Thursday, August 31, 2006


Vigilante Justice

So this guy heard that this neighbor molested his two-year-old daughter. So he went next door and stabbed the man to death.

*not so clear clarification - Guy A stabbed neighbor because he thinks that neighbor molested Guy A's daughter*

Here's the article.


This is bad, but my gut reaction is...can you blame him? Someone molested his daughter. His reaction is one of rage, and to make sure that it never happens again. He doesn't look like a rage-tastic man. He looks like a total dork who rose to the occasion and avenged his daughter. I'm pretty sure that if anyone messed with me (and I mean real, scary, messing with), my dad, brothers, and uncles would be on that person like no one's business. That's what family does.

According to the article, the two-year-old said something to her mom that tipped her off, and she told her husband.

The slight, slight...shall we say...snag in all this is that this is America. Innocent until proven guilty. Rationally, I'm like. No. The neighbor needed a trial. Maybe he wasn't guilty? And people can't go around stabbing people - that's what prison is for. And I'm against the death penality - where did the condoning of murder come from? I actually have no doubt in my mind that the man was guilty. But there needs to be proof. And when was she left alone with the neighborhood creep?

I'm not saying what he did was right. But really.

Do you blame him?

Wednesday, August 30, 2006


The Single Life, part 1

Recently Wombat brought up the concept of crushes. Basically, a couple of years ago his heart was stomped on when the perfect woman flirted with him...he fell in crush, had visions of planning a future, skipping through fields of poppies, etc., and then he found out that she had a serious significant other.

The comments section ranged from enamored sighs over the loveliness that are crushes, to the vitriolic ranting that only unrequited love can ignite.

This was a bit of a puzzle to me. But then I thought about seemed as though there was a clear division. All of the taken people love the crushes, while all the single people are waving their fists in a unified chorus, damning them to hell.

(and yes, it's dangerous to say things like "all," "never," "always" when writing, so take "all" with a grain of salt and dash of poetic license.)

So. And why not? To a taken person, a crush is an innocent escape from the occasional doldrums of coupled life. There is a little flirting, some smiling and light touches, but no real damage is done, and an ego is boosted along the way. The person has still got it. It's all in good fun.

For the single person...crushes are a possible portal to a relationship. It's a way to escape the gray shackles of lonely Friday nights for the sundrenched fields of picnics and tumbling, slow motion embraces into the meadow. A joking matter it is not.

So it's especially cruel to find that lines have been crossed. Both types see the crush as a ticket, but they have entirely different destinations in mind.

For that reason, I despise crushes - they encourage nothing but confusion and misunderstandings. If you like someone, go for it. Crushes are a waste of time, and a purgatory for the heart.

Thursday, August 24, 2006


BREAK THE CODE - Encyclopedia Brown style.

Being the slacker that I am, I'm just going to...meander here.

Eating at a lovely Thai place today, I dropped rice on my beautiful white linen skirt. Actually, it wasn't just rice, but also butter and whatnot, making for a yucky mess. Coincidentally (or not), I had my Tide Pen with me...and it has WORKED WONDERS!!! Happily, I now smell like tide, and the stains are almost gone.

Softball has ended, leaving us with one real win this season. A great time was had by all, and I managed to not only NOT get on base all season, but also not to catch the ball. There was one opportunity for fame last night - a grounder found its way to me, and I prepared to field it. Unfortunately, I misjudged, and the ball attacked my thigh with gusto and an ugly whacking sound. Reeling, I turned to see where the ball had bounced to, and one of my teammates/coworkers threw it in. Despite my lack of talent, I'm really glad I played - it was an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone, and into the strike zone. Also, it was a great opportunity to get to know my coworkers on a non-office level. Yeah - if someone asked me to, I would most definitely play again.

So, that's that. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO E!!! Her birthday is Friday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my older brother! His birthday is Sunday.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006



Admittedly, this news broke last week, but I didn't have time to get on it.

Alright. Here are the links. A group of teenage boys in Ohio took a deer decoy and placed it in the middle of a road for laughs. A car came down the road (as cars are wont to do), and the driver swerved. He broke multiple key bones, his passenger suffered brain damage. BRAIN DAMAGE!!!

Two of the boys were sentenced to community service, house arrest, and writing an essay "Why I Should Think Before I Act." The kicker is, lame as this punishment is, it does not set in until...After Football Season.

I'm including both CNN and Fox links. The CNN one is overly confusing, I think because they were avoiding using the names (juveniles and whatnot).



