tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49207637008842950312024-03-21T16:56:45.159-05:00SixOne in HeelsMeghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-55649694350067739322013-03-14T11:13:00.003-05:002013-03-14T11:29:15.627-05:00Great Scott!<center style="text-align: left;">
There is only ONE person in the entire universe who I would let put a picture of me on the internet where I am making this face:</center>
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I'm not going to sit here and pretend you are all focused on the pure joy my nephew has splattered all over his face. I know you're basking in the glory of my double chin and the fact like I'm making swinging a 30 pound baby seem like a Herculian effort. </center>
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But thats okay.</center>
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For my seeeester <a href="http://thegreatscottblog.com/" target="_blank">Erin</a>, I'll take that Tonya Harding type bludgeon. </center>
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My bombass big sister, <a href="http://thegreatscottblog.com/" target="_blank">Erin</a> is a cool music listening, thrift store jedi, vogue worshipping, wizard with words. She makes the morning after 6 tequila shots, an Irish Car Bomb, and a bottle of Merlot still look like a friggin' Madewell ad. She drunk brunches in serious style bishes. </center>
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I look like this:</center>
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So this sister of mine has started a blog, <a href="http://thegreatscottblog.com/" target="_blank">Great Scott!</a></center>
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You should probably check it out. </center>
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She's the shit.</center>
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Duh.</center>
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We share genes (not jeans. She is too skinny, that bitch).</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-17646700953517993122013-03-12T08:41:00.000-05:002013-03-12T09:19:10.150-05:00Kiki's Attempt At Making Me a Blogger<center style="text-align: left;">
This is the week of liver prep.</center>
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Because this weekend is the greatest weekend of the year. </center>
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Its also the weekend that I pretend I'm a spritely 21 year old again and marathon drink.</center>
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Last year I last until 9:30pm, had to call my mom to pick me up, then proceeded to make her drive me through Burger King. </center>
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Adulthood.</center>
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I should be human again somewhere around March 22nd. </center>
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Well one of my main bishes, <a href="http://glammedbytarin.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kiki</a> (Glammed By Tarin) asked if I wanted to contribute something to a giveaway she put together to celebrate her reaching 150 followers. I'm sure most of you have realized I'm not very good at doing bloggerish things like giveaways, link ups, posting on any sort of regular basis...so it takes bloglovahs like Kiki to keep my ass in check.</center>
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I resisted the temptation to only provide inappropriate things or things with cuss words on them and contributed some pretty Spring must-haves from Urban Outfitters.</center>
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ch-ch-check it out and show the <a href="http://glammedbytarin.blogspot.com/2013/03/150-follower-giveaway.html" target="_blank">Keekster</a> lots o' love for her attempts at making me a functional blogger :)</center>
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You can enter here too!</center>
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<a class="rafl" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/3261b40/" id="rc-3261b40" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
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<script src="//d12vno17mo87cx.cloudfront.net/embed/rafl/cptr.js"></script>Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-27387057368270610562013-03-06T09:44:00.001-06:002013-03-06T23:18:56.076-06:00Daterventions<center style="text-align: left;">
Hay gurl, hayyyy.</center>
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I know I've basically disappeared. Sorry. </center>
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No, an angry ex-boyfriend did not send me SARS in the mail. </center>
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No, my fingers have not been experiencing temporary paralysis. </center>
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I've just been lazy. </center>
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And mildly uninspired.</center>
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Buuuuut. I'm coming off and AH-mazing girls' weekend with my mom, <a href="http://thegreatscottblog.com/" target="_blank">E</a>, & <a href="http://www.lifeafterblog.com/" target="_blank">Kay</a>. I'm feeling rejuvinated and ready to start our functional dysfunction again. </center>
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I could recap this weekend's festivities for you and don't you worry your pretty little heads, I will. BUT FIRST I want to tell you a little story.</center>
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K?</center>
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K.</center>
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Once upon a time there was a 20-something who liked to swear and wear high heels that make her taller than everyone (me. duh.). </center>
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She had a mother and couple of sisters and some friends who all wanted her to start dating. </center>
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One Saturday she succumbed to their daterventions and ended up waiting in line among a slew of other singles to have her picture taken and for a very skinny blonde to judge whether or not she was right for her client. </center>
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Then she got rejected.</center>
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The end.</center>
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Ohhhh my friends. Oh. </center>
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This is my friggin' life. </center>
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My good friend Gina sent me a link for this lady called the Love Architect (this should have been my first clue) who was looking for single 25-35 year olds to submit their picture and some bullshit about their life passions to see if she would like to invite them to some event she was having at a Blow Out bar (you get a free one if you make it to the final round). She wouldn't tell us anything about this dude except that he likes extreme sports, is philanthropic, is a trained chef just for fun, comes from one of the most well-known families in the world, and has a candy penis. </center>
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Screw all the other stuff. She had me at the possibility of a free blow out and candy penises. </center>
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So obviously I email every one of my single friends to make them do this with me. I was intrigued, but not about to show up all dolled up thinking I was gonna walk out with hair bigger than a Texan beauty queen and a new boyfriend only to find the "blow out bar" is an empty warehouse and ending up as a bad Law & Order SVU episode. </center>
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Two of my friends were smart and laughed in my face.</center>
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One was not and was all "Eff. Yeah. I love blow outs and chasing after dudes I know nothing about". </center>
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She's basically my soul-sister.</center>
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Anyways, we show up at this thing thinking it'll just be mixer-esque. FALSE. Its a gotdamn cattle call. </center>
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Even though we have already submitted a photo of ourselves, we have to bring a printed one. I - in true Megan fashion - did not do this in advance, ran out of time, and ended up bringing some jank-ass picture of me from when I was 20. Who was I trying to fool?</center>
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We wait in line for 5 billion hours to sign a release and get our pictures taken...AGAIN. (They now have 3 pictures of me. Douchey "I look hott" selfie Megan, 20 year old buzzed off margaritas Megan, 26 year old wondering how this became her life Megan)</center>
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Then we wait for another 20938402384 hours - at this point I'm drinking beers - to meet with this match maker for 30 SECONDS!! </center>
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I reiterate. 30 SECONDS!</center>
