DPChallenge

I’ve been here a few minutes too long.

Do you ever get that uncomfortable feeling that creeps up on you at the worst time?  Maybe that one that shows up after you’ve been having a blast, making fast friends, and then all the sudden you realize you one of three people left at a friend-of-a-friend’s house and the friend that brought you has disappeared into thin air?

Yeah, it’s that well known feeling of shock, horror, and awkward turtles letting you know that you are lingering.  You’ve just been there too long.

We’ve all done it.  I’ve had my fair share of overstays, not taking hints, and utter annoyances.  It’s a natural progression from being completely oblivious to social cues to blossoming into the world of knowing when to utilize a timely exit.

But for some, this realization never comes to fruition, so we are left with the human crumbs of a once delightful friend cake.  The remnants that hang around too long, are hard to get to leave, and ultimately, end up ruining a perfectly good dinner date.

Are you that guy or girl that likes to greet friends and relatives with a warm embrace?  If so, good for you!  I’m all for a handshake to hug combination when it comes to people I haven’t seen in a while.  But for the love of Rudolph at a clown convention, don’t hug me for more than fifteen seconds. Chin to shoulders, maybe a pat on the back and a, “Nice to see ya, bucko!” and let’s just move on.

If that’s not enough to make you uncomfortable, let’s bring up that person at the party who tells jokes that no one understands. I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t quite understand why you’re equating your wife with professional cow tipping. But I’m going to fake laugh anyways and try and change the subject to something we can all relate to, like stickers, puppies, and wine.

Oh yeah, and screw you, hangover, you sneaky son of a bitch.  If I wanted pain of death without actually dying to last more than an hour, I would avoid drinking all together.  Instead I take the good with the bad, knowing that my headache is a mere consequence of my inability to avoid peer pressure, pop an Advil and move on with my day.  But sometimes, Mr. Hangover, you want to hang around all day, and frankly, I don’t approve.  It’s rude, and it confines me to a twenty-four hour horizontal period of indoor vampire activity because sunlight hurts my eyeballs.  Take a cue from the last kid at the party and leave before you’re unwanted.

It’s that smell that seems to permeate the air at the worst possible time.  You could be out at the bar with your friends, having a girls night, taking shots and reminiscing about the time you studied abroad and got robbed in broad daylight.  Then all the sudden this stench hits your nose like a punch from Mohammad Ali.  You cannot get over it, you cannot look past it, and you cannot figure out where it is coming from.  If you are the person providing the general public with a smell strong enough to bring the fun level in a room down, please make a note to check yourself before you wreck everyone else.  It’s common sense to have a sense of smell; use deodorant.

I’d like to politely say, “stop it forever” to The Cranberries. You do not have to, have to let it linger.  The band had to practice some sort of ironic witchcraft that allowed that song to have staying power, but nevertheless, I’m here to plead with the masses and ask to remove it from your rotation, permanently.

It’s all fun and games to take a trip down memory lane.  Some of the greatest memories I have as a child are so vivid in my mind it’s like they happened yesterday.  But there is something about seeing an image that is so mentally scarring that it’s almost like an iron, tattoo needle, and a camera all came together around your cerebellum and said, “this one is going to stick with you forever.”  Do I want to forget the time I unintentionally intercepted a sexual text message between two people with whom I should not know anything about their sex life? Absolutely.  Is it going to forever be burned into my brain only to leave when I die? Yes.

But that’s the thing about the lingerer – it doesn’t go away when it should.  I don’t understand why the good things never seem to hang around, like maintaining your goal weight after after a birthday party at Junk Foods R’ Us, or not feeling pain when you walk in heels.

Basically, whoever said too much of a good thing is bad never had anything good happen to them.  They probably wanted to make out with the person hosting the party, had a blast and stayed longer than anticipated, but ultimately ended up staying too late and making it awkward.

And that sucks for that person, but let’s not make unwanted hang arounds a thing, okay?

Yeah, I will (not) be there in a minute.

Behold!

