misadventures in book publicity

Yes, I'm so green that I take pictures of the Green Room...this is from WGN studios in Chicago. I'm a total nerd...but ISN'T IT COOL??!!

It's fitting that on the last night of 2009, I had a nightmare about book publicity. In my dream, I was running late to an interview, and I didn't even know what station I was supposed to go to, or for that matter, whether it was radio or TV. When I woke up, I laughed (after reassuring myself that I wasn't late to anything except sitting down and writing this blog, which has taken me over two months to finish--I blame book exhaustion). The reason it's fitting is 2009 will go down in history as The Year of Book Publicity Misadventures. Four bookstore readings, three radio interviews, two TV segments, and more than one meltdown later, I come prepared with advice. So if you have a book on the horizon in this decade, heed my words before you pitch yours...


DO get there on time. For some reason, the big headliner of many a nightmare for me (see above) has been that pesky punctuality thing. I have good reasons for keeping one eyeball firmly on the watch. Of the three in-person interviews I had for this book "tour", only one of them came fret-free: My Portland TV interview, to which I was calm as a cuke as Sue the Subaru guided my way through the early-morning darkness to the station only a few miles away. Nothin' to it. My Portland radio interview wasn't as smooth sailing. My first glimpse of a problem was when I reassured myself "I'll figure out how to get there" because I had been there before. Bad idea. Bad, BAD idea. Because this radio station happens to be located in the evil empire known as South Waterfront. Evil not for the neighborhood itself--it's pretty cool, actually--but the fact that you cannot get to it via normal channels. Instead, you must immediately take a hard right after the bridge exit, jog to the left, do a U-Turn and then a figure-eight across four lanes of traffic--or something of that sort. I jest slightly, of course. But suffice it to say, I did many of these driving configurations while remaining frustratingly far from the station. And because the neighborhood insists on being so evil, if you miss the exit it's not like a "I'll just park and walk" situation, because there's a handy four-lane highway separating where you are and where you want to go (a highway I actually eyeballed for hightailing it 'cross at one juncture, until I saw that it's cut into a hill and there's really no way to plonk yourself miraculously on the other side, ack!). Put it this way: I left two hours early in order to drive 10 miles, and I arrived just in time. You ever see Chevy Chase in European Vacation when he's in that round-about in London? Yeah. (I'll leave you to imagine my mental state for that panic-filled hour). The following month, I managed to book a Chicago TV interview. Which would occur at 11 am. Upon looking at my flight times that morning from Denver, I realized that left me a grand tally of one hour from wheels down to "lights, camera, action". I promptly e-mailed my mathematician, Chicago-dwelling dad who practically pulled out a mathematical equation about how I would indeed get there on time (despite many reassuring e-mails pre-trip, he admitted to me that he was nervous all along, ha!). BUT, in a beautifully choreographed travel morning, it was to be. Between two notoriously snow-delayed cities (this was November, after all), my flight was right on time and my Denver trip was miraculously sandwiched between two huge snowstorms. Even my bag was patiently waiting for me at the terminal by the time I walked through O'Hare's long hallways to get to baggage claim (I mean, when does THAT ever happen?). I caught a cab immediately, and despite exactly one minute of Chicago traffic gridlock, I managed to waltz into the station early (okay, I wasn't exactly waltzing as I had three bags in tow, but work with me).
Lesson Learned: Sometimes, the time gods look upon you even when you're about to shit your pants.


DO turn things up to 11. It was my first in-studio radio interview on a popular afternoon drive-time show. I'd pictured lots of laughing and slyly nodding to each other and crazy stories. What I didn't factor in, however, was confusion and madness in all directions. Half the time (okay, I'm being generous with myself--actually, it's more like 75 percent if you're really getting exact about things) I didn't know what the hell was going on. To wit: While my headphones were mysteriously muffled, the radio hosts seemed to be listening to something. I looked to my left, as she doodled on a piece of paper, nodding. To my right, the other host was updating their Facebook page yet still seemed to be listening to something. After looking around, I decided to toy with this little thing called a "volume button." Just as I turned it up, I realized that yes indeedy, the hosts ARE listening to something, and they're called lis-ten-ers. I turn up the volume just as the caller ends her question and the host asks me what I think (luckily, she picks up on my clueless look and immediately asks me another open-ended question about the book). Other random tidbits circling in my brain throughout the entire interview included: whether we were "live" or not and therefore whether I was allowed to chat with the hosts, whether I was supposed to talk to the callers, and how long I should jabber on for when I was actually asked a direct question. After that, I decided to channel my inner Derek Smalls (of Spinal Tap), who decided his role in the band was as a "preserved moose" (i.e., don't speak unless spoken to). Let's just say it was a good thing it was radio, otherwise my furrowed brow would have been a problem-o.
Lesson learned: When you have no earthly clue what in tarnation is going on, just stay put and shut up.