This is just so wrong. So many things wrong with it, my fingers are all spastic and I can't even process this.

First off, is the judge auditioning for the role of Pilate in the next Passion?! Sure seems like it!! He says, "I shouldn't be doing this, but I'm going to." This fits PERFECTLY with my recent (unblogged on) thoughts on weakness of character. If he shouldn't be doing it, THEN WHY THE HELL IS HE!?!?!?

Secondly, he finishes that inane sentence with "I see positive things about participating in football."

Sure, there are positive things. None of the articles say if the boys have been on the team, and if so, for how long, but I'm thinking they're rising juniors and seniors. And if so, they've probably been playing their entire high school career. And IF SO, being on that team has obviously not helped them one iota.

Know what's also positive? BEING PUNISHED FOR YOUR ACTIONS. Learning that there are ramifications!! Know what else would keep them out of trouble? BEING WORKED TO THE BONE.

And you might be thinking "Oh meghan, you don't understand. Sports build character, encourage responsibility, enforce discipline. This will be good for the little deviants." Yeah, I know. I played volleyball in high school, several hours a day after school, every day. It was fantastic.

But with that said, if I ever did something foolhardy and dangerous and SOCIALLY IRRESPONSIBLE, I would know that going to volleyball was the least of my problems, and that taking part in a sport is a privilege.

I'm saving the best/worst for last.

Did the mom of one of the troublemakers actually say this??

The mother of the oldest boy, Valerie Berry of Ashland, Kentucky, said her son has a strong support system and will be able to move on.

"With this stunt he was a child," she said. "He's an adult now."

What? I thought, no. This must be from the mom of one of the victims. I checked the sources, and no. It's the mom of one of the deer decoy ruffians.

IF I EVER did anything like that, you can bet my mom wouldn't be spouting off platitudes like "She's an adult now." She'd be telling the world that I'm under house arrest, off the volleyball team, doing 25 hours a week at a homeless shelter, and she took away my license, all vacations, all fun and light from my life.

Does she not realize that her son's actions led to someone having brain damage, and that was a lucky outcome?! Those two guys in the car could have died. She makes me feel ill.

Ridiculous. I don't know what disturbs me more. The horrible parents (the mom, the stupid dad saying that his son has owned up to the consequences, defending his actions), or the judge. I think when it comes down to it, the judge frightens the crap out of me. Talk about a sinister character from a movie...he's supposed to be for justice, a shining example for the town, and he makes this poor decision that makes a mockery out of civil obedience and propriety.

And yeah, they're young. It was a stupid mistake, and they probably did not think of what would happen if a car did come along. One could argue that it was premeditated, since they had to prop the deer up, but I'll be nice and chalk it to a momentary lapse of judgment. But it's so important to actually learn from your mistakes, and in a big way. There needs to be a guarantee that these stupid high schoolers learn that there are some lines in life that you just do not cross. Ever.

If anyone, anyone at all disagrees with me...please. Tell me. Because, for the life of me, I cannot see the logic in any of this.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006


In which I talk about me (again)

(BTW, how can I trust a spellcheck on a blog that doesn't know the word "blogging"?)

Usually when I'm at a blogging standstill, it's because there's something that's blocking everything else...and I can't write about anything else until I get that certain something off my chest.

Well, I'm not really sure if there's any of that on my mind right now. Unfortunately, because blogging my heart out is generally a cathartic process.

Well, actually, I have been thinking that blogging is sort of my way to figure me out. Accept who I am. Know that even if I'd like to be something else, sometimes, you just can't sand against the grain.

For example, I'd love to be this super cool world traveler. Spend a year here, a year there, meet cool people in India, live next to the pyramids in Egypt, boat on the Amazon for six months or so. It would be great to do these things, but the truth is, I'm such a homebody. As anyone who has heard me sigh wistfully knows, I miss the fam. I love my brothers, parents, cousins, etc. And living away from them for an extended length of time is a recipe for heartache.

That totally makes me feel like a loser.

Or, it did, until this weekend. I thought about it, and realized that that's the way I am, and there's no reason to be apologetic or ashamed about it. Hoping to be another way would be to sand against the grain of my being. May as well accept it, throw in the towel, and gleefully make the flight plans for the big Halloween party (we're going as characters from Lost).

And, I just decided that I'm going to have to be a world famous writer, so I can jet off during the summers to do the traveling that's got my head in the clouds. There's no way in hell that I'll be able to hold down a real job and simultaneously satisfy the bug in me.

