The Amusing Musings of a Wandering Mind

Life Unexpected

2011-12-12T11:22:00.002-06:00

Hello, crickets!

As you might recall, last June I packed up my car with what I would need for the summer, put my house in storage, and hit the road Austin-bound from Vermont. I auditioned Boston, Manhattan and DC before I stopped to visit friends in Nashville.

Two weeks turned into five and a half months. So I live in Nashville now.

Needless to say, I never quite made it back to Austin, though I visit and work there often. I've learned a few things these last few months:

~ Nashville suits me in every way. (Hello, baby jeans! Welcome back!)

~ Take every meeting, even if you're not interested. Opportunity hides in the unexpected.

~ The Yankee vs. Southerner differences are alive and well.

~ I prefer the South, for the record. Natch.

~ You'll know when you find your place. Be patient while it reveals itself.

~ Live on faith and you will not fail.

~ I love freelancing and pray for the courage to keep it going.

~ I love living with other people. (WHAT THE SH*T.) Its made me a better person and taught me how much I like taking care of others and how much I need them. Solitude independence is great, but eventually you bore yourself.

~ I'm suspended in a second-term adult adolescence - or arrested development - and that's ok. Perhaps I'm a poster child for our generation?

~ I keep a mean house. (Holy hell, she's gone domestic!)

~ When you accomplish everything professionally you ever dreamed, sometimes you have to dream something new. I'm still trying to figure out what that is. Perhaps "it" is trying to figure me out, too. I'm sure we'll meet one of these days.

~ My heart is happy and open to possibility. It's fun to think that he is walking around wondering who I am, too. I just pray that he's happy or on his way there and that God is holding his heart tight just for me.

~ There are a lot of rhinestones in Nashville. I like this.

~ God answers prayers. Sometimes it takes a while to figure out what exactly he answered and how. And sometimes YOU are the answer to someone else's prayer.

Be well and Merry Christmas from Nashvegas.

The Megster

Change of Scenery

2011-07-05T21:44:00.001-05:00

Hey y'all. I'm taking a break here. Need to shake it up a bit. As you know, I'm no longer in Vermont and have actually settled unexpectedly and indefinitely in Nashville. We'll see what happens next!

Check out my short quips at the Nashvegas Social. Short being the operative word.

All my love,

Megster

Dear Beantown, Are You My City?

2011-06-10T13:03:00.003-05:00

When life in Vermont came to a screeching halt, my adventures beyond it started in BahstonBaaaaastonBeantown.

I mean, Boston. I love Boston. Seriously. I love it. But could I/should I live there?

One of my best Vermont friends and I headed to Mass to see Buffy. This is where I mention how apropros it is that our friend's name is Buffy and she lives in Boston. So mentioned.

Buffy left our workplace not long before my own departure and headed to Boston to market underage children. And by underage children, I mean head up marketing for a very respectable and highly funded non-profit, dedicated to enriching the lives of young adults as teachers and mentors to underserved student populations. Hopefully, if they do their job right, they'll reduce drop-out rates and downgrade rampant drug use from illicit substances to something more respectable like pot.

I kid. I know their goals stretch way beyond problematic reductions to include improving the odds of success for the students. If they happen to give them something to do besides sex and drugs, then they've done their job.

Buffy loves her new gig and definitely loves Boston. I would share with your her texts begging me to move there, but I won't. "WHEN R U MOVING TO BOSTON???" comes to mind. (Ooohh there it is anyway.)

I think Buffy and Boston are a great match for each other. Just like so many of us in our little family unit (approx. three, anyway), we all hail from and crave the atmosphere of big cities. As a Laaahhhng Island native originally and former resident of San Fran, I think Buffy always had the sense that she'd wind up back in a more metropolitan area than Vermont.

And one weekend with her in the Big City proved it was the right move. She was much more relaxed and after just a few weeks was already settled into her new home and navigated public transit gracefully.

SIDENOTE: Speaking of transit, public or otherwise, I consider it quite a success to navigate complicated cities well. And I am feeling VERY SUCCESSFUL lately, thanks to easy-to-read subway maps in multiple cities and my trusty GPS tour guide lady thing secured to my windshield.

So Buffy's happiness in Beantown begs the question: Is Boston my city?

I enjoyed the people I met and the interview gauntlet at an agency. Good people, great work, exciting clients. And it was directly across from the Gucci store. (Which itself could prove to be very problematic.)

In the end, though I enjoy Buffy and her life immensely, I didn't have the home-like feeling in Boston. I do quite like the diverse, intelligent, cosmopolitan culture - and of COURSE I love the climate and everything about New England and THE RED SOX, but it didn't grab hold of me with no sign of letting go.

So I continue my southward adventures, auditioning cities along the way. Next up? New Yawk.

With faith and nothing but possibilities,

The Megster

Chasing Jesus

2011-06-07T18:18:00.002-05:00

Much of life is understood only in retrospect. Experience and wisdom filter perspective through film reels of memory, throwing shadows on doubt and illuminating the facts.

So it is that I settle back into the South and find Jesus at every turn. He's in modern, comical paintings. He's on the church signs on every corner. He's in the heart of every friend. And I find that wherever He is, I am home.

When you live long enough with a funky valve and hole in the heart, you get used to it. The absence of Christ or anything clearly Christ-like in Vermont was haunting - just as the trickery of cardiology. I adapted as best I could, but life continued, much like the misguided blood that passes through my faulty valve, catching my breath with each skipped beat.

It is only with the gift of time that I realize Christ was never missing, per se. I knew he was always nestled in my psyche. But I know now that my friends, believers or not, WERE Christ. They embodied the best of Him: love, forgiveness, friendship, compassion, humility, charisma, generosity.

Perhaps the friendships that don't require ancient script as explanation are some of the best. If you should find yourself surrounded by friends whose very character resembles that of Christ, regardless of their reason or season, then count your blessings.

They will make you richer than any security blanket of employment or wealth. And they will save you and keep you afloat as you drift away farther from an altar of faith.

With gratitude for my little family in Vermont,

The Megster

Are You My City?

2011-06-06T13:14:00.002-05:00

I'm on a journey of sorts as I drive solo across the U.S. from Burlington, Vermont to Austin, Texas.

History and life say I should find my way back to Austin, but opportunity may take me elsewhere. There's something incredibly liberating about being a free agent professionally.

For the first time in a while, I'm not stalled out on a prescribed track of success. Instead, I'm taking the next few months to say "yes" to every meeting and explore opportunity and what people really need from a communications professional. I've explored many companies, agencies and other positions so far and all seem perfectly adequate in their own right.

However, the powerful combination of faith and instinct tell me to relax, enjoy the time off, and be patient, because something incredible is in store...and it might not be anything I could have anticipated or defined on my own.

In fact, I'm learning what I really need from work. I'm finding my talents and capabilities might very well find their own way to a long-term gig, but location is still unknown.

So I'm officially a vagabond.

Not entirely homeless, per se, but I've separated myself from my worldly belongings (save my closet. Really? You think I could live out of a suitcase alone indefinitely? That's banananananas.) Everything I own that I don't need for the next few months is in storage in Burlington until I know where to send it. Thirty individual items such as furniture and the ironing board, plus 60 boxes - 30 of which are books, hide away in a climate-controlled crate somewhere outside of town.

I'm blessed with family-like friends in many cities that I enjoy visiting. Each city so far holds occupational promise, as well as it's own shining possibilities and delusions of grandeur. And fittingly, each city and its resident friend(s) reflect each other. This feeds directly into the idea that we don't always choose our homes, sometimes they choose us.

So stay tuned as I wander around this great nation to find my permanent place. Up next are profiles of my time in each city. But for now, it's food. Plain and simple.

I'm HANGRY. (<--- not a typo.)

With love and expectation,

The Megster

A Change is Gonna Come....

2011-05-10T14:35:00.003-05:00

Well, it kind of already did, but that was just the beginning. I don't know exactly what's next, but I'm tremendously excited to embrace it.

I am buoyed by faith.

I am surrounded by love.

And I know where to find a kickass cape.

All things must change to something new, to something strange.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Bring it, universe.

Things I Learned from Carving Out My Car

2011-03-07T09:37:00.006-06:00

Good morning, lovelies. This is The Megster, reporting from Seventh Generation headquarters in buried Burlington, Vt. where we received a record 21 inches of snow since last night - and it's still going.

In fact, that's a whiteout right thar.

Notice how I mentioned the office?

Yes. Die hards like me don't dilly dally at home in front of Oprah, especially when I'm off to sunny California for a week of back-breaking convention work.

No.

WE MAKE IT WORK.

Judge all you want - but I've got a sh*t ton of stuff to close up here before heading west and most of it is office-based.

Henceforth, a smattering of things I learned today while carving out my car.

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself
It is most essential, regardless of accumulation, that you check the license plate of the car you're about to carve out of an igloo.

I'm sure your neighbors would appreciate the kind gesture, but if you don't know how to hot wire a car I suggest brushing off the plate for a little looky loo and then proceed once you've correctly identified your ride.

They all look the same under tremendous snow cover.

Heed the Signs
If you step outside your door to an unplowed sidewalk and trudge through knee-deep snow, perhaps the near future does not bode well. This would be a good time to re-evaluate your gloves.

You should also pay close attention to the retail signs when shopping for a shovel for the trunk.

Words to avoid:

"CHILD'S SNOW SHOVEL."

Unfortunately, I learned this one the hard way. A 12 inch snow shovel that's flimsier than a beach shovel in muddy sand will MAKE YOU WORK FOR IT.

(That took about 45 mins.)

(Don't) Love Thy Neighbor
I've ruminated a time or two about the (un)friendly Yankee disposition and I'm afraid this applies especially in a snow storm.

Two plow trucks came through my lot, even one guy was out hooking up the damn thing and talking to me, but heaven forbid he offer to help.

On a powder day such as this, it's EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF.

Speaking of powdah, if I weren't getting the hell outta dodge for awhile, I'd totally play hooky on the slopes tomorrow.

Snow or Sweat?
Snow or sweat? Both are super wet. So let's play a game:

My hair was frozen solid. Snow or sweat? Tough call.

My gloves are soaked through. Snow or sweat? I'd say both.

My thighs are more frozen than the 6-month old chicken in my freezer. Snow or sweat? I'm going with snow on this one. Especially when the drift is up to my waist.

Should I go to the gym tonight? No, no, definitely not. THAT WAS TOTALLY SWEAT.

Red Means GO
It's amazing how quickly you learn your town based on heavy snow fall. You know all the hills and how to avoid them. Unfortunately, you can't avoid all inclines.

If you're approaching a stop sign or red light on a hill and there's no one in sight (and the news is telling you to stay off the roads) then for Heaven's sake KEEP GOING!!!

Inching backwards is not helpful.

But THANK YOU JEEZUS for good snow tires.

Next car? An SUV. I don't care about the carbon emmissions, or the lack of snow where one might settle, but i'm sick of wondering whether or not my car can handle it.

Good thing it hasn't disappointed me yet.

Soundtrack
There is really only one song appropriate for a snow-covered drive to work:
Dobie Gray and Drift Away.

Morals of the Story?
Take your time. Another inch or two will fall while you're carving out a car and I dare you to try and beat it.

If Aaron Ralston can saw his arm off with a pocketknife, you can dig your car our of three feet of snow.

Now get to work!

Happy snow day, y'all.
The Megster

Lovely and Amazing: The State of the Megster and Everything Else

2011-02-08T15:46:00.003-06:00

It has been brought to my attention by no fewer than four of you that I’ve failed to write in as many months. I realize that my displaced focus on things such as work, family, friends and travel, ahem – I mean life, is a problem.

I also realize that beginning with a confession (and perhaps an apology, jury’s still out) is not exactly the most effective way to keep you interested. However, I am sincerely sorry (oh, there it is!) that obligations have led me astray and vow to not keep you waiting as long for the next.

At least I’ll close the window at three months which would buy me some time well into spring.

It only seems fitting.

The constitution requires the president to report “from time-to-time” resulting in an annual State of the Union address. But he also gives a weekly radio announcement. Not that anyone but a dinosaur knows what that is, but at least it’s some way for him to say he’s trying.

In my opinion, that’s the purpose of Facebook status updates.

For example, his should read:

“Failed the left. Pissed off the right. Can’t employ the middle. Think I’ll have a cigarette.”

I can relate.

I’ve tried scrolling through my status updates in order to inform this amazing compilation of dribble, but selecting “older entries” repeatedly is tiresome. I wish there were a more efficient way to archive them, so I’ll just have to go off memory alone.

DEAR GOD, WHAT DID WE DO BEFORE FACEBOOK?

Henceforth, an irregular account of the last four months.

Economy

The state of my economy here in Vermont seems stable enough. I have a good job and for that I’m grateful.

However, the concept of home ownership remains seriously foreign to me. So I boosted the Winooski economy by renting there beginning in December. The local dining establishments know my take-out orders by heart and me by name. The neighboring pizzeria owner even wants to lease me a home (add that to “things that would’ve been great to know months ago.”)

Soon enough I’ll be contributing to the pet industry when I procure my own canine. Of what breed, I’m unsure, unless my buddy Skeet comes to live with me. But I’m sure I’ll gladly support many a pet store and doggie daycare employee’s paycheck.

And I cannot wait!

Education

The Continuing Education of the Megster, well, continues. I’ve recently taken up ice skating for the first time since childhood and I’ll tell you what.

That shit ain’t easy.

If I can just stay off the toe-pick, I’ll avoid face-planting in front of toddlers and barely pubescent teens on first dates. I circle the rink for an hour and a half and can barely walk when finished. I even have a few beautiful bruises to boast.

It’s exhilarating and fun to take up something new (again) and feel like you accomplished something. Now you know where to find me every Sunday afternoon.

My continuing education of life isn’t always rosy, though. It saddens me still that I live in the THRIVING METROPOLIS of Burlington, unofficial capitol of Vermont, and live among poverty. There are plenty of non-profits here addressing the issues, but as the seat of social services, we’re inundated with the destitute.

I’ve never quite understood this.

I’m not elitist by any means, but the climate alone seems like a massive deterrent, and I just don’t understand the attraction. I would never dare to call for segregation, but it is bothersome when I can’t go about normal endeavors without (literally)stumbling over a person in desperate need.

I’ve wrestled with this for months and months. I’ve not personally participated in the organizations to help. I’ve supported them when work calls for it. I’ve even cursed the reality.

This is an extremely uncomfortable departure from my life in Austin, serving the homeless with my friends for no other reason than to inspire hope and happiness inside darkened hearts – if only for a moment.

I’ve had to challenge myself recently to get involved. And if not formally, to at least summon up the compassion and empathy long lost since I’ve been here. We’ll see what I’m capable of next.

Deficit

Other than being morally bankrupt a time or three – but always in good fun – I’ve found that I’m deficient of poundage. (In)significant events in the latter part of 2010 pushed me to a place mentally for which I pined.

Without a second thought, I began an exercise and dietary regimen that I’ve come to love and can’t live without. It took serious, blind commitment, but I did it. I’m enjoying the diverse schedule of activities and am benefitting from 30 less el bees.

The only downfall is shopping.

Yes.

Shopping. I know you just choked on your late-afternoon beverage of choice at the thought of me deploring shopping.

But any woman who’s attempted to find the perfect pair of jeans can relate. It’s a noble endeavor, I assure you, but I’m just grateful for lax return policies. I’ve settled on two pairs recently. That was enough to call for the Twinkies.

Almost.

Hopefully those will be in the wake of my deficiency. (The new jeans, not the twinkies.)

Foreign Affairs

I’ve spent the better part of this winter loving every snow flake, even the ones that paralyze a city (Vermont might be down six hours after a snowfall. Texas goes down for days. Get yer shit together, Little Mexico!)

My favorite foreign activities have become daily adventures. I’ve learned to drive in a blizzard on snow packs. I’ve taken up skiing like it will end tomorrow (which it will at some point but we don’t talk about that.)

I’ve even been traveling a lot, though not anywhere technically foreign, but the west coast could certainly qualify.

I’ve become accustomed to airport security procedure, weather delay policies and the very (decrepit) airports themselves.

Never once did I imagine that I’d become attached to awards systems much like George Clooney in “Up in the Air.” Alas, it has happened. When I have to stay somewhere other than the Marriott or fly something other than JetBlue, I get pissed.

(End first world rant.)

What was previously a foreign concept is now well understood: Packing efficiently. If you have a problem with this like I do, might I suggest new luggage? Something bright and shiny and functional (and not ruined by your own stupid business props) is encouragement enough to travel lighter.

I’ll even go all metaphorical on you and say my heart is traveling much lighter as well.

I’m in a really good place. A hopeful, happy, busy state of mind and being and it radiates.

Which brings me to my next point.

Healthcare

As a beloved friend said to me, from a very knowledgeable place:

MORE MAKER’S MARK. LESS WORRY.

And that, dear readers, is a TRUE STORY.

I blame Jencoy for introducing me to the precious nectar of Maker’s and coke (even diet, I’m afraid, is a good solution.)

And it cures all ails. If only I could claim each bottle on my health insurance.

(MAKE THAT HAPPEN, OBAMA.)

Partisanship

I’ve never been one to take sides (that’s a lie), though I always have a healthy opinion.

But if there is anything I find myself particularly devoted to, it is the related ideas of love and prayer.

It dawned on me recently that I’ve not prayed or, rather, had a conversation with God, for as long as I can remember - or at least most of the time I've been in Vermont. I prayed in Austin recently and realized it felt so foreign.

And I’m not ok with that.

So I’ll continue to take His side in my head and ask him what the dude flipping out over double rainbows wanted to know, hoping to learn something:

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

And I’ll continue to be hopelessly devoted to what I’ve learned in the last four (or more) months:

Love them anyway.

Simple as that.

Love.

(And don’t go sending me some stupid-ass brass key ring that spells LOVE. And it is not my password on my email’s trash file.)

It belongs in my every day.

I love those who some say I shouldn’t and do so with grace and dignity in the face of adversity.

I love my family – born or made – endlessly, and know that they are worth every second stolen or earned.

And I have a fervent hope for it.

Love never fails.

Only we do.

So be good to yourself and others.
The Megster

Meet Me in Elizabethtown

2010-10-27T13:36:00.002-05:00

Forget St. Louis.

Meet me in Elizabethtown.

It’s that elusive place often mapped but rarely found: The frantic, blissed out, hopeful, tender, endearing, crazy, broke down, longing, pregnant pause of time between now and someday.

It’s the place you go to confess.

To bury your failures.

To connect with a life.

To find yourself in someone else’s truth.

To act improper.

To be still inside.

To wish aloud.

To laugh.

To emote wildly.

To wear tap shoes and dance.

Or not.

Maybe just click and clack around in them.

To spin a vinyl.

To read to someone.

To walk and talk all night.

And get lost.

To turn in circles under a full moon.

To wear a red hat.

But not in the old lady way.

To begin again.

Elizabethtown is that place almost on the horizon but not quite. You’ll reach it eventually. If you’re lucky.

But it’s all about timing.

So what's keeping you?

One Big Awkward

2010-10-04T15:30:00.008-05:00

I’m writing this on request of that wench over at Blogging Dangerously. She’s one of my favorite undercover-blogging-mothers-who-talks-about-things-other-than-chil’ren-but-loves-hers-just-the-same.

Such as enjoying the small things like wine, wirty dords, spousal shenanigans, family f*ckery and other funny nonsense. Basically, she’s one of the few that has her own kind of crazy (her words) to battle my own.

And by crazy, I don’t mean the psychiatric ward kind (though there’s nothing wrong with that, right Nurse Ratched?) I mean quirky, endearing and all around awesome.

So my girl, Kit – yes, we’ve tweeted a few times so we’re practically sisters (not that you or she would know because Twitter has a vendetta against me and discontinued all of my conversations. I’m on strike). And it’s kind of beside the point that she asked the Internet in general, not just me, but whatever.

So, anywitch.

Miss Kit wants to know:

1) Your most embarrassing moment.

2) If Hollywood made a movie about your life, who would play you?

I would answer number one in a heartbeat, but I kind of already do all the time. Every day is “one big awkward” and if you’ve ever read my little corner of the world, you’d quickly wonder WHAT THE HELL IS NEW and then move along from boredom or the very fact that my irreverence left you feeling a little dirty inside.

So we’ll go with number dos because I’ve got quite the list, don’t you know. In true Hollywood form, I will not respond with one person or role, rather the most bloody brilliant composite character you’ve ever seen.

And go:
· Renee Zellweger in “New In Town”
· Kristen Bell in “You Again”
· Cameron Diaz in “Any Given Sunday”
· Sandra Bullock in “The Blind Side”
· Kate Hudson in “Bride Wars”
· Toni Collette in “In Her Shoes”
· Minnie Driver in “Circle of Friends”
· Jessica Biel in “Valentine’s Day” (<-- that was hard to admit)

· Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa” (minus the syph.)

· Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News”

· Susan Sarandon in “Bull Durham”

· Keira Knightly in “Pride & Prejudice”

· Kate Winslet in “The Holiday”

· Selma Blair in “Purple Violets”

· Calista Flockhart in “Ally McBeal”

· Janine Turner in “Northern Exposure”

· Renee Zellweger in “Bridget Jones’ Diary”

· Annette Bening in “The American President”

· Audrey Toutou in “Amelie”

· Helena Bonham-Carter in “Fight Club”

And the piece de resistance...
· Joanna Lumley in “Absolutely Fabulous”

Among others I'm forgetting on the spot.

NO, I don’t think a lot of myself. If you’ve seen any or all of these you’d know some of these characters aren’t exactly sticky sweet. If you do know them, I’m sure you could draw a solid line of similarities to yours truly.

And the biopic would be called:

Chronicles of a Southern, Plain, Type-A, Sick but Sweet, Klutzy, Sassafrass, Phunny Phreak, Working Woman Who’s Ultimately Loveable and Trapped in New England

All I really need in life is a treadmill at my cubicle.

End scene.
~ The Megster

Faith, Hope and...Expectation.

2010-09-18T18:10:00.002-05:00

I’ve been in Vermont for two years.

TWO YEARS.

How did that happen?

We could go the post-mortem route of how I got here in the first place, but why beat a dead horse?

TWO.

YEARS.

That’s enough time to fall in love, get married, get pregnant, have the kid and even put it in daycare.

Clearly, my two years played out a little different.

I’d love to know what else happened in two years. Uncle Google seems to think nothing of significance happened in 730 days, other than offering plenty of plans to guide you through reading the entire Bible in as much time.

You could read through this column’s archives and ascertain a lot has happened in two years.

But the only concrete evidence I have of it – other than 24 well-earned pay stubs, a few awesome friends and permanent bruising on my brain due to an uncanny inability to remain upright – is the two tattoos I acquired.

Faith.

And Hope.

Both are equally significant but not mutually exclusive.

You can’t have one without the other.

But what about expectation?

Can you have faith without it?

Or can you have expectations without faith (however you define it)?

And where does hope factor in?

We could put these through the grinder while plowing through a few cases of wine on my porch. I’d really love that. Join me?

Or the Universe could just help a girl out and clue her in to what’s next by throwing a crystal ball at my head.

Just a thought.

At least leaf peeping and then ski season is right around the corner. Welcome back my cozy little friends...

Think It So

2010-08-09T16:57:00.003-05:00

Imagine, if you will, that there is a spark of possibility before you.

Do you watch to see if it will erupt?

Or do you toss flammables in its direction?

It’s a simple notion that is complicated by the very nature of the flame: the core material determines the optimal kindling and the outcome is entirely subject to its origin.

But what if, in some incredibly surreal turn of events, you were the catalyst?

It’s no secret that I have a wild, colorful, completely bizarre imagination. (Rabbit hole: I just adore the word “bizarre” don’t you? It captures all sorts of delights.) And it’s certainly no secret that I am an intuitive being – sometimes frightfully so.

But, as is typical, the widely unknown is the most interesting. I often find myself at a crossroads of philosophical fate:

If I think it, it will be.

That’s jacked up, right?

I will literally take a spark of possibility and create an entire life, or duration of it, in my head.

And I’m always right.

It is an honor – albeit a heavy one – to watch these sparks play out in reality. The results might fare better or worse than what I imagined, but in the end, I just know.

The strangest twist of fate, however, lies in how my own sparks of possibility materialize for the benefit of another. I’ve watched many times over as others reach into the deepest corners of my imagination – some moments lightening fast, others steeped over time – and walk away, dragging sparklers of possibility behind them like Santa’s bag of presents.

Or like a hobo thief.

(The acidity of the scenario is entirely dependent on the emotional value of the heist.)

No matter how right or wrong or perfect or flawed the beneficiaries, I suppose my greatest tragedy is that I love them and won’t ever let them wither. I send them along with my faith as kindling that they’ll do well by that one single spark of possibility.

And just as Robert Frost did, I always entertain great hopes, the very act of which is my deepest gratitude in the event that I make off with someone else’s possibility.

(End note: Is your mind blown? Or confused?)

Lucky Penny

2010-06-29T18:10:00.003-05:00

Penny played in the sandbox in pigtails and a pinafore. Her hair was copper with blue bows woven into the strands. She wore black patent Mary Janes that sparkled in the sand even though they were marred by her general lust for activity.

It was impossible to know if fate bestowed feisty follicles upon Penny as a punishment for her name, or if her name honored her genetic assumptions.

She was balder than a baseball bat until she was five.

There was not one condition that explained her lack of hair growth. Where other little girls grew ringlets and sheets of healthy hair, Penny had peach fuzz so light many wondered why God even bothered with it.

Her parents listened to the advice of stumped doctors and other medical professionals, family and friends, even the old crotchety mess of a woman in the grocery store line, all advising drug therapies, Chinese herbs and Bayou voodoo just down the road around the corner behind the shed. Her parents always nodded in gratitude that anyone was interested enough to share an opinion.

But they refrained from taking action to stimulate Penny’s scalp.

They instinctively knew not to worry, that something – or nothing – would happen eventually and they’d deal with however that looked. There was no physical harm in being bald, perhaps only a larger need for sunscreen and creative headwear.

Around the time Penny eagerly awaited kindergarten, her parents noticed her scratching her head like a chimp with nits. It was an astonishing sight as she never took interest in anything above her eyes before, but she couldn’t stop furiously rubbing it, proclaiming it to be on fire.

Her mother immediately drew back when Penny’s scalp scratched her fingertips, a sensation she never experienced from its smooth surface. Her father ran over and marveled at the texture, too. They proceeded to place Penny on a stool directly across from the couch and they sat there for hours staring at her head.

