Misadventures of Megan

misadventures in the marathon

2010-10-01T11:35:00.001-07:00

(I just found this photo from Chicago marathon in '02, back when I had a need for speed as opposed to a need for just-finishing-the-race. I love it because check out my wave, I am managing to have a little jaunty twist to my hand, ha!)

On October 31, I’ll be toeing the line at the Marine Corps marathon in D.C. It will be my fifteenth, but don’t let my experience fool you into thinking I know what I’m doing. Learn from my missteps if you have 26.2 penned into your race calendar this month:

DO 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 run more than, oh, 10 miles in years. I had done my speedwork and hills, but between illness and travel, my long runs got swept aside. “Well, this should be interesting!” I laughed as the bus kept rolling for what seemed like forever. During the race, 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 (it’s only a half, but go with it), I noticed something conspicuously missing: shoes. Not to be rattled, I waltzed into the nearest superstore, plunked down fifteen dollars, and—as my friends made bets on whether the shoes would last the distance—I ran my best time in a half-marathon yet. Or at least I think it’s my best time, I always forget to keep track.
Lesson learned: never let them see you sweat.

DO test your gear before the race. At my last marathon (Grandma’s marathon two years ago), I was excited to try the new Nike Plus system. 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? 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, my Unlucky 13th, I was hurting big-time by mile 15. Just when I was starting to feel sorry for myself, I turned my attention 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 (cut me some slack, I was feeling delirious by then). I usually prefer crowd-lined routes—and cowbell, lots of cowbell—but there was something peaceful about those trees watching me limp along.
Lesson learned: take comfort wherever you can get it.

DO remember to dance through aid stations, high-five the supporters, joke with your fellow runners, thank the volunteers.
Lesson learned: Having fun during a marathon is a sign of success.

misadventures at relay races

2010-09-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

(Taken at the finish line of my first Hood to Coast back in '98 before I moved here, that's me in the background with a relieved expression on my face!)

There's something about relay races that spark drama. Stuff six people into a minivan for 24 hours, add a lack of sleep plus endorphins, stir, and everyone usually ends up a little loopy by the finish line. This month, I’m heading to New Hampshire to run the Reach the Beach relay, where what I lack in speed, I hope to make up for in entertainment value. It’s what I do. If you have a relay on your race schedule soon, heed my words of wisdom first, learned from my last Hood to Coast experience:

Don't wear new shoes the night before. Pre-race, I took my boyfriend, Eric, (a Hood to Coast first-timer) on a blister-prevention shopping spree as he prepared for his race, including bandages and special blister-proof socks. For him. I didn't bother buying anything for myself -- I had made it through 15 blister-free marathons, so I figured I would cruise through H2C without a prob. That, however, was before I decided to wear -- and walk a couple miles in -- new shoes to a pre-race dinner. High-heeled shoes. The next morning, two huge blisters adorned my pinky toes. A quick rummage through my bathroom revealed that I didn't even own a bandage. Luckily, I found a medical tent along the course (they were impressed I had amassed huge blisters before I ran).
Lesson: BYOB (buy your own bandages).

Do let your food digest. The hardest part of relays is that delicate balance of food-and-water intake combined with running three times in a 24-hour period. When we stopped for pizza before our first run, I was alternately stuffing my face and looking at my watch. Math isn't my strong suit. A mere two hours later, as I waited to start running, the pizza sat in my stomach like a rock.
Lesson: When in doubt, skip that third slice.

Don't fall. The relay bracelet snapped in place, I took off down the six-mile course, concentrating on getting my legs into a comfortable rhythm. The next part is hazy: Somehow, during the very first mile of my very first leg, I twisted my left ankle and landed on my right elbow and right knee, and ended up sprawled on the road for all to see -- including all 11 team members in the team vans.
Lesson: If you have to face-plant, at least have the dignity to wait until after your van has passed by.

