Friday, December 30, 2005

The Things We Do for Free Drinks

And this post is dedicated to Laurie, because it ties in so neatly with her last post:

I was bad last night.
I admit it.
I didn’t even have the intentions of being bad.
I didn’t even dress for being bad!!
Which made it worse, because now in all the pictures of me being bad . . . I look like I should be raking my yard.

Well, that’s not entirely true.
Southern Belles do not exit the house without proper attire and makeup.
But it was, like, standard grocery shopping clothes.
Not going out clothes.

Slinky black slit neck top.
Perfect fit, boot cut jeans.
Black leather, pointy heeled boots.
Silver dangling earrings.

Nothing else.
No jacket or cute little accessories.
Just black top, jeans, boots.
Woo hoo, boys hang on to your hats.

I pick Matt and Crystal up and we head to the bar.
We’re supposed to meet Becca there with others before she leaves to go back home to North Carolina.
However, per usual, there’s a hiccup.
Becca’s “other” friends don’t want to go where we want to go.
They want to go (no offense, because I love these places, too, but NOT last night) to the cute little yuppie bars and have hotties in suits hit on them.
Normally, I’m down.
Last night, I was exhausted from a week with family, moving of furniture, drama from friends and in need of low keyedness.
Screw ‘em.
Matt, Crystal and I decide we’re going where we want.
They show up - they show up.
They don’t - who cares.

The bar (how scary is this - but fun at the same time) is in a bowling alley.
This allows us to cover all our bases:

Bowling lanes - in case we feel athletic.
TV’s - so we can watch our college football games.
Great music - need I explain?
Pool tables - so I can humiliate myself.
Foosball (sp??) tables - so I can watch Matt humiliate himself.
Snack bar that serves ACTUALLY really damn good food - so we can get our eat on.
Karaoke - in case we get REALLY drunk and imagine ourselves to be William Hung.
And most importantly - THE BAR!!!

We are the ONLY people in the bar area.
Everyone else is bowling.
This only makes things better.
I make fast friends with the handsome, older man bartender.
A - because he hates OU as much as I do.
B - because he’s a cutie.
C - because making friends with the bartender is ALWAYS a good idea.

We are already having a hell of a good time when in walks another bar/bowling alley employee.
Meet Victor.
Handsome enough guy.
Little tipsy.
This bothers NONE of the other employees.
Apparently drinking on the job is encouraged.
Plus - he’s been off the clock for a while.

I should preface this.
Matt and Crystal introduced me to others in college with the following:
“This is our friend, Meghan. She will offend you.”
Uh huh. That’s me. It’s okay, I embrace it.
I got this tag line because I don’t back down.
I don’t filter my thoughts before they trickle out of my mouth.
No topics are off limits.
And that makes other people uncomfortable.

Victor announces after mere seconds that he’s a nymphomaniac.
But that it’s okay because his girlfriend is, too, and therefore MOST of the time, his problem is handled.
We don’t know why he announces this.
But this launches a pretty tipsy Matt into a conversation about “sex furniture” that he discovered on the internet while at work the other day.
And Victor, of course, suddenly becomes our long lost best friend who is completely in-the-know about sex furniture.

Victor says something about not wanting to offend the ladies, nor wishing to make them blush.
Crystal shoots a bit of her Sex-On-the-Beach through her nose and then states through laughter:
“Very doubtful that you can get me to blush and I assure you Meg will never blush. She’s immune to offense.”

Bad idea.
Victor takes this as a challenge.

He then, in great detail, begins to tell us what a burden it is to be “blessed” in the genitalia region.
He describes his length.
I, God save me and teach me to back down and NOT feel challenged when someone is challenging me, inform him that all the length in the world won’t help a man who has no girth.
Victor slams a coke can down on the bar and looks at me meaningfully.
“Nu uh. It’s getting deep in here, someone fetch me some waders.”
Victor starts to undo his belt.
I scream.
Danny - the older man bartender - grabs his hand, looks at me and says: “He will show you. Look over there, notice a bar table is missing? Ask Victor what happened.”

Victor apparently had another doubting Thomas.
The owner’s female friend.
So he picked her up, plunked her on a bar table, and began to . . . mimic the act of sex.
I’m not believing it - but Danny and two of the kitchen girls assure me it’s true.
Matt is impressed.
Crystal is wondering.
I am a-feared.
Because Victor is showing a bit too much interest in me.

Brad and Scott show up.
Thank God.
Brad is gay - but for some reason is so touchy, feely on me that most people think we’re a couple.
But Victor is sharp.
“Meg, come back here behind the bar with me for a minute.”
I don’t know why I do it, but I do.
Yes, I know why.
Make friends with the employees.
Go behind the bar.
You’re practically GAU-REN-TEED free drinks.

Turns out the owner of the bar/bowling alley is gay.
And single.
And Brad’s just his type.
We dial up the owner.
Oh yes, folks, we did.
He shows up minutes later.

However, before he arrives. . . .
I inadvertently challenge Victor’s manhood again.
I still don’t know what I said.
But I was assured by both Brad and Matt that I did challenge him.
The next thing I know, I have been lifted off the barstool and am being bounced like a baby on Victor’s waist!
I’m screaming at him to put me down.
Matt and Scott are taking pictures.
Bar patrons (yes, the bar started to fill up - hilarity brings people in) are encouraging him.
I’m still screaming.
He finally sits me down ON TOP of the bar.
Then takes my hand and runs it . . . holy buddha. God save me, I blushed eight shades of red, snatched my hand back as quickly as possible and then very quietly exclaimed in a high voice to those around me that Victor is not a liar.
Danny - the bartender and Sean - the owner, pull me over to the other side of the bar and give me free drinks to calm my frayed nerves.
Remind me to be molested, shocked and appalled more often.
I like free drinks.