DON'T equate tears with crying. I'm the first to burst into tears, I just don't tend to do it in front of a rapt audience. But during one of the bookstore events, a funny thing happened. One of the contributors had an allergy attack as she waited to read her essay. Since her essay was about a friend who had died, forgive me if I'm immediately thinking "sobbing" and not "pollen". I decide to do what's called "thinking on your feet," and even though she's due to read next I swap the order so she'll read last, all the better for her to dry her tears, I think. Only thing is, by the time she actually reads her essay, I'm quite verklempt myself. Because I know what her essay is about, and I'm putting myself in her shoes--mourning her friend who died. "Want a tissue?" another contributor, Anna, asked, as we're all lined up in front of the group and I'm clearly not holding it together. Luckily, I was told of many other tears in the audience later on, but at the time all I could focus on was steadying my flow and managing to get back up behind the podium to thank everyone. Imagine my slight sheepishness, then, to discover that she just had allergies! P.S.: For the record, so did I. There's a funny thing about bookstores that always triggers it, you see, it must be the book pollen...
Lesson learned: ask about the source of others' tears before asking for your own tissues.

DO remember your lines. The thing about not having "handlers" is that you are just kinda thrown into these interviews. And I'm two-for-two in the "throw Megan for a loop right before live TV" department. Yep, the exact occurrence is about 10.356 seconds before going live--right when they actually tell you what you'll be asked. The first time, I about choked (and when I read on host's cue card, I did the old "uh, can we can this question instead?" technique). The next time, the host rattled off her questions right beforehand, and I just nodded and smiled. And then I frantically brainstormed answers until we went live.
Lesson learned: when you're asked a question, remember--and TRUST!--that you have it in your brain. And if all else fails, wing it, because no one knows the difference!

DO laugh at yourself. Even if your book is enjoying a gentle free-fall on Amazon, even when a friend tells you that you seemed nervous on camera, even when another "friend" gives you a three-star review (out of five, people! I mean, that's like someone saying "I give you a C!"), relax. Because there's plenty on the flip side: fabulous contributors, a fantastic photographer-friend who came through with a bio pic and event shots, and everyone on Facebook who has NOT de-friended you through this whole me-me-me madness. Above all, be glad you're not a literary bigwig who has to be on the book-tour trail for months on end. On the other hand, said bigwigs do tend to have "people" which might be nice. Baby steps, baby steps...
Lesson learned: No matter what you do, there will be critics. Just perfect your best smile-and-wave even if you're slightly miffed inside. Pretend you're above it and you will be.

misadventures in whitewater

I should have paid better attention at the rental desk. Armed with paddles and inflatable kayaks, my boyfriend Eric and I hurriedly signed our lives away as the store owner mumbled something about “scouting the rapids at Boxcar.” Slight prob: When you’re on the water, you often don’t realize a rapid is coming until it’s too late. So the next time you take a trip down what I now like to call "the deadly Deschutes," (hey, at least it's for a reason--there were record drownings the year we went!) take my advice:


DON’T go solo if you’re a whitewater novice. My whitewater excursions thus far had tallied a total of two—and both times, I was in a guided raft. But when Eric and I decided to raft the Deschutes on a hot July day, we thought it would be more fun to each get our own inflatable kayak than be packed in with strangers. Bad idea.
Lesson learned: There’s a huge difference between navigating the rapids in a big boat with an experienced guide versus your own tippy little vessel.

DO pay attention to rubberneckers. After getting into the river’s rhythm, we entered our first big rapid, Boxcar. I had just enough time to wonder “what is everyone looking at?” before realizing that the people gathered on the nearby rocks were there to witness rapids mayhem. I was about to be the main attraction, as I quickly overturned dramatically. Between the shock of the cold water and the panic of being dumped in whitewater for my first time, I was in short supply of breath—and common sense. In short, I freaked. I flailed my arms. I tried to grab rocks that whizzed by. “I! Really! Don’t! Like! This!” I announced to my spectators.
Lesson learned: When an audience has formed on the rocks, that’s your cue to scout things out before you hit the rapids.

DON’T become a yard sale. Since we hadn’t anticipated being dumped into the water, we cluelessly didn’t think to secure our belongings with a rope. After we lost my hat and Eric’s shoe, we battened down the hatches.
Lesson learned: Be prepared to offer up anything to the water gods that aren’t firmly attached to your person. And bring a knife while you’re at it in case you get caught in the rope.

DO stop while you’re ahead. After dumping three times, and getting relatively used to it (I even managed a couple “woo hoo!”s with paddle raised), we came upon our biggest rapid yet, Oak Springs. One minute Eric was paddling along in front of me, and the next I just saw the bottom of his boat before he disappeared altogether (turns out, there was about a 6-foot drop). Eric managed to sail over the rapids intact, but was now frantically trying to find me, hoping I hadn’t followed him. Instead, I had taken his disappearing act as a cue to pull to shore, and was safely talking to water rescue guys with ropes, as one fellow calmly explained that this rapid creates a hole that sucks people underneath the water. Oh, he also let me know that this was a special day, because rescue teams were upriver trying to recover the body of that girl who drowned last week. Alrighty then. After that, every small ripple looked like a hole existing only to pin me beneath the waves. It was time to hang up my paddle.
Lesson learned: Don’t talk to guys with ropes if you want to enter the water again.

misadventures in Canada

Twelve hosers enter the Canadian Rockies for a week with REI Adventures. Only eleven return. I kid, I kid (but I had you going for a minute, didn't I?). When you're traveling at the mercy of a couple of cannucks, you learn some things about surviving in the wilderness with others. Rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Or cry. Or leave trailmix where the animals can get them.

