confessions of a talkaholic

Yesterday I applied for 11 jobs. ELEVEN. That's one more than 10. (And a lot more than zero which is the more important statistic.) That also means I wrote 11 cover letters. And I will tell you a secret, I love writing, but I hate cover letters. I mean, you're trying to convince a person to take more than 6 seconds to consider you, much less to hire you for a job, which I feel is a very pressureful task. Perhaps I should keep it simple. It could go like this:

Dear Hiring Manager:
PLEASE JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE BECAUSE I'M AWESOME AND VERY WORTH IT I PROMISE! I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL!
Big hearts,
Megan

Shoot. I should have thought of this before.

If only I could put my real skills on my resume. I mean, all my counseling experience, fine. My volunteering, yeah, ok. Masters degree? Ehh. There isn't really a section to put things like "really good at decoupage" or "makes a mean grilled cheese" or "kick-a social skills" or "once made a giant cupcake in the shape of a cat" - but I can deal with those not being on there. But what I am really good at, where I really shine, is in the art of impersonation. Which my mom says is because I listen to sounds instead of words. (read: she thinks I don't listen to her. which clearly I do because I remember that she said that. ha.) Doing voices? I'm awesome. Telling stories? Yes. Fabulous. But unless you're looking for a job doing voices for animated films (which I will tell you I wholeheartedly wish I was) those things are not terribly handy.

You see, at a very young age, it became apparent that I was an attention fiend. I wanted to slow dance with the spotlight I loved it so much. Upon approaching the playground in my new neighborhood as a wee one, I am quoted as saying, "Look at all these kids! They are going to be so happy to meet me!" There is a video of my brother's birthday wherein I am trying (and failing) to get someone's attention. When traditional means failed me, clearly the only option was to pull up my dress to show off my fancy undies. I was 17. (Just kidding, that would be weird. I was only like 5. Which isn't weird.)

Now, I like to think I have come a long way and am not quite the attention jezabel I once was (family - please refrain from commenting). I have found reasonable ways to channel my need to be heard, because a 25 year old screaming LOOK AT ME! LISTEN TO ME! is an unhappy combination of trainwreck and hot mess. And it hasn't been socially acceptable for me to lift up my dress for about 20 years now, so that option is out. But just because we grow up doesn't necessarily mean we change. We just find more socially acceptable (read: sneaky) ways to get our needs met (read: get what we want). We find grown up words to say little kid things. Are you starting to see how this works?

I think the reason I have these particular talents has a great deal to do with the fact that I realized that I like words (read: I like to talk). A lot. And the only way I was going to get people to listen to me as much as I wanted them to was if I got really good at it (talking, that is). Not to mention, due to higher-than-normal levels of teen angst, in my high school years I had to stifle all of my natural instincts in order to blend in. (Now, apparently, I'm frantically making up for lost time.) I don't know why I think thats so funny, but I do. At the root of my present love for writing, a good story, and a superb impersonation is nothing more than my childhood search for fame paired with a reaction to my high school need to not rock boats. That's funny to me.

Makes me wonder about people who are good at stuff... what playground moment is at the root of their success?

For those of you who don't know me as well as others, I like hyperbole. (read: I like to be dramatic.) Please don't read this and think, "wow, she thinks really highly of herself," or "wow, every time I am talking to her she is probably just waiting for the next time its her turn to talk." False. I like laughing as much as I like making people laugh, and I like hearing as much as I like being heard.

So there. That will teach you to make assumptions about people. Shame on you.
Yes, I know I just made the assumption that you were judging me, but that's different.

To sum it up:
I like to talk. In order to get people to listen to me, I had to make it interesting. So here we are.
(aaaaaaaaand I think I just found my new blog tagline.)

experience: that most brutal of teachers

[I kind of think I write the same stuff over & over again. I think it's easily explained by the fact that I don't learn lessons easily so they have to get taught to me over & over until I figure it out. Maybe you're the same way. If you're not, well, hang in there. I'll get it eventually. Probably.]

One of my friends at The Well was telling me yesterday that he missed a chance to see his kids. We've talked a lot about them in the past and I have sat with him many times as he weeps because he misses them. He's never angry about it, and when he does cry he does it gracefully - but his heart hurts, and it hurts mine to see. So when he told me he missed that chance, I was surprised. And since I feel like he trusts me (at least a little), I asked him why.

There wasn't really a reason. What it comes down to, I think, is that he got caught up in shame. My friend is homeless, and he didn't want his kids to see him because he didn't feel good/clean/successful enough. Instead of answering my question, he half-joked, embarrassed, "I've just got to get myself together."

I hate that.

What I want is for him to see what I see, which is, among other things, a genuinely kind and compassionate person. A dad who wants what is best for his children. A man who is worthy of grace & love & mercy. A friend. And the fact that he doesn't have a job or a home or a haircut is kind of inconsequential when it comes to who he is. Of course, hate it or not, I know exactly how he feels. It's exactly the kind of crap I think all the time.

