18738698_4561739636657_8679615113086014751_o.jpgMy name is Meg and this blog is mine and that dog is Mickey and he is also mine.

A few quick housekeeping things:

I am a Sr. Copywriter. Peeps call me Meggy Olsen. (Literally, no one calls me that.) But the title is super offish and it should make ya’ quake in ya’ boots.

This blog is copyrighted by the gods of copywriting because, um, just don’t steal my shit.

All opinions expressed, especially the good ones that you agree with, are mine. The opinions you don’t agree with are still mine, and you can contact me via my About page if you want to get into a war with words.

All rights reserved. No part of this blog may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without my permission.

Now go forth. Please scroll and read and enjoy.

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Home Depot: A Review

UPDATE: There’s a lot that has happened since I last wrote. I got married, got a dog, stopped complaining to people on the internet and instead used my husband as an outlet (he would like that to stop soon because he doesn’t care). But most recently, I bought a house. And with that house comes the false sense that I am, in fact, Chip and Joanna Gaines morphed into one perfectly capable, handy human that can for sure do shit myself and it will be spectacular. So took my first trip to Home Depot. And this is how it went down.

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Dear God, what is this place?

I approached the parking lot in my sleek, white Jeep Compass fresh out of 2012 and a child’s soccer game and I was immediately overcome with anxiety. First, because for the love of all things good and well, there is never a good parking spot when you need one. Second, because I know the journey on which I am about to embark and I am terrified for both myself and my wallet.

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What my husband sees every time I leave the house.

In my mind, Home Depot is like Costco. Only there are no snacks to hide behind, just the shame of my ineptitude and the fact that I didn’t realize the dress code for entry required a tool belt, or at the very least, a back pocket tape measure. Nevertheless, I decided to treat my newfound homeownership the same way I treated purchasing wholesale groceries – with an empty cart, a half-baked list and no plan for how I will fit everything in my trunk.

So I parked and hesitantly approached the orange sliding doors. There was still time to turn back. No one would know. But that’s not how I roll. I do things solely because I can film them for Instagram and make people think I am cool, edgy or in this case – handy as f*ck. A short mental pep talk, a quick slap to my own face later and I enter the vibrant-and-not-in-the-slightest-case-pearly orange gates to home remodeling heaven. The ceilings are tall, the aisles are big, the signs are signing, and OH MY GOD EVERYONE IS WEARING MATCHING ORANGE APRONS.

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The Home Depot people deciding whether or not to subject their employees to a burnt orange hell.

Home Depot was like a choose my own adventure. And I was on a quest to do something amazing. Only where to start? Bathroom? Garden? Lighting? Hardware? The opportunities were endless and I was only limited by my own incompetence and the fact that they were closing in 15 minutes.

Ignoring the fact that I severely overestimated how many middle-aged men who consider Home Depot to be their personal Lord and Savior would judge me – literally not one human, man or woman, looked at me in any way shape or form – I made my way to the lumber section because everyone who is anyone knows every good project starts with, that’s right, lumber. I had a rudimentary sketch and an idea in my head of what I needed, but there I stood at a crossroads between four different aisles, full of different kinds of wood and I had absolutely no idea how to navigate this sea of pine and walnuts.

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Me tying to figure out which wood is the ‘good wood.’

But the man in the orange apron did. His name was Johnathan and he was my home reno sherpa. Johnathan told me about quarters of inches, types of plywood and all of the things my dad probably wanted to tell me when I was younger but I was too busy not being interested in learning practical skills at 14.

Johnathan didn’t care that I didn’t know that screws and nails aren’t interchangeable. He didn’t bat an eye when he asked what kind of wood I wanted and I replied with, “Whatever is the cheapest.” He just cared that I was there and literally trying my best to look like I belonged. Or he just wanted me to leave so he could close up, the jury is still out.

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Johnathan when I told him this wasn’t my first rodeo.

He looked at my rudimentary sketch and knew exactly the kinds of things I needed. He even cut the wood to size before sending me on my way with a cart full of stuff and no idea what to do with it when I got home.

Because what I came to realize is that, Home Depot truly is like Costco. While everything may be disorganized and the things you need aren’t ever really in the place they’re supposed to be, the people are helpful and at the end of the day, do any of us really know what we’re doing? No, right? Please tell me it’s a no.

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Everyone who knows how to do basic home improvement tasks.

About two hours and 147 wrong turns later, I said goodbye to Johnathan and his orange apron, checked out at the orange cash register and walked my orange cart full of stuff out the two orange sliding exit doors to my car and felt like I had just experienced something amazing.

