Local Party Icon Turns 21

GOSHEN, Indiana (AP) Local party icon, Megan Cloud, turns 21 on Saturday, putting an end to a relentless 11-month publicity campaign leading up to the event. According to sources close to Cloud, she plans to celebrate in Chicago, where local liquor retailers have been in a frenzy since news of her pending arrival broke on Tuesday.

Cloud, the oldest child of Charles A. Cloud and Lori (Schuster) Cloud, was born in Toledo Hospital on September 9, 1985—two weeks past her due date. This disinterest in hurrying would eventually become her trademark.

While she was a good baby, it soon became obvious that Megan would not let her presence in the world go unnoticed.

“Megan was a really cute baby…” said Cloud’s aunt, Linda Strock, “but there was something about her that wasn’t like other babies…I don’t know…she really just scared the hell out of me.”

While growing increasingly verbal at a young age, Cloud fascinated her parents with her ability to carry on conversations and articulate discontent.


As she approached her terrible twos, Cloud, developed an interest in puzzles—particularly one of a United States map. Soon she was naming state capitals and biting cheese slices into the shape of states. Life seemed good for Cloud but there were big changes looming on the horizon.

In August of 1987, Charles Cloud moved his family to the quiet community of Goshen, Indiana. They moved into their new home on Randy Drive just in time to welcome a new addition to the family. Alison Cloud was born on November 16, 1987. While the sisters would eventually become great friends, the younger sisters presence did not sit well with Cloud.

At the age of three, Cloud, entered a local Montessori academy, where she developed a interest in pouring water, a talent which would benefit her in her later years.

Her elementary years found her at Concord Eastside, where she began well known by staff members. More interested in the social aspects of school than academics, Cloud still managed to receive good grades. School counselor and former neighbor, Marilyn Agee, confirmed that Cloud attended the school but declined further comment.

Cloud tried her hand at various activities and sports; basketball, softball, soccer, dance and piano but always returned to her first love…shopping.

As the young Cloud approached her teen-age years friction increased between she and her mother who was also a first-born. They would later become quite close, however, not before enduring years of tumultuous interactions.

Cloud quickly passed through her gawky period, turning into a stunning adolescent, a fact that would send her father’s blood-pressure to an unhealthy level.

While her parents genuinely appreciated her spirited and independent nature, Cloud seemed to expend great amounts of energy pushing the envelope, the result of which was spending the majority of her 8th grade year grounded. As 9th grade approached, the Cloud’s sold their home and enrolled their daughter in a local Christian School amid great protest.

Cloud had a rocky start adjusting to the atmosphere of a Christian school, but soon found herself making friends and enjoying High School. She wrote for the newspaper, ran cross country and was the precipitating force for affecting a number of policy changes regarding discipline at the 50 year old school.

In 2002, Cloud was hired as a barista for a local coffee house… a job that combined her love for coffee and pouring things; she thrived in the highly caffeinated atmosphere. Ed Lugbill, former owner of the Crossing Café which employed Cloud, said “I adore Megan and she really had incredible talent for working with espresso…once we got her away from the customers… it…ah…went very smoothly…very, very smoothly.”

Cloud graduated from high school and spent a year living with her mother in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She returned to Goshen, Indiana where she plans to work full time and go to school.

Cloud is the proud mother of CoCo Chanel, a purse poodle who sources close to the family describe as “extremely spoiled and in need of supervision”.

Reuter’s reports that Cloud has received birthday greetings from around the country including one from President Bush and the CFO of Starbucks. Your greeting can be added below.

Happy Birthday my beautiful Megan…hope you are smiling. I am HONORED that you would want me along on your trip to Chicago. I just hope that I can keep up…

In these uncertain times...

Craig is in Grand Rapids for the night, leaving me alone in the house with a renegade bat and most of a homemade peach pie.

The bat appeared about 2:30 a.m. and eventually found a hiding place, eluding capture. We keep thinking we have figured out their entry point but, apparently…no. So, he is up there somewhere hanging from a rafter conspiring with the perpetually drunk 20-something boys renting the cottage next to us to make sure that I do not sleep tonight.