Before we even know what has happened . . . it’s well past closing time.
Everyone, save our group - which has rapidly expanded to 5 ladies, 12 men and then tack on the bar staff and the owner - has left.
Sean is serenading us on the karaoke machine.
I’m still drinking free drinks.
I’m dancing with the other bartender - Andy.
Victor has gone home to his girlfriend - who text mails me later to THANK ME for arousing him so much that she had the best sex of her life . . .. . . ummm . . . several questions:

How the bejeezus did he get my cell number? - answer: I left it at the bar on one of my trips to the bathroom, he called his phone and stored my number (all relayed to me by Sean - the owner)

What kind of relationship do they have that his live-in girlfriend of 5 years text mails me to THANK ME for arousing him? - answer: I thought it was a hoax, I thought it was him text mailing, so I called the number. She answered and thanked me in person. Umm, a very freaky relationship.

What did I do to arouse this man? - answer: Be me, of course. But on a serious note, I have NO idea what the hell that boy was jonesing over.

Anyway, the moral of this whole convoluted, makes no sense, whatthehellwasthispost post is:

Be yourself.
Let boys touch you SEMI-inappropriately. But NOTHING that you wouldn’t tell your mother about. That is not allowed. Back rubs and shoulder rubs and the occasional ass slap are okay - and that is all I allowed. I assure you.
Make friends with the staff.
Especially the owner.
And before you know it - you have the run of the joint.
And free drinks.
And free passes to bowl whenever.
And a bevy of new friends.
Even if they are a bit . . . umm . . . yeah.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

A Christmas Story Sans a Pink Nightmare But with a Fish

Hi kids!!
Didja miss me?
I missed the hell outta you guys.
Which is odd, but we’ll save that for a different post.
I promise to catch up to all your blogs, as best I can, as soon as possible.
But I'm still flooded with family here . . and having a blast, but it leaves very little time for internetting about.

So, I’ve received both emails and comments clamoring for fun Christmas stories . . . and I’m torn on what to post.

On the one hand, the one about my father is HILarious, but it is entirely possible that it’s only THAT funny because I was there and he’s my dad and you had to see his face.

On the other hand is ANOTHER story about how my family is pressuring me to get married. Hmm, works for now:

Christmas evening.
Less than all the family, thank God, is gathered at my aunt’s house.
We have a MINUSCULE 32 people at the house for Christmas.
That is truly tiny. At last count, my dad’s side of the family has 71 people. Actually, more than that if you count . . . never mind. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Welcome to the South.

My grandmother hugs my neck as we are about to leave and then immediately starts in:

“Meghan Louise, you do realize that you are the last granddaughter I have who is not married? Hell, Meg, my great-granddaughters are married. Why do you keep playin hard to get? When are you gonna let one of those young men catch you?”

By this time, I have had IT. I am UP TO HERE with being told to get married, procreate, build a fence, buy a dog and live that American Dream. For the love of Buddha people!!! I am 25, not 45!!! I have plenty of time. And unfortunately I take the past 4 hours of being told to do these things out on my poor Mamaw:

“Mamaw, I am NOT a Rainbow Trout! I am a woman! With her own business, a house, a nice vehicle, a future! I am not something that needs to be dragged out of the river by a big ole burly man! But . . . if it’s that much of a concern to you, tell ya what, start looking for me a big ole burly man. And if you find the one with the biggest pole, I’ll let him reel me out of the water on his hook! Does that work for everyone?” (notice the double entendre there . . . big pole . . . ha ha ha, right? - possibly completely inappropriate for my 80 yr old grandmother)

By the end of my little tirade, I’m screaming. I don’t mean for this to happen, but for Pete’s sake, the whole damn family had been hammering at me for the last 4 hours! And it’s not like I enjoy watching my younger cousins with their spouses and babies. Yes, admittedly, sometimes when I’m around all of them, I feel like a failure and I get on the defensive. What is wrong with me that I haven’t wanted to settle down yet?? But most of the time, MOST of the time, I feel perfectly happy and justified in the life I have. Every once in a while though, I have to take out my anger at being jealous and being nailed to the wall by 30 family members about my marital status out on someone.

But, this story is not over.

10 minutes later, my shit wit cousin’s friend (who knows why he was at our Christmas gathering, but we loved having him - - he’s a hoot) comes strolling up the sidewalk with a Rod and Reel. Apparently he had gotten one for Christmas and it was out in his truck.

“Meg, this a big enough pole for ya?”
“Oh bite me.”

The End.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Gosh Durnit!

I want to be all bah humbug.
I've been all bah humbug for the last month leading up to Christmas.
But for whatever reason: maybe Bone's letter to Santa, maybe the prospect of being around my brudder non-stop for the next few days, maybe the New Years celebration currently in the planning, maybe the Chris-A-Mus party we had last night, whatever . . I'm actually HAPPY about Christmas.

This is virtually impossible.
I'm hung over.
Got home around 4 AM (don't believe me, check some of your comments!) and got up at 7:30 and have spent the morning cleaning and packing - these are NOT a few of my favorite things (neither are whiskers on kittens, furry little rodent bags).

But I am. I'm excited.
I can't wait to see my brother's face when he opens his present.
I can't wait to see mom smack dad for spending too much money, then bitch me out for it, too after she opens her present.
I can't wait for dad to wonder why his present fund was cut in half.

I'm dying to see my mammaw, papaw and CRAZY aunts and uncles (and there are 16 of them JUST on dad's side). I am dying to fill my cousins with sugar and caffeine and then send them home with their parents. I just . . . it's Christmas.

SO . . . PLEASE everyone have a fantabulous Christmas! I know some of you are far from home and don't get the luxuries of family and friends . . . my heart goes out to you and my prayers and thoughts are with you. Be safe, try and be happy and know that we appreciate and care for you more than we could ever express!

The rest of you bitches, be safe in your travels (wherever they may be), don't strangle your relatives - no matter the provocation, and eat sugars, sweets and holiday stuffs until you burst!

