Mascot’s Most Eligible Bachelors: Cap’n Crunch

Snow White got her Prince Charming.  Don’t these down to earth dudes deserve a shot at love?

Each week, I’ll be profiling some of the world’s most suitable men.  You’ll get the good, the bad, and the ugly on why these guys haven’t been able to hold down a steady girlfriend.

Introducing: Mascot’s Most Eligible Bachelors.

Nautical Headshot!

Nautical Headshot!

Name: Horatio Magellan Crunch, AKA: Cap’n Crunch

Born: 1963, Crunch Island, Sea of Milk; owns lavish beachfront vacation home at Mount Crunchmore

Height: Unknown

Occupation: Captain of the S.S. Guppy

Known Enemies: Jean LaFoote

Hobbies: Sailing the open seas

About the Cap’n: Horatio is not your average guy, in fact, he’s pretty darn unique.  While most men hold a typical 9-5 job in order to pay the bills, he fantasizes about exploring new lands and setting sail to tropical destinations.

He is on currently the quest to find his first mate.  And would love an able bodied seawoman who does not abandon ship due to seasickness, as they will be living aboard the S.S. Guppy while they traverse the globe in search of new ingredients for their cereal.

On his quest for love, Horatio has run into several women who just couldn’t hold his interests.  He’s ready for love, and wants to find the anchor to his boat and the wind to his sails.

A perfect date includes a tour of the S.S. Guppy, sailing into the sunset and bonding over a bowl of cereal in the Crow’s Nest. As far as dates go, he’s not too hard to please.  He’s willing to dote on his partner and has been known to fly his significant other to his vacation home on Mt. Crunchmore.

The downfall is that he will need a woman who is either committed to waiting for him to return home, or a born sea detective, as he has been lost at sea for twenty-years.


This Is Why My Face Is Messed Up.

Oh wow, she’s cute!

Well, it’s messed up because of genetics and my inability to correctly apply make up.  But that’s neither here nor there.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane…

I’ll be the first person to admit that I am not fond of someone telling me what to do.

But being a twenty-five year old with extensive nanny experience, I realize that the rules and regulations established for us as children were meant to keep us safe.  But that never stopped me from giving the stop sign the middle finger as I rolled through it, or being disruptive to the point where I was actually kicked out of girl scouts.

Growing up with three younger brothers, I never really had a chance to become a girly-girl.  I was always playing in the mud, getting shot at with paintball guns, and learning the names of all the baseball players on the New York Yankees.

My brothers taught me to be tough, stubborn, and rebellious above anything else.

I’m not going to say I’m a criminal, but I have taken a few creative liberties when it comes to following the law.

Here’s a few that I’ve broken:

The Laws of the Road: I’ve gotten more than my fair share of tickets.

The Unwritten Law of Digestion: I don’t wait 30 minutes to swim.

The Drinking Age Law: I had wine at my first communion, broke that law in a church.  Does that count as two?

But these are all trivial compared to the time that I broke The First Law of Motion.

Sir Isaac Newton states that an object will stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force – basically if you’re moving, you’ll keep moving until something stops you, like a wall, or in my case, a big ass tree.

Let me set the scene for a minute.

My mom is a crazy runner, like six miles every other day.  My brother had just gotten this spiffy new Huffy bike with grippy handlebars and a comfy seat.  Like, way better than mine.  She asked me to accompany her on her run and I said yes.

Naturally, I took his bike instead of mine (so I guess I’ve stolen too?) and embarked on what was supposed to be a six mile adventure with my mom.

Enter the law of motion.

I ride out of the driveway and turn to go down the hill.  I knew in my head that I could roll down the hill faster than my mom’s two, tiny, Irish feet could carry her, so I told her that I’d meet her by the pond at the end of the road.  I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the breeze on my face without interruption.

I was riding at a leisurely pace when all the sudden the force that interrupted my inertia joyride came out of nowhere… and then I broke my face.

Yup, stay in school kids.  Pay attention to science, or your teachers, or whoever tells you something and says it’s important.  If you don’t, you’ll ultimately end up breaking laws, and breaking laws causes you to crash your bike into a tree and end up looking like this:

Is that a bruise or are you just happy to see me?

Result: 6 broken bones in the face, two in the arm, and a popped blood vessel in my left eye.

Side note: Having a black eye, a broken face, and arm sling swag in my third grade school photo did give me some serious street cred.