Hopefully, the bat will not cause me to wake up screaming and alarm the drunken boys who in their stupor may try to rescue me as happened at a campground when I was in college. My sister and I and our two friends went tent camping in Virginia Beach. It rained the entire weekend, we were ALL on our periods and as we crawled into our sleeping bags and turned on the flashlight for our nightly bug check, we noticed a VERY large beetle-like bug on the 'ceiling'.

We quickly developed a battle plan which involved spraying said beetle with aerosol deodorant. I believe we imagined that this creature would simply die from the effects of the deoderant but that didn't happen. As there was no Plan B, we continued saturating it with so much heavy white powder that it eventually fell to the ground and sent us scurrying like—well…bugs, into the night. Enter drunken 20-something boys who heard our screaming, valiantly picked the beetle up with their fingers, tossed it on the ground and stomped the hell out of it.

It would have been fine had the night ended with our sincere thanks. They, however, felt that their sacrifice was worth a trip or two around the bases and when we would not comply, chose to pull their truck up to our tent, turn on the lights, honk and scream profanities. The police escorted them out and gave us a reprieve. The next day we left for Washington DC and the bars at Georgetown; now the only type of camping that I will consider is a hotel room-- with no room service of course.

On Saturday, I made a peach pie from scratch with peaches leftover from a photo shoot. Despite the fact that I am paid to cook and make things look beautiful, this particular pie was the worst looking thing to come out of a mid-western kitchen since basically forever. It didn’t help my self-esteem knowing that I had failed in the preparation of a recipe called “Fool-proof pie crust”. As it turned out, the pie tasted good, and now it is sitting on the stove calling my name at regular intervals. If the pie turns out to be gone tomorrow—as it most likely will be—I will either have to lie about having company or come clean about the fact that it really isn’t the dryer shrinking my pants.

The sky has been so heavy for the past four days; dark and dreary, not a drop of rain…until now…but, just a drop. There is no wind. It is a perfect night for bats. I have already figured out that I will be barricading myself in the bedroom with a stack of old movies, my computer and cell phone, two tennis rackets, a bottle of wine and what’s left of the peach pie. By the time the coffee starts brewing in the morning, the bat will be M.I.A. In these uncertain times, you always need to have a battle plan.

Swim.

Looking back at my life, I realize that I spent most of it standing on the shore looking over the vast blue horizon, wondering what might be on the other side, yet, remaining content to simply get my feet wet. I never jumped in and let the waves carry me away.

I existed—comfortably and contently--but my focus on pursuing the American dream eventually blocked the bigger view and soon I couldn’t see past the realm of my suburban life. For some reason, I stopped contemplating the possibilities or seeking opportunities. I simply followed the program. None of this is to say that I was unhappy in any way—I loved being a wife and mother—staying home and raising my children. But, without even realizing it, I had built a box out of apathy, ignorance, and fear and inch by precious inch, I crammed myself into it. Even worse was the fact that I put my children in there with me.

Sometimes contentment is our own worst enemy. How many minutes did I waste on washing floors that were clean enough? What might I have shown them if I were brave and how much higher would their spirits have been able to soar if I would have un-tethered mine?

Out of the blue five years ago, my spirit that had spent year after year suffocating in a box, rebelled in the form of a deep depression. It was my wake-up call. I shed the fear that was my skin and extricated myself.

I am not here for traveling small. I may travel lightly, quietly or under cover of darkness—but, not small.

When I close my eyes and listen to the waves, my heart beats a little faster. There are times when it seems as though it is calling out to me—sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in a shout. Get your feet wet, jump into the waves, look out over that vast blue horizon and swim girl…just get out there and swim.

How Life Happens, Part Two

YOU CAN'T GO FORWARD WHEN YOU'RE STANDING STILL.

At Craig’s encouragement, I took up golf this year. This is a problem for me because I am a competitive, over-achieving, perfectionist who will try almost anything unless it is something that will result in my looking like an ass.