I'm so grateful to have been blessed with all you of in my life!
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(I may or may not be checking in periodically. It depends if my family drives me effing batty enough to put up with DIAL-UP - the horror!!!!!!!)

Thursday, December 22, 2005

A Humorous Illustration

for Steph, who expressed desire in seeing the greatness of my wonderful brother outside of a sad situation.

One random weekend, my brother and I both made the trek home to visit our parents.
His girlfriend at the time (they had been together almost 4 years) was also traveling home, which means she would spend 25% of her time at her house and 75% at our parents house.
It should be noted that all of our friends always want to be at our house.
There are a variety of reasons for this, but the main ones are these:

1 - My daddy - he's friggin hilarious. He will crack your shit up in a New York minute and you won't even be able to explain why it's funny. He just is.
2 - My momma - she's the dryest wit you will ever meet. Her sarcasm and humor have been my mainstay and characteristics I have idolized for years. Also, that sarcasm is almost always directed at my father or his antics. Which just makes what he does 10 times funnier.
3 - My brother - a disaster on two feet. Much like myself, something is ALWAYS happening to and around that boy. Yet, VERY RARELY does ANYTHING get him down. He's always upbeat, happy, cracking jokes.

My brother's girlfriend, we'll call her Carmen, was a delightful girl who I tried desperately to like, and I succeeded most times. However, she was quite horrid to him early on in their relationship (cheating on him with her ex, keeping her ex in her life to a point of distraction, hurting my brother incessantly) and it was very tough for me to get over that. For the first year of their relationship, when I was home, if she called and I answered I would yell to my brother "The bitch is on the phone." - I know, I'm a wench, I admit it. But I hated her for a long while. You can't hurt my brother and get away with it, only I can do that. It's kind of the "I can kick my dog, but you can't kick my dog" mentality.

Carmen, however, did have a drastic downfall. One which is not excused in my house, because you can not survive if you don't have wit. She wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box. Things would fly completely over her head. It was quite sad, really. We had far too much fun at her expense without her even realizing it. And now, the illustration:

Carmen, Ty, momma, daddy and myself were sitting on the sun porch in the front yard. Daddy and Ty were having some insipid conversation about the squirrels jumping back and forth between the trees over our head.

Completely out of left field . . .

Carmen: I bought this new deoderant. It's got this stripe in it. It's called a power stripe. It really works.

My brother: Where IN THE HELL did that come from?? (obviously referring to the
RANDOM bit of information)

Carmen: (without skipping a beat or batting an eyelash, in completely serious tones) Wal-Mart.

My brother: Oh Holy Hell.

My mom and I are laughing so hard that tears are streaming down our faces. Daddy's trying not to laugh quite as hard, but his success rate is lacking. My brother spends 3 minutes listening to us laugh, rolling his eyes at Carmen and then jumps to her defense:

My brother: Enough. It wasn't that damn funny.

Me: Oh yes, sir E. Bob, it sure as hell was.

My brother: Seriously. You're making her feel bad. Stop it.

I look over and poor Carmen can't decide whether to cry or run off.
And for whatever reason, perhaps I have a cruel personality, this makes me laugh harder.

My brother: I'm going to smack you. I mean it.

Momma: She can't help it! It was funny. We're not laughing AT Carmen, just at the situation.

Carmen: It's okay. I know I said something stupid.

My brother: No, you didn't baby. You just didn't understand the question. They're just mean. Come on, let's go to Baskin Robbins, I'll buy you an ice cream.

Yes, he really did say that.
Scary, it was like living in the fifties.
Mom, dad and I exchanged dumbfounded looks and said all the following questions without words:

Did he just take up for her instead of laughing with us?
When did he achieve that level of maturity?
If they bear children, will they (please God) take after our side of the family?
Is he really taking her for ice cream?
How old school is that?
Think they'd get some for us?

I have a good brother.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

As Promised

A story about how perfect and dear my brother is:

My parents wanted to tell him when we were all together.
I didn’t like that idea.
I know how he reacts.
He’s a tough guy, so if something hurts him or worries him, he reacts like my mom.
Instead of crying or just being depressed, he gets mad.
Sometimes he yells, sometimes he hits things.
But I didn’t want him to be angry in front of my parents.
They were going through too much already.

I told mom to let me handle it.
It was my news, I should tell him.
We were always close, even when we hated each other, it’s a sibling thing.
He was still very young, only 14 or 15, but mature for his age.
I knew he could handle it.
But I needed to tell him.
Just me.
Just him.

“Let’s go somewhere. I can’t sit in this house anymore. You up for a drive?”
“Sure. Where we going?”
“Who cares, let’s just drive.”
He has always been a lot like me.
Both of us are more comfortable in a vehicle.
Just the thought that if you needed to get away, you could.

We drove for miles, singing along with the radio, dancing around, making jokes.
But then it was time.
I turned the radio off.
That was never a good sign.
He knew, if the music stopped, something was wrong.
We always had music.

“What’s wrong?”
“Sweetie, I just . . . we heard from the doctor. I have to have surgery next month. It’s nothing to worry about, everything will be fine, but I just wanted to tell you.”
He didn’t react like I thought he would.
He was really quiet for a minute.
And then I saw tears sliding down his cheek.
His voice was very clear.
“It’s not right. It’s not fair. You’re the smart one. You’re the one that’s going to do things and change people’s lives. Not me. It should be me. I should be the one that’s sick. Not you. It’s not fair.”
I started bawling like a 2-yr old and pulled over.
I reached for him to hug him, but he pulled away.
He was different from my family in that aspect.
We’re all very touchy, affectionate people.
He’s not. It’s not that he doesn’t love you or doesn’t want physical contact, it’s just that he thinks hugging and kissing and such is a sign of weakness.

