Dinosaur Jr.

Two posts back, one post forward. If you were wondering, I deleted what I could while I could to save face. It is never okay to name drop on the Internet. It is not my style and yesterday's post about swimming lessons and my inexplicable feelings towards lost loves were just that, inexplicable. Sorry I came to that. Name dropping, it is not usually my style. Thus, delete. No one wants to be that girl, hung up. So, I am sorry for being that girl. Hung up.

Onward and upward. Resolution sans guilt.

Tonight was a night of forgetting a day spent crying into sourdough dough. I had dinner with my lovely brother at our favorite restaurant and he dropped me at my friend Leigh's who is fresh off the Paris boat and still jet lagged. There were six people at his "I am home" party and that was the perfect amount. Conversation was fluid and thoughtful, interchanging, chameleon-like and warm all at the same time. Arms were waved, six bottles of wine enjoyed over six different veins of conversation, plus. We spoke of design, art, child rearing, baby names, espresso beans, old jobs, future jobs, the choosing of partners, the benefits of young marriage, the benefits of late marriage, birth control, male birth control (wtf), wood working, custom trades, Montreal friends (Loco and JJ) and so on. Rob rubbed his hands together in the middle of everything and we all followed suit because it felt necessary, and it felt great. I love Rob Vilar and his musical taste. He has a great radio voice. We all spoke in circles and squares and traded partners of conversation until everyone was tired. Then Leigh started making espresso around midnight and again we launched back into it all. Nils walked me home. Him in his Sorels and offered his married arm to me because my stylish brogues had no grip. On the way home we spoke arm in arm of architecture down Assinaboine, Montreal over the Osborne bridge, moped high hopes and top secret opportunities well into the Village. He is great company.

I only bailed once on Nassau and thankfully he was long in bed with his lovely lady before he saw me splay knees first on uneven turf. I fell, laughed, picked myself up and crawled into my own bed, happy for the friends and neighborhood and community I have. Grateful, beyond happy even. I lay down happy and hopeful for the weekend (and art show that I have my first silk screen prints in) that lies ahead and the dancing that has yet to be danced. Everything looks promising, even though I reek of Parisian cigarette smoke not smoked by me. Second hand Parisians. I will take what I can get.

Glad to have you home Leigh. One down, a hundred friends to go. Everyone always comes back to the nest. Thankfully, there is espresso late, late in the night and night bottles of Malbec and foreign chocolate until they arrive.

With wings flapping in anticipation, Madge.

Babies on a clothesline.

I thought my baby fever had finally broken but apparently it has returned; with a vengeance. I cruised down to Martha Street today to shoot some new screens for the new projects festering in my brain and to eat a sandwich as I printed solo while my other freshly coated screens stood to dry. I listened to Jenny Lewis, sang along loud in the comfort of the empty studio and ripped through a shit tonne of ink. Jeannette came with a real fever and printed doilies on one of the grocery bags that Jill made for us. It looked pretty bonkers. Sadly, I was game to start printing on my grocery tote but the idiot who coated my screen did it too thick leaving me no choice but to pressure wash it and start from scratch. (As annoying as that was, it felt nice to know that someone knew less about coating than I did; not being a complete rookie anymore is awesome).

A few weeks ago while visiting Yosh in the woods, we stopped in at the feeding frenzy that is Steinbach MCC on a Saturday morning after breakfast. I stocked up on a bunch of fabric and other cool knick-knacks as it was "Bag Day" which pretty much means you are handed a paper shopping bag the moment you walk in the door by someone with a thick beard and an even thicker accent who says simply, fill it for five bucks; so you do. You just do it. I was nearly spilling with joy and my bag was nearly spilling with some of the things I found (half duck boots half winter Sorel boots, WTF? Awesome). I very nearly cashed in my bounty at the till when the baby section caught my eye. Mid step, I heaved my body in that direction and Yosh's shoulders heaved in disbelief. More? Can you actually fit more shit into that bag Megan? Are you serious?!? That is what his eyes said as I sprinted across the room with a certain joie de vivre. (Whatever. I have put in hours and hours feigning interest over musical instruments at Mothers and a million other music stores in this city with that man).

