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Hi All,

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As always, thank you for reading!

Meg

thoughts on the little things re: Office Supplies

I may be the only person who's ever experienced this (so contradictory, considering my last post), but I work at a desk -- that's not the unique part, just wait, I'm getting there. So all day long I deal with the things on my desk. I have a computer, a keyboard, and then various shaped containers that hold little things. These little things also vary. I have a little thing holder for paperclips, another one for pens/pencils/highlighters, another for pennies (and nickels, if I'm lucky). I also have one for push pins -- that's the dangerous one and I have to stop and warn myself: "Be careful Meghan, you remember what happened last time...."

I have a love-hate relationship with paperclips. They're annoying to refill, and they run out the second-quickest after staples. Staples are more fun to refill because they go into a neat gun-like object, that I get to test before putting to use. Paperclips just kind of sit there, and sometimes they get tangled, which is never fun if you're in a hurry, yet they are incredibly functional. 

I end up giving a lot of my paperclips away. When you work with lots of paper, it is necessary to gather this paper into organized piles, which then need to be bound somehow. More often than not, I end up handing off these organized paper-clipped paper piles, which, in the deep recesses of my mind is upsetting, because I know I'll never get that paperclip back. I deplete my paperclip stash daily, bringing me closer to the day I'll need to go to the office supplies drawer and yank another paperclip box from its clingy plastic wrapper to be dispensed into the appropriate little things holder. 

Subconsciously I have also, in a sense, rated the importance of said little things. For example, the staple suggests permanence. The staple pierces paper requiring the assistance of another object, the staple-remover, to...um...remove it. Paperclips require no such object. Therefore, there is a certain amount of judgement that goes down at that little desk of mine. I have the final say: Staple! Paperclip! These decisions are made without much thought, really, but they are made. All decisions are. 

Yes, I am writing about office supplies. I can't help it. I deal with them every day, handle them on the hour, and, honestly, could not live without them. Some people might say the same about their favorite accessory or lipgloss, and those people will understand where I'm coming from. 

I would like to think that we all have a quirky, relatively unacknowledged relationship with the inanimate objects of our lives. If you don't, that's OK, I'm sure you do. 

The deep, emotional connection that is Google.

Things. They happen. Things happen. Good things, bad things, just plain crappy things, things that annoy us, things that make us cry, or laugh, or shudder.


(I pause to contemplate the weirdness of the word things. Do it. Then come back to me...please.)


Unfortunately usually the things we harp on, the things we talk about to our friends and family, the things we really like to get off our chests (or, conversely, the things we never want anyone to hear about and always keep to ourselves) -- Those things we fear are happening to us and us alone.


I'm going to let you in on a little secret: you are not alone. In a world of 7.002 billion people it is extremely important to realize that you aren't the only one going through this.


I've been doing some simple Google-searching to validate this statement, and it occurs to me that the site itself serves as a tool for understanding our not-alone-ness. One could almost stop at the Google search bar to examine this truth.  Looking for "Why I have hair on my knuckles" Google tells me that not only has someone had the exact same search, but apparently people have hair in plenty of places besides knuckles, and they're wondering about them too!

"Knuckles." Right. 

It seems to me that when it comes to sadness or unfortunate situations, occupants of the web-o-sphere turn to irony, sarcasm, and humor. Yet, while I read (and giggle), I realize that the mere fact that there are hundreds of sites discussing a range of awkward, unfortunate, or even normal things that happen to us suggests camaraderie.

I stumbled upon an interesting site that rates the "badness" of things that happen to us. I cannot speak for its origins or credibility. It is a crude chart that measures (in dolors) the pain of situations from the every day to the extreme. Personally, I would add a few to the chart that have not been included, and delete a few (stepping on a sticker does not rate for me at all. In fact, I like stickers. I like them a lot.) My ratings would also be different. The point, however, is not how these things are measured, but that they are even on the list.


Books, magazines, and newspapers would be the most likely place to seek a better understanding of you, your concerns, worries, and fears, and the fact that there are others like you. But really all you have to do is flip to ABC's Modern Family, for example, and yet again, we find sameness! After all, that's why comedies are funny -- we can relate.