But really I think I just inhaled too much sawdust.

On tantrums, touchdowns and Odell Beckham Jr. being my brother from another mother.

What do me, and a 5’11 wide receiver for the New York Giants have in common?

No, it’s not incredibly confusing hair or the natural athletic talent bestowed upon us straight from Jesus himself. But I truly thank you for thinking of me and Odell Beckham Jr. in that light. It’s flattering, really.

We both just aren’t having fun anymore.

Let me take a step back here. Two years ago I would have given my unborn child and all of my future stock in Taco Bell to be paid to write. It was all I wanted. The insatiable and unquenchable dream that loomed over me as I sat monotonously day after day at my shitty receptionist job.

Then, one day, it happened. Just like Odell Beckham Jr. on draft day. I got the call. I dropped everything. I made it. I was going to be an all-star wide receiver for the NFL with confusing, yet intimidating hair that everyone loved to hate a writer for an ad agency.

Like my doppelgänger and brotha from anotha motha, I had trained for this. Hours and hours of cranking out things to publish that made me proud. Some that bared my soul, some that made me, and only me, laugh. Others that just made my mom happy that I was doing something besides sitting in bed moping with a glass of wine at 10am.

(Breakfast wine is a thing. It’s called fermented grape juice. Read about it.)

When OBJ got drafted, I can assure with as much certainty as someone who wasn’t with him, that he was ecstatic. And when I got that call, I was too.

But the moment I accepted that job, I stopped writing for myself because I was now going to write for someone else, and that was a far more superior venture in my naive mind.

Two years and a treasure trove of words later, I’m confused.  I sit at a computer and ask my brain to do something day in and day out that it used to do on its own. Except I don’t get angry and throw a tantrum on the sideline, I wait until I get home and cry in the bathtub like a goddamn adult.

Also I’m a Pats fan so this whole meltdown is kind of funny. Cue the 18-1 jokes.

I’d wake up with funny thoughts about being an interesting sponsor choice for Head and Shoulders life or weird observations and I couldn’t wait to rush to my computer and jot them down.

Unfortunately, that rush is going away.

It’s a hard thing to realize that when you started to do what you love and love what you do, eventually you’ll stop loving it. Because work is work no matter how pretty you dress it up.

What I’m saying is, I get how Odell Beckham Jr. is feeling.

What happens when you’re not passionate about your passion?  What if the one thing that kept you sane during a monotonous 9-5 job turns out to be the very thing that makes your 9-5 so monotonous?

Two years ago my life changed. And here I sit, two years later, wondering if it was for the better or not. And I don’t know how to figure that out. Maybe it’s a change of scenery or a different way to jumpstart my brain. Maybe it’s finding out how to reignite that spark that fueled me, drove me and motivated me to get up and write every day.

Whatever the answer is, and whoever has it. Let me know. I’m all ears.

Also, if you have OBJ’s number, please let me know so I can call him and tell him to stop being such a big baby. Anyone who makes that much money is not allowed to be sad. It’s science.

Or maybe I’ll just become a professional dog walker. No one in the history of earth has ever fallen out of love with a dog.

Stand by.

Step Brothers Might Be Getting A Sequel So Here Are 4 More Movies That Should Follow

We’re going to the Catalina Fucking Wine Mixer!

Everyone get out your eyeballs, your most expandable pants and all of the alcohol you can fit into the crevices of your body because Step Brothers may be getting a sequel.

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[Insert comment about The Princess Diaries 3 getting a trilogy and me not mentioning it.]

[Insert rebuttal comment about how Anne Hathaway is my nemesis and I don’t like her face.]

Honestly, I was a bit hesitant to hear that one of my top five movies was getting the reboot treatment. If it’s anything like Ghosts of Sequels Past, it’s not going to be good. I mean, the odds are pretty much stacked against them.

Over here in the graveyard of “What The Fuck, Why Did You Ruin This Classic?” we have Anchorman 2, The Hangover 2/3, 22 Jump Street and an atrocity so horrible, I saved my eyeballs the equivalent to the plight of a thousand sandstorms,  Zoolander 2.

This is like becoming a thing now, though, right? Script writers today are basically just those dudes that leave to try and find a better hookup but come back to the bar at 2:30am and will hit on someone until they agree to go home with you (for the right price of about 30 million dollars, six red wines, and a trailer full of ONLY the green M&Ms).