Below is a rudimentary list defining and subsequently documenting a myriad of tasks one can accomplish during the following time allocations:

The term for using big words to assert personal dominance over others has yet to be coined. 
In the meantime, feel free to use, 'egotistical overachiever' as an acceptable substitute.

Microwave Minute:

A term used to describe the activities one can accomplish whilst food is in the microwave.  Tasks are seemingly endless, and include, but are not limited to, cleaning an entire house, re-tiling a floor, baking a turkey, and/or solving world hunger before coming back to the kitchen and realizing your Lean Cuisine still has thirty seconds before it’s done.

Sleep Minute:

The time it takes you to fall asleep, minus the time you are actually asleep, divided by the time spent knowing that you have to do something important in the morning.  Symptoms include waking up thinking it is 3am believing you’ve been asleep for eight hours, just to look at your clock and realize you’re late for work.  Alternatively, one can take a nap intended to last twenty sleep minutes, but in turn, accidentally lasts eight hours.

Hot Minute:

What you say to someone when you’re running late, but have no intention of actually taking less than sixty seconds to get your act together and get out the door.  You can accomplish almost nothing in a hot minute, but your bottom dollar you’re going to give a fair effort.

Healthcare Minute:

What clinical secretaries give as a standard of measurement to let you know that your healthcare professional will be moving at a glacial pace, and will be with you after he or she has transversed across the entire globe during his or her lunch hour for a delicious sandwich, knowing full well you are a real person with a schedule to maintain, yet at the same time choosing to ignore your civic responsibilities in favor of their own personal satisfactions.

Travel Minute:

Often times, when traveling, you’ll hear the phrase, “Folks, this will just be a minute,” over the loudspeaker.  Be aware that this means something is wrong and will most likely make you late for whatever it is you’re planning on attending. You can potentially read an entire novel and write a book report during a travel minute.

New York Minute:

A highly underrated film starring the incomparable tweens of my youth, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, that had absolutely nothing to do with time, but totally worth noting for the fashion sense, sophisticated plotline and dialogue.

Regular Minute:

An actual span of sixty seconds that is virtually non-existent because people like me are lazy and irresponsible, and people like you don’t enforce time constraints and allow me to get away with being late.

Think Before You… Oh Wait, Too Late.

It’s Friday! I’m extremely impulsive.  So it’s about time to make a list of all the things I do before I think about the repercussions.

  • Buy five new books before I’ve even finished the one I’m currently reading
  • Decide to purchase flights across the country when I don’t know if I have time off from work
  • Eat an entire cheeseburger that weighs the same amount as a newborn baby
  • Drink an entire bottle of wine, and then another one
  • Make a crock pot meal and double the ingredients because I think I’m Martha Stewart
  • See how far I can go on empty before filling up my gas tank
  • Get all the supplies to do a Pinterested “DIY” craft and never attempt to do it
  • Sign up for the gym with no intentions of ever going
  • Sign up for a marathon with no intentions of actually running
  • Eat an entire can of BBQ Pringles hoping I won’t feel like a lardo
  • Consuming copious amounts of cheese, ice cream, milk, and yogurt knowing full well that I am lactose intolerant
  • Making drastic lifestyle changes because I had one bad day
  • Giving up drinking on the weekdays for Lent — WHY?
  • Swipe my credit card and “worry about it later”
  • Go on a blind date with a guy that turns out to be three feet tall and extremely clingy
  • Try to win a burrito contest from Chipotle only to be blacklisted because of sheer dedication
  • Avoid wearing a bra out in public only to realize I’d be out of the house for an entire eight hours
  • Drink wine for dinner because it’s healthier than going spoons deep in chunky peanut butter
  • Go out in public without make up only to bump into the only person you don’t want to see in public without make up
  • Drink beer for breakfast
  • Signing receipts with my twitter handle before realizing I’m a jackass
  • Not exercise
  • Watch an entire day’s marathon of Gangland only to be scared to walk outside my house for fear for my life
  • Watch an entire day’s marathon of CSI only to be even more terrified to walk outside my house for fear of my life
  • Choose to watch Titanic refusing to watch past the iceberg scene in respect to Leo DeCaps and in disdain of fat Rose taking up the entire goddamn floating double door
  • Knowing I’m due for a good cry and choosing to watch A Walk To Remember on a Saturday night before I go out
  • Pretending I know what I’m talking about then unintentionally getting wrapped up in a conversation full of lies and deceit
  • Going to the doctor to get my ears checked out and having it turn into a full fledged interrogation of my medical history — it’s just an ear lady, LAY OFF ME.
  • Deciding that after a week of drinking, it seems like a good time to check how much I weigh — IT’S NOT
  • Going outside without a jacket on because it’s not that cold out — when the only way I tell the temperature is by looking out my windows into the alley with no sunlight
  • Not checking the weather before I walk to work because I think I am an amature meteorologist
  • Looking at pictures of myself from middle school knowing that I thought I honestly looked really fly in my tearaway Addias sweat pants, Aeropostale polo shirt, a curly bun, and my grandmother’s dangly earrings
  • Starting this list and then realizing it’s dumb

