megfowler.com

I’m not easily startled.

I’m one of those “keep a cool head” people who can wade into emergencies and stare down creeps and walk dark alleys without seeing a boogeyman behind every dumpster.

However.

Spiders? Turn me into a complete and total KNOB.

I see one — well, okay, a spider bigger than say, the palm of my (very small! very small!) hand, not just a mini spider fooling around on a wall, because hey! hi. it’s cool you’re here, I understand our ecosystems need you, just stay out of my pants — and my brain goes absolutely blank.

I want to be ANYWHERE BUT THERE.

Which is essentially what happened in my bathroom early this morning when I came rolling in with my happy white towels, ready for a hot shower.

There he was.

On the shower curtain.

A behemoth (okay, not really, but he wasn’t tiny AND I DON’T CARE! IT WAS SHOCKING AT 5:45 AM!) of a spider, just waiting to torture me with his very presence.

I made an immediate and involuntary squeak toy noise, and shrank back against the wall.

He was blocking my Portal to Cleanliness, and I was not impressed.

I got a magazine — Avril Lavigne was on the cover, I hoped this would help — and steeled myself to take a whack at him, but every time I moved to do it, he moved enough to startle me into dropping Avril on the ground. And there was nothing solid behind him to help the magazine out, either, so my hits lacked little punch when they actually connected.

Sigh.

That’s how I ended up not showering, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and doing my makeup bent in from the doorway, one eye trained on the interloper at all times. I’m aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but I literally could not force myself to stay in the room with him.

Finally, he made a hardcore break for it, and that’s when I screamed.

Screamed.

At 6:15 am.

It was at this moment that three things happened:

1. I felt like a COMPLETE TOOL and started to cry. CRY. Partly because of the spider and partly because I WAS BEING A TOOL.

2. Catherine came flying out of her room (she was due up any minute, it’s okay!) to see if I was injured in some way.

3. Dean heard me scream upstairs, and texted Catherine (who he thought was the screamer) to lie and say she woke up the baby (The baby was already awake, as was Dean.)

Here’s where the story improves, mostly because Catherine has a morbid fear of mice and understands the Power of Irrational Panic in Enclosed Spaces with Unpleasant Creatures. She would do no better than I did, if it had been a mouse.

(Which it wasn’t. It was something much smaller, of course. Did I mention that I’m a tool?)

Fortunately, Catherine is NOT afraid of spiders — a power I’d been trying to access for 30 minutes by whimpering in the direction of her door (forgetting, of course that Catherine sleeps like the dead.)

Once she figured out why I was crying, she went straight into the bathroom, shut the door, and less than a minute later, I heard the toilet flush. Then she came out, patted me on the back, and it was over.

Well, except for the fact that I still felt like a tool.

It didn’t take me long to get past it once I got to work and focused on other things, but part of me continues to flail because I never wanted to be one of those girls who was scared of stuff.

Especially a screamy one.

And here’s the worst part — when I’d have a cabin full of terrified girls gathered around a much larger spider at camp, I wouldn’t hesitate to actually PICK THE DAMN THING UP and put it outside, or dispatch of it in a less poetic and earth-friendly manner with my stowed-away and incredibly heavy copy of the Fall Preview Vogue.

I was the rescuer! Not the rescuee!

I’ve become a screamy girl. LATE IN LIFE.

I think this is more depressing than the day I realized that Andrew Ridgeley was never really going to have a comeback.

And I’m still not over that.

Sigh.

Back to the doctor.

Sinus infection. Severe.

What? That makes me cough?

Yes.

That explains the fever and aches?

Yes.

That explains feeling like bleeeeeahhh?

Yes.

So what do I do?

$70 in antibiotics should be a nice start.

Oh, awesome.

Still coughing, still congested, still bleah.

And I was such a good girl and went to the doctor this weekend. As my reward, I got a fairly odd/angry/disturbing physician at the drop-in clinic, and now I could have pneumonia, or bronchitis, or a bad cold… or maybe just a big nose?

What?

Any kind of antibiotics you want in particular? Do you have a favourite?

What?

I know, I’m not sure either.

BUT I AM SO DONE.

I’m sick.

Fever!

Aches!

Congestion!

Cactus throat!

It might be the SARS.

Or just the LAME.

Sigh.

… because MAN ALIVE, do you people know how to bring out the trash!

I love it. I love it so much.

And so does my faithful roommate and heterolifemate, Catherine, who phoned me from work to relive a few of the best comments. Honestly, folks — the best way to realize you’re not all that weird is to look around you and SEE THE MAGIC.

You are all magic.

And should keep being magic, if you haven’t posted your weird/trashy/awkward/problematic confessions yet below.

Here are three more of mine:

I own a Diana, Princess of Wales paper doll kit where her base outfit is royal underwear. I have no idea where it is (I’ve moved too many times, and so have my parents…) but I find it kind of creepy at this point. Granted, I got it in 1982 (were some of you people even alive yet?), but still.