Do keep your lunch. After my first leg, my ankle started hurting. I iced with the best of them, popped some pills and crossed my fingers. Luckily, adrenaline was on my side, and I felt no pain while running my second leg. Afterward was a different story. Driving to a rest area, I started battling nausea. One minute I was chatting in the van amiably. The next, I lurched out of the van wordlessly and was soon on my hands and knees in an open field losing my midnight snack. When I climbed back into the van, they were silent. My teammate Ben finally spoke up. "Want a mint?"  
Lesson: More ibuprofen isn't better. Pace yourself.

misadventures in whitewater

2010-08-04T07:07:00.000-07:00

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 adventure racing

2010-07-09T12:39:00.000-07:00

[This picture was taken in Maui, where our group was ready to bomb down the side of the 10,000-foot volcano...happy to report NO tears shed on this trip!]

In my first mountain-biking race, I got miserably lost. My second racing attempt was as part of Team Lamprey, a three-person adventure-racing team. There, I learned the hard way that what goes up, well, keeps going up…and up…here, the do’s and don’ts of adventure-racing.

DO choose your battles. It had gotten to the point of no return. It happens in every race, whether it’s a 5K or 5-hour adventure race: tears. Happy, sad, angry, frustrated, euphoric—and usually a combination thereof—it doesn’t matter why, I can usually find any excuse to tear up. My point in this particular race was, after inching up and up and up on one of those subtle “is it just my imagination, or are we going uphill?” fire-lane road, we navigated a wrong turn, and had to backtrack—straight up again. Now, I’d kept a stiff upper lip for hours of hiking through brush and kayaking, but every girl has her breaking point. After we returned to the fire lane of hell, I knew I’d have to make a tough decision: cry or cycle? I couldn’t do both. Think about it—when you’re already struggling to breathe, adding some sniffling to the mix is not what you need.
Lesson learned: In the sob-or-cycle battle, something simply has to give. Cycle now, cry later.

DON’T memorize the course: Sometimes, it helps to be clueless about your course, because if I had really known what I was in for (which was a nifty 2,000-foot mountain-bike climb), I wouldn’t have been able to stop the tear-shedding. In the end, you see, it’s really better for everyone if you don’t dwell on petty little to-do items like how much further is it holymotherofpearl I can’t go on like this for the love of God. Instead, it’s a good time to practice your Zen and Be Here Now rather than “when am I going to get this over with”.
Lesson Learned: Channel your inner Buddha when facing an insane-in the-membrane race course.

DO pick your teammates wisely. Team Lamprey consisted of two buddies in the form of Pete and Kev. They were a perfect combo—Pete always appeared magically at my side when I was struggling but didn’t make it seem like he was doing it on purpose, whereas Kev plowed ahead and set the pace so we wouldn’t slack. Kev is the type of guy who never lets anyone see him sweat (I’ve told him before that I’m not entirely sure he’s human), so imagine my surprise to hear in the distance, up one more turn as Pete and I snaked our way up the mountain…. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Yesss, every man has his breaking point, and the course had found his.
Lesson learned: If you survived a course hard enough for typically tight-lipped dudes to feel the pain, you’ve earned bragging rights.

