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.

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I Gave All My Friends Breast Implants At My Thirteenth Birthday Party.

You know the saying, “patience is a virtue?”  Well, when I was thirteen there was no capacity left in me to endure my flat chested, baby body, and I decided it was time I got boobs. 

Now, before you all break out your early millenium spiral corded landlines and dial the DCF hotline to file a ten-years-too-late complaint on my mother, just know that any time you put a bunch of thirteen year old girls around things that resemble boobs, they’re all going to jump at the chance to enhance.

Case and point: At my thirteenth birthday party there were water balloons present.  We were all in bathing suits and there was not much going on up top, if you know what I mean. One thing led to another, and all of the sudden there were ten pre-teen girls resembling wet dog versions of Pamela Anderson running around my front yard.

Waterboobloons.

Waterboobloons.

I was thirteen years old, and I couldn’t wait to be sixteen.  To get my license, responsibility, and the sacred freedom from my parents to stay out later than 9pm.

When I was sixteen, I couldn’t wait to be eighteen.  To be legal and able to buy cigarettes and porn, and pretend I knew about politics.  (Aside: I did not buy porn, I wouldn’t even know where to begin in the purchasing process, but the thought seemed scandalous) 

When I was eighteen I couldn’t wait to be twenty-one, to have my first (legal) sip of alcohol, to walk into a liquor store with my real ID and not be scared of getting arrested for poorly impersonating my sorority sister from Virginia.

When I was twenty-one, I couldn’t wait to be twenty-five.  To.. well, nevermind, I didn’t think anything fun happened after twenty-one, but I just wanted to be grown up and out of college.

Looking back, there are so many instances in life where I couldn’t wait for the future.  I had plans, visions, and aspirations for my next milestone.  Sure, it’s exciting to think about the car you want to drive when you get your license, or the way you want to celebrate your twenty-first birthday.  But in reality, we spend so much time wishing for the future, that we never really enjoy the present.

If there is one thing we can take away from childhood photographs, it is to remember to take each day as it is.  If you’re twenty-five waiting for thirty, you’ll miss out on all the opportunities and advantages your twenties have to offer.

Don’t be that thirteen year old girl wishing she was sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. You’ll regret caring so much about your appearance, wasting time, your allowance, and your sanity on clothes that are too expensive and won’t fit in a year.

You’ll eventually get boobs and own as many bras as your little heart desires.  You’ll get that womanly shape you see on television, and you’ll critique it just like you do to the women in the magazines.

Don’t wish for things you don’t have.  I promise you the girl who actually got boobs in fifth grade cursed her mother’s mammary glands until all her friends caught up to her three years later.

Remember that life is a gift.  Cherish it.  Revel in it.

Next thing you know you’re twenty-five and are looking at pictures of yourself when you were thirteen wondering why you took growing up so seriously.

And you also hate your boobs. 

IMPORTANT UPDATE: I Am Officially Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman.

amen. preach. yup.

amen. preach. yup.

Well kids, it’s the beginning of the end; my twenty-fifth birthday is on Monday.

Yup, the big quarter-century label is coming for me faster than the cops who are hassling me to pay all my parking tickets.

I’m facing my last weekend as a twenty-four-year old and forcing myself to look back and reflect on how exactly I got here. You know, in life and stuff.

I don’t even remember anything that happened before third grade, so let’s start there.

I was six-years-old, sitting on a rock outside my grandparent’s barn holding a stray cat my uncles had taken in thinking I wanted to be a veterinarian.

It was that easy.  You just grew up, found something you loved, and did it. 

I loved animals; I owned a hamster, liked petting cats, and frequently wrestled with dogs; so I was going to be a vet.

When I was eight, I got pissed off at my parents and decided that I wanted to renounce my position in the family and live off the land like Pocahontas.  I gathered up all the belongings any eight-year-old would need, put them in a backpack, and left my house in a fury to make a statement.

My mother didn’t notice I was gone for over four hours, she just thought I was playing outside like a normal girl when I returned home for dinner because I had forgotten all about the food and shelter portion of survival outside a house. I did, however, bring an extensive collection of cds for my battery operated discman, and a slew of J-14 magazines.

At age ten, I remember falling so deeply in love with Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic to the point where I was determined to become an actress.  I joined the school play in fifth grade; I did anything I could to sabotage my family’s home videos and get experience in the spotlight.