But it also could have been because I told people I got into a fight over a Twix and they needed to “see what happened to the other guy.”


Girl Scouts: The Most Notorious Gang In History

gang (noun): a group of people which shares an identity and a common purpose; often know to fight against other groups with similar interests. 

Pouty Meg, front and center.

Pouty Meg, front and center. #RuthlessTroop156

Have you ever tried to say “No,” to a gaggle of five-year-old girls, all of whom are dead set on winning first place in a bake sale competition?

If you were one of the few brave souls who stood up to the corrupt tactics of using seasonal treats to transform innocent girls into tyrannical, power hungry  preteens, you probably did not live to tell the tale.

So we salute you, brave, dead soul, for your attempts to stand up to the most notorious gang in history: The Girl Scouts of America.

To the naked eye, a Girl Scout is a poster of all that is good in the universe: a volunteer at retirement centers, one who spends time picking up trash around local parks, earning badges and patches for being active in their respective communities.

But a closer look into the organization reveals cut throat sales techniques, questionable initiation rituals, and heinously manufactured uniforms.  These girls are highly trained cookie assassins, and they will attack you when you are weakest.

You may think I’m exaggerating.  But I am not.  I am a survivor of the GSoA.  I’ve lived through it, and I’m here to explain why the Girl Scouts organization just a mirage for an undercover street gang of elementary school girls.

According to this article, here is what constitutes a gang:

1.  Organized in some way, often with clear leaders and a hierarchy, and that the members gather to socialize and carry out various activities on a regular basis.

Troops leaders are the head honchos of the Girl Scouts.  These women, usually mothers related to a girl in the respective troop, will coordinate, plan, and execute meetings on a weekly basis.  Discussion topics of relevance include but are not limited to: scheming various sales strategies for seasonal supplies, decorate clothing items with symbols of segmented troop for unique identifier and easy avoidance of “friend or foe” when in the streets.

2.  The shared identity of gang members can be based on ethnicity, culture, class, religion, or another common thread which allows people to find something of interest in each other.

Girls are usually grouped together based on initial elementary friend groups, and or community based neighborhoods, or ‘hoods.’  These girls generally have common interests based on blocks where they live, classes, and school bus routes.

3.  Members may choose to identify themselves with nicknames, tattoos, specific slang, distinctive graffiti tags, or specific styles of dress. 

Daisies, Brownies, Juniors, Cadets – you see where I’m going with this – just climbing the gang ranks. If you didn’t have patches on patches sewn to your vest, you knew you didn’t try and no one respected you.  You had to have a vest so patched out, it looked like a quilt on your back.  Nothing less than perfection was accepted.


Collectively identified with distinctively unique clothing.

4.  Often, if not always require indicative hand gesture, slogan, identifying sign or graffiti during meetings and greetings.


Self explanatory.

5.  Seeks to exercise control over a particular geographic location or region, or it may simply defend its perceived interests against rivals.

Girl Scouts are constantly defending coveted neighborhood territory against rival gangs like: other girl scout troops – specifically those within the same elementary school – the dreaded boy scouts, do good church-led youth groups, and/or any extracurricular activity dedicated to the betterment of society as a whole.

6.  Infamous for being involved in activities of questionable legality.

Bragging rights for most cookies sold was essential, prudent, and imperative.  Losing was not an option.  If you had to work twelve-hour sale days, you did it.  If you had to walk eight miles in your fifth grade shoes after soccer practice, you did it.  We learned one slogan, ABC: Always Be Closing.

There were no tears, only triumphs.

Always remember, if you see something, say something.  Girl Scouts are taking over our communities one box of cookies at a time.  Do your due diligence to stop your sisters, daughters, and friends from joining.

But if you have a hook-up to some Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Do-Si-Dos, hell any of those delicious seasonal treats, email me.  Let’s talk, I’m never above an under the table transaction. 

Honestly, The “Now, That’s What I Call Disney” Compilation Is A Complete Travesty.

This compiler is a dunce.

This compiler is a dunce.

I can’t go into the weekend with this on my mind.  So, here we go.

I asked my mom the other day, “On a scale of 1-10, how dramatic am I?”

In unwritten dramatic scales, 10 presumably consists of daily temper tantrums in the street because you can’t get two toppings on your ice cream cone, and 1 consists of ignoring all problems in your day to day life because you’re just “so over the drama.”

My mother rated me at an 8.