Well, as you may know, it is impossible to take up golf and simultaneously not look ridiculous. Day after day, I swing, I miss, I drive, I chip, I putt and I swear my way to the green. Ass or not…I love this game.

When I started in Spring, my average score was in the mid-70s – for nine holes. After a few adjustments, I began to hit some pretty shots and lowered my score to consistently shoot in the low sixties or better. I wasn’t good by any means but, finally I didn’t look quite so ridiculous. It was at that point that Craig in his infinite wisdom suggested that I take-- a lesson.

As a plebe to the golf world, I had no idea how painful this simple idea would turn out to be. Although Ray was a patient and encouraging teacher…it soon became clear to me that everything I had been doing was basically detrimental to my golf game…with the exception of my pre-game beer.

So armed with new determination, a Bells Oberon and a haughty new stance, I stood on the tee with my Nike soft-distance golf balls and very high expectations. After three consecutive eights, I quit keeping score; it was a slump that continued for the next four rounds. One night, just as I contemplated turning in my driver, something inside of me clicked. Throwing caution to the wind, I wound my body up like a corkscrew and let loose to hit my most beautiful drive ever. The entire night, I had an out-of-body golf experience—my drives were long and pretty, my three wood was perfect from the fairway and I was two-putting on every green. The highlight was a 78 foot putt for a birdie on the 16th hole and I ended the round with my lowest score ever—a 50.

As I walked to the parking lot, I felt really bad about all of the terrible names that I called Ray under my breath.

Sometimes, in order to make our lives better we have to do something that scares us. Moving forward is as simple as not standing still; sure you might make an ass out of yourself but it’s a small price to pay for the joy of catching your first birdie.

How Life Happens...Part One.

It rarely happens that we are able to plan how our life…or even a day in our life will turn out. Recently, I had a week that turned out to be a microcosm of the ups and downs and uncertainties of life in general. So, welcome to my week…my life…and my ever so humble opinion about…how life happens.

THINGS THAT COME AT US OUT OF THE BLUE.

The entire summer had passed without incident. I was lulled into complacency and just when I stopped tiptoeing around at night, crouching and searching the hallway on my way to the bathroom—there was Lukas standing over the bed with his Airsoft mask and a tennis racket uttering the words I love to hear, “there’s a bat upstairs”. I looked out the bedroom door and watched as the bat flew erratically from one end of the hall to the other. As it made it’s way precariously close to the bedroom, I hid my body under the covers where I stayed until the all clear was given. As a single woman, I have killed my fair share of spiders, mice and assorted insects…but, I just don’t do bats.

I think what we fear most are the unexpected things…the things that hide in the darkness and lurk in the back of our minds. We fear the things we never say out-loud—things like “bats” or “cancer”. When my girls were little my constant prayer was that they would be free of serious illness or injury…I told God that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Sometimes when things that come out of the blue you are able to hide under the covers—but, most of the time, you have no choice but to stand up, find out what is inside of you and face them head on.


WHEN WE MUST FACE THE CONSEQUENCES OF OUR OWN BAD DECISIONS.

Every year, Grand Haven has a Coast Guard Festival that attracts 500,000 people. Washington Street downtown is closed and turned into a giant carnival filled with rides, games and deep-fried confections. My nephew Peter was visiting and had some money left, so Craig and I took him downtown where he would be able to part with it in under 15 minutes. Peter chose to spend four of his dollars on a ride and as we were buying his ticket—I said, give me another one. When I was in high school this ride was called “the Scrambler” and as I walked gingerly and fearlessly toward it, it never entered my pea-sized brain to stop and observe it in action. There was no line for a reason.

Seconds into the ride, I realized this was NOT the Scrambler of my Youth. Peter and I were scrunched down in the seat, unable to open our eyes due to the centrifugal force. I dug my feet into the bottom of the ride and tried in vain to pull the ‘safety’ bar toward me because if for some reason it wasn’t latched tightly we would be splattered on the top of the lemonade stand down the street. I kept yelling, “I hate this…I hate this…I hate this” and all Peter could muster was…”I know!... I know!!”. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that the ride was not my worst decision of the night—that would be the corndog that I barely ingested five minutes before going on the ride. I believe that I am a relatively intelligent woman—but, sometimes that isn’t enough to save me from myself.

