all I want for Christmas is a computer AND Internet to work at the same time!

Let's see...last I left off in computer woes, I was typing merrily away on my brand-new MacBook Air, oblivious to the troubles ahead (see first computer misadventures post for a year-long timeline of my previous mishaps). That lasted, oh, about a month. Now let's pick up where we left off. And in the spirit of things, may I provide a 12 days of Christmas theme? Sing along, won't you?

On the 12th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A proble-e-eh-m with my Internet serviiiice.
We pick up this tale around mid-November, when my Internet service starts to work intermittently. I try the magical "reboot" technique on my computer, modem, AND router before calling the dreaded Earthlink support. I remember fondly when it was a bunch of geeky California tech guys on the other line, circa 1997-2002ish, but now let's just say that the combo of having Internet problems and trying to decipher a thick Indian accent doesn't put one in the happy holiday spirit.

On the 11th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Many phone calls to India-aaaaa.
Two weeks later, I'm still having problems. By the time the Earthlink tech people start talking about turning on and off the modem and the router, rebooting them, turning on and off my computer, I'm reduced to silent sobbing. Hey, don't laugh. If you had to do this twice a week you would cry too. Besides, that's why I work in the comfort of my own home, so I can cry as much as I want. But where was I...oh yes. Adding to the problem this time is since I have a PC AND a Mac I never know what to do with the automated system thingie when it says "please press 1 for Mac, 2 for PC." I'd have to make a rash decision. "Will my Sony behave long enough for me to get through this call? Because my Mac is out of battery life, and can't reach the modem if I have it plugged into the outlet." And of course I choose the wrong button several times, because I'm me.

On the 10th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A brain full of useless know-leeeedge.
By the end of November, many calls to Earthlink later, I can now memorize the IP addresses and various commands and codes they give me by heart. As they start in with the "1.62.86....p as in paul, c as in charlie..." I'm already typing it before they have finished. And sobbing quietly to myself.

On the 9th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: One final phone call to Indi-aa.
After three weeks of problems, I've given up. I dial one last call to Earthlink. When I explain that I want to cancel my service, the guy asks, "have you spoken with our technical service?" My reply is breathless and not exactly in full sentences as I shuffle toward the nearest coffee shop to use their wireless. "Yes, I've spoken to them. Hours. Hours I've wasted. Hours. You don't understand. I can't do it anymore. I WON'T do it. Can't. Won't. No. Can't." I think he's afraid of me, so he agrees to cancel my service pronto.

On the 8th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: One friendly neighbor named Ki-kiiiiii.
Since I oh-so wisely canceled my Internet service in a huff without any backup plan, I now have to schlep my computer to and from various neighborhood coffee shops, vying for a good spot next to an outlet (it usually takes three coffee shops before I find a good spot, luckily I live in coffee-capital Portland). My friendly neighbor Kiki saw me in one of my crazed treks and generously gives me his wireless password to use at home until mine is up and running. Yay for Kiki!

On the 7th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Another Internet service provid-errrrrr.
Great, so now all I have to do is find another Internet service and I'm set. I'm trying to decide between Comcast and Integra, which is a local company, and I go with Integra strictly because on its website it states "we're not only in your country, we're right in your neighborhood." I wanted to cry with happiness, because it was just what I was looking for--you mean, I'd be speaking with someone who speaks native English? AND lives in Portland? Cool!

On the 6th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Four faxes, three pho-oone calls, and two annoying e-maaails.
You know when I said I liked the idea that Integra was right in your neighborhood? Well, it became a little too close for comfort. First, I had to fax all these papers over--which, since I didn't have Internet service, entailed going to a coffee shop (this was pre-Kiki's kindness), downloading an e-mail, returning home to print it out, and then faxing it. So I did it. Thing is, I just got this new fax machine, and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to fax the page text-side up or down, and apparently I guessed wrong. Every afternoon for FOUR DAYS, I'd receive a long-winded jovial call from my friendly neighborhood Internet guy who went on and on about how he didn't get my fax (and with my phone, I don't know how to erase messages until AFTER I've listened to the whole damn thing). I tried faxing it again from my machine. He'd call. I faxed from the copy shop. He called. I finally called him back and said "listen, I'm going to try this ONE MORE TIME and if it doesn't go through I'm done. Finished! And by the way, PLEASE STOP CALLING ME!" Yes, now I've officially scared off not one but two Internet companies.