I really, really, really enjoy the skin on KFC chicken. No, I don’t find it too salty or greasy or SKINNISH… I just love it. Mmm. And the more gross you think it is, the more left for me! Woo!

I sing into my thumb in the car like it was a microphone. And in grocery stores. And pretty much anywhere.

Anyway. Do share. Do tell. We can’t wait to learn more.

In other news, I am buying actual shoes next week — maybe even three pairs! Which would bring my non-heel shoe total to… five pairs! — and need to think of a decent flat shoe that is not a boot or a running shoe or a walking shoe or a nurse shoe or a mom shoe.

I love ballet flats, but can’t seem to find a pair that don’t fall apart or give me the mother of all blisters on my heel. Which heals eventually (HEEL HEAL HEEL HEAL), but still.

Any suggestions?

OH! And…

If you could choose a category as yet uncategorized and unwritten at MegFowler.com, what would it be?

OH! And…

The Canucks lost by six points last night. I don’t expect anything as devastating as this to happen again, but I feel terrible for the guys. The fan bashing afterwards can’t be doing them much good in prepping for the next two games, either.

Let’s not decide we’re going to lose all season because of a couple bad contests. That’s like ending your marriage because you fight over whether to have the toilet paper roll over or under (over, by the way.) JUST MOVE ON.

And I hate “stat hexes”, too. Who cares if we lose to a team all the time? That doesn’t mean we can’t nail them now.

One more thing: Jesse Boulerice? You think you’re awesome railing on our Kes when you’re 5 points in the lead? Yeah. Meet me in the alley behind my house and I’ll give you the cross-checking of your LIFE.

OH! And…

WHAT THE FREAK! I see her going both ways. Alternately. Randomly. I keep thinking that shouldn’t work because of the lines of her body and anatomy but it HAPPENS! AAAA!!

It’s that time again, isn’t it, you crazy bastards.

Not that time.

But this time. The current time.

(Time, time time… see what’s become of me?)

This is the time when you wreak havoc on my entire system.

The time when you overheat me like a tiny blast furnace. The time when you make my head feel as though someone bludgeoned my temples with a meat tenderizer for an hour while I slept. The time when you make everything I normally enjoy eating appear radically unappetizing. The time when you cause me to turn bright red like a Japanese lantern bobbling from a wire. The time when my skin appears to develop multiple personalities, all of which hate me.

Oh, yes. The time.

Let me be honest with you, hormones: ANY TIME YOU WANT TO, LIKE, CHILL OUT?

WOULD BE AWESOME. SERIOUSLY.

Now, I know that you’re trying to return my 96 year-old, cane-using, Depends-wearing, World War Two-remembering, support hose-buying, prune-eating hormones into their normal 33-year old bouncy, baby-possible, barefoot selves. I do appreciate your efforts.

It’s just that the whole process has left me wrung out like a cheap dishrag more times than I can count.

But there’s something about a quadrupled cancer risk and tumbleweeds in my ovaries that keeps me hangin’ on.

Still.

Hormones.

Really. We could be a bit more sunny about this.

And I don’t mean making me FEEL LIKE I AM SITTING ON THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

I’m just saying.

Love,

Meg

HEY.

STOP TRYING TO KILL ME.

SERIOUSLY.

Before I go on, I should say that a good many of you are awesome. Helpful, funny, thoughtful, gracious, skilled… oh yes. You are a credit to your profession. I’ve really enjoyed watching you do what you do.

But as someone who has been on Vancouver buses for more than a decade — and in all three zones — let me say that many of you could use some remedial driving classes. Or maybe just a less violent sense of humour.

I’m not sure if you’ve just been dealt a bad hand in terms of vehicle quality (I’m sure that’s the case at times, and that’s not your fault) but the way you operate the buses MUST be having a fairly negative effect on their functionality.

You brake like you couldn’t make out the stop light from a block away. You take corners like Mario Andretti. You weave haltingly through traffic like you were a Yugo and not a giant death rocket with 40 people inside. You cross into other lanes like you don’t see the lines on the road. You drive too fast, merge too slow, stop unnecessarily, and refuse to stop for no reason at all. I’ve twice been on buses that have caused accidents with a fair amount of damage… and yes, it was the driver in error.

And with some of you, it’s not just the driving.

I’ve seen you yell at old ladies who moved too slowly to sit down. I’ve seen you kick people off for being a dime short who commute peacefully with me every morning. I’ve seen you keep up a running commentary on the appearance of everyone who got on or off the bus. I’ve seen you scream at people who couldn’t pull their wheelchairs into place properly (”Haven’t you been a cripple for a while now?”) I’ve seen you get off the bus to become involved in physical altercations with people who weren’t even ON the bus. I’ve seen you throw things and break things that were owned by your riders. I’ve seen you refuse to put down the wheelchair ramp because you were “running late.” I’ve seen you bellow at young mothers who were struggling with their strollers. I’ve seen you refuse to listen to people who couldn’t speak English, and refuse to speak English to people you didn’t like.