Many times in life, we make decisions that don’t turn out so well. In an effort to save face, we often try to place the blame on others—it’s easier than facing up to the fact that you aren’t as smart as you thought you were. My carnival days are over. Mistakes make us wiser… but, only when we take credit for them.

TO BE CONTINUED...

BONDING WITH DOROTHY.

BONDING WITH DOROTHY
09.30.04 (3:01 am)
I wasn't quite sure how it all tied together; housework, an open window, and Dorothy, but I knew somehow that they did, and it filled my soul with a comfortable, peaceful elation, like closing your eyes and turning your face to the sun.

All day long I had felt the urge to click my heels together, close my eyes and repeat over and over "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." I woke up in my bed, with my sheets and old flowered linens. I measured coffee from my glass jar with the little clasp and drank it from my perfectly sized Chi Omega mug that I purchased at William and Mary, on my last trip to Virginia.

I sauntered downstairs opening windows along the way. Sunlight filtered through the trees and made familiar shadows dance across the aging wood of the dining room table, where I sat and drank my coffee, listening to the sounds of Third Street. The scent of flowers and herbs from the perennial garden seemed to float in on the coattails of the sun's rays and a breeze drifted past me like an apparition; there's no place like home, there's no place like home.

The rest of my day was consumed by throwing myself into domestic tasks that I had spent 17 years perfecting; things that once seemed dull and routine and mindless, but not today. Today they were my saving grace and I found a dream come true in a feminist’s nightmare. I had forgotten what it was like to set a goal and accomplish it and while laundry, dishes, and grocery shopping will not set the world on fire, it rekindled something inside of me and that is enough for today.

I considered for a bit what had brought me to this point, I thought about Dorothy and her Ruby Slippers, and how we, like so many others, had walked unexpectedly into a storm and woke to find ourselves in unfamiliar territory. Little Dorothy Gale, from Kansas, who dreamed of far away places but armed only with pigtails, Toto, and a gingham dress, was ill prepared for the realities of such a journey. No guidebook or compass by which to navigate, just a yellow brick road and the will to put one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes it takes a journey of a thousand steps to understand what you should have known from the start. Often we think that we understand but until we encounter a burning broomstick or a swarm of flying monkeys we really have no clue, no clue at all. Dorothy was lucky; with a single bump to the head she found out the meaning of life. She learned that she was brave and formidable, compassionate and determined. She learned that Oz, with all of its drama and glitter, had nothing on a little farmhouse pleasantly situated on the wrong side of the rainbow.

How happy Dorothy must have been to wake up at home surrounded by the things and people that she loved. The sound of resolute mid-west voices, the muted pastels of her faded wall cloth, and the smell of Thursday night pot roast.

I understand that to some this will sound prosaic and I will most certainly be pitied for finding contentment in a pile of neatly folded laundry. But, how can I fault them for thinking this way? They are still living in black and white. They have not yet been over the rainbow and back again. They have not had the benefit of a riveting bump to the head and day after day walk past an open window and fail to see the shadows dance.

IN SEARCH OF MYSTERY DATE

I have finally decided to submit some writing to editors. While I'm going through things I thought that I would post some earlier stuff...since I have had continued writers block. Thank you for indulging me.

In Search of Mystery Date
09.28.04 (8:09 am)

As much as I try to tout my East Toledo tough girl persona; I have come to the conclusion that I am merely a sentimental sap of a woman.

A sap, who upon spying a bent-up, once white Barbie shoe in a sidewalk crack outside of church, took five minutes out of her life and ruined a perfectly lovely pen to dig it up and place it in her purse. The shoe was bent and covered with sand, barely recognizable, yet I had to have it.

Tough girl, indeed.

