A man named Larry and Hebrews 13:2

I don't think I've met a passage of Hebrews that I didn't like. Funny, right?

This morning I had to be up at the hiney crack of dawn, drag two half-sleeping boys from their beds and drive nearly an hour and a half to the airport to put one brother on a plane and help another brother understand his tears and why he had to say goodbye right before a big holiday.

Modern life is complicated, Boo...that's about all I can tell your sweet self sometimes.

Because Boy Wonder was flying unaccompanied, Boo and I had to go through security all the way to the gate. And wait. Good lordy, did we wait.

 See, last time I tried to pick this child up from this same airport (Hobby, also known as the Airport that Time Forgot), I got stuck in a security line to Philadelphia and it was a MESS. So we were very, very early this morning on what is supposed to be the busiest travel day of the damn year.

We lucked out and got to Gate 48 with nearly two hours to spare. And unlike United who likes to board you the day before and make you sit for 17 hours in their tin can of death, Southwest is waaaay more relaxed and tend to shove everyone in about 10 minutes before takeoff. I love them.

In our 120 minutes of kill time, Boo alternated between downing a bag of skittles (my bad) and pressing his nose to the glass to watch planes coming and going. Boy Wonder tuned out the world and played Super Mario Brothers.

So there was me. And then there was Larry.

He asked me about my UTEP sweatshirt. His wife is earning her master's in special ed there, he said. He missed his wife these past two weeks. He'd spent them at MD Anderson Cancer Center for his one-year checkup since having his bone marrow transplant a year ago.

He got up and moved to the seat directly next to me and I am ashamed to say that, at first, I bristled.

I'm not big into random conversations when I'm not into random conversations.

Somedays you'd think I was running for Mayor of Katy. Other days, I'm pretty stuck in my own world and choose not to let others in. Days that I put my baby on a plane to spend the holidays elsewhere? I definitely stick to myself and wallow in the mud a bit.

He was 50 (he told me that eventually) and had a bunch of Harley Davidson clown/jester tattoos because he owned two bikes back in El Paso that he and his wife would ride before he got sick in 2010 and doctors gave him four months, tops, to live. He had gone through every imaginable treatment to slow down the lymphoma that was attacking his brain and nothing but radiation worked. But radiation was also killing him and his maverick doc in El Paso had already given him the highest dose legal for a human being and wasn't ethically allowed to give him one dose more. They referred him to two centers in Houston. One wouldn't treat him because they didn't understand his form of lymphoma (not to mention he was out of insurance by this point) and the other was MD Anderson and they flew him out immediately and agreed to treat him on a trial basis for free.

Larry went on and on for the next hour, despite my best attempts to read the newly purchased, 75th anniversary edition of the Hobbit I'd nabbed right next to the Doritos as the airport snack shop. I didn't talk much, a rarity, because Larry had so much to say.

Turns out, the Hobbit could wait. Larry needed to talk and he needed to talk to my kids. He had four of his own and as it turns out, he just wanted to see his 6 year old grow up enough that she had a clear memory of him. He's given six months to live at a time and just received his latest half-year expiration date. He took it in stride, he said, because he hadn't lost yet.

He had to get on the plane when Boy Wonder did because he needed help. His bones were sore from the round of tests the doctors did. He rode in a wheelchair next to my son as they walked down the long, flimsy hallway to the plane and at one point, I saw Boy Wonder lightly pat Larry on the back the way an old friend would and I realized that maybe God doesn't always put people in our lives when we need them...maybe he puts us in others' paths when they need us, too. And that's pretty amazing.

God bless, Larry. Keep fighting the good fight, friend.

Making the "list"

On February 12, 2008 I had surgery to repair a brain aneurysm.

It was a relatively new procedure back then known as “coiling” and the gist of what happened included a cable inserted into a vein near my hip/groin that held a tiny robotic arm that snaked its way up to my brain and installed a titanium coil into the aneurysm, as well as a stent in the artery to prevent collapse.