I know, I know, but this one will be different. It’s 2016 and my new year’s resolution was to be positive. Or at least have better posture. I can’t remember, I’m slouching.

In hopes that Hollywood doesn’t totally screw this one up, here’s a list of four other Will Ferrell movies that could use a (good) reboot.

 

ELF

Need to see Buddy take on the country with the sole plot line being saving Mr. Narwhal from captivity. I like whales and I like them to be free. You go, Mr. Narwhal, you go.

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OLD SCHOOL

The only reason my dedication to ribbon dancing was validated was because of the majestic display of athleticism that Frank the Tank displayed in this movie. Plus, I honestly believe Blue was my boy and I need someone to avenge him.

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WEDDING CRASHERS

I feel like they forgot to mention Rule No. 88 – Make thy sequels whenst they are demanded. And someone give him some goddamn meatloaf for Pete’s sake.

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THE OTHER GUYS

I need this more because of Mark Walhberg and his abdominals, but also because Gator needs his Gat. But not immediately because Eva Mendez is a genetically impossible human that sometimes I just feel bad about myself.

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What movies would you like to see get a sequel?

Will I Ever Love Anything As Much As My Boyfriend Loves Sports?

There are some relationships that are, for lack of a better term, enviable.

You know, the ones fueled by passion, commitment, humor and above all, trust. The ones that, at the end of the day, regardless of how much they fight, you know they’ll make up and be alright and continue to support each other.

This is how my boyfriend feels about sports.

Let’s just be clear, I definitely do not hate sports. I’ll sit and watch whatever ball is on television as long as there are a reasonable amount of snacks and alcohol in front of me.

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But there’s something seeing someone constantly have another person on their mind, wondering what they’re doing, checking their status updates and talking to his friends about what they’re doing next.

Because he knows how important investing into a relationship is and he’s proud to show off those who he supports.

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You know, the way he just KNOWS everything about every single player on the field, can recite their college teams, even high schools, without even looking up to the left to recall the memory.

Because he cares about them that much to know that to truly appreciate someone, you have to know where they came from.

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I see the passion he has for his fantasy football team, caring deeply about their injuries, yelling at them incessantly for missing catchable balls, touchdowns, and field goal opportunities.

Because he honestly sees their potential and he knows they can do better.

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It doesn’t matter where he is financially, he’s ready to double down and spend money when he may not exactly have a lot of it. He’s committed to being there every step of the way, from making it to the small games all the way up to the biggest of stages.

Because he knows he can trust them to show him a good time, even if his expectations don’t always match his reality.

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To know what it’s like to hate someone so much, swear to never come back to them again, but your bond, your loyalty is so strong, that you’re right back on the couch the next day watching that same team that ruined your life the night before.

Because he’s loyal and he’ll be there through the ups and downs. No matter what.

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Now, that’s love.

Do I ever think I’ll love something more than my boyfriend loves sports?

To be honest, I think the answer is no.


What do you think? Do boys love sports more than anything else?

5 Real Reasons Tom Brady Destroyed His Cell Phone

So, just when you thought this week couldn’t get any more heartbreaking and depressing than Blake Shelton divorcing Miranda Lambert, or Taylor Swift feuding with Nicki Minaj, the world slapped me in the face with a big pile of “STOP LOOKING AT THE INTERNET AND DO YOUR JOB, MEG” with an equally depressing sports scandal.

Let me back up for a moment though.

The biggest sports decision in the history of sports decisions was when LeBron James’ decided to leave Cleveland to go to Miami and win a bunch of titles, but he failed and then decided to return to Cleveland to win a title but then he failed at that, too.

Well, if you thought that was a doozy, what happened today was, like, way bigger.

The news that is burning up the internet streets right now is that Tom Brady’s suspension was upheld and he will not be allowed to play in the first four games of the 2015 NFL season.

Basically, whoever’s job it is to figure out which celebrities smash their phones at inopportune moments to hide evidence is really good at it, because apparently, Mr. Brady is totes guilty of breaking his cellular device in favor of saving our precious eyeballs from seeing some incriminating information.

But, I think we’re all missing the point here. Whether or not Tommy Boy likes his balls a little lighter on the inside is dumb, I think there’s a bigger issue here that we’re all glancing over. And that issue is that Tom Brady doesn’t just smash a phone over deflated balls, he smashes his phone over the mountains of more important stuff kept on that device.

