Apparently You’re Not Allowed To Wear Prom Dresses To Prom, So Here’s A List Of Alternative Formalwear

Humans (and unwanted robots) of the Internet, I’ve decided to break my blog silence in the name of something so sacred its legacy cannot, and will not be tarnished under my watch. Yes world, I’m obviously talking about prom. 

Sorry dudes, dresses are the biggest and best part about prom.  You spend hours, days, and weeks searching for the perfect one. You get in verbal threatening altercations with your friends so that they don’t wear the same one as you. It’s pretty effing serious.  But, in case anyone hasn’t paid attention to female body part taboos over the course of the world’s development, there are certain things that are like totally unacceptable to show in public.

Ladies, put your boobs away, pull up your pants and cover your ass (literally), and Goddamnit, HIDE YOUR BACKS!

There’s a reason for my anger. This is in the news today. A girl got sent home from prom for wearing this dress.

(Click the picture for more information about why the world is going to implode within the next ten years.)


AHHH! The horror!

My eyes! Honestly, the world is going downhill so fast. If this is the type of thing high school girls are being told not to wear, they’re going to need some serious council on what is and is not acceptable.  Because Forever 21 and all the store that every girl in the world shops at are going out of business. You heard it here first.

So that’s where I come in, with my expert fashion advice and willingness to stir up controversy in the name of glitter and fabulous shoes.

Here is my list of things you can wear to prom INSTEAD of prom dresses: 

Bed sheet/Blanket

Think classic ghost on Halloween costume. Nothing gets more body coverage than something that you wrap yourself in to turn into a human burrito every night in order to sleep. I’m sure a queen will do, but we’re talking about prom in 2015, so I’m going to advise a king.

Paper bag.

And make sure it’s not plastic, too see through and environmentally damaging that you’ll have more than just the principal in your business, you’ll have the EPA calling your ass suing you for not going green and condemn you to a life of indefinitely shopping at Whole Foods while wearing Birkenstocks.

Graduation gown.

Priest chic is so hot right now, ankles are becoming sexy and suddenly wrists are the newest thing to accesorize. If you don’t have one, a black sheet will do, I guess.

XXXL Sweatshirt. 

Nothing says gorgeous like an oversized sweatshirt. It’s like everyone is preaching that women are flawless and woke up like this, so give them a taste of their own medicine by literally waking up, raiding a linebacker’s closet and walking into prom like you own the place.

Cardboard box.

More sturdy that the paper bag, because God forbid there be any sort of grinding or dancing going on. A box will ensure that you will not be touched our asked to dance the entire time you’re there. It also totally gives off a “no date required because I hate everyone” kind of vibe.

What would YOU recommend that high schoolers wear to prom? Do you think that society is taking things too seriously? Is anyone listening to me?

IMPORTANT UPDATE: I Am Officially Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman.

amen. preach. yup.

amen. preach. yup.

Well kids, it’s the beginning of the end; my twenty-fifth birthday is on Monday.

Yup, the big quarter-century label is coming for me faster than the cops who are hassling me to pay all my parking tickets.

I’m facing my last weekend as a twenty-four-year old and forcing myself to look back and reflect on how exactly I got here. You know, in life and stuff.

I don’t even remember anything that happened before third grade, so let’s start there.

I was six-years-old, sitting on a rock outside my grandparent’s barn holding a stray cat my uncles had taken in thinking I wanted to be a veterinarian.

It was that easy.  You just grew up, found something you loved, and did it. 

I loved animals; I owned a hamster, liked petting cats, and frequently wrestled with dogs; so I was going to be a vet.

When I was eight, I got pissed off at my parents and decided that I wanted to renounce my position in the family and live off the land like Pocahontas.  I gathered up all the belongings any eight-year-old would need, put them in a backpack, and left my house in a fury to make a statement.

My mother didn’t notice I was gone for over four hours, she just thought I was playing outside like a normal girl when I returned home for dinner because I had forgotten all about the food and shelter portion of survival outside a house. I did, however, bring an extensive collection of cds for my battery operated discman, and a slew of J-14 magazines.

At age ten, I remember falling so deeply in love with Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic to the point where I was determined to become an actress.  I joined the school play in fifth grade; I did anything I could to sabotage my family’s home videos and get experience in the spotlight.

