Megan Stielstra's Blog

I smell everything. I am The Wolverine—when you come up behind me I KNOW YOU ARE THERE. I CAN SMELL YOU. YOU WEAR TOO MUCH COLOGNE. OR THE LAVENDER-CITRUS BODY WASH THAT YOUR AUNT GOT YOU ‘CAUE SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO GET YOU, I CAN SMELL THAT, TOO, AND IT’S AWFUL. IT’S STICKING A LEMON RIGHT UP MY NOSE AND SQUEEZING SO THE JUICE BURNS LIKE ACID AND I SORT OF WANT TO DIE, PEOPLE.

Other smells that since becoming pregnant have made me want to die are (in order of disgusting-ness):

Cigarettes.
I’m an Each to Their Own kinda girl. If you want to smoke, fine, have at it, it’s your body blah blah blah and I don't have to live with you and I, for the most part, avoid places where smoking's legal but people, I have super-human senses right now and public places are, well, PUBLIC, so when you smoke on the sidewalk I can taste it in my pores as though you’re ashing in my mouth and when you’ve just had a cigarette and you come talk to me, you f’ing reek and I want to puke all over you.

Gas
Christopher has to fill up the car. I can’t even deal.

Garlic
We were out for brunch at one of my favorite breakfast spots, and as we passed the kitchen I got a faceful of the garlic and had to rush to the bathroom. When I came out of the stall after a very long, loud visit, there was a girl at the mirror putting on lipgloss and she gave me THE LOOK. Not a look like Pity-the-Pregnant Lady but either A. she thought I had bulimia or B. that I couldn’t hold my liquor, both of which are untrue and offend me deeply. I am NOT Bulemic! And I most CERTAINLY can hold my liquor (although, obviously, I’m currently out of practice). I wanted to give some high and mighty speech about how one should not judge others in a ladies restrooms, especially when one is dressed as 1985 as this girl was, but I kept it to myself. Because maybe she was looking at me ‘cause she liked my shirt and I took it the wrong way ‘cause I have hormones dripping out my ears.

Coffee
This one saddens me because I really love coffee—smell, taste, all of it. I also love the ritual, that morning cup, cue the Folgers commercial where the woman curls up on the window seat with her mug and inhales deeply, looking out into the misty morning and smiling contentedly. That used to be me, but now the smell—the lovely, wonderful smell of lovely, wonderful coffee—makes me want to climb the walls. So poor Christopher has to go out the coffeeshop in the morning. Because we just can’t make it in the house. If you are pitying him as you read this (which you should—I’m not easy to deal with in the morning NOT pregnant WITH coffee) then you should give him an empathetic smile and a Starbucks gift card the next time you see him. You could give me a Starbucks gift card, too, ‘cause the doctor says this smell-thing should be going away soon, at which time I’m going to start BATHING in coffee.

But probably decaf. This kid doesn’t need to partake of my usual caffeine intake.

Posted by Megan at 8:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

ME: Nine months is too long.
CHRISTOPHER: I don’t think you get to decide that.
ME: Six months. Six is good. I can do six no problem.
CHRISTOPHER: You should talk to an elephant.
ME:
CHRISTOPHER: Elephants carry their young for like twenty months!
ME:
ME:
ME:
CHRISTOPHER: Did I say something wrong?
ME: Probably anything that compares me to an elephant is wrong.
CHRISTOPHER: Right. RIGHT!

Posted by Megan at 6:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I was six weeks pregnant, shortly after we found out and looong before we told anyone—we didn’t even tell our families 'til a couple of weeks ago!—we were at Christopher’s dad’s surprise birthday party and this woman I’d never seen before came rushing up to me and said, very loudly and excited-ly, “MEGAN! HOW’S YOUR BABY!” and I just about died. Who WAS this woman? How did she KNOW? Was I showing ALREADY? I wasn’t even nauseous yet, what was the tell-tale sign? Or maybe she had some sort of superpower, like X-Ray vision, and could see the tiny kid in there swimming around. I looked at Christopher's dad, panicked he’d just found out he was going to be a grandfather from some random woman at a party, which isn’t cool AT ALL. It’s like breaking up with someone via text message. Or hearing that you’re fired over the photocopy machine. Or dumping your wife at a press conference (hi, Guiliani! How’s the family values?).