Yes, an 8 on the drama scale. My mother just sentenced me to a semi-regular mental and physical breakdown in a public place over frozen treats.

Keeping that in mind, but at the same time, ignoring it completely and thinking of me in a more positive, attractive, calm and collected light, I want to tell you a story.

Recently, there was an attack on my childhood.

It started with an infomercial. An innocent advertisement for a compilation of songs that serenaded me through adolescence, Now That’s What I Call Disney!

At the start of it all, it seemed like a mix I could get behind. A little piece of plastic disc nostalgia that I could really see myself enjoying… Until I saw the track list.

Frankly, it was just atrocious. Flat out wrong, immoral, and a complete mockery of the cartoons that taught me the wind had colors, carpets can fly, and legs were required for dancing.

I don’t know who did it.  I don’t know what committee is involved with the song selection.  I’m assuming can only be a panel made up of this woman and her friends, to represent Disney in the first volume of hits.

But, God as my witness, it needs to be corrected.

At first glance you may think to yourself, hey Meg, your mom is totally right, you are dramatic, I actually think I saw you crying about missing toppings on your ice cream cone back in August.

And while I was having a tantrum, it was actually because my friend wouldn’t buy me a wine at 3pm on a Wednesday.

My thoughts on this CD are still valid.  If you’re going to have a Now That’s What I Call Disney, you’ll need a few Bare Necessities, if you will (umm…. yes, pun totally intended). Here are my expert feelings on most of the selections:


Can You Feel The Love TonightI’ll be honest, this is the first love scene I ever saw in a feature film. So, that alone needs to be a reason for it to be PRAISED. Lion love is like, so real.

Part Of Your WorldNever in my life have I found someone who had as many thingamabobs as me.  I also have never met anyone who didn’t know what a fire was and why it burned.  Still don’t. So… anyone?

Hakuna Matata: Zen Nation. I didn’t know what chill was until I heard this song.  Plus, teenage Simba was kinda hot, no? Just me? K.

Under the Sea: How did I know things existed under water? This song.  Figured the sea was just a big bathtub that covered the Earth’s floor before I found out there were talking crabs and singing corals down there. Just a big percussion party at the clam bake on the ocean floor.

Circle Of Life: NAHAHHHHHSSIIVVEEENNNYYAAA- NAMA-MEE-SCALABOOOOOW. Don’t know if that’s what it says, but I’m gonna sing it like that so loud, and so proud. Every time. Such a good song.

Colors of the Wind: I have asked four grinning bobcats, none have answered. I have no idea why the hell they keep smiling and someone needs to answer me. NOW.

I Just Can’t Wait To Be KingThis song taught me how to rule a household.  One time my mom told me to go clean my room before my grandparents came to visit. I was all like, “Kings don’t need advice from little horn bills for a start.” —  I don’t want to talk about what happened after that. (#Grounded)

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious: Ummdiddaliddiaummdillaaaiiiiiiii. I don’t think there are actual words to this song, so it gets credit by default for being a jumble of syllables with a boss melody.


When You Wish Upon a Shooting Star: Could this be a more boring opener?  Do I want to fall asleep immediately after one song? No. I want to continue my journey down memory lane and go back to the time that I actually thought body parts would grow if I lied (aside: this would be so cool if you could pick the body parts that grew after lying, like my hair, I’d be Millenium Rapunzel with all my fib growth).

Someday My Prince Will Come: The only acceptable song from Snow White that should be included on this cd is Heigh Ho, and you didn’t do that.

Bella Notte: More like better not. Snore city.  Population: everyone listening.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes: To be honest, I didn’t even know there were songs in Cinderella, this is just dumb.

Once Upon A Dream, Go The Distance, Friend Like Me, I Won’t Say: Same thing, don’t even remember these songs. Like a bad football player, cut ’em.

Everybody Wants to Be A Cat: Newsflash: No one likes cats. Dogs are so in right now. Puppies are the new currency, and cats are straight up debt. No one wants debt; no one wants cats.

I See The Light, You’ve Got A Friend In Me, Life is A HighwayNew aged Pixar Disney movies shouldn’t even be considered for volume 1 (Post ’95). It’s just a sin. Get out of my face Tangled, Cars, and Toy Story. See you next year, suckaaaaas.

Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride: Does it sound like a good time? Yes. Do I even know what it means? No. I’ve never seen Lilo and Stitch because I like movies about real animals with real plots. I see you Lion King. Respect.

