Snowpocalypse

A Day in the Life of a Girl forced to Shovel Snowfall after Snowfall

To best understand the course of my day, it would be best to listen in to my thoughts as shoveling segments progressed.


1st Shoveling:  Goodness the snow is high.  I wish I had come out when I woke up and got an early start.  But it's not that hard, I can do this.

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2nd Shoveling:  Look at the neighbor, having both his sons help.  I bet I can do just as good as a job, all by myself.  In fact, I can beat them.  They better watch out, my shoveled driveway will shame them.

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2nd Shoveling, 10 minutes later:  If they offer to help me, would it be a strike against women if I accepted?  Oh Megan, that's so sexist, you can do this.  Don't give in.

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2nd Shoveling, 10 more minutes later:  Why are they not offering to help, can't they see I don't have any upper arm strength?  How can they just stand by and watch my plight?

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3rd Shoveling:  I can't believe I didn't start training for this in October.

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4th Shoveling:  Nobody else seems to have done their sidewalks.  My sidewalks are amazing.  And my driveway is so much wider than the neighbors, I bet their car won't even fit.  Man, I've done an amazing job.  I can do anything!

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5th Shoveling:  Hm, it's gotten dark.  So that should be enough shoveling, the snow is suppose to stop at 6.

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Late Last Night: Goodness gracious, look at all that snow still pouring down.  Well, there's always tomorrow.

It's Starting to Look A Lot...

I still haven't finished writing my Christmas letter. (It's my first!)

And I'm so deep in denial, I haven't even looked at my do-make present list.

But with Heidi and my mom's help, I've made Rice Crispy Houses and Santas.

So at least I'm in the holiday spirit.

Delusional

It makes me so happy taking pictures of people I care about, capturing on film the expressions they use.

Well, not film exactly. On memory card. Which doesn't have quite the same ring.

Paradoxically, there is little I hate more, beyond child poverty and news reporters, than seeing photos of myself.

Posed photos are not pretty, but at least I know what to expect.

When not seeing pictures of my utterly incomprehensible facial expressions, I can delude myself.

Surely I look normal right now, I tell myself. Everyone thinks you're gorgeous, and your laughing face is comely.

But when I see photographic evidence, I can lie to myself no longer.

Sometimes it's not even my facial expression that shames me, it's my apparent laziness.

It's not like I didn't suspect my mom would take my picture on my birthday - would it have been that difficult to part my hair?

Apparently so.

I would claim to be un-photogenic, but I fear that's not the problem.

No, it's not that I look strange in photos - just that photos capture me looking weird, preserving my strange expressions for eternity.

I suppose it makes sense no one ever tells me.

I mean, how, exactly, would that conversation work?

So, Megan, lookin' kinda weird today...

Oh, never mind, that's just your expression.

Normally, I cull through my pictures, quickly deleting any that I find horrendous.

Then I thought about it.

And I figured if I was going to share my life with all of you, I might as well do it fully.

Double chins and all.

Apparently my real-life friends can see beyond my expressions.

But if you can't, I completely understand.

The Fantasticks

I ate macaroni and cheese for lunch today, and am now struggling with that after-cheese taste in my mouth. Christmas is oh, so soon. Why have I finished none of my handmade gifts? Considering how excited I am to send out my first Christmas letters this year, you'd think I'd have finished writing them.

And given this post is suppose to be about The Fantasticks, you'd assume I could stop thinking about everything else.

But I can't.

As much as I love the holiday season, it would be so much better if I was organized. Sharon's mom suggested to me the other day that people should do one Christmas task each month of the year, and then there'd be no stress in December. Aside from stale cookies, I don't see any drawbacks. But like deciding the perfect diet for the new year, this plan can't help me today.

Anyways, my mom and I saw The Fantastics at Arena Stage last week.

Well, at the Lincoln Theatre, which is being used by Arena during their renovations. Lincoln has the fantastic distinction (Get it? Fantastic? Like the musical? No? Moving on...) of having steep orchestra seats, so even though we were far back (Row N) there was no danger of sight blockage by the tall/large hair subset of theatre goers.

I was enchanted by the show. Well, technically not the show. Though the book and the music were both enjoyable, and the performances (especially by the mute) superb, it was the magic that impressed me.

You heard me right, the magic.

No, there were no disappearing and reappearing elephants or Statues of Liberty. Nor was a lady divided in half.

The magic used in Arena's production of The Fantasticks is simplistic, with flowers pouring out of paper bouquets and confetti raining from the skies. Yet, I left thoroughly entranced.

It's easy to get lost in the hustle and bustle of the season and forget about the magic. That's why I'm grateful The Fantasticks reminded me.

Ode to a Letter

Oh, letter,

I adore you so.

Your long white page,

covered in cursive script.

Your stamp adorned envelope,

and your return address label.

Don't even get me started on your return address label.

Oh, letter.

Your nostalgic way of keeping in touch.

The excitement of placing you in a mailbox,

the anticipation of your arrival.

If only I was less lazy, I would write you.

Brain Rattles

This picture of snow is completely unrelated to this post, but isn't it pretty?

Like all girls, I'm drawn to guys who make strong, masculine statements on their vehicles. After all, if you have the courage to depict a cartoon little boy peeing on your window, you can clearly provide me the support I'm going to need once we have all those misbehavin' babies. But this message is to a special guy. If you're reading this, you know who you are. Almost every morning, driving down Route 28, singing along to The Music Man on my XM radio, I see you cruising past me in the left lane. The black pick-up truck. The caricature of the well-endowed woman bending over (I can only imagine she's gardening and has knee problems). But what makes you stand out is the pithy saying to the figure's right. Every farmer needs a good ho. Whoa boy, reading that just draws me in, like a reporter to a product that might one day harm a child. But then the doubts set in. Are you really a farmer? Your truck is so shiny. I wouldn't want to give my heart to just anyone you know.

Whenever people around me are speaking in French about food, they often mention chocolate. And every time they do, literally every single time, I spend a moment assuming they are referencing the Johnny Depp movie.

Still haven't heard back about the truth behind death from choking on ice. Don't think I've forgotten.