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She basically asked us how soon we wanted to start poppin' out babies, do we want to be trophy wives, and can we carry a conversation cuz homeboy is essentially mute. </center>
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Joy.</center>
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She also said he is covered in tattoos. Like sleeves and neck tatts galore. I find this sex-ay. My mother would've shit and died.</center>
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I left that part out when I debriefed her on the event. Sorry Mom. </center>
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I got my rejection email last night that I was not selected for the second round. </center>
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I was not surprised. </center>
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I'm just so damn curious as to who this dude is now. </center>
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Its like watching Property Brothers only to have to leave your apartment just before the big reveal. </center>
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I keep googling "tattooed socialites" seeing if I can get a clue.</center>
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Nope.</center>
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So, yeah, don't worry guys. I'm still alive and doing ridiculous things with my life. </center>
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You know you missed me ;)</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-66846505708226232922013-02-12T10:53:00.000-06:002013-02-12T10:53:02.158-06:00Well Worth the Sacrifice <center style="text-align: left;">
Fat Amy.</center>
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In honor of Fat Tuesday.</center>
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A Fat Tuesday in which I will be eating nothing fat nor delicious. </center>
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Effing tragic.</center>
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To me, this year more than ever, Fat Tuesday basically just means Lent starts tomorrow. </center>
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My sweet little lovebug sister, <a href="http://www.lifeafterblog.com/" target="_blank">Kay</a>, and I decided that this year we are going to be giving up...</center>
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::drumroll please::</center>
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Tweetsville and Instafood/shoes/selfies</center>
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That right. Forty days and forty nights of not a tweet or filtered pic. </center>
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As pathetic as this sounds, I legit think this is going to be a straight Josh Hartnett circa 2002 in the godawful 40 Days and 40 nights movie. Only I HIGHLY doubt I come out of it with a soulmate-esque boyfriend running orchids up and down my perfectly flat stomach.</center>
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I just think that shit would tickle. </center>
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In all seriousness. I love the Lenten season. Its a time of focus, sacrifice, and devotion. I always choose to DO something as well as give something up. Doing something that is not only an investment into myself, but my community and my faith life.</center>
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I just wont be able to tweet about it. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-30526434722503948012013-02-07T09:28:00.003-06:002013-02-07T09:28:53.162-06:00Ra-Ma Ooo-La-La<center style="text-align: left;">
You know you're old when strobe lights give you a legitimate headache.</center>
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You know you haven't had any alcohol in almost a month when one glass of malbec has you singing "blame it on the goose, gotchya feelin' loose."</center>
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You know you're at a Lady Gaga concert when you ask your friend "is that a guy or a girl" more often than not.</center>
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Last night was the Lady Gaga concert. I barely pealed myself out of bed this morning. Staying up that late on a work night is just not cute. BUT it was well worth it. While I'm not a massive Gaga fan, the show was AH-mazing, her voice is top notch, the entertainment value was at a 10. </center>
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Lines of the night:</center>
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"When I birthed you out of my Mother Monster pussy"</center>
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This is after we saw monsters literally born out of a massive pregnant belly complete with giant spread fishnet adorned legs. </center>
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and</center>
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"Black jesus has zero fucks to give"</center>
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Whoa. </center>
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That one got a lot less cheers.</center>
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Someone was puffin' on the cheebah in our section (par for the course in concerts I assume). Like, super close to where we were sitting, but for the life of me I could not figure out who it was. This was the sly-est toker in all the lands. All I wanted was to appease my curiosity by figuring out who it was and how in the hell they were managing to pull this off in the upper deck, where most everyone was sitting down, and there was a grandmas sitting. </center>
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I wasn't even mad, I was impressed!</center>
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I didn't get great pictures, because I never bring an actual camera with me and only had my phone, which was being dumb, but this is why I will never be an awesome hipster blogger. </center>
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Me and black jesus have that in common. The whole zero effs to give part. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-17643434750428980622013-02-04T07:45:00.000-06:002013-02-04T07:45:18.845-06:00Weekend Haps<center style="text-align: left;">
Mondays after the Super Bowl should be illegal.</center>
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I didn't even drink or eat anything delicious/super bowl-esque and I feel hungover and bloated. WTF?</center>
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Probably cuz I stayed up past my old lady bedtime of 9:30.</center>
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So I may have been the lame-o who brought fruit salad to a Super Bowl party, but this Eat To Live ish is worrrrking! I only weigh myself once a week (Mondays) and I am already down 10 big ones. Feeling pretty stoked about that. </center>
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This weekend I went to a Real Housewives of Minnesota party aka a Stella Dot party that started at 10AM. 0_0</center>
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Right? </center>
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I had to set my alarm.</center>
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But there were mimosas and pretty jewels so all was forgiven. </center>
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I picked myself up these bad boys</center>
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for when I'm sunkissed from laying out here all day in May</center>
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Not gonna lie to you all...I'm SO happy its February. January is always a rough month for me. Feb is more my speed. Quick and painless. With a glimmering hope that this godforsaken snow might leave and temps might climb into the double digits. </center>
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Happy Monday Lovahs and Frands. Go grab it by the balls!</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-43921884878205178672013-01-30T09:56:00.001-06:002013-01-30T15:52:38.045-06:00Come Sit at the Cool Table<center style="text-align: left;">
Hollllaaaaa!</center>
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Its hump day, I'm going to see Les Mis for the THIRD time, and I've learned that it makes no sense for a single woman to buy a bunch of bananas, they just go bad before I have time to eat the whole bunch. </center>
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So I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I have a dirty little habit of staying up way too late watching clips from The Ellen Show on YouTube. I work one of those nasty 8-5's and don't ever get to see the actual show, so its how I get my fix.</center>
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Anywayysss...I was watching last night, Emma Stone was on, and I began my tween dream of "ohmygawd if we met, we would totes be besties forev!" So I started to think what other celebs I would want to exchange friendship bracelets and group texts with.</center>
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Allow me to introduce you all to my sisterhood of the traveling louboutins. </center>
