But I’m tired of watching young girls try and be everything at once, and only succeeding at communicating one aspect of who they are because we’ve taught them nothing about subtlety or true self-respect (or how to put on clothing that covers their drafty parts).

Maybe I’m just getting old.

Or distracted by my own hotness.

It’s hard to say.

LOOK AT MY NAVEL! I KNOW DEAD LANGUAGES!

***

Voting links up tomorrow!

Being a single girl — and a girl who has been single for a while now OH MY GOSH NO! — I tend to be a bit of a magnet for other people’s love angst/thoughts/philosophies/dreams/concerns/criticisms.

If I talk about my “status”, they either rush to matchmake or tell me in the same breath that “it will come when I least expect it/stop looking (which is actually about 99% of the time)” or “put myself out there.”

What, like in the middle of an intersection? But I’ll get to that in a moment.

If I DON’T talk about being single, they become convinced that I am a) determined to be solitary; b) depressed; c) a man-hater; or d) socially awkward.

I get the “why not try dating online?” suggestions. (Answer: No. Even if you met your husband there. Sorry. And it’s okay that I don’t want to, I promise.)

I get the “why not join a club?” suggestions. (Answer: What club? The Club For Single People Looking To Meet Other Single People Doing Quirky and Interesting Activities? Please. I will join a club because I like the club. Not to meet a man.)

I get the “I could set you up!” suggestions. (Answer: Ehh… maybe. But I’d have to talk to them first. People are notorious for setting their friends up with people their friends would NEVER DATE.)

I also get the “don’t let anyone tell you that you need a man to be happy!” lecture… as if I ever said anything like that, anyway.

Could there BE more mixed messages?

I know it’s all well-meaning, but I’m pretty much done with it, folks.

Talking about love doesn’t mean I’m pining for it. And even if I WAS pining for it, it doesn’t mean I have to launch myself from a cannon into a room full of speed daters. Even if I go on and on and on about it for hours… well, I’m allowed.

That’s life. We think, we work through things, we change, we grow. We do it out loud, sometimes.

You can listen or not. But I don’t need you to FIX IT.

And not talking about love doesn’t mean I’m ignoring my own desires to be with someone and to share my life. It just means I don’t feel like talking about it right now.

I don’t need my priorities criticized. I don’t need my standards criticized. I don’t even need my fantasies criticized.

I just want to be me, and see how things go. So why is that so hard?

Because people have weird ideas about love.

Weird ideas like…

1. If you love yourself, other people will love you. The basic premise of this is pretty solid — that you have to make taking care of yourself and accepting yourself a priority. And I totally agree. It DOES make you more attractive. I like being around people who have confidence and a strong sense of self. No doubt.

Is it the key to being in a relationship, though? NO. It’s not. What if you love yourself but also happen to be TOTALLY ANNOYING?

Just kidding.

I know plenty of people who have confidence and take great care of themselves who are single, and not always by choice. So preach the value of self-love. But not as the key to finding love.

2. If you put yourself out there, you’ll find it. Yeah. Singles bars are full of this evidence. What you’re actually finding, though…

Seriously, now. Yes, you increase the odds of getting hit by a boat when you swim around in a harbour. But you also increase your chances of drowning. And other bad metaphors.

My point is, meeting someone is not the same thing as meeting someone that connects with you. If you are forcing yourself to be places or in situations that don’t make you happy, then you are in the wrong places and situations.

And if they DO make you happy, who cares what happens or not? Be where you want. Because you want to be there. And have fun.

3. It comes when you least expect it/aren’t looking for it. What? Like a meteorite from space? Come on. This is by far the most annoying cliche people throw at singles. I know lots of people who found love while seeking it rather ardently, and also know people who were surprised by it in the extreme.

Lesson? It happens when it happens.

4. Your standards are too high. Oh, really? Do you know what my standards are? And which ones would you like me to ditch? Obviously, I don’t expect my mate to be things I’m not (other than good at putting together IKEA furniture.)

That would just be obnoxious. Granted, I’d love him to be smarter than me… but that ain’t so hard.

5. You just haven’t found The One yet. Ugh. The One. Like I’m going to date Neo from the Matrix. If I thought there was ONE MAN ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH I could be happy with, I don’t even think I’d want to meet him. That’s way too much pressure!