They fed and bathed Penny and put her in bed, only to wake her at dawn to do the same thing. Penny sat on the stool, uncharacteristically patient as a gargoyle while they watched her. She’d eat on the stool, scratch her head, watch cartoons over her parents’ shoulders, scratch her head again, and nap sitting up, all while waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Penny didn’t really mind. She’d never had their attention like this before. Even as an only child. What kid wouldn’t love it?

So she waited some more.

This went on for days.

At the end of the seventh day, her parents gasped. They slowly turned and looked at each other in disbelief and then returned their attention to Penny. She reached her little hands to her head and finally felt what they could see.

There was hair barely long enough to see but certainly to move. She didn’t quite know what to do with it. She moved her palms over the circumference of her skull, feeling each strand give way with the motion.

It was spectacular.

They all bolted from their perches and raced to the mirrored wall at the end of the hall.

And there it was.

She wore a halo that glowed a brilliant, golden peach. Her fuzz had given way to strands rivaling a sunset. And they continued to grow. She could feel her scalp coax the strands out of their stage fright.

Each day she gained centimeters way beyond any comprehension of her doctors.

Within a month, she got her hands caught in the tangles, her hair a series of finger traps. She sat with her mother for hours learning the best way to manage the rat’s nest and they eventually settled on a routine each day and enjoyed designing it each night.

Her friends stopped staring at her in awe and instead asked their parents how to get Penny’s perfect hair.

Once life had stabilized and Penny befriended other children who knew not of her hairless head, Penny realized she didn’t even feel different. In fact, now that she fit in by conventional standards, she wondered if she was different before.

So she found her father sitting in his large armchair and crawled onto his lap, a place that she’ll never outgrow, and took her father’s face in her hands.

She asked him quietly yet earnestly with a tone well beyond her years, “Daddy, was I different before my hair grew? Does this change me?”

Her father placed his hands on hers and looked her square in the eye with all of the tenderness he stored throughout his life bursting at the seams for this very moment.

“My Penny,” he whispered. “I made you and if I could I would bottle thousands of you up and put you in a piggy bank for a rainy day so I would never be without you. I love you no less or no more than when your hair was as stubborn as you, refusing to come out and play.”

“But does this change me?” she persisted.

And her father wrapped her in his arms close to his chest. He buried his face in her hair and pondered the weight of her inquiry.

“I can’t answer that for you,” he said quietly. “But promise you’ll ask me again, someday.”

Let it All Hang Out

2010-06-13T19:12:00.009-05:00

Good evening my 2.36 faithful readers! The following is a shameless professional plug, but who's really drawing a line??

Not it.

As part of my jorrrrb - Media Maven of all things soapy at Seventh Generation - I am embarking on a behavioral challenge. It's only fair that I give this a shot because I'm asking all of Ameri-cuh - about 307,006,550 million of you and your closest friends - to do the same.

I'm not talking about baring my soul, here. (Today, anyway.)

I'm talking about airing out my very clean laundry.

Like my sheets, my socks, even my SKIVVIES.

I could have skipped that last part on the line, but I went for all-or-nothing.

I did two loads with Seventh Generation 2x concentrated/HE compatible laundry detergent in white flower and bergamot naturally-derived scent (Deep breath. Not that I have HE machines - but you probably do. Fancy pants.) And agua frio.

Yes.

COLD FREAKIN' WATER. (<---- Did you see that padres? It won't kill you to try it. JUST SAYIN'.)

My (already very low) utility bills will thank me for not using heated water and the dryer.

Mother Earth better thank me, too. She could stop bleeding, splitting, erupting, shaking, crying and generally blowing any day now. I think her citizens would return the love.

Anyclothes, my first attempt was actually quite lovely. (Thank you, Father Sun.)

The experience proved to be quite cathartic. I also felt very productive and responsible.

I suppose this is how my immigrant ancestors felt. Plus the petticoats tickling their booted ankles while hanging laundry on the outskirts of the family's Irish potato field.

It took a few hours for the clothes to dry but I didn't mind. Catching up on True Blood season two was way more important. And I mightmaybemay have taken a few of them down a bit early because I have the patience of a gnat.

But I'll tell you something.

ALL OF MY CLOTHES WERE ACCOUNTED FOR.

The crack whores didn't get to them. Yes, this is a minor concern in my very lively neighborhood whose personality changes from block to block. I live on a good one, but that doesn't mean my neigbors do.

Hangin' laundry, it turns out, inspires my inner Cherokee: Touch my property and you get the Tomahawk. (Then again, maybe that's the only child in me. Tough call.)

Irish + Cherokee = A very competent liver. That's not entirely germane to this particular experience, but I did enjoy a Magic Hat beer today.

In the end, my clothes came out clean. And they smelled like nature. In a good way.

They were stiff and a bit linty from the towels, but that's even more reason to try the Seventh Generation liquid fabric softener.

It was nice to avoid a lint trap. Those are your threads disintegrating, by the way. It was also nice to avoid using a detergent that is PETROLEUM based.

Yes, I said the dirty P-word.

Mother Earth is bleeding out in the Gulf and washing up on the shores of my favorite stomping grounds. (Thank you, Bio Perversity (BP).) So I'll do my part to reduce my petro-dependancy.

Cold water washing and line drying helps this endeavor.

And I'm glad for it. Even if my clothes are a bit stiff.

Perhaps that's why my ancestors used to beat line-drying laundry with brooms??

Whatever. Here's hoping I don't have bees in my britches tomorrow. That would suck. I mean, sting.

And I did all of this with a broken elbow.

What's your excuse?
The Megster

The Hell You Say

2010-06-04T10:56:00.016-05:00

This will be short and sweet. The last few months since ski season ended have provided me a wealth of new adventures in my New Englandah life. I'll wait while you grab some adult diapers in case you piss yourself from shock....

Moving on, herewith is a snapshot of the crazies:

Stars on Ice

My friends and I learned how to CURL Olympic style. Our team name is The Straighteners (wait for it...think about it...ahhhh, ding ding ding! Light bulb!) We won our games or matches or whatever they're called. Our main man Mitch was a great teacher, unlike that other dude who shall not be named. (Ahem, Gestapo.)

Brunchy Wunch

Some of us also set out on a Saturday brunch tour of Vermont. So far so good, but these Yankees don't understand eggs-over-medium. They're consistently either hard-boiled yolks or raw. I'm reluctantly learning to deal with it.

Suck it, Martha

After the snows melt, it's always fascinating to see the wreckage uncovered. I found earrings, clothing and even someones phone around my house. I'll tell you what - losing something in five-feet of compacted snowbank is unfortunate. You don't wanna fall in one (trust) much less search for missing objects (or people). It's a futile effort.

The Great Thaw also revealed trashed garden beds. April showers bring May flowers, I understand, but they also bring a shit ton of weeds. Dandelions are pretty in random meadows but not in my yard. I'd had enough of my landlord's laziness and decided to take up gardening (or more accurately: crazy lady weeding.)

After three hours one day and a few the next, my yard and beds were weed free. Even pretty, if that's possible. I liked it because I quickly entered a methodical, meditative routine while experiencing immediate results. I also may or may not have trashed a perfectly bedded and thriving shrub.

But like most everything else I ever tried, this didn't last long. Haven't touched it since.

Run? Run where?

I've always felt that in order to run, I needed a destination (with a cupcake and pint of beer awaiting me), or at the very least...a good scare.

Let it be known that I gave running a last chance, I went in the mornings and a time or three over lunch. I took it seriously and heeded advice from my running enthusiast friends.

But that shit did not take.

I lumbered through a 5K running most of the time and walking some of the time, ready to cut whomever thought this was a good idea.

Especially the person that designed the course to be UPHILL at the end (shoot him!)

My friend and I finished strong, sprinting Chariots of Fire style through the finish line and straight to the porta potties. It was only after we quickly emerged did we realize the finish line was another 100 yards away.

So we made like bandits and sprinted through it anyway.

Then we ate cheese.

Meet Jake

This is Jake.

Jake is a vintage cruiser painted by bike artists of yore. He's turquoise (my signacha culah!) and has a metallic purple chain. It was love at first sight.

I finally conquered my fear of The Devil's Toy! I loved riding Jake. We went all around the bike path along the shores of Lake Champlain. I finally got to see the causeway to the islands! In a different town! Fifteen miles round trip!

I even rode Jake to work.

Though a silly joke to others, taming Jake was a huge and deeply personal accomplishment for me.

Kill Jake

Last Friday, I decided to play nice with the carbon footprint reduction Gods and rode Jake to work. It was the second day I'd done so and had my route planned out.

Long story short, I almost missed a hard angled turn into our office building's courtyard and overcompensated by turning too widely.

And then promptly caught the edge of a cement retaining wall with the inside fender of my back tire sending me like Superman to the left over a wall into a tree and my bike to the right.

You can imagine my surprise because all was well when I successfully cleared it with the front tire.

Needless to say, after minutes in and out of consciousness on a bench, I collected myself - and my bum left arm - to head into work. It wasn't 15 minutes later that I knew the Emergency Room, my surrogate womb since childhood, was calling my name.

Sure enough, I fractured the top of my my left radius:

And all I got was a stooooooopid, dinky sling. It's a damn good thing I'm so dominantly right handed so I can go about life without much interruption, only intense frustration at everything including typing one-handed. My ortho doc appt is next week and the scheduler mentioned a cast (a CAST!!), so it's wait and see.

I've revisited the scene of the crime and realize a kid could clear that and be fine. It really was an unfortunate and ridiculous sight to behold, I'm sure. I suppose I just fell exactly right to make an ass out of myself (what's new?) and be terribly inconvenienced.

In the meantime, no painkillers other than Advil (shame, I could have made some sweet cash. CALM DOWN, D.E.A. Take a joke.)I don't have patience for dull nagging pain and won't let the arm get me down!

Jake is banned to a shed somewhere doing hard time and I'm carrying on. And to think I made it through all of ski season AND a race without one ER visit...

If the bus is a'rockin'...

True to form, if I want something badly enough I'll get it. So when one of my best friends called to invite me on the road to see her, her hubby and our friends perform on the Country Throwdown tour, I didn't hesitate.

When I told her I broke my arm, you would've thought I told her I got a paper cut, but that's neither here nor there. So I jumped in the car and drove three hours, one-handed to New Hampsha for an all-access backstage experience.

I made new friends, ate good food, drank good beer, heard great music and enjoyed the company of some phenomenal artists: Little Big Town, Montgomery Gentry (saw Gentry's bare ass) and the songwriters and friends of Bluebird Cafe. These guys are some of the brains and hearts behind your favorite songs on the radio and are amazingly gifted individuals chasin' dreams. (Buy their music!!)

In the event you were wondering, this is how you rock a tour bus:

Max it out, crank the music and dance hard. I stayed in the back to protect ElBlow, but still managed a good, gimpy time.

(More to come on this topic.)

Here's hoping I don't break anything else this weekend.

Yours truly,

Megster the Muppet

The Secret Life of Daydreams

2010-04-28T16:35:00.005-05:00

Maude sat at work with the weight of the world on her shoulders. In addition to the pressure of all things, an elephant took up residence on her chest. He often kicked back leisurely sipping Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill from a swirly straw.

"What the shit?" thought Maude as she struggled to breathe effectively between e-mails while the elephant constricted her sternum. “If I have to put up with him, he could at least drink scotch from a tumbler for God’s sake.”

After a career of early mornings, late nights, weekends, holidays and every other day in between, Maude was left to wonder how the world turned without single people.

While it's true that married or otherwise coupled people worked hard as well, she never saw them - especially the parental kind - sucking up all the air in the room just to get a decent breath. As always, she was left there alone at day’s end desperately wishing she kept a paper lunch bag in the event of hyperventilation.

Her sighs could be heard from miles around, not out of frustration, actually, but because of that damn elephant. As her constant companion, it only made sense that he took a name.

Therefore, she decided, he would be known as Lionel.

While all the breeders left to attend to baby and dog poop or day cares or soccer games-clashing-with-ballet-classes, Maude and Lionel stayed at her desk to finish one last thing when it inevitably turned into two more hours.

And then another two.

Followed by another one.

Without an external pulse hooked to her own, Maude was unleashed and otherwise uncommitted, so she spent time where she was needed: at the office. Though the world would turn without her, her world wouldn’t turn without work.

Many worried about Maude and thought she needed balance or a hobby. Some even suggested a therapist. ("Therapists! They're-a-pitts!" said Maude.) She brushed them off and went about her life with Lionel, high strung and hard wired.

Other than Lionel’s repulsive taste in booze, he had peculiar taste in music. Where Maude would typically prefer something up tempo and snappy, Lionel leaned toward the wrist-cutter variety and won out more often than not based on his size.

Eventually Maude adopted Lionel and carried him with her everywhere. They were frequently abandonded to kids and projectile stomach flu, spring breaks, doctor’s appointments or life.

Finally, after just-one-more-hour, Maude’s eyes glazed over and her blood sugar dropped to dangerous levels. She packed up her day and chunked Lionel’s empty bottles into the recycling bin. He was a bitch and never would share, not that she wanted some nasty-ass wine cooler, but the thought would've been nice. She then threw him over her shoulder to lumber home.

As she settled into the car, she gazed at the sprawling lake under a long-risen moon and wondered what life would be like without Lionel. The truth was she grew fond of him and things weren't right without him – always a wee bit off kilter. And she wanted to enjoy his company before life turned into a black hole of parenting. So she was stuck with him for better or worse.

She summoned enough oxygen to change gears and drove away from the office with Lionel, her oppressive pachydermal co-captain. While pondering their dynamic, she heeded her mother’s best advice:

It was better to spend $100 on a dress than a psychiatrist.

That is why she went shopping instead of home.

Swirly straws were in order.

As were a few cases of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill.

For Sirius

2010-04-26T17:06:00.009-05:00

William was a rug rat of about six feet and a hat. He was scrappy but strong, his dark hair and olive skin a stark contrast to eyes bluer than the oceans on the Big Marble Map. Constantly underestimated, he was resourceful and quick in head and hand.

Beatrice was of no notable height but stretched longer than a midday shadow. She silently brooded and turned outside in more often than not. She was dull as a spoon, nothing particularly memorable other than the flaxen hair that spilled onto her shoulder blades, thickly shielding her skin.

William and Beatrice were an unlikely pair. He was of handsome features but no breeding and she of a prideful society uneasy with her inelegance. They gravitated toward each other, outcasts by default: One almost enough but not quite, the other a never will be.

Each were insignificant in their own right, but magnificent combined.

They ran through fields with complete abandon. When the final bell would yell, so too did William and Beatrice as they darted over the schoolyard fence racing each other to the edge of the field. Their primal screams of comfortable angst crept out of their windpipes, growing louder with each stride away from school, echoing against a backdrop of dandelion parachutes floating in a hot breeze.

They were unaware of primal scream therapy, rather they inadvertently stumbled upon it one particular evening. As they made their way through the hallways, dashing in and out of their musty peers, William chased Beatrice outside lagging behind as he always did. He was taller, but she had the speed.

A determined fella, William never took his eyes off Beatrice, always wanting keep up but falling short. But on this day, just a leap and a stream from their Fortress in the Field, Beatrice's long gangly legs stopped like the limestone bedrock turned to instant concrete and sucked her in.

William actually stopped this time, instead of running straight into her as he always did. He was usually like a baby elephant watching bright and shining things without looking ahead to the parade. He'd never before seen such a precise command of muscular force as when Beatrice concluded this action. Her hair swirled around her, a force of unstoppable motion. In fact, it was so extreme that he thought maybe overnight the world just ended at those specific coordinates and she was about to launch over its edge.

Beatrice was so impetuous that William stood in wonder, perplexed as to what exactly would - or should - happen next. He stared at her back, willing her to make a sound. She was so quiet that any sound would do, really. A whimper, a peep, even a grunt. His eyes were fixated on her hair, trying to summon up a phantom notion of telepathy to unlock her voice box.

And then she did.

She leaned her head back, curled her hands into fists at her sides and inhaled with such force, like it was this one fluid motion buried in her muscle fiber that finally made it's way to the surface. Her whole body released a howl so loud and guttural and intoxicating that it sent sound waves hundreds of feet around, disturbing the leaves and then the branches and finally the birds. A coven of doves made their escape and even the crickets stopped chirping, probably out of fear.

And then Beatrice swallowed the scream as quickly as she stopped running.

She slowly turned around, her face - a peculiar mix of adolescence and wisdom - was framed by the evening rays, her ruddy eyes meeting William's. He stood petrified by her display, this unexpected and brutish release of self. And she stood rested, peaceful almost, as if someone had reached in and taken out all of the sadness.

"What...what was that?" whispered William, half-afraid to hear the truth.

"For Sirius," she softly said as she turned her head skyward, taking in the lipstick dusk.

"I know it was serious, but why?" he implored, still shaken.

She looked back at him bemused and slowly walked his way. She planted herself at his side, her shoulder just above his elbow, their breaths naturally synching. He watched her silently as she formed his hand by placing his fingers to his palm and leaving his index finger extended. She lifted it up slowly, with calculated hesitation, and pointed his finger to the sky.

"Don't you ever just want to get the world out of you?" she asked.

He replied with a sullen and perplexed nod, the kind she could hear even when he didn't make a sound.

"I was trying to reach it," she whispered as she guided his finger tip to Sirius, the bright spot against the purple sky.

"There, my distant star."

The Unflappable Fannie Fynn

2010-04-13T10:30:00.001-05:00

My name is Fannie. Fannie Fynn. Mistress of the South.

Fannie is short for Francine not Frances. Frances’ are fat men with bad comb overs and a sloppy shave. Apologies if your mother or anyone you know is named Frances. I’m sure they’re absolutely lovely in spite of it.

Some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I was born with my foot in mine. Consider this a fair warning.

I remember asking Mama and Daddy why they chose Francine. Of all the Jennifers and Joannes and Jessicas and any plain Jane name they passed over in the baby namin’ book – how did they think Francine would be a decent sandbox name for a child?

Couldn’t they picture some kid kickin’ the snot out of me on the playground? And what if I had to wear glasses? OHMYGODTHEHORROR, I can’t even imagine.

Francine wasn’t a family name. What was their excuse? A character in a book? Movie? A nanny Mama loved that raised her instead of her own mother?

No.

Mama said:

“Seemed like a good idea at the time, kinda like those red snapper shots the night you were conceived. Fannie, where is that restaurant you like over on the east side? When does it open?”

She said this apathetically – and all in one breath – while telling the cashier she preferred plastic bags (evil!) and the receipt, thankyouverymuch, while digging for keys in a three gallon purse that could hold an infant AND its car seat.

Jeebus. I hate it when she answers the phone at the checkout. Those poor cashiers get no respect.

That info was loaded with more ammunition than troops headed to battle. And it’s any wonder, should I ever make the choice to do so, how I could easily spend thousands of dollars and a lifetime in psychotherapy.

Here’s the beauty of loving a distracted mother:

I was always an afterthought in her life. That one missing period. The question mark at the end of her day. That thing she couldn’t remember between the grocery list and the dry cleaning and some other inane errand.

I’d sit on the steps of my grade school and stare at my sneakers, wondering how long I’d have to wait before she’d screech up to the curb, screaming a string of apologies for forgetting me…again.

I suppose the great thing was she’d never lie to me and make excuses. Sometimes I’d wish she’d at least spin a creative and grand tale about her tardiness. But in retrospect, I appreciate her authenticity. She never put on an act, so I never had to, either.

But sometimes – I just want to be her exclamation point. Anyone’s, really.

I want to be a reason to be excited. Not an, “oh, by the way…” or a “might as well…” or a “while I’m at it…what about Fannie?”

And at a time like this, I take full advantage of my mother’s inadvertent disclosure and distraction.

Case in point:

“Let me get this straight, Mama. I thought you said that naming me Francine after the crusty, chain-smoking waitress at the 24-hour diner that took care of you that night at the end of the hard liquor shots was a good idea. Did I miss something?”

“Yeah, baby. No. I don’t need help to the car. Thanks. That’s right, Fannie.”

“And the restaurant on the east side? What? Only crack whores and frat boys who need a fix go there. So no, I don’t know a good place. I think you’re delusional, Mama. Should I require additional details of my conception or childhood, I’ll remember this conversation first.”

Thank you, mother, for your blasé and unintentional disclosure that you were completely blasted the night I was made and put no thought into my lifelong identity – or at the very least – designation.

You. Rock.

Ten minutes later she calls me back and asks me who Francine is. Now do you understand what I’m dealing with? MAMA can’t even keep up.

But the truth is she really does rock. She clearly has her own cadence, but it’s the only one I’ve ever known. And as different and quirky as it is, Daddy loves it. And so do I. I have no choice. It is my own by default.

And regardless of the state of their sobriety when I was conceived or their creative inclinations when defining my identity (or lack thereof), they are my grounding force.

My life started with them and it will end with them. And somewhere in the middle, when everything goes pear-shaped and I drop my basket, I know they’ll help me pick it up and make everything right again.

Thoroughly Modern Meggie

2010-04-12T15:28:00.007-05:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking. Pausing for your audible gasp of shock. I am sick of writing about myself. Seriously. Pausing for your audible gasp of shock. I know YOU are sick of me writing about myself. (Assuming I have any readers left.) Pausing for your audible "Thank Jesus!" gasp of relief.

THAT SAID.

I want to take up short stories again in the grand tradition of my family and our friends. I was raised by story-telling patriarchs, matriarchs and ministers and sat enraptured by the simple notion that someone would quietly nod in response, "Me too."

Or challenge how much hair was on the story. (Which, of course, was directly correlated to the amount of scotch consumed by its creator.)

So I shall set out on this new course hopefully with you as a faithful ear.

I can't promise they will be veiled. In fact, I can't promise any veil. Depends on my mood, really. (And that's a terrifying proposition.) And I can't promise they won't be completely absurd. Or short. (But God help me, I'll try. I'll shoot for under 1,000 words. And please give me a gold medal if I can do it in under 500.) I can't promise they'll even be true. (You know you love a little mystery. Quit your bitchin'.) But I can promise they'll be thoughtful and entertaining or at the very least profound.

So there you go, guinea pigs. (Assuming guinea pigs make sounds: Squoink. Squoink. Oink + squeak = squoink.)

My questions are:

Are you along for the ride?
If so, are you game to provide one sentece story starters (at your own risk)?

~ The Megster

P.S. This might be one of my shortest posts ever. YOU'RE FREAKIN' WELCOME.

Someone Else's Life

2010-04-07T16:21:00.003-05:00

SETTLE IN. This is long. It's been months. WHAT THE HECK DO YOU EXPECT?

One of my most favorite singer/songwriters EVER, the extraordinary Joshua Radin, sings: “Somehow…I’m leading someone else’s life. I cut a star down with my knife…”

The entire song is genius, but not entirely pertinent here. (Well, today, anyway.)

Just when I settle into life in Vermont, something comes along and shakes it up: Long business trips, family deaths, seasons without snow skiing, mom, holidays. You know. The yoosh.

Understandably, this throws me into a fit of existentialism and I realize Someone Else’s life rings entirely true.

Spending time with my mother in Vermont casts a different light on everything. For example, even 18 months later, after a lot of non-pondering / just keep livin’, I have all this rattling around in my brain.

“If you think back and replay your year, if it doesn't bring you tears either of joy or sadness, consider the year wasted.”

I get stuck on the following:

I live in Vermont.
Yeah. So. There’s that.

Who lives in Vermont?
No one. Until the sun shows his face. Then people come out of the woodwork like the millions of cockroaches that would survive Armageddon and suddenly I have to wait in line for Moe’s. I thought I was the only one the Moe’s crew greeted obnoxiously upon entry.

I feel used.

What do I like to do?
See movies, read books and magazines, be outside, eat at Penny Cluse Café, road trip. But hiking? Or snow skiing every weekend? Even working the elliptical inside a gym (not the other way around) on the most gorgeous days of the year? Who does that?

Apparently, I do. (I still don’t ride a bike. Let it go.) Will I ever take to running? I’d like to think I will someday.

And then I just laugh.

What do I REALLY do?
I work. A lot. Compulsively, actually. Because I love it. And because that’s how I’m wired. I can’t be changed.

Someday I’ll back off a bit out of necessity or burnout.

Then again, probably not.

“I like being a mess. It's who I am.”

How do I do it?
I’ve come to outsource my life.

“Well done, Bridge. Four hours of careful cooking and a feast of blue soup, omelette and marmalade.”

I’ve fallen into old habits of abandoning my kitchen, even a fully functional one at that, and patronizing my favorite take out places.

Why yes, please DO cook for me, by all means! I can’t be bothered even in light of the fact that I’m the only breathing thing in my house (save the odd field mice named Gus that I chase around until it finally dies in a trap set up by my landlord that I forget to check until it stinks. Which still leaves me the only breathing thing in my house).

I also enlisted a housekeeper and took my car to be cleaned by someone else (the first time it’s been tended to in awhile. LUCKY.) You see, I’m either crafty or incredibly strategic – or I’m lazy. Tough call.

I really should be able to handle my own shit, but sometimes I choose not to because of that work thing. And that skiing thing. And the general aversion to cooking and cleaning things.

All I know is someday when I have a family it will be a challenge of creativity and juggling because I refuse to raise kids solely on chicken soft tacos. (Not like there is such an option in Yankeeland. Save Moe’s.) The midgets will learn how to open a yogurt cup on their own before anything else, trust.

Independence is a virtue.

“(Titspervert. Titspervert.) Mr. Fitzherbert!”

Am I seeing anyone?
Sure, I see a lot of people. Like I mentioned before, they all made like suicidal vampires and walked toward the light at first sun beam.

I’m also totally open (for the first time in a long time) to viewing and then meeting and then intentionally seeing a single, unmarried, unengaged, uncoupled and otherwise unattached employed man.

Yes, apparently “single” doesn’t mean the same to everyone. More often than not, it seems to pertain to THAT MOMENT IN TIME ONLY in which case yes, yes he’s single BECAUSE HIS WIFE ISN’T PRESENT IN THE FLESH. And he thinks the absence of his ring says nothing.

Balls.

I’m convinced that someday I’ll meet someone that isn’t a complete and deceptive fabrication. In the meantime, I’ll take these small and even frequent omissions as a compliment.

“I have a great imaginary world, but sometimes I just need things to happen.”

How am I different?
I don’t know that I’d say I’m different so much as upgraded, even matured. Co-dependent and independent at the same time? Oddly enough. Already burned by new friendships that died? Yes. But the quiet of New England sure magnifies things.