I can't help but wonder how many chances we miss because we don't have ourselves together just yet. 
I wonder how many times we let shame convince us that we're not worthy of what our hearts desire.
I wonder how many of our tears are shed because we didn't show up, and we could have.
I wonder how often we become something we're not simply because we've forgotten who we are.

I told my friend that next time, I hoped he would show up anyway.
He promised he'd try. So I guess I'd better try too. It's only fair.

the gift of 'me too'

What I'm about to tell you is nothing novel. Its not new or exciting or earth-shattering, but I think it is true. And I think it is beautiful. If that's as far as I ever get (if I even get that far), I'm fine with that.

C.S. Lewis puts it this way:

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"

Only recently have I begun to grasp the power of the words "me too." Some of my greatest relationships even at this very moment I can legitimately trace back to those two words. I remember more clearly than most things the day or night when we sat for hours, walked in the park, stayed up too late, drank coffee, ate lunch - when we discovered the me-too. There is typically a moment when I'm sitting with the other person and I realize I have a decision to make. I feel a slight twinge and I think, Am I really going to share that? Right now? With this person? I take a tiny moment and do a quick vulnerability risk assessment (the findings of which, thankfully, I tend to ignore). My stomach is doing flip-flops before I have even decided for sure if I am going to let the words leave my mouth. Am I going to talk, or throw up? I'm honestly not sure. 

It's an "I struggle..." or an "I've lost..." or an "I'm afraid..." 

It is vulnerable, tender, intimate.
And it's real, above all, which is perhaps the very scariest part.

Wrapped up in the spoils of our shame I think we start to feel like we are the only ones with pain and brokenness and ugly parts. For a very long time, I had pain that I literally, no exaggeration, thought no one could or would ever understand. I was alone there... until one day I wasn't. Until I did a vulnerability override and said what I most dreaded saying. And finally, at long last, I was met with someone else who felt like me. Another human being sits with me, hears me, sees me, and responds with a timid and maybe even somewhat reluctant, "me too." It was beautiful.

It's still beautiful. Because when it happens, I can almost literally hear shame breaking. Loneliness shatters like the glass I knocked off my nightstand the other morning when I reached for the alarm clock in a panic. You can feel your heart change in a similar manner to that of the Grinch's, which I have a very vivid visual for thanks to Dr. Seuss. Relief fills your body and your shoulders un-tense and your face breaks into a smile whether you want it to or not and maybe you even get a little emotional in your eyeballs. It is a great gift, and one that not just anyone can give you. Which makes it all the more special.

I am deeply thankful for the me too and for the comfort & liberation that comes with it. I hope sincerely and with great fervor that you are given the same gift that I have been given. I hope when your tummy starts to flip and words spill out of your mouth that someone looks at you, looks at your ugliest parts, your deepest hurts, and says:

Me too.
You are not alone anymore.
I hope you can hear shame break and loneliness shatter.
And I hope you get a big fat glimpse of Jesus in all of it.

sitting on other people's stuff [so. many. jobs.]

We (the unemployeds) love this. Its a sure thing. A magical opportunity. "Would you like to [whatever]-sit for us?" is music to my ears. You do very little and get paid for it. Because here's the thing about sitting on stuff. Housesitting, dogsitting, babysitting, all sittings. All you really have to do is another human being's basic responsibilities for a limited amount of time. And get paid for it. I can think of few things more awesome than this.

The thing I do most these days is nanny. FYI, "nanny" is the mid-twenties version of "babysit." Whereas you babysit when you are a preteen, and maybe in high school, you nanny as a grownup. The semantics here are crucial. Nobody wants to be 25 and a babysitter. How embarrassing. So I nanny. Don't mix this up. I nanny for lots of random families and one pretty regularly these days. Let me tell you something. If nannying were my career goal, I'd be ALL SET. Do you know what a hot commodity a 25 year old, moderately responsible (at least they think so, muahaha) nanny with infant experience is? Really hot. Moms love me right now. So I hang out with a lot of babies. 

And I will tell you something else. Babies love me too. I'm like a one-woman floor show. All I do is entertain (which, lets be honest, is a win-win, because entertaining fills my heart with glee). My target audience? Children under 5. I sing a lot, I dance (I mix some pretty sweet jams on those annoying keyboards that have the pre-set beats), and I read books in awesome voices. Dr. Seuss books are my forte, I'd say, because the rhyming really allows me to stretch and challenge myself. I'm also getting really good at the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Little Bunny Foo Foo. Always crowd pleasers. Allison has told me several times that she'd like to secretly film me with babies to see what I do because I'm pretty sure she's pretty sure it borders on insane. Which is possibly true.

The only thing I really have difficulty with is the stroller. I. hate. strollers. Seriously. This is what I think happened: whoever invented the stroller then had a meeting with the 380 different people who were going to form stroller companies. In an effort to make my life miserable (I'm positive this is personal), they came up with the brilliant idea that each of the eleventy billion kinds of strollers should be just a little bit different, so that those who spend their time nannying for various families with various strollers would never, ever be able to figure them out. I have spent more minutes of my life trying to figure out how to unlock stroller wheels than I care to count. I have to really keep my potty mouth in check when it comes time to take walks, because strollers have the potential to fill me with fury. 