The only issue was I had no acting talent, which was evident in my being cast as ‘stage crew,’ and my mother was not supportive in my newfound endeavor to become rich and famous before I could correctly spell the word ‘business’ on the first try.

this is how you look when you're 25. i think?

this is how you look when you’re 25. i think?

Which, in hindsight, my adolescent track record with drinking and recreational drug use would have landed me in the same position as Lindsay Lohan right now.  So thanks, Mom.  You did me a solid on crushing that fifth grade dream.

I actually blacked out all of middle school and don’t remember anything except for when Mrs. Townsend gave my friend Jocelyn and I a detention because we purposely put our left hands instead of our right hands over our hearts one too many times during the pledge of allegiance.  Apparently that was disrespectful.

All throughout high school I was almost certain that I wanted to go into marketing and advertising.  It was what my dad did.  He had season tickets to the New York Rangers and frequently used us kids as pilot testers for his agency’s commercials.  It seemed like a pretty badass career field.

I never listened when he told me how much he hated his job, never saw how overworked and overtired he was, and I conveniently never remembered how often he wasn’t there for the most formative years of my life.

It wasn’t until college that I realized I was extremely lazy and wanted summers off for the rest of my life.  The stark reality of the real life work force haunted my dreams and made me gain over thirty pounds.

That last statement was false, I gained thirty pounds because I was in college and drank handles of vodka after eating two-hour dinners at the all you can eat dining halls.  And I refused to exercise because the gym was too crowded and stretchy pants were in style.

I was twenty-one, fat, and going into my senior year at UConn when my mother pointed out how much I loved working with children.  I decided I was going to switch my major with four credits short of a Media Communications degree and pursue teaching; a field in which I had absolutely no idea what exactly was entailed.  But it had summers off.

At the end of my schooling, I had collected a Masters in Teaching, a Bachelors in Media Communications, and a Bachelors in English.  I wanted to be a middle school English teacher in Boston.  So I moved;  because finding teaching jobs in a city at a reputable school, with nice kids, and good pay is really easy to do.

It wasn’t.  I was twenty-three and unemployed.

I do have a job now, though.  And I like it.  But I didn’t use any of my degrees to get it, which is just both comical and completely depressing all at the same time.

Ultimately, I learned it was never going to be as easy as finding something you love and doing it.  

With three days left until twenty-five inevitably smacks me in the face like my hangover will on Sunday, I am humbled by all the failed dreams I’ve had, and cling to the ones I still have.  There is no way of knowing which will come true, and which, if not all, will be epic failures.

I can say wholeheartedly that I have not a goddamn clue in the world where I will be in five years.  None of my previous ambitions really panned out the way I wanted or wished, but I can only hope that with this birthday, I will magically be gifted the knowledge of what the fuck I am supposed to be doing with my life.

Until then, we can always thank the high heavens and my mother that I did not become Lindsay Lohan or Pocahontas.

24 Things I Irrationally Hate

Radar_speed_sign_-_close-up_-_under_limit
Irrational Hatred: An immediate dislike for someone or something that can’t be justified or has no reason behind it.  The main reason being that he/she/you/they/it ” just drives me insane.” 
  1. Kristen Stewart and the fact that she never makes eye contact or smiles.
  2. Starbucks employees who spell your name incorrectly, I’m on to you.
  3. The first stall in any public bathroom.
  4. Dave Matthews Band.
  5. Using the word literally when something isn’t actually happening at the moment.
  6. Teenage drama television shows where the central characters never have parents.
  7. Boys, because they don’t have to wear bras. (If you’re a boy that wears a bra, GOOD FOR YOU!)
  8. You, if you drive the speed limit.
  9. People that knowingly leave their shopping cart taking up entire parking space; you jackass.
  10. Girls who are able to apply makeup without making themselves look like a streetwalker that owns the corner of Harlot Avenue and Pay Me For This Boulevard.
  11. People who order salads at restaurants because they’re “watching their weight.”
  12. Tankinis… What are you?
  13. Odd numbers.  Get out of here.
  14. Horizontal stripes for being my favorite pattern but at the same time paradoxically making me look four times larger than I really am (or am I?)
  15. The weather being a universal and acceptable conversation topic.
  16. Upforkers – for obvious reasons.
  17. Crop circles. Farmers already have a tough life, let’s not make it worse, okay?
  18. Chipotle for promising me things and not delivering.
  19. Paying for things.
  20. The snack aisle vortex at the grocery store for having a magnetic pull on my weak soul leaving me with the inability to avoid purchasing birthday cake oreos.
  21. Hiding tampons in your sleeves, shirts, pants, ears, and pockets because even as an adult for some reason it’s still weird to have people know it’s that time of the month.
  22. Cab drivers.  Oh wait, nope that one is rational.
  23. Diets and the people who can actually stick to them.  I’ll be over here on day two spoons deep in nutella and stuffing my face with marshmallows (see #20).
  24. Those elastic-waisted, maternity pants that are supposedly only for pregnant women.  Non-preggos have fat days, too.