By a million.

I thought my private little world upstairs in my noggin was sweet, rich in expression and even subtle.

But OH NO.

NO, IT IS NOT.

Take me out of context of personal history and emotional intelligence and all that’s left is this one:

A loud, quirky, fantastic (in every sense of the word), animated, profound, odd someone else storming into public from an otherwise normal woman’s gray matter.

She has a wicked sense of humor and prefers wildly intelligent yet not-exactly-clean humor, makes funny noises and mumbles to herself with an unconscious hope someone else will actually answer, who is SO incredibly cerebral she can sit in a room with a vapid magazine while the surrounding environment quietly dissolves into the ether and who loves life’s eccentricities, especially those in her ancient house.

She’s a woman who can entertain a large group of people but gets stuck and shy carrying on with small groups of unknowns, who is not fat nor pin thin but JUST RIGHT and whose tastes in food and drink are not judged by anyone, who can exist peacefully without someone else’s projections, who actually acts and responds in real life (without the necessary physical illustrations to drive home the point) the way the nitwit on the outside only dreamed and who can settle into her every idiosyncrasy and love them still.

Did I mention she’s a tad bit high strung? Like seriously lacking an equalizer?

And all that mess is precisely why I moved.

Well, at the root of it, anyway. There was also that awesome job no one would rightfully turn down. But whatever.

I had to meet this person outside of a lifetime of influences.

I always thought that someday, if I found that loon living upstairs in my gray matter, I’d find me.

Or else I’d be screwed.

So good thing, right?

“Maybe someday we'll live our lives out loud. We'll be better off somehow. Someday.”

The constant thread in these extemporaneous thoughts brings me to the notion of my Someday Life, a world that endlessly enraptures me and hugs me tight with possibilities.

Someday, I’ll love again. And let someone love me.
Someday, I’ll bare a child named JUST KIDDING.
Like I’d tell you.
Someday, I’ll own a quirky house with a bathtub not a shower stall, with a fireplace, with hardwoods, with a dishwasher, WITH A/C.
Someday, I’ll dance with my dad again.
Someday, I’ll ride a bike.
Or not.
Someday, I’ll take care of mom.
Someday, I’ll play Scrabble with my friends in Austin.
Someday, I’ll have a dog named Francine.
Or Frances.
Someday, I’ll ride horses regularly.
Someday, I’ll go to London and Paris.
Someday, I’ll ski black diamonds.
On every run.
Someday, I’ll hang out in rocking chairs on a wrap around front porch with my best friends.

And then when I think about it, I LIVE my someday life. For a long time, I said:

Someday, I’ll move away for a new experience.
Someday, I'll leave my family to find me apart from them.
Even though they are me.
That’s neither here nor there.
Someday, I’ll actually miss my family.
Someday, I’ll be the client.

Someday, I'll see movies whenever I want.
Someday, I’ll travel a lot for work.
Someday, I’ll go on a beach vacation where I never leave the sand except to eat or sleep.
Someday, I’ll live in a small, old house.
Someday, I’ll live somewhere where I can ski regularly and I don’t want to DIE during the summer.

Ummmm.

“Sometimes...when you hold out for everything, you walk away with nothing.”

Let the record reflect that I am happy. Just because life might not be the same or even similar to or remotely resembling life as I knew it in Texas, it doesn’t mean it’s bad.

I miss my friends and family, of course. And I hate the idea of missing big life events and changes. I even hate missing the smallest ones, those moments that are barely seen but not heard, that flicker in the peripheries and only resurface months later as a tiny yet powerful point of impact.

Is it good to hear I am missed and wanted back in the home land? Absolutely.

But at what cost?

It’s just a different normal here. You don’t have to love it yourself, or love it for me, but I have to love it.

I love my Someone Else’s Life.

And I especially love my Someday Life.

~ The Megster

Saved by Post-It Notes

2010-02-23T15:05:00.008-06:00

Clearly I've not kept up with my promise to write. Bad Megster. That doesn't mean my SUPER AWESOME mind isn't constantly wandering, hence, my new format for the time being. Thank you, Bakey a Cakey, for the idea.

As I'm obsessed with Post-It notes, and because they've saved my patootie a time or fifty, this seems like an appropriate use:

What Does it Mean When She Smiles?

2010-01-28T15:35:00.003-06:00

This tale is unofficially sponsored by The Mean Eyed Cat in Austin, Texas. Because The Kitty is generally responsible for shenanigans. And its walls know too much.

Once upon a time, there was a lady-girl called The Megster.

The Megster was a lady-girl because she just turned 30 and still thinks it’s a joke.

The word you’re frantically searching your gray matter for is ANYWAY.

So.

Anyway.

The Megster was known to have a hearty (yet healthy) appreciation for alcohol.

Like Switchback.

And Modelo Especial.

And Bacardi.

Maybe even some of the Goose.

But particularly pinot noir.

And loved it BEFORE that movie came out.

Which made a challenge from Her Friend Jerms (official title) creatively intriguing.

“What was the funniest thing that happened to you after a few glasses of wine?” he asked.

To which The Megster proceeded to laugh.

And then frantically search HER gray matter.

Until she realized the only acceptable course of action was to poll her friends.

Because, if she was to be completely honest, she needed a third party perspective.

What The Megster didn’t consider, however, was that her friends’ stories might be stained as well.

But by Jacky D.

Or Stella, the Fireman, or maybe even Bud or Fat Bastard.

By her compadres’ accounts, after a few glasses of wine, The Megster…

…became affectionate.

Like a monkey.

Or she didn't sugarcoat something.

She simply told the truth.

Straight up.

Maybe with a slice of artisanal cheese.

And a couple of olives.

If the case called for it.

One might ask “what’s new?”

Perhaps the wine overcame a social filter.

(If she ever had one in the first place.)

But what really became of The Megster after a few glasses of wine?

She turned into a puddle of laughs.

Usually in varying speed, decibels and rhythms.

Sometimes robbing her of air.

And noise.

Until she sounded like a machine gun.

Or something equally annoying, yet endearing all the same.

And most of the time, the thing that set her off WASN’T EVEN FUNNY IN THE FIRST PLACE.

So one can imagine the AWKWARD moment soon following her outburst.

Or the total amusement of her company when they couldn't figure out why she was laughing.

And if she hadn't completely lost it, she certainly grinned like an idiot.

All of which was beyond funny.

So “What did it mean when she smiled?” one might ponder.

It was quite plain, actually.

When she smiled while drinking wine,

She was extraordinarily happy in one’s company.

Or it was time to take away the bottle.

Tough call.

Either way, she lived happily ever after.

Until the next morning.

When she was wrapped around the porcelain throne calling dinosaurs.

And then it wasn't so funny anymore.

Until the next glass of wine.

The end.

Hello world.

2010-01-22T08:45:00.002-06:00

This is a blog. This is me writing on my blog. This is one of my shortest blogs yet.

You're welcome.

P.S. Can I get a little help from my few remaining readers? Please suggest any and all topics for me to ponder for the next entry. You don't have to be gentle, but keep is somewhat clean. (Sweet Jaysus, people. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.)

~The Megster

2009: Go the F Away. Seriously.

2010-01-07T14:39:00.004-06:00

Hello, my few remaining crickets, how are you? I'm SUPER, thanksforasking. Go ahead and tuck in for this one. I highly encourage you to follow the hyperlinked breadcrumbs. For the reals.

I've not abandoned you, I swear, I just got lost in the VT. And I also fell into a snowbank and couldn't get out.

Seriously.

If you ever happen to drive by a snowbank and see a pair of black Hunter wellies sticking out, please, for the sake of everything holy, stop and help. Don't be a jerk. No one likes a jerk.

I was in TexASS for the holidays. It was action-packed. And it was amazeballs. During the vacay, I enjoyed the company of many friends - usually over vast quantities of food because, clearly , I'm a starving street urchin and everyone feels the need to feed me. (But stop. DO NOT FEED THE MEGSTER ANYMORE.)

The most reoccurring theme of the season? Funny you should ask.

Write.

As in, "Megster, wtf are you doing? Why aren't you writing? You need to write. Did you forget how to put letters together? Is your brain constipated? What's wrong with you. WE WANT A BOOK. If you don't write, imma come up there to the VT and kick your a$$."

(Ahem. David S., Danny Rammy, et al. Such language! Where's a bar of soap when I need one?)

I'm only left to laugh because THAT'S AN EMPTY THREAT. No one (other than the padres) has visited me yet, so if it takes NOT writing to get your a$$es up here, THEN SO BE IT.

One of those superfantastic friends that was, um, encouraging, shall we say, posed a challenge. Or did I pose it? Oh, who the heck knows. (The red wine does, actually.)

Prompted by a social game at a dinner party, we will ask random questions of each other and must respond via our beeee-logs. Consistently. And I'm already seven days late. GO ME.

My first one?

What will you miss most about this past year?

OH COME ON, Jerms! Why ya gotta be that way!! Out of ALL the questions that night, you chose this?

FINE. :-) Here goes nothing...

As far as I'm concerned, 2009 can go the f**k away. Seriously. Last year was a bizitch. Though it was not without its blessings and enlightenment.

Professionally, 2009 was LOVELY. Primarily because I stinkin' love what I do, where I do it, and why we do business. This is a good thing because I'm kind of a workaholic. Just a wee bit. As you know, my jorb is what brought me to the VT in the first place, so good thing I'm a shameless whore about it.

2009 was my first full calendar year in New England and I soaked up so much of this place, that I managed to neutralize my accent. My type of work helps a bit so it was only slightly identifiable in the first place. Yet, I find this a tragedy for TexASS about as much as the Yankees think it's golden. Should I start talking like this, I give you people in TexASS full permission to morph into a ninja and kick my sweet behind back to A-Town.

Last year also brought me new friends. We all work for the most awesome company in the world and we managed to create a nice little family of four plus a dog. Not that I ever see two of them because they're always off to Dirty Jersey or a race somewhere, respectively, but we made the most of our time together. They subjected me to my first uber-hike (and I triumphed without pain or complaint, but learned quickly why everyone brought food. They neglected to tell me about that. A$$holes.) We caught concerts, ate well, drank well for that matter, identified our favorite haunts, went sailing and skiing and enjoyed a couple of beers at Brewfest. (Which, coincidentally, is where I found my one true love: Switchback beer. It's a local, tap-only brew and my little family knows not to take me somewhere that doesn't serve it.) I value my 3.5 peeps enormously. (And all the others, too. Trust. There are some wonderful people here.)

Speaking of the .5, thanks to the many canines in my quaint life in the VT, Camp Tejas was born. My landlords seem to think their newly-renovated house built in 1860 is something special so they nixed pets all together. But they don't seem to mind the occasional canine guest. These little creatures keep it interesting, that's for sure. Especially when they are like Little Phillip and his chocolate. Except the chocolate is a B-A-L-L. I must say, this particular dog is a SUPER SPELLER.

I also quite enjoyed hitting the slopes. And by hitting the slopes, I mean - literally - hitting the slopes in awesome yard sale fashion. I showed those runs who's boss. Every time they took me down, I stabbed them back with my poles. Thankfully, no broken bones, concussions or sprains resulted. Only a few bruises and one atomic wedgie. (Not that bruises are such a surprise given my relationship to the stairs in my house. I HATE YOU, STAIRS.)

In 2009, I traveled. A lot. The JetBlue Terminal at JFK is practically my new home. And it's beautiful. JetBlue should thank my dad and his company with free tickets. Just sayin'. Between Manhattan, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Nashville, Lubbock, Austin, Jersey (fist pumps!), Montreal, Maine, New Hampshire (hello, Target!) and probably somewhere else I'm forgetting, the road and the friendly skies were my second home. And I loved it. There's nothing worse than stayin' put.

Last year was also the Year of LOVE. (For others, obviously.) I stood beside my best friend while she married her rocker beau and enjoyed the warm fuzzies from our friends and families during that blissful weekend. I celebrated Indepence Day under a full moon while The Coach married The Paramedic. I also attended The Other Megan's wedding to Mr. President and I thought of others from afar when I couldn't make the nuptials. I love all of these couples because when I see them, it seems like the whole world makes sense. (Well, for as long as I'm looking AT them, anyway.) And I'm so honored that anyone includes me in that celebration.

There were also the babies, large and small. (None of them mine, that I know of.) What a beautiful joy it is to watch your friends' bellies grow, day after day, and share in their excitement for something they made and anticipated for so long. New life is a blessing any which way you look at it.

And there's so much more I've either written about previously or used on my BookFace.

All of that is to say....I didn't really answer the question, did I? Everything and everyone I miss (you know who you are. I MISS YOU!) precedes 2009.

But I would be most remiss in not stating, very clearly, what I TRULY miss most about 2009:
My Daddy-O.

Madre's dad died in October and I had the honor of spending time with him and our little familial unit through the very end. I was present when he drew his last breath while I was reading to him from the book of John.

When home for Thanksgiving and Christmas following his death, I would visit Mom-O, his most beautiful wife and my grandma. Each time I entered her apartment at the assisted living center, I was instinctivly waiting to see Daddy-O see me, slam his hands on the arms of the chair and yell, "MAYGUHN!!! Whatido?"with the biggest grin on his face.

Alas, he was not there. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.

I said goodbye to my Uncle Sloan, a bear of a man that I mutually adored and who died unexpectedly just before Daddy-O. His hugs were like no other: a firm, caring, all-encompassing expression of his love for you.

In 2009, I also said goodbye to my friend and minister of my youth, the great David Gentiles. He was a compassionate, faithful, humble, inspiring, brilliant, loving father who was taken way too soon.

But I know, very deeply, that for all these men, the Lord welcomed them with open arms and said, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done."

And lastly, I will miss "Imma let you finish, but..." Kanye. That particular version of him provided such good material and for that I'm thankful.

So for all of the bad - and also for all of the good - 2009 can suck it. Because 2010 is going to be SO MUCH AWESOMER-ER-ER.

Now if only I could get used to the notion of that "30" number lurking around the bend. I don't understand, I was just 17. When the frack did 30 start knocking?

Hello 2010. Welcome home....
The Megster

A Letter from Your Favorite All-Purpose Cleaner

2009-12-07T15:14:00.005-06:00

Dear Seventh Generation,

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I wanted to express my sincerest gratitude for creatin’ me, All Purpose Cleaner. I am truly AWESEOMSAUCE. Perhaps I should say that YOU are, since you make me and sell me, but let’s be real – I really am incredible.

Aunt Miggie (you know Meghan, in your PR department?) shipped me and some of my friends down to Tejas for her family reunion and I was the star. Actually, I was the HERO. If you want to raise your awareness percentage, I’d highly recommend plantin’ anyone from the O’Neil – Butler family in your focus groups. That’ll do the trick.

True to my name, there are SEVERAL uses for my awesomeness. But the most unexpectedly splendid one? CHIL’REN TAMER.

That’s right. Chil’ren Tamer.

You see, Aunt Miggie used me to play tag with the kiddos, ages two to nine. And they laughed hysterically and ran.

The youngest was all “Spray me! Spray me!” Poor little guy didn’t quite get the concept. It was all good in the hood because it’s not like I’d poison them or bleach their clothes or anything.

One even got me sprayed in his pie hole because he wasn't payin' attention and his madre was all, “Oh hey – ain’t no thang, it’s natur-el. Drink some water, punk.”

And I was all, like, “That’ll teach you to run around with your mouth open. By the way, you might want to ditch the scissors.”

Because I CARE.

I learned that Chil’ren Tamin’ quickly leads to Miggie’s Little Helper…and I don’t mean the whiskey. See, all those ankle-biters got SO EXCITED about me that they wanted to clean the R.V. And a car.

And who am I to say no? I AM All Purpose Cleaner, after all. I’m good for ANYTHING. (Free and voluntary child labor is always a bonus, trust.)

So me and brother Natural Paper Towels got to gettin’. And it was GOOD.

Those vehicular devices were GLEAMING. Well, the bottom halves, anyway. Kiddos can’t reach, apparently.

They’re also a bit young to truly understand what Aunt Miggie does, but they wanted to play Vanna and show me off, so I let them, of course. I’ve always wanted to be famous.

And funny thing, because me and my cousins were hangin’ around, Aunt Miggie learned that one of HER cousin people lives in Cincinnati. And works for Proctor & Gamble on their fiber lines. And does EXACTLY THE SAME THING as Miggie's friend does for y’all down there in the labs.

Miggie’s cousin wished SHE had sent product, and I was all, like, “sucker.”

Even better, that P&G lady was trailin’ chil’ren with Brother Towels because, well, they spill. A lot.

And she said that Seventh Generation products were – wait for it – “AWESOME. Oh my god, they really do work.”

Imagine that.

Too bad those P&G people don’t plan on quittin' that virgin fiber any time soon because “green” is just a trend (in her words, nonetheless!). THE NERVE. She just doesn’t KNOW. Whatever.

Point is, I was totally USED. Exploited, even. AND I LOVED IT.

Thank you, Seventh Generation.
~ Your favorite All Purpose Cleaner

Someday.

2009-10-28T14:54:00.001-05:00

Someday, I will write again.

But today is not someday.

That is all.

Love from the VT,
The Megster

The Follicular Debate

2009-09-04T13:33:00.008-05:00

There is one thing I know a lot about: HAIR.

I could probably pick out any celebrity's mop and name the decade and premiere where they sported a particular do.

I've watched my mother transform hers throughout the years, always with some varying layer of blonde highlights teased to perfection.

I'm intimately familiar with the old adage of the South, "The higher the hair, the closer to God."

All that is to say my locks and I have always been perfectly in sync. In fact, much em-PHA-sis is placed on these strands.

So I'd go so far to say that I empathize with dear Samson. Especially when I have a break up or something equally demeaning and feel the need to cut off my hair. That seems to be the pattern. Grow it out to enviable lengths...then hack it off to a perky little bob.

However. HOWEVER.

There's currently a little unrest among the peoples and my hair. The PEOPLES being the PARENTALS.

You see, my follicles have always produced strands of gold or gold-like hair. It started out white then naturally darkened as most tow-headed hair is likely to do. So, as any smart Texan woman does, I proceeded to bleach it the rest of my life.

(Hey - I learned by watching you, MOM!)

Eventually this takes a toll on the pocket book and on the patience. After an ill-fated walk on the dark side, I let it go back to "God's Color" for the FIRST TIME EVER.

It was a nice, golden and dark blonde rich with multiple shades. My hairdresser even found red and black and gold and white embedded deep in the layers. It was multifaceted for sure.

But as any addict is apt to do - and after hacking off its gorgeous lengths post-break up - I gradually edged back to the safety zone of the peroxide, especially after moving up to the VT where few blondes exist.

And then I promptly changed my mind.

"NO MORE BLONDE. NO MORE BLONDE!" was a repeat chant in my sub-consciousness.

I'm still not sure if it was a bid to fit in up in New England, or if it was my mind's way of dealing with change, but either way, it was MADE UP: The blonde had to GO.

And so then did I laboriously research the new shade and settle on a deep shade of mahogany - a brunette rich in red undertones so far from blonde that it would be a very distant memory.

And boy did I succeed. Ask anyone up in the VT now and many can't recall me as a blonde - in fact, they'll argue that this suits me much better. It makes my eyes pop, is better for my skin tone.

Which brings us to the current debate.

The PARENTALS HATE THE DARK HAIR.

I typically don't use the term HATE, but in this case its definitely justified. Let's just say that they are just shy of telling me not to return home to Texas until I'm blonde again.

I know I'm adult. I'm careening toward Straight Up and Dirty 30 for goodness sakes! I can make my own decisions! But that little voice in the back of my head says they know me better than I do.

But then there's everyone here who applauds the change, says it looks great - that they LOVE IT.

And you know what? I like it too. I think it deserves a shot beyond two months.

But then there's that wedding I'm in. IN TEXAS. In the red dress where mother pictured me as a blonde. And daddy says gentlemen prefer blondes. And I wonder...is THIS the reason I'm alone?

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

If he were in my shoes, what would Jesus do?

You know what...he'd probably shave his head.

Now THAT is always a solution.

So what's your vote?

Blonde? Brunette? Or bald?

Follicularly challenged,
The Megster

Things I've Learned Lately

2009-08-16T11:37:00.003-05:00

1. I'm strong enough to climb a big, f*cking mountain. Without complaint. Or broken bones and air rescue. That makes me happy.

2. Michael Jackson's nose was fake. I was right. I'm always right. SUCKERS.

3. Dogs, no matter how large or small, TAKE UP THE ENTIRE BED. Someday, when I'm married with a dog, we will have a king size bed. Period.

4. When temps rise above 85 and I don't have A/C, I can't be bothered to do anything but stick my head in a freezer. The lake doesn't even seem appealing. (I realize this complaint seems trivial in light of scorching Texas temps, but get over it. I GET MY ONE WEEK TO BITCH AND MOAN.)

5. There is one man in the whole of the VT who can dance like we do in the dance halls - well, to some extent, anyway. I'm afraid he made the fatal error of unveiling his talent. Now I will expect it of him going forward. Poor guy.

6. We get to pick and choose the people to whom we devote our time and attention. And - yes, this is very adult of me - sometimes, we change our minds about those groups of people. AND THAT'S OK. Everyone is in our life at precisely the right time and for a certain reason, however fleeting. And sometimes, some of those people are life GIVERS and some are life SUCKERS.

DON'T BE A LIFE SUCKER.

7. I love my work. It enlivens me.

8. I'm conflicted about the things I really want to do now that I live in the VT. We're in such close proximity to so many great places like the coast of Maine, the Cape, the Vineyard, etc. And I want to roadtrip!!! I could simply hop in the car and take off and do it. But, dearest reader, I'm realizing that I would very much like to experience these adventures with someone. Preferably who can share in the conversation and joy of it, as Willem Jafar Storm-Clouds Patel, official traveling gnome of Burlington, VT, is not apt to do. FINDING someone to go is the conundrum. It's great in concept yet difficult in execution. Sad face.

9. The Sept. magazines of fall fashion have a lot of bright and shiny things in them. But all of these bright and shiny things don't make sense here. Perhaps I should just frame them, hang them on my walls and admire them? Dream about them on my feet? Or earlobes? Or waist?

10. I'm on a crash course to Straight Up & Dirty Thirty and when it comes to men, there are TWO things I know for certain and have yet to be proven otherwise:

If they don't ask me out straight away, they aren't interested. In which case, I'm almost tempted to say, "Move along, I don't need another friend or the torture thereof, keep going." Then I think again and realize that there are so FEW people in the VT, literally, that perhaps I can suffer the self-inflicted platonic friendship once more. Here we go again.
If said men are interested, well, I will have NO idea until they are straight up muggin' down with me. I'm serious.

12. Next time that motorcycle opens his throttle in front of my house, I'm going to go ape-sh*t bananas crazy on him in a way he's never seen before. I'll scare the bajeezus out of his Hell's Angels. Dude. Seriously. I DARE YOU.

13. Faith is real. Whether it's quiet, lonely, worshipful, steady or waivering, FAITH IS REAL. And for a lot of this year, that's the only personal certainty I've known.

14. Speaking of which, I'm closing in on a year here. Which will call for a recap of reflection. I'm still deciding how much truth you can take. What did Jack Nicholson say? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!! Ha ha ha.

Love to all,

The Megster

That is NOT O.K.

2009-06-28T13:37:00.004-05:00

Hello cupcakes! Greetings from NOT HOT Vermont. I say that endearingly as I understand Texas is suffering a MAYJAH FEEVAH. That sh*t better break before I jet down for July 4. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'...

Even though it's NOT HOT here - meaning we're topping out about 85 at the highest, 75 on average, the nights are a loverrrrly 60-65. I sleep with my windows open upstairs (totally safe, so don't try to break in, you pervs) and enjoy a nice cross breeze. No need for AC here.

In fact, keeping open windows and doors affords a welcome break on utility bills and a nice fresh, healthy air flow, plus joyful sounds of the ole' 'hood (if not occassionally disturbing noise - seriously, motorcycles that open the throttle full force in front of my house should be TAKEN OUT) when I'm home in the evenings and weekends, so the idea of AC doesn't even cross my mind. IMAGINE THAT!

However.

HOWEVER.

One evening I woke up about 4 a.m. in a full sweat with open windows upstairs and absolutely no airflow. I was clearly awake, yes, but I also thought i was DEAD. Like, WHAT KIND OF FRESH HELL IS THIS? I took my drenched ass downstairs, clinging for dear life down the DEMON STAIRS, and read the thermostat as 80 degrees.

Pardon? COMO SAY HUH?

It probably doesn't help that I drank my dinner that evening, but that's beside the point.

I don't expect you people in TEXASS (that was not a typo. In 100+ heat, it was completely justified.) , to sympathize or empathize. But anyone who knew me in Austin and spent time in the Downtown Shoebox appreciated the Igloo and can understand that 80 degrees indoors IS NOT OK.

So I cranked the AC down begrudgingly, dragged my ass gingerly up the DEMON STAIRS and waited, GOOD LORD HOW I WAITED for the sweet, sweet sound of the AC clicking on and pushing the ice cold relief upstairs.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until the most annoying sound in the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD - the alarm clock radio - clicked on instead of the AC.

And I took a cold shower in a hot house. And I called my landlord. This is how it went, I sh*t you not:

_______

Me: Hi, Jane! Meghan, here. How are you? Good? Super. Soooooooo. Yeah. Woke up a little hot early this morning. Actually, woke up a lot hot. So I turned on the AC. It appears to be malfunctioning. Mind sending Bill over to check it out today?

Jane: (Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.)

Oh, dear. Meghan. That's so cute.

(More laughter.....)

You don't have AC.

Me: I'm sorry. I'm confused.

Jane: No one in New England has AC.

(Still laughing.)

Not even the new houses, sweetie.

Me: One would assume IF YOU HAVE CENTRAL HEAT YOU HAVE CENTRAL AC.

Jane: Yeah. No. But you can always go buy a window unit for your bedroom, or a box fan.

Me: (Internally: Or YOU could always go buy it.) Well, thanks, Jane. I'll look into that. (Internally: Burn in my hell.) Ok then. I'm off to Lowe's for those fans. Talk soon!

And END SCENE.

__________

Seriously. WTF. I know it's temporary and everyone here tells me it only lasts, literally, a few weeks, but if I'm a freakin' furnace with a boyfriend in the bed, can you imagine what it's like right now?

I'D RATHER DIE.

Check in again soon for an update. I might have melted away...

