humor

In A Nutshell, This Is Why I Am Single.

It’s hard to believe really. I’m walking around this world without a hand to hold.

(Sorry, Mom. I’m too old for your sweaty palms!)

Maybe I’m not “the total package,” maybe I can get too comfortable around boys and forget to get “out of the friendzone.”

Really though, I’m sorry I burped in front of you. I thought it was okay. My brothers don’t mind, but I guess that’s because they’re forced to have me in their immediate circle for the rest of my life. Where as you, unknown boyfriend of the future, you do not.

I mean like who wouldn’t want to date someone that does the following:

Disclaimer: Some of these have been embellished for entertainment. Either that or I’m just trying to have you not think I’m a total wack job. But I guess that has been thrown out the window by now.

Unbuckle my belt before I get into a stall in the bathroom
Constantly listen to female power ballads by Celine Dion in my car
Burp in front of the opposite sex and still expect them to think of me like a dainty, polished lady
Avoid showering for a couple days
Forget to shower for a couple days
Forget to shower for a week (I haven’t done this… in a long time)
Actively avoid eating vegetables
Lock myself out of my car and/or apartment
Drunk dial people on a Tuesday night
Barely shave my legs in the winter
Internally accept that “winter weight” is an epidemic and can’t do anything about it
Use the poop emoji more often than necessary
Talk about sexcapades in front of people I have a crush on and expect them to think I’m a pure, polished, non-hussy
Wake up on Saturday morning with ketchup stains on my elbow from the bar the night before
Argue with other humans that wine is just adult grapes, so I’m getting my fruit intake for the week
Irrationally hate other women for having good hair and a nice figure
Can’t civilly discuss politics or religion without going on a tangent about either (I know nothing about either, either.)
Attempt to talk to boys at the bar and the first thing out of my mouth is how rarely I do laundry
Utilize the same vocabulary as a filthy sailor man
~~Have daddy issues~~
Get too drunk and cry about all the feelings I internalize during the workweek
Think that twinkies and club soda is an acceptable dinner for a working professional female
Live in a closet
Sleep in a twin bed… with one set of sheets
Talk about my electronic devices as if they are humans
Throw a tizzy fit if I miss happy hour by 10 minutes

So boys, LINE UP!

VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED: It’s the VMA’s and I have access to social media, a large bottle of wine and no filter.

Award show season! Thank you for giving me the momentous ~~excuse~~ opportunity to pollute the twittersphere and subsequently the rest of the social media universe with all of my thoughts and feelings on the MTV VMA’s.

Join me, won’t you? It’s time to watch award shows and let social media know what you really think about Katy Perry’s hair, if Lady Gaga is actually wearing a dress or just walking around in a cowhide, and whether or not Justin Beiber and Selena Gomez are really dating… wait, are they? I can’t keep up.

It’s the VMAs, and we should talk shit about celebrities without consequences while we still can. I think in the future they may be able to virtually punch us in the face, and I will probably have a long list of people waiting in line. I see you Kristen Stewart.

Follow me on Twitter to see the full rant rundown.

I’ll be here all night, unfortunately.

Drink a bottle of your favorite, cheapest wine, and take a seat right in front of your television AND computer and hop on the train to funtown. We’re gonna tweet up a storm, and you’re going to need a raincoat. Or an umbrella. Or some galoshes. Or just a roof.

LIVE TWEET:

Follow @meg_lago

Tweets by @meg_lago

It’s Friday… CHILL OUT.

It’s Friday. Here’s a list of all the things you can do tonight to unwind from that bitch of a work week.