But I love that its getting nice and that we can go on walks and go to the park, which is my favorite. As an added bonus, there is a significant plethora of cute boys who go to the park too. Which makes it highly unfortunate that when I am there I am usually singing songs about the park that I've made up or making funny faces down into the stroller. I try to go on the weekends some too to balance it out. And I make sure I look super cute when I go either way so maybe it will override some of my innate weirdness. Probably won't, but its worth a shot. I'll keep you posted. 

So that is a little peek into another portion of the many ways I am paying my bills week to week. Really and truly, I like babies and making babies laugh, so that's lucky. I think I can handle being an occasional nanny for a while longer. Not a babysitter though. 25 and still a babysitter? Embarrassing. Social suicide. Nanny, though? Moderately respectable. I'll take it.

a friendly reminder

my sweet friend brought this (back) to my attention last night:


"if we consider the unblushing promises of reward & the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. we are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink & sex & ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. we are far too easily pleased."
-C.S. Lewis

I am thankful that there are people in my life who will remind me of the offer of a holiday at the sea when I have forgotten. I am thankful for the people who love me enough to remind me that there is infinite joy offered to us. I am thankful that there are people who will show me Jesus in my muddiest, slummiest moments - so that I can wake up on snowy mornings like this one and feel hopeful. and maybe even a little bit Easter-y.

I scarce can take it in [hope]

Over the past year, I have spent a lot of time and used a lot of words writing about things like wilderness, pain, suffering, brokenness, and heartbreak. Over the past several weeks of Lent, my church has been doing a series on the wilderness, talking specifically about the Israelites' 40 years in the wilderness before they were led into the Promised Land. For obvious reasons, I have loved this - I have learned so much about what it means to be there, why we have to stay there, and how to deal with myself there as well as walk with other people when they're there.

A lot of what I have learned about pain in the last year, I truly believe, has made me a better counselor, a more empathetic friend, and a kinder person in general. I think that God has been showing me that one of my gifts is openness, acceptance and appreciation of brokenness, and genuine empathy, and for that I am thankful. Even beyond that, I have written more in the past year than I probably have in my whole life, and that is due in large part to the topic at hand. I have come to know writing as a gift, and for that I am also thankful.

I think you will not be surprised to hear me say that I find brokenness to be one of, if not the most beautiful part(s) of a person. When I am let into that part of a friend, a client, or a person at the Well, I consider that an honor. Hearing people's stories, the places they have come from, always always always makes me love them more. It is inexorable. I think this is why I like Lent so much. I find the juxtaposition of Lent and Easter to be absolutely poetic. I love really thinking about the meaning of Lent - how it leads into the desperate sorrow of Good Friday - and how we end here, today. With Easter. With hope. If we truly experience Lent, we come to long for Easter. By going through it even today, I find myself waking on Easter morning to a world that feels new. Hopeful.

This is the part I can't let myself forget and the part I think Jesus has been trying to remind me of all week. (Do you not hate that, when you are dead set to think one thing and then everything for like an entire week points to another thing until you're finally kind of like, "ALRIGHT FINE I GET IT!"? I really, really do.) In church this morning as my pastor spoke about the resurrection, this very clear thought entered my brain.

Yes. The wilderness is beautiful in its broken, desperate way. But the thing of it is, broken (the wilderness) is only beautiful against a backdrop of hope (Easter).

Maybe that is not profound to you, but it really kicked me in the shins this morning. Because brokenness is just brokenness without the promise of wholeness on the other side. As JJ Heller sings, "but if you are never broken, you will never be made whole." The Cross, the death of Christ, is beautiful. It is also necessary. But without the resurrection, it's just suffering. It's just pain. It's just another sad story.

What is written below I wrote last year, on this blog, about Easter. Writing the words in bold was, in its way, very much a plea. It was a prayer. It was hope that things were bigger and more than what they looked like at the time. It's been a year of pain and sadness and grief and ugly, gross wilderness. And as I was reminded this morning, just because it's April 4, 2010 does not mean that we are immediately transported from the wilderness. But even in the wilderness there is hope of a Promised Land, and the hope that Easter promises is available even after the holiday is over. Our story is not complete without the empty tomb.

Because broken is nothing without hope.

"On Holy Saturday, which is a day when hope is thought to be dead, we grieve the death of Christ. But we hold out for Sunday, for Easter - with hope and anticipation - because, praise God, death isn't the end of the story. In Christ, it never is."

