three cheers

Bea Arthur is gone.

And I’m not sure where to really go with this. Except to say that I’m really glad I have something to remember her by.

My dear friends Leslie and Matt have a lovely story about Bea Arthur when she came near our college town for a stand-up/one-woman show.

Leslie (via telephone connection) interviewed her for our prestigious college radio station and decided, naturally, to ask Bea Arthur ‘what historical figure dead or alive‘ she would sleep with.

Bea hung up on Leslie.

Leslie was tickled by how bitchy she found Ms. Arthur. Our friends caravaned to the show in our nearby town. Everyone at the theater was easily in their 50s, many using walkers; except for my peeps – who were repping early 20s.

Bea ended up canceling that show right before she was slated to go on. After the crowd hushed, a crazy old bat yelled out “We love you, Bea!”

On the drive home, my friends followed lots of the audience on the highway. I can only assume they were, by default, following many Buicks.

“Three Cheers for Bea Arthur” my friends yelled out the window. “Hip Hip HORRAY!”

Three cheers indeed, Bea. Three cheers indeed.

adulthood realized?

I have blogged about my drinking before. Usually through a description of an injury sustained during an evening of consumption.

However, I had a new realization today. I don’t just drink to get drunk anymore. I get headaches when I drink too much, and I have a real job now, which requires me to wake up at 7 a.m. Most importantly, I lack the desire and persistence I had in college.

For instance, last night I had but one vodka cranberry while at an event with a bunch of Twitter/Blog friends (who I will not link to, because I am lazy). And I stopped there.

I’ve been ill all day with a super high fever, and now that I’ve dropped down to 99 degrees – I’m having a glass of wine to celebrate and hydrate!

And I know what kind it is! It’s not in a box! And it was expensive! And I understand what the bottle means when it talks about the wine’s ‘aromas’!

But instead of being excited, I’m freaking out.

Does this mean I’m an adult?

Somebody get me a PBR. STAT!

home, sweet home.

Last night I stayed at my parent’s house because I was feeling sick and I wanted them to dote on me.

Sadly, we had to put down our family dog last night. After sixteen years, he had to go.

Needless to say, I got taken care of after that.

Mom and I drank wine and watched a movie. And then my Dad woke me up this morning for work.  My pencil skirt and sweater set had been taken out of my overnight bag and set out for me.

I was 20 minutes early for work, found a sweet parking spot and had time for a coffee run before I had any appointments.

At my apartment, I wake up late after sleeping through the four alarms I set for myself, and grab clothes off the floor to wear. I’m always cussing in traffic, and never find a parking spot.  I usually drink Diet Coke and eat an Applesauce Jammer for breakfast.

Bullet point:  Moving home would make my life better.

Sure, at my apartment I can have men over at all hours of the night and drink until I pass out in my bathtub.

But I could just go to strange men’s apartments and pass out there! I’d just shoot Mom a text “B Home 2Morrow.”

I’d surely come home the next day with breakfast waiting and a clean stack of laundry.

I know what I’m doing when the lease is up.

Je n’aime pas!

The weather in Oregon has been unbelievably beautiful the last few days. Of course, it will be chilly and gray in a few more days, but I have been trying to take it in as much as I can. I’ve been spending as much time outside as I can, and gazing out the window of my office at all times.

Now that I’m at a different University for graduate school, I’m missing my Undergrad days. Mostly because the shirtless men during my B.A. years were suited to be shirtless. They were tanned, chiseled frat boys with agendas. Agendas that I was often sucked into. And liked it.

Today, on our urban progressive campus there are many pasty vegan boys who don’t shower — deciding to go sans shirt.

I can not express the pain I am currently in.

Dear God, when will the clouds come back!?

‘Do you have an injury I don’t know about?’

I’ve dabbled in yoga. Yes, dabbled.

I took yoga at my gym in high school, and for elective credit in college.  I used yoga DVDs at my ex’s house, when I had my own ‘rec’ room.  However, it’s been a few months since I’ve delved into the depths of my own soul and put on a pair of yoga pants.

Well … put on a pair of yoga pants to go to yoga.

Last week, my lovely friend Alicia decided we should go to a free yoga class.  I like the word ‘free’ and tend to take advantage of anything that includes that word in its description.

What we didn’t know was that a) the yoga class was taught in a store, amidst the yoga clothing on the walls and the people walking past the open windows; and b) that it would be taught by a madman.

After settling into our yoga mats, some dude in cargo pants and a newsboy cap strolls in. He peels a banana and begins to eat it. “Sup?” he asked us.

