Poem-A-Day Contest and Sandy

Thanks to The Washington Post [online 10.25.12]

 Well, if you haven't been touched by Miss Hurricane Sandy, a.k.a "Frankenstorm," perhaps you have already begun a deep hibernation. That or you're not an easterner. Either way, you've heard of it, right? Right. Because the news made it out to be apocalyptic, fetching a few items from the grocery store became its own sort of apocalypse. I'm still pouting because they were out of both my milk and creamer. And god forbid if we needed toilet paper at the time.

While I understand the cause for concern near the Atlantic, the rest of us, in-landers, experienced what was another not-so-uncommon rainy windy cold front. I suppose it could've been worse; however, the need for over-the-top adjectives seemed to insight more panic than necessary. OMGSANDYYY GO BUY ALL THE THINGS!!!11

At least we're survivors. Yes. So. My heart goes out to those coastal folk, because those are the peeps who need the worry and toilet paper and water. If you have extra, send something or donate! Better yet, hit up your local Blood Bank. They could use the pints!

So, beginning tomorrow, I'm taking on a poem-a-day challenge for the whole month of November. Interested? Check out the deets!

If nothing else, I hope to get something from the experience. Chapbook irrelevant. I've always wanted to do the whole novel in a month thing, but this seems more my style!

Happy haunting boogers!!!
mt

Saving the bright.

Overwhelmed with school (grading, lessons, research), I feel like fall is slipping through my fingers so quickly. October is soon pushing into November and before you know it—winter and then... (dun, dun, dun) 2013. This is, of course, if the world doesn't end. Funny, I heard more about that at the beginning of the year than now; though, I'm sure December will bring a new wave of media induced fright. In recognition of this supposed apocalypse, I have a long document o poems titled, "End of the World Poem." To a poet, I think, it's always te end of the world, some world, anyhow.

Already I've been reflecting on the year and mapping out some 2013 goals no don't feel I accomplished as much as last year, 2011. I mean, maybe I have. It just doesn't feel as positive. I'm in a whole different place, and upon an unfortunate stumble with my previous journal, I realize there is a girl I don't remember.

Maybe it's too early to begin reflecting, but do you ever feel that way? That you've changed so much that it is almost scary? Bad? Good?

See, if you haven't noticed, I tend to let things overtake me. Fixate on projects or people or places or, hell, sometimes even cereal. I just keep doin' it until I overdo it. I can't be the only one. But somehow I get to a place where it's too much, and maybe I'm slow, but I get it. Then, I have to figure out how to move on. Maybe today, I'll buy Cheerios instead, you know?

And on that note, I think it's time to share a poem, since it's been a while. Something fall-worthy. This guy got published, so I'll link him:

http://arseniclobster.magere.com/archive/issuetwentysix/260401.html

Be well, all. Share with me.
mt

Falling, fire trees & the Stank Bug Wars

Thanks to groweat.blogspot.com for the laugh.

So. It's here. Fall. And finally we're getting a taste of this glorious season—and I'm not just talking pumpkin lattes and pastries; though, I think I've hit up just about pumpkin-flavored treat this side of the Mississippi. The hillsides are lit up with every fiery shade imaginable, and for once, I'm glad to be a Pennsylvanian suburbanite. There aren't many times you'll hear me say that... Let's face it: unless you're glued to your careers or your families, most of us are forever planning our escape routes. It's like one of those emergency exit maps on the wall, you know? I'm sure we all have them taped up in our heads.

We bitch about the cold. We bitch about the heat. And if there is any middle ground, it's probably raining. So when fall rolls around and the colors pop, I think—just maybe—it's not so bad.

But then again, the Stank Bug Wars of 2012 make this cooler weather a plight all its own: a battle of wits, perhaps, to keep these resilient, alien-faced troops out of our homes, our cars and, as of the other day (for this girl), our beds. Listen, folks, it's no joke. These nasty warriors sport camouflage and a visible armor reminiscent of Zelda's shield. It's not bad enough they can fly, but these nasty bastards are running amok on stick legs with some ungodly self-adhesive properties, making them more than a bitch to remove from your clothes or your hair.