Cheers to you, to me, to you, and back to me again, and then you, and then me.

Irish or not, you know about St. Patrick’s Day.

Seeing as Monday is one of the most glorified drinking holidays on the planet, I figured I’d give you a little something to think about going into the weekend.  There’s going to be beer, there’s going to be drinking, there’s going to be parades, and most of all, there are going to be, “CHEERS!”

Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard them all, “To good friends! – To good times!” yadda, yadda, yadda.  BOOOORING.

If you stick with the run of the mill drink clinks, you’ll quickly run out of things to say and simultaneously raise your glass.  That’s why I’m here to help you.

The following is a list of things you can, “Cheers!” to this weekend in honor of Saint Patrick:

  • To money
  • To your bank account
  • To your parents, because without them you would not be alive and drinking today
  • To not falling down
  • To the Pilgrims and Indians getting along splendidly
  • To the military and the USA
  • To falling down and getting back up
  • To that kid not wearing green because “he isn’t Irish”
  • To that kid peeing on the sidewalk
  • To your friends because, “OH MY GAHHH I LOVE YOU SO MUCH”
  • To not using public restrooms
  • To finally getting to use the public restroom
  • To airplanes and automobiles that will bring you home
  • To candy hearts that express emotions so you don’t have to
  • To being single and not running into your ex
  • To not being single and running into your ex
  • To Tinder when there’s a surplus of hot drunk individuals in one concentrated area
  • To seeing eye dogs – because they’re the shit
  • To Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski (he did not have sexual relations with that woman)
  • To not wearing heels
  • To bacon, eggs, and cheese, and bread.  So much bread.
  • To live music and uncomfortably swaying and calling it ‘dancing’
  • To Outkast reuniting
  • To free alcohol
  • To stealing alcohol
  • To making fast friends on the streets that you have absolutely no intention of ever talking to again
  • To sleep number beds for always knowing what you want
  • To McDonald’s for giving us the Happy Meal when you’re ordering over 18 years of age
  • To wearing sunglasses when it’s not sunny because you’re too hungover to be in public
  • To the one time of the year wear corn beef and cabbage is a fun thing to eat
  • To castles and royalty
  • TO POTATOES!
  • To infinity and beyond
  • To street meat
  • To Janet Jackson’s nip slip
  • To Leo DeCaps and Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”
  • To finding out all your socks matching up after laundry
  • To cooking something that isn’t poisonous
  • To haircuts and looking so fresh and so clean, clean
  • To creating resolutions and breaking them
  • To giving up beer for Lent…… then taking it back because St. Patrick’s day is during Lent
  • To the world’s largest ball of yarn
  • TO POTATOES!
  • To tear-away Adidas sweats and white high top sneakers
  • To snap bracelets and snap backs and Snap, Crackle, Pop
  • To Ramen noodles and drinking like you’re in college again
  • To day drinking and passing out before 9pm
  • To having an excuse to drunk dial your mom and dad just to , “Say hey.”
  • To Ireland and the people from it who immigrated here because there were no potatoes, without whom we would not be the population of drunk people we are today, and we have to salute you the only way we know how, by getting drunk

Go forth, my sons, into the land of inebriation. 

The Common White Girl’s Idea of Struggling

Life is an uphill battle, but why toil with the stairs when you can take the elevator to the top?

I’m a common white girl from Connecticut and my idea of a struggle is figuring out how close I need to get to the drive-thru window in order to reach my food without unbuckling my seatbelt.

People tell you from day one to prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.  So that’s what I do.  But it’s a constant battle with the weather these days.  I can’t get anything to go my way.  I mean how am I supposed to channel corporate chic when I live in a metaphorical snowglobe and can’t wear heels to work?