Neat, right? But so not the point of this post. Around that time I started dating the adorable man who is now my husband. We had lots of talks that winter leading up to the surgery about “bucket lists.” Who had ‘em, whether people needed them, and whether he was on mine. Ha!

I never got around to sitting around and thinking about what I wanted to achieve before “kicking the bucket.” I had kids to care for, bills to pay, husbands to nag…you know how it goes.

And it’s not that I’m necessarily morbid these days, it’s just that this stupid state has me so damned bored with it’s extreme cold and it’s “most frigid January in Anchorage history.” We’re housebound. We’re antsy. And we’re dreaming of things we can’t do right now because our cars aren’t starting and our finger tips freeze before we reach the mailbox.

But I’ve sat down and thought of a few and I’m ready to share. I didn’t number them. I don’t think the order is as important as just accomplishing them. And who knows when I’ll get around to them, but at least I’ve recorded them and if the law of attraction has anything to say about it, these experiences are already on their way to me. So there!!

So, in no particular order, here’s my “list.” (And yes, I’m refusing to call it a bucket list. It’s just a “list.”)

• Get a paper published in the Jane Austen Society of North America’s scholarly journal “Persuasions.” To celebrate, must visit Chawton, Jane Austen’s home and museum in England. Must. Will not be considered complete without the Chawton visit.

• Visit the great-grandfather’s hometown of Fredrickstadt, Norway. Eat some smoked cod without making a face and offending the locals.

• Read the entire collection of Roald Dahl’s children’s books. Watching the various movies DOES. NOT. COUNT.

• Watch a game at Fenway. Eat a hotdog, even. Jeer the Yankees with a fake Bah-stahn accent.

• Finish that journey to fluency in Spanish. Seriously. I was so close and then, well, I moved to Alaska and haven’t said much more than “hard taco, please” as practice. My bad.

• I’ve got this YA steampunk trilogy brewing in my head and the characters are based on my

kids. Obviously, this is the most important story I have to tell and life will not be considered complete until I get those three stories out into the world, publication or no publication. Tell their stories.

• Run a triathlon. I don’t have to win. I just have to finish. Just one. And yes, I have to ride the bike myself. And get up if I crash, which is likely.

• Visit James F. Wright’s grave. Say hello. And goodbye. Never really got to do either and I feel like that’s a chapter in my story that deserves some sort of closure. First step, of course, would be to find the damn thing. Good thing the man who raised me and who I consider my dad

happened to be very close friends with the brother of the man who is actually the biological father. Small, strange little world, isn’t it? Anyway, that Uncle Larry guy will probably know where his brother is buried and that’s always a place to start.

• Raise a mini-lemon tree. For real, not my version of keeping plants alive for a week before

killing them. I want a lemon tree that lives on and on. I want it to live in a bright, sunny spot in our home and produce real, live lemons. Save me from those godawful plastic squeeze lemons of fakeness at the grocery store.

• Shake Paula Deen’s hand. Don’t laugh. I love her. Like, a lot. Hell, it’s my “list,” I might even hug her!

Good start, eh?

And what about you? Do you have a “list” or do you just sort of make it up as you go?

Have a wonderful weekend. Hug someone special (but keep your mitts offa Paula, ya hear?!)

There's This Girl I Want My Husband to Meet

Now, settle down. I'm not talking any Alaskan version of "Wife Swap."

That’s just a cute way of saying that I sometimes I think about the other “versions” of me my husband will never know.

He’ll never meet the high school version of me and maybe that’s a good thing. While I might have been a lot of fun, I wasn’t always the nicest human being when it came to the opposite sex, so there’s always that.

The girl I wish I could introduce my husband to would be cowgirl I once was.

Now, I’m not saying I was a barrel-racing diva with real ranch cred or anything and the truth is that even in my Texas A&M hey day, getting on a horse was always a bit nerve wracking.

