Elite Daily has smiled upon me and has deemed me worthy of being published for a second time.
Clearly my Masters degree in secondary education is being put to good use.
Please check out the link below to see what I have to say about being perpetually single, and why it doesn’t suck.
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.”
Thus, unfortunately – or fortunately depending on how you look at it – I don’t have anything new to contribute today, but something noteworthy did happen. So I’m going to but on my current events cap and botch the absolute crap out of this reporting.
Bear with me.
Fred Phelps Sr., the infamous leader of the deplorable, anti-semitic establishment that is the Westboro Baptist Church passed away today; and while his death is nothing to celebrate, we can revel in the irony of it all, and realize that he was a psychotic human being with nothing else to do but to plot to ruin other peoples’ lives.
If there’s anything you can take away from this event, it is that God does not in fact, “hate fags,” and being who you are is what you were born to do. Don’t be afraid to show your true colors. Unless you’re naturally green and scaly, you might be part lizard, and you may want to get that checked out.
Real talk. Regardless of race, gender, sexuality, or economic status, we are all on this planet together and deserve to be on this planet together. No one human is above any other, and you are all perfect the way you are.
Rant over, enjoy your Thursday, and drink a beer for me.
Oh, sorry. Quick question. When is the rapture, though?
Click the link for more information.
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?
more money, more problems.
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.
The first time I can remember being confused by dancing was when my my dad would play Elvis Presley records and jived around my living room in a bathrobe to ‘Hound Dog.”
The second time was I witnessed my mother grooving to the tunes of her youth at a Bruce Springsteen concert. It wasn’t really dancing, but more of a feet firmly planted, upper body twisting while simultaneously moving arms in a ‘choo-choo train’ motion to the beat of “Born To Run.”
I’m absolutely forty-percent positive my parents were once big-whigs on the dance floor. But after the poor display over the course of my youth, I felt certain that I was destined for mockery when it came to cutting a rug.
It only recently dawned on me that not only do we enter different stages of life as people, but of dancing as well. Do you ever see an eighty-year old woman dropping into a worm? No. Can you picture a four-year-old busting out jazz hands like he or she is the main event at a cheerleading competition? Not intentionally, that is.
We enter a phase of dance that follows us through specific years of our lives. From birth to death, there are certain dances that are inherently acceptable and they are as follows:
This is when you’re a baby and dancing means grasping firmly onto any surface that will withstand your baby grip and repeatedly trying to sit down whilst not letting go. It’s like you’re doing wall sits, but there happens to be music going on and your mother claps in approval while filming your half-sits and appropriately titling it “JOSH’S FIRST DANCE!” when she posts it on her Facebook wall.
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 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.
Prommy, prom, prom. Is he going to ask? Am I going to have to shell out two-hundred dollars for a faux satin dress with gaudy embellishments that I will wear only once? The first taste of adulthood comes with a hairdo that never turns out the way you want it, and a first come, first serve atmosphere when it comes to dresses. You do NOT want to have the same dress. Also, make sure to get one with forgiving and flowing fabric; you’re going to need it when you’re grinding dirty all up on the overly hormonal boys in your class. Feet planted, legs alternating, as close as possible, hands around the neck, then move back and forth in sync. That’s it. You’ve mastered the art of the high school grind. NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT. So awkward.
Go to the bar. Get a drink, dance alone. Dance with a guy. Dance with a girl. Dance against a wall. All acceptable. As long as when you’re dancing, the drink you’re holding is swaying back and forth uncontrollably and spilling everywhere. You’re a hot mess and it’s okay. Nothing is expected of you.
Suddenly, all the songs that were the hot beats at middle school dances are all the rage again at your wedding. It’s like you instinctively remember that you are leaving your youth to enter holy matrimony, so the final event on your first day of marital bliss will be to take a trip down memory lane and Cha-Cha Slide and YMCA all over the reception hall.
Is there anything more embarrassing than Dad Dancing? Showing up with your parents at an event and after the meal looking over to find you dad flailing his arms in the air like he’s sending SOS signals to the DJ. Look over to your right and you see your mother simulating a choo-choo train and everything comes full circle in your life. You’ve seen the pinnacle of bustin a move, and your future with gyrating does not look pretty. But hey, at least you can make it look good, right?
It’s a burden I carry. It’s my Achilles heel. It’s almost every explanation as to why I didn’t do something right, get somewhere on time, or put something away.
I just forgot.
My parents did a great job documenting my upbringing. There are tons of videos and pictures of me as a child, so it’s nice to be able to have a tangible photo to jog my memory, and explain things like why I thought it was a good idea to get cornrows AFTER I got home from vacation in Florida.