Sittin' cool with a HI fan,
The Megster

Drag Me to Hell

2009-06-14T20:02:00.007-05:00

Hello cupcakes. How's it cookin' down south? You 'bout well done, yet? It's been a breezy 65-75 range up here in New England and the sun has shown his lovely face on the odd day. In fact, I hung up on the madre the other day in order to dance in his rays. It had been a while...

Alas, I return to this here column to delight in you. Because I miss you so. And because, quite simply, you should delight in my latest adventure...my tempestuous relationship with gravity.

It's been said, many times, many ways, that I have a charming inability to remain upright. It's also been suggested that I invest in the Sealed Air Corporation, manufacturers of Bubble Wrap, since I should wrap myself in it whenever I leave my house.

Well.

When I moved to my cottage in Burlington, I learned that the house itself presents as much a problem inside as the entire world lurking outside. Therefore, the concept of a "safeplace" simply does not exist for me. Pity, that.

Case in point:

These are stairs. These stairs live in my house. They were made for a midget. I am not a midget.

We fundamentally do not get along. The first time the stairs jumped up and bit me, as Forrest Gump would say, was a few weeks in to my tenure here in Burlington. I'd just awoken and was venturing downstairs.

Going all the way down from the top step, slide-like, is not a pretty way to wake up in the morning. That one left a mark on my shoulder. And my butt. Not to mention it left me in a heap at the bottom for quite a while wondering what the hell just happened.

The second time was last week. But I fell UP the stairs. I was two nights in to a two day hangover, carrying a stack of laundry upstairs. I reached the top, tripped on the last step and dragged my right knuckles across the floor grate like a gorilla while face planting my left cheek in the wall.

I still have cuts on my knuckles and a busted cheek, which really - if we're totally honest - both came from an awesome barfight from the boozey night in question. (Not really, but it would be a whole lot cooler and I'd finally have some edgy street cred.)

Then there was the incident this morning. THIS MORNING. My goodness, can't I get a break? There was nothing out of the ordinary about today. I slept in. I didn't have a raging night of debauchery last night. I wasn't rushing downstairs. My eyes weren't glued shut with sleep. All was right in my world.

My stairs just had a Beetlejuice moment, I suppose. They went flat and serpentine giving me Shaken Meghan Syndrome in the process. I stayed crumpled and whimpering in my very empty cottage in a pesudo fetal/frog like position at the bottom of the stairwell, wondering how in the hell I got back to this place, what I'd done to deserve it this time.

So I sit here tonight sore and stiff, realizing that gripping the railing is a futile effort in home safety. And that it's about time I invest in a helmet after much encouragement from loved ones.

I'm also considering a stunt double. Do you have any recommendations? I hear Angelina Jolie's a badass. I wonder if she's ready for a break yet. I'm good for childcare....as long as there aren't stairs involved.

Clearly, I'm a pain in my own butt.

The Megster

Who Is The Megster??

2009-05-29T14:12:00.004-05:00

Hello my new friend!

My name is The Megster, short for Meghan Butler. I, alongside two incredible women, manage public relations for Seventh Generation - one of the most upstanding, game-changing companies on the face of the earth. Period.

(And that's not just some flack talking. Trust. I wouldn't have picked up my life and moved half-way across the country for anything less. And I've worked for a lot of consumer brands who think they're somethin' special. Seventh Generation's been at it for more than 20 years, before GREEN was a buzz term. And others will say as much for the company, too...)

Seventh Generation is the leading brand of non-toxic home cleaning, recycled paper and personal care products (chlorine-free diapers, baby wipes and chlorine free/organic cotton feminine care).

Chances are you stumbled upon this here beeeee-log from my Twitter page. No, I'm not arrogant to assume you found me this way, it's just a matter of fact in today's rapidly changing social media landscape...and likely a result of my recent Nit-Twit rampage. Very simple, actually.

As a matter of transparency, I'm formally merging "The Megster" and "Meghan Butler at Seventh Generation" personas because I don't have anything juicy to hide. If anything, you might be mildly (or wildly) entertained.

And quite simply, I created The Megster on Twitter at the platform's inception and before I came onboard at Seventh Generation from its PR firm back in the day.

When I thought it time to create a "Meghan Butler at Seventh Generation" Twitter account, well, I found my name was taken by my online Meghan Butler twin. (She happens to be pretty awesome, as any Meghan Butler would be, dontcha know.)

So basically you're stuck with "The Megster"...and I'm pretty stoked about that.

I invite you to follow me, The Megster, on Twitter, and be entertained and connected to Seventh Generation. Follow Seventh Generation on Twitter as well at SeventhGen.

I knew from a very early age that I wanted to change the world in some way and I finally have an opportunity to do that every day here at Seventh Generation. We derive our name from the Great Law of the Iriquois Confederacy:

"In our every deliberation, we must consider our impact on the next seven generations."

What are you doing to change the world? To protect future generations?

Look forward to getting to know you and following you, too...

Meghan

OHMYGODOK!

2009-05-19T12:59:00.003-05:00

Yes, I'm writing.
Quite a lot.
And, no.
You'll never read it.
Probably not.
Why you ask?
'Cause you see,
At times...
I'm just an ass.

Ha ha!
The Megster

Stay tuned...

UPDATE!!

2009-04-29T10:46:00.000-05:00

This blog is what a neglected child looks like.

That is all,
The Megster

The Megster's Secret Shame

2009-03-22T11:19:00.009-05:00

Hello crickets!!! How are my lovelies doing?

I'd advise you to grab coffee/handle of Jack/or a keg and settle in for this one...it's going to be a bit lengthy. I mean, really, when have I ever been short and quippy? It's pretty safe to assume that the longer I take to write means there's a loooooong one brewing. (And this one promises to be revealing - probably a bit TOO much and I'll wonder why i ever disclosed it. Oh dear. Too late.)

I also feel the need to address my absence. I alluded to my creative suck the last few times, but I'm realizing lately that I am very truly homesick. I anticipated that would fester about six months in and I couldn't be more accurate. My job and way of life here are wonderful, comfortable even. But life itself is hard. So there's that.

This general malaise forced me into my trusty comfort zone buried deep in books, films and music. Many of you know that I pray often - but perhaps not in the traditional sense. I've always felt it was an ongoing conversation to myself until I realized that God was listening. I don't believe in superstition and signs, per se, but I believe we are meant to see or hear things at the right time. It's been dialogue or locations in movies. Themes in books. A lyric or melody. It's a suprisingly profound conversation with a friend. God speaks to me in all of these things.

And so then did I find a new secret shame. Well, not-so-secret anymore, I suppose.

Let me preface this very quickly.

I have two women in my heart at constant odds with each other:

The first is a half-ton heavyweight screaming for that cookie or pint of ice cream who doesn't really like being large but does nothing about it nonetheless and truly believes she'll never be loved by someone other than the two people that made her. (That's neither here nor there.)

The second is me at 17-years-old. She is plain, sometimes a tomboy, never really spectacular, but has a certain endearing quality in her inability to stay upright (in fact, my bosslady thinks I should be perpetually wrapped in Bubble Wrap) and she is emotionally intelligent for her age and hopeful - even faithful - for whatever God holds for her next.

These two ladies fight amongst themselves regularly and each has their shining moment at least once a day.

So when the BFF started in on me months ago to read Twilight (no, you're not seeing things. I said Twilight.), I delightfully ignored her and taunted her for becoming one of "those" women.

My only reference for Twilight to that point had been:

- Its status as a best-seller

- Perez Hilton's obsession with one of the actors from the movie

- Its delusional effect on tweens and teens who wanted the love story (they think the actor really IS a vampire and that he and the lead actress really ARE in love), sending them into glass-breaking shrills

- Its driving hysteria on middle-aged moms who are secretly depressed, openly oppressed and nip into the liquor when the kids aren't watching because they HAD that kind of love...but then lost it

- And, case-in-point: its shame-inducing effect on stuck-in-the-in-between late twenty-somethings - the NEW 'tweeners, if you will.

Harsh? Yes, I know. Horrible thoughts, really. But just as every other passing criticism in my mind, God holds a mirror up to me and says, "Oh, you think so, huh? Check THIS s**t out." (Yes, God says s**t.)

I was bored at my hotel in California late-night and bought the movie on On-Demand to see what all the mess was about. My schedule dictated that i watch it in fragments and the quality of the TV didn't help its case. I thought the movie itself was a disgrace, but I liked the story. Just a wee-bit, really. I'll admit I found it compelling.

I later found myself in the Long Beach airport awaiting my long, trans-continental flight with nothing to read after blowing through five magazines and a novel during my personal time in Northern California. The newsstand didn't hold anything of interest or unread...

...except for this little paperback novel called Twilight.

I put my sunglasses on for some sense of anonymity and I begrudgingly bought it, called the BFF and said, "FYI, I watched the movie. I got the book. I understand it's backwards, but that's my thing. Now leave me the f' alone about it. Toodles."

I proceeded to read the entire thing in one flight. (Yes, I read a lot and I read fast. Let it go.)

I was officially taken.

I went to Barnes & Noble the next day and bought the rest of the series. I read all three (massive) books in less than a week. In fact, I was in New York earlier this week and finishing the last book. I was so enthralled that I had the audacity to read it in the towncar with my colleagues. (Madness, I tell you.)

I completed it that night, settled in, and ordered the movie AGAIN at the hotel. I needed to see it knowing everything I knew now. Bigger, better TV, more enraptured in the story, still rather unimpressed with the production.

Now that was all over, I was sad. Can't really explain it. What would I read next?

The BFF tipped me off to a little gem on the author, Stephenie Meyer's, web site. She posted the first part of the next book (after a friend inadvertently leaked it online). It's Twilight - the first book - told from the Vampire's perspective and answers a lot of questions that could have easily gone unanswered, but proved entrancing nonetheless.

So my insatiable self was satisfied. But only temporarily. The DVD was available the next day. (YES! It didn't have to end!)

I went back to Barnes & Noble and picked up the DVD AND the director's notebook. (Tragic, I know.) In fact, the clerk and I were laughing so hard at how embarrassed I was. I even checked that no one I knew was behind me. (Oh, wait, it's Burlington. That's right - I don't know anyone. Crisis averted.)

It's well-established that I'm a movie nerd, so despite the less-than-stellar quality of the film observed previously, I was still fascinated by the making of it.

So I went home, hunkered down for the evening and read the notebook, watched the film again (much better this time around - maybe it was the hotel TV quality???), watched all of the special features, and then....

....watched the film again with director and lead-cast commentaries. (Must say, this was gravely disappointing - the director was the only one that really talked. The leads were rather uniterested and distracted, even.) This is my typical routine, by the way.

Are you thoroughly disgusted yet?

Yeah. Me too.

But wait - there's more. (Now would be a good time to have me committed...)

I sought out the soundtrack.

A talented musician in his own right, the lead actor has two songs on it (I'm intentionally not naming the puppies - I have to maintain SOME amount of dignity, here.) One is absolutely heartbreaking and a new addition to my Wrist Cutter Deluxe playlist. Oh yes, crickets, when I feel like emotionally flagellating myself, I'll put that song on. The other is a retro-waltz by a favorite - Iron & Wine. Tantilizing, really.

There you have it. I give you free reign to put me in a straight jacket.

After all of that, you MUST be wondering what captured my self-proclaimed discerning attention. How can The Megster fall victim to this phenomenon?

Good question, crickets. And yet the process of this column even helps me process it.

Quite simply:

The Twilight series' religious and moral allegory is appealing, refreshing and certainly not lost on me. You-are-all-I-need love? Check. A love with endurance? Check. An attentive and protective relationship? Check. Physical restraint and will power? Check. Family values? Check. Humility? Check. Tolerance? Check. Resurrection and redemption? Check.

A man coming back from emotional suicide? CHECK. (Haven't seen THAT one happen yet. Maybe one day, the man I fall in love with won't commit it in the first place. Hmmm - that's a thought.)

The 17-year-old in my heart triumphs because the lead un-dead character made her feel less isolated in almost every way.

And I was finally able to understand my last two years (give or take). Someone I loved drained me of life and I've been trying to wake up ever since. (If you tell me to get over it and move on, I will cut you. Done and done. That's not the issue here. That experience just fundamentally changed me.)

So there you go.

Stephenie Meyer - you're a genius and you deserve all the goodness you discover. (Sorry I'm not really all that interested in your "adult" novel - The Host - I'm just waiting anxiously for the next in the Twilight series. Give it up!)

And I have some exciting trivia only a few of us know regarding the next movie - New Moon. Perez Hilton would salivate, but I value my life more than that.

I encourage you to buy the books and DVD. Come on...help a flailing economy out!

Delightfully shamed,

The Megster

How The Megster Survived Smuggler's Notch

2009-03-02T15:52:00.005-06:00

Good afternoon, crickets!

I went skiing again on Saturday. This time to Smuggler's Notch Resort. I should have known by the totally rad '80's logo that the condition of the resort would be similar.

Sure 'nuff, I was left wondering if they ever serviced the ski equipment, facilities or lifts. In fact, I had a great conversation about it with a friend of mine who's a regular to Smugg's. She seems to think they've never serviced nor replaced the lifts since they were built...

....sometime in the early part of last century!

Alas, the resort is renowned for it's trails, so I couldn't complain. And I was SKIING - what is there to complain about???

I was in very competent hands for the day so I didn't give the resort much thought. I was just anxious to ski. My (stupendous) snow buddy boarded ahead of me most of the time, but within range...very considerate. I feared I bored him, though.

Towards the end of the day, we ventured farther up the mountain, enjoying a lift ride on a clear, crisp day and admiring the very prominent snowline on the trees.

When it was time to disembark the lift, I found myself at a rather awkward angle trying not to run over his board, and the next thing I know, I'm flying.

Olympic-freestyle-flying.

Turns out, the chair doesn't really follow you down and THEN around. And the ramp was a steep decline. So basically, the chair AND the ground disappeared from beneath me.

I was in a pile of metal when I heard the Liftee exclaim, "we've got a jumper!" while non-chalantly shoveling snow across the ramp (and me, as location would have it). As I compiled myself (with ZERO pride, by the way, SO over it by this point), I wondered if he and his other lift-operating buddies take bets on how many people will eat snow that day. Because I made him a FORTUNE and he can now retire fat and happy.

Until the tragic exit from the lift, I had done quite well! I was so proud that I hadn't made an a$$ out of myself in front of my snow buddy. All was redeemable, though. There was still time!

We continued down the blues as we'd done all afternoon. It was a wee-bit chilly and the sun was setting on some of the slopes, including the one we were on.

We came upon a VERY steep, long part of the trail and as I snaked my way down, it became increasingly apparent that we were no longer on snow - but solid ice. I was still confident, though. I've faced this in Colorado. Bring it, Rumrunner!

And then it was brought-en. Rumrunner kicked my a$$.

Next thing I knew, once the stars and chirping birds stopped twirling my head, my snow buddy was leaving me down the hill (sh*t.) and three older men were talking to me. (I think three...at least one and two others...i think. Yeah....)

They kindly stopped to see if I was alright. This is how it went:

_________________________

(As snow buddy boards ahead to CATCH MY SKI. Thank God. I was worried I finally bored him to tears or scared him off....)

Hiiiiii.

(Sliding down mountain...)

I'm fine, thanks.

(Minus a ski.)

I'm sorry. I thought I misunderstood you. I thought you said "ski patrol".

(Still sliding...)

Oh...you did?

(Damn this slope doesn't QUIT!)

Well then. No, I don't need any help. Yes, yes, I'm o.k. But do you have any suggestions as to what to do next? Seems I'm missing a ski...and I'm still sliding down the mountain a bit.

(There's nothing to hold onto on a wall of ice. Engage survival mode.)

Oh, you'll take my ski down to Snow Buddy?

(These poles don't do sh*t.)

Yes, yes. That would be lovely. Thank you. You mean I have to slide down? All the way?

(Probably look like a spazmatazz by that point...)

Too steep to walk, you say? Well. That should be easy enough. I'm still sliding uncontrollably. Um, thanks again.

(And SCENE.)

_____________________

Then I was alone, sliding down the equivalent of a freakishly steep frozen waterslide at Schlitterbahn.

Until I saw my Snow Buddy.

That made me very happy because until that point, I was just a smidge scared. He had both my skis and helped me put them back on (former ski instructors are awesome - I highly recommend them.)

I caught my breath and we proceeded to laugh at the atomic wedgie I'd incurred during my escape from Rumrunner. I skied like a granny until the end, took one more run, then called it a day.

Needless to say I had no pride. I mean, how could I? I ate sh*t. Twice. IN A ROW! I made Bridget Jones look like a champ. Alas, it was a wonderful day...

....and I can't wait to go again. Perhaps when it's not so icy? In the meantime, I'll scan the black market for painkillers.

Sorely yours,

The Megster

Texas...

2009-02-27T15:50:00.002-06:00

...I miss you. All of you. The way you smell. The way you taste. The way you change. The way you feel. I miss everyone that makes you home.

That is all.
The Megster

Stowe What?

2009-02-26T12:48:00.005-06:00

Good afternoon, crickets! I've missed you. Seriously. I've been homesick a bit lately...but forging ahead just fine.

Last Saturday, I finally got off my arse and headed to the mountains after overcoming the almost-flu (I will deny the flu. It does not exist.). I've found it rather intriguing that many people here don't ski - which is shameful, really, given our proximity to the mountains.

So I ventured out alone.

Well, not entirely alone. I had James, my Bri' ish GPS navigator. He led me stealthy through Stowe to Smuggler's Notch resort. However, he took the most direct path, naturally, and the Notch to the resort is impassable during winter. So lo and behold, I dead-ended at Stowe Resort.

Boo-freakin'-hoo-sign-me-up!!!

I was so glad to enjoy the beautiful drive there without incident that this didn't really phase me. I found a prime parking spot straight away and just across from the main lodge and ski rental. After gathering up all of the hullabaloo one could need, I headed confidently in the direction of the mountain.

I set out ten foot high and bullet proof. Then I quickly felt like I was suffering severe tunnel vision and trying to hide it. I watched carefully what everyone else did, how they wore their goggles, I asked non-chalant questions about trails, etc. to figure out the system.

And it worked.

I was redirected to Spruce Peak via the gondola. I got on and the boarders in my car were perplexed about my missing gear. And they proceeded to engage me in some form of English that I didn't understand. (Boardish, perhaps?) So I just smiled and nodded.

Once at Spruce Peak, I swiftly and effortlessly made my way through the rental process. (Kudos to Stowe for creating a foolproof system! P.S. Stowe - please read this and give me a free pass. Holla!)

I noticed the rental associates were not a talkative bunch. They didn't care that I haven't skied in a long time. They only cared that I signed the "in case of death or dismemberment" form.

The boot guys were all hispanic and speaking Spanish to each other. I felt right at home! Truly! It was very comforting. I engaged them in polite, simple exchanges and smirked at their surprise at the Gringa in Vermont.

As I picked up the skis, however, I was so confused. They were short - like, cut-for-midgets short! I told the guy there must be some mistake. He could see me over the counter - what's with the shorties? I'm used to, well, skis...not twigs. He explained that they are cut much shorter and with better edges and surface coverage now. I am soooo not happening, clearly.

I was disappointed that I couldn't spray as effectively, though. That's always the best part: heading full speed downhill toward a small group of children and then stopping quickly to spray them with a wall of snow. The new skis take the fun out of it. Boo.

I also noticed that the majority of skiers and boarders were wearing helmets. I do not understand this. If I were extreme skiing, maybe i'd consider it. (And shut up with the helmet comments, crickets. I know Klutz here should wear one all the time but it's just not going to happen.)

I learned, about the fifth run in, that there was a "singles" line at the lift. (Thanks for the reminder Stowe. Bridget rules.) I shared a ride with a number of delightful ladies and mute children. Seems the truly interesting people - and men - were on the main mountain - these were all ski-schoolers.

You will be happy to know I didn't fall down once and was skiing blues by the end of the day. (Ok. That's a lie. I yard saled only once. But that didn't count.)

I realized at the end of the day that I hadn't been that happy in a long time. Seriously. My face hurt from smiling - not cold weather. I was so joyful. It was a beautiful, clear day. I left with so much empowerment and pride for navigating everything successfully and without embarrassment. It made me feel like I could do anything.

So I shall go back on Saturday. And again the next weekend and the next until the ice breaks away from the rocks and the snow melts rush in.

Then I will have fun in the mud in my wellies.

Downhill shot of Spruce Peak at Stowe

Uphill shot of Spruce Peak at Stowe - the slope doesn't look so steep from this perspective.

Happy Megster. With a plastic tumor on her head.

Adventures in Cross Country Skiing

2009-02-06T09:32:00.002-06:00

HELLO CRICKETS!!! How I've missed you!! Chirp. Chirp.

I'm making up for lost time during a social media conference. An "advanced" one at that. Interesting crowd - someone just asked how to hyperlink. Should I say more? I'm getting dumber just sitting here.

So I thought I'd entertain you with a tale of athletic prowess.

After weeks of yelling at my cross-country skis to quit their neglected whining, I ventured out with three friends to Sleepy Hollow for some gliding this weekend.

Yes. Gliding. Apparently, you're supposed to GLIDE. This implies GRACE. (And we ALL know that isn't in my vocabulary.) It took me awhile to figure out that your heels are not bound to the skis like in Alpine skiing, so once i figured that out, I had to learn how to glide.

My friend Red was a wonderful teacher. She was so patient and encouraging. But it also helped that I was a NATURAL, naturally. (And tracks were already cut. ha ha.) I eventually found my glide stride and was confident in my abilities.

No one told me, however, that you have to WORK to cross-country ski. We stuck to the easy and moderate trails, and I learned very quickly that trekking on sticks of plastic through flat lands and up hills takes an impossible amount of effort. That s**t ain't easy.

I learned how to walk like a duck up on an incline - on skis. I also learned that when you are cutting new tracks or absent powder, you have to keep your legs together (not that that's ever been an issue for me) to maintain an upright position.

I'm proud to say that I only fell twice. Once when I was standing still (naturally - would you expect anything less?) and another time when I had to yard sale on a steep decline on the curve. (P.s. I cannot be responsible for the audio content of the yard sale video. I'm in a conference, remember? Mute is a wonderful thing.)

I also flailed a bit...ok...a LOT...especially downhill. But you have to understand, cross-country skis don't have edges like Alpine skis. I couldn't cut, spray or otherwise turn. I just went with the trail and prayed to God I didn't plow head-on into a tree.

Another fascinating thing about the adventure was the full-body workout. Seriously - from scalp to toenails - every stinkin' muscle was engaged. And I had the sweaty, matted hat hair to prove it. I didn't even realize it was COLD outside until we stopped. Then I wished we were still moving.

The environment was particularly delightful and I'm still kicking myself for forgetting the camera. There were lots of birch trees punctuated by snow, the sun shined through threadbare forests and the trees made sounds like creaky doors. (The sound was shocking, actually. I couldn't find the cabin creating the sound - I was very confused.)

I was quite surprised that I wasn't sore in the days following. I expected it - but no such luck. (I'm not complaining, mind you.) And overall, it was a great re-introduction to skis. It's been awhile and I've quite missed them. Put me on the trails for a few runs and I'm killing it in no time.

I came out in one piece and refreshed, exhilarated and excited for the time. Until then, I think the snowshoes are next. Maybe the Alpines.

All my love,
The Megster

The New England Chronicles, Part VI

2009-01-25T17:38:00.003-06:00

Good evening, crickets! How is your winter going? Warm and balmy? Cold and icy? Covered in snow?

Well, that's nice.

Following are accounts of my recent adventures in Yankee territory. I've tried to keep the Meglish to a minimum, but as an old friend from high school pointed out, it regretfully won't be recognized as an official language until Rosetta-Stone develops DVD curriculum for it. (Yes...must get on that...)

Ferry splendid, indeed.
I'm quite enjoying the winter here in New England. In fact, I had my own Titanic experience recently. No, I didn't do it in a Model T with a bum named Jack. I took my inaugural ferry ride.

You see, we don't have Target here. I've heard rumors of a Wal-Mart, Costco and Best Buy in the concrete jungle of Williston just up the road, but no Target. It's a cryin' shame, if you ask me.

The last time I graced this little Mecca was in New Hampshire on the way back from Boston in October. I was so excited when I saw that red bulls eye that I illegally veered across three lanes of traffic to reach it. And it was worth it!

So when I heard that Target recently opened across the lake in Plattsburgh, New York, I was very excited about visiting. On one particularly boring Saturday night, my friend from work and I set out on a late-night journey with James - my new TomTom GPS thingamajig who squawks in a British accent. He got us to our destination in fine fashion....

...but we had to take the ferry. There was just no way around it.

I've been on motor ferries before, but they were small bay jumpers in the islands off the Texas coast. Nothing to write home about. So pulling up to Lake Champlain in the dead of a winter's night was intriguing and slightly unnerving. And not cheap, to boot.

We boarded the ferry and had to cut the engine which made for a rather chilly ride. We also noticed - in spectacular fashion, nonetheless - that you can pretty much get away with anything in your car on a ferry at night.

It's pitch black and we could barely make out the driver in front of us. It wasn't until a while into the ferry float that we realized there were TWO people in the front seat, not one. That's always fascinating when you see the silohuette of the passenger's head that you never noticed before suddenly appear from the direction of the driver's lap.

I suppose some people get frisky on the ferry - and I can't really say that I blame them. To each their own.

Perhaps most surprising was the sensation of cutting through SOLID ICE on a very large lake. There's nothing quite like it, for sure. The only thing more Titanic-esque would have been a hand sliding down the steamy windows of the car in front of us. Needless to say, we were pretty much in hysterics.

Dr. Seuss never covered this - or any of my adventures so far - in "Oh, the places you will go."

This sled's for you.
I was invited to go sledding this weekend by one of my girls at church and her college students she counsels. I was top of the list for the expedition because I have a car and could drive everyone. In this case, I certainly didn't mind being used. My friend knew I would enjoy it, anyway.

However, there's nothing like a car full of freshman girls to remind you that you started college more than 10 years ago....and that they couldn't care less. Starting conversation with them was like pulling teeth. I can't say that I ever felt so old...or insignificant...in my life.

The only college students I've had the pleasure of knowing in recent years were interns and those I met when guest lecturing. Some of which I still keep in touch with because they were awesome, others not so much. Apparently I scared interns. I don't see why - I don't bite. Very hard. But that's neither here nor there.

The snow-covered golf course was picturesque - like a coffee table book - and my camera battery was dead. Naturally. So at least I have the memory of it. I'd like to scam some photos from the girls, but as I'm nothing short of a dinosaur in their books, the outlook isn't promising.