Turns out, this woman has a little Yorkie that she loves OH SO MUCH, and also she works with Christopher’s stepmom who has many photos of us and our dog on her desk. So the baby being referred to was not my top-secret human baby, but, rather, my dog, who, for the record, does not have pink toenails and ribbons on the top of his head like this woman’s Yorkie (I saw pictures, oh yes I did!) but is still our baby just the same because we are Those People, the ones who buy insanely expensive toys for their pet, and let him sleep under the covers, and explain things to him in complete English sentences (during which he cocks his head to the side and wags his tail) like, “Mojo, it was a bug that bit you on the neck. NOT the air. So you don’t have to be scared of the air, only of bugs, which will reduce the time you spend in fear by a serious percentage,” or “Mojo, we’re going out of town and Uncle Jeff is going to stay with you. Please be responsible and DO NOT eat the chips he gives you under the table,” or “Mojo, very soon a loud, wrinkled alien will be moving into the house and you’ll have to be patient while mommy and daddy figure out WHAT THE HELL THEY'RE DOING.”

Which should only take about eighteen years, right?

Posted by Megan at 6:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The comment section is still acting funky. We're working on it. Actually, that's a lie. We're working on other things right now, like Christopher is building nine websites and I am eating food. Real food. Food that is not plain rice or white bread and I will tell you what: it's AWESOME. Food. IS AWESOME. So I'm going to eat it, and figuring out the comment section will only distract me from that task so in the meantime, if you need me, you can email megan@meganstielstra.com and maybe I'll write you back.

Unless there is mac'n'cheese in the vicinity in which case you're shit out of luck.

Posted by Megan at 5:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

roots from a cutting!

a tree from a lava rock!

a human being from scratch!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I learned I was having a kid via a ClearBlue test administered in the restroom at the Uncommon Ground, immediately followed (after a quick trip to Walgreens) by three more tests done in rapid succession (all positive: the plus signs were clearly plus signs and not Maybe Minus Signs With Blurry Edges). I am nothing if not thorough.

Christopher, upon learning he was having a kid, threw his clenched fists in the air homerun-style and yelled, “I AM CAPTAIN OF THE SWIM TEAM!”

We then made a deal to keep this news to ourselves until we made it through the first trimester, which was a challenge because this is the kind of information you want to scream from rooftops. Hire out a skywriter, or one of those annoying airplanes that drags advertisements around at the North Avenue Beach. The day after we found out, the GE guy came over to fix the dishwasher and as he looked through his tools I’m standing there like, “HOW CAN YOU FIX THE DISHWASHER AT A TIME LIKE THIS!?" And my poor summer school class!! All these intelligent, hard-working students sitting there day after day making incredibly astute observations about the short story form and in my brain I’m going, “THERE’S A F’ING HUMAN BEING IN MY STOMACH, PEOPLE!” And of course, I haven’t been drinking, and after a few weeks of ordering only Pellegrino I started to get the single raised eyebrow from people and even a couple tentative, “Are you … ?”’s, to which I was like, “Am I … ? Oh NO! I have a long day tomorrow I have an early morning tomorrow I had a long night last night I’m just tired,” and that’ll only evade the masses for so long.

Especially my masses. Who enjoy a cocktail or two or five.

But during my second ultrasound, the doctor told me the kid had two legs. TWO LEGS. TWO. And also TWO ARMS! AND LUNGS, IT HAS LUNGS! AND THAT LITTLE FLICKER, THAT’S A HEART! “You see that?” she said, pointing to the gray fuzz on the screen. I had no idea what I was looking at but since she had a med school degree and also a camera stuck up in my business, who was I to argue? so I nodded, and she said, “It’s sucking its thumb!” and I was like, “IT HAS THUMBS?” and she laughed ‘cause she probably hears silly girls like me say such things twenty times a day but, I swear to God, I could’ve floated right off that table, paper robe at all, and hit my head on the ceiling I was so goddamn happy.