The only issue was I had no acting talent, which was evident in my being cast as ‘stage crew,’ and my mother was not supportive in my newfound endeavor to become rich and famous before I could correctly spell the word ‘business’ on the first try.

this is how you look when you're 25. i think?

this is how you look when you’re 25. i think?

Which, in hindsight, my adolescent track record with drinking and recreational drug use would have landed me in the same position as Lindsay Lohan right now.  So thanks, Mom.  You did me a solid on crushing that fifth grade dream.

I actually blacked out all of middle school and don’t remember anything except for when Mrs. Townsend gave my friend Jocelyn and I a detention because we purposely put our left hands instead of our right hands over our hearts one too many times during the pledge of allegiance.  Apparently that was disrespectful.

All throughout high school I was almost certain that I wanted to go into marketing and advertising.  It was what my dad did.  He had season tickets to the New York Rangers and frequently used us kids as pilot testers for his agency’s commercials.  It seemed like a pretty badass career field.

I never listened when he told me how much he hated his job, never saw how overworked and overtired he was, and I conveniently never remembered how often he wasn’t there for the most formative years of my life.

It wasn’t until college that I realized I was extremely lazy and wanted summers off for the rest of my life.  The stark reality of the real life work force haunted my dreams and made me gain over thirty pounds.

That last statement was false, I gained thirty pounds because I was in college and drank handles of vodka after eating two-hour dinners at the all you can eat dining halls.  And I refused to exercise because the gym was too crowded and stretchy pants were in style.

I was twenty-one, fat, and going into my senior year at UConn when my mother pointed out how much I loved working with children.  I decided I was going to switch my major with four credits short of a Media Communications degree and pursue teaching; a field in which I had absolutely no idea what exactly was entailed.  But it had summers off.

At the end of my schooling, I had collected a Masters in Teaching, a Bachelors in Media Communications, and a Bachelors in English.  I wanted to be a middle school English teacher in Boston.  So I moved;  because finding teaching jobs in a city at a reputable school, with nice kids, and good pay is really easy to do.

It wasn’t.  I was twenty-three and unemployed.

I do have a job now, though.  And I like it.  But I didn’t use any of my degrees to get it, which is just both comical and completely depressing all at the same time.

Ultimately, I learned it was never going to be as easy as finding something you love and doing it.  

With three days left until twenty-five inevitably smacks me in the face like my hangover will on Sunday, I am humbled by all the failed dreams I’ve had, and cling to the ones I still have.  There is no way of knowing which will come true, and which, if not all, will be epic failures.

I can say wholeheartedly that I have not a goddamn clue in the world where I will be in five years.  None of my previous ambitions really panned out the way I wanted or wished, but I can only hope that with this birthday, I will magically be gifted the knowledge of what the fuck I am supposed to be doing with my life.

Until then, we can always thank the high heavens and my mother that I did not become Lindsay Lohan or Pocahontas.

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.


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.


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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:



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.

Proof that exercising is dangerous.

The following story is a recountance of true events.  Emotions, time frames, and dialogue are potentially misconstrued and over exaggerated due to the fact that there was alcohol involved. 

It started with a paddleboard.

Yup, you know, one of these things.  They’re supposed to be fun, a good way to exercise, a tool to relax on the open water.

Only it wasn’t.  It was a plank of desolation, inconvenience, and misery.

Well, wait. Let’s backtrack a little bit.  I was on vacation.  Minnesota. July 2013. The purpose: a bi-annual reunion with my best friends with whom I studied abroad in Dublin back in 2009.  We have had about six reunions prior to this one, the most recent summer event was at this exact lake house.

heaven, paradise, whatever you call it.

heaven, paradise, whatever you call it.

We agreed that this was the only spot to spend our summer reunions from there on out, so we returned with anticipation and a thirst that only a multitude of beers, margaritas, and shots could quench.

The day started as most days did, on the boat, in the sun, drinking beverages of the adult variety.  Friends were seen jumping off the stern, or port, or whatever you call it, into the lake, floating on noodles and crushing beers.  Others were seen riding a jetski at high speeds.  Some were tanning on the lawn.  It was a great day.  And it remained that way until everyone had their fill of each activity that was offered.