On the 5th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A MacBook Air that wi-iiil not wo-ooork!
Dateline: early December. My faxes and paperwork are in with Integra, I'm waiting the god-only-knows-why-so-long 20 days for service to arrive, and suddenly my brand-new MacBook Air decides it's going to go keyboard up. One day before I leave for a week-long vacation. I calmly book an appointment with the Genius Bar at the Apple Store in the mall. I'm dodging screaming kids who are waiting in line to sit on Santa's lap, and cringing when I see a row of small children caroling, and generally shooting evil looks at moms who are dressed in matching red sweaters with their kids as I trudge toward the Apple Store when I get a phone call. "Hi there, Megan, it's Integra! We just have a few questions for you before we get your service ready, is now a good time?" I grumble "uh yeah." The too-chirpy woman on the phone goes through all these detailed questions that I don't understand (I mean, if I knew the difference between a static and roaming IP address or whatever I'd probably just be setting it up myself, now, wouldn't I?). Toward the end of the conversation, I veer toward Ann Taylor Loft for some retail therapy as I listen to her chirp on. They're just too..Portland for me. I mean, I know I didn't want a company that's calling from India, but I also didn't want to be fielding calls from my friendly neighborhood Internet guy every day either with another form or question.

On the 4th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Schlepping my Sony Vaio on five fliiiii-iiiights!
The next day, I leave for a week-long vacation. Of course, my MacBook Air is sitting at the computer hospital still because apparently it needs a new hard drive. Sure, that makes perfect sense seeing as I've owned the thing for only two months! Which means that I have schlep my heavy Sony Vaio which doesn't fit handily into my usual carry-on like my sleek MacBook, and feels super-clunky in comparison. Add to this fact that I have no less than FIVE flights during this trip--Portland to Minneapolis to Detroit to Atlanta to Minneapolis to Portland. As soon as I land from my first flight in Minneapolis, I check my cell phone and see a message. It's the Mac store, telling me chirpily that my Mac is ready for me back in Portland. Oy!

On the 3rd Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A Sony that won't turn ooooon!
My Sony has an evil sense of humor and sometimes waits until it knows I'm going to crack before it decides to act. On the first day of my trip, I tried to do some work I desperately needed to finish that morning (since I'd missed a day of work dealing with my computer woes) only to realize it wasn't going to turn on. After sobbing not-so-silently right then and there (you see, the Sony really is a smart one, it knew my breaking point for prime tears right on the spot!), I closed the computer and decided to cease and desist from any and all computers for a few days. Of course, once I was calm the Sony turned on just like a charm. Bastard.

On the 2nd Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: The Qwest guy scaring me half to deaaaath.
In order to get my new Internet hooked up, the phone company first had to come out and do something to my outside phone wiring. But I didn't realize this. The morning after I return from vacation, my boyfriend Eric has just left the house for work when the doorbell rings. I'm still in my bathrobe if you must know so I'm not about to answer the door. Usually it's the mailman or UPS guy who will ring to let me know he's leaving a package. But the ringing keeps persisting. I can hear someone standing on the front porch. Then I realize--it's a burglar! He's seen Eric leave and is ringing to check if anyone else is home before picking the lock and entering. [Before you think I'm completely paranoid, this scenario actually did happen to us last year, which--talk about coming full circle--actually resulted in my year of computer woes because they stole my beloved computer which forced me to buy my Sony, but I totally digress!] So picture this scene: I'm downstairs, steps away from the door, in my bathrobe, frozen in position and thinking a gun-wielding burglar is about to break in (hello, worst fear!). I tiptoe to the door and quietly lock the bolt in place, thinking that if he does pick the lock at least it might take longer. Then I tiptoe back to the alarm system and turn it on so at least that might scare him away. And then I make a break for it upstairs where I peek out the window from my office to see...a Qwest truck. I sheepishly get dressed, go outside and talk to the Qwest guy, who had just rung the bell out of courtesy to let me know he's working in my side yard. Oops.