Reflection (NOT CHRISTINA AGUILERA): I don’t know why I would have to explain this, but not having Christina’s version of this song is nothing shy of eating a sandwich without condiments. Just deplorable.


Seeing as I just exiled ten songs from DisneyTown, there are some additions that need to be spoken for in order to make this whole ordeal right:

I’ll Make A Man Out of You: The fact that this song isn’t number 1 on the whole thing is blasphemous. This is the best song in Disney history. Coursing rivers, great typhoons, raging fires, moons with mysterious dark sides. Color me intrigued. Repeat. All day. Every day. Except when I get sick of it. I take one day off. Then start again.

Be Our GuestTalking candles? Pots and pans that have feelings? An ottoman that’s a dog? GIVE ME THIS HOUSE. I don’t need friends, I have decorations that will hang out with me. Life crisis averted.

Heigh-Ho: Give a kid a pick-axe and ask him to sing a song. What’s it gonna be?  This one. Unforgivable overlook.

Reflection (Christina Aguilera Version): Phenomenal acting by Mulan in this music video.  Very attentive, inquisitive stares into various mirrors of sizes and lengths.  Breathtaking.

The only way to make this right is to take my suggestions and reprint all the copies of the cd out there right now. I’m speaking for a generation of 85’s to 90’s babies. But really, I’m speaking for myself. Fix it. Fix it now. Make it right. Or make a man out of me. Either one would be greatly appreciated.

Although, under no circumstances, will I be doing this:



Dear Girls Of Tomorrow,

I’ve been there before.  I’ve made those mistakes. Take my advice: here’s how not to dress.

We live in a digital age.  It’s no secret that most things we do eventually end up on the internet.  This is awesome for events like New Years Eve, birthday parties, and charity events or functions.

Then there are the events involving a face plant in the street running to catch the late bus that your friend HAD to document.

To put it bluntly, not everyone is photogenic.  But that doesn’t give you an excuse to throw common sense out the window with the baby and the bathwater.

What I’m saying is, there’s going to be pictures of you girls circulating the internet for the rest of your lives.  You need to take preventative measures to ensure that when you do land your dream job interview, a picture of you in seventh grade wearing a Ronald Regan mask and your grandmother’s bathrobe doesn’t surface during the process.

So you should not do any of these things before or during taking a picture that will represent you for the rest of your life at that age, and your friends and family will also see it and that is how they will remember you forever.

2nd Grade

2nd Grade

A general rule of thumb is to not wear your grandmother’s tablecloth when taking a photo.

A nice pink embroidered doily collar may seem cutesy and innocent, but in reality it will only make your co-workers and peers question whether or not your mother took outfits off your life-sized Raggedy Ann doll and dressed you in them in an effort to save money.

Also a good thing to remember is to not do dangerous activities before a known photo-op.  Going on a two-wheel bike adventure when you aren’t the most confident rider isn’t the type of activity you want to roll into when your third grade yearbook photo is right around the corner.

3rd Grade

3rd Grade

If you’re just too adventurous and crazy to avoid indulging in extreme sports, you’ll inevitably be the girl wearing long underwear because you can’t fit regular sleeves over your cast.


Borrowing argyle sweater vests from your youngest brother is not only frowned upon, but in some countries it’s illegal.  I don’t care how flawless your hair looks that day, or if you were an ombre pioneer before ombre was a ‘thing,’ you do not need clothes that badly that you resort to rummaging through your brother’s drawers to find an outfit.

4th Grade

4th Grade

(But I mean look at that blonde to light blonde fade, it’s totally magnificent, right?)

Make sure your shirts fit you.

A good way to determine if a shirt fits is by making sure it is not two sizes bigger than every other shirt you own. Or that is not your mom’s.

5th Grade

5th Grade

Don’t wear choker necklaces, even if that dangly bead in the middle is the most jaw-dropping plastic gemstone you own, and it makes Rose’s sapphire necklace from Titanic pale in comparison.

Seriously, don’t get bangs in puberty.

I don’t care if they look great on Sabrina, the cool girl, you will ultimately end up gluing them to your scalp with a can of Rave hairspray every morning and consequently looking more like a guido-gremlin hybrid than a fifth grade girl.

Oh yeah… and braces. There are no rules about braces except that it’s required to change the rubber band colors to coordinate with the holidays.

Don’t set the tone for your middle school reputation by wearing a floral v-neck from Limited Too.

6th Grade

6th Grade

Also, practice your smile extensively before taking any pictures.

