The Completely True Story of Christmas

It’s time we start investigating what actually happened on December 25th.

If you don’t know the story of Christmas, you can read about it here. Oh, and welcome to the twenty-first century, by the way, how was living under that rock for the past… forever?

Reflecting on all the things we do to get ready for the holidays, I couldn’t help but realize how most of it is kinda… weird.  It got me thinking about how it all started.  Thus, I present to you:

How Christmas Probably Happened. But Actually Probably Not Really. 


Many moons ago, this kid was born. And he was born in like, kinda not a normal way, because he just appeared in this lady, Mary’s belly.  She was married to this really chill dude named Joe, and I guess they had an extra bedroom and no idea what to use it for, so naturally, a baby will solve that problem!

But Baby Jeezy wasn’t an ordinary baby. Because that would be silly.  Seeing as he just kinda picked Mary to be his mom, he can’t possibly be a normal kid, he has to AT LEAST amount to being a moonlighting superhero.

This kid, Jeezy, turned out to be puh-ritty special.  So they decided that his birthday was going to be a holiday, and celebrated worldwide.

Side note: My parents obviously didn’t anticipate my greatness or else there would be a holiday on June 2.  Still working on it.

Joe and Mary decided the best way to commemorate the birth of their phantom son, Jeezy, was to bring plants inside and decorate them. Joe got his favorite axe and hand saw, marched outside and picked the best looking tree on the property, and cut that sucka down.

He brought it inside, stood it up next to the fireplace; proud of his work.  Mary got all concerned that it looked out of place, so she did what anyone else would do with a tree inside their house; she decorated the hell out of it. Even put a star on top to remind herself everyday how good of a job she did.

Sitting on their living room couch amid a roaring fire – Mary, obviously having a wine, Joe, probably chilling out with a nice Budweiser – they agreed to transcribe the Constitution of Christmas AKA Santa’s Laws.


1. Every year people have to bring a tree inside and decorate it.

It’s a little known fact that if you cut a tree down and take it out of it’s element you end up with a sad evergreen on your hands.  No one likes sad trees, so by making it look like it was sprayed with the contents of a craft store, even the saddest trees get time to shine.

2.  All gifts must be stored under the tree.

Protect and serve the presents. Protect and serve the people.  It’s the tree’s motto. It’s the tree’s job.

3.  There will be an old man responsible for delivering all the presents.  

He will travel by sleigh.  With not eight, but nine reindeer. One will have a red nose.  ONLY ONE.

4.  His name will be Santa.

He will live in a far away land, working with really, really, short/small people to make toys all year round. He will wear only red.  He will be solely responsible for keeping the color relevant.

5.  He will have a list.

This is the master of all lists.  This list keeps track of the good people and the bad people.  If you’re good, you get toys.  If you’re bad, you get…. coal!  No one likes coal, except miners and barbecues.  So if you’re a miner who barbecues, you may as well start acting like a horrible person on December 26. You’ll be grillin’ steaks for DAYS with all the fire fuel you’ll receive.

6.  Santa will not break and enter. 

Santa doesn’t break the laws.  You can’t have Father Christmas picking front door locks, or breaking living room windows.  That’s risky stuff. Bad Christmas PR.  By process of elimination, the chimney is the only other way in, so, sorry bro.  Hope your suit is fire-proof.

Christmas is also the one day of the year where it would not be weird to wake up in the middle of the night and find an old man dressed in a red bathrobe/sweatsuit come out of your chimney and start arranging presents under a tree in your living room.

7.  His reindeer eat carrots. He eats cookies. 

Automatic coal delivery to people who forget the milk.  Same with people who give store bought cookies.  Santa’s bionic nose knows a processed chocolate chip from a home made delight. And he doesn’t reward procrastination.

8. There will be sweaters.  They will be ugly.

What better way to say, “Happy Birthday!” than with a knit sweater picturing an overweight man in a red suit riding on a sleigh with flying deer? The short and long answer is: There is not a better way to say Happy Birthday than with a knit sweater picturing an overweight man in a red suit riding on a sleigh with flying deer. Period.

They sat back, happy with their creation, and passed down the tradition at each family gathering, and it has become Christmas as we know it.


What are your favorite holiday traditions?

ATTENTION: Pumpkins Are Using Jedi Mind Tricks On All Of Us

A pumpkin after my own heart.

A pumpkin after my own heart.