In no time at all, our faces were frozen. The sunshine was a trick! It didn't do s**t. And the inability to feel your nose - truly - is enlightening, at best. At least it wasn't unexpected or even uncomfortable, just different.

I realized very quickly that I got the clothing equation right, for once. I was nice and toasty from neck to arches. My new snow pants were spectacular, as was my puffy-snow-baby-smuggling jacket. If you didn't know me, you'd thing I was stashing a fetus. Then again, I just have to remind myself that my EXCELLENT posture presents a nice curvature of the back, and the goose down just adds a lot to the front.

However, I didn't exactly strike gold with my socks. I had woolies on under my bonafide, pretty-looking snow boots, but couldn't feel my toes for awhile. There truly is nothing worse, I'm afraid. Maybe one of these days I'll get that part straightened out.

The actual sledding experience was quite fun. No one told me, though, that when you get to the bottom of the hill...you have to climb back up. It was a chore, for sure, but I was grateful for the exercise and it was very refreshing, indeed.

I just never expected sledding to hurt! Getting thrown from the plastic pod wasn't painful, that was more like being thrown from a tube on the lake. (Unless Jeff Hunt/David Hasslehoff is driving the boat, in which case, you're pretty much screwed. Guaranteed good times, there! P.S. - Miss you, Hunt family!)

The most painful thing about sledding, I found, was not catching air from the mini-snow booger-moguls (you can't always see them - but you can sure feel them!). It was landing. I might have ruptured a few disks. Might not. Either way, I'll be feeling that for awhile. It's like being on a boat and hitting the wake too hard. You can practically hear your bones crunch.

I survived the expedition in fine fashion and went back to a house with the group for pizza and conversation. The couple who advises the group - and is on the brand-new forth kid - was very nice. And their older children took to me like a PBS special. I quickly became a jungle gym and tickle monster.

That was actually quite a lot of fun as lately, with the kids at church, I've started to wonder if my kid magnet is malfunctioning. It doesn't seem they like me that much. But I like them.

At least I didn't scare any college students or booger eaters. All in all, it was a great day.

Adventures in relating.
I've met a lot of people very quickly in my time here in Vermont. They've all been from work and church. And they're all married and procreating, or getting married or playing house. Basically, there aren't a lot of singletons.

This is not entirely an alarming proposition, but since I'm New-in-Town, life's playbook is a bit different and is completely redefined. (In fact, I'm learning with each preview that it's just like the new Renee Zellweger movie - can't wait. Did they know they were penning my story? Note to self: Self...find your Harry Connick, Jr.)

I've not been lonely, really, nor has life been empty, per se, but for the first time in a very long time, I feel ready for the option of a relationship if it were to present itself. My Bridget Jones-tendencies don't exactly help, though. I'm afraid the similarities are STARTLING.

So I had a first date recently - a blind one (the date, not the man), and we'll leave it at that. We had a great time and I really enjoyed getting to know him. Should he inquire about another outing, I would probably say yes. I'm not into sport dating or free meals, mind you. (He was a perfect Southern gentleman, though, so that was a nice dinner!)

But lately, I couldn't figure out why I'm so beat all the time when I'm not sick, work's managable, and life is otherwise on an even keel. I'm plain tuckered out. And I realized after church today, when I didn't even say goodbye to anyone I just bailed, that getting to know people - either on a date or otherwise - is a freakin' drain. I am emotionally and socially worn down.

It will be interesting to see how life here unfolds. I keep thinking that God put me here for a reason...I just can't wait to find out. In the meantime, looks like my diet will mainly consist of coffee and toothpicks to prop my eyes open so I can rest easily in the company of new friends.

Just don't ask anything about me and I won't ask anything about you. Because, seriously, getting to know you is just plain exhausting. But please know that doesn't mean I don't care. I truly do. Just hook me up to a coffee IV and I can likely guarantee engaging conversation and undivided attention.

(But drip the Decaf and you're dead.)

All my love,
The Megster

2009-01-22T16:27:00.001-06:00

wonders when the rest of the world will recognize MEGLISH as an official language. It's a charming combo of Meggerisms and mumbles.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

2009-01-20T11:29:00.003-06:00

There are few moments in our lives that impress themselves onto our memory, that exist beyond daily recall, that linger quietly and everpresent.

Today is one of them.

I watched history unfold with the rest of the world as President Barack Hussein Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America.

And you could hear a pin drop.

It was dead silent in our common area at Seventh Generation as we watched on the big screen. And it was silent on the grounds of the United States Capitol in Washington, D.C.

And I can imagine it was silent in the far reaches of our nation and the world as people bathed in the hope of a new administration and a reinforced promise of leadership by this fine country.

I will be hard pressed, even in my dying slumber, to forget this day.

Just as I will never forget the days the Challenger and the Columbia exploded. Or the day the Twin Towers fell. Or the night that Halle Berry became the first African American to win the Best Actress Oscar. Or the day Lois died. Or the day the flood waters poured into New Orleans...and the day we received evacuees from Katrina.

So I sit here in awe among my colleagues, missing my daddy - the biggest patriot I know - as I would have liked to share this day with him. And I grow encouraged by a great orator and know that there is achievement in storytelling once again.

And I reflect on every first Sunday of the year during during my childhood where the sermon promised that - in the words of my dear Gerald Mann, and now President Obama....

...we can begin again.

With faith,

The Megster

The New England Chronicles, Part V

2009-01-16T10:29:00.003-06:00

Good morning, crickets! It's come to my attention that new photos are in demand. I know this might be a bit redundant to some of you given the AWESOMENESS of Facebook, but you'll have to deal for now...

I needed a tropical vacation. Instead, I got the Olan Mills' Tropical Sauce package at the local studio.

It was 17 degrees on my birthday and STUNNING outside.

Guess what? I can't feel my toes. This was the day I realized it was time to retire my wellies. On to the snow boots...

I was spinning. And then I got dizzy.

I'm jumping for joy as my rather large collar attacks me.

I've also taken on collecting "It's so cold's..." For example:

1) "Man, it's so cold out here - it burns the lungs yet it's strangely exhilirating."

2) "Holy f**k, it's so cold that my nosehairs are freezing."

3) "Yep. It's cold. If anyone finds my nose, let me know. I think it broke off a few blocks back."

4) "It's so cold, I think my eggs are freezing."

And you know what? I STILL LOVE IT.

More to come from the Arctic!

All my love,

The Megster

2009-01-13T12:07:00.001-06:00

It's Girl Scout Cookie time. Mary Claire in Dallas is salivating. I'm wondering if we even HAVE Girl Scouts in Vermont. Need Thin Mints Now.

Call Me Dumbo

2009-01-03T18:53:00.004-06:00

Today was a big day. A very big day. I learned that not only was my to-do list ambitious, but I am, in fact, delusional.

Most of you know that I grew up dancing - from little ballerina school to formal classes and finally an all-consuming dance team. I haven't danced in ten years, but I have found myself dreaming of it lately.

I've excitedly pirouetted in the snow and was recently informed that I absentmindedly stretch my legs by doing simple points and flexes, plies, tondus, jambes, etc. while washing dishes, cooking or standing online somewhere.

So in my quest to begin again-again (seeing as how I'm still new in town and reminded of it regularly and it is, indeed, a new year)...I got up early this morning and ventured to an adult ballet class.

True to form, the first thing mom pointed out when I told her was that I wouldn't meet anyone (i.e. a man person) in a ballet class. I'm not stupid, mind you, I'd already considered this. That's why God created photography and cooking classes, etc. (Note to self: Self, sign up for photography and cooking classes.)

I decided to take ballet to perk up my backside, quell my urges to dance at Carnegie Hall (just like I thought I'd be an Olympic diver, world-class artist, novelist or even an assassin) and maybe, just maybe, discover a line of definition on my body that I didn't know existed. There's also the side effect of Grace...of which I have none.)

We also know that nothing to me is like "riding a bike" so I just knew it would be like dancing, that it would all come back in the studio, at the barre.

I arrived in my swanky yoga clothes because I am NOT donning pink tights and a black leotard. Though I did buy ballet slippers. They looked like gigantic versions of cute little-girl feet.

I was among five women...all closing in on 50+....and ALL wearing leotards, tights and ballet skirts. Fascinating and oddly reminiscent of a twisted, worn Degas painting.

It was clear they've been in classes together for a while. Frenchie, the classic prima ballerina/ teacher who hails from, you guessed it, France (hence the nickname. I'm so original...) had a thick accent and spoke in Franglish slang, abbreviating all the moves.

The AARPs were accustomed to her style.

I, clearly, was not. (I have a hard enough time understanding plain English - and I get stuck with this?)

You'd think I'd never danced a day in MY LIFE. There I was - an elephant among pseudo-Gazelles - fumbling and tripping all over while landing like Dumbo without the aid of parachute ears. At one point, I thought I was going to break the floor.

I made it through the class with much less dignity than I arrived...and not an ounce of grace more.

I went straight to grocery shopping, then home to tend to my wreck of a post-vacay house, cook some meals for the week and then give the casa a nice deep clean.

It eventually occurred to me this evening - after I barely sat down once all day - that I probably should remove my form-hugging yoga top while I was still limber (and painless) enough to do it. The aches are already setting in and I couldn't imagine having to call a friend to come cut it off me...or worse, wear it under everything until I could stretch enough to remove it.

I'd very much like to take a very hot bath and just stretch it out. However, I've not a bathtub, only a shower. So the idea of laying in the snow to ice my muscles before a VERY hot shower has crossed my mind.

Despite the horror of watching myself try to awaken my Tiny Dancer, not break an ankle and still hold my head up high, I have to say that my muscle memory - however retarded - was familiar. And though I've got the short-term balley sequence memory of a goldfish (and probably won't be able to walk here real soon)...

...you can bet your twinkle toes I'll go back next week. Delusional, yet determined.

Naturally.

The Megster

The Girl that Continental Airlines Forgot

2008-12-21T06:11:00.006-06:00

DISCLAIMER: DEAR CONTINENTAL AIRLINES, I HOPE YOU LOCATE THIS BLOG AS YOU SHOULD BE SCOURING THE INTERNETS ANYWAY. THAT'S WHAT YOUR COMPETITORS ARE DOING - AND THEY ARE USING IT TO THEIR FULL ADVANTAGE. (And likely kicking your ass.) IF YOU DON'T HAVE A CLUE, ASK ME, I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE INFLUENCE OF BLOGS. I MIGHT EVEN TWITTER ABOUT IT. (Ha. Just did.) GUESS WHAT? YOU OWE ME A ROUND-TRIP TICKET ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD...ON YOUR DIME. THAT IS ALL.

Morning' crickets! Chances are, there are few of you remaining and if so, you're likely chirped out. Sorry. I just haven't had the content to write recently, nor have I felt compelled...until now. I realize I've prefaced my last few columns in much the same way, but fear not!, this shall prove worth your time. (One would hope, anyway.)

For your lazy reading (and to conserve battery power!), I'm going to topline my adventures in Continental Airlines' clusterf**ck of an operation.

- I'm trying to get home to Austin from Burlington, VT for my first Christmas with my family and friends after a permanent relocation three months ago.
- I just wanted to get there in time for Church this morning. That was priority and I planned accordingly, even cushioning my flightplan for delays.
- Mother Nature had other ideas and decided to wreak havoc on the entire Northeast.
- Newark Airport was not prepared for the snow and de-icing the planes. You'd think otherwise given their location, but by the looks of it, this place is just about archaic, so no surprise there.
- I was at Burlington airport for close to seven hours before ever getting on a plane and stuck on the tarmac for another three.
- It was perplexing to look out the window and see twice as much snow as reported in Newark, but hear that Newark couldn't handle their s**t. (Quite like Austin drivers when it gets cloudy. They just stop. It's insane.)
- I get in to Newark and my connecting plane LEFT WITHOUT ME. (Big mistake. Big. HUGE!)
- The next Austin flight isn't until late this afternoon - and it's way overbooked.
- I recalibrate and try for Dallas, Houston or San Antonio. Hell, New Orleans even sounded decent. Turns out, Houston has the most flights so I list on a rolling standby register and reserve a car in H-town.
- I find a hotel. Their toiletries are pungent like a cheap whore. Excellent.
- I arrive back at Newark at 4 a.m. for the first flight out to Houston. No dice.
- I'm listed on this next flight with a dismal outlook.
- Though the NEXT one looks good. (I have a feeling I will hear this all day.)
- One has to wonder where the hell my luggage is or if I'll ever see it again. S**T!
- I've seen babies - and ADULTS - throw temper tantrums. IT's very dramatic and slightly entertaining. Until it's the man who's about to punch your seat.
- I heard a guy wretching in the men's room on my way to the ladies' and hope he's not on my plane (whichever one that is).
- I've sat and stared at Jersey's snow and pondered life.
- I've been through security four times overall, once getting the full search from the TSA team not one hour after going through the first time. They were bored. I s**t you not. (No, no my friends. No specatacles among my carry-ons! Look at the rastafarian behind me for your hash stash.)
- None of my presents in my secondary carry-on have broken yet. That I can tell anyway.
- I haven't combed my hair since 9 a.m. yesterday. THANK GOD for the Chi because it's holding up pretty nicely. (Not too long before the greasies, though. Ugh.)
- I'm glad my clothes are as comfortable as pajamas. But I'm kind of tired of wearing them. I wonder how Newark feels about streaking?
-This experience isn't good for my worsening complexion. Continental, I'll send you my dermatologist bill....IF I EVER GET TO AUSTIN TO MAKE MY APPOINTMENT.
- Did I mention that all i wanted so far was to make it in time for some part of Church and the Love Feast that follows for Untitled? That meant the world to me. Not lookin' good.
-I've seen so many queens totally flame out for the sake of attention. It's beyond obnoxious. Same can be said for any barely-pubescent kids dragging their feet behind their parents. Whiner whinersons! Give me a bucket of water, I'll shut 'em up.
- Chances are, if I had my passport, I could probably get to London and back in the time it will take me to get to Austin.
- I'm facing the very imminent threat of spending Christmas in dank New Jersey.
- I wonder if I should have stayed in Burlington so if I had to miss Christmas, at least I'd be in my own home and among some friends.
- I do have to say that I've been exceedingly impressed with the ground gate staff. They reflect well on you, Continental. This is actually your only redeeming quality at this point. (With the exception of the woman for Flt. 611 at 5:30 this morning. Monster. MONSTER. Fire her.)
- All in all, Continental, I will not fly you again if I have my druthers.
- I don't like you. Many people I know don't like you. And Jesus doesn't like you.
- Because if I'm here and not in Austin...he won't get his birthday cake.

...Continental, do you really want to piss off Jesus? I didn't think so. Now get me home.

The Megster

And Then Came the Snow...

2008-12-10T11:00:00.003-06:00

I always assumed snow was silent, a gentle gesture cradling the earth, putting it to sleep with her hushed lullaby.

Yet I peek outside and hear her swirling in the air, a soft whisper to my ears. She dances across my face, rests on my tongue and settles at my feet.

I hear the church bells chime and watch as she swings and sways to the tune, begging for applause.

Snow - in all of her glory - whispers all around, begging me to play.

But I swaddle myself inside and admire her performance from within, imagining what life will be like in a Rockwell painting.

And I quietly dream of chicken noodle soup to soothe the phantom cold I'm holding at bay as I entertain the best relationship I've ever had...

...the one with my couch.

Ahhh, life. Beautifully intricate yet incredibly simple...life.

The Megster is Creatively Challenged

2008-12-04T10:58:00.003-06:00

....so this is what you get. A totally narcissitic yet fun account of life. However, I'm afraid the author was a bit obsessed with Paris and managed to create an irritating string of redundancies. Fascinating.

(Hi Dad! Love you!)

The Megster

My Life in Bold, courtesy of my friend Wendy.

1. Started your own blog (clearly.)

2. Slept under the stars

3. Played in a band (if junior high noise making counts?)

4. Visited Hawaii

5. Watched a meteor shower (surreal - West Texas skies are good for this)

6. Given more than you can afford to charity (it's called tithing. I do it when I can or I provide for the community.)

7. Been to Disneyland/world (ugh. NEVER want to go back, even with kids. Amusement parks freak me out.)

8. Climbed a mountain (Texas hiking isn't exactly Mt. Everest, but it counts.)

9. Held a praying mantis

10. Sang a solo (i made sounds only dogs could hear, I'm sure. Horrific.)

11. Bungee jumped

12. Visited Paris (spoiler alert: this pretty much settles all the Paris ones, don't you think?)

13. Watched a lightning storm at sea (tornados striking in the middle of the ocean is unsettling yet oddly very, very cool.)

14. Taught yourself an art from scratch

15. Adopted a child (maybe someday if the occasion arises.)

16. Had food poisoning (suck it, Taco Bell.)

17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty (even better - the Duomo in Florence. A bit of a b*tch, but totally worth it.)

18. Grown your own vegetables (Maybe in the spring!)

19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France (haven't been to Paris - this pretty much settles it.)

20. Slept on an overnight train

21. Had a pillow fight

22. Hitch hiked (i'm not that kind of crazy.)

23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill

24. Built a snow fort (maybe this year!!!)

25. Held a lamb

26. Gone skinny dipping (ohhh, that was fun.)

27. Run a Marathon (are you kidding me? If I run, someone's chasing me.)

28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice (we couldn't make it to venice. No time. Sad face.)

29. Seen a total eclipse

30. Watched a sunrise or sunset (Sunrise...those were the days.)

31. Hit a home run (that's funny. and, well, not in the baseball sense.)

32. Been on a cruise (won't go again until I'm 80.)

33. Seen Niagara Falls in person (I found the end of the rainbow at Niagra.)

34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors (Ireland someday.)

35. Seen an Amish community

36. Taught yourself a new language (my attempt at French proved to be a very futile effort.)

37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied (when I was young and $5 could buy my whole world.)

38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person

39. Gone rock climbing (not a fan - didn't get very far - maybe a foot or two up. It was a nice and impressive effort.)

40. Seen Michelangelo’s David (HUGE hands.)

41. Sung karaoke (the bum-bum-bum's in Sweet Caroline are my thing. Otherwise, you won't hear a peep.)

42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt

43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant

44. Visited Africa (TOPS OF THE LIST! SOON!)

45. Walked on a beach by moonlight

46. Been transported in an ambulance

47. Had your portrait painted

48. Gone deep sea fishing

49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person (words cannot do it justice.)

50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris (again with Paris?!)

51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling (freaks me out - never again.)

52. Kissed in the rain (divine.)

53. Played in the mud

54. Gone to a drive-in theater

55. Been in a movie

56. Visited the Great Wall of China

57. Started a business

58. Taken a martial arts class

59. Visited Russia (no, but I've been to Alaska, does that count Palin??)

60. Served at a soup kitchen

61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies

62. Gone whale watching (Flukes!)

63. Got flowers for no reason

64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma (Not yet for money.)

65. Gone sky diving

66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp

67. Bounced a check (whoopsie daisies.)

68. Flown in a helicopter

69. Saved a favorite childhood toy (Boo - I heart you!)

70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial

71. Eaten Caviar

72. Pieced a quilt

73. Stood in Times Square (stand there long enough and you'll swear the entire world passed you by.)

74. Toured the Everglades

75. Been fired from a job (threatened, not fired. ha ha.)

76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London

77. Broken a bone (many. It's kind of sick.)

78. Been on a speeding motorcycle (not a fan.)

79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person

80. Published a book (ohhhh, it will happen.)

81. Visited the Vatican (Um, if you've been to the Sistine Chapel - you've been to the Vatican. But whatever - I was there during the Holy Year. Phe-nom-e-nal. My photo of St. Peter's Basilica below. Wow.)

82. Bought a brand new car (give it up for the Civvi!)

83. Walked in Jerusalem (someday....)

84. Had your picture in the newspaper (not quite a mugshot, but might as well have been.)

85. Read the entire Bible ( I would think the pieces of my faithful life would equate to it. But...probably not.)

86. Visited the White House

87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (I'm from Texas. That's how we roll.)

88. Had chickenpox

89. Saved someone’s life (It's insane what pushing a code button in a hospital on a nursing team can do. But I realize that's a stretch, and not entirely humble. Deal.)

90. Sat on a jury (voir dire, but not selected. Thank goodness.)

91. Met someone famous (happens a lot. Can't explain it. And many are terribly boring.)

92. Joined a book club (Though I think it's more about the wine and community than the book. Hmmm.)

93. Lost a loved one (sad.)

94. Had a baby (one day...)

95. Seen the Alamo in person

96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake

97. Been involved in a law suit

98. Owned a cell phone

99. Been stung by a bee

100. Fostered a rescue animal (always wanted to!)

Your turn....

Humbled by Life

2008-11-25T10:12:00.005-06:00

What would you do if you knew that you had to relocate your life, never to return to what you've always known and loved?

Would you make like evacuees, grabbing everything of sentimental value and life support, and get the hell out of dodge...never looking back?

Or would you make time for everyone you've ever loved, sometimes sitting in silence, other times talking until the sun burns out - trying to grasp every second and capture it in your mind's time capsule?

I can't even answer my own questions. I'm sure, given my incredibly uncanny ability to detach, that I'd be torn between the two. In some way - I managed both when making my grand break for Vermont.

Permanent relocation in some sense is a death. But Vermont is merely a shade of it, springing forth new life, and pales in comparison to this:

We're relocating my mother's parents - Mom-O and Daddy-O - from West Texas to Austin where they've lived for more than 60 years...Mom-O her entire life.

Mom-O and Daddy-O lived and loved in West Texas, the land of endless sunsets where you could smell the money wafting in the air, collect pecans in their backyard - maybe even small apples.

Mom-O had a full life there. She played violin, loved going out with her friends and loved her job at Gulf Oil. She made friends quickly everywhere she went, she painted and she wrote poetry.

She met and married Daddy-O there. They had a baby and nurtured their family in a mid-century dream. They went to First Baptist Church of Midland every Sunday without fail. They had a life-giving network of friends and colleagues - they're family far exceeding just the three of them. They supported our country and the community - Daddy-O in the Army and as a Mason, Mom-O through the church and her sewing club.

Many years later, Mom-O suffered her stroke there and Daddy-O, with the help of Midland's incredible medical community and the grace of God, nursed her back to health.

Then they shook their core again when moving from their home on Sinclair to their condo in the retirement community. They made friends fast, true to form, and recentered in a new, easier life. And as God's nature would have it, they outlived all of their life-long friends...and even many of the new ones. Funerals and sympathy cards were de rigeur.

Then the fog came. Age swept in like a beast, pillaging their mental capacities, trapping them in their own minds, crippling their movement. Down, down, down they went - grasping for each other in frustration and anger, but always seeded in love. They gave "falling for you" a new meaning...each time collecting new bruises and scrapes like badges of honor. Their pride eroded as they witnessed their own fragility.

And now, during this season of gratitude and celebration, they are faced with saying goodbye to their community and way of life, acutely aware of the permanence. They will not return to West Texas until they are laid to rest, side by side, in Big Spring.

They will retire yet again to smaller living quarters and round-the-clock assistance. Mom-O will worry about whether or not Daddy-O is meeting other women in the building and she'll fight to stay engaged and follow conversation like she so easily used to do. She'll continue writing in her failing script because she's compelled beyond measure - and I'll keep reading it.

Daddy-O will worry about those he meets and how they are doing. He'll worry about himself and Mom-O. That's what he does - he worries. He'll sit in silence often because he can't hear the conversation...but he'll always carry a big smile of greeting, inviting you to come closer - and I'll keep gladly falling for it.

They'll each embrace each other in their tiny dorm-like apartment holding on to waking moments of still joy. They'll spend time with mom and dad at their home, soaking up human interaction and avoiding the dogs underfoot. I will curl up with them at Christmas and we will laugh at the silliness of rampant confusion.

They will follow Christ and shine his light upon each other. They will softly hum "The Lord Leadeth Me." And they will love each other endlessly, always, even through the dark.

And I will always love them.

The New England Chronicles, Part IV

2008-11-18T10:03:00.007-06:00

Good morning, crickets. How is life treating you?

I've been chugging along here in Vermont, anxiously awaiting the first snows. My home feels like a home now and I've enjoyed hosting friends for tea, brunch and booze...you know, the yoosh.

As I was walking to work this morning, I wondered what the white crap was falling from the sky. It was so faint, I wasn't sure....until it started coming down in a big way. When it registered that it was indeed snow, I kind of lost my s**t and dorked out. I'm afraid I was very annoying about it and I think I scared my colleagues.

Check it out:

Great Expectations

In general, I've clearly had a LOT of time to think up here in Siberia. This is quite a scary proposition - me left to my own mind. Sometimes I get lost in it and tangled up in passing fancies, none of which ever come to fruition. This is ok for the most part - but also toes the line of danger, creating expectations when there is no chance of meeting them.

I've become involved in St. Andrew's and interested in fostering this community. I truly enjoy the people and the format. It's been difficult, however, not to project my past experience with Untitled on to St. A's.

Case in point: The leadership team retreated for bonding and planning last weekend and it was quite odd not being a part of it. Not so much from a matter of inclusion, but more of a phantom urge - like shades of a past life. This is the type of community and level of participation I've known for the last few years and though the desire to be involved here is presently a subtle nag, not being at a retreat was just weird. In the end, I was happy to learn that everyone enjoyed it and found it formative and useful.

I've really enjoyed the opportunity to listen to their stories and learn about them during our weekly discussion group. The conversation becomes more dynamic each week. I've even found my shell of social stupidity beginning to dissolve - finally - and I don't sound like a complete moron or lunatic each time I speak up.

Last week we talked about the concept of risk and how it applied to Paul and his nephew while Paul was in the Roman prison. Naturally, this was only a grounding storyline for a discussion and it took off from there.

Most of us at this age find it easy to speak from the perspective of relationships and this particular night was no different - if not most relevant. We can all agree that entering a relationship of any kind - but especially of the heart - is a risk. And if risk is often defined by what you have to lose (or gain, for that matter) - then intimate relationships are the biggest gamble.

It occurred to me after that - as I've become an expert in the art of breaking up - entering a relationship isn't a risk for fear of it ending...

...beginning a relationship is a risk because I'm most afraid of it actually working out. I obviously don't know what that's like - and hope to only once - but it terrifies the s**t out of me.

