humor

Why Girls Buy Other Girls Drinks

  • Because they’re bored
  • Because it’s 5pm
  • Because it’s 9pm
  • Because it’s last call
  • Because it’s happy hour
  • Because there are jello shots
  • Because there is Fireball
  • Because, “You’re just, like, my best friend and I love you, so much. Like really.  To the moon and back, girlfran.”
  • Because it’s my turn
  • Because it’s their turn
  • Because she’s new to the group
  • Because she’s not in the group
  • Because she’s a better wingwoman when she’s drunk
  • Because she took one for the team
  • Because she needs it
  • Because I need it
  • Because it will make us dance
  • Because I’m an enabler
  • Because we’re easily persuaded
  • Because you know she won’t say no
  • Because she got promoted
  • Because we got fired
  • Because we’re single
  • Because her boyfriend is gone
  • Because we got dumped
  • Because we dumped someone
  • Because it’s a holiday
  • Because we’re on vacation
  • Because tropical drinks will make you think you’re on vacation
  • Because she’s not pregnant
  • Because there’s a snowstorm
  • Because we’re hungover
  • Because it’s cold outside and drinks make us warm
  • Because it’s pay day
  • Because we’re the only people at the bar
  • Because my job sucks
  • Because our feet hurt
  • Because, “You look like you need a drink.”
  • Because we look good
  • Because we feel like shit
  • Because when we don’t eat dinner we get drunk faster
  • Because wine is good for our heart
  • Because, “WE NEED TO CHEERS!”
  • Because we need to toast to random events
  • Because we need to look interesting
  • Because I showered today
  • Because I need to ask you something important and/or horrible
  • Because I’m going to guilt you into doing something you don’t want to do but will do it anyways cause I bought you that drink in your hand
  • Because you got a haircut
  • Because it’s Sunday Funday
  • Because it’s brunch
  • Because it’s an open bar and I’m not really buying it
  • Because it’s relaxing
  • Because I had a bad day at work
  • Because you had a great day at work
  • Because you got laid
  • Because we’re trying to get laid
  • Because it’s a weekday
  • Because it’s the weekend
  • Because I need to unwind
  • Because any excuse to buy a drink is a good excuse to buy a drink
Image

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?

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.

rtt-new

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.

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&docid=8ddR0SXzHQSZ8M&tbnid=1lzSxIRqzHRNhM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fvimeo.com%2F18313365&ei=d0EDU8-jMOKpsATF7YDICw&bvm=bv.61535280,d.aWc&psig=AFQjCNEv1d9p9lWbjJs2XNfaA-w3Y2GmwA&ust=1392808673977228

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.

Remembering My First Love

I’m going to be real honest and break it down for a hot second.

I’ve had my fair share of crushes that didn’t quite pan out (I’m talking to you, Leo DeCaps) the way that I wanted.  But love is a completely different story.

I’ve been there, done that, moved on, and (almost) got over it.  But then again, the first cut is the deepest, right Sheryl Crow?  You go girl, sign it from the heart! Lance Armstrong sucks! (just kidding…?)

Anyways, since I’m somewhat of a scornful human being when it comes to broken hearts, I did a little research into the whole feeling of love and what it means. And what I found what shocking.

Turns out, I’m already in love.  Who knew?  I started reading about the 7 Ways Love Transforms Your Brain, and with each progressing number it became more and more clear.

I’m in love with food.

And it’s pretty bad.  I knew when the clock struck noon that I was hungry, but who knew it was hunger pangs tugging on my heart strings?

Don’t believe me?  Well, you should.  Because here are the 7 ways my brain has been transformed since I admitted my unrequited love for all things edible.

EDITOR'S NOTE: RED TEXT is website info, BLACK TEXT, much like my soul, are my own thoughts. 

1. You Feel Addicted

Ever hear that love is a drug? Well, there may be some truth to that. Your brain houses these intensely passionate feelings using the same system that’s activated when a person is addicted to drugs, from the euphoria you feel to your cravings for more. Sure, it might be a much healthier addiction — but let’s face facts, shall we? You’re an addict.