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.

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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:

Toddler

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.

College

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.

Wedding

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.

Parenthood

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?

The Band of Books and Booze and Brilliance.

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Good news, everyone! The gods of the interwebs have smiled upon me!

Today is a day to be remembered.  A time to rejoice. Because I have accepted a seat at the cool kids lunch table.

Oh, what’s that sound you hear?  It’s the sweet, sweet music of a wonderful symphonic orchestra playing as I’m dancing around in circles.

That’s right, I have joined the ranks with a band of the booziest, brilliant, and book-crazy peeps on the internet. I am now officially part of the Tipsy Lit crew, and I couldn’t be more happy.

Please drink and read responsibly.

Tipsy Lit was gracious enough to invite me to partake in their Children’s Literature week, allowing me to rewrite an excerpt of Judy Blume’s classic coming of age novel, which was appropriately named, “Are you there, Google? It’s me, Meg.”

So, if you’re a drinker, a thinker, and an inker (booze, books, brilliance, woahhhhhhh), please subscribe to Tipsy Lit and do yourself a double favor and spice up your inbox with a few of my problems by following me as well.

That’s not too much to ask is it?

Not at all! But, you may be asking yourself, “Hi self, what is in it for me?”

I’m so very glad that you asked.  Because there are tons of things in it for you, my fellow amigos and amigas. I’m not trying to say I’m kind of a big deal, but I am kind of a big deal because not only am I one of the most overly caffeinated and excited people on the planet, I am now the new Promotional Manager for the site, and with great power, comes great responsibility.

Thus I give you, FREE STUFF.  If you follow me at all, which you should be – except physically, because that would be scary – stay tuned for some new announcements detailing tons of giveaways and freebies that you can win by entering some of the Tipsy Contests!

That’s right, folks!  You can win free stuff just by being friends with me.

Let the bidding for my friendship start at ten slice and bake cookies… or just the press of a button.

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Bad Habits Don’t Always Need to Be Broken

Your twenties are chock full of bad habits.

You’re young, you’re in your prime, you’re on your own. COOL!

You’re irresponsible, you drink too much, you took another selfie, you spent all your money. NOT COOL!

But why does everyone have something to say about it?  Telling me what should I be doing.  Advising me on what I should avoid.  There are hundreds of lists on every corner of the internet either agreeing or contradicting with what someone else has already said.

People grow up at different rates, and these compiled lists of what we should and shouldn’t be doing is entirely based on a generic assumption of how a ‘twenty-something’ acts.  We don’t act the same.  We’re not all on the same timeline.

As a ‘twenty-something’ myself, I read these lists and immediately compare my life to what they’re telling me to do and avoid.  Sometimes I agree, but sometimes I don’t.

Look, I get it.  I’m not supposed to break the law, and being inappropriately drunk in public before 2pm is frowned upon by society.  But half the battle of being in your twenties is moving out of your parents home – IF YOU CAN, figuring out your relationships – IF YOU HAVE ONE, and managing your money – IF YOU HAVE ANY.

