Monthly Archives: August 2009

oh! and…

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I think coffee tastes better in Christmas mugs… all year.

I think owning more than 20 pairs of shoes indicates a lack of creativity.

I think rumpled beds can look just as lovely as made ones.

I think having an alarm system has made me feel less secure.

I think I wanted to be a football player just as much as I wanted to be a princess.

I think I prefer pedicures to massages because I’d tense up naturally before I’d manage to chip a toe.

I think microphones bring out an entirely different Meg than any other Meg.

I think adding lemon is generally a great idea. Except to eyeballs.

I think sleeping in is more delicious than most meals.

I think people who are crabby to customer service people who have done them no wrong — or even, who HAVE done them wrong — come off much worse than the service.

I think, whatever the stresses in my life might be, my future plans make them all worthwhile.

I think friendship can be measured in private jokes and public displays of affection.

meeble.

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Here’s my main problem in life: I have appendages.

Now, I know you’re thinking, “MEG! YOU NEED APPENDAGES! ARMS AND LEGS, THEY ARE GOOD! AND EARS! AND YOUR NOSE!”

Yes, yes, I know.

BUT.

If a part of me sticks out, it becomes a candidate for bruising, smacking, slamming, whacking and/or laceration. In fact, this very morning, I smacked my nose on the edge of my bathroom sink, and was fifteen minutes late to work because I had to change my bloody shirt (and I mean that in the THERE’S BLOOD ON ME way, not the TALLY HO, I’M BRITISH way.)

I actually can’t think of a single sticky-outy part of my body that hasn’t ended up with a wound of some sort over the course of my 35 years.

Sometimes, these wounds are dramatic, and result in shunts and IVs and weird scars.

Sometimes, they are less dramatic, and only result in me swearing under my breath (oh, who am I kidding? out loud) and spinning in place like a dervish.

BUT IMAGINE IF I WERE A WEEBLE.

I WOULD WOBBLE — not unlike the wobbling I do daily, into desk edges, counter edges, doorframes, car doors, cupboard doors, turnstiles, bus poles, dressers, chairs, people walking by, signs, parking meters, fish tanks, washroom stall doors, wall sconces, passing cars, wildlife, air — BUT I WOULD NOT FALL DOWN.

There wouldn’t be any parts of me to smack on anything except, well… ME. And because I’d be soft and inflatable, I’d just bounce off objects like a reverse magnet.

Funny, though… I never thought I’d dream of being a blow-up doll.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I know, I know. Weebles are not the actual inflatable things, they are the small hard things. But I called them all by the same name as a child. AND I STILL DO. THEY WOBBLE. THEY DO NOT FALL DOWN.)

you.

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You always wanted to do the things I wanted to do at the same time I wanted to do them, from singing drives to ordering Thai takeout. You would listen to me rant and rave about whatever, and always understand just where I was coming from. You would trade earrings and eye shadows and secrets and stories, and agree with me almost every Saturday morning that our deck and our fireplace were our greatest treasures in life. You would sing in your room while you cleaned and puttered, and that sound would be about the most soothing thing in the world to my ears (second only to the voice of Bill Kurtis, of course… our shared crush.) Thank you for being there for me, always.

You were just 13 or 14 when I met you, and I was in charge of you in a sense, but not really, since I was only a few years further down the road. You were feisty. You were funny. You showed grown-up confidence, but I knew you were really still a goofy kid… just like me. In time, we ended up as camp roommates, co-workers, and then friends. Your husband-to-be made me laugh harder than almost anyone else on earth, and when you two started dating, I thought, “Ah, yes. That’s just about perfect.” I was so honoured to hold both of your daughters as babies, and though we don’t see each other much, I know we still “get” each other.

You were some guy on the Internet, some guy on a blog. Everyone wondered what you looked like, because your writing “sounded cute.” When my best friend and I finally met you, you were primed to be the Third Musketeer. Funny thing, though… you ended up being the perfect guy for the other Musketeer. In the meantime, though, you and I talked for hours about everything under the sun. We laughed, we cried, we argued, we debated, we discussed silly things with heaps of gravitas. When you walk down the aisle with her for your (second) wedding, I am pretty sure I’ll cry. But I am absolutely sure they will be tears of joy and pride for, and in, both of you.