DO go with the flow. When we pulled into the campground, I noticed something a little off. A bright yellow fence surrounded the campground, complete with warning signs about electrocution hazards. Okaaaay, I thought to myself as they explained that it's there to keep bears out. I didn't think much about it because I was quickly distracted by something else (a shiny object, probably, it doesn't take much). The following day, my mom (my camping companion for the week) is sitting around with others at breakfast. "So," she says casually. "Did anyone happen to hear...I don't know...SHOTS fired in the middle of the night?" she inquires. "Shots? What shots?" asks our affable young friend Brett, who never seems to hear anything in the middle of the night throughout the week (the kid sleeps like a log! I blame it on his affection for loud heavy metal music). Our guides explain that...get this...when a bear is sighted in the middle of the night, a ranger leaps out of bed, shouts "hey beeaar!" and if the furry guy comes toward them he gets a rubber bullet in the snout. Hence the shots. (Unless they're making that whole thing up, it did sound suspicious!) That night around the campfire, we realized that if you put those two aspects together, it does sound mighty strange. Camping within confines of an electric fence? Shots fired in the middle of the night? Why, it's just your average vacation in the Canadian Rockies apparently!
lesson learned: those Canadians have a funny way of camping (again, I kid--I love the maple leaf, I bow down to the maple leaf, heck, I'm currently fanning myself with a maple leaf if you must know!)

DON'T leave a trace. Our second day, we drive up to the campground after a day of whitewater rafting to see someone's bag perched in plain view on the picnic table. A bag which I realize is filled with trail mix from yesterday. Because it's mine. "Whose bag is THAT?" Colleen, a teacher who is always the one to say what everyone else is thinking, asks. They all gather around to inspect it. "Oh, no worries, it's mine" I saunter up to casually claim the bag. A spirited discussion with our camping neighbors reveals why my bag is out in the open for everyone to inspect, and currently has a gaping hole in the bottom of it. Apparently, earlier that day their attention was averted from their morning coffee just in time to witness the sight of a large black crow dragging my pant leg (which used to be in the bag) down the road, so they came to the rescue. "Was there any food in it?" our guides question me. "Oh no, of course not!" I cheerfully reply and then retreat to my tent to see what the hell is in the bag. Upon entering my tent, I see a ripped plastic bag sitting on the ground, which I realize used to contain trail mix. I scoop up the evidence and whisper to my mom, who bursts out laughing. Yes, even after we heard the whole "leave no food out" speech, those shiny things distract me once again and I space it. Hey, when you're camping for five nights you tend to get a little disorganized is all I can say. I hope that Canadian chipmunk or whoever I fed is thanking me.
lesson learned: if you do blatantly disregard the rules, just pretend otherwise.

DO pretend you know what you're doing at all times. One might think that because I have actually written a hiking book, which entailed camping by myself nearly every weekend for a good four months, that I might know a thing or two about this whole tent camping situation. But if you're still reading this, you realize that no, in fact, I don't. After setting up our tent (which I was able to do with minimal help in case you're wondering, sheesh, I'm not that clueless!), we were ready to roll. That next morning, I compared notes with my mom about our sleep quality (I had alternated between waking myself up by shivering and feeling like my hip bones were making direct contact with sharpened knives myself, but I'm crazy like that). We deduced that the sleeping pads were just, weellll, maybe on the flimsy side. Yet, the little label on the pad DID say "self-inflating" so that just means it's magically inflated already, right? (Hey you, in the back? I can hear you chuckling you know!) Still I thought I'd assess the situation on behalf of my mom and I--to take one for the team, as it were. That night around the campfire, I casually inquire, "so, those sleeping pads aren't the best, are they?" hoping for a spirited discussion of lack of cush factor, but mysteriously no one piped up. Which is when Colleen (always the ever-wise teacher) said, "well, you know that you have to blow it up, right?" "Oh sure, sure, of course," I reply. That night I slink into my tent. "Mom, mom!" I whisper. "We have to blow up our sleeping pads!" We maniacally blew them up in under cover of night (it's hard to laugh and do this at the same time by the way) and sleep like babies. Cold babies. Because I was so focused on the task at hand that I'd neglected to adjust my campfire wardrobe, and after a shivering (albeit relatively cushioned) night I woke to find that all that currently donned my torso was a sweatshirt and a flimsy t-shirt. No wonder I was freezing my arse off! And furthermore...duh!
lesson learned: the ground is hard. Self-inflating does not mean that it's magically going to blow up by itself. Get a grip on yourself, girl! And put some long underwear on while you're at it, what, do I have to be your mother now?