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Ladies, this is Em. Em, these are the Ladies. </center>
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Em (thats what all of her bestfrands call her) is SO fun to be around. She can be like, totally deep and still be super hilar. </center>
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We just laugh until we cry together and are basically a walking Cyndi Lauper song. </center>
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All slow mo having the best time ever pushing each other in shopping carts and shit. </center>
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Plus she gets me envy inducing amounts of CoverGirl. </center>
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Everyone, I want to introduce you to J. Law (its a play on J.Lo? like, her name is Jennifer Lawrence and this one time....nevermind, its an inside joke). She is my soul sister. She is dry and sarcastic and says awkward and inappropriate things. Yet, she somehow manages to make it come off charming and endearing, which secretly makes me supes jelly. She doesn't take any of this fame business too seriously and is still J. Law from the block. </center>
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Annie, ohhhh Annie. She really classes up the group. She still swears and dear lawd we can't get her to stop showing off her amazing rack, but outside of that - she is one classy bitch. She brings that super smart, quirky, hipster vibe every flock of ridiculously good looking people needs. Not to mention, we never have to wait in line when we go dancing at the gay clubs. </center>
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Nicki, Roman, whoever she feels like being on whichever given day, I love my big-booty bestie. I mean I can NEVER borrow pants for Em, J.Law, or Annie, but with Nicki this big booty judy stands a chance of squeezing in. Sure, Nicki can get a little ratchet sometimes. I've had to tell her to put her to please unleash the death grip on Mariah's weave and walk away more than once, BUT her wigs are totally boss and Super Bass is my jam.</center>
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OH! And Beyonce. Duh. No explanation needed.</center>
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Well we're off to go do fabulous things like have lunch at the Ivy while flipping the paps the bird. </center>
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AKA - I'm going into my office caf to steam some broccoli. </center>
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Womp. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-56785942316242907882013-01-28T07:50:00.001-06:002013-01-28T07:50:24.146-06:00Hyperspeed Monday<center style="text-align: left;">
Happy Monday!!!</center>
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Yes. That was three exclamation points for Monday. </center>
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I've been eating like a rabbit for the past week and my energy levels are through the roof. </center>
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I'm like a kindergartner with pixie stix. </center>
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I got my new car this weekend! I love it. I'm super excited about it. Of course I ended up doing nothing this weekend and it snowed snowflakes the size of of J.Lo's booty yesterday SO I barely drove it and it is no longer perfectly dealership clean. </center>
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Sigh.</center>
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So Saturday night my friend Dee came over to watch a movie. </center>
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She does important things like put people's mouths back together after their angry girlfriend takes a louisville slugger to their grill, so she was "on call" and we opted for yoga pants and OnDemand. </center>
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The movie we chose? Muthalovin' craziness. </center>
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The eff bombs gave me whiplash (and that's saying something coming from me).</center>
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Dee at one point said, "These cannot be actors. These people are straight off the street gangstERS".</center>
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Emphasis on the "er". </center>
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Suburban girls at our finest. </center>
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The worst part for me was the ending. I HATE it when I leave a movie feeling zero closure and zero like the world is full of sexy men riding bareback on unicorns. </center>
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The movie was End of Watch.</center>
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Don't let the fact that fiinnnne ass Jake Gyllenhal is in it fool you. </center>
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He's bald in the movie which takes it down to about a 7.</center>
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And he like, only has his shirt off once.</center>
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We felt cheated.</center>
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I'm gonna go run a lap around my office or something now...</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-51454847674896753092013-01-25T08:18:00.000-06:002013-01-25T10:16:50.073-06:00Freak on a Leash<center style="text-align: left;">
Its colder than a witch's tit here.</center>
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I'm not saying that to face slap you with screen shots of my weather app....oh wait... </center>
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I know you all are like blahblahblah you live in the frozen tundra we get it, weather updates are more boring than cranberry juice without vodka. </center>
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But I'm telling you all of this because...ITS FREAKSHOW FRIDAY!</center>
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Aaaand my freaks of the week are the BATSHIT CAH-RAZY people who are still riding their <b><i><u>bikes</u></i></b> in this arctic hell hole. </center>
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Yes. I clicked every way to mutate the text so you could understand the insanity that is someone riding their bicycle in negative temperatures.</center>
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My emotions have surpassed shock/mildly fascinated and now I'm just pissed/concerned for their mental health.</center>
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I'm over here freezing my tits off in the quick jaunt from apt to vehicle and they're all "I'm gonna just slap on some ski goggles and snowpants and peddle my frozen little heart out to work today."</center>
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What. The. Efff?!</center>
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Reasons this pisses me off:</center>
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1. They are making me feel bad about myself. </center>
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I'm over here crying bitch baby tears into my iPhone friendly gloves cuz my car is taking too long to heat up and using negative temps as an excuse to eat copious amounts of mash potatoes and watch Top Chef and Project Runway reruns all day. Yet here comes some polar bear esque human who is just all, "Oh the air that feels like frozen daggers to my face? No biggie. I'm just gonna be all up in the streets workin' on my fitness."</center>
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2. They are being nice to Mother Earth while I want to kick her in her lady bits. </center>
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3. The snowbanks are already making the roads narrow enough, I don't need to worry about hitting you on top of everything else. </center>
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Bikers make me nervous to begin with, but I can't feel my face from my 10ft walk, let alone my fingers. I can't count on my dexterity to do a swift paranoid swerve (you all know this maneuver when it comes to cyclists) when you come speed peddling by at freakish speeds no human should be able to reach on such thin wheels. </center>
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So while my first inclination was to be impressed, I'm now just thinking about calling the psych ward and have them bring a paddy wagon on down to my hood and pick all these crazies.</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-89035877186795878252013-01-24T10:00:00.002-06:002013-01-24T12:11:53.074-06:00Yeeeah Buddy, Rollin' Like a Big Shot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Heyyoooo. </center>
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Car shopping is a bish dudes.</center>
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I'm gonna share a little something about me with you all.</center>
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I tend to me unrealistic with major purchases. </center>
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Like, I live in a delusional fantasy of mansion wishes and range rover dreams. </center>