The idea of being twenty-something and having your life figured out is utter insanity.  Yes that is the ultimate goal.  But we all know that.  Why do we have to grow up immediately after college and not have fun anymore?

I don’t think you ever reach a point where you have it figured out.  My parents don’t even have their life figured out.  They moved to the suburbs thirty years ago, and now have no idea what to do with their lives since we’ve moved out.

I bet they didn’t think about that when they had four kids under five-years-old. They were just trying to survive the day without wanting to (metaphorically) kill all of us. It was a stage in life. Just like now.

Personally, I have a lot of bad habits.  But the majority of them stem from my age.  Isn’t that the whole reason we take away knives from children and allow eight year olds to pick their nose?  They grow out of it, and so will we.

Please don’t tell me to stop comparing myself to other girls, because girls just do that.  It’s in our blood.  If you ever meet a girl who says, “Yeah, I don’t really measure myself against other women, it’s a waste of time because I just love myself so much, and know that I’m worth it.”

That girl is either lying or she is a man.  Women innately want to analyze things.  Not just bodies, not just minds, everything.  We compare tile samples at Target, paint swatches at Home Depot, and the vacuums at department stores before we buy.  We are pros-and-cons list advocates, and it has nothing to do with how we feel about our own bodies, that’s just the most obvious comparison we, as women, happen to make.

Don’t let anyone tell you that you have to grow up.  Next thing you know, you’re sixty and spend three hours a day wondering where your life went.  Find a balance between toddler and parent and stick to it for a while.

It’s okay to be weird, it works.  Just don’t lick anyone’s face and people will think you’re quirky.

Let’s stop talking about the quintessential post-grad love life.  Relationships, and lack there of, are not unique to this age bracket.  Reaching your twenties just means you’ve progressed to a whole new level of issues.  It’s like you’re in a real life video game, and it’s saying, “Congratulations!  You’ve reached level 22, you are now equipped to deal with the reality of dating in a thriving metropolis! Go forth, enjoy it!”

Newsflash: Where you live now is just a bigger version of high school or college. Same problems, different location. Adapt and deal.

Unless you have a dress code at work, don’t let anyone tell you what to wear.  The fact that wearing sweatpants outside of the house isn’t acceptable is a crock of shit.  Wear what you feel comfortable in.  It’s not “if you look good, you feel good,” rather it should be, “if you feel good, you’re more confident.”  And confidence is more important than wearing a tight pair of pants and heels because basketball shorts are forbidden at the grocery store.

You’re at the goddamn grocery store.  Do you really think people care what you’re wearing when you’re selecting which cantaloupe feels more ripe?  No.  They’re more concerned with the amount of items in your cart and whether or not they should try and cut you in line.

Who cares if your friend group is sizably smaller than it was in college.  When you were at school, if you attended, there were thousands of other people at the same place passionate about the same things.  If everyone in the world lived in places based on the same interests, this would make it possible for everyone to have infinite friends.

Instead, we live in the real world, where people have to embrace differences and work to establish meaningful friendships.  Ignore everyone who tries to tell you how many friends you need to have.  This isn’t high school.  Life doesn’t care about your friend count.  If you’re happy, that’s what matters.

At the end of the day, follow your gut.  More times than I can count, my first instinct was the best one.  If you have to overthink a decision, chances are it probably isn’t a good idea.  Unless you’re dealing with ghost peppers and heights; then thinking it through is always a plus.

Your twenties are chock full of bad habits and bad decisions to match.  But you don’t have to break them right away.  Let’s make this a judgment free zone, avoid the snarky comments revolving around making a bad decision, and let the individual decide whether or not to do it again.  After all, you are an adult now, and it’s time you decided what is and isn’t good for you.

Along the road you’ll encounter a problem, a blessing, an inconvenience, and eventually, a reward… your thirties.

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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.

An Open Letter to Valentine’s Day

I just have one thing to say to Valentines Day.