As the sun transitioned to set, Audrey* and I decided we wanted to take one last trip out on the paddleboard before dinner – you know, because we needed exercise and stuff.

** Name has been changed to protect Audrey's identity.

We float/don’t do much at all but sit/paddle out into the lake, singing songs in what I’m positive was completely off key, laughing, and trying to balance enough to both stand up on the board at the same time.  It was only a short time later that we both realized the current was a lot stronger than we thought, and we had drifted quite a bit away from the dock, safety, and our friends.

“Audrey, we’re really far away.  What are we supposed to do?”

“Get off the paddle board, start swimming and pull us like you’re in a dog sled race.” She responded.

trying to dance... or something

trying to dance… or something

I tried my best, but to no avail, we ended up floating farther and farther away, but at a rapid pace.

“Let’s signal for them,” I suggested, “they’ll hear us if we yell loud enough.  I heard that sound travels on water.”

We both screamed for help, and a man with a jetski came to our rescue.  “Here,” he said as he motioned to jump, “you two climb on the jetski, I’ll paddle the board back to the dock.  I left the keys in the ignition.”

It seemed fool proof.  Only it wasn’t.  I lost my sunglasses in the transition from the water to the platform, the second pair of the day.  Audrey was grabbing my arm like you would a toy on black Friday so that I wouldn’t fall back into the water.  It was a complete disaster.  We looked like we had just learned that we each had limbs, only had no idea how to maneuver them.

We looked off into the distance and the lad who had helped us was already halfway back to the dock. “What the hell did he do that we didn’t do?” I asked. “He probably didn’t have eight margaritas today.”  Audrey answered.  She was probably right.

We’re both (almost) securely on the jetski when Audrey reaches for the key and turns right to activate the ignition.  It chuggs.  She turns again.  It sounds almost like the noise someone makes before they sneeze; just heavy, mechanic, wheezing.  I don’t know a lot about motors, but I know that when there is fuel inside them, and you turn the key, they turn on.

Then the red light of death starts blinking.  “FUEL GAUGE ERROR.  PLEASE CHECK ENGINE.” I read in complete dismay.

We’re drifting fast towards a set of docks on the opposite side of the lake.  No one is around us, the kid who rescued us has since rescued the paddle board and himself, and has now safely returned to land.

We were stranded.



I have no threshold for sanity or patience in these types of dilemmas so I immediately start freaking out.  “HOLY SHIT, WE’RE LOST. AUDREY, HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET BACK.?!?!”  I’m frantic.  Audrey starts to feel it as well.  She jumps out, and starts to pull the jetski towards the closet dock.

“Jump out and grab the rope, tie us to this dock.”  She instructs me.  I followed the directions.  We had landed on this empty dock.  Audrey was sandwiched between the Ski-Doo and the dock pole, a place I like to call, Barnacle City. Once tied, we looked up at the house the dock belonged to, and noticed a woman on the balcony, just staring at us.

She was drinking a margarita. I can only imagine what her view was like from up there.  Two drunk girls in bathing suits, a broken jetski, and no sense of direction just tacking up on her property.

Audrey and I made our way up the steps, crossing her lawn, and eventually made awkward eye contact. “Hi!  Excuse us, we’re like lost. And our jetski has no gas.  We’re just trying to get back home.” I explain to this woman.

“Well, my husband isn’t going to be home for a while, and I’ve just had extensive back surgery.  I’m on multiple pain medications, and I can’t really think or see straight at the moment.” She explains her situation to us.  It seemed like… a little bit of an overshare. But we had no choice.  Audrey and I looked at each other, thinking about what our next move would be, when suddenly she interrupts our thoughts, “Would you guys like a sandwich? You can use my telephone, too.”

so happy after the jetski debacle.

so happy after the jetski debacle.

A telephone sounded great.  A sandwich sounded amazing.  We had worked up a serious appetite, and I was hoping to the high heavens that she had bacon, lettuce, and tomato in that house.  An avocado wouldn’t hurt either, but I wasn’t banking on it. We started to walk towards the basement door when we heard the honking of a boat horn.

Audrey and I turned around and saw all of our friends on the boat, honking at us, laughing at us, and most importantly, rescuing us.  They took a rope and towed the jetski back to the dock. We turned and thanked the woman for her almost-hospitality, and promptly ran back to the boat, and grabbed a towel to dry off.