Now, let me clarify that these are all suppositions, I’m sure I’m at least 89% accurate with my assumptions of Tom’s personal affinities, but I do want to go on the record and say that, I’m also most likely 89% incorrect with all of what I’m about to tell you.

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PREACH

HERE IS A LIST OF THINGS THAT TOM BRADY PROBABLY HAD ON HIS CELL PHONE THAT ULTIMATELY WARRANTED DESTRUCTION:

Man buns:
Remember this? Or this? What about this? Some would say the Tom Brady man bun was the man’s modern day Rachel. He definitely has a trove of pictures documenting that time so can can periodically reminisce about the time he grew his hair out and bothered everyone by unintentionally taking a firm stance against society’s sexist tendencies in associating ponytails and buns with only females by metaphorically screaming, “EFF YOU, WORLD, I’M TOM BRADY, I DO WHAT I WANT.

Embarrassing Google Searches:
Google is your friend, your confidant, your Jesus. If you don’t have a safe place to ask the hard hitting questions like, “Is a pea what is on the inside of a green bean?” or “How do whales sleep?” without judgment or ridicule, then nothing is sacred anymore.
 
Playlists:
If there’s anything the most All-American man in football doesn’t want authorities seeing on his phone it’s that he listened to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” on repeat during his pregame warmup on the night of the Super Bowl.
 
He has an android:
If you won four Super Bowls but you have an android phone, did you actually win four Super Bowls? The answer is no. You did not win four Super Bowls because having an android phone means you’re actually a loser. And losers don’t win Super Bowls. They just don’t.
 
Baby Animals:
Tom Brady is a superior human, he’s legitimately better than everyone at everything. He can’t let the public know that he googles pictures of baby animals on bus rides or screen shots cat memes and sends them to Gisele while he’s on the road. It would blow his whole image.

… and yes, if you couldn’t tell, I’m a Patriots fan and frankly, this whole ordeal IS OUTRAGEOUS AND I’M GOING TO THROW A TEMPER TANTRUM.

Plausible? Yes. Factual? Probably not. Let me know what you think was on Tommy’s phone in the comments!

Apparently You’re Not Allowed To Wear Prom Dresses To Prom, So Here’s A List Of Alternative Formalwear

Humans (and unwanted robots) of the Internet, I’ve decided to break my blog silence in the name of something so sacred its legacy cannot, and will not be tarnished under my watch. Yes world, I’m obviously talking about prom. 

Sorry dudes, dresses are the biggest and best part about prom.  You spend hours, days, and weeks searching for the perfect one. You get in verbal threatening altercations with your friends so that they don’t wear the same one as you. It’s pretty effing serious.  But, in case anyone hasn’t paid attention to female body part taboos over the course of the world’s development, there are certain things that are like totally unacceptable to show in public.

Ladies, put your boobs away, pull up your pants and cover your ass (literally), and Goddamnit, HIDE YOUR BACKS!

There’s a reason for my anger. This is in the news today. A girl got sent home from prom for wearing this dress.

(Click the picture for more information about why the world is going to implode within the next ten years.)

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AHHH! The horror!

My eyes! Honestly, the world is going downhill so fast. If this is the type of thing high school girls are being told not to wear, they’re going to need some serious council on what is and is not acceptable.  Because Forever 21 and all the store that every girl in the world shops at are going out of business. You heard it here first.

So that’s where I come in, with my expert fashion advice and willingness to stir up controversy in the name of glitter and fabulous shoes.

Here is my list of things you can wear to prom INSTEAD of prom dresses: 

Bed sheet/Blanket

Think classic ghost on Halloween costume. Nothing gets more body coverage than something that you wrap yourself in to turn into a human burrito every night in order to sleep. I’m sure a queen will do, but we’re talking about prom in 2015, so I’m going to advise a king.

Paper bag.

And make sure it’s not plastic, too see through and environmentally damaging that you’ll have more than just the principal in your business, you’ll have the EPA calling your ass suing you for not going green and condemn you to a life of indefinitely shopping at Whole Foods while wearing Birkenstocks.

Graduation gown.

Priest chic is so hot right now, ankles are becoming sexy and suddenly wrists are the newest thing to accesorize. If you don’t have one, a black sheet will do, I guess.

XXXL Sweatshirt. 

Nothing says gorgeous like an oversized sweatshirt. It’s like everyone is preaching that women are flawless and woke up like this, so give them a taste of their own medicine by literally waking up, raiding a linebacker’s closet and walking into prom like you own the place.

Cardboard box.

