Transitions

I'm supposed to give my two-week's notice to my supervisor today. I'm scared as shit. My supervisor is gonna hate me, and so will anyone else who has to pick up after me. I am SOOOO ready to be done with this job, but I'm also desperate for time to pass slowly enough to let me tie up some loose ends. Once again, being a grown-up sucks. I'd do seventh grade over again a hundred times to not have to deal with adult responsibilities. And I was tortured DAILY in the seventh grade, so....

My tat!

I know you have all seen it already, but I'm giddy, so...

Meg, who feels like a badass with her super-girly swallow and cherry blossoms

It's finally here!

Ack! Forgot to finish my last post. Oh, well--I'll get to it eventually. But anyway, WOO HOO! Tonight is the last night I am left with a plain right shoulder blade. After tomorrow, it will be fancy. Or at least decorated with a bird and some flowers. PERMANENTLY!

Surely 80-year-old me will be a rockin'-enough bitch who can appreciate the crap I did in my (relative) youth. But if not, fuck the old biddy. Give her a Dulcolax, and everything will be just fine.


Meg, who really hopes that her cute little swallow doesn't become an amorphous blob in her later years

Saleswhores and Plexus Slim: Banes of my existence

Warning: This post is actually a twofer. For the low, low price of your time, dignity, and brain cells, you will receive two separate but somewhat related rants; therefore, the chance of me drifting off into tangentiality (word?) is markedly higher than usual. Which means that, if you enjoy reading garbage, you’re in for a special treat.

Warning, Part Deux: This post might be jusssssssst a teensy bit offensive. I’m not referring to the language, cuz duh. If you can’t stand the occasional cocksucker, you should probably get out of here and go subscribe to whatever the Mommy Blog du Jour happens to be. With posts like Tips to Tickle Your Man’s Fancy, Hemorrhoids: An Owner’s Manual, and Signs That Your Six-Week-Old Is a F*#%ing Genius, I’m sure you’ll find a dearth of useful (and fun!) information (and links to PRINTABLE COUPONS!!!!!!!!!!). No, what I mean is that, if I had, oh, I don’t know, more than 1.25 readers, there’s a decent chance that at least one might feel that sting of recognition in my words and think that I’m a bitch. So, to any potential future readers—you’re right. I am a bitch. Why are you even here?

So now that that’s over with……..the meat. Mmmmmmm. Appetizing.

I’m no Facebook junkie, but I do frequent the site ummmmmmm…frequently. It’s not that I think that anyone is interested in what I’m doing or how I am feeling, but generally because I’m bored. And nosy. And ever-so-slightly an exhibitionist (in a rather asexual way. Sad for you.), hence the title of this blog. Though I do Frequently Frequent Facebook while Frying Five French Frogs with Frannie Flagg ( I know, okay!), I’m pretty bad at it. How can one be bad at Facebook, you ask? (That was your cue…) Well, I’ll tell ya. First, I never ever NEVER send out friend requests—I find it sort of narcissistic to assume that someone might have any interest in my personal life. I don’t want to subject Person A to having to decide between either accepting an unwelcome request or appearing rude. Second, I approve every friend request submitted by anyone other than creepy middle-aged strangers who live in the area and list Stalking random women among their interests. This has resulted in the following composition of my Friend List: 90% people who never talked to me in high school/people who only talked to me to ask me to do their assignments/people whose only thoughts about me were that I am too pale and that I have a nice ass, but too bad about my face/people who shoved me into lockers but want me to make their baby’s custom three-tier first birthday cake with cupcakes and smash cake for 25 bucks; 10% people I actually know in real life and talk to at least occasionally, including my mother (yays! :/ ).

My News Feed is always soooo entertaining. You have your vague whiners—“Why does this always happen to me?”; your oversharers—“Having vaginal rejuvenation surgery today. Plz pray!”; your 48-year-old party girls—“Had such a gr8 time with my GURRRRLS last nite! Partied so hard I almost broke a hip!”; and your Bible scholars—“Thank God for all the many blessings He hath bestowed on me!”, “Blessed with blessings from the Lord on high!”, “God is good—He blesses me blessfully with blessed blessings!”