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I have champagne taste on a beer budget.</center>
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So I, all too often, gotta bring it back down to the real world.</center>
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The world of, Meg - you aren't broke, but you aint P.Diddy. </center>
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The world of regular adulthood where you have to have financial goals and savings and shit. </center>
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Effffff.</center>
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So this little love bug I've been salivating over for the past year has to wait. </center>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Could you imagine parallel parking this heffa every day? The cuss words would abound. </span></center>
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I'm also psyching myself up for the car salesmen. I've heard horror stories. </center>
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Is it wrong that every time I think of a car salesman I think of Dani Devito in Matilda?</center>
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My dad has been pumping me up for this like friggin' Floyd Mayweather before a fight. I mean, its all fun and games til I end up like homeboy...</center>
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Straight concussed from the money raping I received. </center>
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Nope. Not happening to this savvy, assertive, homework did 20-something. </center>
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I'm gonna make this whole care purchasing extravaganza my bitch. </center>
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Get all gangsta up in that dealership.</center>
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Okay...well probably not gangsta. Probably more very polite, yet astute suburbanite. </center>
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Close enough. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-24387090092273755062013-01-21T09:56:00.002-06:002013-01-21T10:00:02.694-06:00This Weekend School'd Me<center>
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Happy Monday bishes!!</div>
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How was your weekend?</div>
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Mine was....educational.</div>
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Lots o' lessons learned by moi. </div>
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Allow me to share my new found knowledge...</div>
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<b>1. Never get your car totaled in an accident on the weekend.</b></div>
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Turns out this massively inconvenient event just becomes even more of a hassle when it happens over a weekend. I sorta get it. I don't exactly want to be workin' hard for da money on a Saturday or Sunday, but turns out life still happens on those days, so if you're in the business of dealing with life issues Ima need you to step your game up.</div>
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<b>2. Don't let ANYONE play off your emotions when you are vulnerable.</b></div>
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When I am scared, nervous, rattled, what have you, my first emotion is not anger. I usually just cry a lot and want there to be as little conflict as possible. As my sister put it to me this weekend, I tend to become accommodating to an extreme. </div>
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Not always a good thing. </div>
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Sometimes accommodating is not the answer. Sometimes full-blown Irish gumption is in order. The kind where you are all "I am woman hear me roar and these are angry tears not I just want to call my Daddy tears and you're an asshole who is not gonna get away with murdering my car." Straight Boondock Saints on their ass.</div>
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<b>3. Shopping for a new car is a lot less fun when you are forced to do it. </b></div>
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Buying a new whip always seemed like it would be an exciting moment for me. I would have done my research, found something I realllllly wanted, planned for it financially, and taken my time to make sure all was right in my car buying fabulous world. </div>
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Welp. This fantasy isn't going to be my reality.</div>
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Having a rental is expensive (even with insurance paying for most of it) and its essentially the equivalent of using my dollah bills as toilet paper. So I need to find me a new car post haste. So I'm scrambling to find something I both like and can afford and I'm quickly realizing that a car payment isn't exactly simpatico with my financial goals at the moment. </div>
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Ugh.</div>
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<b>4. There is nothing and I do mean NOTHING better than a supportive family and good friends.</b></div>
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In moments when you're really down and out. When you're just shit outta luck. When you're a hottass mess of endless favor needing. You realize how blessed your are to have gracious, generous, and caring people in your life. My family is far away and even from a distance made me feel loved and cared for, but my friends? My family away from my family? Man, they went above and beyond. Every phone call and text, every cell phone minute spent listening to me gripe, every ounce of gas spent to drive me from here to there and then here again, every car battery wiped out on my behalf made me so overwhelmed with feelings of love and support. </div>
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I am blessed beyond measure.</div>
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I guess this is the life of a 20-something right? Learning as you go? After a long and less than awesome weekend, I'm glad the hardest lesson I had to learn was to stick up for what I believe is right and to count my blessing in every moment. </div>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-83365646461520174922013-01-17T13:13:00.000-06:002013-01-17T14:25:09.099-06:00The Real Deal<center style="text-align: left;">
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This how I felt when I found out that Manti Te'o is either a dirty liar or as <strike>dumb</strike> naive as those people on Catfish. </span></center>
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Bring on the barrage of ND hate. I'm used to it by now.</center>
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Yes. I'm just going to use Pitch Perfect Gifs through this whole post cuz...well I've watched the movie at least 6 times. What can I say, some sweet lady harmonizing just makes my heart flutter.</center>
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So the other day all over my twitter, all up in my text messages, sneaked into most of my gchats appeared this article from the NY Times: <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/13/fashion/the-end-of-courtship.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">The End of Courtship?</a></center>
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Hm.</center>
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So I thought about it and I related it to my experiences, then I thought about it some more. </center>
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And I call bullshit. </center>
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Not on the article. I think that is pretty accurate. </center>
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I call kissmyladybitsbullshit on the acceptance of this as a new "social norm."</center>
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Ima be all Cheryl Yeoh up in dis dating scene.</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">“If he really wants you,” Ms. Yeoh, 29, said, “he has to put in some effort.”</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I've done the whole "so, do you wanna come over and hang out?" day of. past 7:ooPM. He's in his sweat pants and I took 45 minutes to look like I was just lounging around in this pair of leggings paired with a casual v-neck and a slouchy cardi. Oh an this dewy eye makeup and perfectly quaffed hair? Yeah. I wake up looking this friggin' effortlessly beautiful. HA. Faker than Manti Te'os girlfriend.</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Sweat pants, hair-tied, chillin' with no makeup on?</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">My ASS. </span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I'm gonna need you to be at least 4 months into our relationship and desperately in love with me before I introduce you to the real life version of that saying.</span></center>