Here are the stats:

The new Jobson has been around for four months and is currently the size of an avocado according to babycenter.com (a very informative website which keeps me up-to-date on what’s up with my kid and when will hormones make me nuts and do I really need a bouncy swing to hang from the doorframe and when should I buy new bras). Prior to a avocado, my kid’s been a jumbo shrimp, a kumquat, a grape, a kidney bean, a raspberry, a chickpea, a lentil and a sesame seed. This, while informative, is a fairly disturbing way to measure fetal growth. For example, when Christopher came home from the grocery store with grapes I couldn’t, like, EAT them! I had to sit and STARE at them! This grape—this little squishy, skin-thing—was my KID!

Not that I really wanted to eat the grapes. I haven’t wanted much of anything besides Saltine crackers, white rice and pre-natal vitamins, which is better than my usual diet of wine, sushi and soft French cheese, none of which I’m allowed to eat.

Dammit.

Babycenter.com told me it’s normal to eat only bland food in the first trimester. Babycenter told me lots of things, actually, and because of this I developed a scorching case of Medical Student’s Disease. Like, week six I read about how I’d be getting really emotional soon, and two hours later I’m watching that Sandra Bullock movie where she’s a witch and her sister is possessed by her asshole ex-boyfriend and there’s that neat part where Nicole Kidman sings the Joni Mitchell song in the car but for the most part it’s pretty mediocre and here’s the thing: I CRIED ALL THE WAY THROUGH. I cried ‘cause Sandra Bullock was lonely and ‘cause the beetle chirped for her dead husband and her daughters couldn’t eat cake for dinner and at the end they jumped off the roof in red and white striped socks and the whole time I was all, “WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME?” but now I just don’t care, whatever, I cried last week during Hell’s Kitchen and I’m not afraid to admit it although I do think that guy is really nasty and someone should spill hot soup on him which is not at all maternal of me and maybe I should work on that.

Seriously, though. We’re really happy. We’re bouncing off the walls.

(not literally, of course. That would be dangerous for the kid)

Posted by Megan at 5:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So these girls I know run this production company and they called me up and said, "Megan, we want to lock you up in here for 24 hours with lots of dancers, all of whom are extremely talented and also have very nice bodies and rehearse in very little clothes," and I said, "Why'd you bitches wait 'til I was married to make such an offer?" and they said, "No, no, we want you to make art!" and I said, "Remember how I don't dance? Except for that one time with the tequila and the DJ Spooky?" and they said, "No, no, we want you to tell a story!" and I said," You want me to tell a story with a bunch of dancers?" and they said, "Yes, and also some painters and videographers and at the end there'll be a big audience to see what everyone came up with 'cause we're all about the collaborative process," and I said, "I like the collaborative process," and they said, "So will you do it?" and I said, "Will there be good people and good vibes and also wine?" and they said, "D'uh," and I said, "Bitchin'," and we're good to go. The only thing that's missing is all of you.

Here's the info:

24

Sunday, August 26th; 7:00pm at River Front Work Lofts, 500 W. Cermak Ave.
(enter on North side of building)

featuring artists/performances by:
Matthew Hollis, choreographer (Chicago)
Paul Elliot, videographer (Chicago)
+
Christopher Nelson, choreographer (San Francisco)
Glen Jennings, videographer (Chicago)
+
David Davis, space designer (New York)
Megan Stielstra, story (Chicago)
+
Dancers include: Charlie Cutler, Ken Gasch, Brian Robert Hinkle, Devin Prietauer, Jessica Deahr, Laura Maceika, Emily Coughlin
2-D work by: Matt Hilker & Erik Romstad

Tickets: $15 at the door; $13 reserved at 773.275.5314

Visit www.bfpchicago.com for more information, updates and artist bios.

24 is a day long choreographic and movement intensive that culminates in a one-time public performance on that same day. Designed to consider the ways that limited time, unfamiliar space and spontaneous collaborations resonate in this performance, dancer cohorts will partner with video artists -- exploring how working across disciplines can influence the portrayal of their collective work. Rehearsal (beginning on-site Saturday, August 25th at 8:00pm) is also open to the public.

Barefoot Productions was founded by three Columbia College Chicago alumni in order to promote dialogue about the creative process. Barefoot artists work collaboratively, across disciplines. The project mission of 24 is to enable and support 24 consecutive hours of uninhibited and cooperative development of a formal, rehearsed piece of work.