I think broken is overwhelmingly beautiful. But this? The old hymn says it for me. I scarce can take it in.

things I don't understand

A few times on this blog I have mentioned Zac Smith, a man I had a class with my first semester of seminary. I remember becoming his class friend, along with another friend of mine, because from far we thought he was so smart, interesting, and subtly funny. He was also really cool. Which, yes, is still a factor when you are a sort-of grownup and in Seminary. When he moved, I can't say we remained in contact, but we were Facebook friends and the impression he made on me was one that was lasting, for whatever reason.
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I found out via his blog that Zac had been diagnosed with cancer last May, very shortly after we lost Audrie, my sister. Perhaps because of the timing of it all, I was infuriated by the news and became immediately highly invested in praying for and keeping up with Zac's story. I have been so encouraged in the past year by Zac's writing about having cancer, his journey through treatment, clear scans, and bad news. It has been a privilege to hear Zac's insight, wisdom, and incredible faith throughout his entire ordeal this year.
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On the list of things I do not understand, Zac's unwavering faith in the face of cancer is up there towards the top. It's a faith I respect, undoubtedly, but it has not been my experience. The past couple years of my family going through similar turmoil has, if I am honest, produced in me a sad, angry, and sometimes bitter heart. While Zac has been open about the bad days too, his words have encouraged me and continue to encourage me more than I can explain.
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I want to share this video not to make you sad, but to share with you a little bit of what Zac has shared with me, whether he is aware of it or not. I am blessed, albeit bewildered, by his story and by his faith and conviction. It's a story that begs to be heard. I ask that you would pray for Zac and his wife and kids in the coming months, and it is my sincere hope that you are encouraged, as I have been, by Zac.
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I like when my first impressions of people are right. (that doesn't happen very often.) Sometimes you just get a sense, upon observing someone, that you'd be a moron not to introduce yourself to that person. I'm so thankful that Zac's coolness intrigued us to introduce ourselves in New Testament in the fall of 2007. I couldn't have known then how much he would affect my life.
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The Story of Zac Smith from NewSpring Media on Vimeo.
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"God is still God." I need to hear that every day.

though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pens and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
Habakkuk 3:17-18

if life is a highway, I do not want to ride it all night long.

Seriously though. Not even a little.

I spent the better part of Friday making the trek from Colorado to Kansas. Let me assure you: the drive across Eastern CO & Western KS, as it stands, is horrendous. Adding a blizzard into the mix, then, is absolutely unnecessary. Never again, weather. Never again.

but I digress.

I am pretty good at road trips. I don't love driving, though, not even a little, so I can't do it very often - but every few months or so I am ready for one. Its kind of like the extroverted version of introversion - 1 day of alone time for every 3-4 months of being with people perpetually. Like clockwork, I get antsy and sick of people and I crave 8 hours alone in my car.

But I have to keep myself entertained, so I have come up with some simple and fun games to play whilst driving across flatland. Like, for example, Phone Singing Chicken. Here's how it works. When I am in my car, unless there is another person present (and lets be honest, even when there is) chances are, I am singing. So when I call someone, I don't want to miss even a second of Kiss From a Rose or whatever, so I keep singing until they answer. The game, then, is to not get caught singing when the person answers the phone. It's tricky and highly entertaining. I know some of you do this too, because I've caught you before. Which I'm pretty sure by PSC rules means I win.

I also play the potty game. My mother always taught me that it was unladylike to say "pee." Among other things. I'm pretty sure it's unladylike to write publicly about potty, too, but that's neither here nor there. Ladylike or not, I am a card-carrying member of the IBBC (Itty Bitty Bladder Club), so road trips for me include a lot of pit stops. I realize this is stereotypical of me, as a female, but there's not a whole lot to be done about it. In my defense, if I'm not the one driving I can manage a lot better than if I am driving, thus requiring caffeine and cold beverages to ensure that I do not die in a fiery crash. But when I am alone, I make goals for myself. "I will not stop again until Colby, KS when I can go to the Oasis of the Plains (the best rest stop in the Sunflower State)." I must then pace my Diet Coke intake and inevitably end up holding it for a significantly long time in order to win the game. Against myself.

Speaking of rest stops, there are certain things that I only want to eat when I'm driving across state lines. I almost always eat Chex Mix when I'm driving, and I can honestly say there is no other time when I think to myself, "yes, I think Chex Mix sounds like a great choice. Now, Bold Party Mix, or Honey & Nut??" Not that there's anything wrong with Chex Mix; it just never happens. But put me in the car for 8 hours, and it sounds like the greatest thing ever. Now, when I was younger and we would take road trips, my snack of choice was what I now hold is one of the grosser options in any given convenience store: Combos.

Honestly, just googling the pictures made me a little nauseous. I really entered the danger-zone when I saw this:

I know. I'm sorry. I'll give you a moment. 

IN MY DEFENSE, I only liked the basic cheese-and-cracker varieties. I wasn't into all that weird stuff. 

But the truth remains that I unabashedly loved Combos as a child. I'm not proud of it. 

Another thing I love eating in the car is Mike & Ikes. Yesterday I was considering buying a little mini bag at the Oasis when I saw berry flavored Mike & Ikes. My rational brain knows this sounds disgusting, but road trip brain thought it sounded awesome. Rational brain was right. I should have known something called "peach berry" was not a good choice. It's never a good sign when they make up flavors. "Hmm. This doesn't really taste like berry. It kind of tastes like some weird fruit hybrid. But we've already produced it in bulk for the berry bags. I guess we'll just say its peach berry and call it good." G-ross.