On the 1st Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A faulty Internet system once agaaaaain.
The next day the Integra guy comes over, and two hours later he declares that he can't get the modem to work. A few more phone calls later from Integra, another Qwest visit, and I'm waiting for The Next Step. Will 2009 be my year free of computer problems? We shall see. In the meantime, I'm once again happily typing on my MacBook Air while using Kiki's Internet and fielding two calls a day from Integra who are keeping me informed of every step in this never-ending process. Stay tuned.

misadventures in Florida

Have you ever traveled somewhere and felt like you've landed in an episode of the Twilight Zone? Me too. In fact, it just happened to me last week while in Florida for a conference. I'd only been to Florida a handful of times: the obligatory Clearwater Beach spring break, a couple-a work trips to Orlando. You know, the usual. When I think of Florida, I mainly think of Key West, as I go there every two years on a family getaway. Of course, after this excursion to Tampa last week I realized that viewing Florida through the Key West lens is akin to thinking that you've gotten the feel of New York state if you've ever walked in midtown Manhattan.

In the world of journalism, three is the magic number. Three examples of a trend means you can legitimately call it as such, for instance. So consider, if you will, these three pieces of evidence which shall prove beyond a reasonable doubt that either someone was filming me for an episode of Candid Camera, or that Florida and Megan just don't mix well.

1. My plane lands in Miami, and the typical mayhem ensues as people whip off their seatbelts and stand up, craning their neck to the side because of the overhead bins. This always makes me laugh, as if standing up immediately is really going to get you out of the plane that much faster. Even though the plane has stopped, we're still on the runway and haven't reached our gate, so the flight attendant nicely asks everyone to take their seat. Everyone does, except for two guys who remain standing in the aisle a few rows ahead of me. The flight attendant, in a slightly icier tone, reminds them that everyone needs to take a seat, please. That just leaves one guy standing. Finally, the flight attendant becomes downright testy, as she walks up to the guy and says "are you not wondering why everyone else is sitting down? Please take your seat!" Finally, that does the trick, as the guy looks for an empty seat (who knows where he originally came from, but apparently it was too far back in the plane for his liking) and focuses on the empty middle seat beside me of course. He squeezes himself past my lap and sits, leaning into me. When we finally do get to our gate, and the seatbelt sign comes off, he immediately whips his off, stands up, and starts moving toward the aisle. There isn't any room for him to do so, since, well, I'm sitting there, so I decide I can either push him back or just get out of his way. I opt for the latter and stand in the aisle behind our row so he can get by. Just as I'm puzzling over what this guy's deal is, though, and shaking my head at another fellow across the way who has witnessed this and is laughing with me, an older guy starts yelling at me in a thick accent because apparently I'm in his way and he can't get to his bag. Meanwhile, no one has even started moving off the plane, so it's not like I'm preventing anyone from really getting anywhere. Was I missing something? I felt like I had just landed in a different country, where I didn't know the proper etiquette for getting off the plane.
Once we have successfully de-planed as they call it in the airline biz, I decide a margarita sounds delightful as I wait for my next flight to Tampa. Of course, I sit there for what seems like 20 minutes while the servers sit around and fold napkins and chat, and finally I ask the bartender if I can order from him, and he says I need to wait for the server. I'm used to super-slow service in the laid-back land of Portland, but this takes the cake. Once a margarita is finally placed in front of me, I call my boyfriend and whisper to him that something weird is going on with Miami. Little did I realize the madness had only begun.

