Life Lessons from My Father

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Improv is the key to survival. 

When my parents were still together, my dad brought my little brother to the library one sunny afternoon.  While he was browsing Grisham novels, a librarian came up to him.

“Excuse me sir, but is that your child?”  she asked, pointing to my bro squatting in the middle of the children’s section.

“Yes, that’s my son.”  

“Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your son just yelled out a terrible word.”  

“Okay, what word?”  

“The S-word.  S-h-i-t.”  

“Oh no.  Oh God, I’m so sorry.  See, his mother and I recently got a divorce and she started seeing this new man who’s bad news and it worries me everyday what goes on in that house.”  

“(Gasp) Oh sir, please, say no more.  I completely understand.  I’ll keep you in my prayers.”  

We learned every foul word we know from my father.

“Well-done” is a delicacy.

My parents divorced when I was ten years old.  This meant that my father had to suddenly become “the cook” on his time.  The only problem was that the only thing he ever cooked was breakfast consisting of artery-clogging cheese eggs, blackened sausage patties, over-crisp bacon and buttered toast (we can excuse said behavior – he was born and raised in Mississippi).  And occasionally he’d grill steak/burgers/brats until you weren’t sure if what you were eating was still meat.  But dammit, it tasted good.  And to this day I always get my meat “well-done.”  If it bleeds, how the hell am I supposed to know if it’s gonna decide to up and walk off my plate?  Exactly.  I don’t like to take chances.

Cooking is overrated; take-out is God’s gift to mankind.

Sure you might save a few pennies in the end, but who the fuck wants to spend a bunch of time prepping something that might not even taste all that good just to have to clean it up afterwards and then eat leftovers for the next five days?  Not me.  Growing up, it was either pizza, Chinese or KFC/McDonald’s/insert fast food here.  And we can’t forget about the buffets; buffets were where it was at, yo.  Everyone was happy, everyone could eat whatevaaaah they wanted, and there was ALWAYS the option of dessert.  Of course if someone wants to cook me something wonderful and gourmet, I’m beyond happy to taste test.  But for now, I’ll stick to grocery shopping for sriracha to make sure all my take-out is happy take-out.  Cheers.

Money is never a big deal.

My dad didn’t drive a BMW, he didn’t wear a rolex, and he probably couldn’t tell you the difference between a $3 wine and a $400 bottle.  But he did know how to have a good time.  We weren’t rolling in riches at any point in my life but no matter what our bank account status was, even if he knew he had the mortgage and the car payment and insurance coming up in the next week, he always made spending time with us a priority.  We went to the movies, we got ice cream, we took trips to ChuckECheese (and probably contracted multiple strands of diseases in the process)…all while being completely unaware that money was ever an issue.  And when I got old enough to understand just how much “fun” things cost and started fretting about it, he sat me down and said, “Megan, it’s fine.  We’ll be fine.  It’s just money.”  Sure we probably weren’t the most fiscally responsible family on the block, but it taught me to realize there are more important things in life than saving up for a cabin or owning three cars.  I’d rather be living paycheck to paycheck and be the happiest fucker on the planet than have a million bucks in the bank with the biggest issue being that I don’t know what color my brand new boat should be.  That’s not happiness.  No siree.

“Fuck” is a beautiful word.

You can be a Christian and say “fuck.”  You can be smart and frequently use the word “fuck.”  And you can be a respected human being and love the term “fuck.”  I have a bachelor’s degree and am completely financially independent.  And guess what?  Fuck is my favorite word.  Eat your heart out.

If you can’t find humor in life, good luck.  She’s gonna give you hell.

There’s absolutely no point in dwelling on stupid shit.  Don’t sweat the small stuff.  In five years, you’re going to laugh about it.  So I suggest you start laughing now – that way by the time that five year mark hits, you’re pissing yourself it’ll be so hilarious.  And take it from an expert pants-wetter…you can always find a washing machine ;)

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Bus Men Make My Wheels Go Round

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I may have found the love of my life the other day on the bus.  Yes, the bus.  The one that vaguely hints at the smell of piss and human sweat mixed together into a cloud of cupid’s perfume.  It’s been a long four years of loneliness but my heart has been stolen.  And boy was he a stud.