Drink a ~~glass~~ bottle of wine
Go on a Netflix binge
Read an entire book
Take a long nap that actually ends up being an entire night’s sleep so you wake up at 6am on Saturday
Reorganize your closet
Watch Dateline NBC so you can fall asleep until tomorrow
Have a dance party in your apartment
Have a dance party at a bar
Have a dance party in the street
Put a $20 bill in a random pair of pants so when you go to wash them in three months you’ll get a present from yourself
Do your laundry
Eat your weight in Chinese food
Take a pregnancy test (this is only a good idea if you know there’s not a chance in hell you can be pregnant, otherwise this will just ADD to the stress)
Play the games on the back of a cereal box
Talk to another human being – scientists have done studies proving that talking about your problems sometimes results in relief of stress
Go for a run… not really though.
Drink another bottle of wine
Talk to a stranger(make sure he/she’s harmless first)
Try to adopt telekinesis with your television remote
Organize your closet by color
Drink a margarita
Drink a martini
Drink a vodka soda
Drink anything in your apartment
Stretch
Q-Tip your ears
Talk about your feelings on social media
Take your temperature
Paint your nails
Count the rats outside your apartment window (just me?)
Make a list of all the things you hate then light your gas stovetop and burn it responsibly
Make a fortune teller like you did when you were in third grade and have only good fortunes on it
Play MASH with all the hotties in your life
Think of a new way to insult someone
Don’t listen to any of these suggestions because they’re coming from a girl who was blacklisted by Chipotle and has already eaten her weight in Chinese food before 4pm

It’s Safe To Say Chipotle Blacklisted Me

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has to stand up for what she believes in. It may not be the most popular opinion. It may not win her any awards. But in desperate times you need some desperate measures.

In a nutshell, I’m at war with Chipotle.

My mother was not amused or supportive of my endeavors.

Let me start off by saying this war is 50% my fault. I’m not one to avoid taking responsibility for my actions. I’m also not the type of person to take all the blame for something either.

Back in February, Chipotle ran a haiku contest where entrants were asked to create a, you guessed it, haiku demonstrating their love of all things Chipotle burritos. So naturally, being creatively inclined in the writing department, I decided to take this chance and show the burrito conglomerate what my cerebral cortex really thinks about all the time: snacks.

The prize was two free burritos, chips and guac and a fountain soda of my choosing. JACKPOT.

Cut to the part that is my fault. Much like my entire academic career, I didn’t read the directions. I was so excited, so hopped up on burrito fueled creativity, I completely blanked on when the contest actually started and ended.

The letter of good intentions.

I created the most perfectly crafted haiku that I personally thought would be foolish to ignore as the clear winner, even though I didn’t see, read or care about any other haikus in the contest. I just knew mine was the best.

I went on a social media blitz. I asked my entire family to vote for me. I was dedicated. The only problem was I completely missed the deadline. The contest I so desperately wanted to win had ended three days prior to my attack. I was devastated, heartbroken, and downtrodden.

So I did the only rational thing any human being obsessed with winning a free burrito would do. I wrote Chipotle a letter.

(see above)

To me, that is a very strongly worded letter. Lots of feelings are involved. I was fully aware that I may be certifiably insane and could be put on Chipotle’s “No Fly” list – do they even have one? Probably.

But I was willing to put my mental state on display to show them how much I love them. Because when I’m committed to something, I am all in, and I wasn’t about to let a big, bad burrito company get the best of me.

NOT TODAY. Not ever.

So, finally Chipotle Joe responds to me. He asks for my mailing address to send me something. I have no idea what it is. I’m just filled with glee.

In my head, I’m thinking they’re sending an inflatable burrito toy, a “Lifetime Member” pin for my sweaters, maybe even a thousand coupons and free burritos for life.

The possibilities were endless.

Then a week went by, two weeks, and still nothing in the mail. So, maybe it got lost, so I sent Chipotle Joe another message. You know, just to check on the status of things. He responded, promptly.

(see below)

Chipotle Joe is on my shit list.

But now were almost two months in, and I still have yet to receive anything.

I’m wondering what I did to deserve this kind of treatment.

Don’t you always reward the best players on the team with the MVP trophy? Don’t you always give the promotion to the person who deserves it most? Don’t you care at all about people who love burritos?

My conclusion is that Chipotle does not care. And I may be asking a lot, but I’m asking all of you to boycott them.

Or just be on my side with this one. I know I may sound a little off the sane wagon, and by a little, I mean I’m fully aware that I’ve probably been blacklisted by Chipotle.

But I just need to feel validated. I need to know that what I’ve done cannot be ignored and I deserve my Lifetime Member pin!

What do you think? Am I really crazy? Or is Chipotle wrong? (Think before you answer, or you may be receiving one of these letters, and no one wants that.)

What’s Up With That Wednesday

FEATURING: A British Chick Commenting on Americans

Sophie from British Chick Across the Pond so wonderfully volunteered to guest post for me!