Stop making everyone so cynical.

There are a myriad of scenarios.  You feel crappy cause you aren’t celebrating with anyone.  When you do have someone you’re annoyed because he or she isn’t happy with what you planned.  If you’re the awful person who isn’t happy with what your boyfriend or girlfriend planned, I hate you.

If you are one of the people who has a ‘special someone’ to share this blessed day in February with, for the love of God, do not nitpick.  There is nothing worse than waking up and realizing you have a hundred things to do, and only ten minutes to get them done.

Men wake up and feel like this every. single. day.

If it’s not in their direct line of sight, they won’t see it.  If it isn’t playing through their headphones, they won’t hear it.  If they are not hungry, they will not think to ask if you are.  If you didn’t tell them about it that hour, they won’t remember it.

Stop putting pressure on one night.  Do not complain that your dinner wasn’t at the restaurant you two had your first kiss, date, or vegetarian option.  Thank the high heavens that he is a good enough sweet talker to get you into the damn place, enjoy your steak and wine, and maybe even each other’s company.

The fact that he even remembered today was a holiday is a miracle in itself.  Men don’t walk down the card aisle and accidentally get time warped for three hours.  Only women do that.  Men see that aisle, cower in fear, and stick their arm out to grab the first one they reach, praying it is at least funny or sentimental.

It is simple: we are wired differently.  Men are linear beings, while women are curved seven ways to Sunday and then bent in half.  Learn this; you will understand why men don’t do things on a woman’s timeline.

If you are one of the (un)lucky people who does not have a sig-oth (significant other for those abbreviatedly challenged) to hang out with, there are also a ton of things you can do to avoid looking, feeling, and acting like a complete moron.

Please do not allow yourself to sit at home on your couch, wallowing in self-pity, crying into a pint of ice cream because you don’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend to help you achieve pink hearted bliss.

Get your lazy ass off the couch and go to a speed dating convention, download Tinder, walk down the street, or go to a bar.  Any of these things will likely result in the meeting of someone remotely interesting.  Because if you’re choosing to sit at home feeling sorry for yourself due to your relationship status, you have bigger fish to fry and those fish involve a heavy dose of medication and a relaxing seat in a psychiatrist’s office.

When the clock strikes midnight, it is no longer Valentine’s Day, so suck it up.  I’ve had sandwiches that have lasted more than twenty-four hours.  In the timeline of life, it’s not a big deal to miss out on one day.  Put on a nice outfit, look good, and go dance your face off with all the other people at the misery commiseration gala at Ruby Tuesdays.

The world will not stop turning if you don’t have a date.  Time will not stop ticking if you can’t get a reservation at your favorite restaurant.  Chaos will not ensue if you decide you’d rather go out with your friends and dance the night away — okay, chaos may ensue.

Regardless of your relationship status, Valentine’s Day should not determine how you feel about yourself.  If anything, it’s a perfect excuse to cheat on your diet, eat seven chocolate bars, and crush a bottle of wine without apologizing to anyone.

Because I’ll tell you this much, if you do that on any other day of the year, you’ll have to hand-write at least six apology notes, and you won’t feel great about it.

A thousand words describing my time spent locked in a bathroom.

I was nine when I got locked in a bathroom inside my own house.

And no, it wasn’t easy to free myself.  I was actually, truly, really stuck.

The following is a (slightly embellished) version of how I was deserted in my own home, left to fend for myself inside a desolate, personal bathroom prison.

It was summer.  The day in question was pretty hot, if I remember correctly.  My mother implemented this rule she liked to call, “Amish Time” during our summer breaks.  Meaning every weekday from 9-5pm, there was no technology – i.e. GameBoy color, Nintendo 64, AOL 5.0 – of any kind allowed.

The only exception to “going Amish” was when the US Open of Tennis was being broadcasted, because she wanted to watch that.  I cannot wait to be a parent and make self-benefitting rules.