“That’s like, my new version of namaste,” he said to us.

I knew there was trouble brewing.

This man was insane. He had us starting immediately, no warm ups. Though I’d been stretching already, my sad, pathetic, previously injured knee was having a hard time.

Because in yoga you’re supposed to ‘listen to your body’, I rested while some other folks were in downward dog. He asked me if I had an injury, and I explained that yes, I did. He reassured me that most of the rest of the class would be standing moves, and there wouldn’t be much up and down.

He lied.

Twenty minutes and one swollen knee later, he asked me if I had an injury he ‘didn’t know about.’ I reminded the gentleman that I had an old injury and my knee was acting up. He moved on.

Apparently, Alicia has ‘business neck’ which I am unsure about. He exclaimed “Oh, it must be business time!” as he walked past her, while standing in a fold.

The hysterical laughter began then and there, as I could not stop singing “Business Time” in my head.

Once our hour of hell was over, homeboy reminded us that he had yoga DVDs for sale. And his own yoga studio.

Fantastic. Next time I want to be verbally beaten (and sexually harassed, now that I think about it) I will be sure to stop by.

This experience helped me realize that not only is my Yoga On Demand completely priceless, but that there are douchebags everywhere. Even in the spiritual realm.

It’s NAMASTE, asshole. NAMASTE.

the most frightened man on Earth …

I don’t know how it took me until today to find this. I’m mad at myself.

In the case that you are unaware of this situation, please read the full story on CNN (the only news network we can really trust, people!)

Woody Harrelson claims that he got in a scuffle with a paparazzi on Wednesday because he … he … thought the guy was a frigging zombie.

Legitimately.

Seriously.

Harrelson went on to announce that he is wrapping a movie called “Zombieland” (I smell success in award season!) and says that he was so in character that he felt attacked by someone and fought them off the way he fought off the zombies in the film.

(Please note that his character in the film is “the most frightened man on Earth.”)

My favorite quote out of the many ramblings, is this:

“With my daughter at the airport I was startled by a paparazzo, who I quite understandably mistook for a zombie,” he said.

Obviously. Why wouldn’t you? It’s not like you’re a washed up celebrity with moderate fame, who might be filmed at the airport. Why in Gods name would there be paparazzi following you!? The only logical conclusion is that you’re being attacked by zombies at the god damn airport.

So – my day doesn’t look so bad anymore. I’m not living in a world overrun by zombies, and I’m not taking pictures of Woody Harrelson.

Life is good.

owning my style (and past indiscretions)

As a young girl, I wore my Mother’s jewelry. I loved how the gems in her gigantic rings sparkled and the way that the long vintage lockets hung near my belly button.

During my Tom Boy stage (11-15), I completely disowned the idea of being a girl (which is, I suppose, the point of the Tom Boy status).

<— I wore JNCO jeans.

To my Mother’s horror, I even buzzed the under side of my scalp, so that when I pulled my hair into a pony tail I looked “hard.”

And all the while, I was forgetting how much fun it was to wear skirts and accessories.

This style of mine probably had a lot to do with why I was the ‘little sister’ of every best male friend I ever had. And why, until 18, I never had a boyfriend who was not a drug dealer.

Honestly, how could I expect anything more? The photo displays right now are giving me heart palpitations. NOT a good look.

The summer I turned 16, I decided to reinvent myself. But I went from being a complete Tom Boy to being a total Mean Girl. I wore all pink on Thursdays and got blond highlights. My friends and I were stuck up and pushed our way through the halls and giggled at those less fortunate than we were.

I even found entertainment in kicking the wheeled backpacks of people who were less popular.

I know. Bitch. I hate myself for it.

It’s obvious to me that both of these phases were rooted the confusion that came from growing boobs and not knowing what to do with them. I didn’t know whether to hide them like a boy or flaunt them like a tramp. So, like any good researcher – I did both.

I think this exploration into these two worlds has left me where I am today.

This morning, someone commented on my clothing. Jeans, long ‘grandpa’ cardigan, tank top, giant ring and silver flats. Something I usually wear on casual Fridays. Something that anyone who knows me sees me wearing often.

She stopped me in the middle of the street.

“You look so – confident” she said. “Like you know your own style. You own it.”

I realized that this is probably the first time in my life where I feel totally comfortable in my style and personality. They finally match.

Thank you, stranger, for the revelation.

And don’t worry, for those of you who don’t know me in real life – I no longer wear JNCO jeans and am no longer a raging bitch.
Unless you know someone who would pay me to? Because I’ll do it … like, now.

date my hair!