In order to keep myself entertained (read: awake), in addition to playing games & eating weird snacks, I sing entire musicals. I do. I sing through entire show soundtracks. I am almost always lacking in vocal capacity when I arrive at my destination. I mimic Kristin Chenoweth, and I harmonize with Lesley Ann Warren. I am Cinderella, Aida, Elphaba, and Eliza Doolittle in a matter of a few hours. My repertoire is extensive, to say the least. I don't allow myself to listen to showtunes very often, except for on the open road. There may even be some acting involved from time to time. Because how do you sing Les Miserables without some emotion? I mean really. 

Thats just a little insight into my road trip habits. Have you decided to stop reading my blog because I'm so odd you can stand it no longer? Hope not. Because maybe someday we'll have to go on a road trip together. Then you'll appreciate my quirks.

lost arts, and the like

I don't feel like I really know a person until I've seen their handwriting. 

That might sound a little shallow to you. Allow me to explain myself. 

I received a card in the mail just the other day from a new-ish friend. After I contained my joy enough to focus on who had sent said card, because yes, any mail that does not have the "return service requested" mark (that appears on bills and junk mail) fills me with glee, I realized I didn't recognize the handwriting. Thanks to my masters degree, I looked at the return address and thus discovered who the card was from. Context clues. Try to contain your awe at my smarts.

[Now, I have been sitting here for minutes upon minutes trying to think of a way to describe my card-reception emotions in a way that does not make me sound like I'm a character in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Alas - I cannot think of one. I'm as distressed as you are, I assure you. I ask you for your pardon. Just this once.]

It warmed my heart. I mean a literal, actual warmth in the cardiac vicinity kind of situation. It was the grown-up equivalent of a warm fuzzy, if you will. It is no secret that I like words, and I like seeing words just slightly more than I like hearing words. (One might also call "seeing words" "reading," but that's neither here nor there.) I like emails, I like texts, I like blog comments, I like Facebook posts - I like all of it a great deal. But there is nothing I love as much as I love handwritten sentiments. 

Snail mail. A note on post-it. Or scribbled on the back of a J.Crew receipt. 

A quick & breezy thank you note (a lost art in and of itself, but thats another story for another time.) 

And oh, oh oh oh, how I melt at the arrival of a greeting card. 

Personalized stationary? Be still my heart. 

Just like I prefer Cary Grant & the classics over Brad Pitt in theaters any day, I am a traditionalist when it comes to written communication as well. I swooned at Dean Martin dancing in the park, and in a similar fashion, handwritten letters? I'm weak in the knees. Which is perhaps part of the reason why, inexplicably, seeing someone's handwriting makes me feel closer to them. Kind of like how you feel after a 3 am sleepover-style heart-to-heart, or meeting someone's family - its another piece of who they are. Its the kind of detail that, for whatever reason, makes you feel kind of special; a little bit like I've been let in on a secret. And I love secrets. Shocking.

Handwriting is a lost art, if you ask me. [And by coming to my blog, I would posit that you did, sort of, ask me.] While a friend can touch me deeply with an email, while friendships grow with a few casual posts to a Facebook wall, and romance blossoms (whether I approve or not, as it were) over the exchange of a few flirtatious texts --

handwriting is intimate. 

Thats the only way I can think to describe it. 

I ain't gotta work at the mall again [i have so many jobs]

Job #2. J.Crew.

Yes. Yes I did quote Kanye West's "Kanye's New Workout Plan" just then in the title. Deal.
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[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way Jose. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]

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I don't get nearly as many funny responses to this job - it's pretty much a business-as-usual kind of deal. Well, that's not entirely true. When I called to tell my family I had gotten the job, my sister Audrie made ENDLESS fun of me. "You work at the mall, now, huh? So you're probably going to start hanging out at Orange Julius now too, right?" She never let that go, actually. The Orange Julius jokes were pretty much an ongoing sort of situation. But I feel pretty firmly that it's ok to make fun of me as long as its funny, which lets face it, Orange Julius? That’s funny. This is why everyone in my family makes fun of everyone else in my family all the time. Because we're also hilarious. 

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So I've been working at this delightful place for nearly 2 years, & I've never looked back. Now, while board-folding, "Can I help you match a cardigan with that skirt?" and "Oh that looks fabulous, now just belt it to complete the look" are not, per say, my passions in life, I do genuinely like this job. Whether or not that has more to do with the sweet, pee-your-pants funny people I work with, who's to say. But I like the J.Crew.

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Here is a list of things I have learned in my time with the mall. 

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1. We're all about customer service here. If you, Customer, need a size 8, I will be more than happy to run to the back and do a stock check for you. We don't have it? Would you like me to call another store? They don't have it either? I'd be happy to help you use the Red Phone to order what you need. You'd like to yell at me instead? You're right. I can't believe I am so worthless that I cannot manufacture a pair of size 8 chinos for you right here in this moment. I'm not sure what is wrong with me. Oh, the other $600 of merchandise I helped you with for over an hour – you'd like to put that on hold for 4-6 weeks? Perfect. Lovely. Whatever I can do for you, Customer. Have a great afternoon! Yes, I suppose it is evening. Have a great one of those then. 

The customer is always right. 

Here is a secret: approximately 7.6 out of 10 Customers are not only right, but are also idiots. 