You are not alone, because we are all human.


Death, heartbreak, romance, losing your job, weight-gain, weight-loss, getting a zit on a first date, losing your house, pregnancy, disease, pure exhaustion, not getting into grad school, surgery, moving away from home.... these things are a part of life. They are things that you may have experienced once, twice, never before, or all at once. But with 7.002 billion people on this earth, you are not the only one. There are others who know precisely what you're going through. Whether you look for them or not, take comfort that they're out there.

five o'clock

Today as I left work, shuffling alongside the worked-out crowd of commuters, passing the same homeless, toothless men with their plastic bags, the same suited men and women, the same mothers and fathers anxious to get home to their children, today as I pushed the grimy metal turnstile again, I rewound my life exactly eight years.


On this day, eight years ago, at five o'clock. Would I have been home already? Probably not. I was involved in sports or theater or some extra curricular or other which keeps high schoolers out until dinner time. I guess track season is about right. We would have run outside today. Fifteen years old, and just starting to feel those pre-teen reigns slacken a little bit. Fifteen years old, and insanely uncomfortable in my body -- incredibly unsure of most things involving myself, but man, how perfectly perfect.


There's something special about that combination of adolescence and springtime. If I could bottle it up and give it a flavor, I would call it mojito: minty freshness with a squashed lime half at the bottom. I guess it's all one big metaphor, but it makes me think of running. Makes me think of my first true love. Makes me think about the start of young adulthood and everything there still was to learn. About the method in which I was taught.


If we're lucky, we are taught gradually. The big picture reveals itself slowly and steadily until we reach that age when we realize we don't want the big picture anymore. We don't want to commute with the masses. We want to run around the high school and come home to a warm house full of family.  We want that tunnel vision: homework assignments, and finish lines, and butterflies that accompany first kisses.


That is my favorite kind of five o'clock. What's yours?

a love story, a story of love

My cousin is getting married in three days. While she is not the first of my extended family to do so, she is the first girl, the first of our lady comrades to truly say goodbye to childhood and adolescence. Now that I'm old enough to understand this I have found myself in an inescapable state of nostalgia.


Our cousin-hood (made up of seventeen) is a very special one. I will let you in, I will give you a glimpse, but I promise you the magic will be lost here.


I remember distinctly the way we used to dress up in costume. Anything left over from years worth of recitals and summer productions was pulled from musty plastic bins and strewn across the basement floor. Only after we found costumes would we spend hours on the perfect script, which was scribbled in slanted penmanship on white copy paper. By the end of the day we had a full-fledged dance, play, skit, movie, and put on performance after performance for our parents who were endlessly entertained. Here our imaginations developed: an environment in which all of our parents endeavored to raise us. Encouraged by one another we would each eventually embrace this shared creativity in our own ways.


As we got older and more adventurous, family parties (the best chance for us to all be together) turned into vastly imaginative war-zones. It was here where I learned that light-up sneakers were unacceptable in a game of manhunt. My team and I expertly crafted makeshift coverings for my lights out of leaves. If we could we would have painted our faces black. As soon as it was dark enough we slithered through the varied terrain of our grandparents' property and that of their neighbors, quiet as mice, swift as deer, having memorized every tree or dip in the land. The moon was our light source. The moon and the warm lights of the house we all know so well. When at last a team admitted defeat, both troops returned to the party red-cheeked, noses running and covered in dirt.


Summer. Summer. Summer was heaven on earth. Eight weeks felt like a year, and nothing could top that feeling of pure exhaustion after a sun-drenched day of jumping waves and building castles. Fortunate we are to have a boat-owner in the family. Also a golf pro, beach town residents, and our very own island. Summer excursions provided solace from winter's gloom and relaxation for our parents and grandparents. But they were adventure lands for all of us. What better place to experience your childhood than aboard a ship, or on rolling greens, or sandy shores? Wherever it was, the shrill of laughter was sure to be ours.