Photographs aren’t forgiving – neither are parents when it comes to allowing you to hang out with their children.

Creepy smiles will not get you very far.  It definitely won’t get you a babysitting job.

Puberty is the worst time in your life.  Try and make the best of it.

7th Grade

7th Grade

Wearing half-turtle neck argyle sweaters is not a way to make the best of it.  At the very least, if you’re going to do it, commit to a full neck or at least a scarf.

It’s imperative that you never, ever let your mother attempt to tame your pubescent mane by straightening it with a curling iron.  You will end up with tresses shaped like a voluminous frizz triangle and have people asking if someone rubbed a balloon on the back of your head to create static electricity.

Wearing your hair in a half-up, half-down fashion is completely acceptable, if done correctly.

8th Grade

8th Grade

Wearing half of your hair in a bun from gym class and the other half down as the remnants of last night’s botched straightening job is a big, big no no no nononononoNO.

Plus, wearing a collared shirt with a lace-up neckline is one step shy of actually going cookoo for Coco Puffs.

And again, with the smile. Please, for the love of God, practice your smile.

Avoid shopping at Aeropostale, Wet Seal, or Rave.

9th Grade

9th Grade

Don’t take two tiny tresses located at the widow’s peak section of your hairline and wear them in a bang-like, accessory fashion, not pulling them into your ponytail or headband.

You will regret this.  Mostly because you will slightly resemble a dinosaur.

Last, but definitely not least, if your friends ever tell you it’s okay to take sweatshirts from lost and found and parade around claiming them as your own, please ignore them and immediately question their intelligence.

By not doing these things, and following my instructions, strangers will not have to wonder – even just a little bit – if you grew to develop an odd affinity for fedoras or played the tambourine in a traveling band.

Ultimately, fashion consciousness is not always second nature with every girl, clearly it wasn’t my strong point.  At the end of the day, if you don’t do or wear what makes you happy, you’re missing out on a lot of what life has to offer.  Do what you love, and wear what you want.

Unless it’s a lace up, argyle, v-neck polo.  Please, please, please avoid those.

UP NEXT: How to NOT apply make-up.


Meg (President of the Late Bloomers)

I Need To Talk To The Person In Charge Of Changing Humans Into Dogs

I went out with my roommates last night and drank too much wine.  Story of my life.

Earlier this morning, I watched this video to help cure my hangover and take my mind off the fact that I have to sit in a rolly chair for the next eight hours and stare at my computer screen.

And then I realized… I’m so jealous of dogs.

Forget girls with nice hair, girls who can plow through three bacon cheeseburgers and not gain a pound, girls who have their dream job before age twenty-five, girls (and boys) with independently wealthy families that get to exclusively shop at Whole Foods. Forget all of them.

I want to be a dog.

Aside from the fact that they get to know one another by smelling butts, being a dog is pretty awesome.  I guess I could also do without the whole eating bark flavored kibble bits, too.  But we’ll save my grievances for the time I actually turn into a dog, which is hopefully my next life.  My previous life I was a cat and I was just angry all the time, so I pray I’ve gathered enough good karma in my human life to be worthy of a canine in my next one.

First of all, I’d never have to wear clothes.  It would completely eliminate the whole waking up every morning and try on seven outfits thing and still manage to walk out the door with one shoe.  Nope. None of that would be an issue.  Because I could roll out of bed and magically have a sweater on when it’s cold, or a furry bathing suit on when it’s hot.  Just being happy in the skin suit God gave me ready to take on the world.

If I was a dog, no one would ever care if I was fat.  Sure, I’ve set off a few alarms by feeding my pup too many pork chops or lamb shanks, but it’s because she deserves it.  And as a dog, I would deserve it, too.  Being loyal is a tough job, and it’s one that requires compensation in the form of delicious food you’re not allowed to eat, ever. No one ever complains about dogs being too fat, there’s just more to love, that’s all. Big is beautiful in Canine Country, and I have a one way ticket to Fat Island.

I’ve told a number of people this, but for my last ten minutes of life, I want someone with a good set of fingernails and a strong wrist to stroke my arm and give me a head rub.  Maybe a bloody mary, but that can be negotiated.  Pup life is full of these sorts of activities.  People practically slap box each other to get a chance to pet a puppy. I WANT SOMEONE TO PET ME, DAMNIT.  Head rubs and belly scratches will have me in a constant state of bliss, which last time I checked, no one complains about bliss.