But deserving of a paragraph of their own are the stay-at-home moms. Now I’m not picking a bone with SAHMs in general—I think at least a fair share of us full-time working moms would like to be in their flip flops/clogs. And why not? Their status updates of, “Soooooo busy! Washed the dishes, did two loads of laundry, and STILL have to run to the grocery store,” make the best of us wish for a life in which our job was to do the shit we have to do anyway after we finish our 9-to-5s.(Oooooo….burn!) But more irksome than the chore-update statuses—yes, it’s possible—are the sales pitches from SAHs who turn to catalogue sales to fund their manis and pedis because Big Bad Husband is threatening them with the prospect of working part-time. “Please buy this overpriced shit I’m selling so that I can get discounted shit in return.” That would be okay. That, at least is honest. It’s the honest-to-God sales pitches of , “I just received my Spring _________Catalogue, and it’s full of to-die-for _________, ___________, and ___________ that you just CAN’T MISS! Perfect for a gift for your favorite gal or a treat for yourself! U KNOW U DESERVE IT!!!” followed by an event invitation to, horror of horrors, the Home Party. *Shudder.* Nothing says fun like a bottle of Pink Zinfandel, chicken salad sandwiches, and a gaggle of thirtysomething broads who have to end the night by placing an order for shit they don’t need so as not to offend their friend/small-goods peddler.

Lately, the big product push (and here’s the REAL rant. Took long enough, I know) has been on this weigh-loss, add-to-water-and-you’ll-never-be-hungry-again, will-lose-50-pounds-in-two-days, only-$99-for-two-week-supply product called Plexus Slim. This product is ALL NATURAL, SAFE, and EFFECTIVE, and has earned the title of Most Likely To Be Hocked by Your Sunday School Teacher’s Significantly Overweight Wife. Now, your esteemed Facebook friend would never try to sell you something if it wasn’t the real-deal mammajamma. “I’ve used it for two days and have already lost 10 pounds!!!” Well, hot dog! Who wouldn’t want in on that? The status comments don’t lie: “Oh gurl! Remind me I need 2 talk 2 you about this stuff tmw @ the potluck!”

So what’s my bone with Plexus Slim? Admittedly, I have not used the product, as its unicorn-fart-and-leprechaun-dandruff science don’t particularly appeal to my obviously no-nonsense sensibilities.

First off, I’m just not a big fan of you invading my beloved News Feed to stuff your pocketbook to begin with. Get your eyebrow wax on your own dime.

Second, you shove this “all-natural” bullshit in my face to make me think it’s safe, but you really have no idea what the fuck’s in it. Call me a stick-in-the-mud, but I think it’s pretty shady to try to sell your friends stuff that could potentially harm them.

Third, it WILL harm them, if they use it correctly. Plexus Slim is a fucking magic pink powder that you add to water once per day, and by rainbows and bunny rabbits, it acts as an appetite suppressant. The fat (NOT MUSCLE!) will MELT off of you, and you will lose 85 pounds in six minutes!!! If you read between the lines, you will notice that WHAT THE FREAKIN’ COMPANY IS TELLING YOU is that you will lose weight because you WON’T EAT! According to my personal #1 Plexus Slim saleswhore, she is “never hungry” and “forgets to eat.” Yay to starvation! Last time I checked, anorexia is FREE! Except for the associated medical costs, but you know what I mean.

Fourth, everyone I know who sells or uses this product, or any other overnight weight loss JuJu, is STILL FAT! I know that’s way harsh, but it is worth noting. Either you’re lying about your results (shame, shame), you had a shit-ton to lose in the first place (in which case ten pounds will fall off of you if you just cut down your Coke intake from ten to nine cans per day), or you gave it up quicker than you started because who the fuck wants to drink pink water all day AND feel all lightheaded and confused because THEY’RE STARVING?!?

To be continued…

Taboos and my big mouth

Taboos suck. There are so many things I want to say or talk about sometimes, but human decency/the fact that I am someone's daughter/the fact that I am someone's mother/the fact that I can't say certain words without blushing or laughing uncontrollably prevents me from doing so.

What I need is a very cool, non-judgemental, unshockable bosom buddy who isn't afraid of my throwing down the c-word every now and then, even if it is accompanied by a giggle fit.