2. I arrive at my hotel in Tampa, and the manager tells me that my room is a two-bedroom suite but could I check out of the room tomorrow and he'll move me to a smaller one. No problem. When I enter the room, I'm immediately relieved that I'm only going to be here one night. It's a two-bedroom, two-bathroom suite, which sounds luxurious but really just ends up being creepy. I don't know about you, but I prefer smaller spaces in which to conduct my sleeping. I don't like several rooms, and I certainly don't like empty extra bedrooms. You see, I have a big imagination. And I can also freak myself out pretty easily. My childhood friend, Andy, and I used to play this game where one of us would sit in her bedroom with the lights off and the other one would take their time before bursting into one of the two entrances to her bedroom (that was the kicker, that you didn't know from where the bursting would commence). Being in this room was like playing that game, only there wasn't anyone in on it to laugh with. Throughout my first sleepless night, I kept imagining that I'd open my bedroom door to see the other bedroom door wide open, or to see a light from underneath the door. I kept my door my locked and the bathroom light on.
The next morning, I happily rolled my luggage to the front desk, relieved to be rid of my spooky room. That afternoon when I returned at my hotel to check back in after a day of sightseeing, though, they mysteriously gave me the exact same room number. Seems that the hotel was now booked solid and that was the only one left. It was like Hotel Florida...you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave, mwha ha ha ha. I put on a brave face and entered the elevator, luggage in tow, to the 15th floor once again. But even if you think I've been over-reacting at my too-big room, you have to admit, there's something creepy about this hallway (pictured here, with my room door at the end of the hallway). Something, well, Shining-esque about it. I mean, c'mon, LOOK at it!
I could have asked to change rooms, but I didn't want to jinx anything. I mean, what if my new room was creepier than my first one? So I decided to befriend the room, and just locked my bedroom door every night and that was that. But I still can't figure out some things. Like why every time I took a shower, I would hear a sound like a doorbell. The first time this happened, I thought there was someone at the door, and I even got out to check, thinking I'd see the cleaning crew on the other end of the peephole. No one was there. The next morning, I thought it might be an alarm, although since I showered at different times of the day that didn't make sense either. My third explanation was that maybe this was a new Green Hotel system, where they'd sound an alarm if you're taking up too much water, but I couldn't find any notecards backing up this fact. Okay, now you're going to think I'm making this up, but I also heard voices, like a radio that would cut in and out every morning, except I unplugged the radio and it still happened.
Let's just say that when it came time for me to roll my luggage out of there for good, I wasn't sad to go. (And I was relieved that unlike Hotel California, they let me check out...AND leave!)

3. The final piece of evidence that Florida is messing with me has to do with politics. I'm not a super-political person by nature. I vote Democratic, I feel strongly on certain issues, but I don't relish getting into debates about it. After all, I've lived in liberal bubbles of NYC and Portland for the past 16 years, so I rarely meet anyone who doesn't feel the same way I do. When I walk down my street to the post office or the bank, there are people selling Obama t-shirts and buttons. The Obama volunteer headquarters are three blocks away from my house. It's All Blue, All The Time around here. But while walking around Tampa, I actually saw my first McCain sign. And then another. And then an entire neighborhood filled with them. While out with some old friends that night, I commented on it...and then realized that they're Republican and are so pro-life that they believe Roe v. Wade should be reversed, and they'd vote for a candidate strictly on the pro-life issue. This took me by such surprise, seeing as these are intelligent, funny, interesting, and cool guys, that I just assumed they would be like-minded. I was so caught off-guard that I couldn't even formulate an argument; instead, I was like a deer in headlights--a crying deer, it turns out, because I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom for some deep breaths after the tears started rolling (okay, laugh if you wish, I've never been accused of being non-emotional). I became paranoid--I mean, if these cool guys could think this way, who else does? My mind raced back to my 20th year high school reunion this summer, and I wondered, oh my God, is X Republican? Is Y pro-life? Who ELSE is on the "other" side? The next day, determined to escape Tampa, I rented a car and went to St. Petersburg, where I walked up and down the main drag trying to find the Obama headquarters, so I could proudly display an Obama button. If anything, it made me less complacent in my liberal bubble, and more determined to paint the country blue on Tuesday.

Let's see...plane-pushers, haunted hotel rooms, and right-wingers? I think I'll stick to Key West or bust when it comes to the Sunshine State next time, thanksabunch.

Megan

misadventures at the dog shelter

In my 38 years, I've never been fired from a job. Well, okay, that's not exactly true. There was that one stint as a server at my freshman-year dorm cafeteria at Indiana U., but I can explain that. I mean, part of the required dress was a hairnet for God's sake! I'd try and perch it just over my ponytail so I was technically wearing it without having it draped over my entire 'do (keep in mind, this was the 80s in the big hairsprayed bangs era), and managed to squeak my way through as long as the manager didn't see me. I loved when I was assigned the dish duty instead of the front line, where I could silently make my $4.50 an hour alone with the dishwasher rather than in front of my collegemates. I didn't last long at the job (I think my downfall was picking and choosing which weekend shifts I would show up to).