Most days I wake up and hope against all odds that my hair picks a side between curly and straight and sticks to it.  A lot of times that doesn’t happen, and it makes me really upset.  If I knew it was going to be a bad hair day, I would have worn it in a bun initially, instead of wasting all it’s promise on the morning where I slapped myself every time I went to move one perfectly formed tendrel away from my face.

I moved out of my parents house almost two years ago, during that time I attempted to move my dresser up three flights of stairs.  Eventually, I just asked my three younger brothers to help me out.  I’m a huge advocate of outsourcing labor.  Especially when it involves me delegating and not participating.

One time I was so hungover that I called out of work.  The struggle was so real.   I persevered by taking an inordinate amount of naps on a Wednesday.

There are a lot of aspects of my life that I find particularly difficult.  For one, I can never decide which restaurant I want to try first, so I often make a decision based on the wine selections.  If they don’t have pinot noir, they are obviously a bootleg establishment, and don’t deserve my parents’ my money.

In attempt to not sound completely superficial and unaware of other human beings on this planet, I want to let everyone know that I have read multiple books — well, I sparknoted them — and understand the plight that other races and cultures have experienced through the written word.  And boy, does that suck.

But the thing is, I’m not minimizing any of that stuff.  I have feelings, thoughts, and values.  I am a real person who empathizes with others.

I value shopping and what it does to support the economy.  I am absolutely aware that my hard-earned dollars are contributing – in some way that I don’t actually understand – to this country’s health and well-being.   I think voting is scary, so I don’t do it because politicians use big words and research is a lot of effort.

I feel like all the problems in the world would be solved if we were all tan and from Florida. You know why you never hear about unrest in Florida?  Because everyone is actually resting and enjoying the sun.  There’s no time for fighting when you’re living in a perpetual fantasy land.  You’re welcome, world.

But growing up privileged does not mean I am immune to adversity.  I posted a Facebook update on my whereabouts during my European vacation, and only seven people liked it.  I took that as a cue to make a better effort at posting more interesting updates.  By the end of my trip, I had almost forty people like my post about, “Putting the ‘Bar’ in Barcelona!”  Success.

I do my best to shatter the rich white girl stereotype.  Whenever there isn’t an attendant on duty, I’ll wait five minutes before reluctantly pumping my own gas.  I also make a point to throw my spare change into the tip donation jars, you know, because every penny counts and I don’t use them anyways.

It’s not all glitz and glamour.  I face just as many strifes each week as another person.  After a hard day of pretending to work (but going on Pinterest instead), all I need to relax is a goblet of wine and a good television show.  It’s times like these that I realize the Gods are smiting me because last week I had no wine on a Tuesday and my Netflix crashed so I was forced to watch the news.  I was asleep in my clothes before 8pm.  Thanks a lot, technology.

People say it’s a dog eat dog world, but I’ve never witnessed it.  I can’t understand why a dog would want to eat another dog, and I don’t really understand why that phrase applies to human nature in the slightest.  I’ve never been denied a job opportunity, and constantly look for ways to slide under the radar while still being labeled as “efficient” within my workplace.

I’m just trying to do my best to survive on a reasonable salary while maintaining an active social life and not buying store-brand groceries.

I’m a common white girl and my idea of a struggle is understanding what it means to struggle.

Cleaning: Then vs. Now

Chores.  The word that, as a child, would make me come up with a sudden prior commitment, a misplaced cell phone, or some sort of bedridden ailment.

No pants? No problem. #Laundry

No pants? No problem. #Laundry

Chores. The word, that as a semi-adult, would still make me come up with excuses, take a necessary nap in avoidance, but the end result would be finding my cell phone.

It’s funny to think about how much you’ve actually grown up compared to yourself as a child. I used to cringe at the thought of doing dishes, but now I will head hunt a roommate and give her a hairy eyeball until she goes and washes the pan from two days ago.

I don’t think I’ve grown up that much, but there are certain aspects of life I’ve accepted as growing up since I’ve moved out.

Making your bed:

Kid: The only time I made my bed was when my mom made me change my sheets.  I just rolled out of bed, then rolled right back in at the end of the night.  Covers still disrupted, it was easy to just pull them back over my gross kid body and call it a night.