Meg, who wants to whisper sweet obscenities in your ear. Totally not in a sexual way. Unless you're way hot and are into that sort of thing.

Dream of....

Californication is the shit! Why am I always so late to the party with good shows? Craptastic Gray's Anatomy? There from the beginning. Ditto ER. Maybe I just have a thing for hot doctors. But anyway, GOOD shows--this, Dexter, True Blood--I don't start until they've aired at least two seasons. Go figure.

Moral of the story--go freaking NOW and watch Californication (first season's on Netflix Watch Instantly) if you don't already.

Meg, who is on the fence about what to watch next. Nerdcore BSG or Hung, a show about a teacher who becomes a male prostitute to support his family. Thomas Jane is sorta hot, but some of those BSG chicks are WAY hot. Just sayin'.

Lost and not yet found

I feel like I'm perpetually on the verge of losing my shit. I'm not an angry person, and nothing in particular is wrong, but I've just kind of had it. With everything. That said, I don't feel as though my demeanor is any less pleasant than usual. I'm just casually, passively, rather politely fucking sick of the universe. Surely that's not healthy. Do I need sleep, drugs, therapy, a bullet to the temple.....? Or do I need to stop whining and get over myself. Anyway, blah. Blah fucking blah blah.

Meg, who is quite the sparkling ray of sunshine on this fine spring day

Joyful, Joyful

Soon and very soon.......I will be a tattooed lady!

Can I get an, "It's about damn time?"

Meg, whose body is soon to be very colorful, probably mostly from all the bleeding she is likely to do

DieTunes

If I ever die in some slow and dramatic way, such as drowning, I want Radiohead's 'Codex' playing in the background.

Meg, who is awfully morbid today. Must be the birthday blues.

Effing Cursing Genius

I accidentally created my new favorite curse today: jackasshole. To replace my old favorite, cocksucker, when referring to a dickhead who's being an ass in traffic.

Meg, who is probably deserving of a mouthful of Ivory soap at the moment

Tattoos and no money

Those two things don’t mix well, do they?

So here’s the thing. While I’ve always had an affinity for alt style—my childhood idols included multi-hued, partially shaved-headed Cindy Lauper and Jem, her Holograms, and The Misfits (I totally <3 you, Stormer, btw)—fears of disappointing others, especially my ultraconservative grandmother, have kept me, sadly, in a state of relative normalcy. Sure, I have black hair (it’s also been bright-ass red), and there was that one aforementioned time that I pierced my own eyebrow (hair still won’t grow there—oops!), but I never did get to use the bleach and purple Manic Panic I bought in 10^th grade. After a friend was suspended for his aquamarine tresses, me and my perfect Permanent Record (do those exist in real life or just in cheesy high school sitcoms?) thought the better of it. I also never got the tattoo I had always wanted. Probably for the best, of course, as I don’t think I’d wear a 311 logo so well these days, but I’ve been yearning all the same. Yearning and planning. And delaying, unfortunately, as money is pretty hard to come by in this six-person household.

And what has all this delaying done, but led to browsing, and the browsing has led to wanting. So now, from two, maybe three tattoos on my wish list, I’ve now got nine. Since I haven’t even gotten started yet, and at at least $125/hour, I figure I’ll be forty before I get all of this accomplished. Maybe there’ll be a Suicide/God’s Girls for cougars by that point. Sigh.

So here it is, in all of it’s glory—the Definitive List of Tattoo Work I Want Done As Soon As Humanly Possible, Pretty Please and Thank You. I may edit with pics somewhere down the line, if I feel like it.

1-3. I have had a bird thing since before every black-eyeliner-wearing pale chick had a bird thing. It’s quite annoying now that it’s trendy, of course, but fuck it, I want some damn birds anyway. Namely, I want swallows. Firstly, swallows are a pretty traditional tattoo theme. They commonly represent home/family/roots/etc. Secondly, I have some lovely memories of swallows that nested near my home during a particularly difficult time of my childhood. Yes, yes, we’ve already established that I’m moody, whiny, and just crazy in general. So let me have my tattoos that remind me of my childhood heartaches. Thank you.