As my weekly rant addressing all the weird things people do without reason, I thought it would be a great opportunity to have a recently transplanted British person comment on all the, “What’s up with that?!” nuances of American life.

Please check out her blog, and follow her cause she’s hilarious and makes me want an accent.

Without further adieu…

Life Across the Pond

One question people usually ask me when they learn I’m not from here is, “What is the thing you miss the most?” (Closely followed by… “Have you met the queen?”)

Well, if you take out the obvious of friends and family, my initial answer would be “Bakewell tarts” – a type of pastry filled with fake cherry stuff and topped with some kind of fondant (and a cherry of course).

This is closely followed by, “and yes but the queen and I stopped hanging out since the incident so I don’t like to talk about it.”

After being here 4 months – and having had a care package filled with tarts- my answer would need a bit more consideration. Now I think it’s more about things I didn’t realise I would miss… Things that are almost the same but totally different at the same time.

To figure out what I miss the most I need to think about what things have taken me by surprise or been difficult to adjust to. My blog is all about the alien encounters since moving here but for now I’ll go with my top 3:

Driving:

I’ve blogged about my fears of driving before but since then I’ve actually done it.

Personally I’ve found that driving on the right side of the road (or the wrong side as far as I’m concerned) is doable.

But throw in all this right on red – unless there’s-a-red-arrow-and-even-then-that-doesn’t-mean-don’t-go-unless-there’s-a-sign-and-sometimes-there-is-and-sometimes-there-isn’t-but-even-then-it-depends-on-the-state- crap… Well it’s bloody confusing!

My son knows more than I do.

Not to mention the fact that a green light doesn’t actually mean, “Go! Be free… Drive forward confidently!” because depending on the layout the chances are it actually means yield but you won’t know that until you get beeped at for being hesitant or rammed head on for going without checking every possible direction.

Now I’ve learned what is and isn’t allowed at each set of lights between home and daycare but the thought of driving anywhere else makes me want to curl up and hide.

I miss the ease and confidence of driving, I miss roundabouts, streams of traffic where the majority know what indicators (blinkers) are for regardless of whether they use them and traffic lights in a 30mph zone rather than stopping dead from 55.

My brakes -and my nerves- are shot.

Words & Accents

Now… I say a lot of weird things in the company of friends but never have I experienced as many confused/blank faces after saying a simple sentence than I have since being here.

An American vs. Brit reading this label = fun for all

I get that we use different words for the same things and that even then we pronounce the same words differently, but the idea of starting a conversation with anyone who isn’t used to “my accent” fills me with dread.

The cashier asks me how my day is or if I found everything I was looking for and I’ll reply… But then it’s over because she’s trying to translate whatever my response was into something she can make sense of and there just isn’t enough time to wait for it to sink in before the card throws out my receipt and the person behind starts unloading.

Having my ID checked at the base gate the guard always says something along the lines of, “Hi, how are you?” And every time I reply with, “Fine thanks… You?”

… And then silence because he thinks I’ve cut him off with a, “Fine, thank you”.

Not only is every pleasantry met with “the look” but I’m always the one to accidentally finish it by opening my mouth so these people probably think I’m rude too.

Money:

When you go on holiday, money usually feels like monopoly money – for me anyway. It holds little ACTUAL monetary value in my mind and gets thrown around without much thought…but this ISN’T a holiday.

: Where is it actually $1?!

I still think of items as they’re UK conversion and think, “yeah that’s about the same,” but when you get paid in dollars and a pack of chicken nuggets sets you back more than 8 of them…well it’s gonna be bread and water for dinner tonight buddy.

I mean who doesn’t feel like they’re flashing the cash when they’re carrying a whole handful of bills…but then you remember the ones you have are worth ONE dollar. This is all well and good if you’re shopping in the dollar store…but even then they add tax at the end.

If I go in to a place where everything is one dollar I expect to come out with 7 items for 7 dollars… but it doesn’t work that way…and it gets me every time. Then you have the coins… the dime and nickel thing is guesswork for me; a nickel is bigger than a dime… 25c is called a quarter… one cent is called a penny… so why aren’t they all pennies?