DON'T let them see you cry. You know, when I moved from NYC to Oregon nine years ago, I considered myself to be a fearless outdoorsy chick. Summit Mount Hood, you say? Sure, I gotta check that off my list someday! Whitewater rafting? No sweat. Well, nine years of living here and experiencing close calls (which experienced outdoorspeople would call bumps in the road whereas I liken them to slight brushes with death) has turned me into a giant wuss. Thanks to a dangerous hiking fall several years ago, I've acquired a healthy aversion to scree slopes. And then there was that whitewater kayaking "incident" which makes small ripples in the water make me want to whimper. Well, this trip offered up both. First on the agenda: What my mom nicknamed (and which she was mighty proud that others started calling) The Zigzag of Death, a tiny exposed trail criss-crossing up and and across a snowy scree slope. I'm not usually the type to ask a lot of questions in a big group but as soon as I saw the Zigzag I pointed with my hiking stick at it and asked our guides, "are we going up THAT?!" We were. And we did. And I whimpered. Luckily, my new pal John turned out to be just the calm presence that I needed, stopping to wait and making me feel like we were in this together (he told me later that if he realized I was actually crying under my breath it would have freaked him out, because he was nervous too!). After conquering the ZZOD, my next task was a whitewater rafting excursion the very next day (stay tuned for a whitewater misadventures blog in the near future which will explain my white-knuckling in the white-water). I was feeling fine and putting my trust in the guides...until we pulled up to the shore to scout out a series of rapids. When I took a gander over the edge at the roaring water, I realized that had been a BAD idea. "Oh wow, you look like you're, like, afraid for your life or something!" someone commented. It wasn't entirely inaccurate. The guides mentioned that if you don't want to continue on at this point, you could go along the railroad tracks but "just be on the lookout for bears because that's where they hang out." Let's see...whitewater or bears, it was a toss-up but I decided to Stick With the Plan. Not before a nice chat with my OTHER new pal John, who had looked a little pale and silent on our journey to the river (his first whitewater experience). "Dude, what the hell??!!" I pointed a finger toward the frothing flurry of water just waiting to suck someone under. In a remarkably calm voice, he put his hands on my shoulders (or at least I think he did, but maybe I'm just making this up, I was starting to blank out!) and said "Megan, we're going to do this. Our guide knows what he's doing. We're going to be fine." Even though he was probably trying to convince himself of the same fact, his words did the trick. I climbed into the boat and paddled for my life, whimpering throughout the entire rapids (luckily the roaring water drowned out my sobs) and living to type my tale.
lesson learned: conquering your outdoor fears is easy when you go with experienced guides. Oh, and bring a pal named John who is slightly less scared than you are to help you realize that there is life at the end of the tunnel, zigzag or rapids. Furthermore, if you're going to completely fall apart, at least keep your ridiculous display of yourself on the down low, will ya?


DO book an REI trip. Two entertaining and experienced guides, 12 eclectic and hysterical adventurers (well, except for that one we still think might be left in the woods, joking, joking!) made a week in the Canadian Rockies a blast. From stoic Scott (our sole fellow Canadian who mysteriously was the only one who was allowed to use the axe in the campground) to our resident fashion plate, Andrew (who always appeared ready for hiking in fresh crisp clothes looking like he had just hiked out of an REI catalog) to mellow-yellow Diane to witty Krista to the hysterical couple Jose and Michelle to the aforementioned handful (plus a cheerful and adventurous mom), it was a top-notch crew. Look for us to appear in single formation on a trail near you. I'll be the one silently sobbing to myself and accidentally feeding the wildlife.

misadventures in Florida

Let's do some math, no?

FIVE adults + TWO kidlets + EIGHT days = FIVE lessons learned. Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water...well, actually it is pretty safe, I just like saying that.

During a recent Floridian getaway, I dared to go into the deep end and emerged with lessons that will come in handy for your next family vacation.

DON'T lose your cool when you lose your shirt. Probably the second worst time to lose your bag is when you've just landed in a tropical paradise. Wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt and no deodorant (oh, the horror!). [First worst time woulda been that near mishap en route to my 20th high school reunion, but I digress.] Here's the thing: I had been using Eric's Coast Guard army green duffel bag. I'm not really one to dutifully write my name on my bag or anything--I mean, who's going to have another green army-like bag, like, an army or something? ha ha ha! Then we land, and I notice something curious. A slew of ARMY GREEN DUFFEL BAGS keep making their merry way down the little scooty thing. "No way!" I exclaimed, and that's when I noticed that the recipients of these green bags were all these crewcut dudes in camouflage. "What are the odds?" I eyeballed each guy each time they hefted their bags onto large carts, trying to discern if I could find a flip-flop or dress poking out of one of them. A half-hour later, we were in line to report our bags missing, which is when we learn about the decidedly lax attitude of the small Floridian airports. "Oh yeah, they probably just didn't have room for them because of the troops," he said. Uh, okay. Meanwhile, we had a boyfriend's family on the way, so I did my best to make small talk as I prepared myself (see? I'd be a good Army cadet, isn't their motto Be Prepared? Oh wait, that's Boy Scouts. Moving on...) for the task I was about to embark upon: rushing the nearest Target for a madcap shopping spree in 10 minutes flat. You can lose my bag, Delta, but you can't keep this girl from looking good on the road, I dare say! Nothing like a guilt-free shopping spree to put a spring in one's step too. Things were off to a good start...(and bag was restored the next day)
LESSON LEARNED: when you lose the shirt off your back, just buy another one! Oh, and never underestimate the omnipresence of the military.