So. New ideal plan. Make my mom's dream come true, and "meet a nice boy in Massachusetts." (Some people want their kids to marry within their race, religion, etc. My mom wants me to marry someone within 20 miles of home.) He has some super amazing job that allows him to travel at his wife's whim. Every summer (or autumn, winter, spring, whatever), we'll jet off to some fantastic location, do a home swap, or something, and stay there for a couple of months.


(and no, I know I don't need a man to travel or be successful, or some ridiculous notion like that. I'm just into planning. Really. Far. In. Advance.)

Sunday, August 20, 2006


quote from Persuasion

"Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished,—but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped."

Sometimes...I think that Jane Austen and I would have gotten along very well. Unless, like an actor, she just played a part, and didn't feel what she wrote. But is it possible for authors to refrain from putting a bit of themselves in their works?

Friday, August 18, 2006



I'm so bad at keeping quiet about things / playing my cards close to my vest / lying.

This isn't to say "oh, I'm so virtuous, I can't tell a lie." It's to say that I'm absolutely stupid sometimes, and feel the need to disclose things that make me look bad, even when the information is not asked after.

Why? WHY?

An example of this: last week I was talking to my mom on the phone, and I told her that I rode in the back of my friend's SUV on the way back from the softball game. This worried her, she was all quiet and mad, she told my dad, he emailed me, I emailed them back, apologizing for my lapse in judgment.

I KNEW my mom would not be too keen on her baby riding without a seatbelt. But I felt the overwhelming need to tell her the story anyhow.

And this is just one example of many.

Thursday, August 17, 2006



One thing that actually bummed me out about moving from D.C. to new place was leaving my Express guy. He would park himself right next to the escalator, and he would say stuff like "looking good!" and "good morning beautiful."

Flattery butters me right up, and it was a nice shot of self esteem, especially when I was feeling less than splendid. So it was with a bit of sadness that I made my last Metro trip from that stop, knowing that I was getting a "good morning beautiful" for like...the last time.

But my new Express guy - he's even better than the last. After about three days of me refusing the paper (it gets my hands inky and icky), he knew that I was just down for conversation. Little snippets of conversation, each day. Ranging from "How are ya?" to "Hey, have a GREAT weekend" and even the rare "oh! I like your dress!" A total pleasure.

There's this line from "Life is Good" by LFO. It is: "A man named Patrick gives me directions, and he smiles as if he cares."

I've always loved that line - because it's so true. You can tell when someone smiles, if they care. Even if they don't know you. My Express guy, he smiles as if he cares.

Well, that is, until this week. He's been gone. And in his place...a yellow, cold, unfeeling rack.

And I know it's lame to count on some random guy for conversation, and for feeling like someone cares, but the sad truth is that he was often the first person I saw in the mornings. I actually looked forward to saying hello. It was nice.


Just wanted to say...

That I love work.

I'm sitting here, eating candy, blasting "Lovin' Each Day" by Ronan Keating, and doing my thing.

I work with the friendliest, nicest, smartest people. In the coolest building. In a great part of town.

When in college, I never dreamed that I would enjoy coming to work so much. But oh, how so!

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


The Sizist (Sizeist?) World

I went to a new doctor a couple of years ago. I stood on the scale. The nurse weighed me. And she looked me up and down, and said "Oh! You don't look like you weigh that much!"

There's a friend of mine who is my height, and about my build, but slightly more slender, and I had always looked at her, and thought "I wish I was her size!" One day I thought she was wearing a really cute outfit, and she thought I was wearing a cute one, and we somehow ending up confessing that we were envious of the other. We hesitantly revealed our sizes. We wore the same one.

It makes me extremely uncomfortable when people make fun of, or criticize, fat people. I don't care how heavy someone is, it doesn't give one the right to belittle them. Even if they have a crappy diet and don't exercise, it's not your business. Because, chances are, if they are fat, they are unhappy, and are dealing with their own problems. They don't need your demons piled on top of theirs.

And this world is so strange. Some days I look in the mirror, and I just feel so...gross. So out of shape, so unattractive, so unlike a desirable human.

And other times, I look in the mirror, and I get mad. HOW dare this world consider me fat? Or overweight? Because to the world, and according to the tag on my clothes, I am. And I get these excuses from my friends - oh, it's just because you're tall - but it doesn't matter. (and I do not want any comments from people saying that I'm not fat. That is not the point of this.)

What am I? A 14. There, I said it - I took a page from my Levi-wearers' book. And maybe that will take away some of the power of the tag.