“That’s not true! You are smart! You are going to do all kinds of things! I would NEVER wish for you to be sick. It’s all going to be okay! You will see. It will work out!”
“I’m not like you. I wish I was. I want to be. I wish for it every night. Things are so easy for you. You’re going to be able to do so much. I should be sick.”
“DON’T SAY THAT AGAIN!!! The last thing I would EVER want would be for you to be sick! Sweetie, you are just as smart as me, you are just as gifted, you will change the world, I know it. It’s just that your gifts are different. You do things I could only dream of doing. DON’T tempt fate by wishing you were sick instead of me! Things are going to be fine . . . I have good doctors and you and mom and dad. We’ll be fine. It will all work out.”
“I just . . . it shouldn’t be happening to you.”
“You’re right, it shouldn’t happen to anyone . . . but it is, and better me than other people. I’ve got so much, this isn’t going to hold me back. Bubba, we’ll be fine. I promise. Nothing’s going to change. I’m not leaving you.”

I still cry every time I think of that day.
We got home that night and he just went in his room and shut the door.
He deals with pain and fear like I do.
He cranked Metallica’s black album for about an hour.
Then switched to Emerson, Lake and Palmer.
My parents wanted to go talk to him, I told them to leave him be.

When he came out, it was like nothing had happened.
He had grieved and things were fine.
I didn’t realize he was still hurting until I woke up the next morning.
He had climbed in bed with me during the night.
I wrapped my arms around him and just held him.
When I felt him wake, I closed my eyes and let him sneak out . . .
I still don’t know if he has any idea that I knew he needed me.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Speaking of Craziness

I totally forgot about this incident until a few minutes ago.
And you can call me a liar . . but my momma was there and she'll back me up.
And Robin got to hear the tale from both of us (because she was living with me at the time) and she'll back me up.

I guess it was the SEVEN HELLISH HOURS spent Christmas shopping with my brother (the highlight of the day - I love my brudder) that brought the memory to light.

Park Plaza Mall in Little Rock.
My mother and I are shopping, maybe for Christmas, maybe just for something to do, who remembers.

Anyway . . .
We're going down the escalator to the second floor to go to Victoria's Secret.
There's a young girl in front of us.
And by young- and trust me,I can judge age in kids - I mean 12-14 yr age range.
Definitely not much younger, possibly a year older.
And you will understand the need for this disclaimer shortly:
No, she was not mentally handicapped, at least not in any way that is recognizable to an outsider - particularly one with medical training in disorders, such as myself.

She suddenly turns sideways on the escalator, her feet straddling two separate steps, crouchs down and starts to PEE through her pants.
She's URINATING on the escalator!!!!!

I, as you can imagine, am NOT known for my subtlety.
I start smacking mom in the arm shrieking "SHE'S PEEING, MOMMA! She's peeing ON THE ESCALATOR!"
Mom's smacking me back and saying "I KNOW! HUSH!"
Shrieking slightly quieter, I answer "BUT SHE'S PEEING ON THE ESCALATOR!!!"

What's worse is that the side of the escalator is a clear stationary glass wall, and she's crouched sideways, and appearantly rubbing her BOOTAY against the wall as she's peeing her way down the escalator . . and therefore leaving a wet trail on the wall . . and THATS THE SIDE I'M ON! I am TERRIFIED of getting young girl urine on my winter white pants!!!

Now, it is NOT possible that this poor girl had ANY urine left in her bladder . . it just CAN'T be! She peed FOREVER! ALL THE WAY DOWN! And yet . . .

When we reached the second floor, there was a VERY large planter at the bottom with those lovely decorative tress found in every mall. She jumped off the escalator and quickly planted her butt INTO one of the planters . . and appeared to keep peeing.

THESE are the things that happen to me!


Oh, and a side note.
Women are catty biatches.
Particularly young, very attractive women.

My brother is a hottie.
I realize this.
He's gorgeous beyond reason.
REALLY, he is, ask ANYONE who's ever met him.
It's a combination of stellar good lucks, killer sense of humor, intelligence and craziness. EVERYONE loves my brudder.
Chicks in the mall were staring me down today.
I guess they thought we were together as a couple - not as brother/sister.
I actually HEARD one girl say to another (picture Misha Barton and Rachel Bilson) "What's he doing with her??"

What am I, chopped liver?
I wanted to pimp slap her.

** Note ** I had to look up the names of those girls on The OC. My brother's ex used to TIVO it at my house and watch it. THAT really IS what these girls looked like. It was that level of (my brudder's term) Hottiness.

Monday, December 19, 2005

I Am a Horrid Person

I am a horrid, horrid person.
And here’s the proof.

As I have mentioned about a thousand-million-trillion times lately, I have been celibate for quite a while. It’s not a state in which I wish to continue. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.

So here is my befuddled thinking:
I can’t sleep with Mr. Clean, because if he IS after just sex . . .then I gave him what he wants.
(Yes, I realize this is ALL crazy.)
Besides, I don’t want to sleep with him because it will serve to deepen a relationship that I’m not even certain I want.
Enter Matt.
Some of you may remember Matt.
I posted our entire conversation one night.
Matt is the gorgeous, intelligent, articulate, football fanatic friend who I adore.
We get together and watch football, just talk, etc.
He’s the one (Adam, don’t get all worked up over this again!) who has the “weight limit” on girls he dates.
He ONLY dates women under like 135 lbs.
It’s a RULE.
Yes, he really said that to me.
Who the hell knows what’s wrong with this man.

Anyway, he tells me ALL THE TIME that, were I not medically fluffy, he would be on me like white on rice.
But since I am medically fluffy, I’m out of the running.

And it’s a big but.
Apparently I’m not too fluffy to fuck.
He has been telling me for QUITE some time that it’s unfortunate that we’re both celibate.
Particularly since we could help each other out.
Hint, hint, nudge, nudge.