Initially, I just wanted an old-school, small blue swallow on my wrist. But I came across a lovely fairytale illustration from “Thumbelina” that I just couldn’t get out of my head. And this sparked an idea—three swallows, in different styles, for each of my children. For the baby, the small, cutesy old school swallow on either the left wrist or the back of my right shoulder. Because she is small and sweet and adorable and it seemed fitting. The pretty fairytale-esque swallow on my neck for my very princessy middle child. And a field guide illustration-style swallow on the back of my left shoulder for my son, a smart, practical, science nerd.

4. For my dad, who has terminal colon cancer, I want a fairly realistic dragonfly on a water lily on my right shoulder. Dad’s a science man, too, and has always had a particular interest in entomology. His doctoral thesis had something or other to do with dragonflies, and my mom, then his student (I know, gross…) assisted him with his research for it, so in a roundabout way, dragonflies are kind of significant to my existence.

The water lily is both his and my youngest child’s birth flower and has other significance that I won’t explain for privacy’s sake. I plan to surround that image with the birth flowers of other individuals of importance to me. A daffodil for my son (also my favorite flower), a violet for my older daughter, a poppy for The Mister, lilies of the valley (another favorite) for Mom, and a sweet pea for me, since I’m a part of the family, too. So, yeah, a bouquet on my shoulder, lol.

5. A blackbird on my left side. Yes, the bird thing, but also, for the Beatles song. One of my favorites.

6. The word “Release” in this font somewhere on my body. From the Pearl Jam song, but also because it’s something I need to remember to do.

7. A quote from one of my favorite poems, the oft-studied “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot: “And time yet for a hundred indecisions/And for a hundred visions and revisions/Before the taking of a toast and tea”. On my right side.

8. Two swallows, embracing lovebird-style, for TM and me. Yes, again with the swallows. Either on the low back or low, erm…front. Nothing indecent, now!

9. And, lastly, either a Union Jack mid-back or a few small battleships on my hips. From the lyrics to “Tattooed Lady”, a Kingston Trio song my dad used to sing to me every night as a lullaby.

We came to town to see that old tattooed lady.

She was a sight to see, tattooed from head to knee.

My uncle Ned was there. He came to gape and stare.

"I've never!" he declared, "Seen such a freak so fair."

And on her jaw was the Royal Flying Corp,

And on her back was the Union Jack, now could you ask for more?

All up and down her spine marched the Queen's own guards in line,

And all around her hips sailed a fleet of battleships.

And over her left kidney was a bird's eye view of Sidney,

But what we liked best was upon her chest
My little home in Waikiki! (What did you say?)

So that’s it! I’m hoping to get started on it next weekend, if everything falls perfectly in to place, which I know is asking a lot. I’m planning on getting the fairytale and old school swallows first. What do you think?

Meg, who really should be saving for college rather than paying someone to play paint-by-number on her body, but then, she's never claimed to have her priorities in line

Eff you, Autocorrect

My dumb phone avoids shit like the freaking plague but chooses Wang (yes, capitalized) over want every damn time. WTF?

Meg, who had to edit this most glorious o posts because she initially forgot to sign off

Where I've been, because you care

Okay. After a two-month hiatus during which you pined for new content—I know, not really, but it’s a lovely thought—I am back, and I actually have something on my mind. Yay! Actually, I have lots of somethings on my mind, but I will try to spare you from a manic manifesto and focus on one particular something for this particular post. Well, you know what? That’s not going to be entirely possible. So much going on lately…..all these feelings……yeah. If the promise of lots of feelings doesn’t entice you to keep reading, I don’t know what will.

I feel like this is a church business meeting. I should’ve baked a green bean casserole or fudge-something-nut-something bars.

First order of business: Mrs. Ida is still recovering from hip surgery. We will need your wives to sign up to bring meals for the next two weeks, but remember—she doesn’t like collards.

Ha, ha, ha. I’m so funny…

Yeah, whatever. I’m already totally off track. Remember that time I went to church camp and my friends decided to abandon me because they couldn’t handle my anorexia and they kicked me out of their dorm and I had to room with one of the chaperones and I couldn’t fall during the trust exercise because I couldn’t allow myself to let go and trust because they’d just hurt me? Ah…..fun times.

Now that you’re nice and uncomfortable, let’s talk about what I’ve been doing while I was away and you were left pining. Yes, you were pining. Humor me.