I would rather break a $20 to pay for something with actual change. But hey on the upside my sons piggy bank is making big bucks…I just cant figure out how much that is!

I miss the familiarity of it all, the ease of asking anything with confidence and knowing that more than one person will be able to help me out or the ability to drive from one place to another without needing a stiff drink to calm my nerves. In short, there’s nothing I miss because it’s all here… it’s all the same and yet completely different and THAT has been the hardest change to deal with.

The Common White Girl’s Thoughts On Smiling

Honestly, I don’t really get why people don’t smile more often.

Life isn’t that hard. I put on my designer jeans one leg at a time just like everyone else. I embellish my elegantly tailored satin shirt with a cute, overpriced bubble necklace from J Crew. It compliments the color pallet perfectly.

I look great.

Granted, I won’t be smiling until I’ve had my Starbucks triple shot espresso macchiato with half skim, half regular milk straight from the cow’s udders, but the world could probably perk up a bit before 9am, for my sake at least.

If I’m having a bad day, which is pretty much any day that’s not on the weekend, I like to do therapy. Retail therapy. There is nothing that turns my frown upside down quicker than swiping my father’s credit card and getting a bag full of new outfits I don’t need at all. Because when you look good, you feel good.

I’ve learned that you have to smile through the hard things in order to get through life. One time my aunt gave me a Dolce and Gabbana bag that was clearly fake, clearly ugly, and clearly not my style. But I smiled through the pain of not having real leather to hold my car keys and used the extra cash my parents gave me because it was a Wednesday to go out and buy the new iPhone.

Crisis averted, smile affixed.

When walking down the street in my new Michael Kors bedazzled flats and freshly painted nails, it’s hard to be sad about life. I’ve had my fair share of struggles but I’ve come out the other end of the tunnel victorious. I don’t understand why others don’t adopt my “can-do” attitude.

I actually had to interview for my job. At my father’s company. Working for my father. We went to breakfast and he asked me really tough questions about organizational tactics and people skills, to which I replied, “Have you seen my closet? I color code and arrange my clothing by season, organization is totally my thing!”

Really, I’m a simple girl. I am happiest when I’m driving in my Range Rover SUV, sunroof open, windows down, and sunglasses on my face. Normally, I don’t have anywhere to go, I just like driving. I never take public transportation, people always look miserable on the subway, and frankly, it brings down my mood.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my lunch break and get a massage. I deserve it.

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.

What’s Up With That Wednesday?

FEATURING: This Asshole On His Cell Phone

What is up with people talking on their cellphones on public transportation?

Yes, I see you’re wearing a suit today, Mr. Chats-A-Lot. I know this makes you seem very important. I am sure you have a lot of meetings on your calendar, and a bunch of tasks your need to cross off your “To-Do List.”

You know what else is important? My sanity. My ears. My morning commute I planned to have in solitude.

But you, Mr. Cellphone Chats McGee, seem to think that everyone in the world around you wants to hear about the latest conflict with your interior designer, how your dishwasher detergent just doesn’t clean everything that well, or that your job is “ruining your social life.”

Oh, poor you.

You know who else has fallen victim to their jobs? EVERYONE ON THIS TRAIN. You know how many times I have to rerun my dishwasher everyday? THREE, AND IT SUCKS. You know what I think about my interior designer? I DON’T HAVE ONE BECAUSE I’M POOR.

But you have a suit. You have the power to do whatever you want, to disregard the civilians on the same train, bus, or subway. You, my friend, are the most important person in the room.

So please, go on, you have the floor. We can all accommodate you and text about our problems like the polite, normal human beings we are at 7am.

By the way, your pants look stupid and your shoes are ugly. I kind of hate you.

And I want to talk to my mom on the phone about it. But I can’t because I don’t want to be you. So I’m going to text her and passive aggressively shoot death glares in your direction and hope you can feel my mean gaze on the back of your head.

Well, I’m Going to Hell.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am not the most angelic person on the planet.

I don’t always wear my seatbelt, I eat dessert before dinner, and I’ve been known to throw out a curse word or two in a moment of frustration. While not deplorable, those kinds of antics are most certainly not getting me any closer to the golden gates, if you will.