So, he’s over yesterday watching football.
And I start to really think about this.
Hmm . . totally no strings.
I’m over his weight limit (thank you, medical problems) so he has no desire to have a relationship with me.
I think he’s a macho jerk, so I have no desire to have a relationship with him.
But, we are both quite celibate.
And that’s a shame.
He brings up the topic.
I tell him the truth . . . I don’t think I can go through with it. I want to go through with it. I need to go through with it! I’m afraid parts of my body are ATROPHYING!! But, I don’t think I can. I never have.
So he has a bright idea - start drinking.
It will lower your inhibitions.
You’ll be able to do what you think you can’t.

So, Meghan, being insane with celibacy thinks: “Good damn idea.”
Yeah, there’s something wrong with me, we will deal with it later.
So Matt goes to run an errand and I start drinking.
And continue to drink.
And drink.
And drink.
And drink.

And I call Beachgirl.
And she assures me that it is a fabulous idea (honey, were you drinking too?) and that I should do it.
She also confirms my suspicion that my Southern accent is HIGHLY accentuated when I’m intoxicated.
She also tells me to lay off the booze because I’m severely slurring my speech.
Which NEVER happens, so you can rest assured that I’m not three - more like thirty sheets to the wind.
We’re still on the phone when Matt pulls back into my driveway.

“So, are we doing this or what?”
He leads my drunk ass back to my bedroom, we fall on the bed and start in.
He’s almost completely naked . . T-shirt still on.
I’m naked from the waist up.
We’re both VERY handsy.
We’re both enjoying the moment.
He’s a great kisser.
He lays me back . . and suddenly, Meghan is not so happy.
The room is spinning.
Uh oh.

So, our very stupid heroine springs from the bed and rushes to the bathroom.
I stare at the toilet and do that prayer, you all know it, “Please God, just don’t let me throw up. Please God, just don’t let me throw up. I swear, I’ll never drink again. Just don’t let me throw up.”
And I can’t tell why I’m sick.
Is it too much alcohol?
Or am I completely disgusted at the thought that I almost had a very cheap sexual encounter with a FRIEND who won’t even date women larger than a stick figure??

Combination, I decide.

Knock at the door, “Meghan, you okay sweetie?”
“I think I was a bit overzealous in my imbibement of the alcohol. It may not be the best idea to continue what we were doing. Not unless you have some odd regurgitation fantasy.”
“Can you at least walk me out?”
“Uh huh.”

I walk him to the door, lock it, then run back to the bathroom.
I’m not sick anymore.
He’s gone and I’m not sick.
Morally induced illness???

I go to bed.
This time, alone.
I fall into a deep sleep.
Until 3 AM.
When I wake up, make myself throw up four times, brush my teeth, drink three glasses of water and 5 aspirin and make a note to call Mr. Clean.

And that’s how it was decided.
I’m not seeing Mr. Clean again.
If I really wanted something with him, I wouldn’t have been willing to sleep with Matt.
My emotions are elsewhere, and I know that. Regardless of how stupid it is.
It wouldn’t be fair to him . . . even if all he really did want was sex.
I’m also not letting Matt near me, alone, again.
Particularly with any alcohol around.

So . . . the things I learned:

1 - I’m not a casual sex girl. Even when I think I want to be, I can’t go through with it.

2 - I don’t care about Mr. Clean. If I did, that never would have occurred.

3 - I turn into Julia Sugarbaker when I drink too much. All Southern drawl and big words.

4 - Just because you’ve got a body from hell and a beautiful face, don’t think God didn’t take something away from you. Those of you who know me will understand this simple statement - TIC TAC.

5 - I’m single, again. Completely single. No present romantic interests.

6 - I’m still celibate. (Note to self: Remember to buy batteries from Sam’s Wholesale. . . Again.)

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Bush Whacked

I'm watching the Presidential Address to the Nation.
And instead of being uplifted and hopeful.
I can't stop crying.

I understand why we're there and what we're doing.
But a big part of me wants to scream "JEEZUS, we can't even take care of ourselves and our own people!!! What are we doing over there fighting other people's battles!!"

The rest of me is whispering, "You're a selfish bitch."

Saturday, December 17, 2005

The Job, The Job, Boss

Tattoo. Nuff said.

One of my best friends in the entire world moved to Fayetteville two years ago.
She didn’t want to go, she loved her job in Hot Springs, but her husband was transferred and it was move or get a divorce.
She chose move.
Good choice.
She got a job at the hospital there and worked her way up.
She’s now head of the therapy department.
I got a phone call on Monday:

Jane: How do you feel about moving?

Me: In general? I would rather die than move again.

Jane: Seriously?

Me: Probably not. Why, what’s up?

Jane: I have this Speech Path working for us that I can’t stand. She does NOTHING.
She lies to Bill all the time about things saying she’s “working” but since Bill’s a Physical Therapist he has no idea how long it takes us to do things. She told him Monday that she was down in Radio doing a MBSS for 3 hours.

Me: THREE HOURS!?!?!? At the longest, and that’s with a crap radiologist and an uncooperative patient, an MBSS takes an hour.

Jane: Exactly. I personally think she went shopping, but who knows. Anyway, she’s leaving in 2 months on maternity leave and I think I’m going to try and make it permanent. If she’s out, I need a new therapist almost immediately. You game?

Me: Hahaha! You know how I feel about salary jobs! They’re horrid. Too many taxes, too much paperwork, too many requirements, not enough patients.

Jane: It’s not salary. We’d pay you hourly AND you’re guaranteed 40 hours a week.

Me: Hmm . . I know a hospital’s idea of hourly pay. St. Vincent’s is paying $40. I can’t live on that. Too many medical bills in combination with everything else.

Jane: We’re not St. Vincent’s. You’re doing hourly on contract now, right? What if I told you we’d give you $10 an hour more than you’re making now. No travel, in a hospital, rarely ANY pediatric cases, you’d be back in the Radio lab and I know you miss it. Plus, you’d get benefits and could drop your shitty insurance. And you get a raise in three months.

Me: I don’t know.

Jane: Did I mention I had 9 hours of overtime last week, and you get time and a half for that.