That’s a story for a different time, however.
When thinking about my earliest memory, it would most likely be a story about food making it or not making it into my mouth, and my mom subsequently cleaning up the mess I made only to realize she’d be cleaning up my messes for the next eighteen years and then into my adult life.
So rather than bore you with that mumbojumbo, I want to talk about the shambles of my life, and the things I always seem to forget.
Why I walked into a room.
This happens every day; without fail. I will walk into a room at some point, stare blankly at everything, and not know in the slightest why I am there. Also, a good thing to note: it does not jog your memory if you slowly twirl in circles looking at all the objects in the room. It just makes you dizzy.
What I’m supposed to get at the grocery store.
This would be super helpful. Regardless of how many lists I write down for myself, I always end up wandering up and down each aisle in the store – always stopping in the snack aisle for too long – and then inevitably leaving with a flank steak, birthday cake Oreos, and a block of Swiss cheese. All I needed was cereal.
To fill up my gas tank before it’s too late.
Do I ever fill up my car all the way? Nope. Am I really good at playing the neutral game? Yes. I can coast in neutral and make a tank last double time if needed. A good skill to learn, in my opinion. Also a good skill to learn: filling up your gas tank so you don’t have to rely on slight inclines and declines in order to keep your car moving.
Wine will get you drunk.
If I had a dollar for every time I said, “Oh, I’ll only have one glass with dinner.” I’d be rich. It starts off as a flavor addition to my post-work meal, next thing you know, the bottle is empty and I’m passed out on my living room rug with the TV still on and my dinner half-eaten.
Check my bank account.
I pretty much ignore everything that has to do with personal finances. My credit cards are always with me, and they give me a false sense of wealth because in my mind, when I don’t see physical dollars disappearing from my wallet, it means that those dollars are still in my bank account. Except that’s not how it works at all.
Not to drunk dial my parents.
At this point, my mom knows I’m drunk dialing her and just cuts me off mid-sentence saying she has to do something more important like watch Ellen DeGeneres or file her nails.
Turn off the oven.
But really though, we’re in 2014 and we don’t have an oven that turns itself off? I thought humanity was smarter than that. Moreover, I think other people are just smarter than me. They probably make a point to turn off the oven; I find it more important to hover over the stove with a spoon in hand shoveling the freshly made meal into my mouth. There is no time for plates. There is no time for sitting down. There is only food and it needs to be consumed.
… and then I forgot the rest of my list.
I’m 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
OMG, SOOOO TASTY!!
Oh boy! I’ve been waiting to share this idea for about three minutes since i just remembered it existed.
I’m a girl who is on the continual hunt for excellence. I’m always trying to improve. My brain is in constant motion, for the better and for the worse. I don’t want anyone to see or hear my private thoughts, but today, I’ve decided I’m going to let you in on a little piece of Meg’s brain that harbors my inventions.
A lot of things go on inside my head. Mostly irrelevant, nonsensical notions, but sometimes there are gems. This is one of those times. But how do you dissect the weird from the truly ingenious? Luckily, I found an online survey that allows you to determine whether or not your invention is good or bad.
I present to you:
It’s like MLK in your Minestrone.
Hunger is a very real problem in my life, and in anyone’s life who is alive. People gotta eat! And everyone could use a little ego boost.
I’ve never eaten a can of minestrone and immediately felt souper cool, friendly, or fun – Progressive and Campbell’s just can’t do that. BOOM.
I guess if you tell people that your emotional state is being swayed by a canned liquid lunch, people might question your sanity. Other than that, I see no disadvantages.
Like, 5$? Maybe I’ll add a name your price option, Souper Rich seems like it could be a big seller.
Grumpy people at lunchtime.
To improve the mental and physical well being of the human population, while providing a well balanced meal. To make so many dollhairs.
[X] sketches (a simple drawing of the invention)
[X] patent (official patent protection for your idea)
[X] visual model (a 3D model that shows how the invention might look)
[ ] working model (a model that demonstrates that the invention will work)
[ ] computer model (a computer representation of the invention, used for manufacturing)
[ ] technical drawings (drawings that a shop can work from to produce your product)
[ ] renderings (a computer generated image of how your product will look)
[ ] prototype (something close to or identical to the final product)
[ ] production run (many copies of the product to sell)
[ ] product photographs (professional photographs of the product to use in marketing it)
Souper Easy, Souper Fun, Souper Awesome, Souper Smart, Souper Attractive, Souper Awkward, Souper Friendly, Souper Drunk, Souper Sassy, Souper Dramatic
Related:
Half and Half 