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Enjoy.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Anyways. Like I was saying, I've done this new modern form of "dating" and it sucks and is dumb and no one comes out of it feeling special or pursued.</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">My Daddy has drilled into me since I was old enough to realize I wanted to kiss boys not be one these two things:</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">1. Be particular.</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">2. The proof of passion is pursuit.</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Call me traditional. Call me delusional. Call me a spoiled rotten brat. But I want to be wined and dined. I want to be romanced. I want to be woo'd DAMNIT!</span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I think its okay if some women are okay with just meeting up in big groups, just hanging out at an apartment watching a $1 redbox movie. </span></center>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">BUT I also think its okay for women to want to go old-school and have a man ask her politely if he can take her out to dinner, a movie, and sit with your hand upturned on the arm rest the whole time hoping he'll hold it. </span></center>
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To each her own.</span></center>
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But its never okay when they ask if they can kiss you. I think we can all agree on that right? </center>
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Whether just hanging out or after a dinner date, if you ask me permission to kiss me, I'm going to cringe, feel too awkward to tell you no, and wish you would grow some balls and just go for it. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-83645904159723470352013-01-16T10:13:00.001-06:002013-01-16T10:13:57.655-06:00Let Me Tell You Bout My Besssst Friend...<center>
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So today I'm trying to rock out a hair half-up do that I saw Khloe K. werk for X-Factor. Its not quite as glamazon as my girl Khlo, but I don't officially hate it. What do you all think?</center>
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Lets be real. I'm not even close. Especially in my pajama t-shirt. Since this is a safe place I'm just gonna put it out there. I'm on day 3 of no hair washing and all the way down wasn't an option. I'm a gross human, so I try to pretend I'm channeling a Kardashian to counterbalance my nast-hair.</center>
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In my defense I stayed up until and ungodly hour YouTubing clips from The Ellen Show, so blow drying just wasn't an option this morning.</center>
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On an extremely exciting note, my best frand <a href="http://whitney-brooke-blog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Whitney Brooke</a> has FINALLY started her lifestyle/foodie blog. Let me tell you a few things about this woman's cooking. Holy shitballz its good. Like, can't button your pants after good. She's all experimental and adventurous with flavors, but in a good way, not like that time I tried to make a chocolate sauce for my steak. </center>
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Top Chef gives me delusional ideas about my culinary skills. </center>
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She is also one of the most fabulous women I've ever met. I want to live in her closet, her boyfriend is not only super cute, but hilarious, she drinks like a sailor, and her hair could rival Jen Aniston. </center>
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Go check her out. Fall in love with her just like I did back when I was 6. </center>
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Now I'm gonna inundate you with photos of my and my best lady so you can start to love her as much as I do :) <a href="http://whitney-brooke-blog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Whitney Brooke</a></center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-38164534240070439772013-01-15T11:08:00.003-06:002013-01-15T15:35:49.002-06:00That Awkward Moment When...<div>
Do any of you guys watch HBO's show Girls?</div>
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I do. And I LOOOVE it. </div>
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BUT.</div>
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I realized something about it while making my friend G, who has never seen the show, watch the Season 1 opener on Sunday.</div>
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Perhaps Girls is a show you watch by yourself, then have a book club-esque recap with your GF's later. </div>
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So much awkward sexual encounters. Its like a constant flow of unappealing nudity, mixed with uncomfortable subject matter. Like the chinese water torture of sex scenes. One. drop. at. a. time.</div>
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Now. You know me, not one to easily be made uncomfortable, and to be honest - when watching it alone, not much of it makes me want to claw my eyes out. Its just hilariously horrendous to me. </div>
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But I'm figuring out that when I watch it with other people, I get all bajiggity. Like - feel like I have to talk about a new recipe I found on Pinterest so we're ignoring Lena Dunham's glaringly obvious natural breasts bouncing on the tv screen - bajiggity.</div>
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Its like that time I was watching some Val Kilmer movie with my parents back when I was 15 and a full-blown sex scene came on. I wanted to die. I wanted to run back upstairs with my eyes closed. I wanted to hide under the blanket and pretend it made me invisible. It still haunts me. Traumatized forever.</div>
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No matter how old you get sex scenes with your parents in the room is basically the equivalent to a blow dart to your face. One of two things always happen:</div>
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1. Someone tries to make a joke about it. Something all the lines of "haha Megan close your eyes!" or "Welp. Thats awkward. (insert awkward chuckle)."</div>
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2. Complete and total silence. No one says anything. No one looks at each other. Everyone looks straight ahead, emotionless, expressionless, and just rides that awkward pony all the way out of the scene.</div>
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Neither of these thing make it better. It just is what it is. I've taken to pretending I need a snack. In my mind, its less awkward if I'm no less than 200 feet away from the situation. </div>
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So maybe I'm having one of my rare prude moments when it comes to group viewings of Girls. Maybe that time I watched it with my sister and my BIL was in the room, effed me all up. Maybe I just am wary of other people's comfort level so I over compensate. </div>
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Either way, I will now be flying solo on my initial Girl viewings. I'll just gchat with my sisters about it afterwards.</div>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-58722626529010145192013-01-14T09:29:00.000-06:002013-01-14T10:23:22.807-06:00Ice Castles are Totally Normal<center style="text-align: left;">
Hey Gurlll Haaayyyyy,</center>
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First things first. That MAMA trailor? Aint that some bullllsheeet. I saw that trailer last night during the Golden Globes and let. me. tell. you. I ended up having the most terrifying nightmare in recent memory last night and was scrolling through my phone directory trying to think of people who would pick up at 4AM just to let me hear them breathe and know that demon children weren't about the jump on my bed and eat my soul. </center>
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Whatever sick-o decided to make children the most terrifying horror movie subject EVER back in like 2004, kudos to you my friend. I didn't see that one coming.</center>
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Second. When you live in frozen tundra-like states like I do, on the weekends you do normal things like visit Ice Castles wich yo girlfrands. </center>
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It was actually really pretty and very cool. </center>
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I, inappropriately, wore heels. Par for the course.</center>
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Afterwards we magically found ourselves shopping. I needed to stop by Barnes & Nobles to pick up a couple of books and ended up leaving with said books aaaaaand two pairs of shoes.</center>
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Whoops.</center>
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I'm wearing one of my new pairs today and I'm so tall in them I might resemble Godzilla. </center>
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I'm also having to hunch over a lot. </center>
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I don't know how Shaq does this on the reg. </center>
