say (grilled) cheese (sandwich)

Today my love of photography bloomed! Bloomberg! Michael! That John Travolta movie! A cow's favorite pastime is going to the moo-vies! Pastime is not spelled how it should be spelled! Train of thought! Train tracks. Trax. Every single day.

As I was about to say before my train of thoughts got derailed, I have a sudden intense (in tents! camping! ping pong! fun game!) interest in photography. I think much of it has to do with sitting on a train for forty minutes a day and daydreaming out the window. Sure, I bring books with me to read, but I 100% of the time end up looking out the window, entranced by shapes and patterns and the empty spaces. And sometimes I take pictures.

My favorite photographers of the moment are two of my dearest friends -- Megan and my father. They both view the world in, for lack of a better word, abstract ways. They notice things I don't notice and I am grateful and delighted when they point these things out to me, whether directly or through their photos. I hope they never stop shooting. (Just Shoot Me! Television! Teletubbies! Remember the purple one that held a purse? I once purchased a fake Louis Vuitton purse! Shhh! Don't tell anyone! I'm hungry!)

So what I'm trying to say is that maybe I'll ask Santa Buddha Jesus for a nice camera this Christmas. I haven't been great this year, but I've been good enough.

Tad and T. rex

I have been such a grumpysaurus lately. And I promise you that there is absolutely no better word to use than "grumpysaurus." Okay, there are probably a dozen times a million better words to use. And I promise you that there is such a thing as a dozen times a million. The answer is 12,000,000, goofballs. ("I'll take 12 million goofballs, sir. No, I don't need them gift wrapped today, but thanks for asking.")

Back to the grumpy dinosaur: Why the scowl, Ms. Meghan? You got me. Can I use the excuse that it's simply "that time of the month"? Nope. Nope, I cannot because I haven't had that time-of-the-month for several, several months. Goddammit, I'm not only grumpy, I'm also a Debbie Downer. Okay, dinosaurs. Concentrate. Maybe it's that time of the year? You know, when life hands you 12,000,000 holidays (well, 2) in the span of just a few weeks? The older I get, the harder holidays become. Is it because being an adult means consistent existential crises? Reevaluating everything and everyone in ones life? Being piss poor and alone and sexually frustrated? Sure, sure, sure. That sounds about right (except for the sexually frustrated part, at least for me -- ONLY because I'm fairly asexual these days (no, seriously) and don't care (really)).

This holiday season might be a tad rougher for me. ("Tad Rougher" sounds like a porn name.) Nothing incredibly terrible has happened, knock on wood. ("Knock on Wood" sounds like a porn flick staring Tad Rougher.) It's just those damn transitions. ("Did anyone here order a pizza?" asks Tad Rougher, who is also the pool boy.) Moving back and forth between my new home in Salt Lake and my old home in Orem, while always missing my childhood home in Pleasant Grove and searching for a permanent home (where that is, I'll never know) is emotionally exhausting. The various marriages and divorces also add to the feelings of confusion, groundlessness, and loss.

Now here comes the paragraph where I talk about how, despite all the rough patches, I am blessed-beyond-belief. And I am, I know I am. But I don't have it in me to type up that paragraph just yet. I'm too busy fighting my own personal T. rexes.

baby baby baby oh baby

When my future child toddles up to me and says, "Mama! Mooshi mooshi! I want to be a hipster when I grow up!" I'll respond, "No fucking way, baby." Why? Because being a hipster, especially a hipster involved in the local music scene in a small Utah town crawling with chauvinistic folk, sucks. Oh lord/Thom Yorke, I just fell into a classic hipster trap, didn't I? The Self-Loathing Hipster©. It's not that I hate myself (but wait! I do! but not all of the time, only most of the time!); I just dislike much of what I was surrounded by in my early 20s. (Side note: Please help me with my punctuation. I am so lost when parenthetical statements get involved.)