Adult: I will forget to bring a lunch to work but you better bet your bottom dollar I make my bed.  There are few greater pleasures than getting ready to go to sleep and hopping inside a freshly made bed.  The warmth of the blankeys permeated through the sheets.  Just pure heaven.  An absolute must before leaving in the morning.

Laundry:

Kid: Laundry consisted of me finding what looked the cleanest on the floor and putting it back onto my body.  If I mustered up the motivation and strength to put everything in a basket and bring it upstairs, mamma Meg would take care of that problem.  Shirts always perfectly folded, socks always perfectly coupled.  I don’t think I ever had missing footwear as a child.  My mom had that shit on LOCK.

Adult: Laundry consists of me finding what looks the cleanest on my floor and putting it back onto my body.  If I muster up the motivation and strength to gather everything into a basket and bring it into the laundry room, chances are I waited too long to fit it all into one machine.  Nothing is ever folded. Socks are always missing.  Laundry is a constant battle.

Dishes:

Kid: Don’t get me started.  I could catch a disease washing a dish.  Especially growing up with three boys, I saw how they ate.  No regard for manners, politeness, or basic chewing.  I was not in any way, shape, or form touching those plates.  Got to the point where if I didn’t do my dishes, my mom would actually take them and put them on my bed.  And as we learned earlier, my bed was never made – so that made for a very unpleasant situation.

Adult: I learned very quickly after moving out that doing dishes is essential.  When you live with people you don’t know, it’s important to keep the place clean.  Or, you quickly learn to question how people were raised when you see them leave dishes in the sink, bowls on the counter, and mugs on the table for days on end. Also, never been more excited to see a dishwasher in my life than when I moved into my new apartment.

Cleaning the house:

Kid: Cleaning the house meant one of two things, either I was being punished, or relatives were coming, which in some cases, could be punishment in itself.  Nothing worse than knowing Thanksgiving was coming up and remembering I have to polish the entire silver set that we use for thirty minutes a year.  “But it’s because it’s your grandmother’s.” My mom would always say.  Okay mom.

Adult: Now I just clean because the place is filthy and I can’t stand having to walk around wearing shoes.  A good vacuum is hard to come by, but essential for my sanity. I never understood why my mom put so much effort into cleaning when guests were going to come and dirty up the place.  But as a mature, cultured adult, I understand that presentation is important, and first, second, and all the time impressions are always measured. CLEAN YA HOUZE.

..Now excuse me, I have to go decide whether or not I’m going to shower tonight.

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SNOW DAY.

Dear Boss Lady,

I will not be making it to work today.

It’s unfortunate, because I really wanted to be there. I even went to bed extra early so I could get up rested and ready to go.  I had already picked out my outfit.  I even showered.

But the thing is, I’m worried about my safety.  I have to walk. And the thing is, when it gets really cold, my right knee does this thing where it doesn’t bend like usual, so it is just really hard to get places.  I look like a zombie in the apocalypse, and people tend to act like I’m a leper.

My left foot also has this tendency to just not move when it snows.  It’s like I’m glued to the ground.  I call it Cement Foot.  It’s pretty serious; bodybuilders have been seen trying to move me, but I am a mountain. I know, I’ve made an appointment with my doctor to get it checked out.

Sometimes, I even think my eyes intuitively know it’s not safe to look outside, so they just won’t even open.  I have no other choice but to trust my body under these circumstances.  The best option is clearly staying home, wrapped up in my blankets, in my bed: snuggled, secure, and ultimately, safe.

During this state of snow emergency, it’s also important to know that I am without the essentials.  I will be surviving for the next twenty-four hours on the most basic supply of human nourishment. I have only completely sanitary running water, a sweet potato, five frozen meals, a bag of broccoli, and a handful of Lean Cuisines.

That’s right. You heard me, I have no milk. No bottled water. No non-perishables. and I’m pretty sure I just heard a scream coming from Shaw’s; they probably have a storewide dairy and minestrone shortage.

I also have a reserve consisting of two handles of vodka, a fifth of tequila, and six bottles of wine.  I just wish I was more prepared.

Also, the zipper on my coat broke, and I’m extremely prone to catching airborne illnesses, especially ones that are particularly elusive, or non-existent. I got hypothermia one time because I looked at a frozen carrot.  So, I’m taking all the preventative measures to not only protect myself from any harmful winter sickness, but I’m also protecting the office.