What in tarnation am I going on about this experience for, when it happened nearly 20 years ago? Because I was recently axed as a volunteer at the local dog shelter. My downfall, it seems, is that I just can't keep my mouth shut. It's something that my friend Mike once commented upon. "Megan? You know that little man we all have in our brain which stops thoughts from coming out of our mouths? I think yours is asleep sometimes!" I thought he was being generous. "A man in our brain? What man? We have a man? I don't think I have one!" was my response.

You see, when I see people who take themselves seriously, I love to mess with them. I think of it as a sport.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. The madness began a year ago, when I had a run-in with what I call one of the Mini Me volunteers (one of the volunteers who spends more than once or twice a week at the shelter and are wannabe staffers). I'd noticed this fellow before, and there was something about him that bugged me. You know the type, who is around all the time and keeps close tabs on what others are doing. I'm more of the type that follows the rules that make sense to me, and try and bypass others that seem silly, and otherwise don't pay attention to what others are doing because it's not my business. That's how I came across, let's call him Stan the Man, while taking a dog out the wrong door. You see, it made sense to take a shortcut at that particular time, since I knew that my fellow volunteers wouldn't be there for another hour, but Stan the Man caught me in the act. "Why, this is not an exit!" he exclaimed. "Oh I know!" I responded and continued on my way. As he watched me, I gave a little wave. Stan the Man wasn't pleased. He looked up my name and sent an e-mail to our volunteer coordinator saying I was flouting the rules and generally running amok. The volunteer coordinator made the mistake of forwarding this tirade to me, whereupon I fixated upon the words "dog-walking Nazi." Now I don't know about you, but the casual use of the word Nazi doesn't sit well with me. So let's just say that Stan the Man and I never really saw eye-to-eye. I was reprimanded, duly noted that I should go out the right doors from now on or else, and went on my merry way. Not before having a good chuckle with my fellow Tuesday nighters (all of whom are the more "regular" volunteers who give 2-3 hours of their time per week).

When I next saw Stan the Man, I couldn't help myself. "Hello, I wanted to introduce myself, I'm Megan McMorris--oh, but you already know that, because you looked me up and called me a dog-walking Nazi. I have a little tip for ya big guy. You might want to stay away from Tuesday nights because I'm crazy." To prove my point, when I would encounter him after that I would bark, talk to myself, meow, and generally make a fool of myself so he'd want to run away with his tail between his legs. I wished I could perfect the art of my head spinning around, but I just end up with a crick in my neck. What can I say, I amused myself.

Fast forward many Tuesday nights later, many happy tail-wagging dogs being walked, and I happened to go to a group outing with some staff and volunteers. Big mistake. This time, there was a staff member there (let's call him Dan the Dude), and he was bragging about how he yells at volunteers and "runs a tight ship" during the day. As I was closing in on my third year at the shelter, I had noticed an interesting trend--staffers being rude to volunteers. It had made others quit, but I was mainly amused by it because it's like dealing with small-town cops: a case where you're surrounded by underpaid, overworked employees who take it out on the little people to exert any ounce of control they have. Well, I thought it would be splendid to mess with this guy. "Why, Dan the Dude, you wouldn't like to work with me then. Go out through the in door? Absolutely! Let dogs touch noses? Bring it on! I break ALL the rules!" Little did I realize, there were other Mini Me's and staff members who were pricking up their ears and raising their hackles during our little discussion. I drove home that night, thinking "well, I'm glad I don't work with that guy!" and thought that would be the end of it. My mistake again. Instead, the staffers and Mini Me's reported me as the Rogue Volunteer Who Breaks The Rules. So as I was obliviously typing away at my computer a couple weeks ago, I receive an e-mail that suggests I should destroy my security badge immediately. (That part made me laugh, what was I going to do, sneak in and clean up dog poop under cover of the night?)

So there you have it. I was canned. Now my friendly fellow Tuesday nighters, none of whom were even consulted for their opinion on the matter, are left to deal with Stan the Man and Dan the Dude by themselves. (I advised them to say "yes sir" and click their heels when being treated rudely.)