Summer is practically synonymous with sunscreen, ice cream, and barbecues.  I mean, I can already smell the bbq bacon cheeseburger coming fresh off the charcoal grill and it’s not because I am eating a cheeseburger at 10am.

Or it is, the jury is still out.

With each season, there is a specific scent we associate with it.  Normally I’m all for it, because scents mean that there is food somewhere in the vicinity, and that’s never a bad thing.

But I have a bone to pick with one particular scent/flavor/permeation that really just makes me angry, because it’s trying to be the favorite, and I learned in kindergarten that being the teacher’s pet meant getting special treatment, and then everyone hates you.

I’m about to drop some high voltage knowledge bombs about this goddamn pumpkin spice obsession.

I’m not going to say I hate it, because hate is a word I reserve for push button faucets and people who talk in elevators.

I’m just not all up in pumpkin’s face asking it to hang out with me.  I don’t let it have a special season, because that’s how egos grow, and I need pumpkins to know their place in this world.

Frankly, I just think that pumpkins are jedi mind tricking us all into thinking we NEED them in our lives, creating demand during the fall solstice.  Whoever is marketing for the pumpkins of the world, reveal yourself!  I need you on my team, you could probably take this here blog to new heights and help me achieve my dream of being married to Danny McBride and Jimmy Fallon at the same time. 

Seasonal privileges are for treats that make you feel like you’re going to vomit if you so much as look at another piece.  Like candy corn. It’s a scientific law that candy corn has to get the hell out of your life by October’s end, because you start to see all foods in a tri-color hierarchy of white, yellow, and orange.

Let me make this perfectly clear, there are rules set in place that have been there for hundreds of years.  They were rules created by the bromagnons and the bromosapiens to protect our taste buds from over-indulgence.

In order to be a seasonal treat, you have to follow a strict criteria, which goes as follows:

1. It must be a treat that is solely used or consumed during a specific season.

ie. candy canes, candy corns, peeps, eggnog.

2. You must want to vomit after over-consumption of said treat.

Ever tried drinking Eggnog after December? It’s almost impossible. It’s at this time you may actually realize that it doesn’t even taste that good to begin with, and you’ll regret all of it.  Eggnog = regret. Remember that.

3. You can’t be a gourd.

Plain and simple, they are a decorative item in a cornucopia. You can’t have your own season if you’re part of a fucking cornucopia.

4. As  a seasonal treat, you have to have absolutely no value to the outside world after your said season is over.

You don’t see candy canes trying to make an appearance on Valentine’s day, or Peeps trying to squeeze their demonic candy crusted bodies into your summer pool party.  They know their place, they don’t want to be in the pool with you, they want to be there when you’re running around your house trying to find where your mom ninja-hid all the colored eggs.

There you have it. A tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme.  Pumpkins, go back to your hole in the ground, ya gourdy betch.  You don’t deserve your own season; not on my watch.

Now let me go finish my breakfast cheeseburger.

An Open Letter To Everyone At The Airport

Dear Fellow Travelers, Passengers Sharing My Aircraft, And That Asshole Trying To Stuff An Elephant In The Overhead Bin,

I hope this letter finds you well.

If it does not find you well, I am going to assume you had a shitty run through airport security, and as a result, decided to remove common sense, manners, and basic problem solving skills from your life for the next couple hours while you’re aboard the mile-high skybus, subsequently making everyone else’s life more difficult.

You know, because you are the first person to ever have a horrible time going through the process of boarding a plane.

I’ve come to accept the inevitable invasive body search ritual while my bag gets a conveyor belt CAT scan.   If I get by unscathed, I consider it good karma for the time I gave that homeless lady a coffee.

Everyone needs to accept that this is what the standard precautionary measures for security clearance are.

We’re never going to be able to bring our brita filtered water through the pearly gates of Laguardia, so after security, go to the water fountain and fill up your reusable bottle like the plebeian you are and move on.

Amen, license plate, amen.

Amen, license plate, amen.

If you line up before your boarding group is called and block the handicap lane, I hate you.  I hope the next time you’re at a restaurant they give your meal to a homeless person outside and still make you pay for it.

Travelers bringing luggage onto the plane, please assess the size and dimensions.  When you purchased this piece of luggage, if it didn’t come with a tag that read “CARRY ON” this means you probably cannot carry it on the plane without ruining someone else’s day.

If by chance, you make it through the ticket checkpoint unnoticed and roll your monstrosity of a bag onto the jet, putting it SIDEWAYS in the overhead bins will ultimately cause some other passenger, one who followed the rules and regulations of carry-on baggage, extreme anxiety when he or she is not able to fit their luggage above their seat.

