misadventures in Florida

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megan

misadventures at the dog shelter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Megan

misadventures at the marathon

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

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

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

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

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

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

computer misadventures

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megan

second column up in The Oregonian

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

Enjoy laughing at my misadventures, I do!


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

Megan

first Misadventures column up!

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

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

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

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

Megan

misadventures at the high school reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megan