It had been a long day. On the safety of land, I pondered to myself.  I know I don’t like to exercise, but this incident damn near proved me right.  Exercising is dangerous.  It’s better to stay stationary and enjoy all the things the lake house has to offer – and that’s what I did for the next two days.

With beers, shots, and margaritas, of course.



Remember when…

my dad put my mom in a bag?

and i wonder why i am the way i am.

and i wonder why i am the way i am.

In all seriousness, my parents are the best people in the world, and capturing moments like these make me realize how awesome they are.

Burritos After Dark.

Disclaimer: This is a true story about one time when I was hungry.  When I’m hungry, I do not think clearly. As a result, I may or may not have found myself romantically linked to the delivery man.

One night, in the cozy one-bedroom apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over, my friend Loren and I found ourselves miraculously hungry.  We had an entire day filled with activities – both good and bad – and a midnight snack was the sole solution to all of our problems. 

“Burritos.” I demanded.  Loren agreed, nodding her head in approval.

We ordered our late night Mexican feast online, and got a confirmation and a delivery estimate of one hour.  But time moved at what seemed like a glacial pace.  Seconds barely turned into minutes, and even though the hour was drawing near, my cell phone was not ringing to signify that my post-dinner fast was over.

Loren looked over at me in realization, and informed me of society’s bi-annual observance of modern day time travel,  “It’s Daylight Savings, Meg, we just fell back an hour.”

“It’s technically 1am.” She mentioned, pointing at the clock, even though it clearly showed the little hand at the 2.  “Does this mean my burrito is going to take another hour?” The question came out of my mouth in the same tone that children use when asking for their mothers’ permission to eat thirds from the Thanksgiving dessert buffet.

“We should just call and find out,” she suggested in a rational, adult tone, “he could be on his way right now.”  Slightly panicked, I picked up the phone and dialed.  It rang, and rang, and rang, until finally, the answering machine picked up, “Hello, you’ve reached Burrito Taqueria, please leave a message.”

I was not prepared for this.  So I did what any sane, hungry, person would do in that situation; I left a message.

“Uhhmm, yes, hi, my name is Meg. I ordered two burritos about an hour and a half ago,” I sounded stern, I think, “I was just wondering if you guys observed Daylight Savings? Because I’m very hungry, and don’t know if I can wait an–” I hung up mid thought.

It was at that moment when I realized what I was saying was being recorded and could be replayed at anyone’s convenience, and my name was on the order. Ending the call was my only choice, even if it was mid-sentence.

I took a sip of wine, got a rush of adult-grape confidence, picked up the phone, and hit redial.

“Hello, Burrito Taqueria, how can I help you?” The man on the other end asked, politely, in a hispanic accent. “Umm, yeah, hi, I just called about five minutes ago,” I responded,  “I just wanted to ask if you had listened to any of your messages recently?”

There was a pause, and in a slightly concerned tone, he responded, “No, why?” I was relieved, and immediately pleaded with him,  “Could you please maybe just go back and delete the message I left on the answering machine” before adding this red-flag statement,  “but also don’t listen to it.”

“Why?” He asked, seriously confused with my request, and probably concerned that I was insane, “Was it offensive?”

“Truthfully, no.  It is just really embarrassing, and I don’t think I want that kind of audio being played at your leisure, sir.” I answered, “But I’m also calling because I’d like to know where my burritos are. It’s been over an hour,”  I added, to make my phone call sound justified, “and I know it’s Daylight Savings, but–”

“What is your name?” he interrupted, as if to look up my order. “Meg.” I answered, helping to give him all my information. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong with the order.” I was sinking lower and lower into the couch, thinking of the worst possible scenarios in my head.  All involving me, alone, sans burrito.

“Hi Meg, I’m Hugo.” He introduced himself via phone line.

“Where are you from?” I wondered, out loud, accidentally. “I am from Mey-hee-koh.” He answered in an accent.

And then I did whatever happens when someone with an accent speaks to me.  I attempt to replicate it for no apparent reason, and never stop myself until it’s too late.

“Ahh, May-hee-koh.” I mimicked, then realized I was being a jackass as well as losing complete sight of why I had called in the first place.