A good wingwoman is hard to find.  Not with a dog.  If you want to attract someone, there is no better way than bringing along your four-legged friend.  I don’t know what it is about humans, I think we have leg envy and are just innately jealous that we can go through life on all fours.  There is no better conversation topic than asking what breed the dog is (I would obviously be a Saint Bernard and run shit) then following up by asking the age.  What started off as an innocent walk through the park ends with you walking down the aisle and Meg the Saint Bernard is your ring bearer.  You’re welcome.

Lastly, I want a bomb ass name.  Dogs are always given the most extreme names that humans could never live up to.  I want to saunter through life as Ulysses the Great Dane, or Chianti the cultured Sheppard. Instead I’m stuck here living life as a boring old human with the most basic one syllable name on the planet. Meg sucks. Ulysses RULES.

I just want to tan on my driveway during all seasons and soak up warmth.  I just want to be a dog.


Dance Dance Revolution

The first time I can remember being confused by dancing was when my my dad would play Elvis Presley records and jived around my living room in a bathrobe to ‘Hound Dog.”

The second time was I witnessed my mother grooving to the tunes of her youth at a Bruce Springsteen concert.  It wasn’t really dancing, but more of a feet firmly planted, upper body twisting while simultaneously moving arms in a ‘choo-choo train’ motion to the beat of “Born To Run.”

I’m absolutely forty-percent positive my parents were once big-whigs on the dance floor. But after the poor display over the course of my youth, I felt certain that I was destined for mockery when it came to cutting a rug.

It only recently dawned on me that not only do we enter different stages of life as people, but of dancing as well.  Do you ever see an eighty-year old woman dropping into a worm?  No.  Can you picture a four-year-old busting out jazz hands like he or she is the main event at a cheerleading competition?  Not intentionally, that is.

We enter a phase of dance that follows us through specific years of our lives.  From birth to death, there are certain dances that are inherently acceptable and they are as follows:


This is when you’re a baby and dancing means grasping firmly onto any surface that will withstand your baby grip and repeatedly trying to sit down whilst not letting go.  It’s like you’re doing wall sits, but there happens to be music going on and your mother claps in approval while filming your half-sits and appropriately titling it “JOSH’S FIRST DANCE!” when she posts it on her Facebook wall.

Elementary School

If you are a girl, you had your friends over your house while you made a choreographed dance to the best hits of the decade.  The amount of times I had my mother sit and film my friends and I doing dance routines that consisted of high fives and somersaults is almost unmanageable.  But it’s a just right of passage to the better years.

Middle School

Middle School dancing is all about the Bat and Bar Mitzvahs. If there was ever an age-inappropriate event it would be these shindigs.  Sure, I had fun, but attending a party that cost ten grand at twenty-two would have been a way better use of my Saturday afternoon. The cutest boys were there, there were cheap, carnivalesque prizes, and a DJ spinning on the ones and twos.  Everyone who was anyone was invited.  There were parental chaperones, so the closest dance you got with a boy was a slow dance to Brian McKnight’s “Start Back At One” and you always had to dance forming the shape of an A to leave room for Jesus.

High School

Prommy, prom, prom.  Is he going to ask?  Am I going to have to shell out two-hundred dollars for a faux satin dress with gaudy embellishments that I will wear only once? The first taste of adulthood comes with a hairdo that never turns out the way you want it, and a first come, first serve atmosphere when it comes to dresses.  You do NOT want to have the same dress.  Also, make sure to get one with forgiving and flowing fabric; you’re going to need it when you’re grinding dirty all up on the overly hormonal boys in your class.  Feet planted, legs alternating, as close as possible, hands around the neck, then move back and forth in sync.  That’s it.  You’ve mastered the art of the high school grind. NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT.  So awkward.


Go to the bar. Get a drink, dance alone.  Dance with a guy.  Dance with a girl.  Dance against a wall.  All acceptable.  As long as when you’re dancing, the drink you’re holding is swaying back and forth uncontrollably and spilling everywhere. You’re a hot mess and it’s okay.  Nothing is expected of you.


Suddenly, all the songs that were the hot beats at middle school dances are all the rage again at your wedding.  It’s like you instinctively remember that you are leaving your youth to enter holy matrimony, so the final event on your first day of marital bliss will be to take a trip down memory lane and Cha-Cha Slide and YMCA all over the reception hall.


