Great Scott!

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:

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.  But thats okay. For my seeeester Erin, I'll take that Tonya Harding type bludgeon. 

My bombass big sister, Erin 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.  I look like this:

So this sister of mine has started a blog, Great Scott! You should probably check it out.  She's the shit. Duh. We share genes (not jeans. She is too skinny, that bitch).

Kiki's Attempt At Making Me a Blogger

This is the week of liver prep. Because this weekend is the greatest weekend of the year.  Its also the weekend that I pretend I'm a spritely 21 year old again and marathon drink. 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.  Adulthood. I should be human again somewhere around March 22nd. 
Well one of my main bishes, Kiki (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. 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.

ch-ch-check it out and show the Keekster lots o' love for her attempts at making me a functional blogger :) You can enter here too! a Rafflecopter giveaway

Daterventions

Hay gurl, hayyyy. I know I've basically disappeared. Sorry.  No, an angry ex-boyfriend did not send me SARS in the mail.  No, my fingers have not been experiencing temporary paralysis.  I've just been lazy.  And mildly uninspired. Buuuuut. I'm coming off and AH-mazing girls' weekend with my mom, E, & Kay. I'm feeling rejuvinated and ready to start our functional dysfunction again. 

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. K? K. 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.).  She had a mother and couple of sisters and some friends who all wanted her to start dating.  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.  Then she got rejected. The end. Ohhhh my friends. Oh.  This is my friggin' life.  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.  Screw all the other stuff. She had me at the possibility of a free blow out and candy penises. 

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.  Two of my friends were smart and laughed in my face. One was not and was all "Eff. Yeah. I love blow outs and chasing after dudes I know nothing about".  She's basically my soul-sister. Anyways, we show up at this thing thinking it'll just be mixer-esque. FALSE. Its a gotdamn cattle call.  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? 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) Then we wait for another 20938402384 hours - at this point I'm drinking beers - to meet with this match maker for 30 SECONDS!!  I reiterate. 30 SECONDS! 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.  Joy. 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. I left that part out when I debriefed her on the event. Sorry Mom.  I got my rejection email last night that I was not selected for the second round.  I was not surprised.  I'm just so damn curious as to who this dude is now.  Its like watching Property Brothers only to have to leave your apartment just before the big reveal.  I keep googling "tattooed socialites" seeing if I can get a clue. Nope.

So, yeah, don't worry guys. I'm still alive and doing ridiculous things with my life.  You know you missed me ;)

Well Worth the Sacrifice

Fat Amy.

In honor of Fat Tuesday. A Fat Tuesday in which I will be eating nothing fat nor delicious.  Effing tragic.
To me, this year more than ever, Fat Tuesday basically just means Lent starts tomorrow.  My sweet little lovebug sister, Kay, and I decided that this year we are going to be giving up... ::drumroll please:: Tweetsville and Instafood/shoes/selfies That right. Forty days and forty nights of not a tweet or filtered pic. 
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.

I just think that shit would tickle. 
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. I just wont be able to tweet about it. 

Ra-Ma Ooo-La-La

You know you're old when strobe lights give you a legitimate headache. 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." 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.

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. 

Lines of the night: "When I birthed you out of my Mother Monster pussy" This is after we saw monsters literally born out of a massive pregnant belly complete with giant spread fishnet adorned legs.  and "Black jesus has zero fucks to give" Whoa.  That one got a lot less cheers.

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.  I wasn't even mad, I was impressed!

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. 
Me and black jesus have that in common. The whole zero effs to give part.  

Weekend Haps

Mondays after the Super Bowl should be illegal.
I didn't even drink or eat anything delicious/super bowl-esque and I feel hungover and bloated. WTF? Probably cuz I stayed up past my old lady bedtime of 9:30.
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. 
This weekend I went to a Real Housewives of Minnesota party aka a Stella Dot party that started at 10AM. 0_0 Right?  I had to set my alarm. But there were mimosas and pretty jewels so all was forgiven.  I picked myself up these bad boys

for when I'm sunkissed from laying out here all day in May

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. 
Happy Monday Lovahs and Frands. Go grab it by the balls!

Come Sit at the Cool Table

Hollllaaaaa! 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. 
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. 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.
Allow me to introduce you all to my sisterhood of the traveling louboutins. 

Ladies, this is Em. Em, these are the Ladies.  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.  We just laugh until we cry together and are basically a walking Cyndi Lauper song.  All slow mo having the best time ever pushing each other in shopping carts and shit.  Plus she gets me envy inducing amounts of CoverGirl. 

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. 

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. 

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.

OH! And Beyonce. Duh. No explanation needed.
Well we're off to go do fabulous things like have lunch at the Ivy while flipping the paps the bird.  AKA - I'm going into my office caf to steam some broccoli.  Womp.