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.