But something about the me from back then would have charmed the pants off him. (Not that I have problems charming my husband’s pants off or anything…have you seen the size of our family? HA!!!)

Cowgirl Megan wasn’t overly confident all the time, but she wore ropers and Levis on a Friday night out. She refused to wear those godawful pocket-less freakshows called “Rockies.” (The 90’s hick version of “mom jeans,” methinks!)

She drank beer. Probably too much beer, but any college girl who knows the difference between Shiner Bock and Milwaukee’s Best has some moxie. Cowgirl Megan two-stepped every weekend and loved country music. She knew the words to every Robert Earl Keen song and even got emotional, sloppy drunk when that sappy Gary Stewart song “An Empty Glass” came on. (That was actually pretty funny.)

She sat through sunsets and swam in creeks. She sat on tailgates and swung her legs back and forth for hours on end, just because. She left front doors open because there was this thing called a screen door. And they rocked...

She loved Steve Earl’s “Guitar Town” and drank her way through an entire pitcher of beer to retrieve her Aggie class ring once. (She lost that ring sometime in 2002 and hasn’t been the same since. So sad.)

(At the that point in time, my husband was enlisted in the Marine Corp. *drool* I think Cowgirl Megan and her counterpart, Marine Corps Patrick, would have been quite a team back in the day. Wild, reckless, constantly hungover. Fun, right?!)

Ok, so maybe once in a while Cowgirl Megan was a moron and did things like drink too much before the party started so she was unconscious and passed out in the back seat of her friend’s car for entire festivities, but still.

We’ll even overlook her penchant for fighting with sorority girls outside the Dixie Chicken that one especially hot summer and chalk it up to the madness that 87 straight days of 100+ degree weather will incite.

But there are days that I miss that girl. What’s more, I wish my husband got to know her before she turned into the bill payer, the floor scrubber, the uber mom. Not that I’m complaining…my life is a beautiful, beautiful thing…but Cowgirl Megan was a freer Megan and sometimes the chains of responsibility weigh heavy and the phsyical distance Alaska imposes between you and everything you grew up knowing is great. Sometimes you miss the Salt Lick and JJ's Pit BBQ just won't cut it.

Maybe more than him knowing that girl, maybe I want him to know the place and the experiences that shaped that girl. They were magical. They are magical.

I miss the things Texas represents from time to time… “ya’ll,” barbecue, bluebonnets, high school football, lazy rivers you can actually jump in without stopping your heart (though the occasional water moccasin might do that for you…just sayin’.) I miss them in a way that I wish my husband (and my kids) could experience it too.

I think about my roots on days like this…sub-zero, lacking sunshine, no fresh fruit to speak of, kids cramped inside a small living room because nobody’s interested in outdoor activities when your boogers freeze immediately on contact with the air.

And I wonder just how rewarding and different it might be to raise our family in a place like that.

Picture it: Cowboy Boy Wonder, Cowpoke Boo, Cowprincess Kenna, Cattle Baron Patrick…and Cowgirl Megan. Pick up trucks, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Barbeque pits, sunny evenings on a porch swing, and country music.

Sometimes I think I’ll never live that life again…but you know what they say about saying “never,” don’t you?

Tuesdays with Laundry

There are no wise words today. No sad words, no declarations. Not much other than some soap and dryer sheets...maybe a glimpse into the 80s with me. Does anyone else have memories of childhood that seem to involve laundromats? Lots of laundromats?

I grew up for a spell in Chester, Vermont and I distinctly remember a few things about that beautiful little town...one of them being the laundromat.

I remember eating an entire pack of gum I stole out of my mom's purse underneath the folding table. I remember playing with a deck of Captain Caveman playing cards I'd gotten for Christmas from my aunt Dee. I remember finding a $20 bill outside in a snowbank and feeling like the luckiest four-year old in the world because my mom let me pick out a candybar at Gould's store.