Now, it must be said. I have a weakness for the baby section in every store whether it be high or low end. It makes no difference (except maybe the smell, but who really cares anyway). I am my mother's daughter and my sister's sister one hundred percent when it comes to justifying the sometimes outrageous, sometimes not so outrageous price tag attached to cutsie baby clothes. If it is thirty bones for a pair of the softest leggings in the world; you buy them because they are the softest leggings in the world. If you stumble upon a leather skirt for a two month old, you buy it even if no one has a two month old. A two month old worthy of that leather skirt will come along eventually. We all do it. It is totally insane. Now back to Steinbach MCC's Bag Sale. Considering the economic plight we are currently swimming like desperate dogs in, I perused the ailses with enthusiasm. Ideas were flying in my head as my fingers grazed through the racks of teensy underthings, white snappy onesies, cloth diapers, baby long johns, you name it. Just like in any store I enter, I was shopping by feel. My fingers ripping these bite sized articles from their hangers the second I felt good cotton. I was also looking for anything white or plain. I found about ten satisfactory things and one really good piece and made my way to the till. Yosh was waiting patiently as always and I slid my five dollar bill across the counter feeling a bit guilty for the highway robbery I just pulled off.

To bring this back to Martha Street, I put some of my white baby clothes to good use and silk screened the shit out of them with Jill's baby in mind. Forks and knives, mauve doilies and hotplates dappling my now not-so-plain onesies. I am psyched. Below is the first yield of the fruit of my labor. It only took about ten tries to get the right consistency. I think I have found my calling: silk screen and baby clothes. Now I need a baby model and my Nikon and I am set.

Someone have a baby already. Baby Maiya, baby Norah, baby Solomon, baby Maddy? I will happily set one of you up against a Ukrainian doll backdrop. Call me.

Frownzen is missed.

James if you are reading this underneath a tree in China, I miss you. I do not know what to tell you about that mental girl who wanted to throw the rock at your face. Maybe Chinese girls are just tripping. Or maybe she was on the rag. It happens.

This man, in case you were wondering, is the best man. He took off running for China a million months ago for the second time and I haven't heard much since. No news is good news. We are blood and I feel good about that. Fingers are crossed that all is well on your end in the land of opulence, James.

The very best regards, Cousin Meg.

Paris in the Springtime.

One year ago today, I wrote this

2/21/08 Switzerland
Madge is going to lurk outside tents at Fashion Week with Puke Marvin. 1:47pm

in hot anticipation of this, and this, and this, and this














































of Paris Fashion week. I vowed to go back, with money in my pockets in order to do it right. At twenty one, a girl should lurk outside of tents at Fashion Week. I spy, Chloe, Karl Lagerfeld, Luella Bartley tents. Alexander Wang was still under the radar. It was totally mental.

Anyway, I am on home turf this winter and there is not fashion tent or cheese shoppe within a million miles. And it is okay.

Also, I bought Jenny Lewis' Acid Tongue album on vinyl and it is totally blowing my mind in half. Insanity.

Ana Bananicka Bolicka Walicka.

Yesterday I went to the thrift store in hopes of finding a cache of clothes for my planting job that starts at the beginning of May. I came home with an armload of amazing gear. Inspired to dress for outdoor exercise in my new/old finds, I pumped my tires and put on my helmet (which I have worn every single day this winter thankyouverymuch) and hopped on my sparkling beloved and went for a twenty mile ride to the park and back, stopping at Grant Park and McNally to pick up pictures and then to Bar I for coffee on my way home. Solid start to the day. Nothing gets me going more than ripping in traffic, nodding to other riders just as psyched as I am that the streets are finally dry enough to ride on with slicks without facing death every time you weave in between lanes.