I had just gotten off work and as it was raining, decided to hop on the free bus to avoid any unnecessary energy exertion.  I found a seat alone about halfway back and sat down, hauling my burgundy snakeskin bag over my lap and crossing my legs in my pencil skirt.  And then I heard it.

“Smile!”

Assuming it was some cracked out human beginning his or her rant on the next big American conspiracy theory, I politely ignored the voice and stared straight ahead.  Then I heard it again.

“Smile!  Yes, I’m talking to you!”

So clearly he was talking to me.  Because he just said he was talking to me.  No ignoring tactic in the world could protect me at this point.  And why should it?  Already the pull of romance was seeping into my veins.

“Oh, uh, thanks (insert smile to placate him).”

“Now this is just my opinion, but you are gorgeous.”

“Oh, uh, ha, thanks.  That’s sweet.” 

“How’s your day going?”

“Fine, thanks.  Long.  How are you?”

“Good. Good.  Just got back up here from St. Cloud!”

“Oh that’s nice.  What’s in St. Cloud?”

“Well, you know, sometimes you like a place and then things don’t work out so you’ve got to move on.”

“Right. I see.”

“So I’m here and you know what?”

“What?”

“I was just walking down the street and a steelworker was there and he said, he said to me, he said, ‘what’s the difference between a steelworker and an ironworker’.”

“Oh.”

“And I, and I, and I tell you, I looked at him and I just couldn’t think of it.  But I knew it!  And I got, I got about two blocks and I stopped and turned around and went right back up to him. And I said, ‘the only difference between the two is carbon.’ Carbon.  That’s it.  One’s in the sky and one’s on the ground.  But it’s carbon.”

“There ya go.  Carbon.  Wow.”

“So I went and applied to be a steelworker.  I know how to do it.”

“Oh, congratulations.  Good for you.”

“Why thank you.  Well what’s your name?”

“Megan.” (I seriously need to come up with a fake name…like Barb or Penny or even Linda.  Why my fake names all sound like 50 year old mothers, I have no idea).

“Megan.  My name is (insert incoherent name mumble).  It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“I hope to see you around.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll run into you on the bus.”

“Are you a coffee girl?”

“Uh, yes I am.”

“Well maybe we’ll get some coffee sometime!”

“Uh, yeah maybe I’ll see you on the bus.  Bye!” (exits bus at next stop).

And now, here I am a week later and I just can’t stop thinking about that hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-love.  Somethin’ bout those chipped teeth and rambling sentences just gets my blood pumpin’.

Maybe I’ll one day get the honor to be Mrs. (insert mumbled last name here).

I can hear the bells now.

 

Time to Get Moist

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If you just read that title and thought something dirty, shame on you.  I’m referring to beauty remedies you sick and twisted human. Come on.  I would never say anything inappropriate.  Ever.  The gutter is a filthy place.  Get your heads out of it.

I digress.

It’s June and from what I hear, it’s supposed to feel like summer.  It doesn’t.  And as a result, I’m giving Mother Nature the finger.  Bite me, biddy.  It stopped being funny three months ago.

But I’m not a negative Nancy (all the time) so I’m going to look on the bright side.  For those of you out there who enjoy that thing called working out, just think – you’ve now had at least a whole extra month to get that body in tip top shape for the beach!  Or if you’re like me and you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that your hips are under no circumstances to be revealed in the public eye, you’ve taken this extra month to shop for the perfect retro one piece!  Lezbehonest, love handles have love in the name for a reason.  And how could I deny someone their affections???  Nay, they shall remain intact and plump and happy.  So there.

But what else has this extra month of rainy day blah given you?  Besides, of course, the strong pull and appeal of going to non-stop movie showings and eating a large popcorn with a side of Junior Mints?  Well Debbie Downer, listen up!  Now’s your chance to get yourself all pampered and ready to show off those new strappy sandals and sundresses you’ve been dying to wear since they came out in stores in February (Target is a cruel, cruel minx, and I the scorned mistress.  Sigh.).