I’m not good at the whole “dating” thing. I am picky, awkward, and bored easily. However, I have always had great luck finding nice men and having healthy relationships; there is usually a path of carnage and heartbreak behind me. It’s the process of finding one that’s so difficult for me (for most of my single friends, as well. Which makes me feel like less of a loser).

Yesterday, it occurred to me that there are many processes in this world that are similar to courtship. And I suck at all of them.

Take hair, for instance.

Going to a stylist is like dating. Your first meeting is uncomfortable, you’re with each other for a few hours initially, and trying to make small talk is usually painful. But sometimes, there is a spark – a click with your stylist.

Talking to that person is like talking to your best friend. And you usually see them again. Sometimes for years!

You let them do things to you that you didn’t think you’d try, and sometimes they end up too ‘comfortable’ and dissapoint you.

I, myself, can’t keep a stylist for more than six months before moving on.

Sometimes I leave because there’s a better deal down the street. Sometimes I leave for superficial purposes (Aveda salons are classier!). Sometimes, I’ve been so hurt that I have to get out to preserve my mental health.

Yesterday, I went to see a new stylist. She was nice enough. She asked all the right questions. But there was no spark. As I left, she handed me her card.

I said I would call.

I won’t.

At least I got a cute cut out of it, right?

(Oh! And some of that delicious Dosha/Aveda tea. What the hell do they put in there!?)

Open Letter: I am lame.

When one goes through a life changing stage, they must reflect.

Reflect on past loves, mistakes and actions. I, for one, do not like to reflect. It causes the anxieties and deep, dark depression.

On Saturday, I attended my second “Mortified” show, and after some prodding have decided to submit some of my embarrassing middle school journal entries to read at the next Portland show.

I decided to go through some of the stuff I have at my apartment, in my ‘dream chest’ to warm up my brain before I audition for these folks. When I did, I found a letter. An open letter I wrote to my first love, Michael. When I was twelve.

I am going to share it here. Prepare yourselves.

Dear Michael,

I think it is time that we just say what we feel. Love. We have been best friends since we were, like, six, which is a long time. And I think that because we’re starting high school soon – we should really just stop this game. We belong together.

[...]

After I make the Varsity Basketball team, I will have lots of boyfriends. LOTS. And you will probably meet a couple cute girls that are older and wiser. If we just decide to be together now, we won’t play with each other’s heartstrings.

[...]

Remember at my birthday when you licked icing off my face? I knew what that meant.

[...]

I want to have babies with you and stuff.

[...]

Love Always,

Meg

No, I did not give this to Michael. No I did not make the Varsity Basketball team. No, I did not have lots of boyfriends. No, Michael did not meet some ‘wise’ older woman.

Yes, we ended up dating. Yes, he was my first kiss. Yes, he dumped me for my ‘best friend’ Valerie (that bitch still has it coming). Yes, he was my first heartbreak.

If I end up doing this Mortified show, you’ll all come, right? And make me feel special and pretty and accepted?

Just think – the good stuff is in my 20+ journals at my parent’s house. Ahhh embarassment.

Also: A shout-out to my work buddies who read this and never receive the recognition they deserve.  Especially my Little Nugget, Bretty – who is looking over my shoulder. Big ups.

smarmy less often …

I got a papercut yesterday during class.

As my classmates passed around the 32-page syllabus for this term, I made sure to abide by the ‘first-day-of-term-syllabus-passing’ rules. I took from my left, passed to my right using my right hand. Duh.

The woman next to me, who is coming back to get another Masters degree after 20 years out of the game, obviously does NOT know these rules.

Before I was done selecting my syllabus and placing it on my side of the desk, she snatched the stack out of my hand. Which resulted in a deep, nasty, painful papercut on the side of my right ring finger. Which is, of course, one of the most popular typing fingers.

This post is done out of love, since it is clearly quite painful.

Of course, I start gushing blood.

She looks over and says “Did I do that!?”

“No,” I said. “I should have looked out for your immediate need for a syllabus.”

She looked confused. And honestly a little sad. In that moment, she reminded me of my Mom. Sweet and confused – trying to learn the ropes.

So I said “I’m just kidding. No big deal!”

She smiled.

And even though I was bleeding all over my syllabus, I learned an important lesson.

Being smarmy might be fun – but it’s not necessary.

Some people mean no harm, though I might assume it.

But some people will always need to be judged.

And I’ll always be ready.