Me: I would have to dissolve my business.

Jane: We pay for your continuing education, we pay your licensure fees, we pay your liability insurance, we pay your travel and conference fees and we give you a hella good yearly budget for therapy materials.

Me: I would have to move to Fayetteville.

Jane: We pay your relocation costs. We would help you find a house. We will help you sell your house.

Me: IF I moved, I would just rent the house to my brother and his roommates. My house is bigger than their rent house anyway.

Jane: So you’re thinking about it.

Me: I’m thinking.

Jane: Oh and for every 8 hours you work, you earn 1 hour of vacation time. Which starts immediately. So the first week, you would have earned 5 paid vacation hours. Do you even get paid when you’re off now?

Me: You know I don’t.

Jane: See how good this would be????

Me: Just fax me the benefit info and the sliding pay scale.

Jane: Done and DONE. This is so exciting!! I miss you so much!! Especially once football season is over and we NEVER see each other.

Hmm. . . definitely thinking about it. Downsides - MOVING, buying a new house, dissolving my business, leaving my friends, moving another 2.5 hours from my family. Upsides - more money, better insurance, hospital environment again, being in the same town as a large group of my friends who moved after college, being in the same town as my favorite NCAA football team, moving another 2.5 hours from my family. Oh oh oh, and another upside - There's a very SLIM chance of me ever needing to punch anyone . . a hospital's a little more secure than a daycare in the (pardon this) ghetto.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Wave Bye-Bye to the Not-So-Nice Lady, Kids

Warning: If you're looking for a dating update, it's below. If you wanna feel happy and fuzzy, read below. THIS is badness at it's worst.

Second Warning: VERY obscene language is used in this post. Sorry, it's necessary.
And, by the way, the sweet genteel lady you have come to know and love is NOT in this post.

My next blog may be posted from the pokey, kids.
I'm probably going to jail.
Reconcile yourselves to this fact.
Though, I really dare the mutherfucker to press charges.

I punched one of my kids dad's this morning.
I punched the fuck out of him.
And I'm no light weight.
I hope it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

No, it wasn't professional.
Yes, it was ill-advised.

D. came into therapy this morning happy as always.
We were playing and having fun, per usual.
Then I targetted his goal of Naming Body Parts.

I touched his Nose - He said Nose.
I touched his Ear - He said Ear.
I touched his Shoulder - He said Elbow. Wrong.
I touched his Tummy - He said OUCH and started crying.
I raised up his shirt.
On his stomach and chest were 6 cigarette burns.
And, yes, they were cigarette burns. I KNOW WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE! I've had kids with them before. This THIS is what I hate about my job.

I get the center director.
We call the father - the guardian of the child.
The mom's completely out of the picture.
She's in jail.
Dad's the only person the baby's ever with (baby - 21 months old).
I'm praying, hoping that the marks are from someone else.
But they're still the dad's fault.
He's supposed to keep this baby safe.

Dad shows up.
We talk to him.
It's OBVIOUS that he did it.
He yells at the director that we're not supposed to be looking under his clothes. Calls us perverts and pedophiles (big word for this guy).
I tell him that I've already called children's services and he should expect a visit shortly.
We can't LEGALLY keep the child, but I don't want him leaving with his dad.
He's in my arms.
Dad reaches for him.
I tell him to back off.
Dad says "Give me my damn kid, bitch."
I put D. down and give the stare of death to this idiot.
He reaches behind me for D. again.
I move to block him.
He tries to push me out of the way.
I stand my ground.

He goes outside.
I finish what I need to do, grab my stuff, talk with the director and make certain D. won't be released to his custody until DHS arrives and then move out the door.

D's dad is waiting for me.
"It ain't your concern what I do with my kid, bitch."
"Bitch, I'm talkin to you."
He reaches out and grabs my left arm.
I draw back my right arm and punch the fuck out of him.
He yells, let's go of me and screams "You did it now, bitch! I'm filin charges. You gonna be arrested."
"Great." and I get in my vehicle and leave.


It’s Official

The votes are in.
You wanted to hear about Mr. Clean the most.

The other “official” thing is that he’s too old for me.
As of TODAY, he is now 40 years old.
That’s 15 years my senior.
Well, 14 and a half.
But still.
He’s midway between myself and my parents in age.
This is too old, right???

Anyway . . . back to what you wanted to know.

Wednesday Night:

I had skipped the gym Wednesday afternoon to get a bit tipsy.
Yes, it’s a bad idea to drink alone.
Yes, it’s a bad idea to drink before 5 PM.
BUT, it had been a bad damn day.
Not Chairborne, Rolligun and Eunuch bad, but bad for us normal Americans.
The kids were crazy (as they are prone to be the closer the holidays get), I had been bawled out by two parents - and I use that term loosely, giving birth does NOT make you a parent, gotten into a knock down drag out with one of my doctors, and the list goes on (Sonny and Cher tune in your head) and the list goes on.

So I took matters into my own hand.
I drank about 3/4 of a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay and then chased it with a couple of beers. Yes, I know, beer following Kendall Jackson - faux pas, however, I had no more Chardonnay in the house and refused to start on red wines after a white. Pale ale seemed to make more sense. Bear with me, I hadn’t had anything to eat and my rationalization skills were lacking.

My cell phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number, but think that perhaps it’s business related and therefore I must answer it.
It’s Mr. Clean.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I know this is short notice, but can I take you out to dinner.”
Hmm . . . I’m drunk. Gorgeous man. Free meal. Why the hell not.
“Sure. When?”
“I can be at your place in 15 minutes.”
“I’ll leave the door open, I need to shower, I smell like kids.”
“Tempting prospect.”
“You can’t come back to the bathroom! Just sit patiently in the living room while I beautify myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”

So, I hop to it.
Turn the stereo on (because I have to have music at ALL times), put the Garden State soundtrack in, put it on Repeat, turn it up loud enough to hear it in my bathroom and away we go.
I made sure to lock not only the bathroom door, but also my bedroom door, to bar any intrusion.
Beautification begins.
I emerge from the bedroom looking as good as I’m going to get considering I was still very tipsy and probably had not the steadiest hand applying make-up.