Our washing machine is a piece of crap right now and either will, or won't, depending on the moon's gravitational pull and what color underwear you happen to have on, drain the water during the spin cycle.

Sometimes you have clean clothes, sometimes you have dirty clothes soup.

Out of socks and sick of "questionable" sweatshirts, the Boo and I loaded up 800 pounds of laundry and hit the Jewel Lake Washateria and hung out together. Turns out, wasn't so bad. What's more? He seems to be the laundromat fan that I always was.

And just to be super helpful and nerdy, here's a couple links to great laundry tips and advice. Who says you've got nothing new to learn on a Tuesday afternoon?

1. Top 12 Cleaning and Laundry Tips for 2012 from Everyday Cleaning

2. Laundry folding advice from Mamas Laundry Talk

3. 5 Easy Laundry Tips from Men's Health News

4. Money Saving Laundry Tips from Mint.com

Happy Tuesday!

Thanks, I needed that

Last week was tough. I'm battling change in myself and my habits and that's never easy. For the past few years, I've had this constant fear of failure and fear of falling short plague me like nothing I've ever experienced. It's crippling. It's ridiculous.

And I'm proud to say, it's almost over.

Change is never easy, but it's necessary. And easier to accomplish one little baby step at a time.

After four years, one brain surgery, and two babies later, I returned to competition. And it was a beautiful thing. Jiu jitsu is often a metaphor for life..what you do wrong when pushed on the mat, you often do wrong when pushed in life. It's a fantastic mirror, and for the first time in a long time yesterday, I got a chance to take a peek, and like what I saw in the reflection.

Welcome back to the sport, but more importantly, welcome back to the scrappy, stubborn girl you used to be, Megan.

Onward ...

MMA and the meaning of life

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Preparing for 2010: The beginnings of Challenge 52

I love my blog. I mean, really, really love writing in this easy-going, relaxed way. WIth no editors, no real audience (in my head, nobody really reads these things). But to keep a good blog alive, it needs content and love and attention. Did I mention content?

See, that' the driving force behind blogs. People read them because it's a running account...a constantly updated glimpse into whatever world you're showing.

When I can update a few times a week on blogs (yes, I have two, one is hidden under a pseudonym for the world famous writer I am in my own head) I feel invincible. When I can come up with something worth writing, that people might read, I feel like a real, grown up writerly, creative person. But it doesn't always last long. Soon, the days start piling up since my last post and I start dealing with the guilt of ignoring my poor little blog and how undisciplined a human being I am. Yada, yada, yada, right?

I'm babbling now, so it's here that I'll get to the point. Updates are hard to comeby. And you know what else is tough? New Year's Resolutions. I'm trying to merge the tough-to-invent-frequent-updates factor with the I-need-to-implement-some-changes-around-here vibe of resolutions. There. That's what it's all about. (And here you thought it was the Hokey Pokey all this time...)

Don't get me wrong, I have no problem writing down 539 ways I could improve myself this year. It's the following through that's the pain in the ass, and therein lies the problem. What's the damn point?

I know I need to lose 25 pounds. Hello??? I was the one threatening my jeans with the scissors this morning.

Save money? Duh. Like every fourth week of the month I'm cursing at myself and my frivolous ways.

Help people. Yes. Good one. Go ahead and pencil some time in at a soup kitchen sometime in the next 12 months to make me feel better about the fact that I'm a selfish human being. I get it!

So the idea came to me one night when I couldn't fall asleep. (It happens.) What about 7 days? I can do 7 days...I can do 3 or 4 days stupendously, but hell, even Megan can eek out 7 days.

So instead of 539 year-long resolutions that I'll lose and never look at, what about a new challenge each week? I've got TONS and TONS of things that I want to try or theories about eating nothing but grapefruit for a week that I'd love to test. And only committing 7 days to each cause?? Hell to the yes, says me!