Frankly, I suppose one of my biggest weaknesses is truly understanding my worth and this undermines every relationship I've had. I just don't get why anyone would want to be with me. (I understand this is a loaded statement, but just roll with it.) Yet as I get older and embark on new adventures, I realize (though fleetingly) that I am worth it. All of it.

So take that, L'oreal. Perhaps I'm a professional gambler yet. Though I'll likely stay away from the tables...

I'm going to go play in the snow, now.

The Megster

To Hell and Back

2008-11-07T08:34:00.006-06:00

Anyone who's spent time in Texas during the summer likens it to Hades, the Greek underworld. The heat mercilessly weighs on your chest like a cinder block for about six months. Condensation (my nemesis) is ever present, wrecking surfaces. Everything just sweats endlessly.

So when I moved to Burlington, I was giddy for the retreat from our tropical climate. It was immediately invigorating to roll into a region where I didn't want to die from the heat or otherwise wish myself into a puddle of mush. I certainly don't miss it.

Homesickness is beginning to set in, though. Not the kind that will wreck my new life here, but the kind that subtly floats to the surface, presenting in different ways.

I yearn for familiarity....the kind where you can walk in somewhere and just be "known" - where I don't have to explain myself or risk being misunderstood, where I can speak without being a socially stunted idiot.

It seems my body is yearning as well. As oppressive as the climate in Texas is, it's what I know, and though my body has never really been cut out for the heat, it's certainly feeling the absence on a very cellular level. I prefer the cold and do well in it, but the absence of Hades is an adjustment and sublty makes itself known.

For example, I've been researching the yoga landscape in Burlington and before I knew it, made a very hasty decision. I would give Bikram yoga another shot. That day. Yes, Bikram. The kind set in a room pushing 100 degrees, humid with the musty sweat of others.

It's been years since I practiced this particular version of body bending and I was confident I would tolerate it perfectly well.

Until I walked in the room.

All confidence suffocated with my breath as it caught inside my chest. My skin prickled immediately and felt like it was burning. It was as though my skin was yelling at me for subjecting it to our old life. I felt like I wrecked - or at least regressed - my adjustment period to this part of Siberia.

I made it through the class, stopping for water more often than others, executing most moves from my tightly wound muscles. When I couldn't do the most complicated postures that made everyone look like Twizzlers, I just focused on refining my balance. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn't. But let the record reflect that I never fell...just wobbled a bit.

I suppose I'm proud that I completed the class without taking out those around me, suffering a heat stroke, passing out or otherwise dying. (They should have a crash cart on hand for people like me.)

But I'm MOST proud that - given my propensity to perspire during exercise like a fat man - the guy in front of me dripped sweat first.

I. Win.

I don't anticipate my return to Hades any time soon and am seeking a more tame version of yoga. I'm just grateful that it warmed my heart and presented a piece of home - if only for 90 VERY LONG and sweaty minutes.

Still standing (*but check in with me in a few days.)

The Megster

The New England Chronicles, Part III

2008-10-29T09:29:00.007-05:00

Hello friends!! Happy almost-election day. I suggest you take full advantage of the early voting option to avoid potential STAMPEDES at the polls. You don't want to be trampled like Discount Granny at a Wal-Mart on Black Friday.

I mailed it in. (Love that phrase, don't you?) In this case, it's a good thing. I just confirmed my ballot was received and processed and I can rest easy knowing I've exercised my PRIVILEGE to participate in our democracy.

Often times, voting is defined as a right, but it sure as s**t can be denied. Or ignored. The latter makes me sad. If everyone of age in this country has a voice, I'd hope they'd raise it. Especially in matters which affect them directly regardless of socioeconomic status or politics.

Ultimately, even if they have no opinion one way or another, I'd hope they'd vote out of pride for their country and the opportunity to participate in it's decision-making process. As a citizen leader, our vote is powerful.

Life continues on a settling course here in Burlington. Here are some random Meggerings (and photos!) to fill you in:

I've become obsessed with the weather. I feel every degree drop and observe the varying degrees of beauty in awe every morning. Everything about it is invigorating. As of ten minutes ago, I've become formally enrapurted and now have a local RSS feed from Weather.com. Sweet.

My friend Tay asked if I was ready for the first snow storm, to which I replied: "Snow? I don't see no stinkin' snow." Then I walked to work and realized it's lurking on the shores and Addy mountain tops across the lake. I suppose its only a matter of time.

I've found it incredibly difficult to shop for down winter gear as it all seems bulky, stifling and hot. I've never experienced the weather calling for this attire, so it is a bit unbelievable and I can't imagine a time when I will need it. (Check in with me again in a couple of months. Open mouth, insert foot.)

I check out the rock thingamajig in the park daily for a new object but haven't seen one recently. The notepad disappeared, though. What's next? Dog leash? Bag 'o' doggie poop? Crack pipe (not that it's THAT kind of neighborhood, but you just never know)? Skateboard wheel? Toy? Cold hard cash?

I attempted the extreme last night and thought I'd whip up some chile con queso from Fonda San Miguel. Shockingly, all of the ingredients were available at my natural market. I was so excited!! I even stumbled upon some EXCELLENT locally-made tortilla chips and salsa (it's ok, I was shocked, too.) So I get home, get to gettin' and teach myself how to roast poblano peppers. SUCCESS! I get all the way through to the "just add cheese" part, and, well, that s**t didn't melt. Ever. Turns out, the "Mexican" white cheese I bought was made in Connecticut. That should have been my first clue...

If you'll recall, my framer in Austin was stoned off her gourd when she did my photos and four of six slipped within the bound and sealed frames. So I took them to Creative Habitat for correction last week. I remember the first time I went to Creative Habitat - it's exterior is sleek and bright and resembles a Container Store. I was so amped that I found a one-stop-non-big-box option for my home needs. Unfortunately, it was a craft store a la Michaels. What a grim reality. However, colleagues highly recommended their framing department so I fully trusted their capabilities. But when I picked them up, I found they did one upside down. Granted, it's a reflection photo, but details weren't on their mind's menu. Seems easy enough to go in and secure the photo like you found it, no? Clearly - very difficult. So I return yet again to pick up the corrected (x2) photos. I finally got around to hanging them last night after the Big Queso Let Down. Well, the Creative Habitat f'ers messed up another one. The matt and photo coordinated, but the hanging hardware did not. I rigged it, but it's not flush with the wall and I need to break down and go back. AGAIN. I also mounted my big mirror on the wall and it seems secure, but I fear that it will fall and break in the middle of the night, waking me to the sounds of an "intruder." Crap.

I'm enjoying church and the people a lot. It's different, but I never expected it to be the same. I'm happy to take what I find. My faith continues to run deep, assuring me that everything will work out and not to worry. If anything, it presents new observations and epiphanies, one by one. All in all, my heart is happy.

Every now and then, I get a pain of homesickness for my friends and my family, but I'm finding the phone and cards and letters to be a great substitution. My heart breaks for one of my best friends as her relationship ends. I wish I could be there for her, but I pray for her each day and send her hugs on the phone.

I'm learning to carry my umbrella EVERYWHERE. I'd really like a red one, though. Not so much like Rhianna, but there's something charming about the thought of a red umbrella and the snow. And I DO NOT pull off the drowned rat look very well, as evidenced on Saturday. I looked like a homeless person who just looted clothing stores. Pitiful.

I'm so excited about Thanksgiving. Looks like it might be a BIG family affair!

And the idea of writing more and even formally is bouncing around in my head. I keep stewing on it, hoping a cohesive idea will result.

All my love,
The Megster

The courtyard outside our office.

Battery Park on my walk to work. Lake Champlain is in the background.

Battery Park

The sun setting over Lake Champlain at the office.

The Burlington Farmer's Market last Saturday. Check out the little Yoda in the corner. It was a city-wide children's Halloween parade - so neat.

This morning, it is snowing in the Adirondacks across Lake Champlain from the office. And it's creeping toward us...

The New England Chronicles, Part II

2008-10-21T11:30:00.007-05:00

Good afternoon, lovelies. I was in Baaaa-stan all last week for work and it just near killed me. But I loved it!

I was so excited to get "home" (even though it still feels like a stranger's house) that I got my first speeding ticket in Vermont. You see, the standard speed limit is 65. This is practically a crawl for my car. It is NOT programmed to go that slow on a clear, dry day. I'm accustomed to 70+ speed limits in Texas, meaning I typically exceed them by about 10-15 mph. I'm not bragging, it's just a fact. SLOW is not in my vocabulary. I'm stoked about the ticket, though. It means I have officially arrived.

The weather is growing colder and its rainy today. But the trees are positively on fire! If Moses of Exodus were around, I'm sure he'd be quite confused. Even when its a clear day, I've come to love the sight and sound of raining leaves. I also very much adore the sounds they make underfoot. All in all, it's been a great awakening to my senses.

"They" (being my old neighbor Ms. Pauline and the people in the coffee shop) keep talking about snow later this week. SNOW. I still think this whole concept of snow is all in their heads. Perhaps it will be flurries at night that won't stick and I'll never know the difference. We'll see.

Now that the madness of Boston's event preparation and execution is over, I'll have an opportunity to branch out in the area. I love exploring the region and learning something new about it each day.

The people, on the other hand, are another story. Everyone at work and church has been fantastic, but outside of those entities, New Englanders are really taken with themselves and not willing to get to know new people. FASCINATING and perplexing.

I'm still confused by the whole idea that I'm the new one, which is why I bring it up. Again. I've never been the new person before. College didn't count because we were all new. Now I know what its like to walk into church and not know anyone, or anywhere else for that matter. It's kind of nice, though. It presents a fresh start and clean slate. I've always been a very transparent personality, but knowing that all these people don't know my s**t is pretty refreshing. (Not that there's anything remotely scandalous or remarkable, for that matter, but still.)

I'm looking into cooking and photography classes in the area. (The shock! I know!) And yoga. In fact, I attempted a new pie from scratch the other night. Classic apple pie - very Americana. I wish I'd been able to pick my own apples, but alas, never could make it to an orchard during picking season. So I bought local, organic apples from the market and got to gettin'. Turns out, I make a pretty divine apple pie. I rule.

I very much look forward to having a dinner party at my house. I actually have the room and a more-than-suitable kitchen, it only seems fitting. I'll even take care of the provisions. (The shock. Again!) Now, who should I invite? And what should I make? I suppose that's the fun part....anyone want to fly up from Texas?

Random Meggerings from the last week:

Driving in Boston is a suicide mission. I hope not to do it again.
The Big Dig freaks me out. It would be my luck that a concrete tile - or the whole thing - would fall when I'm passing through. I avoided it at all costs.
The stone structure thingamajig in the park is graced by a new and peculiar object. Last time it was a set of keys that someone finally collected. This time, it's a little plastic-covered flip notebook. It looks like ones the detectives carried before PDAs. I'm tempted to flip through it, but it was rainy and wet today. Definitely not ideal.
I've become so accustomed to making my own food that I grew tired of restaurants in Boston rather quickly. (Who would have thunk it?)
Note to servers - when someone tells you they're vegetarian, you should listen. A group of us went to an Italian place for dinner one night in Boston. I was the only meat-eater at the table, which was fun because it's usually the other way around. Two of my veggie peers ordered a pasta dish with marscapone and asparagus. They received their entrees and were a bit confused about the brown broth, but assumed it was just different than what they expected. Alas, the server comes out and asks them to confirm their vegetarian status. When they did, she quickly apologized...and told them they were eating veal. VEAL. As in baby cow. Out of all things to serve a vegetarian by mistake! Thank God they didn't get sick, but it made for a very entertaining evening. Moo moo, buckaroo.

Cheerios for now.

All my love,

The Megster

The New England Chronicles, Cont.

2008-10-10T09:05:00.006-05:00

Good afternoon, crickets. I can almost hear you chirping...but not quite! I suppose I can't accurately entitle this column "Continued..." because I've not formally written under the headline "The New England Chronicles." But you get the idea given the general topic of late. (And guess what - there are PHOTOS here. But you have to read to get to them. Mwah ahahahaha!)

I'm off and sprinting at the new jorrrrb and heading to Bean Town for a long week with three consecutive events. "Baptism by fire" doesn't begin to cover it...and I'd rather have it that way than any other. My rhythm is naturally unfolding during the 9-whatever and my social life will follow...eventually. (Here's hoping. Geez people, really.)

I'm learning that my rhythm in Austin was at such a fever pitch that I played as hard as I worked. If I worked 60-80 hours a week, I played as much - if not more (Oh, my bleeding liver!). There was no rest for the weary. An action packed schedule was my drug and it hard wired my body's chemistry to yearn for a certain level of activity.

But all of a sudden, I'm adjusting to a new pace. I CLEARLY needed the break, a breather, a rest, a change of pace. But the LIFE CHANGE (no, not menopause, marriage, children or such - you know - the complete and utter displacement and topped off by making every little change I've ever wanted to make all at once) is not just a breath of fresh air, it's a welcome attitude adjustment.

Try turning your life completely upside down and tell me how you feel or if you're not a "feeler" (Myers Briggs people, pipe in here), tell me what you think.

Following are random Meggerings of the week:

Some mornings, on my walk to work, I see the clouds sleep low in the Adirondacks bordering Lake Champlain. Its not fair, really. They hit the snooze button longer than I do. And anyone who's had a slumber party at my house knows I hit the snooze button. A lot. I'm a bit compulsive about it. I might need to get one of these.

Speaking of sleep - I realized last night that in hotels, I take up the entire bed beginning in the center. Yet at home - and on my new mattress nonetheless (OMG, it's dreamy! I never knew 30-year-old mattresses were like concrete slabs until now!) - I hug my side of the bed as if I'm sharing it. It's almost like some part of me thinks the other side is still taken, so I'm trying to force myself to sleep in the center of the bed.

I saw my first crack whore wondering about the ol' 'hood. She looked like a randy one. I almost wanted to stop and ask her if she was trying to escape her own problems - or the flying monkeys...but I didn't.

The set of keys sitting atop the rock structure thingamajig in the park for the last few weeks were gone the other day. I don't know if a concerned citizen picked them up, or if the stoner that left them behind finally remembered whereabouts they were. Fascinating.

There aren't sprawling apartments complexes as we are accustomed in the South, rather they are multi-family homes - and they have basements. Some of those basements are apartments. The weather is perfect for screen doors-only which caters to my voyeuristic side, so you can imagine the *JOY* I find in taking a peek inside during my walks home from work. This alone forms a bit of a guessing game with one particular dwelling. On any given evening, its any one's guess who will be channel surfing on the couch. I've observed quite the rotating cast of characters...none of which can be stereotyped or covered in an episode of Seinfeld or Friends. I often wonder which one holds the lease, or if it's a secret half-way house. I'm tempted to pull out my camera and snap a shot each night, but that seems a bit intrusive. I suppose I'll never know the real story...but making up tales for each person is much more fun!

I took my inaugural drive through the mountains to Stowe for leaf peeping last Sunday. I was so overwhelmed by the beauty that I wasn't quite inspired to snap any photos. I did, however, observe the official Leaf Peeping tourists living life through the digital LCD screens, missing the true glory surrounding them. Such a shame. I stumbled upon the Von Trapp family lodge (yes, of The Sound of Music) which was unexpected yet very cool. And I also noticed all the New Englanders that bitch and moan about Leaf Peepers were, in fact, leaf peeping. Suckers.

Ever since I was a kid, I've had issues with spatial awareness. Ask my mom. Apparently, I really thought - until probably an age when I should have gotten it - that you couldn't "see me" if I couldn't see you because my eyes were covered up by a blanket or my hands or what have you. Good thing I get the whole "my car is not a force field of opaque energy shielding me from everything therefore you cannot see me picking my nose" like everyone in the world does not seem to get. (Seriously, man, that's gross. Stop it.) However, it's taken some time to understand that my SCREENED-IN PORCH is not opaque and that, indeed, if I can see you - you can see me. It appears from pictures and the street that the screens OFFER such protection, and that, in fact, I can sit there in peace and observe the neighborhood's goings on without my presence factoring into the equation. I learned the other night that this is not the case. (Let's be grateful it's not hot and I was not in night clothes of some sort.) Two men were walking by. I was sitting on the porch on the phone with a friend in Texas. The phone was covered by my hair and the LCD light shut off by this time. I was in listening mode, but as the men passed by, I began talking. They looked at me and thought I was talking to them. This is when I became acutely aware that, holy sh**, they can see me - and they think I'm talking to them. So they tried to engage in conversation. I tried to explain that I was on the phone. And this entire time I'm thinking, oh my God, they probably think I want to buy an 8 ball and all I want to do is catch up with my pal in Austin. So I shooed them off with a gesture signaling "Not talking to you, I'm just on the phone, but all is good, peace in your hood..." and they proceeded to say hello, throw some deuces, then carried on with their business. Everything was hunky dory until I got home the next night and one of them was lounging - literally kicking it on the curb - next to my yard, not far from that screened-in porch. Good thing my place is locked up like Alcatraz. (My corner, not yours, mister. Go smoke your cig somewhere else.) I'm not even in "tha 'hood." WTF is that?

Someone ate my yogurt from the office kitchen. We were getting along so well, fellow workers. But that was so uncool. You don't mess with The Megster's food. Not ok. Repeat. NOT. OK.
Lastly, I just signed up with the Rite Aid as my new pharmacy. It's downtown - not far from work, not far from home - just right. It's not in the "ghetto" if there even is one. It's kind of a mystical ghetto - if you will. Well, the Rite Aide IS the ghetto. The folks in there might as well be dealing heroine with the baby wipes and kool aid. That's all I'm saying.

So yeah. That is all. For now. I have A LOT to do before leaving tomorrow for a (pretty?) drive to Boston beginning at 6 a.m. (Kill me now). Reminds me I should start Map Questing...

All my love!

The Megster

Oh, and photos? PHOTOS! In addition to home photos posted in an earlier column, here are some more. Check it, wreck it, double deck it.

The Anthropology of New Englanders

2008-10-04T20:20:00.008-05:00

Good evening crickets. I hope you all are still chirping along just beautifully! I survived my first two weeks at the new jorrrb and am settling into my home. It's finally starting to feel like one.

The only thing I really need to make time to complete is hanging pictures. Unfortunately, the framer I formed a great relationship with in Austin was, in fact too high when framing my photos (no really, I'm not kidding - stoned off her gourd) as four of five have slipped from their mats. This would be an easy fix in a cheapie frame. Alas, they were professionally done (I now use that term loosely) and I am unable to rig them alone. Here's hoping I can find someone in town who can get the job done without redoing them altogether.

I also accomplished a major milestone in this little New England adventure. (Well, it's almost a delayed quarter-life crisis, if you think about it. I've mentioned that I'm making big changes all at once, why stop at the small things like a new job and cross-country move? Do it all together - like a Band-Aid - one move, right off....)

So, I bought a compost bin today. I navigated my way to the Intervale to buy a compost bin at Gardeners Supply. Both places are SO COOL that I left thinking I could actually garden or something. (No - I am not stoned off of MY gourd. Can it.) So after going through a compost 101 course with the nice lady at Gardeners and selecting the right bin, I committed to assembling it...

...and proceeded to curse at it for about an hour. That sh** does not fit together as easy as a puzzle piece like it says. Stoooopid DIY. I eventually finished it, but I do wonder how long it will take before I'm feeding the neighborhood Templetons and Pepe Le Pews. God bless it.

About New Englanders

Here are a few things you need to know about New Englanders. I will continue to educate you on my findings from the field, but feel free to toss any curiosities my way and I will see what I can answer or myths I can debunk.

1. Vermonters love their kale. I mean seriously freakin' love their kale. It must grow wild here. There must be fields of kale that grow abundantly and out of control. I swear it comes up in conversation about once a day and resides on every stinkin' menu. You could get your entire RDA of any vitamin imaginable out that stuff. It's probably the next super food. Mark my word(s). KALE. (And me no likey.)

2. I drove with the women to the boss man's house for a shindig tonight. The moo-cows were out. I know I'm in dairy country and all - Ben & Jerry's just about grows on trees and I can't get Hagen Daas to save my life (or spell it, but whatever) - but this farm land practically looks like a California dairy commercial on the T.V. where the cows talk to each other (good one, Lee!) I was so tempted to yell out "Hamburger!!!" to give the beef a little scare like the old days in Freer, but I'm afraid I would have scared the women more than the cows. I'm sure they already think they grow 'em weird in Texas, they really don't need anymore ammo. (Daddy's got enough.)

3. Winter and the extent of it seems to be the primary topic of conversation. Especially with me. Seeing as how I'm bringing it up again - because everyone keeps telling me about it - you're going to keep hearing about it. That's all they talk about. OH MY GOD. I'm going to die.

Seriously. (Actually, I'll quite love it, but still.)

I have a running list of what I need to acquire, but am considering establishing The Megster's Fight to Survive Winter Fund (TMFTSWF). If you'd like to contribute, please let me know. Donations are accepted! Ha ha.

This is what the natives suggest:

Snow shoes
Boot clamps (wtf? On second thought, I fall a lot, these might be a good idea.)
Um...proper boots on which to clamp said boot clamps.
Snow tires
Trunk gear (sand, blanket, flares, flashlight, etc.)
Down blanket COAT
Mittens / Gloves (you know, the ones that are gloves with the mitten-cap thingies that bums where? I think they have the right idea! Brilliant.)
Some other kind of boot that I can't remember the name of. (Dear Lord...how many different kind of boots. I like shoes, but geez!)
A light box. A LIGHT BOX.

4. So here's the skinny with the light box. Apparently, Burlington is the second dreariest city in America behind Seattle. That's just lurrrvly. People strongly suggest I get a light box to help stave off Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) - depression - winter blues, etc. etc. Basically, burn the sh** out of your retinas at least once a day so you won't be tempted to do yourself in before the ground thaws and new life breaks through. Stupendous - can't wait!

5. Additionally, Mother Nature is trying to tell them they're in for it this year (not quite feeling like a WE yet....). Like seriously asking for it. The size of the acorns, pine cones and apples are ENORMOUS which means she's feeding her critters and fattening 'em up for a long-a$$ winter. I suppose I should be taking note, but I'm just too vain and that's not going to happen. So sorry. Bring on that badboy blanket coat.

6. Another thing about New Englanders is...they still aren't a chatty bunch. I keep thinking I will have a different experience while out and about, but not so much. I just keep my head down - almost retreat into an anti-social shell. It's very odd. (With the exception of the charming and cute manboy bartender at one of my favorite restaurants yet. He remembered me from when I was here trying to find a place. I might become a chatty regular. )

7. Yes, all you movie quoters. They really do make their own applesauce. Should I acquire a food processor, I wouldn't be beyond the same an I'm hoping to make it to an orchard tomorrow to pick my own apples!! Only difference between me and Diane Keaton is a booger eater.

8. And yes, maple syrup really does flow freely down the streets. People carry brass taps in their bags here and walk around tapping trees. For real. Find a maple, walk up to it, and tap that trunk. (Hahaha. That sounds totally foul.) But seriously, yes - they tap a tree and I can't wait to check it out for myself. It would be SO much cooler if they did it the more spontaneous way, though...

Alas, there is much more in the chronicles of the Anthropology of New Englanders, but that is all you shall receive for now.

Pictures coming soon!!

All my love,
The Megster

Megster, The Sherpa

2008-10-01T19:59:00.004-05:00

There's a way around life of which I'm accustomed...and walking everywhere is not one of them. But Burlington is primarily a pedestrian or bicycle-prone town and seeing as how I cannot ride a bike, this poses a bit of a conunudrum. So I walk everywhere...literally. I haven't driven my car since I went to the movie theatre one town over on Saturday night. It is now Wednesday.

I've enjoyed getting to know my town and look forward to the day when I hike to a destination and arrive without being winded. (Yes, I'm the clammy idiot who's crawling into the doorway with flushed cheeks, gasping for air and pleading from a drymouth for water. Come on. Help a girl out.)

I'm also the girl who looks like this...

...when walking home from City Market with just a few groceries, trying to find a short cut home but who accidentally finds The Ghetto, then gets lost in it. And it's growing cold. And it's raining. Moron. Give me Toto and call me Dorothy!

To top it all off, I've turned my dietary and culinary lifestyle upside down and inside out. For starters, I went grocery shopping. And then I bought a coffee maker and taught myself how to make coffee. And then I've been making myself breakfast, lunch, dinner...and mid-morning and mid-afternoon snacks. (Heimlich - you would be so proud of me!!!)

I also stocked my kitchen with my saintly friends: Guadelupe, San Juan, de la Guarda and Jude (naturally). St. Jude, patron saint of difficult and desparate cases, keeps me company as I painfully belabor the daily, low blood-sugar induced "what the hell do I do for dinner?" scenario. The guardian stands by, calmly keeping watch over my humble abode. The virgin of San Juan (well, there's always gotta be one!) is the keeper of hope for when I have none...but I'm not gonna go lighting her up or anything. And then there's Guadadulpe who receives all the Hail Mary's I can toss at her when everything goes to sh**.

(But really, who am I kidding, I'm not Catholic, but the idea of Saints is cathartic...and kitsch.)

All in all, change is the name of the game for life so far in Vermont. As far as work is concerned, I've hit the ground running and, well, tripping daisies is the best way to describe it. We're figuring out my role as we go along, knocking out two big events back-to-back in Boston in October...and I'll pull a Jesus if I have to...we sit on Lake Champlain after all (look mom! I got the "l", no "g"!) - I can always go walk on water if worse comes to worse. Hahahahaha. Or not. (Seriously. That was NOT in my job description.)

I'm just blessed to work among AWESOME people doing INCREDIBLE things.

That is all.

I am tired. And sore.

F'ing stairs.

All my love,
The Megster

The Gold....

2008-09-30T09:51:00.000-05:00

...I fell down my stairs this morning.

That is all you get for now. And truly, that alone should last you for weeks. Happy laughing and mental replays.

The Megster

A New Rythm

2008-09-27T20:21:00.003-05:00

Good evening dearest readers. I feel obligated once again to warn you that this is a long one. Consider most going forward to lack brevity. Deal with it. :-)

I'm writing to you from my front porch (Lynne - you can appreciate this!), listening to Norah, enjoying a mild-close-to-cool-but-not-quite evening, digging my wifi that I proudly installed myself. My secured network's name is "Mine. Not yours." Naturally. The only thing that would make it better would be wine, but I've got a nagging phantom headache, probably from late nights and dusty boxes.

I've finally dug out from under all of the boxes and books after a series of 3 a.m. nights. I'm in a two-bedroom cottage-like place and it's ASTOUNDING how much I crammed into a one-bedroom home in Austin, barely larger than a studio.