DON'T be afraid of the water. Okay, so this is not a misadventure, more of an adventure on my part but I couldn't help mention it. You see, I have been known to be afraid of taking a shower after seeing Jaws (I just won't mention how long ago it was, ahem). But the combo of a few Coronas, a full moon, and great company in the form of Eric and his brother in law found this non-water girl taking a dip in the ocean...at midnight! Lil ol me! After that, I was hooked. Kayak fishing, you say? When you just saw a shark fin taking an interest in your fish that was dangling over your boat just yesterday? Let's do it, and why don't I dangle a foot over the edge, what the heck, I have another one! Come and get it, fishy fishy! Snorkeling? Where's that mask! Kayaking in huge waves when we see several fins around us? No problem, why they're just your friendly neighborhood dolphins don't you know. Not being one to do things half-assed, I kinda plunged headfirst into my fear. Whether it was the Gulf of Mexico effect, the hot sun, or just the thrill of swimming in saltwater, I'm not going to question it.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to overcome a fear (yay me!)

DO run for cover when fireworks appear. One fear conquered, one to go. Next up: Fireworks. No sweat, I thought. Maybe it was the strong Long Island Iced Teas Eric had mixed, but I was feeling quite smug as I took my position on a beach chair for our DIY fireworks show. Who me, sit back at the house closing my ears like I normally would? Not I! It's a new, brave Megan, I thought as I dug my new Target flip-flops into the sand. The first couple of fireworks were no problem. And then the third one kinda threw us for a loop. The following two minutes were a little hazy. "Shit!" "Fuck!" "Oh my god!" came out of my mouth, and next I knew I was standing behind my chair. These little doozies I uttered came courtesy of a slight glitch in the program, whereby the firework display tipped over and was starting to shoot at short intervals toward, well, US. "Get the kids!" Eric's sister yelled. Eric covered his little nephew and I scrambled to get out my seat while keeping my eyes covered as the fireshooter from hell shot one off towards my right shoulder (hello, worst fear alert!). After the madness subsided, we for some reason kept on with the madcap display. Except now, instead of sitting smugly in my little beach chair, I was crouched behind it next to Eric's nephew, telling him "yes, that's right, fireworks are fun but they can be dangerous!" as I duck for cover. Meanwhile the other nephew is crouched behind me using ME for cover. "Hold tight guys!" I announce with each firework. Yeah, let's just say that I won't be doing that again. Ever.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to re-visit a childhood fear. And to remain afraid for life.

DON'T under-estimate the sun. I'm not a foodie and don't really like to spend much time on preparing meals. But when I am tasked with an occasional dinner, as Eric and I were halfway through our trip, I then morph into a master chef of sorts where I become a little obsessed. Bread? Of course we'll have bread, but I must make it from scratch! And why stop at one loaf, I'll make three--of course, that means I'll need a 5-pound bag of flour! And yeast! I'd heard some vague notions of a store nearby so I just tried to casually saunter away before anyone noticed. "Just going to the store!" I announced. His mom called after me, "do you want to use the car?" "Oh no, I'm fine, I'm fine!" and shut the door before anyone could protest. Dum de dum, I set off on my way. Couldn't be more than a few blocks, huh? No problem. Whooshies, it's pretty hot, whew. Did I put sunscreen on? Okay, can't be far now. Hmmmm, where's this place again? Must be the other direction. A few blocks later, I stop in a nail salon for directions. They tell me that a mile down the road, there's a market. A mile, hmmm, I can do that. A little farther than I was planning, but no problem. Well, you know how you keep going and the more you go the more determined you get? A mile later, I come upon said "market" and realize it's little more than a convenience store. I ask if there's a grocery store nearby. They say there's one a mile further down the road. My little saunter becomes more of a death march. Once at the store, I'm starting to feel slightly delirious. And I realize I don't even have my phone to call anyone to pick me up. I decide to scrap everything else on my list except for the flour (all 5 pounds of it!) and yeast. And sunscreen. My death march home continues. I keep reminding myself "I'm built for endurance, I've run 14 marathons, I just hiked 30 miles a few weeks ago, I can do this" and then I resort to my last-ditch effort: singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall out loud. Twice. And thinking that a cold Corona sounds mighty nice about now. I realize that this sounds (and probably looked) absurd, and I would normally agree with you--I mean, 4 miles is nothing, right? But I had sorely underestimated the noontime heat. When I got home Eric took one look at my pale and sweaty mess that was now myself, panting as if I'd just sprinted home, and he ordered me into a shady section of the pool. Of course, the whole family decided to come back from the beach at that moment and got to see for themselves what a giant idiot I was. "Uh, Megan? Next time you take the car, okay?" Eric's brother-in-law said. A later Google search revealed that yes indeedy, I had a mild form of heat exhaustion, well, that's a new one for me to check off my list! But damn it if we didn't eat bread that night, and it's never tasted so good!
LESSON LEARNED: Florida June noontime sun is not the same as Oregonian June noontime sun. Take the car.