Is there anything more embarrassing than Dad Dancing?  Showing up with your parents at an event and after the meal looking over to find you dad flailing his arms in the air like he’s sending SOS signals to the DJ. Look over to your right and you see your mother simulating a choo-choo train and everything comes full circle in your life.  You’ve seen the pinnacle of bustin a move, and your future with gyrating does not look pretty.  But hey, at least you can make it look good, right?

Remember the time… Oh wait, I forgot.

It’s a burden I carry.  It’s my Achilles heel. It’s almost every explanation as to why I didn’t do something right, get somewhere on time, or put something away.

I just forgot.

My parents did a great job documenting my upbringing.  There are tons of videos and pictures of me as a child, so it’s nice to be able to have a tangible photo to jog my memory, and explain things like why I thought it was a good idea to get cornrows AFTER I got home from vacation in Florida.

That’s a story for a different time, however.

When thinking about my earliest memory, it would most likely be a story about food making it or not making it into my mouth, and my mom subsequently cleaning up the mess I made only to realize she’d be cleaning up my messes for the next eighteen years and then into my adult life.

So rather than bore you with that mumbojumbo, I want to talk about the shambles of my life, and the things I always seem to forget.

Why I walked into a room.

This happens every day; without fail.  I will walk into a room at some point, stare blankly at everything, and not know in the slightest why I am there.  Also, a good thing to note: it does not jog your memory if you slowly twirl in circles looking at all the objects in the room.  It just makes you dizzy.

What I’m supposed to get at the grocery store.

This would be super helpful. Regardless of how many lists I write down for myself, I always end up wandering up and down each aisle in the store – always stopping in the snack aisle for too long – and then inevitably leaving with a flank steak, birthday cake Oreos, and a block of Swiss cheese.  All I needed was cereal.

To fill up my gas tank before it’s too late.

Do I ever fill up my car all the way? Nope.  Am I really good at playing the neutral game?  Yes.  I can coast in neutral and make a tank last double time if needed.  A good skill to learn, in my opinion.  Also a good skill to learn: filling up your gas tank so you don’t have to rely on slight inclines and declines in order to keep your car moving.

Wine will get you drunk.

If I had a dollar for every time I said, “Oh, I’ll only have one glass with dinner.” I’d be rich.  It starts off as a flavor addition to my post-work meal, next thing you know, the bottle is empty and I’m passed out on my living room rug with the TV still on and my dinner half-eaten.

Check my bank account.

I pretty much ignore everything that has to do with personal finances.  My credit cards are always with me, and they give me a false sense of wealth because in my mind, when I don’t see physical dollars disappearing from my wallet, it means that those dollars are still in my bank account.  Except that’s not how it works at all.

Not to drunk dial my parents.  

At this point, my mom knows I’m drunk dialing her and just cuts me off mid-sentence saying she has to do something more important like watch Ellen DeGeneres or file her nails.

Turn off the oven.

But really though, we’re in 2014 and we don’t have an oven that turns itself off?  I thought humanity was smarter than that.  Moreover, I think other people are just smarter than me.  They probably make a point to turn off the oven; I find it more important to hover over the stove with a spoon in hand shoveling the freshly made meal into my mouth.  There is no time for plates.  There is no time for sitting down.  There is only food and it needs to be consumed.

… and then I forgot the rest of my list.


I’m Hoping My Mother Ignores This One.

There are “meant to be carried to the grave” secrets, and then there are, “I’ll just pretend this didn’t happen for eighteen years until it’s time to tell it” secrets.

This story is the latter.

I want to preface this with the fact that my mother, to this day, does not know the truths of this tale.  That’s how long I’ve kept it covered.  It’s a stain on my sleepover past and I feel it needs to be cleaned up, which leads to potential repercussions that I am fully ready to accept.

Don’t believe for a second my mother wouldn’t extend her discipline arm over state lines and assert her dominance over me as an adult by slapping me with a one way ticket to Grounded Town; sans iPhone, computer, and necessities in order to learn my lesson.  I’ve learned many a time to not lie to her, because when she means it, she MEANS IT. I lost my license for my entire second half of senior year because of what I like to call “a miscommunication.” I firmly believe she’d have no problem waltzing into my apartment and snatching all my electronics to hold them hostage until I realize what I’ve done.

Just kidding, my mom is the cutest, she’d never do that.  Right mom?  With that said, let’s get going!