The only things I am positive I am addicted to are bacon, wine, and unlimited brunch buffets.  Call me a hopeless romantic, but I don’t think too much IHOP ever hurt anybody. I guess that encompasses most food entities.  Checkmark on the addiction aspect of food admiration.

2. You Start Thinking In Twos

It’s not just “me, me, me” anymore. Now, there’s two of you to think about — and your brain will automatically pick up the changes. The bond you share with your partner or children runs way deeper than just on the outside.

I can’t imagine a day going by without having more than one of anything that I eat.  Two bowls of cereal? Yes, please. A double dose of chips and salsa? Absolutely.  An extra side of bacon?  Do I even have to answer? I even cut my sandwiches in half just so I cognitively think there are two rather than one part to my lunch meal.

3. You Love Longer (And Become Wiser)

Falling in love is as good for your heart as it is for your mental health. People in love report higher levels of dopamine, which is linked to pleasure, desire and euphoria. Studies report that people in positive, healthy relationships live longer, are happier, wiser and have better mental health. 

You know what’s good for your heart?  Food.  You know why skinny people are so crazy?  They don’t eat enough. Has anyone ever felt worse after eating a heaping pile of huevos rancheros for breakfast? Don’t answer that.  I just know that after I eat a bacon cheese burger, I feel like I’m on top of the world. Endorphins to the moon and back baby.  That’s how I roll.

4. You’re More Supportive

One of the biggest benefits of falling in love is that you’ll learn what it’s really like to lean on (and support) another person. Building trust in a relationship is crucial. And, your brain helps you out with that. When we’re in love, we’re less likely to be critical or skeptical of the person we care about.

“Hey, let’s talk about this over a big plate of onion rings” is one of my favorite phrases. Food builds trust.  Food is trust. Learn it, live it, love it.  Support food, support me, support you.  It’s all in a days work.  Eat, support a pal, go home, sleep like a baby.

5. You De-Stress

Some of us might mistake those butterflies surrounding your first kiss — but there’s no way your brain will ever forget how it first felt to be touched by someone you’re in love with. 

You haven’t had butterflies until you’re waiting in your booth on pins and needles for a short stack of pancakes on a Sunday morning.  Your brain doesn’t ever forget something as crucial as a post-hangover meal.  Especially if it’s carb-o-loaded. You can quote me on that.

6. You Glow (Well, Your Brain’s Reward Centers Do!)

In a study that assessed couples “madly in love,” scientists found that the reward centers of their brains lit up after just looking at a picture of their spouse. Let the bright lines shine, baby!

Look at these pictures and tell me you are not immediately filled with glee.  I rest my case.

7. You Feel Safe

Similar to the first bonds babies make with their mothers, the feeling of security will emerge in your relationship. As you age and change, your body actually remembers the brain cycles and stages that you went through in your youth — so when you feel reconnected to your baby self, those feelings of safety and contentment will come flooding back. Research also shows that when we feel love for someone, it shuts down the part of our brain that controls fear and negative emotions.

Do I feel safe while I’m eating? Not particularly.  Do I feel safe after I’m done eating, and have a full range of motion as well as sharp utensils to thwart off any enemies? Abso-posi-tive-a-lutely. Forks and steak knives all day.

…

PS- I will be an Onion Ring Connoisseur before I die.

Cleaning: Then vs. Now

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

No pants? No problem. #Laundry

No pants? No problem. #Laundry

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

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

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

Making your bed:

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

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

Laundry:

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

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

Dishes:

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

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

Cleaning the house:

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

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

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

…

Related

  1. Home | My Little Avalon
  2. Just a dustrag | marjanitalarosa
  3. Household Tasks
  4. Ugh, dishes.. | Relax
  5. Ironing | Life is great
  6. I Do Not Do Anything Anyways | Lisa’s Kansa Muse

Embarrassment is spelled: M-E-G.