More sturdy that the paper bag, because God forbid there be any sort of grinding or dancing going on. A box will ensure that you will not be touched our asked to dance the entire time you’re there. It also totally gives off a “no date required because I hate everyone” kind of vibe.

What would YOU recommend that high schoolers wear to prom? Do you think that society is taking things too seriously? Is anyone listening to me?

Thoughts On Cankles, Dieting, and Finding My Voice.

The night before I started my first diet, I looked a package of Oreos square in the eyeball and said, “This isn’t goodbye forever, this is goodbye for now.”

Every. Single. Day.

Every. Single. Day.

Some background on the subject: I went on said diet because when I came back from studying abroad, my mother informed me that I had developed cankles during my four month stint overseas. I guess eating carbs all day, erry day, while simultaneously washing them down with all the beers in the world causes your ankles to swell in such away that you actually can’t tell they were ever ankles in the first place.

I knew that the diet wouldn’t last forever. Mostly because I’m an impulsive eater and can’t keep my hands off of anything that resembles a dessert treat. But it was something I needed to do in order to learn balance and appreciation of food, rather than just shoveling it into my face without breathing.

My struggles with food and dieting is a conversation topic for an entirely different time. What I’m trying to do with that poorly structured metaphor, is explain that some times you need to step away from things that make you happy, in order to better yourself in other ways.

I started this blog back in 2013.  At the time, it was a great way to avoid doing actual work.  I was able to find my voice, define my writing style, unload all my weird thoughts permanently on the internet, and ultimately, figure out that writing was and is my passion, and that I needed to work hard to pursue it.

In January 2015, I achieved my goal of becoming an advertising copywriter.

In short, this means that there has been increasingly less time that I have been able to dedicate towards writing for my personal benefit. Sure, it’s sad, but just like the Oreos, there are things in life you have to give up in order to improve upon yourself.

Only instead of decreasing the size of my ankles so I can wear regular shoes, it’s taking a step back from growing in my personal writing to finding my voice within the professional world.

So this is not goodbye forever. I’m sure there will be gems that I can think of that truly deserve to be written, and they will. But in terms of regular posts and consistent content, I can’t commit to that any further.  For those of you who have been loyal followers, I appreciate it more than you know.

You have given me the opportunity to share my ideas, thoughts, and weird stories. I’ve been afforded the chance to read some amazing posts, connect and network with awesome writers, and find people that I admire, adore, and am completely jealous of their minds.

So check back periodically for some rambles that will most likely involve snacks, wine, and how I’ll really never understand how to be socially acceptable during human interactions.

If you’re not my mom and aren’t already following me on everything, and for some reason want to keep up with me on other platforms, please feel free to follow me on INSTAGRAM and TWITTER, and I’ll return the favor.

The Top 5 Reasons I Wash My Hands After Going To The Bathroom

This is going to be a good one, kids!  First of all, I’d like to acknowledge that poop and pee are gross, and I’m not going to talk about them in this post other than when I just mentioned it just now.

Now that that’s over, it may seem as though I’ve gone off my rocker with this one.  And while you are absolutely right, it doesn’t detract from the fact that at the very least, I’m encouraging cleanliness.

So clean! NOT.

So clean! NOT.

And yes, I do wash my hands after the bathroom because it’s necessary and I don’t want my mother to think she raised a vagabond. But that’s not a fun reason. So these are the fun (real) reasons I do it.

5. It’s fun to test out the power of the dryers.

If you see a powerful dryer and you aren’t psyched to wash your hands, you suck at life and don’t have fun.  There is no greater joy than watching your skin spread apart and make fleshy mountains because the dryer air is coming out at such a rapid pace.  Don’t tell me you’ve never put your face under it. You have or you will. End of story.

4. Someone else is doing it. 

You cannot, I repeat, cannot be the person who walks out of the bathroom while someone else is washing their hands without washing yours. You may think you won’t ever see that person again, but low and behold, you’ll be making eye contact all the way down the elevator because he or she followed you out after your hasty, non-clean exit. And there will be judgment. So much judgment.

3.  It takes up more time.

Half the reason I go to the bathroom is to avoid doing work or being where I am supposed to be.  Waiting for a date? Bathroom break.  Bored at work? Bathroom break.  Awkward sex scene while watching a movie with my parents? ABSOLUTELY going to the bathroom.  Washing your hands adds a few more minutes on to that time frame where you can just escape the awk and enjoy the situation.