Some days I feel like I'm seriously lacking adventure in my life. Others, no organization. Some days I crave spirituality. Other days I crave a damn fine piece of home-baked bread. (No, I've never baked bread. Duh.) It seems that these weekly challenges are going to encourage me to be creative and to put myself out there on the more "challenging" weeks. And yes, I'm definitely going to need suggestions after about three weeks....52 weeks seems like forever.

I'd like to throw out there that some of these aren't meant for 7 whole days, but are challenges to be completed within the alloted 7 days. (I mean, I really want to learn how to roast a whole chicken, but I don't want to eat chicken for 21 meals in a row. Just sayin'...)

Some weekly challenges I've already thrown about: a week without swearing (holy sh$&!), perfecting a lattice-topped cherry pie, a week with no meat, going to bed every night at 9:30 for a week, conversely, making my self stay up until midnight for a week, waking up at 5 a.m. for a week, making it to a yoga class every day for a week, not spending a single cent for an entire 7 days (HOT DAMN!), calling a different friend each day for a week just to listen to them, etc..etc...

You see where I'm going? Infinite possibilities. 52 weeks. 52 new accomplishments (or failures...depending on whether I'm supposed to bake that week or not...)

Hi. My name is Megan. And I'm freakin' excited about 2010...

Happy Holidays!

Just wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas!

Boy Wonder is visiting his father, and little Boo doesn't know what to do with himself without an older brother to chase around. P washed his contacts down the sink (last pair) and I'm fighting with my insurance company to recognize the fact that we are married (What is this? San Francisco??) The motor on my winshield wipers blew, we mismanaged the bank account and are praying for a check-clearing miracle (as in, don't clear yet!) but, at the end of it all, it's Christmas.

It's a season about so much more than the stress and the price tag, and I hope we all get the quiet moments we need to remember that. Make it meaningful...

Much love to you all. I'll be back before the new year with all new schemes and resolutions for 2010 (don't think I haven't been rolling them around in my head the past few weeks. I LOVES me a fresh start!)

See you in a few days...

A Christmas Memory: Why I Hate A Certain Holiday Song

And I mean hate with a capital F-U, Christmas Song! Really, really. It makes my skin crawl now...

In 2004, I worked at student newspaper as an advisor. In El Paso. Circulation...about 10,000. (I'm making the point that we weren't the damn New York Times or Washington Post...we were a college paper and most of the damn students there didn't even read us most weeks...true story. Jerks!)

One week, we did a bundle of Christmas stories. Most creative gifts. Best memories. Favorite holiday songs. You know...the usual.

Things were going well, it was a week before Christmas and we were done for the semester. (It was AWESOME!) I was in the office, most of the students were gone for the holidays. And then it came....the call.

I answered the phone and the voice on the other end asked, nay...demanded to speak to someone in charge. Being middle management, but not a student, I stupidly said I was. (Bad, bad move and I have since learned from my mistakes. I am never in charge...even when I am in charge.)

This woman, with a speaking voice that was shrill and tinny to begin with, launched into a tirade, demanding that we print an IMMEDIATE correction about one of our stories.

The writer (and it had slipped past me, too) had attributed "Santa Baby" to Marilyn Monroe (MM had never, in fact, recorded the song) and he had listed it as one of his favorite songs.

The silly rabbit on the other end of the line tried to point out to me that SHE, in fact, had made the song famous. In 1997. Her. It was all her. Nobody had ever heard the song before she recorded it in her basement or whatever Bush League method she'd concocted. Point was, SHE was famous, dammit, and we better recognize her. (Oh, contraire, mon frer....thought I....)

Sounding like an 80-year-old chain smoking emphysema patient, she SHRIEKED about how incompetent we were. She was calling from Hollywood. She was calling her lawyers. She was going to sue us. She demanded satisfaction. NOW. (For what? I asked. Not attributing it to Eartha Kitt? Because nobody had ever heard her name around that newsroom before...)

As she rattled on and on and on and on and on... (I kid you NOT, dear reader), I spent the time I should have been taking her seriously and I googled her. (OH, how I "heart" you Google.)