Well, first, I was getting along with my husband. Yays! If you know me, you understand that this is not a revolutionary thing. Me and The Mister are literally peas & carrots. (Assuming you ascribe to the Rachel Zoe usage of the word ‘literally’.) Trite, sure, but we really are best friends/soulmates/joined-at-the-hip/etc., etc., etc. BUT these last couple of months have been DIFFERENT! Lately, we’re not just peas & carrots, we’re baby food peas & carrots—all blended together and stuffed in a jar. I personally did not think that there was a need for improvement in our relationship. And my husband, being a man and all, surely does not think about our relationship at all and was probably pretty damn satisfied as long as a. I wasn’t yelling at him; and b. well….you know. But as it just so happens, there WAS room for improvement. I know, because now, we’re even BETTER! And you are so excited for us, as you should be.

It all started like this: The Mister and I (is this gonna be what I call him? If so, does that beg for a TM? Can I create one of those annoying Brangelina-style celebrity-couple-name abominations? I can refer to us as TMI…) had a chat. If you have been married for more than a few months, and especially if you have children, you know that, for even the very bestest of couples, chats can be rare. All too frequently, our daily communication consisted of  Can you…? Will you…? Why didn’t you…? and Why are you such a goddamn moron? (Just kidding about that last part. Mostly.) So we chatted. And chatted. And chatted. And stayed up into the wee hours of the morn chatting. And we did it again the next night. And we smiled. And we laughed. And, in my case, we cackled. And we for sure cried. Because I like to ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to. But, most importantly, we were honest. We said things we had held back for weeks, months, years. And all of this is making for excellent reading, since I’m leaving out all the juicy details, right?

So, I found out that The Mister isn’t the perfect man I thought he was, but that he is pretty damn close, and that he wants to be closer. I found out that every sweet, lovely thing he has ever said to me is 100% true. Which, you’re saying, is him BSing me, but I know him, and you don’t, so I’m right, and you’re wrong. And holy hell, all the damn commas.

And I told him things, too. Let my guard down. Answered questions honestly. Was vulnerable. Which, if you know me, is totally me but also not. I am the squishiest, softest, most-likely-to-volunteer-to-be-trampled-on-and-like-it little punk-ass girl in the world. I will say crazy things to you and give you the crazy eyes and you will think I am crazy. Especially because of the run-ons. But if you ask me something real, and you are not the 0.000001% of the population that I trust when I’m totally sober, then you won’t get anything out of me. I am passionate and moody, and sometimes outright tempestuous, but you know what? I am also a fortress. While I wear my superficial emotions on my sleeve, the other, realer, shittier ones go into a deep, dark, deep, twisty, dark, rotting, awful cave (see—I really AM all fucked up ;) ) and stay in there, alone, for eternity. And there were some things in there I wouldn’t let even TM see. But I let go, and he has seen them, and he’s still here. He’s still here, and we’re better. Who woulda thunk it?

Another yucky thing I realized is that I often react to him on default settings. Say no just because it’s the first word I think of or freak out over things I can totally handle. I find I especially go into Bitch Mode all too easily. Because I can with him and not with anyone else. Because he will take it. Because he loves me. But that SUCKS! Why should the person I love the most get the shittiest side of me? Not all of the time, sure, because I’m generally a damn cool chick. But too often all the same.

So now, we are open and honest. About everything. I mean, I don’t particularly want The Mister to tell me that he thinks of Big Momma’s House every time he’s sees my ass. But, “You are so hot that you make that huge-breasted Victoria’s Secret model look like a steaming pile of dog shit,” is a bit much. I like my compliments to be believable: “Yeah, that chick is way hot, but I love you more than anything. Even if you do have a bit of cellulite.” Well, he could spare me and leave out that last thing. But you get the point.

And I’m trying to say yes more and get rid of the ugly-bulldozer-sitcom-mom shit that TV thinks wives should be. My husband is not a fuck-up dunce. He is capable of stuff and would not, in fact, starve or wallow in his own filth without me. For very long. Just because TM does things differently than I do doesn’t mean that he’s a retard and that I have to come along and save him every time. My household needs me, sure, but it would not implode if I let go of the hand-controls for a bit.