A while back, I did one good deed and immediately assumed it erases all the bad stuff I did before and after, so I wrote a wish list I’d like to have for my afterlife, you know, cause I’m going to heaven and stuff.

As much as I try to be a good person, sometimes the bad just slips through the cracks. I can’t always pretend that I enjoy watching movies with Kristen Stewart in them, or tell the truth when my parents ask me if I have eaten any vegetables at all this week.

I know, I need to make some changes.

I have to believe heaven is just the best place ever to exist. Just naps all day, wine all night, and just a non-stop party with all your friends and family members.

I also have to believe that hell is the absolute worst place to ever exist. I am NOT trying to go there, but I have been put in some situations on this earth, and they have changed me to the point where I am henceforth making an honest effort to be so good that they won’t even ask me questions about myself when I try and enter like they do when I attempt to sneak a full sized shampoo bottles through airport security.

I fully believe the following are accurate events on Hell’s calendar:

Mist:

There are no sunny days in hell. Just constant mist in your face. You don’t get a raincoat or an umbrella. But in reality those things never help anyways. You’ll get gently pelted with moisture for your eternal afterlife and never be able to protect yourself.

DMV:

All you want to do is get up and have a relaxing day on your couch, maybe watch some netflix and eat some takeout. No. You will be forced to get up at 6am with the rest of Hell’s legion and told to wait in line for seven of the eight hours of freedom you have for the day. Once there is a glimmer of hope and you’re the next in line to go to the counter, they will say that it’s closing time and you have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Traffic Jams:

You’ll be having a bad day, because it’s hell, and you’ll want to get in your car and take a mindless drive to release some stress. Only you can’t because everywhere you go there will be stop and go traffic. You will never get to drive freely on the open road blasting music like you would in heaven.

And for those who were really big assholes on planet earth, you get stick shifts. Have fun with that, bucko.

Push-Button Faucets:

Washing your hands seems like a basic task. Not when you have the bathroom army determining how much water you’re allotted at your sink interval. You’ll always have leftover soap, and never enough water to wash it off. Soap hands for life.

Group Text Messages:

You’ll have one response to the initial message, but you’ll never be able to silence the eight other people in the chat who have ignored or forgotten you’re in the group text and have gone on to have a riveting conversation about cat pregnancies and plaid button-up shirts.

An Almost Loaded Website:

All you want to do is check your email. And you’ll forever be waiting to do it.

That Person You Can Never Pass:

You’ll want to walk to the grocery store – which in hell, is Trader Joes on a Sunday – and there will be that person in front of you walking at a glacial pace, taking up the entire sidewalk. You will never be able to pass them. Just destined for a life of following in the footsteps of the slowest human being on the planet, which is ironically the worker who called out of the DMV that morning and is the sole reason as to why they are short staffed and horrible.

Constantly Trying to Assemble Ikea Furniture:

After your seven hour stint at the DMV get ready to come home and assemble IKEA furniture! No directions, just rudimentary sketches that don’t pertain to anything. You’ll always slam your finger, and there will never be enough screws. God bless.

…

Be good, folks. This hellish life aint for you. I know it’s not for me. I’m going to find the nearest church and confess all my sins now, see you in a couple years. It’s a long list.

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.”

Kristen Stewart and the fact that she never makes eye contact or smiles.
Starbucks employees who spell your name incorrectly, I’m on to you.
The first stall in any public bathroom.
Dave Matthews Band.
Using the word literally when something isn’t actually happening at the moment.
Teenage drama television shows where the central characters never have parents.
Boys, because they don’t have to wear bras. (If you’re a boy that wears a bra, GOOD FOR YOU!)
You, if you drive the speed limit.
People that knowingly leave their shopping cart taking up entire parking space; you jackass.
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.
People who order salads at restaurants because they’re “watching their weight.”
Tankinis… What are you?
Odd numbers. Get out of here.
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?)
The weather being a universal and acceptable conversation topic.
Upforkers – for obvious reasons.
Crop circles. Farmers already have a tough life, let’s not make it worse, okay?
Chipotle for promising me things and not delivering.
Paying for things.
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.
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.
Cab drivers. Oh wait, nope that one is rational.
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).
Those elastic-waisted, maternity pants that are ~~supposedly~~ only for pregnant women. Non-preggos have fat days, too.

Half and Half