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