DO listen to your neighborhood back-cracker. A week after I returned from Florida, I declared to my dog "I've had enough of this madness!" It was hard to sit still without shooting pains radiating down my side, so I thought I'd pay a visit to my favorite back doc, who has been cracking, twisting and bending my back for the past year to soothe an ongoing problemo. "Hmm...you're all twisted here. You said you were on vacation--did you happen to lift anything heavy, like a bag?" My mind went immediately to the time that I proudly dragged our heavy kayak up the beach by myself to lock it up by the stairs, instead of waiting for someone to help me. Why? Don't ask. I have this strange fascination with a nifty little game I call "fun with strength." Need that jar opened? Here, pass 'er over. Heavy bag lifted? I got it, I got it! So as my doctor is demonstrating how to carry a heavy bag and distribute weight evenly onto my dainty discs, I'm nodding and furrowing my brow as if I'm really paying attention, meanwhile I'm thinking "nice one, Megan, way to go. Dipshit."
LESSON LEARNED: playing "fun with strength" leads to a trip to the doctor, and that's just downright embarrassing. Will you ever learn?

snowshoe misadventures

Okay, this will be a super-quick post off the top of my head, due to a massive book deadline that is currently resting on my right shoulder. However, I just couldn't let the National Snowshoe Championships go by (in my neck of the woods, no less, at Mount Hood) without at least chiming in with some tips, learned the hard way at the recent Romp to Stomp snowshoe race held on the very same grounds where the national champs are trampling the ground as I type.

When I entered my first snowshoe race, in 2001, I came across the finish line in second place.

It was a fluke.

In the years since, I have flailed, tripped, sank in too deep, gotten unbuckled, and most of all have cursed my snowshoes. And my latest snowshoe experience at the Romp to Stomp was no exception. So heed my top three tips before you strap in:

1. Warm up beforehand. I'm not one of those runners who you see running around before a race to "warm up." I mean, that's what the first few miles is for, right? But I learned this time around, as I stood around and chatted to a friend while others jumped up and down to warm up and I laughed at them, that during snowshoe races it's a good idea to get your blood pumping beforehand. Especially if you have cold feet that turn white just looking at the snow like I do. I think that my feet were just starting to thaw out by the time I crossed the finish line.
Lesson learned: It's tough to run when you can't feel your feet.

2. Save the best for last. When the race started, I got going slowly like I usually do. And then I realized that I wasn't really going to make any headway on the people in front of me. And furthermore, I kinda didn't care. I mean, for the first time I didn't have anyone crunch crunch crunching behind me as I valiantly tried to stay ahead of them. I decided instead to go with the flow and actually take my time, so I slowed down to a walk and enjoyed the view of Mount Hood instead of gasping for air like I usually do. Instead of setting my sights on the person in front of me, trying to pass her, I hoped she would keep up her pace so I wouldn't have to pass her. My mission was to bring up the rear, and I succeeded.
Lesson learned: the view (and lack of pressure) is better at the back of the pack. Bonus: you can twirl, attempt to moonwalk, and dance through the finish line and not worry that anyone is going to pass you!

3. If you're going to come in last, at least carpool with the winner. Not only did I have zero pressure out there, and barely break a sweat because I was walking half the time, but I actually got to reap the rewards of winning vicariously through my carpooling buddy, Coop. When they announced his name as the winner and they announced he was going to be at the national snowshoe championships, heads swiveled to get a glimpse of him, and I just nodded as if to say, "yeah, that's right, I'm friends with THAT guy. He'll be signing autographs later."
Lesson learned: if you're going to flail, there's no shame in pairing up with a winner to gain coolness cred. So I'm taking credit for his success, what's your point?

That's all I got, kids, back to the grind...hope everyone had fun at the race and furthermore, I hope the snow is over so I DON'T have to put on a snowshoe again for another year.

Megan

computer misadventures, part three

You know that children's book, Fortunately? That's been the story of the computer/Internet rollercoaster that is my life lately. In case you don't know the book, here's a little practice round for ya:

FORTUNATELY...I found the book on-line to make sure I hadn't been imagining it.

UNFORTUNATELY... I discovered that the book author was Remy something, which reminded me of someone who dumped me unceremoniously many years ago.

FORTUNATELY...I couldn't care less about that person anymore for a variety of reasons I won't go into!

Okay, so you're warmed up. Let's see...when I last left off (see past computer misadventures posts for a full recap of my year of woes), my computer was actually working again. My internet was now the object of my technical obsession, because Integra was taking over a month to actually set it up. After two hours of fiddling around, the Integra dude said that Qwest had to come over a second time to "drop the line" whatever that means. I know, I know, it's way confusing. Try being in my position! Try being your own IT person for the past eight years when your little brain is really not equipped for such details! Okay, shaking it off, shaking it off.

Let's do this thing, shall we? Follow along. Don't be timid.