Far too frequently I put myself in situations that pacified me. The males thought they had a right to my time and my attention while the females were in vocal admiration, but silent competition. My body was a shell, my brain fuzzy, my words seemingly unnecessary. And for whatever reasons, I put up with all of it. Maybe I was too tired, maybe I didn't care, maybe I was too tired to care.

This helplessness was not always prominent. There were periods of loveliness and connection and compassion. The helplessness, however, was a loyal thread that ran through those formative years, always there to soothe and suffocate. I do not know who I am without it.

And so, future sweet babe o' mine, I will try my damndest to keep you out of skinny jeans and floppy beanies for as long as possible.

knees and responsibilities

I wonder sometimes how and why and for what reason I ended up where I've ended up. Why was I so compelled to move to Salt Lake? And why did I stay here when everything was bleak and nearly unbearable? I quit two jobs after the first day and then later on I couldn't even get a job. I started slipping away into my bad habits and patterns and people and then suddenly I inherit a knee injury and a huge responsibility. The responsibility, of course, being the one-on-one aide to a child with severe emotional issues. These two events forced me out of my rut and thank god that they did. But it's too early to tell if this particular job is why I have ended up here. Besides, do I even believe in that kind of fate? "Things happen for a reason." Maybe not. "People are in your life for a reason." Maybe not. So who knows? I am going to be completely optimistic here for a minute, but I believe I can be a positive person in this child's life. I believe, ahem, that I can make a difference. If nothing else, I want to be someone that will listen. I am not sure many people really listen closely to this student. And that's a bit of a tragedy. There are other days, of course, that I'll just want to (and will) say, "Oh, fuck it." I'm prepared for those days. I'm always prepared for those days.

the sun also sets

See. I told you I hate nights. Wait, did I tell you I hate nights? I actually love love love them once I collapse into bed and open a book. Why? I know that there's nothing more I can do except get semi-lost in whichever book I am halfheartedly reading at the time. But then I fall asleep after about seven minutes (IN HEAVEN!!!) (JK!!!) and dream of abandoned amusement parks. Interrupted sleep, always.

Why can't it be 10PM yet? Then I would feel more "justified" collapsing into bed. Oh, what the hell. I don't need any justification! Justify THIS! (Justify what exactly, Meghan?) (I don't know, don't ask me.) But then I'll fall asleep way too early and then be wide awake by 4AM and drink a Rockstar just because and then feel awesome and like I am going to take on the world and I'll write another blog post and I'll reblog some stupid pictures on Tumblr and I'll watch clips from The View on YouTube and then it will be 5:02AM and I'll be, like, "Oh shit." Point is, I might need a cat more than I realized.

Or a Xanax? A cat and a Xanax. A cat named Xander and a generic Xanax named Cool It Cool Cat. Yeah. Those are the only two things I need. And a dumb book.

the ego also rises

I love being on a "steadier" schedule. Steady for me means that I go to bed before midnight and wake up before 8AM. I am a morning person through-and-through. I crave the sunrise and the quiet that comes before everyone starts busying themselves with this and that, distracting themselves until nightfall when all of their regularly scheduled programs arrive on their screen and oh wait, that's also a distraction. Hey, even this blog is a distraction. So it goes.

The thoughts I have in the morning, however, can be just as moody and disturbing as the thoughts I have at night. There is usually more optimism and hope that follows the morning thoughts, though, but still. So, for almost no one's reading pleasure, here are some of those morning thoughts...