If you’re some sort of magical unicorn, you probably have baby butt soft skin and your hair probably mysteriously flutters even when there’s no wind (you’re not fooling me – I see that mini fan sticking out of your purse).  But if you’re like the rest of us “normal folk,” your skin is most likely causing mass confusion as people probably mistaken it for a reptile’s scales.  Super cute.  (And I bet you’re finally realizing it’s high time to get rid of the winter beard that’s taken ahold of your legs.  Shave it now.  And always.  No excuses people – if it’s long enough to grate cheese, you have a problem.)

Now mind you, I’ve never been a huge spa/home makeover kinda gal.  I’ve got my everyday facewash and moisterizers, I worship sunscreen, and I pretty much wear only a little face powder, some mascara, and a variety of color-popping lip shades on a daily basis.  And that’s it.  So sometimes you have to turn to the experts.

Michelle from Skana (a spa in Upstate New York) recently shared a fab DIY body scrub recipe with me to make sure my skin doesn’t feel like the crusty underside of a wound (which probably doesn’t exist but sounds like the foulest thing I can imagine…so enjoy that image).  Girlfraaaand knows what’s up.  These things are easy breezy beautiful to make – you can whip ‘em up with what most people have as bare essentials in their kitchen (I emphasize “most people”…my bare essentials consist of chinese takeout and sriracha, so a quick grocery run was necessary…meh).

Give it a try – you never know when you’ll end up taking a hottie home from the bar.  Wouldn’t want him to start the plunge down south only to cut his hand on your crusty kneecaps, now would you?  I rest my case.

WHAT YOU NEED:

1 whole egg

1 tablespoon of dairy milk, ideally whole

1 tablespoon of honey

bowl

fork

Crack a whole egg into a bowl, making sure that there are no shards of eggshell in the bowl at all.  Some people prefer to remove the yolk, but keep in mind that the yolk is one of the most powerful ingredients you can use to treat dry skin.

Spoon about two tablespoons of whole milk into the mixture.  The milk helps nourish your skin while smoothing out any rough spots.

Add a tablespoon of honey.  Organic local honey is suggested to get the most out of its healing properties, but any honey will do.

Mix the ingredients together rapidly with a fork.  They should come together in a murky/foamy mixture.  (It is entirely food safe, and though it is intended as a face mask, you can also use it as a conditioner for your hair).

Wash your face with warm water.  The warm water opens up your pores and lets the facial mask do its work.

Apply about half of the mask to your face using your fingers.  The mixture is a little sticky, but it should spread fairly easily.  Cover your face thoroughly, paying special attention to your T-zone.

Allow the mask to dry for 30 minutes.  The rest of the mask liquid should be put away for later use.  If left in an air-tight container, it can last for up to a week.

Use warm water and a soft towel to remove the mask.  You’ll notice a difference right away.

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An open letter to all the biddies in #LOVE

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“Rain, movies and cuddling (insert emoticon, insert emoticon, insert emoticon)…perfect night!”

Gag.

While I guess it’s wonderful that you have a cuddle buddy, here’s how it actually comes across:  You’re “in #love” – #love means “it’s not real.”  You spend your days taking selfies in a bed of crumpled sheets next to your man with a sheepish grin slapped on his face.  Then you (waaaahhhh) have to go to work, which is probably some shitty Pac Sun job you’re still hanging on to from high school because you were too “in love” to get an education.  Then all day long at said shitty job, you tweet about how much you miss your “baby”…your “soulmate”…the “love of your life.”  Then the weekend comes.  And you take more self-indulgent photos of you and your man all dolled up and ready to hit da club.  He’s head to toe in FUBU and you look like Kim Kardashian’s slutty younger cousin.  You’re holding a Mike’s Hard Lemonade because you’re still living in high school, and he’s got his arm around…hold on…oh my God that’s a child.  His child.  Who has a completely different baby mama.  This just got better.  You’re now living a pseudo-parental life while wearing a skirt that will give the poor kid a far-too-early introduction into what a vagina looks like the second you bend down to pick up his dropped pacifier.