What have I learned from this, one might ask? I haven't yet figured it out, except that when you mess with small-town cop-type people they're likely to bring out their big guns. In the meantime, though, I'm finding some fun uses for my lovely turquoise volunteer apron, which in this picture is donning my yellow Lab mix, Luey. I'm also wondering if it might make a nice Halloween costume--I'd been thinking about going as a Geek Squad chick, since I practically felt like a part of the crew during my computer woes, but this makes a nice alternative. The only thing is, to really complete the part of a dog-shelter volunteer, I'd have to have people dress as staffers to literally trod on my back. I've been having some back pain recently, though, so I don't know if that's wise. Then again, I've never been accused of being wise.


Megan

misadventures at the marathon

When people hear that I run marathons, they think I'm speedy. Or that I take my running seriously. Or that I'm competitive. Nothing can be further from the truth. While I have toed the line at 14 marathons, I view each one as an experiment, because you never know what's going to happen. Learn from my missteps so you’ll be prepared come Marathon Sunday in Portland.

DO squeeze in your long runs. True story: While riding on the shuttle bus to the start line of the Austin marathon in 2005, I realized something startling: I hadn’t actually run more than, oh, 10 miles for years. I had actually trained hard, doing lots of speedwork and hills, but between illness and travel, my long runs got swept aside. “Well, this should be interesting!” I laughed to myself as the bus kept on rolling for what seemed like forever. Thanks to my speed training, I managed to hold on for 13 miles before my pace slowed from 7:30-minute miles to well over 11-minute miles toward the finish line.
Lesson learned: muscle memory only gets you so far. Do the long runs.

DON'T let lack of shoes fluster you. When unpacking for the 2001 Gorge half-marathon in Hood River (I know, it’s only a half, but go with it), I noticed something conspicuously missing: my shoes. Not to be rattled, I waltzed into the nearest Wal-Mart, plunked down a cool fifteen dollars, and—as my friends made bets on whether the shoes would last the distance—I managed to run my best time in a half-marathon yet. Or at least I think it’s my best time, I always forget to stop my watch at the finish line.
Lesson learned: never let them see you sweat.

DO test your shiny new gear before the race. At Grandma’s marathon in Duluth, Minnesota this summer, I was excited to try the new Nike Plus system, where a shoe sensor transmits fun things to your watch like your pace, distance, and calories burned. Once the marathon started, I pushed a button and set off on my merry way. And pushed a button again. Wait, was I supposed to push it for three seconds now or just one second, and which button again? And if it's flashing, is that a good thing or does that mean I have to keep pushing? I spent the first mile trying to figure it out.
Lesson learned: read the fine print before your run.

DON'T be afraid to hug the trees. During the Avenue of the Giants marathon in '07, what I like to call my Unlucky 13th, I was hurting big-time by mile 15 and realized I would have to walk/run from there on out. Just when I was starting to feel sorry for myself, I turned my attention instead to my surroundings. That’s when the Redwood trees lining the race course became my silent supporters. They served as a sturdy calf-stretching post, they shaded my route, and their branches waved me on (hey, cut me some slack, I was feeling delirious by then). For this city girl who prefers screaming crowds—and cowbell, lots of cowbell—there was something peaceful about those trees watching me limping along.
Lesson learned: take comfort wherever you can get it.

DO remember to dance when you hear music (I prefer moonwalking myself), high-five the supporters, choke up with tears, joke with your fellow runners, and thank the volunteers.
Lesson learned: having fun during a marathon is a sign of success.

computer misadventures

I have a knack for ignoring things when they go wrong, until they really can't be ignored any longer. Case in point: My Sony Vaio computer, which had been error-messaging me like crazy for months now. I just dutifully saved my files on my thumb drive and hoped for the best.

So when it finally error-messaged like it had never error-messaged before, I realized something needed to be done. I calmly put my computer into my bag and drove to Geek Squad at Best Buy. I knew right where it was, thanks to previous computer mishaps. Or, at least I thought I knew right where it was. After driving around in circles along industrial parkway routes, I detoured into a parking lot and consulted my handy iPhone Google Map feature, where it pointed me in the right direction just a couple blocks down.