Thank you so much for understanding.  I’ll make sure my timesheet is filled out properly.

No need to respond to this letter. I’m going to assume you have felt the immense pain and grave danger of my situation and only want me to be safe.  And for that, I thank you.

Please ignore this picture and all others like it.

Please ignore this picture and all others like it.

Please be advised that any pictures of me uploaded to any and all social media outlets within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are strictly due to an unforeseeable technological timelapse.  Those are actually from a different time it snowed.  And I don’t drink during the daytime. Or during the week.  Or ever, really.  

My best regards,

Meg

PS – If you make it into the office and want to check a few emails for me, that would be the greatest service.  If not, no problem, I guess I can do that when I get better.  ::cough, cough::

PPS – I forgot to put socks on last night before my slumber, so my toes are pretty cold.  I may be on crutches and need a few days to recover.  More on that later.

Burritos After Dark.

Disclaimer: This is a true story about one time when I was hungry.  When I’m hungry, I do not think clearly. As a result, I may or may not have found myself romantically linked to the delivery man.

One night, in the cozy one-bedroom apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over, my friend Loren and I found ourselves miraculously hungry.  We had an entire day filled with activities – both good and bad – and a midnight snack was the sole solution to all of our problems. 

“Burritos.” I demanded.  Loren agreed, nodding her head in approval.

We ordered our late night Mexican feast online, and got a confirmation and a delivery estimate of one hour.  But time moved at what seemed like a glacial pace.  Seconds barely turned into minutes, and even though the hour was drawing near, my cell phone was not ringing to signify that my post-dinner fast was over.

Loren looked over at me in realization, and informed me of society’s bi-annual observance of modern day time travel,  “It’s Daylight Savings, Meg, we just fell back an hour.”

“It’s technically 1am.” She mentioned, pointing at the clock, even though it clearly showed the little hand at the 2.  “Does this mean my burrito is going to take another hour?” The question came out of my mouth in the same tone that children use when asking for their mothers’ permission to eat thirds from the Thanksgiving dessert buffet.

“We should just call and find out,” she suggested in a rational, adult tone, “he could be on his way right now.”  Slightly panicked, I picked up the phone and dialed.  It rang, and rang, and rang, until finally, the answering machine picked up, “Hello, you’ve reached Burrito Taqueria, please leave a message.”

I was not prepared for this.  So I did what any sane, hungry, person would do in that situation; I left a message.

“Uhhmm, yes, hi, my name is Meg. I ordered two burritos about an hour and a half ago,” I sounded stern, I think, “I was just wondering if you guys observed Daylight Savings? Because I’m very hungry, and don’t know if I can wait an–” I hung up mid thought.

It was at that moment when I realized what I was saying was being recorded and could be replayed at anyone’s convenience, and my name was on the order. Ending the call was my only choice, even if it was mid-sentence.

I took a sip of wine, got a rush of adult-grape confidence, picked up the phone, and hit redial.

“Hello, Burrito Taqueria, how can I help you?” The man on the other end asked, politely, in a hispanic accent. “Umm, yeah, hi, I just called about five minutes ago,” I responded,  “I just wanted to ask if you had listened to any of your messages recently?”

There was a pause, and in a slightly concerned tone, he responded, “No, why?” I was relieved, and immediately pleaded with him,  “Could you please maybe just go back and delete the message I left on the answering machine” before adding this red-flag statement,  “but also don’t listen to it.”

“Why?” He asked, seriously confused with my request, and probably concerned that I was insane, “Was it offensive?”

“Truthfully, no.  It is just really embarrassing, and I don’t think I want that kind of audio being played at your leisure, sir.” I answered, “But I’m also calling because I’d like to know where my burritos are. It’s been over an hour,”  I added, to make my phone call sound justified, “and I know it’s Daylight Savings, but–”

“What is your name?” he interrupted, as if to look up my order. “Meg.” I answered, helping to give him all my information. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong with the order.” I was sinking lower and lower into the couch, thinking of the worst possible scenarios in my head.  All involving me, alone, sans burrito.

“Hi Meg, I’m Hugo.” He introduced himself via phone line.

“Where are you from?” I wondered, out loud, accidentally. “I am from Mey-hee-koh.” He answered in an accent.