A few days go by.

“I don’t need anything in this ratchet world but my loveeeeee.”  Wrong.  You need money.  And food.  And a roof over your head.  Which in turn means you need a job, because unless you’re living in some sort of fairy land, da bills gotsta be paid.  And I guarantee that $7 an hour you’re making basically covers getting your nails done.  And buying the occasional pack of gum from CVS.

But wait…how does she survive?!?!  One can only assume at this point that you’ve got some job on the side that allows you to go out drinking every weekend.  Judging by your ensemble, I’m going to guess prostitution.  No, too mean.  Let’s call you an “escort.”  Because apparently that means you don’t have to have sex.  It’s optional.  No wonder yo man luuuuuhhhhs you so much.  You’ve probably got moves you learned from that high profile Spaniard who hired you out last weekend – moves your baby’s never seen.  If I enjoyed muff diving, I’d probably fall in love with you too.

But let’s just say, for shits and giggles, that you’re not an escort.  Let’s say your BF happens to make a lot of moola selling “vacuum cleaners” (that happen to smell strongly of weed).  So, he pays for everything.  You’ve got a certifiable sugar daddy.  Me-ow.

“Haha – look what my man drew – it’s a gun!  On my thigh! Hahahaha.”

What the fuck.

“Goin to the movies with my love!”

Go away.

“Just made spaghetti with my amour!”

I just ordered a pizza.  Big fucking deal.

“Nobody knows me better than him…”

Except maybe the mother that ripped her vaginal walls to birth you.  There may be a slightly larger connection there.

Okay, okay.  I’m sure you’re a nice girl.  Maybe I’m being too harsh.  Maybe it’s because I’m a single spinster.  Oh wait.  I’m 23.  No I’m fucking not.  Because, really, if this is what it’s like to fall “in love” and be with a “boyfriend,” I’ll take my Saturday marathons of Law & Order SVU over that any day.

Besides, let’s be honest – in about a month’s time, you’re going to put up some sappy/angry/emotional/depressing lyric from some Kelly Clarkson song to show the world how much stronger you are without that “asshole” who broke your heart and now has a dick the size of a toothpick (“I couldn’t tell if he was trying to fuck me or erase me” – name that show!).

#love is the worst.  Am I right, or am I right?

#allthesingleladies.

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10 Easy Steps to Make Your Work Day Awkward

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  1. Get hit with explosive diarrhea in the communal bathroom.
  2. Walk the hallways with your skirt caught in your belt, unbeknownst to you.
  3. Play a game of accidental hopscotch with a blind man’s cane, only to get stuck in a straddle position and have it thrust upward into your hoo-ha.
  4. Smile at someone you’ve emailed about a project but have never actually spoken to in person before so they probably have no clue who you are let alone why the fuck you’re smiling at them (note: they haven’t responded to your email in over a week and the due date was last Friday…so that’s a little cherry on top).
  5. Notice someone smiling/waving at you in the hallway, try to remember where you’ve seen them, then just as they’ve passed you, remember where you’ve seen them and say “hello!” loudly to the now unoccupied space to your left.
  6. Leave a meeting and realize your shirt had shifted while carrying your laptop, leaving your bra exposed for every participant at said meeting.
  7. Wear a shirt that you think is cute and classy until you get to work and realize it has a tendency to slide down and make you a certifiable slut instead.  Then realize it was a bad idea to leave the blazer at home.
  8. Take selfies at your desk when you’re bored and realize the higher-up sitting behind you is watching the entire photo shoot occur.
  9. Try to be healthy and eat a salad for lunch and get green shit stuck in your teeth for the rest of the day.
  10. Wear heels you can’t actually walk in and thereby look like you’ve got a load of shit just hanging out in your pants.

TGIF betches. Who wants a drink?

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A Tribute to Mother’s Day

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When I was about 2, I was in the backseat of my parents’ Buick (class, sass, and a big ‘ol ass – what? That was beyond weird. I take it back.) in my car seat.  I was probably sporting a huggies diaper and some cute frilly dress.  Because I was really fucking cute.