In fact, for a kitchen where you had to step aside to open the oven, I'm still perplexed how I came away with four boxes or so worth of goods. Oh wait, that's right, most were cook books. How shocking for someone who never cooked!

Until now. For such a big life change, I've gone the extra mile and committed to actually eating in the majority of the time. Yes, that's correct. Why stop at a cross-country move and career change? Why not turn the rest of life upside down?

In the week and a half I've been here, I've since lived in the Courtyard Marriott (great people - highly recommend it), spent the first night in my new place, hit the town one evening with work friends, attended the annual overnight company retreat, the 20th anniversary company celebration, set up an entire household, met the neighbors (with the exception of those immediately adjacent and sharing the same foundation - total hermits) and found the movie theatre!

Here are some random observations about life in Burlington so far that I think you will appreciate. Granted - this quite literally is the FIRST evening I've had to just sit and think about anything and do nothing so there's time for so much more, but here's a first shot:

- My cottage has no fireplace but a phantom chimney. What the heck?

- I have a full-size stove and oven, but no vent above it. Is this even legal?

- I stocked an entire kitchen at City Market - Burlington's version of Whole Foods. Bought all organic and locally-sourced, etc....for the cost of two bags of groceries at WFM. You do the math.

Fo'. Real. I can live with this.

- Movie tickets are about the same price as everywhere else, give or take a buck. Concessions - half as much than the South! Again - Sa. Weet.

- Side note. Just met the neighbor. VERY cool. Teaches autistic kids. Serves at a great restaurant on Church Street. Loves our land lords. Told me my house was highly coveted. Good to know. I WIN!

- The clothes dryer has an external vent and I have to manually turn the washing machine's water line on and off. This is too much work. Then again, I have a washer and dryer. I cannot complain.

- Don't know if I told you or not, but the full-sized mattress box spring would not fit up the stairs. This posed a bit of a problem. I bought a new mattress for my bed, so the old top mattress and the new one worked together, but the guest bedroom will come together later. Darn it old houses!!

- I'm a bit of an Earnest Emma, especially when thrown into something new. So given the fact that I just extracted myself from a life-giving network built over a lifetime and dropped into a black hole in a new city, I have to start over from scratch both personally and professionally. You can imagine my intensity and passion to get to know people and my capacity to remember names, facts, details, org structures, roles, etc. in this environment might scare the s**t out of people. Everybody has a story and my insatiable curiosity combined with my earnesty and eagerness just drives this side of me. I won't apologize for it...I just want to know you, to connect. I'm in the business of people....I can't stinkin' help it.

- Back to the kitchen. I've got a recycle bin. And a compost container. It's amazing how you decrease true waste with these two items. You should try it.

- I also haven't filled up the gas tank once since I've been in town. That's kind of nice, too.

- I think my car is also in a state of shock. It can't decide whether it wants to have foggy windows or not. They'll fog for a few minutes, then they won't. It's really quite perplexing. I think it's taking longer to acclimate than I am.

- Everyone is quick to warn me about the winter. I think I mentioned this in my last column. But I'm mentioning it again because it's still a major topic of conversation. I still wonder if it's a myth...that perhaps it's all in their head. Ha ha. (Ask me again in January. Or February. Or March.)

- One thing about City Market that I forgot to mention: The pedestrians, cyclists, skateboarders, et al in the parking lot are mindless. Especially at night when it's raining. If you see my reverse lights, don't WALK BEHIND MY CAR. Chances are, I can't see you!! MORON. Seriously. I even have Texas license plates. Doesn't that say FOREIGNER to you? As in, "Oh crap, she's from a different part of the land and probably doesn't know what she's doing, I'll let her pass." But NO. I understand that all of these types technically have the right-of-way, but when there are other areas of passage in a compact parking lot and thruway with cars backed up, you'd think they'd take advantage of it. Clearly, this is not the case. Note to self: hitting a cyclist is not a good idea. Not that I did. But still.

- My neighborhood is quaint. I really like my neighbors. Miss Pauline lives behind me and has been here about 60 years - long enough to know everyone who's owned, rented and died in the area. She knows a lot of the history around here, too.

- Tina owns the home next to me. She's going to Laos, Vietnam on vacation. VACATION! She's a graphic designer in her 40's I'd guess. Very cool and a graphic designer. Haven't met her boyfriend yet, but she said he lives in the next town over. She's the kind of person I'd like to sit on the porch and have a glass of wine with.

- The last two nights I've also heard gun shots a within the general vicinity. (Mom and Dad - "gun shots" are code for "fire works". They have them year round, isn't that so cool! Must be a New England thing. Smiles.) But, hey, my place is locked up like Alcatraz and a lot of my colleagues live in the area, so it's not all that bad. It's charming and quaint - and not in a Craigs List kind of way.

- Here's a good one - especially for any Texans coming to visit - don't strike up random conversation with people shopping near you. You'll freak them out. Seriously. I was at Bed Bath & Beyond (yes, I caved) and looking for single, airtight canisters for my compost and coffee. This woman was looking at the same thing and I couldn't figure out by the displays which were in sets and which were single. So I tried asking her. She was so offended that I even spoke to her, it was appalling. I've never encountered such a mean person in my life. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. What if she's having a bad day? What if she just got dumped? What if her dog just died? But, oh no. She was spittin' nails MEAN. So I went to the lamp shades and came back to the canisters later. I know I shouldn't generalize New Englanders by one person, but I've noticed that they aren't as chatty as I'm accustomed. Note to self...keep trap shut. Just smile. Actually - don't even do that. You'll freak them out even more.

- I've never been the new person. Ever. When I think back to "first times" on jobs, they weren't huge impacts socially because I wasn't technically starting over in such a big way. But here I am - the new girl at work, at church, on the street, etc., etc. Sure, there's something appealing about this. But it's also quite intimidating. There's this certain aspect of it where, deep down inside, I'm like "will you be my friend??", like I'm hoping I'm cool enough to spend time with. Oh well. It'll all work out.

- Apparently, the office has Moped's for general use. Lessons to come. I can't ride a bike. Could you see me on a scooter? HOLY. HANNAH.

- All in all, I'm beyond happy to be working in a place that allows me to fight the good fight in some very small way. It comes with A LOT of adjustment and new, sobering perspectives. It even comes with learning budgeting and finance - but I'm actually kind of interested in it (Dad, you read that correctly. But you might need to go back and read it again.)

- I haven't had time to get home sick. Absence is felt and faces are missed, but voices are certainly heard. And social networking is a gem. Not using it? You should check it out...just a thought.

More Meggerings from New England to come. Please write or call to tell me what's going on in Texas Country. Afterall, I'm finding Vermont is a great place for secrets....

All my love,

The Megster

The Megster Lives!!!!

2008-09-24T16:47:00.002-05:00

....in Burlington, Vermont. Officially. I am here and the movers made it with my belongings today. everything is in tact from what I can tell. Though I haven't begun to unpack yet.

I still live in a hotel, though, but will be digging out of boxes tonight!

Apologies to all for little to no personal contact in the last week. If not busy with the Texas Tornado of Mom + Patty, I've been embraced and enraptured and indoctrined in all things work. Please forgive me!!!

I'll resurface soon to touch base with you and get all up in your grill.

Well...from 2,o51 miles away, to be precise.

All my love,
The Megster

Three Sparrows in a Hurricane

2008-09-19T21:55:00.005-05:00

Good evening, dearest readers (or morning, as the case may be.) This is a long one, so go get some coffee and settle in, I'll wait...

Vermont - I imagine you are a bit tired of hurricane talk, in which case, let it go. (Smiles.) This is what you haven't heard.

Texas - of course, you would expect nothing short of this type of adventure.

My mom, our lovely friend Miss Patty and I had quite the eventful and, at times, amusing experience. Our trip was one for the books...and the bookies. Here it is by the numbers:

3 Texan women
1 Honda Civic
6 Tanks of gas (give or take)
3 Nights
4 Days
8 States
1 Hurricane
2 days in rain
1 day in 75 mph wind in Kentucky
1 night through a rolling blackout in Ohio
Unlimited potty stops (Grandma's Vesicare doesn't work, only gives me drymouth. A bit counterintuitive, don't you think? Dammit.)
2 Bottles of Scotch
1 Bottle of Rum
1 Bottle of Vodka
2 Panic attacks
2,050 miles
1 Speeding ticket on Mom's tab
Unlimited laughter
Many prayers

Specific Meggerings:

Herikmer, New York. HERKIMER!!!

As Reese Witherspoon says in Sweet Home Alabama, you need a passport to visit the South. I think the same applies for upstate New York. We quickly figured out that they are just....differ'nt.

Case in point - it goes without saying the Butler women have a lead foot. So when mom got behind the wheel in Herkimer, NY, she got busted by a trooper for going 81 in a 65. Yes. A 65. Clearly, it never occurred to New York to match the rest of the nation, but whatever.

Anyway, Super Trooper picked mom out of the flow of traffic. (We're just convinced it had to be the Texas plates and the MEAN sticker.) She followed the rules and pulled gracefully over, kept her hand on the wheel and I efficiently reached behind the seat to grab my wallet and get the insurance. Well I'll tell you something, I've never seen a more Nervous Nelly in my entire life. Trooper Tom practically had his hand on the trigger the whole time.

The license and insurance was no problem, but when he asked about the registration he might as well have been speaking in Russian. We had no idea what he was talking about. And it took all I had and a s**t-eating grin not to meow at the Super Trooper. He offered no graces upon his return and sent us on our way.

It took us the remainder of the way until Niagra Falls to realize that 1) We're from Texas. He probably thought we were smuggling, packing, or otherwise crazy. 2) In Texas, we don't carry registration, it's on our freakin' windshield and 3) I reached behind the seat. He probably thought I was stashing something. I wish I was. It would have been more exciting.

Oh Herkimer.

How to Wash a Windshield

We make it across the entire United States and a stone's throw from Vermont, literally, and stop for gas when mom reaches for the gas tank when a sprite of a man lunges for it. Well, she didn't quite know what to do with herself.

One thing we don't see much of in Texas is full-service gas stations because no one wants to wait on your lazy a$$. Just do it your self. We didn't know we pulled into one, we just knew we needed it and thought we take advantage of one last gas take on the relocation bill (I is a smart cookie.)

Miss Patty finally gets her way with the windshield and we ask the man to clean it. So when he finds the bucket by the pump is empty, he swaggers back proudly with a large margarine container and proceeds to toss water on the windshield. Sweet. Progress.

Naturally we expected him to reach for the for sponge/squigee thingamajig next. Instead, he tells me to run my windshield wipers. As the solution. Come-again-are-you-kidding-me?????

And that was it. His job was done.

No tip for you!!!

I See Dead People

Oh...and there are LOADS of cemeteries. Beautifully preserved, amazing road-side cemeteries. I thought old people went to West Texas to die. Not the case. There are graves everywhere you turn in New England. The difference is they are steeped in history and are monumental, literally. My neighborhood was also a Civil War battle ground, apparently, and when they were building out a new sidewalk in the regentrefication not long ago, they found graves of forgotten soldiers. But I swear, every time I turn around, I see dead people.

The Road According to Mom

Ohhhhhhh. Look! I'nt that puuuuuuurdy?

The Road According to Patty

Uh huh. Where's the scotch?

Where the Heart Is

It has to be said, though, that our mood is tempered in the aftermath of Hurricane Ike as we communicate with loved ones in the area. Galveston and surrounding land is gone as we know it. The first aerial images we've seen appear as though someone just discovered the land and started working on it, not wiped it clean. It's devasted...just as the people are. I hope my friends from Untitled and other organizations are helping in the relief efforts as opportunities arise and I will as I can do so from Vermont. My thoughts and prayers are with our friends in the South.

All my love,
The Megster

Life in a Northern Town

2008-09-10T16:28:00.009-05:00

Good afternoon, dearest readers (or crickets, whatever). I bring you news today that may or may not be surprising, but is overdue nonetheless. I'm leaving Texas for life in a northern town.

Burlington, Vermont, to be specific.

Yep, you read it correctly. I'm relocating to New England to continue my public relations career in-house at a values-based, eco-friendly consumer products company.

This opportunity unfolded on God's time and proves what I always suspected - that the last six years were a training ground preparing me for something big. I just didn't know what big was or how it looked.

Now I have an idea and it's just a smidge overwhelming.

As I prepare for the cross-country move, stave off panic attacks and cram in time with friends and family, I often ponder how the heck I'm supposed to pack up an entire lifetime (or when I'm supposed to sleep).

I was born and raised in Austin and have stayed in Central Texas (minus two wildly intoxicated years at Texas Tech in Lubbock). I've toyed with opportunities in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York City, Dallas, Houston, Denver and Boulder. But those didn't work out for very specific reasons. And one of the primary reasons to stay was GCI Group (now Cohn & Wolfe) and its people.

Sure, I had the great fortune to work on global brands - consumer and otherwise - and accumulated an aresnal of experience to reference, but my GCI family made all of the difference.

Their support and confidence in me proves validating and I only hope that someday I can return the favor.

I've made friends here that I will keep for life - both internally and clientside. I've had the most formative experiences socially and professionally. But most importantly, I've had incredible mentors who opened doors just so I could take a risk and stretch my limits and capabilities or learn something new (and fulfill billable hours - I'm not gonna lie - someone's got to do the work!).

All that is to say that GCI taught me how to go the extra mile.

But no one ever thought the extra one would be 2,000 miles away, in a town smaller than San Marcos (can you believe it?).

So I'm left with bidding farewell to a network of friends and family established over a lifetime, hoping and pleading that many will come and visit. (I have a spare room!)

And I'll be thinking of you fondly when the leaves change and the temperatures plummet, when the first snows fall and when I'm skiing - because I'll be wishing you were here, too.

I hereby vow to not abandon my column. In fact, I envision a more prolific schedule as the move will likely be creatively invigorating, full of challenges, stories and new observations to share.

So keep checking in and shoot me a note once and a while....I'm only in one of the most awesome places in America. I'm not dead, for Heaven's sake.

So I leave you with photos of my little home just a few strides from Lake Champlaign, boasting porches perfect for perching...

My house. Well, the left half, anyway!

A yard! That I don't have to maintain!

The side and back door.

The back porch with an Adirondack bench, under a maple tree that will change colors, perfect for porch nights over wine. The only thing missing is a fire pit...

...and you.

All my love...

The Megster

The Real Reason by My Name is Sea

2008-09-04T11:40:00.003-05:00

Good morning, dear readers! It's my greatest pleasure to bring you another column by My Name is Sea (and long overdue - contributors, take note!) He pontificates on the great American privilege of the road trip.

Stay tuned for BIG news from me, but in the meantime and most importantly, I'll leave you to enjoy My Name is Sea!

The Megster

The Real Reason

Yes, just like you, the toll that rising gas prices have taken on me is not unknown to my pocketbook. The wallet is simply depressing to look at, when one is dreaming of new power sources and whether or not a smart fortwo or a Prius is more impressive to the opposite sex (sure, sweetie, it's not a convertible Vette that smacks of how much I make and how much I might spend trying to impress you...but it gets 80 miles to the gallon and is saving the world!).

But, tonight, that wasn't what grieved me. Driving along a dark two-lane, windows down and music up, the hell of the day began to make sense, and things which seemed so cloudy began to clarify. None of these epiphanies were for the better, I fear, but that is for another time. The point being, there's something about the road...the frivolous, nowhere to be road...that is better than a glass of wine for the day-weary soul. Whether it's the thump-thump of tires on corrugated gravel...or the great big nothing that swallows the lights and the din of the world once night comes...the road's hypnotic tendencies are obvious and ever-present.

Which makes it all the more surprising when one re-encounters this phenomenon, unexpectedly, outside the supermarket.

You see, we don't just DRIVE anymore. It's no longer an indulgence. It can't be, because it costs too much. We use our vehicles as only a means of getting from one required appointment or responsibility to the next. We plan our drives based on how short the distance is, even creating efficient and circuitous routes that can manage work, the grocery store, the gas station, the post office, and finally, home. I know of people who cannot procure groceries if it isn't along their way from one place to the next, so their workout gym is conveniently located (that's right!) next to a happy little H.E.B.

And I join their ranks, slating out precisely where I need to go and when and the fastest means. I'll leave something at work if I've forgotten it...

And by NO MEANS do I get in the car and see where the day might take me or the blacktop might lead. There aren't any borderline-crazy jaunts to see where a certain farm road goes, or how the stars look from under points on the map that are far from the standard home-to-work routine.

The road, muse that it is, instead lies fallow, and our situation is slowly killing something within us, slowly murdering that renegade we all harbor, who dreams (with Natalie Maines or not) of places where time evaporates and the only thing between our souls and minds is the distance between 65 and 80 mph on the speedometer.

So, for that, I hate you, oil industry. I hate you, 3.50 gas. I hate you, fat 'catters. Because you're feeding on a part of me that I miss.

And soon, it will have died within us and our only wanderlust will be to all points that the public transport can spirit us, or commercial airlines can supply.

But, take heart. All it took was a clear and dry evening in Austin, with Orion in his sky, accompanied by the lyrical genius of Cary Brothers to reawaken that ravenous part of me. If, somehow, it didn't cost me $10 for my simple moment...perhaps you'll be responsible for saving the world...one road-inspired dream at a time.

I guess the thing is, like "Red" (of Shawshank Penitentiary) said..."I guess I just miss my friend".

Faith-uh, Faith-uh, Faith ahhhh!

2008-09-02T14:26:00.004-05:00

I just love that song, don't you? George Michael will never be better (so he should just stop trying. For real.)

So if we go with what Georgey says, that "you gotta have faith," my questions are:

What is faith? And why do we gotta have it?

I know that we test it and profess it. Some of us are full of it. Then again, some of us aren't. It is a polarizing concept, often times bastardized by the media. Also by politicians. And by us. We step out on it. Or leap with it. It is a chart-topping song. And a famous country singer. And a two-legged dog.

But to me, it's pretty black and white.

You either have it...or you don't.

Whichever defines you doesn't make anyone better or worse. It just makes us different. And therefore more interesting!!

A formal definition is that faith is a belief not based on proof.

It is a blind acceptance that some things just are and I don't need concrete evidence as to why or what they are, especially if they are inexplicable. It is the oblivious abandon of children who just believe because something is. (Though, I must admit, the irritating strings of "why?" inquiries come later.)

I think faith is not always a religious thing, per se, but a spiritual connection to an existence bigger than yourself creating a belief - and a trust - that life will unfold as it should...sometimes regardless of how/why you think it should. (I am not speaking of matters predestined. That's a whole other conversation.) But, it's up to YOU to define what that larger existence is.

Is it God? A Government? A brand? A person? The universe?

I'll take all of the above.

I experience faith as the opposite of doubt. Ultimately, my faith is executed by trusting in God - no matter how much said trust wavers. But I also employ faith in a government (well, sometimes, anyway) and same could be said to a brand, the people who surround me and the universe in general.

I enjoy pursuing life in such a way that I believe myself full of faith and that it infects everything I do, how I communicate, how I behave and the choices I make.

But it doesn't make me perfect or righteous. It is not a platform to impress my beliefs on anyone else. The bottom line is it separates me from animals. Faith - and the choice to believe -makes me human.

Faith...is a way of my life.

I agree with The Dreamer (MLK, Jr.) when he says that faith is taking the first step, even when you don't see the whole staircase. (In my case, I tend to take a flying leap followed by a multi-flight tumble, then scabbed knees and broken pride.)

My faith tests the limits of my patience (which admittedly is lacking), my integrity and my character (which I would hope is NOT lacking!), and ultimately forces self-reflection and acceptance of what I've done.

As such, I went as far as to permanently mark my body with "Faith" in bold, black letters on the inside of my left wrist. In Jane Austen's handwriting, nonetheless! (It was an easy choice - all the others would have been a bit too Crip. Maybe even Blood.)

I'm sure you're wondering, if I profess to conduct life based on faith, why do I need a constant reminder?

Well, dear reader, I'm so glad you asked! It's a statement to myself. A loaded word to read when praying, begging and pleading, sobbing or thanking. I labeled myself with this one fact that, at times, defies explanation. It is a reminder to have faith when I fear it has dissipated and to remember the twists and turns survived when I leapt with faith (or tumbled down the stairs as the case might be).

So, without creating World War III or a total existential and philosophical debate, I sincerely am curious, fascinated even, to know:

Do you have faith? And what does it mean to you?

The Megster

Dear Intruder.

2008-08-22T11:15:00.007-05:00

Dear Megster, a.k.a. The Intruder,

My name is Sophie...and you are trespassing on my domain.

Every time you are at my house, or come within ten feet of me, I go bat shit crazy. And as long as I'm around, you will not come within two inches of MY mother. It's not that you are mean, in fact, I find you perfectly kind, but you are generally intolerable.

You divert attention away from me which is COMPLETELY unacceptable. Furthermore, I might look nice and cuddly what with my perfect hair and perkiness, but looks are certainly deceiving.

I am a raving lunatic (in the best sense of the word.) I will scream and shout and cause all sorts of chaos just to make my point. The decibels will be so ear-piercing and shrill, only brother and I can hear the best of them. And if you ever reach for me again, I will hide so far under the bed, even the Boogy Man won't get me.

So next time you visit and get comfortable on the sofa (you're in brother's spot, by the way) and I join you just one cushion over, perching prim, proper and sweet-like, don't look me in the eye...

...because I'm about to come at you like a mother-humpin' spider monkey.

But please do continue to visit. You give me something to do.

Look forward to seeing you again!

Sophie

Dear Michael Phelps Part II

2008-08-16T23:20:00.003-05:00

Dear Michael Phelps. I OFFICIALLY want to have your babies, you impeccable specimen of a man.

That is all.

The Megster

(P.S. Congratulations on your world records and gold metals. I've lost count. Kind of impressive, not gonna lie.)

Dear Michael Phelps...

2008-08-15T11:01:00.009-05:00

If you've been reading this column for awhile - or at all - you've likely noticed that I count my parents among my best friends. They are phenomenal individuals and as a couple so you can imagine my eagerness to make them proud.

Throughout the years, they've been exceedingly supportive of my relationships, learning more about our family dynamics with each one, and always there to help pick up the pieces when they inevitably fall apart.

Furthermore, you'd think my mother is like Linda Richman of SNL's Coffee Talk. (And I love that.) She's been known to meet men for me at the gas pump, the pool, grocery store and so on. It's any wonder I haven't gotten calls at the office because she gave them my business card.

(Still hoping the next time my phone blows up, it would be one of them, and not a vendor. Then again, matchmaking mothers wreak of desperation - unless they're of the Hebrew persuasion, in which case it's a shame she can't say, "My daughter the doctor.")

Naturally, she does so because she wants me to be happy in love and find a sustainable relationship. Who can blame her? I do so look forward to the day that I truly make them proud, and hopefully don't break their bank, when it's my turn to walk the plank, er, I mean aisle.

It's often said your parents know you better than you know yourself and in our case, it's more than accurate. I've gone so far to suggest Dad take a tip or two from the Indians and just arrange my marriage, seeing as how, clearly, I'm not such a hotshot when solely responsible for it. (And, at times, just plain lazy.)

But I was never prepared for this.

My father, bless his heart, has baby fever. I'm not sure if it's the jarring reality of his own mortality, or the life changes of his closest friends, but that man is dead set on me procreating. And soon.

In fact, he would like a shirt that says: Me - 0, My Friends - 6. And counting.

This is a bit shocking as I never thought someone would WANT to be a GRANDFATHER so badly. The title does age them a bit.

But oh, no. No no no no. Not MY daddy. Not long ago the topic came up (again) at dinner with our family and mom's cousins. He said he wanted me to have a baby, and when they reminded him I should do it in the right order, he said I didn't even need to be married. That he didn't care.

Shock me - shock me - shock me - with that deviant behavior - WHAT???

Did he just say that? (Makes me think all of the prophylactics and anxiety associated with oopsies were in vain. Damn.)

To which I responded, "I'm a fertile mertle and (I would think) somewhat desirable so I'm sure it could be arranged. But you're paying for the maintenance of a baby."

And that was the end of that. Well, for that night anyway.

I went over to the house this week to hang with the padres, watch the Olympics and play with the dogs. (Or so I thought. Boy and girl, both unfixed + she's in heat = wretched display of Animal Planet Live from Your Living Room and exertion of human energy to keep them apart. Then again, at least someone's trying to get some.)

So Father Dearest proceeded to share his new plan with me. Wait for it. Wait for it....

He thinks I need to spawn with Michael Phelps.

Not only is Phelps a handsome athlete of unbeatable ability, but he's incredibly humble, dedicated and a good sportsman. (Somewhere in there he mentioned all of the endorsement dollars. According to my parents, I'm not cheap. I'll take that as a compliment. But that's neither here nor there. )

One could assume that Michael Phelps would have good "swimmers" as well and therefore produce lots of little water babies.

Thanks for that recommendation, Dad. You don't aim high. AT ALL.

All of this baby talk makes me question if my singleton status approaching 30 is a bit disappointing for them. I've surpassed the age of my mother at my birth, so surely I haven't met expectations.

So if any of you, dear readers, know Michael Phelps, his mother, is separated from him by 11 degrees, or happens to be the night guard on duty at the Olympic dorms, please pass this note along to him:

Dear Michael Phelps, my name is The Megster. You clearly like to practice and I've heard practice makes perfect. And you're making records. How about making babies? What do you say?

I don't have high expectations, I'm just a lady of standards.
The Megster

INTRODUCING: The Business of Being Fine by The Voice

2008-08-13T12:14:00.005-05:00

Hello dear readers. I've been an absentee contributor, crippled by waning time and creative energy. Apologies...

I pride myself on those that compose my life: my incredibly witty, thoughtful, intelligent, damn funny, fascinating and incredible friends. I’ve asked a few to serve as contributors to this here column, providing them an outlet for their perspective and experiences. The newest is The Voice.

The Voice is not Josh Groban (the talented tool, but I wouldn’t decline if he asked me out). The Voice is one of my best friends and confidantes, a woman of incredible vocal talent in song, personal emotion and the discipline of her students. She’s an unabashed fan of the-ah-tah and bourbon…a randy combination indeed.

Please welcome The Voice to the Amusing Musings of Wandering Minds. Show her some love, now, as she ponders the popular phrase “I’m fine” and relates to it as a euphemism for an expletive and its status as an economic stimulator.