And if you think I'm being dramatic, I probably am. Bugs are an irrational fear of mine. Besides, according to Stink Bug Smackdown, they don't DIE. Stinkbugs just HIBERNATE. In your house, people! If you don't think this is a problem, then why don't you come take mine with you, huh?!

Oh, and something delicious to remind you about, as my friend just so sweetly reminded me (you know who you are!), there is a recipe for a stink-bug-seasoned bean dip. Yeah, apparently these lemon-headed creeps taste like cilantro! In Bruce Leshan's article on 9News Now, "If You Can't Beat 'Em, Eat 'Em," you can find a recipe for Stink Bug Tacos even.

Shit, people... get on this train. You eat the bugs. They leave me alone. Simple.

I drew a little cartoon here. Can I tell you? I actually gagged whilst drawing the "unders." Gross.

And I think that is about all for today. Up all night grading papers last night, spending my day working...still thinking about all the things I want to do. Such is life.

Hopefully you're enjoying what is left of the season... sans the stink bugs.

What's in a name?

Whether you jot it haphazardly in your day planner or use it to sign-off on important life-or-death-style documents, your name has a way of following you. Many of us dislike it. And why not? What a large part of our world, I feel, to be handed over some descriptor without choice. Imagine if it were a practical adjective or title that followed us our whole lives:

Oh, you know Rambunctious, she is always causing a riot!

or

Hey, Awkwardly Poetic, can you start speaking in a language I can understand?

I'm just saying.

If you are happy with your name, carry on. Read this in some sort of forced sympathy. I'll take it. Still, I wonder—if you do enjoy your name, are content at the very least, do you feel as though it may have shaped your persona at all? Stereotypes are heavy; as much as we all try to refute them, equate them to ignorance or some sort of class issue, they exist. Everywhere. And who doesn't hear the name of his or her ex and cringe. If you don't believe that names carry their own social stereotype, type your tag into Urban Dictionary and see what happens. For instance:

1.	Meghan	238 up, 96 down
	Meghan is a talented and outgoing individual and is very charismatic. But be careful; she's smarter than she seems! She's great at listening and even better at giving advise. Plus, a Meghan's always good for when you just need her to call someone a bitch. She's a beautiful person inside and out & is NOT afraid to call someone out if they're on her bad side. Meghans are generally brunet with cute freckles (Thanks to www.urbandictionary.com.)

Without editing this for spelling errors, I'd have to say this is pretty damn accurate. Down to the freckles. HA!

While the second definition reads:

2.	Meghan	2235 up, 1696 down
	Meghan is the name for a skanky slutty ho born to backwoods retard parents who cannot spell correctly. You know that girl Meghan that lives in the trailer park? She's a total skank. OMG, did you hear?! Meghan once got eiffel towered at a party! hahaha. i wish i were as great a whore as Meghan. it'd help if i had her tits. (Thanks to www.urbandictionary.com.)

Well, I rest my case. And let me also take this moment to assure you that I do not condone any of the hateful, politically incorrect vomit above, but am using it to make my point. Perhaps the author of Definition #2 should channel her explosive passive-aggressive Internet Rage into more thoughtful facets of life—like her own damned writing issues.

Anyhow, back to my bigger point. Some of us refuse our names socially, keeping it tucked in-secret between the tight folds of our wallets, while some go a step further and have it changed altogether. But then there is that middle ground—the one I'm toeing, for instance. I do not consider it awful enough to change; in fact, I don't even know to what I would change it! But I do know that it's hard for me to identify with it. And the older I get, the less it means something to me. (Unless, of course, you pair it with my middle name and loudly yell it at an unbearable octave. You'll certainly get my attention.)

Meghan is too girly, as it has always been for what I feel to be a pretty androgynous being. But now, it is young. Too young. More like that snap I have (somewhere) of a little girl in an Easter dress with white tights and a ribbon on her hat. Or the only snap I could find in a jiff (below.)