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Especially since he dates someone that only comes up to his belly button. But then again she also calls her self Hoopz - with a Z. That totes a match made in heaven. *side-eye*</center>
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Also, tell me why, out of the two books I bought the reallllly expensive one was the religious one. Huhhhh? I don't think Jesus would be very happy about this. Jesus books should be my favorite price...Free.99.</center>
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The rest of my weekend consisted of watching Kate Hudson make angels sing with her hottness at the Golden Globes, Sienna Miller making my eyes bleed with whatever 70's flower child monstrosity she had on, and Jodi Foster confusing the living hell out of me with her speech.</center>
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Cheers to Monday lovahs!</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-26864935250851812102013-01-09T09:42:00.001-06:002013-01-09T09:42:19.610-06:00This Ones For My Girlfriends<center style="text-align: left;">
Hiiiiii</center>
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I know, I KNOW I said I would write yesterday but with my Irish playing like The Little Giants, I chose to hide away from the public. To mourn of course.</center>
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My life as of late....I'm not going to lie to you - its been really fun, spending lots o' time with my GF's, buuut no real Blog worthy action.</center>
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BUT, I've got to say, having a group of women to hang out with and grow close to - there is nothing quite like it. </center>
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I spent an entire year alone in an apartment drinking 2 gallon bottles of cheap-ass wine, watching crappy VH1 reality television, and eating entirely too many egg rolls. </center>
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I had all of 2 friends. They were amazeballs, but turns out they had husbands - husbands tend to take priority in the whole time distribution sector. </center>
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I know. I think its bullshit too. I mean would you rather sit on my couch and get drunk of Pinot Griggg while listening to me talk about dying alone orrrrr spend time with that dude you're building a life with? I think the answer is totes obvious.</center>
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Either way, those two helped get me through one of the most trying years of my life.</center>
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I think when we're all in high school its "cool" to be that girl who is all, "yeah, girls bug me. I really only hang out with guys.", "I have sooooo many more guy friends than girlfriends", blahblahvomblah.</center>
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Here's the thing, and I think I truly learned this lesson going to an all-women's college, the value that comes from having lady friends is unparalleled.</center>
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Us chicks? We have magical powers. Like some Marvel Avengers type shit. </center>
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We have the ability to relate to one another, to feel a compassion and empathy for other ladies that is unique and selfless. Women will put one another on their backs and your ride or die bitches? They'll see you through anything. ANYTHING. There is a patience and tenderness...a relatability that can only come from other chaquitas. </center>
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Those wang-slangers just can't find the same common ground. Its not their fault, their balls get in the way. </center>
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This is not to say that women CAN'T have close, intimate friendships with men. They can and do. Hell, I do! I just know that there is a cap on how much they can understand about what I'm going through.</center>
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They don't know what its like to be bloated with boobs that feel like they've been kicked by Mia Hamm and a patience level that disappeared over night. My girlfrands on the other hand? They'll come over and be a class-A bitch with me while free-boobing it and eating hostess cupcakes (RIP).</center>
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I just think its important to remember the value of the women you surround yourself with. </center>
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Those Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Beaches, Babysitter's Club, First Wives Club chicks were on to something. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-16107380626270465312013-01-07T11:12:00.001-06:002013-01-07T11:12:21.421-06:00Nervous Voms<center style="text-align: left;">
Holy shitballz. </center>
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Tonight is the night.</center>
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I've been feeling like I'm going to vomit for a week now.</center>
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Is it 7 yet?</center>
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I'm wearing gold pants at work. </center>
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I'd love to say they look hawt, but colored pants on my lovely lady lumps just draws attention to...my lovely lady lumps.</center>
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For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about...tonight, the love of my life, Notre Dame football, plays for the National Championship.</center>
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I haven't even been able to focus enough to blog. This is all I can muster after like 7 days of nothing. </center>
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If I don't die of cardiac arrest tonight, I will be sure to fill you all in on my life haps this week. </center>
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Pray for an Irish victory everyone.</center>
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Our hearts forever love thee Notre Dame.</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-29331251158857117862012-12-28T10:29:00.000-06:002012-12-28T13:10:54.282-06:00Get Yo Freak On<center style="text-align: left;">
After my <a href="http://six-one-blog.blogspot.com/2012/11/shes-baaaack.html" target="_blank">Thanksgiving</a> travel cluster-eff I figured I had built up enough good travel karma to make it back to the Mitten without any hitches this Holiday season. </center>
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I should've slapped myself for ever thinking this.</center>
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I have the WORST travel jinx in all the lands. </center>
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After I got into the whore land that is O'Hare about an hour and half late I turned my phone on to a voicemail that my flight to Michigan had been cancelled. Effffffff. </center>
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After mall walking to the customer service line I quickly discovered that a flight outta chi-city just wasn't going to happen. Soooo I hauled ass out of the airport and hopped on the "L" to get downtown to Union station and catch an Amtrak home.</center>
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Enter FreakShow Friday.</center>
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I saw some things on this public transit ride that no one should see. NO ONE. </center>
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First and foremost it should be known that homeless people who are mentally ill really freak me out. Call me ignorant, call me an asshole, but the unpredictability terrifies me. </center>
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So, with that knowledge in mind, imagine my horror when I get on that rickety ass train and find that I am ALONE in the car with a homeless woman who is having a full blown conversation with a man named Dennis. I want to reiterate that I was ALONE with this woman. No Dennis to be found. But don't worry, we were just gonna chat with him anyways. I was petrified.</center>
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Well, eventually the train filled up with other travelers and that was when the real party started. I ended up sitting next to a 20-something girl who had a pimp cane and was wearing her pink sparkly aviators despite the fact that it was not only already dark outside, but we were, in fact, underground. Not gonna lie, I totally thought she was someone famous at first. *insert eyeroll*</center>
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Now if we skim over the hipster who stood FACING me with his fly down for 20 minutes, the girl who was having a full-fledge screaming match with her boyfriend on a cell phone complete with ugly crying, and the woman who spent at least 10 minutes trying out different apparatuses she could find in her purse to assist her in scratching her weave...</center>
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...the real FreakShow finally for me was homeboy who thought he was going to get discovered by P.Diddy on this godforesaken train.</center>