Yes. You’re human. We all get fed up at times.

But when your job is to drive safely and interact with the public in a polite and efficient manner, then I’m sad to say a great many of you are failing miserably. Not just slipping up now and then, but showing a total and complete lack of concern for any standards in your job.

I pay too much every month to feel this unsafe.

I don’t have another option economically or locationally, so I’m going to keep riding. And I’ve done my part by calling you guys in when things really got out of hand, as with the time I told you a man was smoking in the back of the bus, and you kicked him off at my stop after informing him I was the one who let you know.

I really enjoyed being followed by a screaming man. Thanks. It’s good I wasn’t some old lady, because I doubt she’d have felt comfortable to yell right back.

But according to my ideals, being a union shop should give you PRIDE in what you do, not an excuse to take advantage of job protections. If you’re too stressed to do it, you need to move on. That’s what the rest of us have to do, too.

It’s just that most of us, when we get stressed at work, don’t have multiple lives in our hands.

Like mine.

Yours,

Meg

Catherine had a root canal yesterday.

And not just a root canal, but one with an abscess they discovered underneath!

WOO!

Yes, emergency dentistry when you’re away from home is no picnic, especially when the Vicodin they give you makes you ill, and you have to make do with Advil and Tylenol instead. She’s pretty tuckered out.

So we’re running close to home and low-key for now. We’ll see how things evolve in our last couple of days here.

In other news, San Diego weather reports indicated it would rain today… and it’s bright and sunny.

Good try, San Diego!

(NO ROOT CANAL STORIES OR HORRIFIED COMMENTS. NADA. UNWELCOME.)

(Sympathy is good, though.)

Ah, yes.

The bitchy week.

The week where everything goes wrong.

The week of willful ingratitude.

The week of weak.

Do you ever have weeks like this?

I’m pretty sure I’ve been a total prize to be around.

Well… hold on. I don’t think I’ve been all that difficult to be around, but if there were a small community of people living in my brain, they’d have long ago tried to migrate and establish an independent state in my spleen.

Until I vented it, that is.

I’m not sure why I’ve been so negative, other than a particularly rollercoaster-y jag of hormonal activity (along with the odd, unpredictable physical manifestations of the same) and a fair amount of stress in a few areas of my world. But I know nothing I’m going through is all that big a deal, really.

I just can’t seem to get the perspective I need to shake off the frustration.

Which only frustrates me more.

I hate feeling sorry for myself.

I hate indulging that gross part of me that thinks I’ve “got it rough.”

I hate the almost-crying itch in the back of my throat, and I hate that I can’t drown it with coffee.

Most of all, I hate hating anything, because What. Is. The. Point.

It could be so much worse than this.

This Tuesday afternoon, a man jumped 26 stories from a building I can see from my office window. My co-worker actually looked up from a phone call to see him heading for the glass and metal awning that he glanced off before he met the cement.

I’ll never forget the way her voice sounded as she tried to process what she was seeing, just like I’ll never forget the sight of his legs splayed, or the blood, or construction workers pacing with cell phones, endlessly running their hands through their hair, never standing still.

They took his body away and hosed the area off and now you’d never know he’d been there.

You’d never know anything happened at all.

That’s my definition of worse.

I need to wake up to the ease of my own existence.

To change what I can and then move on.

To not allow what hurts me to define me.

And to understand that whatever is happening now, I am nowhere close to falling.

I’ve been thinking about that man’s family ever since.

It’s a perfect change from thinking about myself.

A haiku for today:

oh cloudy city
more like november are you
without cute sweaters

Sigh.

It’s a bit… muggy? Cloudy? Blah? Pre-rainy? Belligerent? outside today. That’s why I’m glad that I’m warm and dry inside, curled up in my comfy office chair with a giant vat of pure extracted caffeine and a straw.

Mmm… direct.

After a somewhat busy weekend away from home, and a rush of chores last night, I had a hard time sleeping once I finally coaxed my head onto the pillow. In the end, I think I got about four hours.

And that? Just is NOT enough anymore.

So I’m doing my best to be chipper right now, even as my eyelids threaten to go on strike.

I’m going to need your help.

Entertain me!

1. Tell me a crazy anecdote from your childhood that will make me laugh out loud.

2. Tell me where you would be today if you could be anywhere doing anything with anyone… and money’s no object!

3. If there was a song that describes your life right now, what is it? If you can find a video of it on YouTube, include that!

4. What annoying habit should they send you to rehab for?

5. What do you wish you were eating right this moment?

GO!