This body may be a 14. But my size-14 body walks me 20 minutes in the morning, and 20 minutes in the evening. It takes me across the pool under water, down 12 feet, across the bottom, and back. It carries groceries, mattresses, desks, sofas, books, boxes. So why am I so ashamed? So frightened to type this paragraph? What type of world do we live in, that's so full of conditional love that's based on how well you hide what you are?

And as Mel said, it's possible to be a skinny fat person, or, to take it one step further, a healthy fat person. Some people are naturally stocky, such as a couple in my apartment complex. Looking at them, you wouldn't think they're anything special. But I've seen them working out hardcore many a time.

We should banish the terms "fat" and "skinny" and exchange them for "healthy" and "unhealthy."

"Fat" has so many societal veils wrapped around it, it's so hard to tell what's really fat, and what's a mirage. But healthy? It makes for a clear case.

Am I fat? Depends on which society you ask.

Am I healthy? The numbers will be the same, whatever way you cut it.

Monday, August 14, 2006


how curious

Last night at church I was reminded of a particular's Levi's jeans.

One person was wearing them right in front of me. Another walked by on his way to communion. And then another. And then another, on crutches.

Mostly it's guys around my Dad's "generation" that sport them - the jeans that have THE SIZE printed on the leather tag near the belt loops.

It's just so funny. Many women go to so much effort to avoid having their size known...and these guys don't give a fig. They don't care so much that they probably don't even know the size is printed on the back. It's refreshing. I applaud those men, free from the heavy chains of sizist attitudes.

Keep an eye out. If you haven't noticed them, you will. Especially with the onslaught of autumn...Levi's are standard wear on the weekends.

(oh, Fall!!! <3 sweaters! crisp nights! boots! leaves!!)

Sunday, August 13, 2006


Happy International Lefthanders Day!

As of today...I've had Mjr. Tom for a year!! It's a new record for me. I hope we have many more wonderful years together.

And as such, it's fitting that he almost suffered violently on Friday night.

I got back from the National's game sorta late, feeling worn out by the last straw of the commute. I made my way to my room, which had steadily grown messier the closer we got to Friday, and I looked at the good ole' fish. And the water was, um, a bit murky, and I couldn't really see him. And by that, I mean "I couldn't see him at all and I thought he had jumped out of the bowl." Remembering my little promise (made to myself) that I'd clean his water, I embarked on the task, my mind distracted and thinking of the blissful sleep that was to come after I completed the chore.

So, I do the usual. Bring Mjr. Tom into my bathroom, transfer him to a glass. Empty the bowl, grab a paper towel to wipe off the inside. It may be belated, but I do a thorough job, afterall.

Annnnnnnnd I dropped the damn bowl on the corner of my sink.

The bottom smashed, little pieces of glass dropped everywhere.

I cursed. The stupid bowl. I'm such a butterfingers.

Mjr. Tom seemed unperturbed. I mean, he's a fish. I ran into the kitchen, bemoaning the sudden turn of events to E, who was trying to cram for her GREs that she was taking in 10 hours.

I rummaged through the cabinets, and came up with a lame piece of tupperware. Keeping in mind the Golden Rule, I knew that if I were a fish, I would not want to live in a teeny tupperware bowl. Then my eyes alighted upon the huge Arizona Iced Tea jugs that E had been storing on top of the cabinet.

(Flashback to Tuesday of this week, me saying to E, " there a reason you're saving those things?" Implying: Can you THROW those away?!)

Lacking scissors, I got out a carving knife and began sawing away.

The final product...isn't that bad. And I'm thinking that I'm going to keep him in there. He's a Siamese fighting fish, so maybe he feels a connection to the Asian-inspired label. He's too chic for a plain bowl. And he seems to enjoy journeying up to the handle and then sinking down.

(Then again, what would I know about a fish enjoying something? I'm totally projecting here.)

Friday, August 11, 2006



You know how when you do someone a minor bad turn (like not return their phone call, some sort of slight) it seems as though God has cursed you, and you run into them EVERYWHERE?


There was this guy from the Times that lives in the same apartment complex as I do. We exchanged numbers. A week or so later, E and I were on the longest car ride from hell to Nissan Pavilion, so I called him, and left a message.

He never called back. Fair enough. It's cool, I'm over it.



I run into him everywhere. Not just around my apartment complex, or at the Metro, or on the path from the Metro to the apartment complex. But also in downtown DC. I always notice him...I wonder if he notices me?

After the first awkward run-in, he hasn't met my eyes. It would be so much cooler if we'd just say hello. The awkwardness would dissipate, and God would stop throwing me in his path.