I think there are any number of people I could enjoy life with, and it’s not a matter of puzzle pieces, or pots and lids, or locks and keys or pegs and holes OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT SOUNDS PRETTY BLATANTLY PHALLIC.

There.

Now, here’s what I think (grain of salt included):

1. You should love yourself just for the sake of loving yourself. Not to make yourself more appealing to anyone else.

2. You shouldn’t expect other people to be what you aren’t. I had a friend tell me once that she was glad her husband was so patient, because otherwise, her being a bitch would sink their marriage. What? I get how our qualities balance one another out, but if you’re a bitch to your husband, you should likely STOP THAT. Kindness is more important than a lot of things. If you can find a way to stay kind, you are 100% ahead of the curve.

3. You shouldn’t expect a relationship to make you whole. You make you whole. When you break, others can help you mend. But they can’t act like sealing putty for your life. And we’re usually all a little bit (or a lot) broken anyway, and in the process of mending. That’s where acceptance comes in. It’s just as important as kindness.

4. Love is not a single decision or moment or lightning bolt. It’s a series of choices you make or don’t make.

5. How you look/how thin you are/how much money you have/how many plans you make/how long you date/how long you live together/how long you don’t live together/what kind of wedding you have/how much you have in common/how much you don’t have in common/whether or not you have a TV in your bedroom/whether or not you have the same hobbies/whether or not you met on a plane or train or online or through friends or by arranged marriage… not one of these things guarantees success or failure in love.

Really.

Some factors in your life can improve your odds of things working out with certain people, but statistics in this area are CRAP. Yes, crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. I am a big proponent of statistics, too. Just not WHERE THEY ARE CRAP. I stand by this.

I’ve seen “perfect” circumstances fail miserably, and “imperfect” circumstances succeed. And who is to even judge perfect and imperfect, anyway?

But that’s just what I think. About love.

Oh, and one more thing: I love love. I fully believe I will fall in love one day. No doubt in my mind.

And no amount of cynicism or confusion or ranting or wondering along the way changes my ability to love the man I choose to love, when I choose to do it. I’ll put my heart into it, and that’s saying something.

So what do you think about all of this?

Here’s the quick version:

A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away (known as my other apartment) I had a blog that was read by about 20% of the people that read me now. This blog was a good thing, as it led me to start THIS blog, which was an entirely new beginning/fresh start/move of great awesomeness.

I don’t carry much forward from that old blog, save for some excellent fellow bloggers I met in the trenches. One of them is Eric (who was actually a HUGE proponent of me starting MegFowler.com. You can thank him later.)

Eric is a lighting designer in San Diego and ALSO had/has a blog. When he popped onto the scene about a year after I did, I received multiple emails from other bloggers with subject lines like I THINK HE’S SINGLE and DO YOU LIKE CALIFORNIA and DO LIGHTING DESIGNERS MAKE GOOD MONEY and WOULD YOU MOVE.

Because the Internet? Likes me to date. And Eric? IS actually single.

But anyhow.

Eric and I commented on one another’s blogs and then became good email/chat/Web/phone friends, and then he also began doing all those same things with the lovely Catherine (whom I live with.) From there, we all became friends and stuff and it was super good.

Well, Catherine and I were already friends (which makes living together easier.)

Then Eric came to visit us in Vancouver, which meant we became real life friends, which is kind of like going into the Sephora store vs. ordering online. In other words? WAY BETTER.

Then we went down to California on the best road trip of all time to visit Eric. It was truly amazing. Once in California, we learned that a) it is good to live across from a coffee shop; b) Eric is the best driver on earth; and c) YES I WOULD MOVE TO CALIFORNIA. JUST NOT THE MIDDLE PART BECAUSE I DIDN’T LIKE FRESNO.

Since then, he has come here three more times, and we went down there again this September. We’re all friends as a happy trio, and with one another independently. Awesome.

But the most awesome thing is when he gets asked by Canadian border security what he’s doing visiting NOT ONE BUT TWO women he met on the Internet.

The answer?

Having a lot of fun. BUT NOT LIKE THAT.

None of us are dating or are planning to date (save for the fact that Cat and I are Hetero Life Mates) and that’s all good.

We’re just happy as we are.

So why am I telling you all this?