One summer's perfection was punctuated, however, by the loss of the one matriarch we all knew. And so we convened again -- every single one of us -- to say goodbye to her. Guiltily, I relished the idea of being together again, and for the first time I learned that with death comes the celebration of life. It was okay to play, to laugh, to eat. So we did. All of us. Together.


And now as our lives come full circle, as we grow and build our own families, we will continue to gather. To play and laugh and eat as if we've never spent a day apart. We will recount the memories we've been lucky enough to make with one another, and aim for the same for our own children.


I am very excited for this wedding. I am very excited to see my beautiful, beautiful family.

But I still look good in purple.

When I was younger I would visit the city with my parents. Usually my sister and I wore matching oversized "dress" jackets for this special occasion... a purple one with a faux fur-lined hood comes to mind. Mom and Dad looked their best, and baby brother tagged along, white-blond hair combed to one side. We were the suburban family traipsing in (by car! gasp!) to the big city for a show, or museum, and dinner. The idea was to fit it. Look your snazziest, because in here, the people are gorgeous, near-flawless, and role models of a different kind.   

Going into the city was a treat -- something to look forward to, and, for our youthful imaginations, an adventure out of which dreams were made. And forget Broadway. Broadway was just about as much as my little heart could handle. Oh, how I wanted to be on that stage! And if there was a kid my age singing and dancing, what I felt was admiration mixed with pain: I can do that!

I remember reaching the age when I didn't have to hold my dad's hand to cross a city street. THAT was a day. I kind of peeked over my shoulder, double checking that they knew I was flying solo. Me and my sister, two doe-eyed, curly-haired (Not natural curls. Remember, this is a special occasion.) blonds leading the family past a yielded pack of yellow taxis, delivery trucks, and black suburbans. 

So now, here I am. Same City. Same girl. New sense of belonging. I still see those people. The ones who never seem to have an ugly day. The ones whose make up is so smooth I actually gawk at them as they walk in the opposite direction. The ones whose legs run miles long, with the perfect outfits, naturally. Every day is a fashion show, and so I am never bored walking to work. Outfit after outfit strolls by, and for each one I take note: must get those boots; remember to look for that jacket; love her scarf!!

How sad, really, now that I think about it. I have completely lost my childhood fascination with things actually worth looking at. I'm surrounded by some of the most interesting architecture in the country and all I can see is clothing worn by my co-inhabitants. 

Anyway. Today I realized that I am living a Broadway show. I am living Thoroughly Modern Millie. What I like about that show, aside from the clever tap number in the first act, is that it's not a story about a girl who wants to make it big on stage. Millie gives some validity to the often scoffed-at desk job. After all, not everyone can end up an actor. Thoroughly Modern Millie is a show about a girl who moves from her "one light town" to Manhattan, "The Eighth World Wonder."

Okay, where I come from there are about 15 stop lights that I can think of, however, moved into the city I have, and embracing it I am. I am no longer a guest. I am a working part of this bustling community. And while I am surrounded by sophisticated fashion sense and blemish-free beauties, every so often I see a man in a suit, tie, and...backpack? A woman wearing a blouse, skirt, and... running sneakers??

Yes, people actually have to function here. From now on I'm wearing my kicks to work, because that's how to really fit in in New York.

Photo: Meghan Cavanaugh

At last.

At last it feels like Fall is here. I know this because yesterday I had my first hot drink from Starbucks. Then later, I had my second hot drink from Starbucks, wearing my tan trench coat and a light-weight black turtleneck. 

Air conditioners are off, windows are open to let that cool, crisp breeze flow through the apartment, and a delicious new cinnamon scented candle will coat the months of October and November in a sweetness redolent of Autumns passed. 

Fall is almost as intoxicating as Spring, when we thrill at the thought of budding blossoms, and when all that lay dormant over the Winter comes back to life. Similarly now, we look at the exhausted plant life and understand that the time has come for all of the trees and flowers to take a rest. After all, we are tired too. The summer has been long. The sun has been hot. 

Welcome chill weather.