And I can survive without him as well. If he wants to go hang out with a friend for a bit after work? Cool. If he’s running a bit late because of super shitty awful fucking traffic? Cool. Not his fault. If he wants to spend money to go watch some chick twirl around with her tits hanging out? Ok. Not cool. He’s got free tits at home, and we have bills to pay. And I am not that cool. But still.

You get my point, though. Open, honest, chill…that’s what we have become more of in the past couple months. I can shrug things off. Some things might totally suck. But to hell with it. I can get over it. I can move on. I can change my mind to be different, feel differently, and react differently. And I did. And I will. I take immense comfort in knowing that there’s nothing I could say that would scare him off. There’s nothing he could say that would make me love him less. It’s great not having that unacknowledged fear of the unknown there anymore. No more secrets. It’s been incredible.

So what I’ve been doing for the past couple months is enjoying my husband. I have been spending every available moment with him and have saved time for little else, as the mountain range of clean-but-unfolded laundry in my bedroom will prove. If, for some reason, you have missed the incredible word vomit that I spew here and call blogging, blame The Mister and our Super Mega Awesome Make-You-Wanna-Punch-Us-In-The-Teeth Relationship. Rest assured, however, that, somehow, I still have more to say ( I only talked about ONE THING! SO PROUD!)  and will get around to it just as soon as our marriage goes back down the shitter. (Just kidding.)

Yours,

Meg, who’s verbal diarrhea is rivaled only by that of Charlie Sheen. (Yeah, I know. A couple weeks late to the party…)

Oops!

Oops! I forgot about blogging for almost two months. So........times flies. Yes, been having fun. Anyway, I'm working on something, but I don't think I can bang it out tonight. Work is slow-ish, so I'll try to wrap it up tomorrow. Stay tuned, all zero of you.

Yours, 


Meg, who really hopes that whatever it is she ends up posting tomorrow will be at least half worth-a-fuck

Writer's block and talk, talk, talk

Is it possible to suffer from writer’s block if you’re not a real writer, or does the mere act of writing, by definition, classify you as a writer and, therefore, leave you susceptible to the condition?

Anyway, I guess I have it. I mean, I have lots to talk about. But I lack commitment to any one subject. Religion, for instance, is a cool topic about which I have lots to say, but, in my early “career” as a blogess, I don’t think I have as yet achieved the level of balls-to-the-wallness required for me to begin to adequately broach that subject. Ditto politics, though I will let you in on a not-so-well-hidden secret and tell you that I feel more than a bit uncomfortable in this dedicated Red State from time to time. “Legalize It!” and “Gay Pride!” are not sentiments that tend to go over very well here, as I’ve discovered during more than one uncomfortable lunchtime conversation at the workplace. Apparently, my coworkers haven’t, in fact, ever been enraptured by a 6’7” tall drag queen in 8” platform stilettos or totally called that 1-800 number and bought a Euro Chopper when high. My bad.

We discussed fashion last time, and I used 1500 words to tell you that getting old blows.

I have children. We could talk about that, but in the 200,000 year existence of Homo sapiens, I really don’t think I have anything new to bring to the table. At the very least, nothing that Dooce couldn’t say with more aplomb.

So what’s left?

Talk of global warming and health and all that other hippie stuff just leaves me feeling depressed and guilty. Besides, righting either of those wrongs in my own life would pose a direct affront to my personal philosophy of “Anything worth doing better damn well have an easy way to do it.”

So……….*whistle, whistle, crickets*

Ahem. I have a crick in my neck. Yes, that’s right. I said C-R-I-C-K. No, I don’t have any damn idea as to how that should really be spelled. Probably, it shouldn’t be spelled at all. Can you just give me a hand with it or something?

La la la la la la la. Oh, yeah. *Cough* Blog. Blog, blog, blog, blog. That sounds like some big sea creature with a disproportionately large mouth. Or like a big ugly toad or something.

Focus, focus. Got some Adderall? Just IMAGINE the kind of manic bullshit I could produce with some of that stuff! Wow.

Sooooooooo. Yeah, nope. Doesn’t look like I am ever actually gonna come up with something to say after all. Ha!