So imagine my surprise and dismay when I come across the picture to the left:


My first instinct, besides shaking my fist into the air and crying out "noooooooooooo!", was to laugh and to admire how they had procured a bag that exactly matched the weird shape of the Best Buy sign. My second instinct was to wonder what the hell I was going to do. After all, the store at which I had bought this computer (and had smartly bought the extra coverage for their help desk, I might add), had closed its doors months ago. And now Geek Squad wasn't even able to come to my rescue? But that was before I took a closer look at the small sign in the window, pointing out that the stores hadn't closed down but that the location had just changed. And I couldn't help but take a picture, because if that isn't the most unhelpful set of directions I don't know what is. (If you can't see it, it's just telling me to go East and then has an arrow pointing to Best Buy sign, and as my boyfriend said when I explained my tale, "but honey, when you get flustered you don't know your East from your West!" ExACTly my point!)



So I figured out, again with the help of my iPhone, how to point myself East and ended up finally at Geek Squad. I won't bore you with the rest of the details, except to provide a handy timeline of My Year of Computer Woesl:

*November 2007: my computer gets stolen from my home office, and all of my unsaved work is gone, including my shiny book proposal I was just about to send out

*November 2007: in my state of shock, I buy a computer with the only criteria that it's a cool color and it's in my price range. It's supposed to be my "happy computer" to have something good come out of a criminal creeping into my office when I'm not home.

*November 2007: four days after I buy my new computer, I get a virus. Meanwhile, I'm frantically trying to reconstruct some work because I have a big work deadline and now I'm typing on a loaner computer while mine rests at Comp USA where I bought it.

*March 2008: I start having some error messages on my computer, so I pack it up and bring it to Comp USA where I had paid extra to get coverage with their help desk the last time. I arrive to see the store has closed and a manager gives me a hand-out telling me that I need to call an 800-number for service from now on. When I get back home, my computer miraculously behaves so I just ignore the problem.

*March to August 2008: I ignore the many error messages on my computer.

*August 2008: After aforementioned struggles, I bring it to Geek Squad. Since I have a one-year warranty with Sony, they send it to Sony. I warn the Geek Squad guy that I am in danger of throwing my computer. He advises against it, but says it wouldn't be the first time he's seen it.

*August 2008: Two weeks later, I get my computer back and Sony says they can't verify purchase so they haven't done anything to the computer. Geek Squad tells me to re-set my computer and that should fix the problem. I do so, and problem is solved.

*August 2008: Amid the hubbub, I buy a MacBook Air. All is now well in my computer land. For now.

Megan

second column up in The Oregonian

Check out my Hood to Coast adventure story...as my friend Pete would say, "that shite is too funny to make up."

Enjoy laughing at my misadventures, I do!


http://www.oregonlive.com/outdoors/index.ssf/2008/08/runner_on_hood_to_coast_relay.html

Megan

first Misadventures column up!

My shiny new Misadventures column has finally appeared in The Oregonian. I love the mysterious line at the end, whereby they say my column will run "occasionally." I suppose I like to keep people guessing, so when you least expect it, there I'll be.

The on-line version doesn't include my lil' pictorial representation of myself, but you can still get the gist if you like.

http://www.oregonlive.com/travel/index.ssf/2008/08/backpack_may_be_heavy_but_leav.html

The next one is scheduled to run either next week or the week after, about my Hood to Coast misadventures. Or will it??

Megan

misadventures at the high school reunion

Yeppers, it was my 20th high school reunion (what's that you say? I look like I should be going to my 10th high school reunion? You're too kind. Really. But do go on if you like...), held in good old Bowling Green, Ohio last week.

I'm not the type to smile demurely and hold polite conversation while daintily nibbling on a puff pastry, holding out my hand to shake. No, I'm more of the latter category--the one who accidentally spills beer on a friend, runs down the length of the bar to hug someone, and emits sharp squeals when sighting long-lost buddies.

And even though I love where I live and what I do for a living, I have zero desire to talk myself up. Instead, I'd rather reminisce about the time that I sold Jeff M. my bike for $10 in 8th grade (and yes, he still has it), or the time that Janeen and I had a bet that you couldn't sneeze and keep your eyes open at the same time.