ChickyBoom had herself a nice little Web site...more like a virtual altar she'd constructed to herself to pay homage to the fact that she'd recorded a version of a stupid Christmas song that had made it into that awful movie "Party Monster." (Who freakin' cares, woman?) She peppered her bio with great big, shiny superlatives like "incredible vocalist" and "fantastically talented" and "gorgeous former hair model" (what the hell are those, anyway?) and she's got one of those names that should probably sound the way it reads. You know, how that crazy lady on the BBC show "Keeping Up Appearances" is named Bucket, but demands people pronounce it "bouquet?" Yep. She's totally one of those. *gag*

So I offered to correct the mistake and attribute the song to Eartha Kitt. No? How about Madonna? Madonna did a great version... No? Ummm...Sheryl Crow! Sheryl Crow did it, too. No?(Yes, I was trying to piss her off on purpose.)

By the end of the conversation (it lasted at least 30 minutes with this self-aggrandizing nightmare), I had her on speaker phone and had the other poor slobs at work laughing at just how ANGRY and DEMANDING and NASTY this kitten was. Shrieking and threatening and just so out of the holiday spirit.

At one point I even asked her, "How the hell did you find this article? It's from a newspaper on a college campus in the middle of the desert? Do you troll any media outlet you can find for any single mention of "Santa Baby?"

I can't remember her response, but I'm sure it was angry. And hilarious.

And so, tonight, as Boy Wonder works on his new lego set (Thanks, Nana!), we have the music channel playing holiday music and Madonna's version of "Santa Baby" came on a couple hours ago. It came on again a couple minutes ago...sung by Eartha Kitt herself.

I guess all that hard work harassing newspapers and journalists got SuperCrazy nowhere. Not even the "Sounds of the Season" channel recognizes her "major contribution to pop culture"....

Baaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaa!

PS....Yes, I fully expect to somehow recieve a pissed off e-mail from this woman. I'm quite certain she's got the words "Santa Baby" locked down on Google Alerts. And yes...I'll post her nasty letter in full here for you to enjoy it as much as I'm sure I will. :)

When the World is Trying to Tell You Something

For the first time in years, Boy Wonder and I clashed tonight. Nothing major...just a version of grating each others nerves from the moment I got home from work all the way through dinner (he chose to eat his pizza in his room, thankee verra much) and into our "art" time. Getting said Boy Wonder to complete a bookmark for a library contest was a real treat, please believe.

Add to the bad vibes one baby who learned a new trick: jamming your fingers down your throat makes you gag. And gagging is a really neat noise. So you should do it a lot. Like, constantly. In your high chair, on the floor, in the bath, during your dinner. Gag, gag, gag. And scream bloody murder when your mother yanks your dirty little fingies from your maw. And slap at her face with your free hand. She loves that.

I digress. Two angry boys. One pissy mom. Betcha wish you were in town visiting us right now, eh?

Anyhoo...

I get all parties (minus me) into bed. Boy Wonder made up about eleventy-seven reasons to leave his bed, the last being he couldn't find "Marvin." (His stuffed dog.)

Exhausted, exasperated, tired, frustrated, hungry, stressed, pitiful wreck that I was, I stormed into his room and found the damn dog...under his pillow. Mad as all hell at his refusal to go to bed, I threatened to give all his toys to the neighbor's dog (hey, I was caught off guard) if he didn't stay in bed. He said I was mean. I said I'm allowed to be. He said I should be nice. I said I was going to tell his teacher what a naughty boy he's being. He caved.

Victorious, I stomped back to the kitchen where I found his "reading packet" for the night (which we forgot to do and will have to read at breakfast.). Do you know what book I found staring up at me from the backpack? A g-damned mirror, that's what I found. Here, judge for yourself:



Ok, ok, world. I get it. Grumpy elephant= me. Ha ha...very funny.