Off the shoulder black loose, yet clingy, sweater.
A touch below the knees, striped silk skirt.
Black knee high boots.
Diamond stud earrings.
Just the right amount of perfume in just the right places.
Very, very light makeup. My skin is naturally quite pale, the alcohol had blushed my cheeks quite a bit, naturally, so a touch of grey eye-shadow, a bit of mascara and a shimmery lip gloss and I was done.
I had even taken the time to turn my hair into loose waves instead of the bone straight look I tend to favor. No hair-spray because men hate it and, actually, so do I.
I looked alright enough.

The CD had just started over.
Coldplay was echoing through the house.
He was standing in the middle of my living room floor and had moved my coffee table out of the center of the floor.
“Wanna dance for a minute?”
Oh god, yes, I do.
Even though it’s really NOT that kind of song, he holds me close and we dance together.
I’m not certain, but I could swear that he kissed my exposed shoulder.
The CD switches to the Shins, but we’re still dancing.
I could have been like that forever.
It wasn’t him, at least I don’t think it was.
It was the music, the alcohol, the bad day and just needing to be in someone’s arms.
Anyone’s arms.
His were available.
He pulls me a bit closer and I lay my head on his chest (even with the higher heel of the boot, he was still taller than me - yay!).
I inhale his cologne and try not to reach up and kiss his neck as I so desperately want to do.
I can feel him stroking my hair with his other hand on the small of my back.
Both of those things get to me. Stroke my hair. Put your hand on the small of my back. I melt.

Song change.
Zero 7.
Oh. My. God.
I’m in trouble.
I’m always in trouble with Zero 7.
The music is haunting and wonderful and makes you FEEL.
Even when you’re apathetic, even when you don’t want to feel, you have to with Zero 7.
I don’t even try and fight it anymore.
I pull back a bit, grab his tie and use it as leverage to pull his face down to mine.
I kiss him to stop me from feeling.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss, and I’m sorry for that.
It was a harsh, hard, brutal but a passionate beyond reason kiss.
I feel my toes curl again, like they did at lunch the other day.
Hell, I think even my hair curled a bit more.

I finally break away, go turn the stereo off and tell him to take me to dinner.
“But . . . what just happened?” He looked a bit shell shocked.
I laughed and tried to cover up my own confusion, “I used you. Now let’s go.”
And off we went.

Dinner was a bit like lunch the other day.
Although, this time it was picnic style.
We picked something up, headed back to my house and then spread out on a blanket thrown on my living room floor.
It wasn’t awkward because we didn’t have things to talk about, we had lots of things to talk about, but he kept having to go outside to talk on the phone.
Business calls.
Remind me to not be so suspicious.
He is not Jeff.

We had red wine with dinner.
As though I needed more to drink??
And when dinner was over, he asked if we could dance again.
I didn’t trust myself.
I couldn’t let him hold me again. If I did, I would want more than I should get.
I declined the dance and asked him if he thought it was getting late.
“Yes, a bit, but I can stay a while longer. I’m not ready to leave yet. You look sad.”
Wow, mood breaker. Never tell a girl that she looks: Sad, Fat, Tired, Depressed, Worn Out, Old, you get the idea.
“I’m fine. It’s probably time for you to leave.”
This dude has a habit of sticking his foot RIGHT into his mouth, doesn’t he?
“I did something wrong again. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see what was bothering you. Being upfront about it is just my way. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Well, that little speech did it.
I was quite certain I wouldn’t want more of him now.
So I did what any other girl would have done.
“Forget it, I’ll take the dance over talking.”
And put the CD back on.

We didn’t dance so much as hold one another.
He just held me.
He didn’t make any sly moves.
Didn’t try and whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
Just held me, swayed with me, trailed his hands up and down my back, let me be.
It was the perfect thing to do.

Around 1 AM, he stopped dancing, bent down a bit and kissed me.
A sweet, gentle, not pushy at all, kiss.
“I’m going to call you tomorrow.”
“No objections? You’re going to answer?”
“No objections and yes.”
And he kissed me again, on the forehead this time, and left.

We met again last night at 9 for coffee.
Just coffee.
We didn’t even kiss.
We just held hands across the table (I know, I know, how freakin cheezy) and talked.

I have no idea where any of this is going.
Or if I want it to go anywhere.
But I have a list of reasons that you guys MUST be wrong about him wanting me just for sex.

Here they are:

1 - He’s too gorgeous. He’s George Clooney people! He’s BEYOOOTIFUL. He could have ANY woman. Just based on looks alone. ANY woman. Add into that the fact that he’s a very successful businessman, humorous, intelligent, driven, self-sufficient and well-read and you’ve got the male specimen of perfection in front of you. (Minus his uncanny ability to say the wrong things.)

2 - He made NO moves. None. Not any Wed night, not any Thurs night. He was a saint.

3 - He does what he says he’s going to do. That’s always a good sign that he’s not after just sex. He calls when he says he will call, he stops by when he says he will stop by. Who tries that hard if it’s just for a lay???

4 - There’s the me factor. He knows I’m not a “just sex” kinda girl. (A) because I told him so (B) because I do everything possible to avoid physical contact with him . .. unless I’m tipsy. Plus, and DO NOT take this as self deprecating - but - if you were gonna pick a “just sex” kinda girl, wouldn’t you go for one a little more . ...ummm . . NOT me? I’m pretty, hell yeah I am. But I’m the girl next door. What gets me over the top is my personality, my intellect, my humor and my ability to dress and accessorize. But you don’t care about personality, intellect, humor or dressing ability if you’re just looking for a lay. You want a banging body and killer face. Or just a banging body. Whichever. Honey, my banging body days ended the day after my first surgery. I wish I could tell you blogging men that I had a six pack, a rack from hell and legs that go on for days - but I DO NOT. I have long, but too muscular to be gorgeous legs, I lost my six pack about 5 years ago . . maybe more . . .and my breasts are starting to enter that migrate South stage. That’s what happens when they’re too big for your body . . and when you get older. It’s a fact of life. Deal.