I've never really taken myself that seriously, and I still don't. That's why my favorite conversations were about each other's misadventures--about how my friend X hired a private detective to snoop on her ex-husband, or about how friend Y was scrounging for change to pay for the reunion and laughed at how pathetic it would be if she had to pay in quarters. You had to be there, but it resulted in much cackling at our own misfortunes. Because that's what life is about. Not pretending that everything is great (even when it usually is), but laughing at yourself.

Anyway, it was certainly real to see everyone--since I was born and raised in the same small town, I have known some of those people since nursery school!

The photo above is my all-time favorite picture of the event, taken with some of my favorite people: Heather Mc., Adam Mc., and Diane Mc., AKA The Four Mcs. (And none of the misadventure stories relates to any of those pictured, by the by.)

Megan

Never Leave Home Without...

I'm so not into new technology. My TV is the same little guy I bought in '96, small enough to fit into my bookshelf thingie in my living room. The only reason I have a DVD player is because my VCR finally broke down after 10 years of trusty service, so I relented. The only reason I'm not still carrying around a yellow Sony Walkman (remember those?) while I run is because I got an iPod as a gift a couple years ago. And, while I'm on that topic, the only reason I upgraded my iPod to a shinier version was thanks to my friendly neighborhood burglar who stole my last one from my house (thanks, dude--give me a few years until there are further upgrades, though, will ya, then it's all yours again).

I just don't see the point of upgrading to something else when the original is working just fine, knowwhatimean,vern?

So imagine my surprise when I came home one night last month after dinner with friends, sat down on the couch, and announced to my boyfriend Eric the following statement: "I think I actually want an iPhone!" It all started with my new friend Leslie, who whipped out her iPhone when we were talking about our dogs, and here she had all these clear pics to display while I was left with a little blurry yellow blob on my cell phone pictures. While I thought it was cool, it certainly wasn't enough to dazzle me enough to actually switch phones. What really brought me over to the iPhone side was the next time I was out with Leslie and another new friend who had just moved to town, Jessica (this "new friend who just moved to town" stuff is happening all the time since I happen to live in the coolest city on earth, you see). At the end of the night, they were trying to figure out how to get back to Northwest neighborhood from the restaurant, and which bridge to take. It was just getting to that point in the conversation that I hate, where people are actually asking ME directions (not a good idea typically), when Jessica said, "oh, I can figure it out," and whipped out HER iPhone. That's when she showed me the magical map feature of this guy. You push a button and it shows your current location and then you just punch in where you want to go and it gives you the route.

Okay. That?? Is so totally and completely mind-bogglingly cool!! Dare I say life-changing? It's what swayed me to get one--with the help of aforementioned boyfriend, who surprised me with one on my birthday last month.

What does this have to do with misadventures, you may ask? Because I get lost ALL the time. And 82.9 percent of the time, I'm like "oh, I'll figure it out when I get there, it can't be THAT hard," only to end up circling the block hundreds of times.

That, of course, was before I had my iPhone in my death grip at all times.

Megan

My New Motto

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." There you have it, my summation of this them thar blogospheric thing. After a coupla years of eyeball-rolling at the blog explosion, I've joined in.

Feel free to lob produce in my general direction, call me a joiner, even tell me that I've sold out (although, since I'm writing this for free, that last point would be rather silly). It's okay. I can take it. You done? You, in the back, with the tomato, you gonna throw that thing or what?

Okay, now that we have that out of the way, I must admit something. Two years ago, I was in this very same predicament in which I currently find myself. I put up a website, you see, even though I thought it was kind of obnoxious at the time, but I felt that it was one of those nebulous things (did I use that word right? I just like saying it...) where I didn't really know why I needed one, but it just seemed the The Thing To Do. In those two years, I've figured out why I needed a website. (I'll spare you the fascinating details, but it involves the whole editors-realizing-you're-somewhat-legitimate aspect.)

When I posted my intro. for my website, I even started off proudly saying that "what you won't find is a blog of me going on and on about myself." Well, that's still pretty true. While I still don't really exactly precisely know why I need a blog, I'm just followin' the crowd on this one hoping to reach enlightenment in the next couple of years.

In the meantime, I shall view this blog as a journal of my misadventures. Because there are a lot of 'em. And as a writer, I feel the need to get things in writing.

Megan