It’s not that there aren’t traces left of the rough-around-the-edges, no frills, exceedingly sarcastic, Little King’s guzzling, Aerosmith groupie from Morrison R. Waite High School; but, let’s face it, I’m carrying a Barbie shoe in my purse. I don’t know what that means exactly, but, I’m sure that in East Toledo terms it’s worth an ass-kicking.

I realize that it’s really not about an old Barbie shoe. It’s about a seven-year-old girl, finally able to cross the street by herself, weighed down by a shiny, black plastic case busting at the seams with miniature fashion ensembles. It’s an old front porch on Plymouth Street, covered with plastic furniture, more dresses than a Hollywood musical and Barbie and Ken, naked and unashamed, smashed together in some sort of odd mating ritual to the sound of hysterical giggling.

My interest in Barbie’s love life eventually waned as I turned my attention to Nancy Drew. Nancy was my role model; driven, intelligent, wise, and tenacious. She didn’t take no for an answer and she made me ashamed that I had spent so many hours deciding which evening gown Barbie should wear to the grocery store. Sadly, Nancy’s once wholesome look has been updated for today’s more sophisticated reader and when she’s not solving mysteries you will probably find the new voluptuous Nancy Drew serving up wings at Hooters.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many mysteries to solve in my 1960s Middle American neighborhood. Occasionally, the container of macaroni and cheese that I made and hid in the vegetable bin came up missing, but that could usually be traced back to Lisa, who would sleep with the Tupperware dish under her pillow to spite me. Nancy’s neighborhood must have been a whole lot more interesting, because the Mystery of the Missing Mac and Cheese, was a far cry from the Mystery of the Hidden Staircase.

Having read my way through all of Nancy’s mysteries and having none of my own to solve, I turned my attention to something equally as intriguing… boys. That, in and of itself, is a mystery. One day you won’t go near them because their noses are always dripping with snot and you want to make sure that you don’t catch whatever it is that makes them smell so bad, and before you can say puberty, you find yourself playing touch football and trying to get tackled so you can smell them on purpose.

So, anyway, there I was, minding my own business… shamelessly trying to smell boys, when my life was forever changed by the genius of none other than Milton Bradley. While teenaged boys were off conjuring up their fantasies by sneaking Playboy, the girls were in living rooms across America exploring a rich fantasy life of their own… not with a magazine but, a little board game called "Mystery Date".

Luckily for us girls, we didn’t have to hide in the back room of someone’s basement with a flashlight or spend the next 20 years trying to convince people that we actually played it for the "interesting articles". One thing was for sure though, someone had managed to devise a game that got into the psyche of pubescent girls better than Ben and Jerry ever could. Imagine, being twelve and discovering a game that combined mystery, fashion, AND boys.

When you played Mystery Date, it didn’t matter where you came from. It didn’t matter if you were plain and gawky and were the last one in your class to buy a training bra. Mystery Date put you on an equal playing field and for a little bit allowed you to feel as confident as Nancy Drew and as beautiful as Barbie. Just thinking about it, makes me tilt my head sideways and utter…dreamy.

I would love to play it with my girls; to lay on the floor with a Pepsi, a bowl of chips and french onion dip and twist the knob on the white plastic door. To float back and imagine myself as one of the couples at the beach, bowling or looking into each other’s eyes on prom night.

After thirty years, my strategy would be a little different. I would skip the fair-haired boy in the tux because at our ten year reunion he will be the one who has gained 70 pounds, is dressed like a lounge singer, and still buys Little Kings by the case. The nerd, however, is running Microsoft and has a credit limit that could buy you all of the clothes and accessories on the cards and then some.

I think, when all is said and done, I would try to find the boy who could make me laugh; the smart, confident, irreverent one who liked to break a rule now and then. The boy who thought that I was as smart as Nancy Drew and as pretty as Barbie… no matter when I got my training bra.

He was probably one of the nice boys standing somewhere in the middle and I never gave him notice because my mind was so set on getting the ‘prince’ and avoiding the toad. Maybe we’d be better off to stick with the basics. To find a boy who smells good and see how it goes from there. In the mystery of attraction it seems like that is as good a place to start as any.