2.  To reaffirm my hatred for motion-sensored and push-button faucets.

Like, really, what the hell, world? You really think that humans over the age of five can’t be trusted to turn on and off a sink? Why are you deciding how much water I need?  My hands are dry and they lather soap rather aggressivley and I don’t think that your stupid push-button faucet allows enough moisture to really get all the suds off and complete the task. LET ME DO IT MYSELF.

1.  Because I’m scared if I don’t someone will ask to smell my hands after I leave and will know that I didn’t wash them and then I will be forever branded as a nomad or social pariah who doesn’t adhere to any sort of societal norm or personal hygienic regimen. 

This is a very real fear that eats away at me every day.  Whenever I think I can escape the bathroom without washing my hands I think of a scenario where someone immediately comes and smells my palms after leaving and I am found out for how disgusting and gross I am.  That fear outweighs the one of germs and other disgusting things that will happen to me when I didn’t wash them because I was just supposed to do so.


Why do YOU wash your hands after the bathroom?

I Just Realized, I’m Twenty-Five And My Life Is Over.

I think the best and worst moment of my life was when I realized I had turned into my parents.

Not the sixteen year old realization, though, that would be sad. Not that the twenty-five year old realization is that much more profound.

But there’s something about growing up; I mean, actually growing up that really just grows arms and slaps you in the face and lets you know that everything that happened before this moment was just a prelude to you being an internally old human being, destined to live in yoga pants, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends thinking about all those “good days” without responsibility.

At sixteen, if I had realized I turned out to be my parents I would have done everything in my power to regain my youth and just mess shit up for the fun of it.  As a junior in high school, you never, under any circumstances, want to be your parents.

It’s like going to that party and realizing that the girl who was always “the mom” was there, and she was going to make sure you didn’t drink too much beer, fall asleep somewhere inappropriate, or raid too much of that host’s refrigerator, so when the actual parents came home, it just looked like the kid in charge got super hungry one night and binge ate all the deli meats.

The worst part about realizing that I’ve turned into my parents is the fact that I’ve followed the status quo – depending on what you believe in, of course – and have finally graduated from crazy, party, uncontrollable college girl into full blown quasi-housewife, happy and willing to anticipate the needs of my significant other far beyond my own.

And the stark contrast is that I’m borderline, if not over the fence okay about it.

It’s like I turned twenty-five and all the sudden my brain cells and neurons started triggering all this nonsense about me not being the most important person in the world, and that someone else’s needs matter far more than my own.  And holy shit, I haven’t even had a child yet so this post will change in about five years.

I digress.

The best part about turning into my parents is the fact that I am saving a boat load of money.  I mean, like, saving is totally the thing to do right now.  I am hoarding without intervention because no one seems to think I have a problem with the fact that money isn’t confetti and I don’t need to throw it around to prove that I have it.

And hormonally, at my age, some people know putting it in a bank is far more worthwhile than drinking four glasses of wine at some bar called “Taco” that doesn’t even serve mexican food.

Sidenote: Not that I don’t still drink wines at Taco and complain about the fact that they don’t serve Mexican food. I still do that. It’s god damn outrageous and the owners need to be quarantined and condemned to a lifetime of solely eating burritos.

The other great part is that I don’t think I’m hormonally imbalanced, although that is still up for debate, but there is something extremely and unfortunately true about the phases of life.

We all go through these stages, obviously at different paces considering the circumstances, but we all do.  Birth to teen being the nourishment, get what we need to survive stage.  Teen to young adult being the fake it ’til we make it stage. And then here, where I am, the holy shit I’ve made it, I’m an adult, paying my own way through life, figuring out who I am and what I’m going to do for the rest of it stage.

Whatever stage you’re in, you’re going to make it out alive. It might not be on your timeline, it might not be the way you want it, but you’ll make it.

Just look at your parents.  The entire time they were telling you what to do, where to be, what grades to get, and what goals to set, they knew that someday, down the line, whatever you were going through was a phase. Because they went through it too.

And when you take a step back and realize that, on a Friday night, you’d rather be home, pants off, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends and remembering the “good old days,” then you’ll know that you’ve turned into your parents.

Life is funny that way.  Things always seem to come full circle.  The people you distrusted the most and hated being around now become the sole reason for your coming home.  At the end of the day, your parents are fucking awesome.

Because when they had you, they had to wait twenty-five years or more for that moment to come, and think of how goddamn grateful they are that you are just now realizing how much shit they had to put up with in order to get to this place.

And be thankful that you finally turned into your parents.


Have you turned into your parents? If not, are you scared?