It was pouring rain and my dad was sitting in the driver’s seat, pulled up to the curb at the local Jewel Osco waiting for my madre to finish picking up a few groceries.  After what was supposed to be 10 minutes tops but actually ended up being probably closer to 30, my father began to get – how shall I say this – annoyed as shit.  As the traffic cop bleeped his little horn and lights behind El Buick to warn Daddy-o that it was time to move along, the annoyance level reached “code red” status.  Through the rain, my father could just glimpse into the store’s window.  And lo and behold – there stood my mother chit chatting with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s widow’s sister twice removed who she probably knew through her mother’s brunch club and Sundays at church.  And I guarantee they were discussing a bunion removal.

My father bit his tongue, groaned in irritation, and finally let out a “C’mon Sue, what the fuck?!”

A moment of silence passed.  Then, from the recesses of the forgotten car seat in the back came a squeaky little angel voice, “C’mon Sue, what the fuck!”

My dad had no choice but to crack up.

And so began my journey into the world of no-holds-barred profanity.  I would of course continue on to become a classy broad who, for a solid chunk of time, attended church and sang solos each Sunday about Mary and Jesus and all that other Bible stuff.  But my profanity would live on, untouched.

Every time I visited home from college, I’d be in the midst of a convo with the madre when I’d let something slip like, “seriously, he was such a fucking asshole.”  My mother would immediately stop whatever she was doing and go into full-on shock mode.  ”(Insert massive gasp) MEGAN!!!!! DON’T TALK LIKE THAT!!!!”  This horror-filled utterance was of course whispered, despite the fact that we were standing alone in our kitchen.  ”THAT IS SO UNATTRACTIVE. NOBODY IS GOING TO WANT TO DATE YOU WITH THAT MOUTH. YOU NEED TO RESPECT ME WHILE YOU’RE IN THIS HOUSE AND REMEMBER WHERE YOU CAME FROM!!!!”

“Right. Uh. Sorry. He was such a…mean head.”

This little dirty word dance continued for the next four years.  But at each passing f-bomb, I could tell she was slowly becoming numb.  It started with her allowing it to exist without reaction when – and only when – I was truly upset.  Then it graduated to her just simply ignoring it 90% of the time.

And then came the Big Kahuna.

We were driving in my hometown and some idiot cut her off and almost caused us to swerve into a ditch.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?????  ASSHOLE!!!!!!!”

I stared at her, speechless, with a lopsided and impressed grin slapped on my face.

Mom turned  to me quickly with embarrassment creeping up her neck…

“I’m sorry. I take that back. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry for swearing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Whereupon I reached over and high-fived her.  I knew 9 months in the womb connected us on some level.

B.A.M – bad ass momma.  Tell ‘em Suzie Q.

Happy (belated) Mother’s day to all the baby mommas out there.  Or as AJ likes to say, the day upon which we bestow our greatest blessings for the miracle that is women’s vaginas ripping to allow human heads and bodies to pass through, never again to be in a prime sexual state.  How touching.

Eye Candy

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I have come to the conclusion that I may have a serious issue with gawking.  At men.

As a single woman, I’m naturally prone to letting my eyes wander and scope out potential mates.  It’s basically the same thing a dog does when looking for the next tree to take a piss on.  We both drool and pant excessively until we find our match. Then, BAM!  That territory is our biaaatch.

The problem isn’t the occasional leakage from the side of my mouth.  It’s not even the fact that oftentimes my jaw actually physically drops a few inches only to hang out there until I find some nibble of food to replace my awe.

It’s the fact that I can’t control my gawking in public.  Namely, at work.

On numerous occasions, I’ve walked into an elevator only to be met face to face with Jesus’ porn star twin, Sex God.  Minus the sandals.  And abstinence.  And instead of turning to my phone and letting a hint of red unnoticeably creep up into my cheeks like cute little witty rom com chicks are supposed to do, I stare.  Like, creeper stare.  You might as well slap a pair of rapist glasses on my face and call me Bertha.  Don’t ask me why I chose Bertha as my rapey/killey name.  It just felt right.