You were three and a half years old when I was born, and exceptionally thoughtful, cute, and precocious. I came on the scene with a baby bird face, the lungs of an opera singer, and the attitude of a… well, something cheeky. You probably didn’t ask for a baby sister, but you received the craziest one available. Over the past 35 years, we’ve laughed until we’ve cried, argued until we were hoarse, ignored one another until we were clueless… and everything else in between. I marvel at how different we are, but I know that deep down, we’re still the kids in the back seat with a running comedy routine, making our parents giggle until they cried.

You were just out of high school — like me — when we met in a crazy dorm full of rambunctious, nervous, hormonal girls. You could play piano, we both could sing, and we both loved making lists of 101 things we liked about people (because who doesn’t want to know 101 things someone likes about them?) We were kids of ministers (me by birth, you by marriage) and good girls, but also possessed of a wicked streak that showed up when we least expected it. Now we expect it. You married one of my camp crushes and came up with two gorgeous daughters (what is it with the daughters?) that look just like you. Now you comment on my sillier statuses (statii?) on Facebook, reminding me every single time (without saying it) how kindred we actually are.

You were a good foot taller than me already when we met, all bones and wacky hair and an obvious desire to irritate/delight/confuse people. I was in my “crushes on jocks” phase then, but figured out years later (after many drives, singing sessions, arguments, babysitting moments, weddings, fashion critiques, and long talks) that maybe, just maybe, I had a bit of a thing for you. We lived far apart at the time, and figured that we would figure it out when we saw each other next. We didn’t figure it out, though. In fact, we argued some more. It wasn’t meant to be, but when I look at your life now and all the things you’ve accomplished, I think, “It’s absolutely right that we didn’t get married. I’d have killed you, and you wouldn’t have gotten a single thing done.”

You were a guy on a “social media thingy” way back in 2008 who worked for a company I had totally heard of (unlike most companies I heard of in social media back then.) You were full of pop culture references, full of sports knowledge, full of faith in your friends and their dreams, chock full of talent, and prone to be the most encouraging human being on earth. Through a thousand IM discussions, we grew into good friends and a sort of mutual appreciation society. You told me I was capable of anything, and I KNEW you were capable of anything. Turns out we both are. We’ve got big plans, but I know we’ll make all of them happen… and more.

You were also a guy on a “social media thingy” way back in 2008, but our story is different. We noticed something special and (excuse the cliche) ‘special’ about one another from the very beginning. We talked in every way possible without actually sitting next to one another in the same room. Then, when we found ourselves in the same room (eight months later — an impossible wait), all those feelings turned into fireworks. You made me realize practically overnight that all my ideas of ‘in love’ were ridiculously small. Now I know why I had to wait all these years: I wouldn’t have been the woman you deserve until now. Even though we struggle some days to make all the details work, and though I wear on your patience (and you, on mine), there isn’t a doubt in my mind that 50 years from now, you’ll do an Elmer Fudd impression, and I’ll laugh until my dentures fall out. And then follow up my toothless grin with a kiss.

You are both my first loves because you are the first faces I knew in life, and because you are still the first people I call when things go wrong. No one (except the immediately aforementioned) cares as much about my well-being and my happiness as you do. You have watched me grow from a wacky toddler with way too many words to a wacky adult with way too many words. Along the way, you encouraged me to follow my dreams, and believed without a doubt I could do anything I set out to do. I worry about disappointing you sometimes, but I know you will love me no matter what. There aren’t many kids who can say that with as much confidence as I can, and for that? I will never be able to repay you. Fortunately, all you expect in return is love. You have that in spades, I promise.

There are many more “yous” in my life, of course.

Like you.

Whether we’ve met or not, you’ve gotten this far into my story… which means you know a little more about me (through all my other “yous”) than you did a few minutes ago. And a little more about me than maybe 6 billion other people on earth.

Which also means I’m thankful for you. For listening, for getting it, for coming back again to read more.

For making me want to live it well, and then tell the tale.

And most of all… for being you.