Posted by Megan at 1:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Posted by Megan at 5:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

So this all started with me having a girl-crush on Regina Spektor for all sorts of reasons but right now because of this song:

And, as is the case with youtube, I linked to other videos of her Bonnaroo show until I eventually came to this beautiful cover she did of a John Lennon tune (the Amnesty International link she mentions is Here) which got me thinking about covers in general and while I’d like to make an observation (or two or five), historically I’ve found conversations about music to be nearly as dangerous as conversations about politics. This could be because I dated a great deal of musicians in the past, many of whom felt a “conversation about music” meant either saying “(insert band name here) SUCKS,” or “(insert band name here) ROCKS,” and that’s the end of that, and if you try to insert a “but I really like that one song where they … “ you’d get THE LOOK. Like when they saw the Jagged Little Pill album on your CD shelf (this was pre-mp3’s, kids. We all bought CD shelves at IKEA and on the third date, when you finally brought him home to your apartment, he’d go right to that shelf. To size you up. So you had to be sure to display the Modest Mouse and Dismemberment Plan CD’s in the front and shove Tori and Alanis to the back. ‘Cause, of course, you couldn’t be THAT girl).

Especially tricky territory is the cover song. Apparently, there are certain song that aren’t allowed to be covered, or certain bands that aren’t allowed to cover other bands cause they’re not cool enough or punk enough or RRRRROCK enough or whatever and you know what? I’m thirty-two years old, people. Can we all just shut up for five seconds and enjoy life? Have a cocktail, emoboy! It’s a beautiful DAY! And plus, I LOVE covers. I love originals and updates and looking at the idea in a new way, THEREFORE: What follows is my favorite all time covers list.

NOTE: please don’t come after me in the comments with your “(insert band name here) SUCKS,” or your “You got that wrong, so-and-so didn’t write it, SO AND SO WROTE IT LIKE D’UH,” because then I will tell you you are sucky and maybe you should bite me and also JAGGED LITTLE PILL WAS A REALLY GOOD ALBUM.

1. RESPECT by Otis Redding, cover by Aretha Franklin
2. HEARTBEATS by The Knife, cover by Jose Gonzalez
3. I’M SO EXCITED by The Pointer Sisters, cover by Le Tigre
4. HURT by NIN, cover by Johnny Cash
5. TALIKIN’ CANDYBAR BLUES by Peter, Paul and Mary, cover by my dad
6. WHEN YOU WERE MINE by Prince, cover by Cyndi Lauper, cover by Ani Di Franco with Maceo Parker
7. NOTHING COMPARES 2 U by Prince, cover by Sinead O’Conner
8. HALLELUJAH by Leonard Cohen, cover by Jeff Buckley, cover by Rufus Wainwright
9. TAINTED LOVE by Gloria Jones, cover by Soft Cell
10. COME TOGETHER by The Beatles, cover by Aerosmith
11. CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU by Roberta Flack, cover by Lauryn Hill
12. WHITE RABBIT by Jefferson Airplane, cover by Sleater-Kinney
13. PIECE OF MY HEART by Janis Joplin (yes, yes I know she didn’t write it or even perform it first but that song belongs to her, this can’t be argued), cover by Melissa Etheridge live at the 2005 Grammy’s when she was bald from beating cancer and it was totally badass.
14. KICK OUT THE JAMS by mc5, cover by Rage Against the Machine
15. I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF by Dusty Springfield, cover by The White Stripes
16. KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVEN’S DOOR by Bob Dylan, cover by Guns’n’Roses (back when Axl Rose was cool)
17. ME AND BOBBY McGEE by Roger Miller, cover by Janis
18. STAND BY ME by Ben E. King, cover by the Fugees
19. DEAR PRUDENCE by The Beatles, cover by Siouxsie and the Banshees
20. DON’T SPEAK by No Doubt, cover by Leela James
21. LOVE WILL TEAR US APART by Joy Division, cover by Nouvelle Vague AND The Frames AND Calexico AND Jose Gonzalez
22. COMFORTABLE NUMB by Pink Floyd, cover by Scissor Sisters
23. I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU by Dolly Parton, cover by Whitney Houston (pre-crazy)
24. FAITH by George Michael, cover by The Boy Least Likley to (listen for the banjo and the handclaps)
25. I PUT A SPELL ON YOU by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, cover by Nina f'ing Simone