My best friend Katie and I used to have an unhealthy amount of sleepovers.  I mean, I was at her house two weekends, she was at mine the next two.  It was fascinating and sort of alarming how our parents never decided that we saw too much of each other (which I guess was a good thing, because I ended up as Maid of Honor in her wedding, and you need to have at least two-hundred sleepovers to earn that).

But anyways, back to the good stuff.  When we would have sleepovers, it was customary for us to plan out our activities by the hour.  We would get the TV guide, yes a physical guide, and a highlighter to select our ‘watch list’ for the night.  Normally, everything we did revolved around what time Blind Date would play, because our parents would be asleep and that show was super scandalous and not for our eyeballs.

And that’s exactly where this hidden tale began.

After stocking up on yodels, gushers, chocolate milk, and triscuits, we went to the basement to settle in and watch a night of forbidden television.  But the thing about late night tv at that time, which was the late 90’s, was that there were a lot of infomercials that played during commercials.  And I mean a lot.

One in particular, that I remember so fondly, mostly because it is the culprit, the fulcrum, and the heart of this story, is Miss Cleo. For a refresher in all her tarot card glory, see the commercial below.

Enticing right?  And realistic.  So realistic!  She was the future, and she could see mine.  Who in their right mind wouldn’t drop everything they were doing at that moment and call the hotline?  Crazy people!  And we were not crazy. We had a fortune to be told, and she could help us.  She could see our future in her deck of cards.  

And at eight years old, if there’s anything that we needed in that moment, besides sleep and behaving, it was to call Miss Cleo at 2am and get telephone tarot card readings.

And of course, since cell phones were still in development, there was no option other than to use my house phone.  The land line.  The family talker.

I picked up the phone and Katie read me the number.  I dialed.  It rang.  Someone answered. Although, the voice was distinctly different than the one that came out of Miss Cleo’s mouth on the commercial.  Mostly because it was a man’s voice.

Miss Cleo‘s hotline, how many I help you?” Reciting his lines through the phone.

“Um hi, my name is Mary (name change completely necessary at the time) and I would like my fortune told by Miss Cleo.”  I tried my best to sound super mature and adult.  Even made a point to talk in a low voice, because that’s what older people did.

I was on hold for a while, the phone sitting on the ground between Katie and I.  Just two young girls, getting their fortunes told on a Saturday night by a strange woman off the television.  It seemed harmless.

Only when it was my turn to talk to Miss Cleo did I realize that this was not a regular fortune teller – this was one of the, exotic nature, so to speak.  It was, contrary to popular belief, NOT FOR CHILDREN.  Hearing all these things about a boyfriend I didn’t have, a beach was involved, waves crashing, the works.  Who knew what she was talking about?  I had no idea.  I was eight.

Did that stop me from listening?  Nope.  I stayed on that phone call for a whopping thiry-six minutes.  See, the thing about me is, when I am in character, I cannot break it.  I couldn’t just hang up on Miss Cleo while she was mid-fortune.  That would have been rude.

Moreover, in my mind, hanging up would mean Miss Cleo would have realized I was a fraud, not over 18, and immediately backtrack to find my house phone number, dial it and tell my mom that I essentially called a sex hotline at 2am.  

I would have none of that.  So, I did my civic duty and stayed on the line, listening to her jibber-jabbering away for thirty minutes before my reading was complete.  Then I hung up, Katie and I laughed and talked about how weird she was, and that it wasn’t anything like we imagined.  We eventually fell asleep, content with our night’s successful phone call.

My mom got the phone bill later that month. Turns out Miss Cleo is not a toll free number.  In fact, they kind of charge you a lot of money to talk to her.  And since ‘wannabee-adult’ Meg stayed on the line for more than half an hour, the bill for the month was quite pricey, and my mom started asking questions.

I denied it.  I pretended like I was at Katie’s that weekend, that I wasn’t home, it couldn’t have possibly been me who called. It was offensive for her to even assume I would do such a thing.

Only I did do it.  And I lied about it.  So, let me say this here and now, I am sorry, Mom.  I’ll be the bigger person here and just mail you my computer, my phone, and my license.  I understand what I have done is wrong, and I accept the punishment.  Just tell me how long I’m grounded for, and can I have dessert?  If not, I’m going to have to clear out some of my kitchen cabinets.  But I’ll have time now that I can’t go out.

Lesson learned: Don’t call 1-800 numbers after 12am.  It’s true.  Nothing good happens after midnight.

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.


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.


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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