Dangers in the Workplace

The other day I was perched at my desk deeply engrossed in a search engine strategy webinar, when out of the corner of my eye I see my co-worker Val coming towards my desk.

Since Val only visits my desk when she has something cute to show me, like a picture of a chipmunk or a newspaper article about kittens, I was not prepared for the dramatic events that were about to unfold.

I swivelled around in my chair, greeting Val with a big smile, only to see that she was pointing at the floor under my chair.

Oh, I thought to myself, she's noticed my new shoes. They were, after all, the adorable dark purple kitten-heel slides that Steve Madden had mailed to me the day before.

Looking down so that I could join in on the admiration and adoration of the newest addition to my shoe family, I was startled to discover that Val was actually pointing at the world’s largest spider loitering under my chair.

Weighing in at a size similar to that of an adult ferret, it was clear to me that this was no ordinary spider. This was one of those ferret-spider hybrids genetically engineered by the government to increase the cost of fuel.

I lunged out of my chair avoiding the 3 foot radius around its base. Maintaining a safe distance, I managed to edge my thick spiral notebook off of my desk while formulating a plan.

“Stand back!” I shouted gallantly as I threw my arm in front of Val to shield her from the unpleasantness that was about to ensue.

Val shrunk against the wall behind her, frozen in a timid pose of sheer terror.

Clutching the spiral notebook with both hands, I lifted it high over my head and swung down it on top of the spider with such a momentous force that fatal arachnid injuries had surely resulted.

I carefully peeled the notebook off the floor preparing to see carnage. But instead of guts, I was faced with a live spider - and he was madder than ever.

I shrieked and reeled backward. Val cried out and started to claw at the wall in an apparent attempt to scale it.

Val and I looked at each other helplessly. Then it hit me. (An idea hit me, the spider didn’t hit me).

“You stay here and watch where it goes! I’ll be back”.

I sprinted to the staff washroom to rummage through the toiletry basket. Arriving back at my desk, Val let me know that the spider hadn’t moved. I held up a large can of hairspray and smiled.

“Hairspray?” Val asked doubtfully.

“Yes.” I replied. “I read this in a magazine once. The hairspray makes it stick to itself." I crouched back under the desk and started spraying with the fury of an 80’s hairstylist.

I could hear Val coughing as a haze of hairspray enveloped us. “Is it dead?” she shouted. I popped my head out from under the desk.

“Um… no... but it has great hair?”

It was at that point that a male coworker, who wishes to remain anonymous, finally came around the corner to see what the commotion was.

Val and I stood sheepishly in the hairspray cloud and pointed at the sticky spider wobbling drunkenly around under the desk. The male coworker, who wishes to remain anonymous, sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. He plucked a tissue from my Kleenex box and crawled under the desk, returning moments later with the spider corpse in the tissue. He shook his head again and dropped the tissue in my garbage.

“Darren!” I exclaimed.

I mean...

“Male coworker, who wishes to remain anonymous!” I exclaimed. “It’s going to come back to life and attack me if you leave it in there!”

“No. It won’t.” He rolled his eyes and walked away.

"You can't be sure unless you flush it..." I pleaded. But he was already gone.

Now, I’m no expert on spider bites… and it could have been the two cans of Tab I shot-gunned after lunch… but I felt a little off after that.

I certainly hope, for the sake of my co-workers, that I don't turn into Spiderman.

His outfit is terrible.

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Thanks for enjoying these deep thoughts with Meghan.

Crazy in love

I’d like to tell you the story of how I met my life partner.

Ok… it’s actually a pair of shoes, but who’s counting?

During a trip to Vegas with my friend Christine, I spotted my glamorous golden foot-goddesses through the window of the Steve Madden store in Planet Hollywood. The good news was that at 2 am the bar inside the mall was still open, enabling me to sample many of the 24 margarita flavor combinations offered… but the bad news was that all the retail stores were closed. This meant I was left to press my face up against the display window while I vowed to both a) return the moment the store opened the next day and b) start the paperwork to petition the State of Nevada to require that all stores, especially those of the footwear vending variety, remain open 24 hours a day.

The next morning I perched next to Christine’s bed and, in an attempt to gently ease her out of her slumber, I quietly chanted “wake up, it’s Vegas outside”.

When that didn’t work I used the fire extinguisher.

On our way back to Planet Hollywood I recall making pleasant conversation with the cab driver about all the things I could wear with the shoes I was about to buy. I'm not entirely sure he spoke english, but he seemed genuinely happy for me. I can't say the same for Christine, who was more interested in angrily trying to brush the fire extinguisher powder out of her hair than listening to me.

Once inside the Steve Madden store, I made a bee-line for my golden beauties and they were even more breathtaking than I had remembered. A salesperson walked by apparently oblivious to the fact that I was clutching a display shoe and salivating, so I politely got her attention by using a wrestling technique known as “the clothesline”. Fearing that I was also well versed in the figure-four leg lock, she scurried away to find the size 6½ that I had requested. She returned from the back room with an ice pack on her face and with the news that they only had the display shoe left and that it was a 5½.

I began to hyperventilate.

I’m not sure why, but in the movies when people hyperventilate someone hands them a paper bag to breathe into. I didn’t have a paper bag handy, so I made a grab for the only other available option.