(OH MY GOD. I just realized...what if he thinks I'm a stalker?!?!)


all sixes and sevens

Last night E and I went to the grocery store to buy stuff for dinner (because we're total gastronomes).

On the way out, a guy standing behind a rolly booth thing asked us if we wanted a free Post. We said, "sure!" He asked us how often we purchased a paper, and we said that we usually just read it online.

He was all "no no no, less than 10 percent of the paper is online!" and then he launched into a spiel of how if we subscribed to the Post right then, we'd get the weekday papers for free. I told him that I'd like the Sunday paper, but I wouldn't read the daily papers...and asked if we could just get that.

He said that we could, for $15.75.

While he was talking, I was observing. His face tan, his body a bit square, his tie (seen better days) decorated with images of the Washington Post. He was wearing one of those gold and silver bracelets that supposedly does something with magnetic fields, I think. Left-handed.

Remembering fondly (or not) my yucky days as a Circulation Intern at the paper at home, I asked him if he was a Circulation Manager at the Post. He said no, prevaricating, and changed the subject.

Wondering if perhaps he was just some crazy who bought a Washington Post tie and some legit looking receipts, I decided to pay cash, as opposed to credit card. Because you just never know.

Attempting to butter us up, he asked us if we were White House Interns, and then switched tactics and asked if we were lawyers. He asked us which free paper we wanted, because he had ones from last week. We said we'd take Thursday's, and he said that Friday's paper (from last week) had a great entertainment section. So we were like "okay..."

He ducks down behind his rolly booth, and pulled out a Friday's paper. He went searching through it for the aforementioned section, and whipped it out, opening it up. He said,

"Oh, I know a place that you'll love!"

And he kept saying that.

The nasty in me reared her head, and I resisted snootily saying "Um, you don't know what we'd love."

Curious as to what this place would be - if he would REALLY know what we'd love - we played along. He opened up the page to a 9:30 Club ad. Next to that was an ad for the Birchmere, and started talking about that, and how he's been there loads of times, back when he used to work for the Dixie Chicks.

E perked up at that (he had lost me at his "I KNOW what YOU'D LOVE!"), and, sensing her interest, he picked up his dusty satchel, and pulled out a photo that he carries around in its case.

Conspiratorially opening it, he revealed a picture of him, his ex-girlfriend, and two of the Chicks...his "best friends."

We escaped soon thereafter, marveling. E was wondering how a Dixie Chicks tour guy ended up at the local grocery, hawking posts. I was wondering if he had made it all up.

The point of all this is...I hate it when people make assumptions, and say stuff like "I know what you'll love!" when they don't know me. I know it's well-intended, but it rubs me the wrong way. I mean, I don't mind it if someone like... say... TONY... said it, because he knows me. Or even if an acquaintance did. It's totally cool.

And, well, I wouldn't mind if the Post man had phrased it as "oh, there's this place that's really great, I bet you'd love it." It's just the surety in his actions that irked me.

The guy on the Metro raised the same emotions in me. He said "don't worry" - I wasn't worrying. I didn't mind the homeless lady. It annoyed me that he thought I was worrying, that we were allies, when I thought he was a jerk.

And G. A month or so ago, when he was telling me that I'm such a great person, after knowing me for two hours. How the heck would he know?

And someone I haven't blogged about, this obnoxious photo guy who called, gave me crap in a joking manner, then said he was "just messing."

I think it all comes down to people who I don't know being too familiar. There's friendly - I'm all for chatting with random peeps - but I would never presume to think that I know them.

Thursday, August 10, 2006


sense of humor

This morning on the ride in, I was sitting next to this nice older guy. An elderly homeless woman got on the train, parked her stuff right in the door, then started playing the harmonica.

I shifted uncomfortably. She stopped, and was talking about how she started playing the piano at the age of 12, but she just took up the harmonica.

The nice older guy, before he got off, gave the woman a dollar. She took this as an opportunity to talk to him, and he uncomfortably sat back down for a moment, trying to disengage from the situation.

You know that thing in sociology, when they say that when one person does a good deed or follows the law, other people are more inclined to do so? Up to that point I had been batting around in my head whether or not I should give her money (fors: she's homeless. She needs money. Against: I'm doing a charity thing this weekend, and giving $15 then.) Just when I decided to give a buck, I remembered that it was a moot point, since I didn't have more than a couple of pennies rattling around in my wallet.