Continuing my thought, I asked, “Hi. Wait, Hugo, do you not have customers right now? ” This was done in an effort to make him focus on locating my missing Mexican roll-ups. “Oh! Yes, I do!” He replied, discovering people waiting at the register.

“Let me put you on hold.”  Without waiting for my response, elevator music filled my ears.  About three minutes later, I hear a click on the other end of the line, “Hello? Meg?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I laughed while responding. I was just put on hold and I wasn’t even asked if it was okay.

“I feel bad,” he apologized, “I want to give you a free dessert.  Would you like a flan or a rice pudding?”

“Neither.” I said politely, still laughing at how I just voluntarily stayed on the line listening to elevator music, and was now back to casually conversing about dessert options with a man I had never met.

“Well, what do you want instead?” He asked in a rebuttal.  At that moment, I dug into my treasure trove of late-night cravings, and began to list them all off in a rapid fire sequence.

“Do you have sweet potato fries?” I asked. “No.”

“Onion rings?” I suggested. “No. We don’t have those”

“Mozzarella sticks?” I wondered. “No, sorry.”

“Chocolate cake?” I just threw it out there.  “No. Only flan or rice pudding for dessert.”

I was running out of options. “Ice cream?” I asked, hopeful.  “No,” he replied, “but I can run to the gas station next door and get you some.”

“What about some Taquitos?” I concluded. “No, sorry. No taquitos.” He answered.  I didn’t know if he was joking or not. “You’re a Mexican restaurant,” I pointed out to him, “and you don’t have even one taquito lying around?”

“I’m sorry, but I will personally deliver your food to you,” he offered as a consolation, “I will leave here in five minutes, will you be awake?” Asking, as if to redeem himself in the conversation.

“Yes,” I shrugged, looking at Loren for confirmation, “we will be watching Netflix.” That statement was totally pertinent to his time management and delivery, by the way.  I look at my phone, noticing that the timestamp on the call was just about sixteen minutes.

After hanging up, Loren and I promptly begin to debrief the awkwardly long conversation that just occurred. “What do you think he looks like?” I wondered out loud, while picturing a tall, dark, handsome type in my mind. “If we have children, I will totally name them Taquito and Rice Pudding.” I started planning out this ridiculous imaginary life with Hugo, who I had never met, and would probably never see again.

We’re fifteen minutes into an episode of New Girl, when my phone lights up with a call from an unknown number.  “Hello?” I have the phone on speaker.  “Yes,” I hear him say, “I am downstairs.” I have never sprung up from a bed that fast in my life.  We run downstairs, tip in hand, ready to receive our long awaited food.

And then I see him.

He was not tall, dark, and handsome.  We would not be having two children named after appetizers and desserts respectively, nor would we be spending the rest of our lives together.  But he was holding my food, and that filled me with glee.

“Hi, I’m Meg.” I introduce myself, as I open the door and reach out to grab the bag filled with what I can only assume is my late-night treat, “How old are you?” I ask.  Because, at this point, why not?

He hesitates, “How old do you think I am?”  And now, standing in the doorway, face to face with the same man who told me he’d go next door to a gas station and bring me ice cream,  and I have no idea how to respond.

I figure my best shot is to give an age range and hope for the best, “I’m going to say, between thirty and thirty-five.” I was pretty confident.

Perplexed, he asks,  “Wait… What does that mean?” Just as confused with his confusion, I explain, “Well, it means you’re either, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, or thirty-five.” I simultaneously count using my fingers, making sure I’ve included all ages within this rage.

“Oh, well I am twenty-eight.” He says after giving me my food, “and I gave you some King Sized Junior Mints, my coworker did not want them.” This is in addition to the flan, just because.

“Oh, well, thank you for those.”  I make a gesture to sign the receipt in an effort to end this encounter and not have it become more awkward that it already was.

food on the brain.

food on the brain.

I close the door, food in hand, and walked up four floors to the cozy apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over.  Loren and I ate burritos at 3am, watched the second half of that New Girl episode, and talked about how I just very, very recently made tentative plans involving the man who just delivered our food and two children named Taquito and Rice Pudding.

Because when you have a long day filled with activities – both good and bad – the sole solution to all your problems is a midnight snack.

Just make sure it’s not Daylight Savings.