misadventures in mountain bike racing

2010-06-01T10:21:00.000-07:00

Mountain biking is a sport I took to immediately. The combo of strength, adventure, and balance—hey, those years of practicing mediocre balance-beam routines actually worked!—was right up my alley.
In the 14 years since, it’s all been downhill. Take my first mountain-biking race, which I entered during my first Portland summer in 2001. Fresh from NYC, it was a way to christen myself as the outdoorsy chick I wanted to be. Armed with my new green Gary Fischer, I entered an off-road duathlon…and emerged relatively unscathed but with lessons learned:
DO follow the right course. All I know: One minute I was whizzing along, happy as a clam in mid-pack position. The next minute, I was beginning to wonder why have I not seen anyone in a long, long time? My fatal flaw: I had taken a wrong turn, and—still following course ribbons—was now somehow following the 5-mile run course (don’t ask).
Lesson learned: “Follow the crowd” racing technique doesn’t work in mountain biking races, no matter how much of a midpacker you are.
DON’T act like anything is wrong. I continue whizzing down this hill, clueless to my plight, when I come across a small water crossing. I splash my bike in and jump into the waist-height water. When I start pulling myself up the muddy slope on the other side, with the help of blackberry bushes (thank you, mountain-biking gloves!), I notice I’m not alone. “Are you still…racing?” asks a man camping nearby who is now peering down at me, while his child looks bug-eyed at the muddy monster crawling in the dirt. “We thought the race was already over!” “Nope!” I calmly reply, hopping back in the saddle with a wave and pedaling off.
Lesson learned: When you have absolutely no clue what you’re doing but you have witnesses, act cool as a cuke.
DO aim to entertain. After a panicky period known as “overthinking” my direction, I heard human voices. It was my friend Ryan cleaning up the course…one sight of me and he stopped in his tracks. “Hey, I wondered where you were—what are you doing out here?” I proceed to have a meltdown, while he calmly points behind me. Turns out, the finish line was just one mile down a fire lane.
Lesson learned: Befriend the people cleaning up the course so when you throw a mid-forest tantrum at least you’re among friends.
When I finally roll in, three hours after I began, the awards ceremony is over, and everyone is gathered for a barbecue. As a beer appears in my right hand, a towel in my left, I realize this: It may not have been the grand outdoors entrance I’d imagined, but I’d rather have a good misadventure than do well in a race. I mean, where’s the fun in following the crowd, anyway?

misadventures in triathlon

2010-04-29T15:16:00.001-07:00

I’ve never been what one would call a water person (unlike my dog Luey, pictured here). I was the type of kid who was afraid to take a bath after watching Jaws (yes, you may cackle openly at this fun fact, I don’t mind). Needless to say, then, triathlon just isn’t my thing, because you have to do that S word: swimming. But that hasn’t stopped me from trying some tris, and—because most adventures with me end in misadventure—getting in over my head. So if you’re not a swimming superstar, and you’re thinking of testing the waters with your first triathlon soon, learn from my mistakes before taking the plunge yourself.

DON’T stay in the pool. Training for my first triathlon in 1996, I dutifully dipped my toes into a lap pool several times a week. I trailed along behind a master’s swim team practice. I got form advice. I was dedicated. All of that training went out the window, though, when I first put my goggled face in the river water on race day. And discovered to my horror that I couldn’t see an inch in front of my face.
Lesson learned: Lap pools and murky brown rivers are very different creatures.
DO take your time. The starting gun went off, and I dashed into the water with all my fellow age-groupers. Which is really stupid, if you think about it. I mean, all that sprinting for 10 seconds did for me was make me out of breath—as soon as we started swimming, everyone promptly passed me anyway.
Lesson learned: Sprinting and then swimming is not a smart combo.
DON’T ignore the course. While desperately trying to a. catch my breath and b. not put my face in the water, I arrived at a brilliant solution: the backstroke! I flipped over, calm as a cuke, and started swimming on my back. I was in my own element when out of the corner of my eye I saw a kayak bobbing next to me. “You’re going the wrong way!” the race marshal pointed downstream at all my fellow yellow-capped swimmers, who were most definitely going a different direction than I was. (I was the lone swimmer who was attempting to cross the river rather than swim the length of it, you see.)
Lesson learned: The backstroke is an excellent cure for pesky problems such as breathing and seeing, but you still need to watch where you’re going.
As my fellow yellow cappers got further and further ahead of me, and pink caps from the wave behind us started coming in strong, I got a newfound determination. Operation Get Me the Hell Out of This Water. With a combination of doggie paddling and breast-stroking (both superior forms to see, catch your breath, and see where you’re going), I managed to finish the ½-mile swim.
I’d like to say that I learned from my mistakes and got smarter, faster, and braver in future triathlons, but I didn’t. In fact, I regressed. My next tri was held in Central Park (where the swim portion was in an outdoor pool that was so shallow, you could run the swim portion, much to my spectating sister’s amusement). My third, and last, was held indoors at my NYC gym. I hung up my goggles shortly thereafter, and haven’t set foot in a lap pool since. Sometimes, it’s best to stick with what you know—and for me, that means any sport where land is firmly underneath my feet.