And then I did whatever happens when someone with an accent speaks to me.  I attempt to replicate it for no apparent reason, and never stop myself until it’s too late.

“Ahh, May-hee-koh.” I mimicked, then realized I was being a jackass as well as losing complete sight of why I had called in the first place.

Continuing my thought, I asked, “Hi. Wait, Hugo, do you not have customers right now? ” This was done in an effort to make him focus on locating my missing Mexican roll-ups. “Oh! Yes, I do!” He replied, discovering people waiting at the register.

“Let me put you on hold.”  Without waiting for my response, elevator music filled my ears.  About three minutes later, I hear a click on the other end of the line, “Hello? Meg?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I laughed while responding. I was just put on hold and I wasn’t even asked if it was okay.

“I feel bad,” he apologized, “I want to give you a free dessert.  Would you like a flan or a rice pudding?”

“Neither.” I said politely, still laughing at how I just voluntarily stayed on the line listening to elevator music, and was now back to casually conversing about dessert options with a man I had never met.

“Well, what do you want instead?” He asked in a rebuttal.  At that moment, I dug into my treasure trove of late-night cravings, and began to list them all off in a rapid fire sequence.

“Do you have sweet potato fries?” I asked. “No.”

“Onion rings?” I suggested. “No. We don’t have those”

“Mozzarella sticks?” I wondered. “No, sorry.”

“Chocolate cake?” I just threw it out there.  “No. Only flan or rice pudding for dessert.”

I was running out of options. “Ice cream?” I asked, hopeful.  “No,” he replied, “but I can run to the gas station next door and get you some.”

“What about some Taquitos?” I concluded. “No, sorry. No taquitos.” He answered.  I didn’t know if he was joking or not. “You’re a Mexican restaurant,” I pointed out to him, “and you don’t have even one taquito lying around?”

“I’m sorry, but I will personally deliver your food to you,” he offered as a consolation, “I will leave here in five minutes, will you be awake?” Asking, as if to redeem himself in the conversation.

“Yes,” I shrugged, looking at Loren for confirmation, “we will be watching Netflix.” That statement was totally pertinent to his time management and delivery, by the way.  I look at my phone, noticing that the timestamp on the call was just about sixteen minutes.

After hanging up, Loren and I promptly begin to debrief the awkwardly long conversation that just occurred. “What do you think he looks like?” I wondered out loud, while picturing a tall, dark, handsome type in my mind. “If we have children, I will totally name them Taquito and Rice Pudding.” I started planning out this ridiculous imaginary life with Hugo, who I had never met, and would probably never see again.

We’re fifteen minutes into an episode of New Girl, when my phone lights up with a call from an unknown number.  “Hello?” I have the phone on speaker.  “Yes,” I hear him say, “I am downstairs.” I have never sprung up from a bed that fast in my life.  We run downstairs, tip in hand, ready to receive our long awaited food.

And then I see him.

He was not tall, dark, and handsome.  We would not be having two children named after appetizers and desserts respectively, nor would we be spending the rest of our lives together.  But he was holding my food, and that filled me with glee.

“Hi, I’m Meg.” I introduce myself, as I open the door and reach out to grab the bag filled with what I can only assume is my late-night treat, “How old are you?” I ask.  Because, at this point, why not?

He hesitates, “How old do you think I am?”  And now, standing in the doorway, face to face with the same man who told me he’d go next door to a gas station and bring me ice cream,  and I have no idea how to respond.

I figure my best shot is to give an age range and hope for the best, “I’m going to say, between thirty and thirty-five.” I was pretty confident.

Perplexed, he asks,  “Wait… What does that mean?” Just as confused with his confusion, I explain, “Well, it means you’re either, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, or thirty-five.” I simultaneously count using my fingers, making sure I’ve included all ages within this rage.

“Oh, well I am twenty-eight.” He says after giving me my food, “and I gave you some King Sized Junior Mints, my coworker did not want them.” This is in addition to the flan, just because.

“Oh, well, thank you for those.”  I make a gesture to sign the receipt in an effort to end this encounter and not have it become more awkward that it already was.

food on the brain.

food on the brain.

I close the door, food in hand, and walked up four floors to the cozy apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over.  Loren and I ate burritos at 3am, watched the second half of that New Girl episode, and talked about how I just very, very recently made tentative plans involving the man who just delivered our food and two children named Taquito and Rice Pudding.