I digress.  Since technology wasn’t allowed, we were reduced to remedial means of entertainment, like having conversations with each other, imaginative play, and embracing the great outdoors.  We always gravitated towards the pool because it passed the time extremely fast, and it was always fun to have our mom rate belly flops for hours on end.

It was after lunch; all four of us steamrolled down the hallway and onto the deck.  We waited for my mom to sit down in her chair under the umbrella, her idea spot for visibility and shaded protection, before we all made our entries into the shallow end.

We had been outside for a while when nature called.  I had to pee.

There is a bathroom very close to the pool; yet for some reason, unbeknownst to me in the present day, I chose to use the upstairs bathroom, located on the opposite side of the house.

I approach the bathroom, go inside, close the door.  Routine procedure. Until it wasn’t.

At the moment I closed the door, the handle on the interior of the bathroom fell out of the socket. From the inside, the door looks like this:

NOOOOOO!

NOOOOOO!

I immediately freaked out.  I look my new surroundings, there are four walls.  No windows.  A shower curtain and rod. And a door that will not open.

I yelled for probably eight minutes.  Immediately after screaming at nothing, I screamed at myself, “WHY ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH DID YOU PICK THE ONLY BATHROOM WITH NO WINDOWS?!”

My screams fell on deaf ears.  Everyone was outdoors enjoying the sunshine; a luxury I was no longer afforded since I went and trapped myself in this four-walled, shame cellar.

I was here, alone, stuck in the bathroom of my nightmares.  After about fifteen minutes of wasted tears, unheard screams, and pathetic cries, I rescanned my surroundings for something I could use to get me out of this joint.

I contemplated.  I saw the shower rod as a weapon; I yanked the curtain down from the wall with the brute strength of a toddler, and quickly disassembled the curtain from the rod. I had seen jousting before; I knew poles were deadly.  And this door was my opponent.

Only I had no idea that blunt, hollow, metal poles were not strong enough to break down a two-inch thick wood door.  I tried anyways.  I took the pole over my shoulder and rammed it as hard as I could into the back of the door.  There was a dent.

“YES!” I thought, “SMALL VICTORIES!” This dent was a small step towards freedom, and I quickly got into position to make another one.

I hit the door with the shower rod eight times before giving up from boredom.

That was it.  That was all I had.  No more ideas.  No more drive.  I was stuck.  I wrapped myself in the shower curtain and cried.  I thought about how long I could survive in there.  “Probably seven days without food, maybe four without water.” I guessed, “But I have a sink, a shower, and a toilet for the worst case scenario – hydration was covered.”

I planned out my missing persons ad, “Girl locked in bathroom, gone for weeks before found.”  It sounded sincere, I guess.

I had accepted my new living conditions, because I had decided that I may as well take a nap.  Putting my head on the floor, and using the curtain as a blanket, I prepared to snooze the time away in my new surroundings.

Until I heard my brother’s footsteps.  He was coming up the stairs; I was immediately filled with glee and adrenaline.

I shot up off the floor, shed my shower curtain blanket, and started screaming through the hole where the door handle used to be. “BRIAN! HELP ME. GET ME OUT OF HERE.”

He heard my cry and comes to my aid.  “Meg, get the door handle from the floor.”  He points to the handle on the inside with me. “Pick it up and stick it back into the slot where it was before.”  I picked it up and did as I was told.

“Now turn it.” And so I did.  Like magic, the door opened and I was freed from captivity. I ran outside, fell to the floor and hugged the ground. I was so happy to be out of there.  It was the worst twenty minutes of my life.

After helping me escape, Brian looks at me and says, “Yeah, I came up here before lunch and had the same thing happen to me.”  I was relieved I wasn’t the only one.  “I just used the door handle and got myself out.  Super easy if you think about it.”  The sad thing was, he wasn’t even gloating.  He was genuinely smarter than me.

I was trapped and immediately resorted to jousting my way out, but only after I wrapped myself in a shower curtain cape.  Brian just picked up the source of the problem and immediately let himself return to society as a functioning human being.

After the whole ordeal, I still had yet to go to the bathroom.  I used the downstairs one though, just in case.