Facebook, you bastard/bitch. (Wait! Before I begin, let me say that I am beginning to hate that the words "bastard" and "bitch" seem to only be used in negative contexts. Let's reclaim those words, people! Let's never put anyone or anything down ever again! We're all just trying to be happy! But I digress.) I cannot help but get online, log on, read various comments/status updates, and then somehow have my ego bruised by what he or she did or did not say. For example, a gal pal is coming into town for Christmas and tagged about 20 people in a note saying something along the lines of, "Let's hang out!" And the bruised ego comes from the fact that she did not tag me. Yeah yeah yeah, boo hoo hoo who cares. But apparently I care. I begin thinking all kinds of things, such as, "I thought we were better friends." "She probably hates me." "Why does she hate me?" "I guarantee it's because I am too sappy and 'woo woo.' I probably annoy her." "She's really smart and funny and I bet she and all of my so-called 'friends' and all of my exes sit around and do mean impersonations of me. They may have even gone so far as to create a voodoo doll of me. This really sucks." And so on. Having an ego is sure a lot of fun! And we all have one, too, so we can all have fun together! Dammit.

Anyway, that's one of my thoughts this morning. I guess that is more than one thought. Perhaps you could say it's just a shitload of paranoia I have stirred in with my morning coffee. (Note to no one: It's a Rockstar today, not coffee.) (Gross.) How do I stop these wonky thoughts from driving me bonkers? I've got many options: Stay offline. Block certain people. Let go of the stories I create in my mind. Be kinder than I think I should be to both myself and others when I feel the urge to indulge in petty and destructive behavior. Catch the thoughts before they erode my happiness. How do I catch them? Through training? Meditating? Contemplating? Navigating? Ing! Ing! ING! Catch 'em all! Was that a Pokemon line or something? I barely missed the Pokemon craze growing up. Should I give Pokemon a chance? Should I poke a man? No. No, I do not want to poke a man hint hint.

Damn these beautiful mornings and my brain that will never, ever allow me to rest.

JOB!!! whoa.

Well, the impossible happened: I am employed.

I work at charter school in West Valley City called Alianza Academy. The director of the school has a nose ring. A few of my employees have gauges. I saw Salinger's Nine Stories on the bookshelf. The academic dean recommended that I read Anne Carson's Nox. THEY HAVE A COFFEE MAKER. Yep, I feel much more at home in this environment than I ever did in my years working for public schools. Thank Santa Buddha God.

I am an aide for one particular student who has special needs. I do not know much about him yet except that his favorite color is green and that he is a semi-professional hula hooper. I suspect I will get to know quite a bit more about him as time goes by, seeing as I will be spending at least 30 hours a week one-on-one with someone. That's a lot of hours, folks. I don't even want to spend that much time with a romantic partner. And then the old question must now be asked: Who's going to learn more in this situation?

salted peanuts part two

More questions and answers headed your way! It's never too late to back out now! I warned you!

QUESTION NUMBER FOUR: What are you most grateful for in life?

relationships (with family, with friends, with strangers), water, open spaces, the desert, the mountains, the beach, food, forgiveness, vulnerability, compassion, quiet, solitude, creatures, rocks, the sky, books, words, music, gentleness, honesty, walks, conversation, connection.

QUESTION NUMBER FIVE: What are the most important things to you in life?

Living (and also consistently questioning) my own personal truth is vitally important. Learning to care for and trust oneself and others is also important. What else is important? Well, compassion.

QUESTION NUMBER SIX: How would you describe yourself?

A neurotic seeker and observer whose heart is in the right place... Most of the time.

More. Later. Now? LUNCH.

sunday thoughts part 1

I have only wanted this once before in my life, maybe for the wrong reasons, but I find myself wanting this again: Children. I mean, definitely not right away. I can't even keep a cactus alive. Eventually, however, I would like to be a mother. (Please know: I may change my mind. I've been known to change my mind a few times.)

I made new friends last night. It felt and still feels great. I am proud of myself, even if I made some stupid decisions last night as well. Meg! People aren't as scary as you keep telling yourself! Sometimes they are TERRIFYING, though. Watch out for the terrifying folk, but overall trust others more.

Winter is a paradise. I hole up inside like a little bear and read read read like a little bear who has the ability to read the written word. Smart bear. Or should I say "beary smart bear"? I should. And I did.

Is Lagoon still open? Who wants to go? Just kidding (but not really). I should save my money for my psychedelic Disneyland trip. Not kidding. At all (but kind of).