FORTUNATELY...Qwest came over and this time did not scare me half to death thinking it was a burglar because I was prepared and they fixed whatever needed fixing on the outside of my house yay

UNFORTUNATELY...When the Integra guy came over for the second time that next week, he stayed for two hours and then said it wasn't working because Qwest had to fix something argh

FORTUNATELY...Eric was working at home that day so he took care of everything as I stormed out taking the dog "on a walk" and muttering to myself while shaking my fist in the air yessss

UNFORTUNATELY...Integra told me that Qwest needed to have access to my place and kept calling me for days to arrange it and "keep me posted" yet after waiting a week I heard some rustling and went outside to see the Qwest woman fiddling with the wiring, and said she didn't need access to my house after all curses to you Integra!

FORTUNATELY...well there is no fortunately here but consider this an interlude do you want some hold music with that because I have them practically committed to memory by now

UNFORTUNATELY...during the madness, I was innocently walking to my desk and tripped--with coffee in hand--and spilled it all over my favoritest computer ever my MacBook Air so I tried drying it off with a hair dryer and everything like you hear to do and everything was just dandy but then all of a sudden my "e" button wouldn't work and then it seeped into other buttons so I had to book an appointment with the Apple Store but since my Sony Vaio wouldn't work because it never does when I need it in a crisis I had to book it on my Mac and when it asked for "explanation" of the problem I had to figure out how to discuss my problem but had no c or e button shikies

FORTUNATELY...I had a moment of genius when I figured out how to get around the keys I couldn't use and instead managed to tentatively type "liquid spill" damn I'm good

UNFORTUNATELY...a different Integra guy came over this time and I suddenly had a flash-back to the time we had a peeping Tom our senior year in college because of the way he stood there woodenly in the driveway looking at the house (which still stands as my scariest moment back in '92) and then when I came outside to see if he was going to come in he just stared at me and didn't move and it kinda creeped me out and then he stayed two hours because for some reason that's how long they like to stick around and then he declared that this time the problem was my router and he left me with this 10-page booklet complete with codes and numbers that I had to use to "configure" or whatever oh good god don't do this to me Integra

FORTUNATELY...I suppose I had used up all my energy ranting to myself on the drive to the Apple store that by the time I got to the Genius Bar I was just dazed and when the Genius guy told me it would cost $750 to fix my computer and they'd have it for a week I just said "okay" and zoned out as he did the paperwork because secretly I had been worried I'd need to buy a whole new computer and I couldn't afford another MacBook Air and then I guess because I took the news so well and "seemed like a nice person" (which made me laugh because I'm sure the Integra guy was not saying the same thing to his compadres) and "you seem to have had a lot of computer struggles lately" (wow they are geniuses, he could just see it in my eyes!) he said that he decided that they would fix it for free and then I cried and told him I loved Apple and furthermore could I hug him

UNFORTUNATELY...there is no unfortunately here because don't you understand Apple decided to fix my problem for no cost which is unreal and I love them and we don't need hold music because that would just distract from how much I love Apple

FORTUNATELY...I called Comcast and they came over within a week and everything has worked perfectly since then now I also love Comcast mwha to Comcast let me give you a noogie there you go you little devil you

UNFORTUNATELY...while my Mac has been behaving beautifully as only a Mac would since I got it back, suddenly it is making me re-set everything including my Mail so I call Apple and strangely I could barely understand the Apple chick's words because she just seemed to be going so slow and I guess being my own IT person all these years really DOES mean I know a little about computers because I kept having to backtrack and wait for her to catch up to me and then she said it was an Earthlink deal since that's who I have my mail with which meant I have to call Earthlink/India, the source of my original Internet woes in the first place and I was dreading this big-time eekazoid

FORTUNATELY...I finally got up the nerve to call, and realized that after having dealt with Earthlink for so long I surprised myself by feeling right at home with his quick-pace-and-thick-accent and "i as in Indias" and he set up my mail no problem and I realized that having success with Earthlink was bringing my Internet/computer woes full circle and I came to the conclusion that when it comes to me and technology, it really DOES take a village (in this case, a mighty triad of Earthlink, Comcast, and Apple) hooray for mighty triads we like mighty triads

UNFORTUNATELY...Integra keeps sending me bills, priority mail that I have to pick up at the post office, calling me about customer surveys, and generally annoying me for another week which officially makes it two months of INTEGRA HELL when they never could even set up my stuff talk to the hand, Integra, talk to the hand

FORTUNATELY...the last time, after they sent me a bill for $1,400 for disconnecting my service before my contract was up and I called and then they realized that it was a mistake I told them to just delete any record of me ever I think they may have FINALLY gotten the point and in the past two weeks my MacBook Air and Comcast service have been happy as clams together and I even catch them smooching in the corner sometime when they think I'm not looking so life is good for reals

The End.

third column up in The Oregonian

When I first mentioned that I had a shiny new Misadventures column in The Oregonian, I mentioned that it would be published "occasionally." What does that exactly mean, you might ask? I really have no clue myself. Only that so far, I had two columns published in August back to back, and then one just appeared out of nowhere during the holidays. It's kind of like a Where's Waldo of columns, you never know when I will appear. I like to be mysterious I suppose.

Anyoldhow, here it 'tis...(the picture doesn't really relate but I thought it was cool, taken in my front yard during the recent snowstorm, and no I don't really like snowshoeing either so I guess it is kinda related but that's a story for another day).