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I kid you not, for a full half hour this dude stood facing the doors of the train rapping nonsense into the glass while using a single knuckle to create a "beat". Now, I like rap music. I have full appreciation for a good beat, clever rhymes, and a ridiculous diamond chain, but this. THIS. Made my ears bleed. Basically all he did was say "bitchass hoes and bad muthaf@#!ers, making this paper" with A LOT of n-bombs sprinkled in between. </center>
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He was incessant. I don't even think homie came up for air.</center>
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It was a nonstop accost on my eardrums. </center>
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What in that name of all that is pleasant did this man think was going to come of this performance? That someone was going to video it on their phones and he was going to become a World Star Hip Hope phenom? Um. No. All he was doing was making a lot of people in a small space angry.</center>
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Now that just sounds dangerous to me. </center>
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The worst part was that he had a friend who just stood there with him bobbing his head to the ridiculousness acting like his buddy was the next Jay-Z.</center>
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I will not be listening to rap for many moons. Not until I can forget that monstrosity. </center>
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Public transit for the FreakShow Friday win. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-61012110053654286452012-12-26T11:43:00.003-06:002012-12-26T11:43:38.623-06:00Delirious<center style="text-align: left;">
2 minutes off of the plane and I was freezing my balls off. So I'm just gonna give a big <strike>EFF YOU</strike> Thank You to my city for that lovely welcome home.</center>
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Christmas with my family made my heart sing, my jeans tight, and my head ache. </center>
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I ate my weight in my mom's delicious cooking.</center>
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I drank my weight in my dad's fancy wine (turns out real adults spend more than $10 on bottles of wine. Who knew!)</center>
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And basically had the greatest time loving the shit out of my family.</center>
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I'll tell you guys all about it tomorrow when I'm not so tired that I need an IV drip of caffeine and want to go all Dexter meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the next person who talks to me. </center>
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A quick photo recap as you wait on baited breath until tomorrow. </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-38617581833256397512012-12-19T09:39:00.001-06:002012-12-19T09:39:35.211-06:00By All Means, Please, MOVE SLOWER<center style="text-align: left;">
I was taunted by an old woman last night. </center>
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No seriously.</center>
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My friends and I were trying to leave a restaurant after a FABulous girls night and a <b>flock</b> of elderly people were blocking the entire doorway. </center>
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They were saying their goodbyes, so we waited patiently behind them thinking it'd all be over soon.</center>
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OH NO.</center>
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It was not over soon.</center>
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This woman was saying goodbye to every.single.friend. at the speed of smell.</center>
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Once again, while blocking the ONLY exit. </center>
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AND she knew what she was doing. With every hug she gave us a taunting look over the shoulders of her embraced companion. </center>
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She was essentially saying "Eff off" to us with her eyes.</center>
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You can only mean-mug me so many times before I have enough. I have respect for my elders, but at that point it was time to crowd walk our asses through them.</center>
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You know the crowd walk - the one where you find even the smallest opening and shove yourself through it while saying excuse me so you feel like you're not a total asshole. </center>
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Yeah. I'll admit it. I crowd-walked through a mob of geriatrics. Sue me.</center>
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Someone had to take matters into their own hands or that sassy blue-hair would've had us standing at that exit for 45 minutes and I had had 2 glasses of wine which is the equivalent to a hefty dose of NyQuil to me on a Tuesday night. </center>
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It was time to go.</center>
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To my credit you could've driven a mack truck the opening I found, so not a single senior citizen was even touched let alone shoved. Even <i><b>I</b></i> have limits.</center>
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There is a BIG difference between being elderly and just being rude. </center>
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Besides, it was like, totally a fire hazard. I was simply acting on survival instincts. :)</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-25483748147903979472012-12-18T08:56:00.002-06:002012-12-18T08:56:12.352-06:00Silence and Support<div style="text-align: center;">
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Please visit <a href="http://www.newtownyouthandfamilyservices.org/donate.php">THIS PAGE</a> to make your donation.</div>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-39612775482272395242012-12-17T09:36:00.001-06:002012-12-17T09:36:57.794-06:00I'll Be Home For Christmas<center style="text-align: left;">
I'm not gonna lie to you guys, my brain is already in Michigan.</center>
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I'm already laying on the floor of my parents' living room as my nephew throws balls at me while my mom asks my baby brother what he did last night from the other side of the kitchen and Kay sits with her coffee in the big chair tweeting about the madness and Bro Dos sneaks outside to putt on the golf course for a moment of silence, even if there is 2 feet of snow out there.</center>
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My dad is chicken pecking at his iPad and running a hilarious commentary about the morning happenings as E and The Doctah bust in the door, E ho-ho-ho'ing upon her entrance and the Skizzle smiling brightly behind her just trying to make sure she doesn't eat it in our foyer and crush the presents she has in hand.</center>
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Its safe to say I'm ready to be home with my family. Three. More. Days.</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-46411244941114320922012-12-14T11:25:00.001-06:002012-12-28T13:11:09.743-06:00SupaFreak<center style="text-align: left;">
Finallllllllyyyy!!!</center>
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Its the first FreakShow Friday in a while! *Insert the parade of excitement you all are feeling here*</div>
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Today I want to talk about how I become the World Champion of awkward when I'm put in uncomfortable/nerve wracking/anxiety provoking situations. I say horrifying things that would make you want to stand in a corner hugging yourself from second-hand embarrassment. </div>
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I am not proud of this. Its just the way it is. </div>
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Whats that? You want examples? Ask and you shall receive. </div>
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First, lets discuss me meeting the creep-show new employee the other day. Let me preface this by saying homeboy was straight To Catch A Predator creepy. So much so that he's already been deemed "not the right fit for our team". </div>
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Anyways.</div>
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So he comes walking past my cube the other day and I say, "Hi! Welcome! I'm Megan" *shakes hand*</div>
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His response?</div>
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Ohhhhkay. </div>
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So now starts the part when I feel uncomfortable and turn into a socially inept being. </div>
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My response? "(uncomfortable laugh) Big Gulps, eh? Welp. See ya later (uncomfortable laugh) (rolls office chair away)" </div>
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WHAT MEGAN?! WHAT? </div>