There is hope yet just around the corner. I feel everything in my life shifting. I am glad I did not give up.

salt peanuts

Have you ever felt like taking a wild guess? I am about to give you the opportunity to take the wildest guess of all time (or at least in the past 200 years). Guess which Meghan is really super extremely disgustingly hard on herself? You li'l mothereffer... You are a pro at these wild guesses. Good job.

In an attempt to not freak out on myself, I think I need to first know myself. But then again, learning more about me may give me more reason to freak out on me and oh my this coffee is way too strong today. Contrary to popular belief and wild guesses, I'm not so sure coffee/caffeine makes me a "better writer." My caffeinated mind tends to be even more all-over-the-place than my regular mind, which leads me to believe that I have two separate minds -- a caffeinated one and a regular one. I cannot focus! I need some Focusin! You know, the ADD medicine Bart Simpson was on in that one episode where Bart Simpson took ADD medicine? Yeah, great episode.

I found a goofy blog that is all self-helpy and other bullshit like that. Okay, it's not (entirely) bullshit. They have a post titled "101 Important Questions To Ask Yourself." And I was, like, "Bring it on." I won't answer all 101, heavens no, but I will attempt to answer 7. Do you care to read? This is more for me than it is for you, but then again we are all interconnected and Buddha and ohm and I am you and you are me and we are all walruses and walruses are elephants and the giant elephant in the room is that, yes, we did elect a black president. Joking. I love Obama. And black people. And black coffee.

QUESTION NUMBER ONE: Who are you?

Oh, fuck you, Question Number One.

QUESTION NUMBER TWO: What are you passionate about?

I am going to ignore your improper grammar because frankly I don't really care. Okay, my passions: A list: Here we go: Get ready: You've stopped reading: I can tell: I am passionate about... Nature, relationships with others, Buddhism, spirituality, body image issues, literature, writing, nature, feminism, gay rights, nature, gay nature, nature is gay, food.

QUESTION NUMBER THREE: What are the achievements you are most proud of?

I guess graduating from college was pretty shit rad. I am also proud of being published multiple times, forgiving and asking for forgiveness, reading great works, being the lead in a few plays, running my own marathons, asking for help.

Okay, I'll only answer three questions this time. Slowly I'll answer seven and then ever so slowly shall I answer 101. Or 102! I always push myself.

stay tuned

Drinking whiskey and deciding to blog at 12:27 in the morning is usually not the smartest idea, but there are worst decisions to be made, correct? Correct.

Still. I shouldn't have said that I am still in love with him. To be entirely honest (as opposed to partially honest, which I am most of the time), I am not even sure who "he" is. I believe that I am in love with various ideas and paths and possible lifestyles. I want this life or that life. I want whatever carrot is dangling in front of me just because it is there, slightly out of reach. I want because wanting fuels me, temporarily, and helps me to get out of my IKEA bed in the morning. And so it is rather easy to attach the source of my happiness and longing onto another person when in fact they are just there to fill in that gaping hole called "emptiness." Huh. "Gaping hole." Perhaps that was not the best way to phrase it. Well, sir/ma'm, no turning back now! There is no backspace on the keyboard of life, and yes, we have no bananas.

Do not get me wrong; I still desperately care for, in my own bizarre ways, those whom I have loved. I just do not believe anymore that they are "what's missing." What's been missing is honesty. Honesty with myself, honesty with others about myself. I am beginning to fully comprehend this and starting to come to terms with a particular truth I simply cannot deny any longer. And as terrifying as this truth may be, it is also incredibly exciting and such a damn relief. I feel like I am coming home.

massage

I like old blues music more than I like most people. And I like people. I like observing people, not actually interacting with them. But anyway, blues. Yeah. It hits the spot everytime.

I don't care about purses. I don't care about shoes. I care about words and eye contact and glass bottles.

I am still in love with him.

He has no idea. But I hope that he hopes that it is him.