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2. As sales associates, our voices get approximately 63% more high-pitched when we are talking to customers. Its actually kind of an amazing phenomenon. You could be talking (in normal voice) about how awful your life is, and how you’ve had the swine flu for 5 weeks, and the minute a customer is in sight, its “HI! How are you this evening! Great!! Let me know if there’s anything at all I can help you with!!!” Kind of like talking to a dog or small child. Or being a cheerleader. We all have separate voices for helping people than our real ones. This isn't something they tell us in training or anything, either. It is a naturally occurring phenomenon.
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3. When you go into customer-voice-mode, sometimes you end up saying things you don't normally say. I end up saying, "If you need anything at all just holler at me!" WAY more often than I'm comfortable with. In no other setting would I say that. The fitting rooms are like a vortex for saying weird things. 

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4. Using the sticker gun for markdowns is my favorite. The clicking sound makes me feel important.

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5. My other favorite thing is during the holidays when we’re busy and we get to use the headsets in order to relay important messages to one another about stock checks and who is and is not on the floor. But if you are ever in a store and there are people with headsets, and one of them starts awkwardly laughing while they’re ringing you up, mark my words. Someone just said, “that’s what she said.”

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6. The soundtrack. Oh, the soundtrack. Are you ever in a store and feel like banging your head against a wall because the music is so weird? Try working a 6 hour shift with it playing on repeat. And, my mind is like a venus fly trap where lyrics are concerned. So, said weird songs remain playing in my brain for hourrrrrs after my shift has ended. Then sometimes I end up knowing and actually liking some of the songs. Which is problematic & embarrassing on several levels.

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7. The only place I have seen more women in their skivvies than the J.Crew fitting room is the locker room at the YMCA where old ladies freely roam around in the buff. These are the two magical places wherein women do not feel like modesty is necessary in any way, shape, or form.

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8. Learning to buy clothes with a discount is a tricky sort of business. The problem is, everything is so grandiosely inexpensive in comparison that one feels as though one must buy every shirt that costs $10. I can talk myself into thinking anything is cute when it costs $10. Let me tell you something: $10 shirts add up quickly. And chances are, one won't even end up liking 3 out of every 5 shirts one purchases. I have more than a few things in my closet that we will call "poor choices." But at the time, the sticker shock of how much money one is saving is too much for one to handle. I'm proud to say I have gotten much better at this game, and buy only things I genuinely like (or that Jenny and Reenie tell me I can like.) 
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So those are some of the many things I have learned whilst working this job. And a big shout out to the homeboys and homegirls I get to work with. They make board folding seem like dancing at the Tavern. They make cleaning out dressing rooms (where 60 year old women treat clothes like I did when I was 15) as fun as singing karaoke. They make coming in for a shift as exciting as going to a party where all the popular kids are. 
Ok. I'm done now. Point is: I like them. 
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Peace, Love, & Cardigans,
Megan "selling machine" Greaves

sonic the hedge fund [i have so many jobs]

As many of you may have heard, I graduated in December with a Masters in Counseling. While I apply for jobs like a crazy person and simultaneously try to ascertain what I'd like to do with said degree, I have been working whatever part-time jobs I can get in an attempt to cover as many of my bills as possible until I score a big girl j-o-b. I decided it might be a good idea to document what this has been like.

We will start with my job as office peon at the Hedge Fund. 

[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different arenas and piddly jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]

First of all, lets discuss the reactions I have gotten to having this job:
"What's a hedge fund?" - every single girl
"Do you even know what a hedge fund is?" - almost every guy
"THAT IS SO AWESOME AND MY NEW FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOU DO YOU THINK YOU CAN GET ME A JOB THERE TOO?" - Kenneth
"Like, landscaping? That kind of hedge?" - anonymous
"Wait... the hedge fund... is that like, where your [counseling] internship is?" - Kim
lady at church, excited: "Kenneth told me you got a sweet new job! Congratulations!"
me, confused: "um, no, not yet, what is he talking about? ... oh. you mean the hedge fund."
"you really do work at a hedge fund? I actually thought that was a joke this whole time." - Cristy

In all honesty, its a very simple job. I mean, very simple. Just last week I said to a friend, "I'm pretty sure if Timmy could read, he could do my HF job." Timmy is my nephew. And he is 5. Probably a smart monkey could do it, too. All you really have to know is the alphabet. So, while my counseling skills are becoming dormant due to lack of practice, my knowledge of the alphabet is really sharp. So, there's that. (There's also the fact that they pay me ridiculous amounts of dollars to get good at the alphabet. Thus: I do not complain.)