When someone says, “Hey Meg, you should tell me the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you.”

I’m very likely going to respond with, “Which time are you talking about?”

I’m a magnet for misbehavior.  Not just for myself, but if you hang out with me long enough, I’m pretty much guaranteed to embarrass myself, my family, you, your family, your friends, your pets, and even people you don’t necessarily like very much.

I could be at a horse race in Ireland with your extended family, and in the midst of an adult conversation, and interject and ask why it’s so windy even though there are no trees anywhere in sight. I could be in third grade, using a calculator on my multiplication math test and ultimately shaming the intellectual reputation of my family by getting caught by my teacher.  Or I could be in college trying to get to class by cutting through a mud puddle that sucked my flats clear off my feet.

All of those things could, and did happen, but those are not close to the most embarrassing moment in my life.

That moment came and went whilst I was in kindergarten.  A mere five years old.

It was the best day of the week, show and tell day. I was prepared, brought my favorite book along with my favorite page already marked with my favorite colored (green) post-it note. I was ready.

We all do stupid things.  And if you don’t do stupid things, here’s a hint.  You’ve done stupid things, you’re just not willing to admit they were stupid.

yeah, none of us really like attention.

yeah, none of us really like attention.

But I digress. My friend Hayden was showing me the latest in Barbie greatness, and this other kid, Kyle had a badass gold encrusted slinky that glistened every time a pocket of sunlight hit a curve, or slink, or whatever. Sarah was showing off her aggressive collection of photos she had taken with Disney characters.

I’ve always been competitive by nature.  I never like to lose, and I always like to be the best. In the kindergarten battle of who’s got what, I was getting completely outdone.  That was not going to be allowed.  Not in my book.  Not in my school.  Not today.  Not ever.

In this game of show and tell, I was going to win.  So, in every effort to steal the spotlight from all the children in the room, I did the only thing I could in order to solidify myself in with all the greatest showers and tellers.

It was at that moment that I decided the best possible course of action would be to take my red dress and lift it all the way over my head.  I would show my fellow kindergarteners my underwear.  And I would win show and tell for life.

Except the only thing I won was a first class ticket and a front row seat in the Principal’s office. Principal Dunlap to be exact. 

Mrs. Camarotta marched me down, clenching my left hand with an adult dismay, to Principal Dunlap’s office.  This woman was the epitome of my childhood terror.  She wore a tight black fitted skirt suit, stockings, and pointy black heels.  Her hair was perfectly gelled, combed, and styled.  It never moved.  Not even when she was angry.  She was an artist of discipline and I was her next project.

Letting go of my hand, Mrs. Camartotta turned and walked out the door after making sure I was seated in the chair facing Mrs. Dunlap’s desk.  She closed the door behind her. Then the lady in black turned around in her swivel chair, and spoke to me.

“Hello, Megan.” She said sternly, “What brings us here today?” I was unaware there was more than one person involved in this ‘us’ situation, but I made the motion to say that I understood what she asked me, yet I still had no idea how to respond. Then I heard a sound that normally wouldn’t alarm anyone, but scared me straight to my grave (metaphorically).  Right then, her office door opened.

I turned around, not knowing who to expect, when I saw my mother.  And then I saw her face.

It was at this point in time that I realized who she meant by ‘us.’  She meant me and my mother.  Why ‘we’ were here.  Essentially, my mother had to drop everything she was juggling, which at the time meant my two infant brothers in each arm and my four-year-old brother in a front facing backpack, to come to hang out at the bad kid party in the principal’s office.

“So what brings us here today, Megan?” She asked again.  I was astonished.  My skirt show just brought my mother into school.  This was not going to go over well with my father.  Pulling the hems at my dress, “Um, I think I did something bad.” My face was as red as the skirt I had just pulled over my head.  I was mortified.