Misadventures of Snowboarding

What I’m about to say is incredibly uncool. Take a seat, remove hot liquids from the vicinity of your mouth to thereby ward off accidental spit-takes, and listen up.
I Don’t. Like. Snowboarding.
There, I said it. Now this isn’t the story of “oh, I took a beginning snowboarding class and fell on my butt too many times and I decided that I didn’t like it.” I actually even own my own snowboard (green, with a skull pattern, if you must know). But after my last outing on a frigid February, I decided that enough was enough.
Allow me to elaborate on what I like to call my Circle of Hell.

1. It hurts, part one. The pain begins before you even get out of your car. Snowboard boots—while blissfully pliant in comparison to ski boots, or at least it seems so, I haven’t actually set foot in ski boot for years—are still much akin to firmly attaching a vice to your dainty toes. I get out of my car to give myself enough room to shove said foot in boot, and have to take my gloves off to do so. And, since it’s freezing out, results in cold hands and shoved feet. Not pleasant. I can’t wait to get my circulation moving by getting to the ski lift already.
2. Waiting is the hardest part. For those of you who have snowboarded before, you’ll understand the unique—one might even say contorted—positioning of one’s body as you wait in line for the ski lift. And it’s while waiting in line at the ski lift that I always realize what my true problem is with the sport. I’m just not the type of girl who will talk about powder with a gleam in her eye. I will never talk about how many times I have been on the slopes this season (well, come to think of it, maybe I would, seeing at it’s a grand total of 2 when I’m really going for it). That’s why I always feel like every time I set board on the slope I’m starting from scratch. And why, when I’m standing there in my contorted position, left leg strapped in the board and pointed to the right, right foot tagging along and trying to balance so I don’t fall and make a fool of myself, it’s the only time I actually envy skiers with their two handy poles. While I’m chanting inwardly to myself the “don’t fall, you can do it” mantra, a 20-something boarder strikes up a conversation about the powder falling that day (apparently, it’s “sick” or something, or at least he says). My 38-year-old self nods and smiles and continues concentrating on aforementioned not falling. I’m done with the conversation but he’s not. “So, is your snowboard new?” “Nope, I’ve had it about five years,” I reply. “No way! Because your sticker is still on the bottom of it, so I thought it was new!” “I just don’t snowboard that often,” I reply. I can’t wait to get on the ski lift already and not have to focus on balancing and/or speak with Boarder Dudes.
3. It hurts, part two. When we finally get on the ski lift, it’s so cold that I immediately pull my hat way over my head. I look at my boyfriend Eric who is beside me and I can barely see any part of his head either. “Hey,” I say. “Hey,” he responds. “My face is numb.” “I can’t feel my toes!” “Are we having fun yet?” We start laughing hysterically the whole way up because we’re so freezing. So much so that the stranger next to us asks if we’re okay. I can’t wait to get off this ski lift already.

4. Wait…is that a black diamond? Then, of course, the real thing begins. After scooting off the ski lift (another concentration-builder whereby I’m repeating my mantra of “don’t fall, don’t fall”), we slide on over to the first slope which my boyfriend assures me is only a blue square. I’d prefer green myself—a fitting color, as I’m feeling pretty green—but I just go along with the flow. I’m looking forward to getting circulation back in my toes, anyway. The problem is, there is a thick fog that day. Come to think of it, there was a thick fog the day before, when I heard that a fellow snowboarder was killed when he was sitting on the ground because someone crashed into him and couldn’t see him due to the fog. Right on that same slope, now that I really ponder the whole story. For some reason, I always tend to go on adventures right after a tragedy has occurred. Which is really not a good idea, because I’m convinced that everyone coming up from behind me is going to barrel into me, where I’ll knock my head on the ground and be a goner. Best to play it safe, I think, and safe for me right then is to, well, do the snowplow version with skis on a board. You know, where I don’t actually carve any turns. This way, I won’t take anyone by surprise with an unexpected move, thereby limiting my chances of aforementioned barreling. Let’s just say it made for an unnerving trip, and as much as I know that the people in front have the rightaway, I can’t help but keep looking over my shoulder at what I’m sure is my impending doom (this is where my healthy imagination does a disservice). By the time I’ve slowly worked my way down the slope, my calves are killing me from trying to hold myself in snowplow position. I can’t wait to get down the hill.

5. Circle of Hell, take two. But when I finally get down the hill, that only means I’m standing in the ski lift line again, shuffling along and trying not to fall while also trying to avoid conversations that involve the word “powder” (or even worse, the cringe-inducing “pow-pow”). After a couple cyclings through the Circle of Hell, I was quite content to sit out the rest of the day in the comfy confines of the beer hall, toasting myself by the fire and enjoying an IPA.
One might deduce that I had hung up my snowboard for good after this trip. But that’s just the thing—I never do learn my lessons. So you’ll probably see me this year on Mount Hood—I’ll be the one with the shiny green board, struggling with concentration. Just steer clear (please hold the barreling into me), and wave. When you’re done, I’ll reward you with a warmed seat that I’ve been saving for you, and an IPA.