Really, though—isn’t that pretty much what the entire internet is anyway? A bunch of people sitting around with nothing in particular to say, or nothing important to say, but saying it as loudly as possible, or with conviction, vim, and vigor?

In my defense, at least I’m quiet about it. I mean, what? There are maybe two or three of you who will ever see this damned thing? And conviction, vim, and vigor are qualities that I have never really possessed. So that makes it better, doesn’t it? Saying a bunch of nothing but thinking it’s the revolutionary shit-of-the-world that has never ever in the history of mankind been uttered in so effing PERFECT a way—that’s kind of embarrassing, right? Like, awww! I want to crawl through your pipeline and hug your geeky ass right now! But saying a bunch of meaningless shit and acknowledging that it IS meaningless shit……….that right there is fucking noble.

Or am I just a narcissist like the rest of ‘em?

Yours,

Meg, who hopes that you will nominate her for Most Fucking Noble Person in the World (Wide Web) if the omnipotent 'they' ever create an award for such a thing

La mode and my 1/3 life crisis

It’s time for a new blog post, innit?

Being in a pretty pleasant mood, as I have been lately, does not leave one of my species
with much to write about.

Let’s see………bunnies? Cute, sure, but overplayed for sure as far as woodland creatures
go. So…………squirrels? They eat nuts and are overshadowed by their cheeky cousins,
the chipmunks (who also fought crime in the early 1990s). So that’s pretty much it for my
squirrel knowledge.

Music? I’ve been listening to Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Pearl Jam, Blind Melon,
Vampire Weekend, Frightened Rabbit……..Oh wait. Nothing new there. Shit.

I could maybe throw out a bunch of big words on a topic on which I know nothing and
of which no one worth a damn gives a crap about in a vain attempt to win your approval
with my tamely above-average intellect? Tempting, but…….no.

Maybe we could sit around and psychoanalyze my egregious overuse of my period-heavy
ellipses. Desperate attempt to hang on to meaning where it should naturally terminate
with a real endmark? Okay. Check.

Oooooooo……fashion? Yeah, sure. Got it.

Well, it all started with my early childhood affinity for brightly hued dresses that puked
crinoline and had little jingly bells sewn into the ruffles. Paired with pastel patent leather
Mary Janes and lacy white socks, of course.

This begot all things neon in the early nineties. But it’s not my fault—I blame NKOTB.

The mid-nineties birthed my short-lived, Clueless-inspired Country Club plaids,
bodysuits, and jewel-toned jeans. Did I mention my glasses, braces, and post-perm sorta-
kinky long hair? Yeah. I’d like to get that image out of my head, too.

And then the teenage years. Also known as the Skater-Punk-Rawk-Grrrrrl-Random-Shit-
From-Thrift-Stores Period. Defined by 40” wide-leg jeans, chain wallets, Vans, and t-
shirts that used to belong to seven-year-old boys who attended lots of fundraisers, the
look was meant to convey both “anti-establishment” and “I like music with loud guitars
and lots of cussin’.”

Meanwhile, I was reading Vogue and British Vogue and flipping through (read:
drooling over) Italian Vogue when I could get my hands on it. I may have been a rawk
grrrrrl piercing my own eyebrow in the school bathroom, but I loved me some Nicolas
Ghesquiere. And anything Chloe. How pretty! *Sigh*

Anyhow, with Jesus and the overpowering desire to please the bestest closeted gay friend
a girl could have, I, almost overnight, shed my Airwalks, Manic Panic, and casual experimentation with illicit substances and turned to….wait for it….Banana Republic! J Crew! In the course of one year,
I went from spending my birthday money on guitar tablature and cheap alcohol to saving for
cashmere and designer sunglasses. AND, I might proudly add, I reached a size zero, but
not without swearing off all food all the time.

My more grandparent-friendly tastes continued throughout my early college years, with
my first paycheck from my first ever job going entirely to a pair of black knee-high
boots. The second check bought a beautiful red trench coat that I would wear still if it
weren’t for the irreparable hole. Daddy furnished a rich brown fedora, and I purchased a
cream-colored felt ACTUAL vintage one from an antique shop. I bought $50 tees from C
& C California and mid-range jeans with student loan money. (O, Ignorant Youth!) Shoes
were $80 and up, with my most expensive wedding-related purchase (yes, yes, married
young, and actually HAPPY so there! =P) being my first and only pair of Manolos.