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Tell me why, in that situation, the ONLY thing I could think to say was a Dumb and Dumber quote. I couldn't just be normal and say "well, welcome to the team. Nice to meet you." No I had to out-weird him.</div>
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Next, lets talk about why I cannot be trusted on a blind date. </div>
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Let me break this down for you.</div>
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I'm going on a blind date with a tall, handsome, successful guy. </div>
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I talk this guy up so much in my head I feel like I'm going to vomit all over my steering wheel en route to the restaurant. </div>
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We sit at the bar for drinks and start chatting.</div>
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Enter the "silent pause between conversation topics"</div>
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Enter Megan panicking.</div>
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Enter Awkward Megan.</div>
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I start off safe, "so do you have any siblings?"</div>
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"no."</div>
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More panic.</div>
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"So you're an only child! Wow. So does that mean you like to be alone?"</div>
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??</div>
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"um. no, not always."</div>
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I'm scrambling now</div>
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"Oh, so do you want to have kids?"</div>
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Stop Megan. STOP.</div>
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"Uhhh, yeah I want to have kids."</div>
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Megan, just admit that you panicked and you realize how psycho that sounded.</div>
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"Oh yeah? So like, just one or more?"</div>
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-look of horror on his face -</div>
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"No, probably not just one."</div>
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I swear I didn't even care about his hopes for procreating. It wasn't me talking, it was the awkward demon that takes hold of me every time I get nervous. </div>
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I know. I now drink a cocktail (or 2, or 4) before any date. I clearly cannot be trusted without being "medicated".</div>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-29103948817872377362012-12-13T10:24:00.001-06:002012-12-13T13:50:55.587-06:00All I Didn't Want For Christmas<center style="text-align: left;">
I don't understand how its not Friday. Its literally causing rage to bubble up inside of me. This week feels like a cruel joke and every morning when I wake up with that quick fleeting hope that I can throw on some jeans for work the Universe is like, "SIKE". </center>
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"I keep thinking today is Tuesday" = me.</div>
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So I made a quick mention to Batman Forever the other day and that, coupled with my recent shopping excursion to find my nephew a Christmas gift, got me thinking about inappropriate gifts you can give to people. </center>
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First of all - you have to be wondering what dafuq Batman Forever has to do with inappropriate gift giving. Well, its inappropriate when your NANA gives it to you and your 2 sisters when every single one of us was under the age of 12. First of all, we're all girls - did she really think we would be doing cartwheels in the living room over a Batman movie? I mean c'mon! We were still making up dances to the Chipettes' version of "Leader of the Pack"! AND that part where Nicole Kidman is basically whoring herself out to Val Kilmer on a roof? She's all, "I love rubber and I'm an open book you can read." Umm...really Nana? I feel uncomfortable.</center>
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Now lets move over to what I wanted to get my nephew for Christmas...<br />
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Yeop. I was ready to have this dude picking up chicks all over the 'hood. Too bad he's 15 months old. Turns out you can't stick a one year old in a self-operated motorized vehicle without someone calling Child Protective Services. I was gonna get him a helmet too for pete's sake! I'm not completely irresponsible. I had to settle for this pimp mobile instead. He'll be getting his cruise on Flinstone style.</center>
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Last but not least lets discuss the time I pulled my boss's boss in the office Secret Santa. Why? Whyyyyyy??? What the hell do you get ridiculously wealthy man who has entirely too much power over not only the trajectory of your career, but that of your boss's as well. Efffffff. So what was the only logical thing that came to my mind? Two words. Motorized. Helicopter. </center>
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Can I please tell you the look on this man's face when he opened up a toy from one of his employees? It was mix of confusion, discomfort, and hidden jubilation. The awkward silence at the lunch table was palpable. </center>
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I think I might just take on the role of the most inappropriate gift giver in my family/social circle. Make it my thing. What do you guys think? </center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4920763700884295031.post-11037049835370939342012-12-12T11:29:00.000-06:002012-12-18T09:01:05.377-06:00Its Just a Break NOT a Breakup<center style="text-align: left;">
This is a letter I never wanted to have to write. Its got me ugly crying like Kim K. into my morning coffee. I know once I write it all down its going to be real, but it has to be done...</center>
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Dear My Sweet-Sweet Booze,</center>
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It pains me to write this. It hurts my heart more than that time I found out Channing Tatum was married. I just...think we need to go on a break. Listen, I don't like this any more than you do, but that 6 weeks of separation we had with each other last year really worked out for the best and I think, after the Holidays, it is time for us to take some time apart.<br />
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We have until the New Year at least! No, no this is not a New Year's resolution. If I had the choice between not hanging out with you for a year or standing butt-naked in the mall on Black Friday, I would start stripping now. It just that....you're making me puffy and swollen and full of Taco Bell. I'm trying to rejoin the Bad Bitches Club and you are just starting to hold me back. I know you don't mean to, but when you put on those sexy bleu cheese stuffed olives you know I like, I start retaining more water than the Titanic. Do you even know what its like for your fingers to be so swollen your rings give you a phalanges version of muffin-top?!</center>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I know we'll find each other again. We always do. I can already picture our glorious reunion. I'll be base tanned and wearing strappy sandals as I wait in the airport headed to the Virgin Islands. I'll have my Bad Bitch Posse (*cough* </span><a href="http://six-one-blog.blogspot.com/2012/10/aint-nobody-fresha.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">E & Kay</a><span style="text-align: left;"> *cough*) in toe and you? You will be there at some trashy airport Chili's beckoning me across the terminal, whispering sweet nothings as I request your cold, refreshing touch from an </span><span style="text-align: left;">airport bartender who undoubtedly hates his life. Then upon first sip, I will be wasted. </span></div>
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Until then Booze, I give you permission to see other people. Go ahead and get college girls falling down drunk until they're making friends in a filthy dance club bathroom and making out with whoever grinds on them next. Go ahead and be the shoulder to cry on for that vulnerable girl who just got dumped by some dude she had already inserted into her fully planned imaginary wedding. Enjoy watching P.S. I Love You 47 times and telling her she looks beautiful as she munches on a brick of cheese. Do what you have to do while I'm gone. I understand. But please know - no matter how many hook-ups you facilitate or how many texts you send to inappropriate people at 3AM - no one and I do mean NO ONE will love you like I do. </center>
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I can't wait until May. </center>
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Love,</center>
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Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03078373140271547091noreply@blogger.com5