I spent a solid 5.5 HOURS on Thursday ensuring that 4 full file cabinets of files were in alphabetical order (still not even half done, by the by). As in, I pulled each file for every month of 2009 and 2010 thus far and ensured that the business tickers were in alphabetical order. By date. Getting praise for doing this job well almost feels like a thinly veiled insult.
"Wow, Speedy Gonzales! Done already? You are good!" (This is an actual quote.)
[internally]: Really? Thats impressive to you? I mean, it's the alphabet. I guess I have been familiarizing myself with it for years, so I'm pretty good... wait a second. Are you making fun of me?"
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Sometimes, when I am literally unpacking and stacking copy paper in the places that the higher-ups like it to be, I feel like yelling, "Ummmm, hey everyone? I have a masters degree. Stacking your paper is not a career goal of mine. I just wanted to remind you. Hey you, guy, quit trading stocks and bonds and dealing with bajillions of dollars and acknowledge that I am smart, please! Ok. We're good here. As you were." Thankfully, while my counseling muscles slowly atrophy, my social skills are still really top notch, so I can restrain myself from saying such things.

So, there you have it. A day in the life at the HF. I really don't mind it, to be honest. Even though I feel like I'm getting gold stars for tasks that a kindergartner could master quickly, lets be honest, who doesn't like gold stars, regardless of where they come from? Not to mention, it's incredibly gratifying to start a project, finish it, and then just be done! That doesn't happen so much when you're dealing with people's emotions.
Actually, it never happens. Not ever.
In truth, counseling another human is 87% messier and more stressful than collating, stapling, trifolding, and sending a monthly statement to investors. I rarely cry over data entry, and its hard to get secondary trauma from a project that entails making new labels for an entire file cabinet.
Hmm. Perhaps I've made a career mistake?

I'd go for a full time gig with the HF, embracing the world of finance as my home, but I doubt that would work out.
Mostly because I'm still not entirely sure what a Hedge Fund is.

Invitation to the Thirsty

today was my Sunday at the Well. sometimes I leave there exhausted, and today is no exception, but my heart is exceptionally full, today, too. I find that I am loved well when I'm given a chance to love other people. my train of thought on the drive home took me to Isaiah 55 (the beginning, specifically), and when I looked it up, I saw that it is titled "Invitation to the Thirsty." I've never noticed that before. I love the addition of the word, "invitation." (actually, I just love invitations in general. maybe that is another love language of mine. I have so many! but that's neither here nor there.)

[Invitation to the Thirsty]
Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live. 

try as we may to deny it, we're all thirsty. & we're all invited.
I don't know about you all, but I think I would like for my soul to delight in the richest of fare.
yes, please.

cary grant is a dreamboat [a salute to the classics]

I love the classics. I do. Old music, old movies, old movie stars. Classics are classics for a reason! Now, I'm not going to sit here and try and sell to you that Bonnie Tyler is considered either "old" or "classic" - but it is oldER and MORE classic than, say, Beyonce. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Last night, as per usual, we found ourselves singing karaoke. No one is surprised by this. My friend Adam and I sang a breathtaking duet of Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart. We had an entire table of girls serving as our backup singers, which was festive. Needless to say, it was a crowd pleaser.

So later that night, I'm in the bathroom (let me preface: the Dubbs bathroom is a horrible experience. The stall door is awkwardly sized so when you stand you can see over it & when you sit the person waiting can almost definitely see your underoos. Not to mention the naked lady mural (its her back, relax) which you are forced to stare at while you... you know. Unfortunate to say the least. I'd really hate to see what the men's room is like.) So I'm standing there, and I have this conversation with rando girl:

rando: hey, are you the girl that sang that song earlier?
me: oh, you mean "total eclipse of the heart"?
rando looks exceptionally confused: no, no, no. the old school one.
me: yeah, the Bonnie Tyler song?
rando looks at me like I'm nuts: no, that song from Old School, you know, with Will Ferrell?
me, trying desperately not to reach over and slice rando: right. "turn aroooound, briiiight eyes"?
rando is excited: YES!! that one! from the movie! you guys should have said the f-words too like they do in the movie!

Aside from my stroooooong desire to slap her ridiculous face (I refrained, fear not), my heart broke a little.
Total Eclipse of the Heart is a GREAT song. And now it's known as "that one from Old School with the f-words?" ?!?! This chick was at the very least the same age as me. I was so ashamed.

My defense of 80's power ballads has caused me to recall how much I love 80's movies (Don't even get me started. Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful, Ferris Bueller... you know, everything John Hughes ever did.) This caused me to reminisce how much I love old movies in general. (This was also spurred by a favorite movies conversation & the fact that I spent the afternoon watching Audrey Hepburn & Cary Grant in Charade.) Current movies are just not as good as the old ones. Nothing today compares to how happy I am when Mr. John Truett catches up to Miss Esther on the trolley in Meet Me in St. Louis. My heart swoons when Dean Martin and Judy Holliday dance in the park in Bells are Ringing. (Seriously. I want that dress. And I want to dance in a park. I do not think this is too much to ask.) No current actress is as glamorous as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's or Grace Kelly in High Society. No one writes a mystery like Hitchcock, and few if any current actors are as dreamy as Cary Grant. It's just a fact. Sorry, George Clooney. You lose.