More people got off, a good number handing her money. She smiled, her face dirty, and said that she wasn't doing it for money, she was doing it for God, but she appreciated it greatly.

As people flooded in at the stop, I moved closer to the window, experiencing that odd cracking of the thigh joint that I sometimes do. Another older man sat next to me, this one wearing a suit jacket and a bow tie.

I kept reading my magazine, because that is what one does, and he said to me, with a bit of a chuckle, "Oh, I see we have some entertainment."

I responded something along the lines of, "She just got on...she's pretty good, actually."

He then said, with another little laugh, "don't worry, she'll be off in a few stops."

That really irritated me. So I curtly responded that I thought it was quite sad, and returned to my reading.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006


It's pretty much me.

So, I was looking on corbis for pictures of refrigerators, and I found this.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006



So lately E and I have been using a specific word a helluva lot. This term is "uber."

Used in a sentence, it goes: "That girl is soooo uber." "Oh, that was SO UBER of me!"

We picked it up about a month ago, I do believe that I was the one who coined the phrase. Two days ago I was thinking about it, and I realized that we hadn't quite nailed down an exact definition. I mean, we use it for the same situations, but there's always a chance of confusion. Afterall, when I say "lunch bag" I mean those brown ones, E thinks I mean the plastic sandwich holders. I say "oil" and I mean olive oil...E pictures vegetable oil.

At any rate. So, we talked about it. And here it is.

UBER: (oo-ber)
- someone who thinks they're being unique, special, or original, but is really just being a cliche. e.g., "Ashlee said that she hates to diet, and loves to chow down on a burger and beer at a ballgame."
- someone who takes a certain trait and enlarges it to fit a stereotype; or enlarges it to make a point about him/herself that isn't necessarily a reflection of reality, in order to appear a certain way to someone else.

Basically, when someone is being're listening with a pleasant look on your face, but what you're really thinking is "Um. No one gives a crap."

Another example of "uber" is an ad in the September issue of Vanity Fair. It's a picture of a woman, perched on some rocks, facing the sun with laughter flowing out of her mouth. And the Golden Gate Bridge is in the background.

The text reads: considers shopping an art form. rides the cable cars every chance she gets. always has a mai tai in the tonga room when staying at The Fairmont San Francisco.

The tag line, at the bottom: everyone's an original.


I miss those fun little sentences that we all used to do in elementary school, middle school, and (if you were lucky) high school. So, here goes!


Frank looked deeply into her eyes, and popped the question. "Do you like camping?"
Carrie, her face registering shock and horror for a nanosecond, recovered admirably, and replied, "Oh, it's fantastic. It makes me feel whole...walking on dead pine needles, seeing drops of water in spider webs, smelling burgers on the grill."

Hesitating, E scribbled that she loves volleyball and surfing in the information form for CUA's orientation. Her mom, peering over her shoulder, protested that she's never done either. "Details!" E sang, as she sealed the envelope.

"This yogurt is...chocolate from Switzerland good," said the perky brunette in yoga clothes. "' day at Bloomingdale's good," said the beautiful black girl in yoga clothes. "'s...the yard guy cutting the grass with his shirt off good," said token chubby friend, swathed in yoga clothes.
(Note: this is also an example of that annoying breed that we call "toppers")

"I sleptwalked last night," said Meg, for the bazillionth time, during lunch.


I am just soooooo fabulous.

I always give E shit for double booking her evenings. My attitude is, if you're not planning on going to it...why say you'll be there?

Well. I've more or less accidentally quadruple-booked this evening. I have the book club, which I had planned on a couple of weeks ago. The French club, which I thought was going to be a once-in-a-while affair, is also meeting tonight.

And then, beloved Cor, who is leaving for Ethiopia sooner than not, is having a happy hour tonight. Gotta hit that up. And my mom called last night - my dad is going to be in town, so I'm meeting up with him for dinner. Yay!

So, the book club and the French club are out the window. Cor and my dad take precedence over the other crapola.

Oh, and I'm annoyingly irritable today.

I saw two coworkers in the hall, and stood by them, because I was part of a coterie that was going to Starbucks. And one mildly asked, "oh, what are you up to?" because he didn't realize I was coming...and I snapped at him "UGH! I'm going to STARBUCKS with you."

What is my problem? Luckily I realized that my reaction was not warranted, and a bit insane, so I apologized, laughing, and said that I'm irritable, apparently. He laughed, and said something along the lines of "I guess so!"