misadventures in book publicity

2009-11-25T09:50:00.001-08:00

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

2009-08-14T07:22:00.000-07:00

misadventures at the urban adventure race

2009-08-06T10:46:00.000-07:00

[This picture has nothing to do with the urban adventure race, but it's the only one I currently have of me and Pete-osky. Note the uber-large beers, always indicative of a pre-beer adventure, so therefore it somehow relates. But I digress.]

Using my brain while exercising typically doesn’t work out so well. I’m more of the “shut off my thoughts” type of person while exerting myself. But when my friend Pete and I decided to attempt the High Trek Adventure Race, I realized that I’d have to learn how to use both my muscles and mind—at the same time. Part of a growing craze in adventure races, these urban races are part scavenger hunt, part trivia game (think Amazing Race meets Trivial Pursuit), as teams of two follow clues as they run through the city streets (proof is in the picture: you and your teammate have to snap a self-portrait at each of the 10 clue locations to show race officials at the end). Follow along as Pete and I do Team Lamprey (don't ask) proud.

DON’T take yourself too seriously.
Pre-race, as our opponents huddled over maps and whispered in teams of two, detailing their strategies, Pete and I took the opportunity to catch up on our weekends, sip coffee, and take last-minute bathroom breaks. “Let the bumbling begin!” we said with fists raised.
Lesson learned (for our too-serious opponents): The best adventures are the unknown. Being over-prepared takes the fun out of it.

DO know when to pay attention.
I will admit I was a little too casual, though. Before I knew it, an envelope with a list of checkpoint clues had been placed in our hands and the race had begun. “Wait, what are we supposed to do again?” I asked Pete. As everyone made a mad dash to Waterfront Park, we shrugged at each other and followed along
Lesson learned: It’s probably a good idea to pay attention to the official race rules, but if the race has already begun, just follow the crowd.
DON’T be afraid to ask for help.
Luckily, Pete knew what we were getting into ahead of time, and wisely suggested we have an official Team Googler. You know, someone who was “on call” waiting for us to call in a clue. We didn’t need to think hard about who to rely on—our friend Jacki (and official Team Lamprey member) is an expert fact looker-upper, and, lured with a promise of a post-race beer, was game for Googling.
Lesson learned: Three brains are always better than two. Especially when one of those brains belongs to Jacki, and has Internet access.

DO divide and conquer.
As we read through the list of checkpoint clues, many of which involved some form of math or trivia in order to solve, my eyes focused on one task: Go to Ground Kontrol video-game arcade and rack up 10,000 points in Ms. PacMan. Now this was something I could do, I thought, cracking my knuckles. Sweat beading on my brow, I managed to maneuver the dot-devouring yellow circle past Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Sue in record time. Meanwhile, Pete was doing some long-form math as he conferred with Jacki about our next checkpoint.
Lesson learned: The best combo deal is a math wizard like Pete and an 80s video game geek like me.

DON’T hesitate to copy the crowd.
As we dashed up Burnside Street toward the Oregonian building for our next clue, we saw another team of two getting a picture taken in front of an elephant sculpture in the Park Blocks. Pete and I looked at each other and immediately took a quick detour to the giant animal. We had zero idea what clue this corresponded to at the time, but decided that it must be something important.
Lesson learned: Pretend you know what you’re doing, even when you don’t.

Team Lamprey crossed the finish line in 12th place (13th would have been more appropriate, given the bumbling) out of 35. www.hightrekadventure.com.

misadventures in Canada

2009-07-19T07:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-21T13:26:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-08T15:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-01-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-06T09:22:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2008-12-17T12:00:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-16T13:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-21T10:55:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-08-11T15:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-20T16:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-06-15T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-13T17:17:00.001-07:00

"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