I'm not altogether sure what my point is, other than that I don't ever want to be ignorant about classic entertainment and its superiority to contemporary pop culture or be generalized as a generation who doesn't know who Julie Andrews & Humphrey Bogart are. I grew up watching Hello, Dolly!, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Thoroughly Modern Millie. (Em, Lainey, can I get an amen?!) I wouldn't trade that for whatever ridiculous trash girls are watching today (sorry, Hannah Montana). I will not stand for living in a world where "who's Jimmy Stewart?" is a valid question. My children will know who Doris Day is. They will also be familiar with Bonnie Tyler & probably Journey. I'm just saying.

and to dust you will return [ash wednesday]

I love Ash Wednesday. 
One year ago, I walked into to Ash Wednesday service and felt so broken I was sure I could never be put back together. I expected nothing. (Aside from more disappointment, maybe.) I sat and listened to how Lent was a season that brought us to Easter, and how for many it was a messy, muddy, windblown path. I related. Then I read these words  - "the ashes are a prerequisite for Easter. Brokenness for healing, death for resurrection." I remember vividly how those words pierced my heart. They comforted me unlike anything else had done. I came there, broken, & now saw clearly the exchange that was possible.


I was excited all day yesterday, and I think it's because that memory of comfort and of the glimmer of joy that felt, in that moment, like more than enough. It took a long time after that Wednesday night for things to look better for reals, but the groundwork was laid. That glimmer carried me to Easter, which carried me through March, April & May, when everything fell to pieces. I wanted this year's to yield similar results.


In church tonight, my pastor talked about the meaning of Ash Wednesday. He spoke of a time when the worst sinners were called penitents, and were adorned with ashes on their foreheads as a scarlet letter of sorts, to set them apart. As time passed, people began to realize that they were no better than the penitents, and took on the ashes themselves. Now we wear the ashes to symbolize the beginning of Lent, a season which is intended to bring us closer to the God and Savior who created and redeemed us. The ashes symbolize our repentance, our grief over our sins. I just think the whole ashes business is a really exquisite picture of community and of our brokenness before God. I have a hard time thinking of anything more beautiful than this: to love broken people with our whole broken selves. It's the best, most genuine, most authentic, boldest thing we can do, really. 


Thinking about where I was when I wrote about Lent last year is really hard. I can't not cry over that place, knowing what lies just ahead. And this year, I am proud to bear the ashes, to bear my brokenness for and with my beautifully and similarly broken community. I am honored to walk hand in hand with those who love my broken heart with their broken hearts. We sang "Come Ye Sinners" in church tonight, which is one of those songs that I used to sing a lot, have since forgotten about, and tonight met me with the same familiar comfort of the season itself. One verse in particular resonates with me every time I hear it:


come, ye weary, heavy-laden, lost and ruined by the fall;
if you tarry till you're better, you will never come at all


We enter this season in a state of collective brokenness. We repent of our sin and are washed clean. And how fortunate that we needn't tarry [delay, wait] till we're better. Or else I think the song is right... we would never come at all. We aren't required to get better. We just come broken, as we are; and Jesus pretty much takes care of the rest.


cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me and I will be whiter than snow.
let me hear joy & gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
you do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; 
a broken & contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
[from Psalm 51]

ahh, valentines day... we meet again.

Maybe you've heard of the concept of love languages?

Well, I'm 97% sure that blog commenting counts as a love language.

And I'm 100% sure that it's mine.

I want to say thank you to all of you who comment (be it in emails, texts, in person, on the phone, in the actual comments section, or just in your hearts - yes, those too) - I am so thankful for you. You love me so well & I am so blessed. It's like all the best human beings found me and decided to, for some unknown reason, be in my life. How fortuitous.

Oh, and speaking of the L bomb - it's love, if you were confused - it's valentine's day. Weird. Last year I was relatively positive about good ol' VD. This year I find myself in a similarly un-bitter state. Although my inner cynic thinks this e-card is really funny.

It is my sincere hope that on this, the Hallmark* inspired day of love, each of you feels loved. Somehow we have been convinced that in order to call VD a successful day, you have to be on a hot date, staring deeply into another persons eyes (and making everyone around you uncomfortable), rose petals need to be sprinkled somewhere, and probably at some point you need to be serenaded with some crappy Bryan Adams song. False. I'm calling BS. I hope that you just get to spend it with people you love. Or at least like a whole lot. No disconcerting PDA needs to be included, if you ask me.

(Although... I'll probably partake in some of that at some point or another - probably in the form of touching Alli's butt, holding Kimbert's hand for a longish period of time, or just face kissing unsuspecting friends. Physical touch is a love language too, you know. Shoot, I might even sing Bryan Adams. But that's not Valentine's Day specific, just run-of-the-mill behavior for me. So I think its acceptable. Yes, I'm finished now.)

I hope you are hugged, face kissed, or otherwise groped in some acceptably inappropriate manner this Valentine's Day. I hope someone tells you that you're their favorite. And I really hope that you feel in the deepest core of yourself how very much Jesus loves you. I assure you, it's a lot.

If nothing else, I love you. Probably, anyway. So there's that.

* Let it be known, I have no beef with Hallmark. I love Hallmark, actually. I am a huge proponent of greeting cards, and a frequent flyer at the Hallmark stores... just ask my rewards card. 

** And if you're into the sappy stuff, here's my very favorite love poem of all time. Of. All. Time.