Saturday, August 05, 2006


I *love* characters

1) Last week E was driving, I was in the passenger seat. We were blaring "Fast Cars and Freedom" by Rascal Flatts, waiting for a stoplight to change. A guy, probably in his 50s, stopped in front of the car, looked at us...and started dancing, waving his hands in the air and smiling. We clapped and laughed, he boogied a bit more, then went on his way.

2) I was in the elevator today with seven bags of groceries, a random girl from my building, and a Comcast guy. It was a bit tight, since I was hogging most of the floor space. Going up to my floor, the Comcast guy revealed, "This is the best elevator ride of my life." I queried, "Because of all the groceries?"

He replied, "I have food and girls. Everything a guy needs."


We encountered a third character tonight. E and I were walking to her car, making our way in the darkness. I finish my freeze pop as a vehicle comes up behind us. I see a trash barrel a few steps away, and toss the shell of what was once a tasty treat.

As the car drives by, slowly rolling over the massive speed bumps, a head pops out the window and calls, "Good job on not littering!!"

Thursday, August 03, 2006


"she's my kind of rain"

Walking back from the work happy hour, I had one thought on my mind...getting to my apartment and chowing down on kielbasa, pineapple, and rice. It was slightly raining. Fat drops, but they were few and far between. Weary from the heat, I slouched in my tank top and skirt, and plodded along.

I crossed the CVS parking lot (so it's not CVS, but I consistently call it CVS here), passing in front of a car that was waiting to pull into the street.

The driver waved and honked, and I, well, ignored it, thinking that he was honking at someone else, since I didn't recognize the vehicle, and the windows were tinted. The honk became a bit insistent, so I looked back, and he was waving and honking at me.

I walked next to the driver's side door, the window was open. And the occupant said, "You're really pretty. Can I have your number?"

I smiled, and said "Oh! I have a boyfriend...but that's awfully sweet of you."

He said something else that I didn't hear, so I said "What?" He said it again, and I didn't hear him again. So I said, "What?" When I didn't hear it a third time, I felt like a fool, so I just smiled and said "Oh, I'm all set. Bye!" I think he may have said that we could still be friends, but I'm not sure.

It's curious how quickly that lie came to me, that I have a boyfriend. I don't know anything about the guy, but I closed the door to anything ever happening rather quickly. In the time it took me to open my mouth, a millisecond, without any thought whatsoever.

As I finished the walk back to my apartment, I wondered why this was. Well, he looked older. I also did not find him attractive. And there's something not-too-cool about giving my number to a random guy in a "CVS" parking lot.

For all of my complaining about a month ago of guys not doing enough, there have been two guys in the past two weeks willing to toss down their hearts at my door. And I've turned my head, assessed the situation, and said, "no, no thanks."

Looking back a couple of hours later, I'm in agreement with my snap decision to turn the guy down. I do admire him, though. Forgoing that Missed Connections nonsense and shooting for the moon (that would be me). It will be a shame if I perhaps contributed to the ceasing of random proposals/compliments.

But, if he wants a better rate of success, I suggest that he change his game plan. He should give girls his number, with them having the option to call him. No one wants to make herself susceptible to craziness by giving out her number to a random guy.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


Let him fly...

It seems as though these years are marked by a lot of milestones and experiences, but one that stands out in my mind is the process of saying goodbye.

No one is permanently here, all is temporary. And I don't mean that in a "we all die sometime" way - but rather, we're all young, we're trying different things, we stay in one place for a year, or two, then we move on...leaving behind traces of wonderfulness, and friends that hug you and shed a tear for you as you face the next great adventure.

This week is a double threat: two fantastic guys that I've become friends with are leaving. I met them at the old apartment...


Picture the scene. It's winter, and C-note, E, and I are about to head out for a movie. There's a knock at the door. Someone opens it. And there's this tall guy, saying that he heard from someone in the laundry room that we were the girls to know in the building. We were a bit surprised. Then he started talking politics, and that got our hackles up.

So it was a rocky start with Sidd. I ran into him periodically, and he was always just so...calm. A slow, quiet talker, a wonderful complement to my fast, erratic, spastic speaking.

He invited the three of us to his apartment for dinner one night...and we were in rare form. He must have thought we were drunk. We started off with a serenade of "Like We Never Loved At All," then got into an argument (an argument, mind you. Not a peaceable discussion) of whether or not we were well-rounded. And through it all, Sidd sat back in his chair, watching us with an indiscernible expression on his face.

We got back to our apartment, E and C-note hung out in the living room, I went to my bedroom and burst into tears. So, all in all, the dinner was not a success.