I was such an ugly shit. And probably cooking up some horrific plan for world domination. [;

So I'm asking—how many of you feel defined by your name? How many of you don't associate with it completely? Tell me your name stories! Now! Comment!

3:30 A.M. Happens

I feel like musing. Humor me?

In one vein, I feel like everything has changed—from where I live to how I live. While it may sound dramatic, a part of my world has shifted, and in turn, shifted everything that rested on top. Hilariously enough, "Little Earthquakes" (Tori Amos) popped up on "shuffle" the other day and it made me smile. Since when did anything every stand still for me? It's my life.

The ladies at work deserve a trophy or something. It seems nearly every week is another experience—for all of us! Picture it: me coming in each day wearing one of my many emotions like a glossy-eyed, ever-changing mood ring. A Horse of A Different Color! Ha! And the ladies... well, they know me: predictable in my spontaneity. Typical conundrum. Still, I hope in some way, I bring, at the very least, some excitement, something different. 

C'mon! I'm trying to be positive here. [:

I've been telling my friend Ernie that there are 10,000 me's. Real talk. But for as long as my brain can go backwards, I've wished to be... other. I've woken up on some tragically grey Sundays with iron-clad epiphanies, determined to be more: positive, thin, patient, untouchable, quiet, girly (god help me), realistic, talented—simply, more.

And once, in the wake of some dreamy self-disillusionment, I decided I would sew all of my own clothing. (Hey! I accomplished some pretty fierce handiwork in Dream Land, if I dare boast.) To extend the ridiculousness of this dream and my humorous blog-confession, I actually spent $300 to buy some dope-ass sewing machine that could stitch circles (or squares?) around the cheaper, less luxurious models. Listen: I never claimed to be anything but a stubborn, and sometimes impulsive, fool.

I guess what I'm getting at is this... (and I know you're all waiting for the point, if you've even read this far):

For so much of my life and from nearly everyone, I've been dubbed lots of things—mostly labels that imply I'm too hard on myself or all over the place or that I expect too much from others... extreme, dramatic, obsessive, self-loathing, overly worried, silly, sensitive, sad, immature... la deeeee da. You get it.

My personal favorite—"Meghan, you're too much"—I hear once a week but for forever. I remember being little and wondering what that even meant. I turned the words over so many times in my head (and yes, I did loads of over-analyzing even as a kid) but it felt... unfinished. More what? I never got an answer. My mom would just shake her head, smile or grimace, depending on what I had done to provoke it. Maybe that was why I was so confused! It could be both good and bad.

So okay, in summation, I think it's odd. I long to be more and more and more, and people say I'm too much already. What is this? Some cruel joke? Nothing is ever enough. I had my cards read last night, and if nothing else, it made me realize that I need to be happier with myself. And maybe this simple concept is something I should've ingested years ago, but I've said it before—I'm in some ironic and eternal coming-of-age tale that never resolves. But that's ok, right? That is me. Finally. Can I deal?

And for you all... and this is probably the most important part: love yourself. So easy. I can say it. You can read the words, think: "Yeah! I'll do that then." But I know it's not realistic to think anyone is going to listen to me and change his or her reflection or something, but just try? Think about it? Just plant the seed, at least. I know someone of you are happy, maybe now and always. Kudos, yo.

For me, I know that my voids push me. It's like food, man. But it isn't healthy. Balance. We need balance. We need to love ourselves enough to be happy, but be a little restless, wonder about possibilities, scare ourself into new situations (and HAUNTED HOUSES... soon!), look at ourselves with both admiration and disgust. There can still be room for humble and kind and loving.

Make room for all of you: all 10,000 of you. But allow for no mutinies. Can you just try it?

Ah, Tori Amos. Thanks for inciting even more eruptions. (: 

G'nite/morn,

mt

A little inspiration from the Starbucks

Once in a while a little spark catches and the world feels brighter.

I haven't been posting. I know, I know... I think I always say that in my posts, but mostly because I'm going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment. More like a briar patch, and it's raining salt, and it's 3 a.m. and I'm completely naked! O: If that wasn't enough to frighten you out of your bones...