Forgive me, I know your bag is important, but go fuck yourself and learn to consolidate like everyone else.

Sidenote: People who automatically place their luggage sideways in the overhead bins are most likely also the people who hog the armrests, and probably did not share toys as a child. 

Getting up immediately after the plane lands and removing your bag is fine, I guess. But if you’re pissed off about standing in line and wait for another twenty minutes to disembark you’re not being a logical human being.  Wipe the pout off your face, exercise a little patience, and wait until the line moves.

We’re all stuck here, honey.  And we all want to get off the plane.  But you’re in row 27 of 30, it’s going to take a few extra minutes.

Look, I get it, flying sucks, we all want to get off the plane and onto our destination.  Your needs and excitements are not unique, put on a smile, or at least stop frowning, and deal with it.  If you wanted to be in control of your spatial constraints, you should have driven.

Also, read SkyMall, it will totally lighten your mood.


Everyone Else At The Airport, Those On Your Flight, And The Person Who Had To Check His or Her Bag Last Minute Because You Took Up Too Much Space

Your turn!! What do you hate about traveling?  Did I leave anything out?


Things Boys Are Doing While They’re Not Texting You Back

You asked him about his thoughts on the color blue, and he hasn’t responded.  The nerve!

Here’s what he could be doing instead:

  • sleeping
  • rattling off sports statistics in a macho-off with his friends
  • eating pizza
  • doing hoodrat shit with his friends
  • watching baseball
  • watching basketball
  • watching football
  • watching hockey
  • watching any other sport in the world
  • watching sports center
  • reading ESPN.comgirlfriend-clingy-crazy-texting
  • eating burritos
  • googling pictures of Dwayne Wade
  • drinking beers with his friends
  • playing video games
  • playing basketball
  • playing football
  • playing baseball
  • playing golf
  • googling pictures of Kevin Durant
  • doing anything active
  • taking a nap
  • eating pasta
  • trying to figure out why you asked him that question
  • doing push ups
  • googling sports predictions for the upcoming season
  • watching porn
  • reading Barstool Sports
  • complaining that there is no one around to make him a sandwich
  • talking to someone on the phone
  • taking a shower
  • forgetting you texted him in the first place
  • researching the illuminati on wikipedia
  • grocery shopping
  • comparing who has bigger biceps among his friends
  • googling pictures of Mila Kunis
  • making fun of someone else in his group of friends
  • watching a movie
  • trying to figure out/understand the female psyche
  • actually doing work
  • dreaming out the next meal
  • talking in a weird accent
  • masturbating
  • googling pictures of sneakers
  • driving somewhere
  • not talking about his feelings
  • working out
  • watching videos of old people falling over on YouTube
  • eating lunch
  • eating breakfast
  • eating dinner
  • eating a snack
  • watching some more porn
  • refreshing that app that tells you all those sports scores and stats
  • googling pictures of LeBron James
  • pretending to work out while they check out other girls at the gym
  • figuring out where he left his cell phone
  • on his lunch break
  • enjoying some extra curricular activities
  • or he just doesn’t feel like answering your question because he feels no immediate need to respond as it will not directly benefit him in the near future


I Should Probably Lower My Expectations…

One time I was super excited to meet up with this kid from Tinder (hint #1 this didn’t go as planned).  Then when I showed up he was already at the bar on his second drink (hint #2).  I recognize his face and immediately realize that I am taller than him sitting down (hint #3).

He proceeded to spend the entire date talking about himself while intermittently sprinkling in hints about how women should learn to cook before anything else.

I told him I can’t even make toast without setting off my smoke alarm, went to the bathroom and never returned.  Needless to say, it didn’t go as planned, and it definitely didn’t work out.

Much like this clip featuring my husband, Joey GorLevs, life is chock full of moments like being excited for a date and not having it turn out the way you wanted.

But regardless of how important our day-to-day adventures may or may not be, we place an expectation on how they should go down, and unfortunately, the reality doesn’t always match up.

College Dorm Rooms

Expectation: If you’re like me and constantly relive your glory years by watching teen dramas like The CW’s Vampire Diaries and ABC Family’s Greek, you went in to college with the expectation that you were going to be living in a gorgeous, Pottery Barn inspired, pre-decorated master suite, complete with a queen sized bed, a bay window, and a roommate you totally got along with in all aspects of life.

