Lucky strike

I'm forgoing blogging to go bowling tonight. Wish me luck.

Time travel of the mind

At this time last year, I was (fill in the blank).

Am I the only person who thinks like this? I seem to have this recurring string of thoughts at least once a day. At this time last year, I was climbing a mountain in Austria. At this time last year, I was running around a castle in Wales. At this time last year, I was lying on a beach in Greece, eating gyros.

My mind is a time machine, transporting me back to good memories, good friends and adventures not too long gone.

I take comfort that while I can't physically be everywhere at once, in my mind, I am. I'm back in the Austrians' flat, laughing over the way they say "make a picture" instead of "take a picture." I'm in Holland, trudging through the mud as if my life depended on it, because in fact, it does. I'm sitting around with Sofia (English) and Sarah (Welsh) as we say words like "tomato" and "stupid" to hear them in our respective accents. I'm having hair wars with Clara as we're on the train to Tenby.

As time passes, I'm sad that these thoughts now begin with "Two years ago, I was..." And soon it will be three and four years. The flux capicitor of my mind is getting weaker and the delorean needs more plutonium.

And then it hit me...

The great thing about time travel of the mind is, that while I'm back in the past, I'm still making memories in the present. Like meeting my nephew for the first time after being away from home for a year. Floating down the river with friends, and after five hours, learning we're only halfway done. Making a trip to the airport to pick up one person an adventure requiring a car full of people. Seeing friends get married. Strangers too, now that I think of it.

What I guess I'm really trying to say is, as great as the past was, the present is pretty terrific and the future doesn't look too bad either.

Gracie

If I were to write a children's book, it would definitely have to be about my dog, Gracie. She's cute, not too bright and she smells, all perfect qualities of a story book character.

Gracie thinks she's pretty tough and alert. Let me tell you she's not. While on walks, she sticks her nose in the air, look side to side, scanning the area for predators, but misses the mouse under her feet and the cat just a few steps away. I told you she's not the brightest penny in the bank, but I think it makes her all the more endearing.

My mom and I found Gracie when I was about 13 years old. We were on our way to pick up my sister, Erin, from camp and we weren't even very far from our house when we saw this little black puppy running down the road. My mom's not really the type to pick up stray animals, but because Gracie was so small, we scooped her up and took her on what probably was her first road trip. Now her only road trips involve going to the vet, and if she could, she'd tell you she'd rather stay home.

Gracie lived with us for three days. Erin and I bathed her, played with her and called her "Puppy," even though we joked that her name was probably something even more plain and horrible, like "Blackie" or "Fido."

We had three blissful days with the now Gracie, when she decided to go for a run down the road. I went after her and followed her down the driveway of a house two doors down. There was a little boy outside, about 2 or 3 I'd guess. As I collected Gracie, he said, "That looks like my dog, Blackie."

"No, no, little boy, this isn't your dog," I replied, horrified that this small child recognized my new best friend and he was calling her Blackie.

"I think it is. It looks just like Blackie."

Stop calling her that.

I stood pondering the fate of my soul and if it was worth stealing a dog, no matter how cute she was. I cringed. "Is your mom or dad home?"

"Yep that's our Blackie," this little boy's father said as I relunctantly handed over Gracie.

Heading home heavy-hearted but empty-handed, I wasn't at all happy that the lost dog had been returned.

But Gracie didn't forget me. She visited a lot. I'd sit in our doorway holding her when it was raining because my mom said she couldn't come in the house. She wasn't our dog, after all.

As far as Gracie and I were concerned, she was our dog. And one day, I had a surprise when I arrived home from school. Mom had noticed that the neighbors were moving, and so she mustered up some courage, these neighbors were kind of scary, and went over.

"If you don't want your little dog, we'll take her," she stammered. I wasn't there, but I imagine she stammered.

"She thinks she's your's anyway," was the gruff but welcome reply.

That's the story of how Gracie entered our lives. She's given us plenty more stories since, but I've probably gone on long enough, and I need to save something for the book, if it's ever going to be written.

I'll leave you with this.

Know how some people resemble their dogs physically? I'd say Gracie and I resemble each other's personalities. We both share the same goals in life, eating and sleeping. We're both always happy to see someone. So they can get us some food. We both like nighttime. So we can sleep.

And then it hit me...

That may be where the similiarities end, because I always notice the mouse under her feet and the cat a few steps away.

Welcome back to me!

After starting my blog 'Meg in Wales' two years ago and going on hiatus a year and a half ago, I'm happy to say I'm back! I can thank Christie for the encouragement, because after talking on the phone, catching up on life, love and memories, she said, "You should blog."

Since I like to follow directions, here I am. I'm not quite sure what the theme of my blog will be, but I've decided to call it, 'And then it hit me' because it sounds like either a punchline of a joke or the beginning of a profound thought, both of which I hope to write.

I must admit it feels great to put words together that don't begin with, "So and so died yesterday." If you don't know what I'm talking about, let me tell you: Most of my writing tends to be about the recently departed. Somebody's got to do it, right? I was thinking the other day, as I often do, and then it hit me that death is a pretty lucrative business to be in right now, given the current state of things, because just because someone is broke, doesn't mean he or she won't die. (Maybe not the most pleasant of thoughts, but hey, it's job security.)

I'm staring at my computer screen right now, trying to figure out a way to make a smooth transition onto a new topic. I'm not having much luck.

New topic.

Wigs. I really enjoy wearing wigs. A few years ago at this time of year, I searched high and low for a wig to compliment my flapper girl Halloween costume. My search wasn't going well, but Target, oh how I love Target, came through for me. Buried under smelly latex masks, tangled rainbow clown wigs and open tubes of makeup was the perfect black wig. So I bought it. And I must tell you, it made my costume.

I came home, put on the wig, my dress, fishnet stockings and shoes and threw on my 'Chicago' soundtrack and suddenly I was transformed. I was someone else. I was dancing, singing, twirling around the room with moves I didn't even know I had. My usually keyless voice was hitting each note with gusto, all because of the magical wig, I'm sure of it.

Until my roommate came home and instead of being a showstopping flapper from the 1920s I was embarrassed Megan of 2005.

But that wasn't the last my wig saw of the world. It was the star of a photo shoot with the talented Jen May (see photos below), traveled with me to Wales and I wore it proudly last Saturday night in Sacramento for Kirstin's birthday. 'Proudly' may be an overstatement because once I left the safety of the car and realized people would actually see me, I felt a little uncomfortable, but then I saw the guy dressed as the green Teletubbie and then it hit me...

It could be worse.