Because when you have a long day filled with activities – both good and bad – the sole solution to all your problems is a midnight snack.

Just make sure it’s not Daylight Savings.

Catharsis.

Screen Shot 2014-01-01 at 6.15.17 PM

happy new year.

2013 was that CSI marathon on Spike.  You don’t know why it hasn’t ended, but all the sudden it’s 8pm and you still have your cereal bowl on your lap from this morning.

Many times, I sat back thinking that the days were moving painfully slow; I was all too eager to jump into the next month or season in anticipation of what was to come.

I am self-sufficient. I was always able to keep myself occupied as a child, and even into adolescence and adulthood, I never really needed people constantly around me to feel validated or connected.  But this year, I moved out of my childhood home and started a bankrupt-bound adventure in Boston, Massachusetts.

I became independent.

Independence was different in 2013 than 2012 and before.  It was nice to move out and start a new chapter in my life, but at the same time, this year was one of the most lonely years I’ve endured.  I realized everything that made me so comfortable at home was no longer within reach.

I suppose everyone goes through trials and tribulations when they begin new chapters.  In all the books I’ve read, there’s never been a character that’s had it easy throughout the entire story.  And if they did, I was probably reading Dr. Seuss.

I learned to take risks.

Moving to a new city without a job is not entirely far from the realm of things I would do.  Watching my savings dwindle down to almost nothing after a month of unemployment was something I didn’t really account for in my calculations, though.

I fell in love.

And it wasn’t the way I planned it. I guess you don’t plan those kinds of things though.  For the first time, I figured out how to let my guard down.  I had never let anyone in before; I was barricaded by this crippling fear that I would get hurt in the end.

And then I got my heart broken.

And that didn’t go like I planned it either.  It wasn’t anyone’s fault, both parties ended up in the wrong.  It was a casualty of the circumstances and situations.  It just didn’t work, and I don’t even know if it would had it been done differently.  It’s the first time where after something didn’t work out that I wasn’t bitter, angry, or spiteful.  There was just an acceptance and appreciation of what was accomplished in a short time.

I broke a heart.

And that makes you feel like shit. I’ll be honest. Starting with a clean slate isn’t easy when you have a lot of baggage to bring along to your new destination.  It makes the whole relationship thing seem like a great idea, but then again when you’re doing something that’s entirely for yourself, the other person doesn’t really factor into the equation.

I was selfish.

And not in the good way.  I jeopardized and potentially ruined a very good friendship because I never cared about the other person the way that I should have.  There are certain instances in life where in the moment, it seems like an okay idea, but in retrospect, a lot of the issues or problems that arise between friends would be avoided if both parties just stopped and looked objectively at the situation.  That takes time and effort though, and who has that?

I lived in a closet.

Kinda still do.  It’s funny how growing up I always compared my friends’ rooms to my own.  If they could see me now!  I understand the value of consolidation and have learned to only keep the necessities.  It’s nice to know that I don’t have anything from PacSun anymore, and that I really don’t miss that sweatshirt I had since high school with all the holes and history in its sleeves.

I learned that things don’t always work out the way you want.

And this was the hardest lesson. The idea of moving to a new city with all your dreams boxed up is intoxicating.  When reality is just waiting until you settle into your apartment to come out and slap you clear across the face.  All these plans concocted in my head, and virtually none of them turned out the way I wanted.  But I also wouldn’t change the way anything unfolded.

I stopped planning.

Everything started to work out when I stopped trying to orchestrate my life. At the end of the day, I can only do so much to solidify my chances of obtaining the job I want, or being accepted into the group of friends I’d like to join, and start letting things happen.  I opened myself up to being bored out of my mind and not planning a damn thing, and it all just clicked.

Appreciating the unexpected wouldn’t happen if things panned out the way your mind had mapped it from the start. Being grateful for a perfectly executed plan would never come around if everything went your way all the time.  If situations were taken as is, lessons would never be learned and people would never change.

In a lifetime, a year can be insignificant at first thought.  But there will always be those gravestone worthy moments within each twelve month period that hold the answers regarding that scar on your right knee, that tattoo on your forearm, or that reason why thought it was a good idea to wear pleather to your coworkers’ dinner party.

Whatever those moments are, cherish them.  Because you only have one shot at 2014, and you better make sure your aim is on point.