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

advices

I'm in a bit of writing rut.

If you have known me in the last month or so, you'd say I'm crazy. I've been spending incredible amounts of time lost in my poems with a new manuscript in the works (perhaps!) and even the times when I'm not writing, I am thinking of it... but I guess that's just it—lost.

During my time at both Pitt Greensburg and Chatham, I was faced with a lot of ideas about writing. Each professor had her (mostly her) own MO when it came to writing—everything from muses and inspiration to navigation within the poem via line breaks and internal rhyming... well, you get the idea. Strange, but sometimes their words stick in me even when I'm not reaching for guidance. I've got a little committee happening. The worst part is that much is conflicting and, at some level, I need to find my own methodology, you know?

Professor V said: "There is no such thing as Writer's Block."
J still makes good at setting aside a time, like a schedule, for writing.
Dr. M. told me it was okay to keep writing about the same thing, that sometimes you had to just write it out of you. Also: when you're feeling it, like you need to write and you're on a roll, the rest of the world comes second.
B always told me to "write the fucking poem."

Just a brief snippet of what's on my mind. These are all in encouraging in their own way, but never before have I felt so stifled by my subject.

No matter. I'm sure it will pass. Going to re-focus my energies in acrylic.

Getting a porch show tonight, like last. This night, though, it isn't lightening, but UFO's, which we have (for solace?) dubbed as paper lanterns. They seems to be on fire—something like a dying firework, but they float strangely then disappear. It's a somber lullaby out here tonight, sung by the incessant, high-pitched snarls of neighborhood cats hunting each other.

I want another three-day weekend. Rightthissecond. I'm turning liquid again...
mpt

Saturday AM Review

I spend my weekend mornings, typically, downing coffee and writing things. More often than not, I'm wishing I were still asleep—unless it's super sunny. Then I want to eat the world.

Today isn't very remarkable in the weather sort of way. It's warm enough to be in boxers and a hoodie. Quite the dynamic. But I do feel like eating the world. Does anyone else ever feel that way? Maybe it was the stressful week—the onslaught of meticulous label-editing (for print!), the half-celebratory/half-disappointing end to the semester, the weight of unproductive socializing...

I'm the type of person that needs to do things to feel accomplished. I have too many hobbies and projects. This last year has been huge for me, though, and I'm thinking I need this carelessness right now. Is that ok? SOMEONE TELL ME IT IS OK. Haha. Still, I've been having fun with my friends... just gabbing and being animated and probably smoking too many damn cigarettes.

But summer is almost here. I have big plans for it in terms of my writing and art. My latest project, well two, are sort of absorbing my brain at the moment. My boss has commissioned me to paint abstracts in frames for her house. I have about 8-10 of her empty frames in my livingroom waiting to be filled. I love my boss. She's way cool. Only a few years older than me, but classy with an admirable sense of style. So yeah... I'm terribly nervous. I need to start painting, though, instead of worrying. She believes in me... that should be enough fuel, right?

My other project is poetry, of course (and avoiding the horrendous, but 11-chapter novel I have written). I haven't heard back from Finishing Line Press on my last manuscript endeavor, so I'll chalk it up as a loss. What's with that? You pay 15 bucks and they can't even mail/e-mail a rejection? Pfft. Then again, who knows with these crazy spam filters. (;

So what do you do on Saturday/weekend mornings? Do you jump from your bed and run out of the door? Do you clean? Do you go to church? What!?

And has anyone read anything good lately? I need some words.
mpt

Something Like Bieber Fever

While I have been toiling away at life matters—mostly teaching at this point, I have been immersing myself in Atwood. Her poetry is like magic to me. One night, being so inspired and honestly consoled by her words, I tweeted her, even. This is what crazy Bieber fans probably do, too, so I'm not shedding any positive light on myself here. I'm thisclose to screaming and waving my underwear around. But probably not.

Me: @MargaretAtwood Revisiting your poem today. Think your my word soulmate. (Picture of poem from book).


Atwood: Thank you...



C'mon, everyone. Clearly, I have an "infamous" reputation for mishaps—for those of you who do not know about my mistakenly using the word "infamous" on all things work-related/published, that was a treat. Yeah... I did that. But don't be judgmental; many people I questioned didn't know that "infamous" wasn't, in fact, another way to describe something as "famous." Unfortunately, the definition states: "Well known for some bad quality or deed." Shit. I doubt my company minds too much that I described our products as such.


Imaginary Person #1: How about that infamous Italian pasta? 
Imaginary Person #2: Oh yeah! I heard about that a few years back—kidnapped a stick of pepperoni and was never seen again.

But even with my super obvious spelling issue, Atwood responded! Don't you dare for one second think that I didn't tweet her again to right my wrong, because I did. I had to. Margaret Atwood, don't think I'm an idiot! (This is not exactly what I said.) It was late and I was gushing and obviously too concerned with how many times it took me to snap that photo without it being blurry or cut off. Truth.

For those of you who have no idea who Miss Atwood is, well shame on you! Haha. But even if you are avidly against poetry, do yourself a favor and read "Variation on the Word Sleep." If that last stanza doesn't gut you, you're probably not awake.

I realize this entry is about to become all about poetry, but I've been on a roll here—grabbing inspiration where I find it. Recently, I read an interview from 1978. The interviewer being the infamous (kidding), the famous Joyce Carol Oates. So in this Q & A article found in The New York Times, "On Being a Poet: A Conversation With Margaret Atwood," Atwood totally digs at the guts of being a poet. I wanted to highlight this one part, because it doesn't just answer the "who" but the "why." And I totally agree, though, I have never been able to say it so articulately.

Q. Who influenced you as a poet?


A. Poe was my earliest "influence" back in high school, when I was beginning to write poetry and before I'd heard of anyone after, say, 1910. I don't think of poetry as a "rational" activity but as an aural one. My poems usually begin with words or phrases which appeal more because of their sound than their meaning, and the movement and phrasing of a poem are very important to me. But like many modern poets I tend to conceal rhymes by placing them in the middle of lines, and to avoid immediate alliteration and assonance in favor of echoes placed later in the poems. For me, every poem has a texture of sound which is at least as important to me as the "argument." This is not to minimize "statement." But it does annoy me when students, prompted by the approach of their teacher, ask, "What is the poet trying to say?" It implies that the poet is some sort of verbal cripple who can't quite "say" what he "means" and has to resort to a lot of round-the-mulberry-bush, thereby putting the student to a great deal of trouble extracting his "meaning," like a prize out of a box of Cracker Jacks.


You tell 'em, Atwood.