A few weeks later, he asked me if I wanted to meet up with his friends on Friday, and I begged off, saying that I was sick. It was during my month/two month long super obnoxious cold.

That Friday night, E and C-note had gone out, and I settled in for a pity party and a movie. Then there was a knock at the door. I got up, answered...and there Sidd was. I can't imagine how I looked. I was wearing pajamas, my nose was red, I had tissues fused to my hand. I may have been wearing Uggs with my yellow shorts.

And no, I wasn't the cliched "she doesn't know how she cute is when she's sick." I was a raging germ machine. And he said that he came by to see how I was feeling, if I needed anything, if he could get me some chicken soup.

That's when Sidd captured my heart. You see, he's a vegan. And he offered me chicken soup, in the hopes that it would make me feel better. That's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how thoughtful he is, how considerate he's been with me.

Dearest Sidd. Best of luck in Michigan...where it's cold, and they have polar bears as pets.


Xander, aka anon, good old anon. C-note and I met Xander one night after grocery shopping. Per our usual style (or, rather, my usual style), I had bought way too many groceries, and we were juggling a bazillion bags, a 12 pack of Pepsi, and a 12 pack of Coke.

Transferring our foodstuffs into the elevator, a guy stepped in. Seeing someone our age, we lit up. Up to this point, the only gentlemen we had met in our building had a solid 40 years on us. Knowing a plum opportunity when it presents itself, we made the most out of that 30 second elevator ride.

Parting with him in the hall (he lived at one end, we lived at the other), we promised to keep in touch and stop by sometime.

Little did Xander know, by "sometime" we meant "15 minutes later." In a fit of spontaneity, we ran down the hall and invited him and his roommate over for tacos. The fact that we had never before made tacos was just a detail.

Xander and M showed up in a half hour with some wine. And so began our weekly neighbor dinners, trading off apartments every Wednesday. The meals prepared by our apartment generally featured chicken as a staple; they flexed their cooking muscles and prepared hearty entrees such as lasagna, steak, and eggplant. And it was delicious.

During these dinners Xander was usually quiet, and let M do the talking. I could see his secret smile blooming at the stupid things we said, and he had this mischievous glint in his eyes that he never explained.

I was dying to get to know Xander.

One night, after a work happy hour, I got my chance. Tripping off the elevator, I looked down to their apartment, and saw my target, about to unlock his door. I hissed his name, and we met halfway, at the elevator door.

I forget what we talked about (well, actually, I don't, muahaha), but Xander was slightly drunk, and feeling reckless, he finally opened up to his annoying neighbor. He answered terribly nosy questions that I posed without shame, he talked. And when my phone rang, he escaped. He told me at the next neighbor dinner that he felt like he had been violated.

That was the real beginning of our friendship, I think. Since then, we've been so honest with each other, asking what we mean, and not going about things in a roundabout manner. I ask him personal things, he answers me, and asks personal things in return. It's a no bullshit relationship. We know that it's okay to be vulnerable, because the other understands and won't take advantage.

Xander. Thank you. And when you're a world-famous international diplomat sort of guy - remember me.


Oh Siddharth, you who put a semi-colon in a scribbled note to me, and called me "Lovely Meg."

Oh Xander, you who bought us a sponge for our party, knowing that we are deficient in the housekeeping department. Every time I use that sponge, I think of you.

I'll miss the two of you. I'm so glad we had our times to hang out, the opportunities to get to know each other...that the arc of our lives shared the same path, if only for a season.


ch ch ch changes

Since I work for two magazines, I have two bosses. I've worked here since October. Since November, Boss L has been in Australia.

That pretty much suited me.

Boss L has resigned, and we just hired Boss M.

I have a feeling that having a boss one floor above me (and soon to be in the SAME OFFICE. AHHH!) is going to cramp my rather blogtastic lifestyle.

And she just made a joke about firing me. ha. ha. ha...

Tuesday, August 01, 2006


Lady vs. Weirdo

The sun must be hitting me harder than I thought...because I've been overcome by the urge to purchase a parasol. I've always laughed at those goofballs wandering around with umbrellas in the sun - but part of me has wondered, too. Do they really alleviate the pains of the searing heat?

Carrying a parasol would be counter-productive, seeing as how I look forward to the summer, since it makes my sickly pale skin a little less ghastly. But there are ways around that - such as a trip to the beach. Or bronzer. Or something.

If I'm going to do this (and I probably won't), I'm going to do it in style. Luckily there is a website for delicate fashionistas such as myself.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?