There is not much to report today. I have having lunch with my old high school chum, Jon Dueck who is an accountant and has a grown up job. With that in mind, he can still drink me under the table and today is his turn to buy lunch. We always eat at the same table at Stella's. Good man. On that note, I should shower and wear something more appropriate than tights-as-pants. Gross. I walked into Bar Italia today in my cycling outfit and as usual Abi thought I was a dude. EVERY TIME. This morning, the nostalgic station played the song "Chickery Chick Tra La Tra Lee" that my Grandma taught me when I was really little. I think that song was first recorded in 1946. I started singing along while cleaning my bike and all of the sudden I jerked my head towards the record player where it was playing out of and said "Ohhhhhhhhh, Grandma!". Love you Helen, Helen, Helen.

Anna Bananica Bolica Walica can't you see? Chickery Chick is me.
Rebecca Louise, I miss you SO much.

Forget the Chloe's.

This photograph below is a preview of my late twenties/early thirties that are to come. Let it be said. Someone leaned over this night and kindly pointed out I have interesting features and perhaps I have not yet grown into them. Damn straight. Thirty is the new everything. Life keeps looking better and better and if I went outside dressed in an outfit such as hers tomorrow, or in two months, or in five years, it would still be in brilliant taste each time.

Memo to self, collect clothes that age with you.

Come to think of it, I have three noteworthy pieces in my modest lifelong collection that stand out: One, the magnum opus of my reserve is a black crepe overlay dinner coat lined with silk satin that is without a doubt, a show-stopper; Two, also black, my men's alligator portfolio that cost me well over half the rent but was simply so justifiable and so damn beautiful I didn't even consider not getting it. I found it two years ago in Paris with Kit and Rabbi standing guard as I travelled toward it like a bee to the hive and have long vowed to cart this minivan sized carry-all around on my shoulder until death do us part. The third piece is a mink fur stole that my Grandmother bestowed upon me. It sounds like regal heirloom (and it is), but Helen Helen Helen probably stitch ripped the shit out of that thing from the collar of some ratty coat and threw it haphazardly onto the Self Help pile. (On the same note, I remember finding a beer cooler with a cool shoulder strap in a similar give away pile and wore that thing as a purse religiously for about two months straight when I was ten. Even to church. Duracel, represent. My hat collection is also worth mentioning at this point. While I am not one for maintaining a fashion blog or posting daily What-I-Wore recounts, I will happily talk your ear off about clothes that make my heart race. These things, do me in.

Forget the Chloe's, the Mary Kate's, the Aggy's, the Kate's, the Lara's, this is the type of woman that if I would see in the street, I would automatically respect her based on individual style. Cool, collected, classic and baby bit weird. It works and she wears it well. I hope some tripping teen born in the new millennium will say something along those lines in regards to my taste ten years from now.

Yosh and Cindy.

I was thinking of Yosh today.

The last time I saw him the winds picked up so wildly and almost threatened to blow us off the road entirely in the forest near to where he lives. We were driving down a dirt road in B.F. nowhere, listening to the Hip, presumably high as kites, laughing loud. I made him stop the wagon, get out and walk backwards in the wind so I could take pictures of him. He never questions my demands and he never needs an explanation. Never raises an eyebrow at my impulse photography, or my urge to lie flat on my back on his floors (which I always end up on for some reason), and never ever steals a judgmental glance in my direction when I shriek in Steinbach's KFC. This is why we are friends. The wailing coming from inside the car wailed on as the wind took over. Hair everywhere, voices lost in the air currents. I watched him laughing through my camera's lens and I remember feeling so happy to be there. Eventually we got back in the car, back on the excuse for a road, back into his second story music room with the view that looks into a sea of a million towering birch trees and drew and drank and ate and listened the afternoon away. That was the last time I saw Yosh.

We fought the wind and the wind won. And then. This.

Today I was perusing the vast sea that is the Internet and stumbled upon a picture that looks so akin to Yosh it is uncanny. This is not him, but this is what he will look like when he has babies. I cannot wait to see what type of father this man will become. If luck will have it, I will be nestled in that music room on Saturday. My ticket out of the city. I long for the quiet found circling inside those birch trees.

We will see.