Posted by Megan at 11:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Yesterday I turned thirty-two, and since eight of the ten people who regularly read this blog are in their early twenties and are currently thinking THAT’S OLD (because when I was in my early twenties I thought thirty-two was old. But I also thought Cyndi Lauper was a philosopher and the mainstream media was always true, so show’s how much I knew, right?) I will tell you this: thirty-one has been the best year of my life. And before that, it was thirty. And before that, twenty-nine. And then twenty-eight and then twenty-seven and you can see where I’m going here, right? So I’m pretty goddamn excited about thirty-two because the pattern indicates it’s all uphill from here, and I’m already standing on a mountain, people.

We spent the day in Clarkston, Michigan, at our friends Jeremy and Kristen’s wedding which was spectacular, because they are spectacular, and you’ve got to love seeing your friends all happy and beautiful and weepy-in-a-good-way and furthermore, Christopher officiated their ceremony.

Which means I went home that night with the priest. Can anyone say SCORE?

A year ago, our friend Lott officiated our ceremony, and it was truly amazing to have a friend front and center at such an important moment. We trust him. And he’s serious and funny at the same time, and if I flubbed my lines he’d make sure I didn’t look silly, and if I cried really hard he’d give me a Kleenx.

But most importantly, Christopher and I really look up to his marriage. He and his husband Ryan are sort of role models for us, and it was important to me to have someone marry us who understood how we value marriage.

Yesterday was Lott and Ryan’s anniversary.

And now it’s Jeremy and Kristen’s, too.

Point being: August 11th is a pretty kick-ass day, if you need to get married or be born or change the world or whatever. It’s a lucky day. Mark it on your calendar and do something great next year.

Posted by Megan at 8:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

A year ago this past weekend, Christopher and I got married on the beach. The weather was perfect. There were wonderful people. There was Maker’s Mark in bulk because apparently, while everyone was getting dolled up before the ceremony, Jeff—my man of honor—walked into the kitchen where the caterers were setting up and yelled, “MY GOD THERE’S ONLY A HALF BOTTLE OF BOURBON LEFT!” (apparently he and some folks had taken all of it skinny-dipping the night before). No matter that there were three cases of champagne and nearly an entire vineyard ready to pour—there was no way we were going to get through the next four hours without the f’ing Maker’s Mark people! And so the caterers went out for more, crisis averted, and later that evening he walked me across the beach to my tall, dashing, grinning Almost-husband and as the people we love looked on, our friend Lott (freshly ordained at http://www.spiritualhumanism.org), married us as the sun went down.

It was pretty goddamn perfect.

It still is.

I’m not saying that every day is me in a pretty dress and Christopher in his fancy suit, both of us barefoot in the sand—but isn’t that the point? That I can sit here in sweatpants watching my husband cook mac’n’cheese and think, “I am so crazy about this guy, sometimes I can’t even breathe.” I think that when he comes home after stupid hours at work, talking in HTML and Flash and these languages I can’t speak. I think that eating the chef’s tasting menu at Copper Blue, watching him drink wine and joke with the waiter. I think that at the dog beach, as he tries to trick Mojo into the lake, or when he plays Zelda, or when he puts telephone books on the bar stool and stands on it to reach the smoke alarm (which I’ve set off cooking sausage too hot), or when he runs out to get me Vernors ‘cause my throat hurts, or when he naps on the couch, or watches me tell stories, or watches the acrobats at Cirque Shanghai, or whacks the piñata at my birthday party or puts in earplugs before bed so the sirens on Lawrence won’t wake him up, or those moments when he’s walking towards me from a distance and, in the split second before I recognize he’s mine, I think, “Shit, look at THAT guy!” and when he sits at the computer, working working working for this life we lead, him and me and all our plans, everything that will happen in our second year, and our third, our tenth and on—all of it is the same kind of perfection as that day on the beach last year.

Posted by Megan at 9:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

New story up at INTHEFRAY!

Posted by Megan at 9:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)