So Sex God proceeds to be entirely unaware of my presence in said elevator (because I’m behind him…and consequently staring at his ass like I’ve been fasting for a solid month).  He’s just standing there being all like, “why of course I didn’t spend an hour perfecting this barely there beard – it’s my natural five o’clock shadow at eight in the morning because I’m just always this sexy.”  And I’m all like, “now would be an excellent time for this elevator to break down.”  And then in the, oh, 30 seconds we’re together before he gets off on the floor of the Gods, I’ve already concocted a massive sexual fantasy that includes him ripping off my nylons (because let’s be real, they sit at my bra line and I really don’t want to have to explain how far he’s got to travel to actually find the edge), picking me up, and having magically orgasmic sex against the elevator doors (which is actually really fucking uncomfortable – goddamn you movies, you make it look so easy).  This is followed by us lying side by side in post-coital bliss while elevator music continues to play in the background.  But not shitty elevator music.  Like some sexy soulful Ray Charles or something.  Oh, and the elevator would (gasp!) be stuck for at least the rest of the workday.  Because Sex God and I would have at this point fallen madly in love and have no choice but to continue to make massive amounts of love.

DING!

Doors open.  It’s his floor.  And Niagra Falls has just made a guest appearance in my pencil skirt.

Fast forward to lunch.  It’s gorgeous outside, so my coworkers and I are eating in a little courtyard about a block away from the office.  I’m mid-sentence talking about some earth-shattering story about when I used to work at Potbelly’s (I was a bomb ass sammy maker – bow down bitches).  All of a sudden, from across the courtyard, I see a man in sunglasses and a t-shirt, pulling a cart full of some sort of sexy construction worker shit.  And he is built like a brick shit house.  Granted, you never know what lies under the sunglasses – could be Golem for fuck’s sake – but in that moment, he was Jesus’ cousin, Muscle Magic.  And in my brief 15 second fantasy, Muscle Magic definitely lived up to his name.  See, he started by picking me up and -

“Oh my God.  You literally just stopped in the middle of your sentence to gape.”

Aaaand it’s back to reality.

Don’t they have some kind of pill for this shit?

Also, I am slightly concerned that all of my sexual fantasies involve someone of relation to Jesus.  Though it’s probably because every portrayal of him in Sunday school made him look like fucking Collin Farrell.  Who I would fuck.  So there’s that.

Happy Tuesday.  I hope yours was as full of sexual elevator fantasies as mine was.  Cheers.

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I’m Not Playing Hard to Get

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There’s this notion out there that a woman is supposed to act docile and let a man “woo” her over.  She’s supposed to coyly flirt but not enough to where she “gives away” all of her mysteries and feelings.

But that’s also advice that was freely given in about the 18th century.  I assume this is because no one wanted to get any feelings hurt or experience rejection, so they just sat back and waited until a fish bit.  Which is also why “old maids” most likely came to be.  Sad shit right there.

With our modern advances, like texting and snap chat and iMessage, there’s no such thing as being coy.  People can read you like a goddamn open book.  All they have to do is go to your Facebook “info” and know instantly if your gay/straight/in a relationship/it’s complicated/I like to read Dan Brown novels.

So the big questions is…with all this transparency, why can’t anyone take a hint?

Exhibit A: I have this friend who once got ham-sauced and finally gave an obnoxious 40-something her number (After, might I add, he wouldn’t stop pestering her – I assume this is why parents agree to giving their children unlimited candy.  I wouldn’t want to listen to the fuckers whine for hours either).  The morning-ish after, the following ensued:

IMG_6886

Exhibit B: Said friend was also simultaneously in communicado with a rando she met online.  Mind you, they had yet to actually meet in person:IMG_6900

Things got weird real fast.  And that, my friends, is called not taking a hint. (See my previous post on stalker man: Desperation in Pathetic Abundance)

We’re not playing hard to get.  We’re just not that into you.

This ain’t da 1700′s.  Coy doesn’t exist.

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