Reality: You and your random roommate who happens to collect erasers and used buttons get to decorate your spacious, cement wall insulated 10×12 dorm room complete with single beds and old prison mattresses.  Don’t go too crazy!

Lean Cuisines

Expectation: That food photographer is straight out of the Annie Leibovitz Picture Academy. Making my broccoli and chicken bake meal practically jump off the box and into my mouth.  The cheesey goodness of my four-cheese pasta is making me salivate at the sight of it, almost leading me to commandeer the nearest microwave and use it on the spot.

Reality: This so called “meal” is barely a serving size and the broccoli is soggy.  There are two cubes of chicken and I can only taste one cheese in my four-cheese pasta.  It all tastes like disappointment and I’m walking, no calling for delivery from the nearest Dominos.


Expectation: It’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to! Everyone is here to celebrate ME, ME, ME, ME!  The guy I have a crush on is totally going to walk in, catch my eyeball, music will play as he waltzes towards me and we make out on the dance floor like the scene of a movie while all my friends clap behind me and rally in support of my birthday conquest.

Reality:  It’s 1030pm, you haven’t left your apartment because you’re too drunk.  You’re crying to your best friends because your left shoe doesn’t fit on your right foot and ultimately settling for chinese delivery and sleeping in your birthday dress.



I Need To Talk To The Person In Charge Of Changing Humans Into Dogs

I went out with my roommates last night and drank too much wine.  Story of my life.

Earlier this morning, I watched this video to help cure my hangover and take my mind off the fact that I have to sit in a rolly chair for the next eight hours and stare at my computer screen.

And then I realized… I’m so jealous of dogs.

Forget girls with nice hair, girls who can plow through three bacon cheeseburgers and not gain a pound, girls who have their dream job before age twenty-five, girls (and boys) with independently wealthy families that get to exclusively shop at Whole Foods. Forget all of them.

I want to be a dog.

Aside from the fact that they get to know one another by smelling butts, being a dog is pretty awesome.  I guess I could also do without the whole eating bark flavored kibble bits, too.  But we’ll save my grievances for the time I actually turn into a dog, which is hopefully my next life.  My previous life I was a cat and I was just angry all the time, so I pray I’ve gathered enough good karma in my human life to be worthy of a canine in my next one.

First of all, I’d never have to wear clothes.  It would completely eliminate the whole waking up every morning and try on seven outfits thing and still manage to walk out the door with one shoe.  Nope. None of that would be an issue.  Because I could roll out of bed and magically have a sweater on when it’s cold, or a furry bathing suit on when it’s hot.  Just being happy in the skin suit God gave me ready to take on the world.

If I was a dog, no one would ever care if I was fat.  Sure, I’ve set off a few alarms by feeding my pup too many pork chops or lamb shanks, but it’s because she deserves it.  And as a dog, I would deserve it, too.  Being loyal is a tough job, and it’s one that requires compensation in the form of delicious food you’re not allowed to eat, ever. No one ever complains about dogs being too fat, there’s just more to love, that’s all. Big is beautiful in Canine Country, and I have a one way ticket to Fat Island.

I’ve told a number of people this, but for my last ten minutes of life, I want someone with a good set of fingernails and a strong wrist to stroke my arm and give me a head rub.  Maybe a bloody mary, but that can be negotiated.  Pup life is full of these sorts of activities.  People practically slap box each other to get a chance to pet a puppy. I WANT SOMEONE TO PET ME, DAMNIT.  Head rubs and belly scratches will have me in a constant state of bliss, which last time I checked, no one complains about bliss.

A good wingwoman is hard to find.  Not with a dog.  If you want to attract someone, there is no better way than bringing along your four-legged friend.  I don’t know what it is about humans, I think we have leg envy and are just innately jealous that we can go through life on all fours.  There is no better conversation topic than asking what breed the dog is (I would obviously be a Saint Bernard and run shit) then following up by asking the age.  What started off as an innocent walk through the park ends with you walking down the aisle and Meg the Saint Bernard is your ring bearer.  You’re welcome.

Lastly, I want a bomb ass name.  Dogs are always given the most extreme names that humans could never live up to.  I want to saunter through life as Ulysses the Great Dane, or Chianti the cultured Sheppard. Instead I’m stuck here living life as a boring old human with the most basic one syllable name on the planet. Meg sucks. Ulysses RULES.

I just want to tan on my driveway during all seasons and soak up warmth.  I just want to be a dog.,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.