Christine’s purse.

Apparently she was still upset about the fire extinguisher incident because she jerked her purse away from me, whipped out a tube of lip gloss and brandished it at my neck as though it was some sort of make-shift prison shiv. Clearly I was alone here, so I told myself to pull it together. Maybe the 5½’s would fit?

I squished and scrunched my feet until they wedged themselves into the peep-toed, sling-backed wonders I had been dreaming about all my life... (or at least since 2 am).

I stood up and started hobbling across the store with my head held high, as though maintaining a confident demeanour would convince passers by that these shoes were made for me.

“They’re too small” Christine said dryly.

“I don’t know, they seem alright to me” I replied through clenched teeth.

“Look at your toes” she said pointing. I looked down to see my poor toes turning purple and fighting each other to escape out the peep-toe. If you listened carefully enough I think you could actually hear them screaming.

“Fine” I muttered as I kicked the shoes off. Silently cursing my parents for choosing not to bind my feet during infancy, we left the store empty handed.

Then it hit me.

Maybe if I quit my job and dedicated 12 hours a day to googling gold shoes, I would be able to find them online!

Sure enough I found them right away on the Steve Madden website. A signature was required upon delivery, and since I had found the shoes before I hastily tendered my resignation, I had them sent to the admin office I was working in at the time.

When the package arrived my coworkers all gathered around as I tore through the shipping paper. I lifted the lid and it was as if the heavens were shining down into the box. The room was filled with the sound of a thousand cherubs singing. Butterflies fluttered out of the box with rainbow confetti unfolding from their wings. I think a unicorn even galloped by and shot sparkles out of its horn.

Sigh. It was magical.

Thanks for enjoying these deep thoughts with Meghan

Overcoming Tanorexia: An adventure in self-tanning.

Hello. I am Meghan and I am Tanorexic.

I have been consistently going to fake n’ bake since I was 17.

I know what many of you are thinking… isn’t she only 18 now? Well... I'm no mathematician, but I'll support you in that belief.

Anyway, whether it's been 6 months or 11 years, it's time to quit tanning. So let's talk about my efforts to actively transition away from my UV infused lifestyle.

Step one. Find a self-tanner.

Who knew that in 1971 when someone decided to spray-paint a crate full of midgets on the set of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, they were actually foreshadowing the future of faux tans?

Which leads to my first issue.

Turning orange.

I have tried to go the self-tanner route many a time and I always seem to end up looking like I’ve been lounging around in a kiddie pool full of Tang all day. But that’s not all. Not only does it look like a bag of baby carrots has thrown up on me, but most self-tanners smell bad. Like copper.

Mmmm… copper.

I definitely want to get the scent-sensation that I’ve rubbed a handful of pennies all over myself. Gross. And not only do you start smelling like a copper wire thief at the scrap metal exchange, you may also experience...

Hives.

Now don't get me wrong. I like attention as much as the next girl. But I'd suggest a tube top rather than a skin inflammation if you're looking to turn heads.

Moving right along...

So, I seem to have found a self-tanner that does not cause me to turn completely orange, doesn't smell like copper and that doesn't give me hives. This isn't a public service announcement, so I'm not going to name brands here.

Unless they want to pay me.

The only down side so far is that it did turn the palms of my hands orange. Fortunately, I was able to lessen attention to this by omitting jazz-hands from my usual rotation of gestures. I'm only making note of this for the benefit of people who mentioned that I have been noticeably "less jazzy" this week.

Step two. Notify your tanning salon that you won't be back.

This is how I pictured it in my head:

I walk through the door and the girl who works there, who of course knows me by name, exclaims: "Meghan! How long would you like to tan today?"

Meghan: "um, I'm not tanning today. I want to quit."

I watch as her prematurely aged, abnormally brown, leather-like hands freeze over the drawer of protective eye wear as she says: "What? Noooooooo... You can't do this..."

She then bursts into tears. I look into her UV damaged eyes and say: "I know. This is hard for me too". And walk away. Never to return.

This is what really happened:

I walk through the door and the girl that works there says: "Meghan, how long would you like to tan for today?"

Meghan: "um, I'm not tanning today. I want to quit."

Salon employee: "Ok, then. Don't be a stranger."

I then notice how tanned her arms look and wonder if I should just keep tanning here... and maybe even step it up...

Maybe my arms could be that tanned if I really tried...

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Today I begin a journey. A journey in the land of Blog.

You're asking yourself why. Or maybe you're asking yourself why I assume you're even reading this. Both questions are valid.

Either way, here are some possible answers:

a) Web 2.0. Get on the bus or get run over by the bus.

b) I'm bored and don't have any new outfits to try on.

c) Blogging will sharpen my mind. The power of my thoughts will one day parallel my lightning fast ninja reflexes.

d) all of the above.

Answer? In high school it was said that "when in doubt, always pick C". I seem to recall that it was also of popular opinion that rubbing chapstick over the bar code of your scantron would cause the grading machine to automatically assign a perfect score to your test.

Let's just say that I never got 100% on that math exam, but the fact that my test papers were returned to me smelling faintly of a Dr.Pepper lip smacker was comforting all the same.

But I digress. The answer is D.

Thanks for enjoying these deep thoughts with Meghan.