“You know, Megan,” Principal Dunlap lectured, “there are appropriate ways to get your teacher’s attention, like raising your hand, calling out for help.”  She simultaneously counted on her fingers listing the ways to be appropriate.

“Do you think lifting your dress up was appropriate?” The question was rhetorical, and this was not the time to be smart ass, as my father would say. “No, not it wasn’t.”  I sounded apologetic as I looked up and nodded in agreement with my mother.  My face was still a very dark shade of “humiliation red,” and I didn’t see it fading any time soon.

“Good. As long as we’re clear, your mother can go home and you can go back to class.  Mrs. Tuccio will bring you back to show and tell.”  She reached to grab my hand and led me out the door, but not before my mother sarcastically added in, “Make sure you show your book this time.”

My conference with the devil was over.  I survived.

I marched down the hallway back to my classroom.  I was still filled with unease at what my classmates would think when I entered after the whole dilemma. But then I thought about what the kids would have been talking about while I was gone. They would have been talking about me.

I had made it into the Hall of Fame of Show and Tell.  Reputation cemented in history.  Right where I belonged.

…

Related:

  1. Red Christmas | muffinscout
  2. Embarrassingly plagiarised. | The Number FiftyTwo
  3. Embarrassed! | A mom’s blog
  4. Embarrassing Moments? Yes, I Have Known a Few! | meanderedwanderings

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.

Sole Mates.

Hey,

I’m going to be honest. I don’t really know if this will change anything.  But everyone keeps telling me that writing is therapeutic, so I’m going to give it a shot.

I never thought this would happen to me.  To us.  It always happened to the others.  I thought we were different.  Sure, when we first met, we may have got off on the wrong foot; but being forced to hang out with each other made us fast friends.  Pretty soon, we were inseparable.

We were matched up with each other from the start.  It was our job to be together forever.  I never went anywhere without you, and always made sure to stay close.  Our friends were great, too.  There were days, weeks even, where we’d all huddle up, clinging to each other like there was some sort of static electricity binding us to one another, but in reality, it was just destiny.

Sure, there are snags in every relationship – and we were no different.  Some days it just felt like you were one step ahead of me, anticipating my every move.  But the pace was far too fast for me to keep up, and eventually, I got tired, worn down, and defeated. I was cast aside, thrown on the floor, put in a pile to associate with others who were washed up, faded, and used.

But then you joined me, like you always did.  We were the perfect pair.

Our life, although never dull, had its low moments.  It seemed as though we were stuck in a tunnel with no light at the end, wondering when we’d both get to go back home.  I missed our friends.  They were so colorful, so vibrant, much more so than us. We were plain, but it was okay.  We liked it that way.  We went with the flow;  not the most popular of the bunch, but we always got invited to do things.

I got used to spending my time with you, and at the end of the day, it never mattered to me that you were dirty and didn’t smell great. I should have listened during our arguments when you would constantly ask me to, “put myself in your shoes.”

Socks: A love story.

Socks: A love story.

I guess what I’m saying is, I was selfish. I never knew that our time together would end so abruptly.  I never really got to say goodbye.  It was time for our monthly getaway, a trip downtown with friends: tons of water, lots of heat, a place to let loose and get rid of all our stains we’d garnered from the work week.

One minute we were holding hands, spinning in circles.  A couple kids in love, enjoying the water.  Next thing you know, I lost control, and turned around and you were gone.  The pool was crowded, more so than usual.  Must have been spring break or something. I figured I’d catch you when you wanted to dry off.

But I was the only one got to dry off.  I lost you.  I was left, and you were right – we never should have taken our eyes off each other.  It happened for a second and now you’re gone.

I don’t know what else to say.  I guess everything doesn’t come out in the wash.  But I feel as though I serve no purpose.  Life is pointless without you.  I don’t know how much longer I’m going to last.  Even our friends have started distancing themselves from me.  I guess they’re getting more time outdoors – I should be happy for them.

I will never forget you. You were my sole mate.

I hope you’re happy.  Wherever you are.

Love always,

Me.

Related: