February. Feb rooo ary. God, I hate it! I hate the way it looks. I hate the way it sounds. It's so un-original to hate February, I know. You don't often hear people say,

"If I can just get through the perfect fall, I have February to look forward to. The dirty snow banks...The slush...The cold toes. The miserable vibe that's all around. (sigh) Yup...I just gotta hang in there 'til February."

What does make me unique is my determination to bury the hatchet with this mostdepressing month. Four years ago I had a little breakdown/freakout/scared to face reality, and ran away to see my best girlfriends in New York City. It was perfect. Just enough to feel strong and myselfish again. Myselfish. Ha! I decided that from them on, February would be the month that I would make an annual trek to Brooklyn to see "my girls."

Having a breakdown and questioning my life seemed inevitable in February, so I figured I might as well time it with a visit to some soul mates. My girls from back in the day, yo. Yes, they are pictured above.

To be honest, it only helps a little. Yes, I get to run away from Portland for a few days and remember that there are places in the world where you don't run into people you know at every corner. And I get to ignore my cell phone and my piles of laundry and my list of things I promised myself I would do at the beginning of the year.

I get to cuddle up with Massandje's "moderately sized bosom" and sing real folky music with Rach. I get to laugh until my stomach hurts and make home-made meals for them, and get coffee and walk through the park and eat bagels and get a new pair of sunglasses and watch terrible African music videos...

Wait a second! Maybe it is working (this is not staged- I really was planning on ranting about how much I hate February and suddenly I got very light boots thinking about NYC). Suddenly I can't wait for February. Ok...maybe not the whole month, but that few days is going to break it up a little. It's only 28 days.

February RULES!

I will come back feeling refreshed and sane and happy to be back in my fair port city. I will remember how much I love recognizing people on the streets, and in the bars, and in the stores, and at the post office and at the grocery store...

Girls...I'm on my way.

Tell that big beautiful city that there's a country mouse that just can't wait to ride a bus with headphones on, and walk 3 blocks to the grocery store, and hide in her big skyscraper arms.

5 Rowdy Guys is coming to Portland, Maine.

Spent some time with my partner in crime, Kate Squibb. We did a bit of a photo shoot for our project, 5 Rowdy Guys. I think it went well. She made me the pants. They're pretty great.

I once confessed to a dear old friend that I would marry Chewbacca if he were real. My boyfriend will kill me. Not for saying I would marry Chewbackckca, but for spelling Cheueubaka wrong.

Seriously. What more could you ask for? He's charming, powerful, competent, loyal and sweet. His hair is awesome. He's got to have a big wang.

Anyway, 5 Rowdy Guys will be working on some new videos. And the site will be done soon. It will include videos, songs, photos of big shits, and loads more.

Just thinking about work tomorrow makes me feel like I'm going to cry. I'm not exaggerating.

Dear Megan,
Look at this photo. There is nothing you can do to change who you are. You will not enjoy a utilitarian job at a corporate office...No matter how hard you try.
I love you. Hang in there.

Sincerely,
Megan

Coffee on saturday morning.

It is good reason for making it through one of the shittiest weeks I've had in a long time.

It's getting harder and harder to sustain my positive attitude at work. I realized something important this week. On a good day at work, it's bearable. Bearable. On a typical day, I'm miserable. On a bad day I come home furious and in tears. Often crying at my desk.

What the fuck am I doing?

I saw STOMP last night with my mom. It was brilliant, of course. Beautiful and raw and alive. It was a reminder of what's going on in the world of performance and art and music. A reminder that I am a young woman without a family, without kids, and without major health problems, and that if I don't put energy behind my talents and passions now, I probably never will.

So what the fuck am I doing? I am saving money and finishing my first CD, and reading and writing and getting on my knees and closing my eyes to remind myself to trust that the universe always gives me what I need. I am training in my sacred martial art, and I am signing up for classes that will teach me how to make the world better, one person at a time.

I am doing good work so that when I leave my job, they will feel the hole and they will wish me luck. They will watch me leave and they will smile.

They will smile and give me a cake with sweet white frosting and they will know that I am never coming back.

Sigh. I am a spoiled brat.

Sitting here in my empty apartment, chewing on stale peanuts from Mexico, looking through photos of My Family Holiday in San Miguel and actually feeling bad for myself.

Feeling bad that I had to leave such an amazing place. Feeling bad that my truck probably won't start in the morning. Feeling bad that the truck will take me to a land of gray cubicles and fake smiles. Feeling bad about the coming months of slush, dirty white sneakers and pale men wearing hoodies and smoking Marby Reds. Jesus, I'm a snob.


A week ago I was sitting on a balcony with my face in the sun, playing my guitar and singing to myself. Making my sister laugh. Waiting for the sun to go down so I could sit on the balcony and sip on some white wine with my mom. Hablando en español.

Shit. I have nothing to complain about. Not a damn thing.

Didn't see any live music.

Wait.

That's a lie. I did see some live music at the fucking Ranch Party we went to on Christmas day. Oh yes. Imagine 10 gringos entering a ranch full of about 250 cowboys. Cowboys. I don't mean dudes dressed up in costumes for a special ocasion. I am talking men who wrangle cows for a living. Lots of beer. Lots of testosterone. Lots of tacos. Lots of tequila. (I know this sounds like a bad movie set for a Mexican adventure, but it's the truth).

How could I forget the live music? "Las Texanas" (The Texan Ladies) were really tearing it up. As my boyfriend said, "The female drummer is charmingly off beat ... I know I sound like an asshole, but I really mean it!"

He was right. These girls were rocking full-on white jean ensambles with silver rhinestones and white cowgirl hats. Classy I tell you. I can't give you titles of the songs, but I'm pretty sure the bass line and drum beat was exactly the same for each one.

On the other side of the arena, 12 men with brass instruments burst into perfect staccato interludes a la "We Will Rock You" at a high school hockey tournie. Then an old man fell off the stone wall and didn't move an inch. We were sure he was dead. Drunk Mexican are hilaaarious. Good times.

It was amazing actually. Photos are coming. Part of me wanted to stay for dancing and more beer, but people were getting stumbly and the sun was going down, and suddenly we just wanted to be home.

Home.

I was home.

Hasta luego, San Miguel. Beso enorme. Te extraño.