Then came children and, concurrently, the era of “Why is everything so expensive here?
There’s no way I’d spend more than $15 for a shirt!” Sadly, due to aforementioned
children, this remains in effect.

But style-wise, though I often skew strongly vintage-inspired—who doesn’t love a good
swing coat, Peter Pan collar, and jewelry with birds on it—my tastes most recently have
taken a turn back to my rawk stage. Only this time, instead of baggy jeans and beanies,
it’s skinny jeans and big messy hair. Basically, if it can be found on a fourteen-year-old
boy who owns a straightening iron, I MUST HAVE IT!!!!

When I run across little Ashton in the Apple store, instead of wanting to douse him in
a bottle of nailpolish remover, as any respectable adult would, I wanna ask him where
he found his darling grey jeans, v-neck tee with epaulets, and Dauphin-De-Tout-L'Outerwear Cardigan. I want us to bond over hair color brands, as my black roots fade so
quickly to blah auburn. And, oh, look! We have the same chipped (duh!) gunmetal gray
on our fingers! Sometimes, I, too don my black Chucks. But today, since I was feeling
fat, I’m out in my leopard print platform stilettos. I just know in my heart that he and I
have both looked forlorn into the mirror and thought, “Ugh! Why is my hair looking so
kempt today?” Then we pick at a zit. I express my excitement at the Arcade Fire concert
clip I come across on the iPad I’m playing with. He mumbles that he liked them when he
was eight but feels like they’re trying too hard these days. Don’t get him started on KOL.
Right now, he’s not listening to anything but Jeff Buckley and some band I’ve never
heard of. I am twice his age and yet his inferior, tragically uncool twin.

Is this what getting old feels like? Damn, I was unprepared.



 Yours,

Meg, who would do just about anything to be reincarnated as Jeff Buckley (except for
the whole tragic death part)

Getting started off on the wrong foot

This blog looks like shit. Sorry, nonexistent persons who are reading this crap!

As it is, the sorry state of affairs of this pile of rubbish is a pretty solid glimpse into what you should expect if you, for reasons unknown, should ever choose to return to this waste of bandwidth.

I have, as you can see, the unfortunate habit of starting things on a whim and casually abandoning them soon afterward. Which is GOOD news if you really think about it. My career as a blogger (bloggess?) is destined from the start to be quite short-lived, I'm sure. Blogosphere, let out your collective sigh of relief, knowing that, ere long, there will be one fewer BA in English choking up the web with her tragic attempts at self-deprecating wittiness.

For now, all you will have to put up with is her suffocatingly heavy comma usage and half-assed/half-remembered grammar and the terribly ugly appearance of this template (it really is NOT supposed to look like this, I swear!) that I started working on and abandoned, bored, moments later. ( I, think, I, am, just, gonna, start, inserting, commas, after, every, word, for, consistency's, sake.)

Of course, you could just stop reading and spare your poor abused eyeballs and brain cells. Totally up to you.

Either way, I intend to keep posting. Until I get bored. Or forget. (There are far too many shiny things in this world.)

(I apparently also really like parentheses.)

I may be premature in putting actual words on the thing—it seems like a high literary crime to use many of the same ones so carefully honed into great works of art by Shakespeare, Garcia Marquez, and Apatow—but I have my reasons. Namely, I'm a big ol' chicken. I make excuses. I say I'm going to do things—things for me—and then never follow through.

So here it is, in all of it's ugly anti-glory. My first of at least a handful of blog posts. Knowing me the way I do,  the posts to come will be few and in spurts and totally lacking in subject and content. But they will exist, and that will bring me enough happiness to stop drinking......so much.........except for tonight.....and probably tomorrow, too..........and oh, hell, St. Patty's is just around the corner......... :)


Yours,

Meg, who, attention-starved as a child, tries, so, so, desperately, to please you


*EDIT: Pink. It's PINK! Joy. Even the title. And with turquoise, too. I did work on it. But I guess I evening daydreamed my way out of actually hitting the save button. Well, just rest assured that my work was just as hideous, but in a whole different awful way.