The Megster

The Business of Being Fine

Maybe it's too much "Sex and the City" lately (no cable + entire series on DVD = trouble), but I've had urges to write. Not being a writer and still feeling self-indulgent whenever I post a blog on Myspace, this has posed a bit of uncomfortable embarrassment, as if someone will leap out of the shadows any minute yelling, "FRAUD!!!"

That notwithstanding, I've been asked by The Megster to expand on something we were discussing last week, somewhere between Blanco and Johnson City eating Fritos and Twizzlers with the moon roof open and the A/C blasting. Not sure I can recapture that vibe now, but we'll give it a go.

So basically, ending a relationship f’ing sucks. It doesn't matter who leaves and it doesn't matter who's wrong…the suckage is epic.

I especially hate it because I go into Dawson's-Creek-over-analytical mode and try to pinpoint every teeninesy hint that it wasn't going to end with a champagne high. (Yeah, healthy.)

I would make Ollie Stone proud with all the conspiratorial bullshit that races through my head as I frantically try to convince myself this was all for the best and here are the 17 reasons why we weren't meant to be, starting from our first date.

I say all that to say this:

You would think I'd be chomping at the bit to share all of this with someone. You would think, being female, that I'd send out the bat signal and have a grand ol' time being listened to and supported and commiserated with in the company of all the fine women I have the pleasure to brand "My Friend."

You would think.

Instead, as the eyes are red and the color's gone from the face and I'm listlessly starting into space, when asked how I'm doing, I reply with (say it with me), "I’m fine."

WTF?! It's like Ralphie dumbly agreeing with that sadistic Santa that he would, indeed, like a nice football for Christmas. No no no no no you want that stupid rifle so grow a pair and spit it out!!!

But at that moment, the energy it took just to drag myself from emotional wreckage and surround myself with other people was waning. I can't even imagine answering that question truthfully.

So I go about the business of being fine. Call it survival mode or delusion or not wanting to articulate what just happened because that made it real. Paste the smile on, come up with the allergy excuse, and go about your business. Of being fine.

Because, God forbid, you – the one who asked in the first place – aren't prepared to handle THIS. If I’m this upset, that means I made a mistake, right? There's no way I can handle doubting the Choice while dealing with the Choice, so I invest in the business. Of being fine.

This would be okay, and I'm sure, one would argue, even a vital part of the grieving process, but the emotional fallout of burying grief ain't pretty.

I speak from the experience of one who was so determined to prove her worth and strength after ending an abusive relationship that I became almost femi-nazi in my zeal to decimate its memory. I was the “Queen of More Than Fine”.

Never mind that I was putting away a bottle of Jack Daniels every weekend and spending myself into financial ruin, not to mention seeing a psychologist every week.

My friends were so happy to see my “spark back” (direct quote) that I couldn't possibly burst their bubble and not be F-I-N-E fine.

So self-destruction ruled and has only just now taken its true form- plain old grief.

I don't know if it was turning 30 or if I'm channeling Oprah's idea to “live my best life” or if the liquor and shopping just didn't do it anymore, but I have had some intense and surprising revelations lately about said relationship.

I think I discovered I was ready, that I had the strength, to face the intense pain this caused me. I realized I was holding onto this and, in the process, holding myself back. (Did I mention I ended this relationship FIVE YEARS AGO? Yeah...)

The bottom line is that I allowed myself to NOT be FINE. It felt disingenuous and false, like I wasn't respecting my right to just grieve.

I don't always have to be together and strong and totally content with every single decision I've ever made. (Believe me, the controlling part of me balked at that for a long time.)

But that's not to say I'll abandon the Business altogether. There is something to be said about mind over matter- if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck...

There's also that thing I've learned about letting myself be open to genuine feeling, and sometimes that will require me to hide away for a bit. This doesn't invalidate the process or the experience, which was my fear for so long, it just means it's okay for me to do what's best for me. Selfishness doesn't always have to be negative. Epiphanies like these make the whole sordid thing worth it, truly and honestly. (Ah, the price of growing!)

In sum:

Bottles of liquor, trips to the mall, and countless first dates in the vain attempt to self- medicate - $500 (and then some.)

A month of psychotherapy to bitch about bad, not-okay, can't-play-the-guitar-nearly-as-good-as-he-thinks ex - $1000

The realization that it's okay to be a fallible, grieving, human being?

Priceless.

So I know my days of using the F-word aren't completely over, but that's okay.

Because right now, I really am fine.

~The Voice

I'm on vacation.

2008-08-07T19:15:00.001-05:00

That is all.

The Megster

Please Only Speak to me in Tweets

2008-07-31T10:19:00.004-05:00

Most digital media pros and other early adopters implement a funny little application called Twitter. Quite simply, it is a forum in which you (Narcissus incarnate) provide personal status updates in 140 characters or less like you do on Facebook or MySpace (or MyFacebook, as it is). You follow people, they follow you, and abrakadabra, you have a new social network.

Unfortunately (or fortunately - it's all relative), the Twitter application has been hijacked by mostly PR pros and journos as an ideation platform, messaging technique or news delivery vehicle. (But that's another post for another time.)

All that to say, I went to the Mashable happy hour last night with some of my fellow digital media gurus. It was DIVINE people watching, indeed! But the issue here, dear readers, is the long-winded techies at industry networking events.

Basically, it was a melting pot of all people tech, VC, marketing and beyond. (And it had a free open bar, but that's neither here nor there.) Upon arrival, we filled out a nametag and then acted like little school girls in pigtails when they gave us a sticker sheet. Yes. STICKERS!

The stickers are supposed to serve as a quick ID of common interests. But basically, given that you put your sticker-laden name tag on your chest, people just walked by staring at my boobalicious area all night. You'd think they'd be more discreet, but as they ALL had an agenda (except for me - quality time with the co-workers, peoplewatching, free booze), EVERY guy walked by and looked at my boob/nametag FIRST, then they instantly decided whether or not they wanted to speak with me.

Turns out, quite a few did. Additionally, I overheard some drones from another PR agency whisper, "hey. hey. That's Meghan Butler." I don't know if I should consider that a compliment or an insult. But whatever.

I learned very quickly that most of the people attended to grow their business and were relatively socially inept, yet SHAMELESS, about pushing their agenda. It dawned on me while entertaining one such road block where I was so close to the Promise Land (read: free open bar) and one intercepted me, that BREVITY is not in their stream of consciousness.

While I stared over his shoulder, discreetly yearning for the tap, I held back from blurting: "You have a Twitter sticker, therefore you should be familiar with the concept. So how about this: Save both of us a lot of time and speak to me only in Tweets (i.e. the 140 character Twitter feed) because, quite frankly, you are in a very dangerous position, fella."

Alas, I held back and charmed the lot of them as usual. But I think the concept of speaking in Tweets is quite brilliant and should be implemented immediately. (Well, by everyone except me. I can't keep it short. Clearly.)

Additionally, Little Miss Type A here almost came unglued a number of times last night. The exchange of introductory greetings is not a foreign concept. We learned at a young age the phrase: "Hi. My name is ----. Pleasure to meet you," so you'd think this would be a common thread among the social set.

But damn it all if some people can't grasp this concept. When I say, "Hi. My name is Meghan. Pleasure to meet you." I expect the same. As in, nametag or not, when I'm shaking your hand mid-intro, tell me your name (you incompetent nincompoop).

I can't tell you how many times in recent months I've engaged in this very normal greeting, and the other person just says, "nice to meet you."

Seriously? Act like you care if you don't, give me a firm handshake (none of this floundering fish nonsense), and make eye contact with me. It's REALLY not that difficult.

Bottom line: if you don't tell me your name during this very common, social interaction, you are conveying that you could give a rat's patootie. And that's just UNCOOL. Do this and I will banish you into the mental black hole and forget you immediately. (As I did most people last night. Sorry, dude, but I don't really care about your revolutionary social networking application that's going to change the world. It's already been done.)

So in sum by Tweet:

For the love of God, keep your pitch short and tell me your name. I have the attention span of a gnat in a socially overwhelming enviro.

That is all,
The Megster

Need a laugh? I thought so...

2008-07-30T11:56:00.005-05:00

So I had dinner with one of my lovlies last night. Quality time was long overdue and we had a stupendous time, as yoosh. When Mer asked about my last relationship and the status thereof, I quickly summed it up in one Mojito-soaked line:

"Yep. That was a clusterf**k of the heart."

Then brilliant Mer started humming a little tune. Total Eclipse of the Heart, anyone? Oh hell yes. Check out the lyrics and replace "total eclipse" with "clusterf**k" and I think you have a new - and very astute - hit song. (God bless Bonnie Tyler.)

Additionally, here's a little gem that I pull up every now and then for a good laugh. I've shared it on Facebook, but God only knows you need to see it. Again. Appreciate:

Have a good video? I'd love to see it.
The Megster

Coffee, please.

2008-07-24T12:05:00.004-05:00

I firmly belive that God places people and opportunities in our path for a reason. So when I received a letter from Mom-O (my grandmother) last night, it was powerful and cut deep, timely and divine, even though I couldn't read the majority of her failing pen strokes.

I called her immediately to thank her for her mini-care package of letters and clippings. I did my best to simply explain to her that she would never know how much I needed it at that moment, how exactly God spoke through her, or how much I loved her.

You see, I've never been good at communicating with Mom-O. It's one of my biggest faults and has always pained her because she was so close in proximity and relationship to her own grandparents. Last night's call was particularly endearing and emotional. I just hope she knows how much she means to me.

In her letter, she included a print out someone shared with her so I'd like to share it. As it was exactly what I needed, perhaps it will be the same for you. It's only fair...

Which are you?

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to a boil. She placed carrots in the first, eggs in the second and coffee beans in the third. Without saying a word, she allowed all three to sit and boil.

About 20 minutes late she turned off the burners, fished the carrots out into a bowl and did the same with the eggs. Then she ladled out the coffee and placed it in a bowl.

"Tell me what you see," she said to her daughter.

"Carrots, eggs, coffee." The daughter replied. (Ed. note. Smartass.)

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. The daughter noted they were soft. The mother then asked her to take the egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg.

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma.

"What's your point, mom?" she asked. (Ed. note. Saw that coming...)

Her mother explained that each of the items had faced the same adversity: boiling water. But each reacted differently.

The carrot went in strong, hard and unrelenting. However, after subjected to the boiling water, it grew weak.

The egg became fragile. Its thin outer shell protected its liquid interior, but after sitting in boiling water, it became hardened on the inside.

The coffee beans were unique, however. After facing boiling water, they CHANGED the water.

"So which are you?" the mother asked. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, egg or a coffee bean?"

After I read this, I thought:

Am I the carrot that seems strong but with pain and adversity wilts and loses my strength? (Um, no. Well, sometimes. Argh.)

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit but after a breakup, financial hardships, stress, ahhhh-life!, become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

(Meh-beh. S**t.)

Or am I like the coffee bean? Do I CHANGE the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot or when things are at their worst, do I affect the situation around me in a positive way?

(I have my moments of glory. I want to be the coffee!!!)

So which one are you? Carrot, egg or coffee?

If anything, you gotta be the coffee. It just smells better.

The Megster

Dear Half Price Books

2008-07-23T11:38:00.008-05:00

Dear Half Price Books,

I don't like you. I suppose I could end this letter now and be done with it, but that would leave me no satisfaction. Instead, I will expand mercilessly on WHY exactly you displease me.

First, you smell. And not in the good vintage book way. You just smell. It took me a while to figure that out but I couldn't understand why visions of barefoot people dancing in dirt at ACL were swirling in my head. And then I connected my nose to my brain. You have the faint scent of dirty feet. A-ha.

Second, your big squishy arm chair cratered when I sat down and I almost fell through it. And I am not overweight nor did I compromise it by plopping down all cattywompus. Perhaps you should consider replacing it. But I'd recommend NOT purchasing one at a second-hand retail outlet, though it only seems fitting given your business model.

Third, your clerks withhold important information. Perhaps, THE most important information.

I consider myself mildly intelligent. I like to think I'm a critical thinker and plan ahead appropriately. So when I'm doing something such as selling my children (aka: my books) and phone to ask questions such as when is the best time to come by, what is the process, what should I expect and what are your hours, I am doing so out of 1) respect for your business process and time and 2) so I might get the best value for my babies.

You can imagine my surprise when I show up at 9:30 when you close at 10 p.m., thinking I'm arriving at a slow time per all of the details you've provided, and you inform me YOU ARE NO LONGER TAKING DROP-OFFs.

W. T. F. That would have been nice to know. When I called. THIS MORNING.

Finally, Half Price Books. You are highway f'ing robbers. I've unloaded literally a trunkfull of books that I've treasured for many years and you take 10 minutes, TEN MINUTES, to take stock and full appraisal of their worth.

You should be ashamed of yourselves. I don't care that the hard backs are in paper back now. I don't care that some of them are no longer in circulation. I don't care that many of them aren't selling anyway. I don't GIVE A RAT'S ASS about the words coming out of your mouth.

My children are worth more than $35.25.

But who am I to judge? That's a tank of gas...

Bite me, Half Price.

The Megster

Random Meggerings of Thought #37

2008-07-22T11:52:00.009-05:00

Updated: This was originally titled "Random SMATTERINGS of Thought #37." We've since coined a new phrase as suggested by The BFF, an occasional columnist. Henceforth - smatterings shall be known as MEGGERINGS.

I thought number 37 was fitting as I'm sure I've shared at least 36 by now, if not more, and an arbitrary number such as 37 seemed about right. I don't have anything mildly cohesive to share other than the regularly colliding thoughts that battle each other among the ol' synapses. So without further ado:

1. Apparently, I'm a spiritual stirrer. I've taken great care NOT to hog the counter at Starbucks, but you can be damn sure I won't be quick. It seems I ponder all of life's quandries over my grande-drip-with-room-and-five-natural-sugars-with-half-and-half-and-a-straw. That's the cheapest therapy I've found so far.

2. We all have some not-so-stupendous particles to life, and should you ask my mother why those particles float about mine, she'll be quick to tell you: "She doesn't wear enough lipstick."

Oh yes, dear readers, ask any Southern Belle what is the staple of any lady's life and they'll be quick to share some variation of the "Pop, Pouf, Pearls and Pout" philosophy to life.

Translation: Pop your collar, Pouf your hair, don't forget your Pearls, and for God's sake, above all else, put some GD lipstick on your Pout.

Well, I'll tell you what. They didn't call me Rosebud for nothin' when I was a baby. I've got a perfectly pink pout. And my Lip Chap (aka balm or chapstick) does me just fine most days. And I'll be damned if I can't pull of a fire engine pucker or a perfectly-glazed kisser when the occasion calls for it. But I just can't suffer it most days.

But mother thinks it's all for naught because I "forgot" my lipstick. I'm usually greeted with "Hi! (She pulls away to look at me....long pause....) Where's your lipstick?" Quickly followed by "You'll never know when you'll meet someone!"

Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I caught her or her best friend in public without their "mouth on". Shoot, they haven't even swallowed their last bite before reapplying...without a mirror.

I'm sure it won't be long before we'll start asking Dad where his lipstick is. I mean, really, it's only fair. But in the end, we just laugh and say, "that'll blog."

3. The best decisions I make for myself are often times the hardest and most recently have been for the sake of my own growing up and not for someone else's. It's typically been the other way around. Ahhhh, life.

4. I think Alex Williams of The New York Times read my column about cancelled plans to London and THEN wrote his column about staycations. (Yeah, that's it!) So now I need to figure out what to make of my week off...any suggestions? I would really like to get out of Austin.

5. Anyone else feel like their memory is a black hole, but not in an addict sort of way? Just wondering...

6. Had a FASCINATING lunch with friends on Saturday. It was one of those Sex-and-the-City type lunches, but with two guys and two girls. It was not quite battle of the sexes and was even-keeled conversation on love and dating and spirituality.

The biggest question: Does anyone KNOW me? It regarded the famed blind date/movie/book/artist/dining-type of recommendation that inevitably fails but the conversation ultimately hinged on the blind date - and then dating in general and how the recommendation is an ultimate reflection of how your friend or relative professed to know you or interprets your tastes or desires. And how often times they MISinterpret them leading to DISASTER.

But therein is always a lesson - or opportunity - is there not? Shouldn't we always be OPEN to at least learn something new about someone? Or learn how to maneuver an awkward situation? Or open our minds to a new experience? Or learn a new and very creative and genius exit strategy? (I prefer the "sudden onset migraine" - works every time.)

7. The "Does anyone KNOW me?" conversation inevitably lead into the "how am I meeting the wrong kind of men?" conversation. It was vetty, vetty innnnneresting and lively, for sure.

The common consensus - and I can't BELIEVE I heard myself answering with this because it is something my MOTHER would say (I heart you Mom - and your lipstick) - but, dearest friend, you aren't meeting them in the right place. It's really not brain surgery.

(Now THAT'S a thought. If I want to meet a brain surgeon ala McDreamy, maybe I need brain surgery! My brain would be your dream. You'd be my dream. Even stevens. Sign. Me. Up.)

In any case, I was described, in so many words, as the equivalent of Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail (which, if we're being honest with ourselves, is plain white bread with b-o-l-o-g-n-a and nary a hint of anything saucy. But I've got some habanero hidden in there somewhere, I assure you.)

8. Sleep is overrated. I either don't get ANY, or I can't get out of it. Fudge.

9. Our family is headed back to the hospital next week so say a little prayer. I look forward to the many enlightening conversations I'll have with El Padre in the days following general anesthesia. It takes him a few to recover at his age and the conversastions are typically amusing, at most.

Maybe this time, he'll try to set me up with a doctor (you'd think my parents were Jewish given their penchant for matchmaking). However, he did warn the doctors that if they mess up again, they should run and hide from my fury (so maybe matchmaking won't work this time - unless the man in question likes his woman with a little fire in her belly).

My daddy is a smart man.

More Meggerings to come,

The Megster

Megster the Masochist

2008-07-17T17:37:00.009-05:00

DISCLAIMER: You asked for it. Literally. I haven't written a decent column in a while, so get your coffee or your liquor, settle in with your woobie, 'cause this is a doozie worth the boozie. Happy reading!

Hello. My name is The Megster and I....am a masochist. But not in the dirrrrty way as you are surely thinking. (Eww. Stop it. Now. Seriously. You should be ashamed of yourself.)

But I've taken to inflicting pain upon myself recently and its been quite an eye-opening experience. And mind-opening, at that. Oh yes, dear readers, it has been appalling. And repulsive. And hot. And saucy. And just plain gut-wrenching.

You see, I've decided to get off my tuckus and actually DO SOMETHING. And by do something, I mean, WOG. (Again, not a dirrrty.)

Walk + Jog = Wog.

A very simple concept for most of you, I'm sure. But I am a dancer by training and this is a type of agility and endurance I do not boast. Additionally, 28 years in Austin, Texas and you'd think I'd be acclimated to the oppressive heat that leaves me in a puddle every summer from dawn until dusk. Well....

I AM NOT.

I get up early and literally SLIDE out of my bed into the pre-set clothing and shoes on my chaise lounge, hair still in a pony tail (how do you think it stays so shiny??), load up on the trusty Secret (Shhh!) and brush my teeth so I don't offend anyone hauling ass and sprinting pass me (and by "anyone hauling ass" - I mean the elderly couple).

I chug some water for good measure, step outside my abode, and not five seconds down...I break a sweat. Hey-Seuss, Mary and Joseph you've got to be kidding. I haven't done anything!!!

But you know what? It's all good. We're in the Southern equivalent of Hell. I can take it. So I load up in the car and head to the trail. (Truth be told, I'm kind of bored with Pemberton. Great houses, zero motivation.)

I hit the coolers for good measure, set the iPod on my theme songs for inspiration, wipe the sweat off my head, and take off briskly to some MGMT, Ryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Bush, Gavin Degraw, Brandi Carlile, Rolling Stones (duh), Griffin House or the Beatles.

I watch all of the beautiful tanned, toned, glistening, perfectly-paced and trotting runners pass me by in both directions. And they sling sweat all over the place (where are their manners? Gross.)

Then there's that white-as-all-get-out, laboring, huffing and puffing, not overwight but damn sure never misses a meal chick that thought, "Hmmm, I think I'll hit the trail today! By jove, that's a jolly good idear!"

(By the way. That, ahem, is me.)

By the time I've completed a good two-mile course (don't laugh, it feels goooood), I've walked most of it and jogged a little bit of it. I'm soaked through like a drowned rat. I LOVE looking like that when all of those "others" - I cannot HELP but notice - still look all nice and pristine and put together after a 10-mile sprint around the freakin' city.

This last wog was particularly unique as it gave me a lot of time for my mind to wander. (Which really, if we're all being honest with ourselves, is why The Megster's brain was created - to wander. Hence this little column that you so sit in wait for day after day, week after week, or that you just happened to stumble upon -lucky you.)

Yes, something QUITE remarkable happened. After a very uneventful morning of routine preparations for work and my song's-drive in, I was sitting at my desk awaiting my Teradactyl of a laptop to loadup for the day when, all of a sudden, I had the very unusual and unexpected sensation and urge to BLOW. CHUNKS.

No lie.

I very casually and discreetly sprinted to the ladies' room in heels and called dinosaurs for a good five minutes.

I've wondered when the rumors will start as I'm almost certain someone was in ear shot. But to fully put those rumors to rest - no. Not possible. I assure you. With absolute 100 percent certainty.

BUT SERIOUSLY. W. T. F. was that?

It scared the living bajeezus out of me. And if this is what wogging + oppressive heat will produce, then what am I doing this for???

Self torture, dear readers, self torture. Because I CLEARLY love the pain.

All of that to say, I often times wish I had a steel trap installed in my head to catch all the random yet very profound and ever-so amusing musings that rattle around in the old noggin, especially when wogging.

For example, here is one of my most favorite thought processes from that day:

I have enough miles on American Airlines (sorry Sissen) to travel internationally (or three domestic round trips - saweet) and visit a friend in London, for example. I even have the option of free lodging by staying with her. This would be grand. Same could be used to see my sister friend and her new baby in Belize.

The problem, dear readers, is budget for the daily expenses that accumulate while abroad. You understand the incidentals that pile on.

I even have three roundtrips on Southwest that I need to use before year's end. And that only I can use. (Thanks Sissen!)

Pile on the excruciating work and stress load and the fact that there's never a good time to take a vacation for so many different reasons I can't EVEN begin to tell you.

Limited-to-no budget and all those airline tickets and heaps of vacation time...

Priviledged? Absolutely. Perplexed and in a pickle? Surely Sue.

So what's a girl to do???? (This is when you are supposed to throw me a bone. Thoughts anyone?)

So naturally, this rolled in to the financial predicament. Because, clearly, if I want to extend myself to travel on my own regard, I need to get out of my self-professed pickle.

That's when I realized - HELLO!! I am my own best asset. Who wouldn't want me???!!! (If you don't, don't answer that, you don't want to hear what I have to say. Capice?)

My parents, bless their hearts, have been expressing baby fever in very subtle ways. There are comments here and there, and yes, I hear them. In fact, though it didn't directly relate to babies, my mother did make reference to my age when discussing relationships recently. (*Ouch.)

I was quick to point out that, dear mother, your grandchildren are not rotten yet. Which leads me to my VERY BRILLIANT IDEA.

Sell the suckers.

I am only incubating (half parts) their future grandchildren after all. They're quite good and healthy. And clearly worth a fortune. Come on - blonde hair, blue eyes, healthy stock, Cherokee blood, who could resist??

That could solve all my problems! Then I realize its quite invasive...so perhaps that's not the best option.

Maybe HAVE them first and then sell them? Any takers? No? Not so much?

Ok.

I guess I'm left with my self-inflicted wounds of all the miles in the world and time to enjoy them, but not the means just yet. (If you want to be my sugar daddy, I'm gladly taking applications. Please submit an application to themesgstersmusings[at]gmail[dot]com.)

In the end, I suppose I have the same issues as any other young up-and-coming professional and one day all of this will be different and resolve itself and I'll have NEW issues (yaaaay).

Or like my parents, I'll be dealing with those of my spawn (I heart you mom and dad).

But in the meantime, I think I'll wog at DUSK when I've had an entire day of water ahead of me instead of beginning dehydrated.

And those tickets will come in handy very soon for me to possibly visit you. Who knows?

But I can tell you this - if you want eggs, I have a great organic selection. But I suggest you try Whole Paycheck's.

Wogging and an Aspirin, anyone?
The Megster

A New Post!! Finally!

2008-07-15T14:38:00.001-05:00

I haven't written. It's all in your head....

....and in mine. Funny, that.

The Megster

The Replacement

2008-07-01T12:34:00.006-05:00

Hello dearest readers! It's been awhile, I'm afraid. Work obligations prevent me from writing regularly these days and I do so apologize. I know you've been anxiously awaiting the next column. (Or not.)

During this time lapse, I recently identified a pattern to my life. It occurred to me that I might possibly be the female version of Good Luck Chuck...minus the whole whoreing bit.

It appears that most of the men I've smooched, dated or been in relationship with have found "The One"... right after me.

Clearly, I'm the filler flower - the baby's breath - of relationships.

I'd like to think that perhaps I'm boot camp for these lucky men. I train them for the benefit of someone else, all the while collecting stories of passion, neglect, heart break, humor or pity. (I'm all stocked up, seriously. More where that came from.)

As such an incredible trainer/drill instructor, you'd think I'd have a stack of "thank you" notes from the women I proceeded. It's only proper etiquette to express gratitude for the one that did the work, is it not? (Ladies, really. Where are your manners?)

The reality is, like Claire Colburn in Elizabethtown, I'm a substitute for someone else. A stand-in and in some very weird cases - a body double. And then there are the times that I clearly set the bar too high (bless their little bitty hearts).

I understand that, in some respect, we're all just placeholders and I'd like to think this is all a figment of my imagination...but history doesn't lie.

So men - if you are desperately seeking a significant other and eventually spawn - take me out on a date. That's it - just a meal. (Coffee doesn't count. Don't be a lamea$$. My time is worth more than a cup o' joe.)

After dining with you, I can then provide you a pretty solid guarantee that you will go forth and prosper with the next woman across the table.

(Sidenote: This endeavor is a great method to satisfy life's necessities such as human engagement and food. Brilliant actually. You pay the expenses in return for my charming culinary company - and you're set for life!)

In the long term, these experiences might very well lead to what I refer to as "Replacement Syndrome" in which case I wind up with my manmate, but under the surface, I'll always brace myself for the other shoe to drop.

In the meantime, I'm hungry. Want to eat?

(In)sincerely Yours,

The Megster

AKA

The Replacement. Professional Dater. Or, quite simply, Public Servant.