Today is Eric’s birthday. I’d send you to his blog, but he hasn’t updated it since last April, after one of his trips here. All the comments on that last post are like WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT HAPPENED? and I don’t want you to add to the drama.

Okay, okay, twist my arm, here’s his blog: EverybodyThinksImWorking.com.

Great blog title, no?

Great writer, no?

Yeah. I know. But he’s a busy guy and if he blogs again, you can bet it will be awesome but not because I told him every day HEY ABOUT YOUR BLOG?

I don’t do that anymore.

Here’s what you need to know about Eric before you join me in wishing him a happy birthday:

He can make me laugh harder than most people on earth. And comes back with a marvelous laugh of his own.

He is as addicted to coffee as I am.

During one of the most difficult years of my life, he was a complete rock. As in, total dependability. As in, “remember to call you after your medical appointments” kind of dependable. No matter where I was at or what I needed, Eric was there.

He knows everything. I’m only 5% kidding, mostly out of jealousy. And he’s whip smart. But doesn’t use whips. I think.

For that matter, he’s brilliant at his job. BRILLIANT. An artist. Any theatre would be lucky to have him. Seriously.

Yeah, he’s one of those people who is good at 30,000 things but doesn’t tell you until he makes you the Best Dinner Ever and you’re like, what? You can light things AND cook? Oh yeah, and did I mention the driving? And the piano thing? Also the writing? Jerk.

Despite the overaching power of his own awesomeness, he will always believe in you slightly more than you do. Or a lot more. Depending on what you need.

He has the loveliest parents ever. Really. I actually phoned my mom after leaving his parents’ home to ask her why she wasn’t nicer. That was a good call, let me tell you. KIDDING, MOM.

My parents have a big crush on Eric. It’s a bit awkward. “You guys, stop staring.” Apparently Eric’s parents being nicer also means they had a nicer child. KIDDING, MOM.

He also lets you choose his haircut. Don’t ask.

So to our Eric, on his birthday:

I’m very, very, very thankful for the Internet, if only because I got to meet you.

May this year be the most inspiring, exciting, fulfilling year of your life.

And may people always be the beautiful friend to you that you are to them.

Love you!

NOW WISH ERIC HAPPY BIRTHDAY! GO!

1. If some idiot in tight pants approaches you, you get to knock his ass flat.
2. There’s a penalty for Offensive Holding.
3. Getting shut down? Just call an audible.
4. There’s an actual possibility of Too Many Men On The Field.
5. Three words: Backfield in motion.

(To see more love lists, just click “listy” to your right. You’ll get more lists than that, but WHO DOESN’T LOVE LISTS?)

As you’ve read (or not read, really… it’s okay either way), I’ve been a little locomotive chuggin’ down the grrr track for more than a week now. I’d attribute that partly to health stuff and partly to I HAVE NO IDEA.

I can only drag so long before I start to wear down, though. And I don’t really see that as an option.

So — since I’m sitting by my fireplace watching the Pats play in their championship and I’ve got good coffee and I’m going to make brunch and that’s pretty awesome and I should really be thankful no matter how much Advil is in my system — here’s a love list to put the screws to a crappy time.

A crappy time I am leaving behind.

As always, feel free to leave your own in the comments or post one on your blog. But make sure you include a little love in your weekend, no matter what else you do.

THINGS I LOVE

Listening to XM radio ’70’s Radio) with my parents and trying to guess the songs before the chorus hits (I was 6 when the 70’s ended)
Tom Brady
Fabric softener
Peanut butter cups!
My super-soft brown chair and a half
Playoff football
Maple bacon (mmm….)
Other texting addicts
David Letterman
SEPHORA!
Rainless days in Vancouver — especially the cold, clear kind
My mom and dad
Potential vacation plans
Corn muffins
Phil Simms
48 Hours Mystery
My new hat (see above)
My Aquiesse Grapefruit-Basil candle
Patience
Political coverage, as long as I can watch it with people who don’t hate politics
Firm huggers
Sleeping in
Boys at ease in their own skin
Peonies
Crazy laughers
Barry White song intros
Hoop earrings
Advil Liqui-Gels Extra Strength
Mentally buying things from the Pottery Barn catalog
The tiny birds in our tiny bird tree
Clementines
Al Green
Onion rings
Doing faux ballet moves around the house like a dork

AND YOU??

More hair…