After nine years, I think it's time to move on. It feels like a divorce. This time, I'm peacing grease and moving myself. I've been living here in this sweet old house in South Greensburg since senior year of undergrad, with a one-year exception. After a year, Tash and I moved to East Pittsburgh Street. We rented the third floor of a mammoth house. It wasn't too bad, since we are the shorter type of girls. Ha. The shower's ceiling was slanted, so that we had to bend over to get our heads under the water.

It was kind of like a nightmare, but that is another tale for another time.

Now for the goods...


Today at work, I got a tweet from a lovely fan of our company. She has her own blog and was inquiring about doing a giveaway with our product. This isn't something super new or anything, but I had her shoot me an email with the deets—what she was looking to do, the web address of her blog, all that fun stuff. When she responded back with the info, it took me a while to get to her email.

It was near the end of the day when I did. I clicked the link to her blog and as I began to scroll, I came across a photo that intrigued me. It was my handwriting. On a piece of paper. But where? And was I just going nutty? I started to read and as I did—it clicked!

See, a while back, I got the sudden urge to be sweet. I was at my favorite hotspot—Starbucks—and taking a pee. (Don't the strangest moments of enlightenment happen on or around the toilet? Ha!) As I was washing my hands, I gazed up at myself in the mirror. It's no secret that I don't look in the mirror often. My coworkers have commented, frequently, on the state of my hair, the uncoordinated colors and patterns of my clothing, the blotches of paint on my skin... I loathe it, in fact! There are, on the other end of the spectrum, times I've come home with a huge smudge of pen ink on my cheek or a bit of lunch between my front teeth. I don't like looking!

Typically I'm a hot mess. See photo.

So in a maniac mode of sorts, I flew out of the bathroom (after I washed those hands, of course!) and ripped off a scrap of paper from my Moleskin, jotting down thehttp://bit.ly/NGBnUD words:

You're beautiful. I promise. Look again.


And this wonderful local (Frugal Foodie Mama) snapped a picture of it. Read the story here!

Inspired by this, she started a little note-leaving herself. She found a great project going on calling Operation Beautiful, in the process.

Success! I want to digress with a note about how important the small things can be, but we know this. Even a smile can change a life. I beleeeedat. Now it's time to move some boxes.

Leave some notes, people! (:

Sobe Lifewater Blues

First, a rant.

Someone, like me, has discovered the greatness that is Pacific Coconut Sobe Lifewater.

I snagged one on the fly on Saturday, looking for coconut water in a random Sunoco. First of all, this is not pure coconut water. It's only 10%, but still, I was trying to hydrate and I found this bugger. Good grief is it delicious! There are two other flavors in the blue bottle, but neither live up to the coconutty goodness of this draaank. So you should get some. Or don't.

Which leads me to my little whine.

I scoured the greater Greensburg area and it seems someone is onto this goodness, too. And well, it sucks. I went EVERYWHERE, finally catching a few in Giant Eagle. The other flavors are there, then lo and behold, the empty slot for the blue-topped, coconut heaven. Even Amazon is out of stock. WTF? But I must thank Amy and Matt (my bestos) for totally going on this water-seeking adventure with me.

So I've been a wee bit stressed out lately. Trying to keep up at work, write and paint... and now, manage the heat. Too cool for school means not opting for an umbrella or buying an air conditioner. These are my principles, folks. I'm sticking to my guns on this one. Besides, the thought of some noisy box hovering 3 stories up over my back deck just seems like an accident waiting to happen. I'd rather hire a few studs to fan me off with banana leaves or something. I'm going wild!

In other news, I've been spending an insane amount of time doodling. This is therapeutic. It's also distracting and seems to accompany everything I do these days. Including talk on the phone. It took everything in me not to doodle during my meeting today with the web developer. Instead I nervously twirled my hair. Kudos.

Do something good for yourself this week. The heat eats people up—go grab yourself a water. Any flavor but Pacific Coconut that is.

mpt