So there ya go.
The semi-kinda-sorta date with Mr. Clean.
Actually you got two dates wrapped into one.
Do I deliver or do I deliver?

Thursday, December 15, 2005


Bash me if you want, but I realized something earlier today.

There is a severe epidemic of male shortness going on.

Realization over.
Back to your regularly scheduled program.

If You're Ever In Need Of Some Levity

And after my last couple posts, I think we all need a bit.

Watch these:

1 - Eddie Izzard - Dressed to Kill

2 - Eddie Murphy - Delirious

3 - Bill Cosby - Himself

4 - Chris Rock - Chris Rock

5 - Chris Rock - Bigger and Blacker

6 - Robin Williams - Live 2002

7 - George Carlin - ANYTHING AT ALL

8 - Ron White - They Call Me Tater Salad

And I could keep going . . but those are the cream of the crop.
I was torn about what to blog today.
I had lots of options: My semi-odd, kinda-date with Mr. Clean last night, my new job offer and possible relocation, my morning conversation with my doctor, etc.

However, lists always beat out all the rest!
You can, if you wish, cast a vote for which of the others you would like to hear about. :) hahahaha

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Steph's Dare

Steph, dear friend that she is, dared me to write about a “moment.”
It had to be personal, it had to have meaning.
So, here, you get to learn what one event has shaped me more than any other.
Thanks, Steph, for giving me the gumption to write about it.
Thanks, friends and family, for giving me the strength to live through it.
So here it is, beginning to end.

The Beginning

I smelled him before I felt him.
His aftershave mingled with the clean smell of soap.
He wrapped his arms around me from behind.
“Hey there.”
The sound of his voice in my ear made me tingle.
Through the butterflies in my stomach and the choke in my throat, I managed to get out, “Hey there, yourself.”
“Miss me?”
Without hesitation I practically screamed, “Yes.”
I felt his hand sweep my hair aside a second before his lips touched the nape of my neck.
I shivered.
There were so many things I wanted to say.
“Is this really happening?”
His nose burrowed in my hair a little deeper, “Is what happening?”
“Is this what this feels like? Am I really in love with you?”
I felt his chest shake with laughter as he pulled me tighter into him.
“Do you have to analyze everything? Can’t it just be?”
I tried not to hurt when he said it.
“When it’s this unreal, I have to question it.”
A bit of water dripped onto my shoulder.
“Did you even bother to towel off?”
“I didn’t want to be gone from you that long.”
He brushed his cheek against mine.
“I wish you hadn’t shaved.”
“I didn’t want to scratch you.”
“I like it. Feeling your stubble scrape against my cheek.”
“You’re not like other girls.”
“Comparing me to anyone in particular?”
“Stop questioning. Just accept it for what it is. I love you.”
“Don’t go to work. We’ll both stay home.”
He looked at the bed and I could almost feel his glance as it swept me from head to foot.
“You didn’t get enough last night?”
“I waited 5 months for that, and after last night, I’m not sure I can ever get enough.”
He laughed and then pushed me unto the bed.
“I’m not staying. I just want to kiss you a little before I leave you.”
He fell next to me and our legs tangled together.
I pulled him into me and closed my eyes.
Seconds elapsed without a kiss.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I want you to look at me.”
I opened my eyes.
“Watch me as I kiss you.”
I looked into his eyes as his lips met mine.
He stayed for three days.

The End

(18 months later)

He led me to the gazebo.
I felt like a prize fool.
Everyone on the grounds could see me crying.
“Why can’t we just talk about this in the apartment?”
“Do you want Amber to know what is happening?”
“Then we are sitting out here.”
We reached our destination and I sat down.
I expected him to sit next to me, hold me, tell me everything was going to be okay.
He sat across from me.
Staring at me without seeing me.
The distance between our bodies echoed in his eyes.
“Did you do this on purpose?”
“You’re serious????”
“Yes. I need to know. Did you do this to speed things up?”
“You’re really a piece of work! Of course I didn’t do this on purpose! Do you think this is a great time for me either? I’m in my senior year, I have a thesis to finish, applications to grad school, we’re in different cities. NO! I didn’t do this on purpose.”
“I had to ask.”
I could feel my heart tearing a little.
“You trust me so little? Then why did you ask me to marry you?”
“I trust you. I want to be with you. But this changes things. A lot.”
“Do you think I did this alone?”
“Shut up. I have to think.”
A million retorts rushed down my head to my lips, but none crossed them.
“What does the doctor say?”
“I want to know what you want. Not what the doctor wants. Doctors always want something different. I’m asking you. What do you want?”
“I’m not answering that until I know all the details.”
“Do you want this baby? Do you want our child?”
“God, yes, you know I want children. I want them with you. But now? After everything we’ve found out. With you still in school?”
“Then let’s do it.”
My heart was in my hand and I was timidly holding it out to him. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, let this be the future. Let this be real. Don’t let everything else control our lives. Make this decision with me.
“I can’t. You can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“You’re a selfish bitch, you know that? You’re right I won’t! You’re 21! You just found out you have a tumor! You could die if you carry this child to term! But all you can think about is what you want, you want a baby, you want a family, you want happily ever after. What about what I want? I want to see you finish school, I want to see you raise our children, I want to grow old with you. Will those things happen if you ignore the tumor to save this baby??? We can always have children, but if we do it now, I can’t be sure I’ll always have you.”
The tears I had succeeded in blinking back came rushing forward again.
“Why does it have to be either/or? Why can’t it be both?”
“Can it? Did the doctor tell you that we could have both? If we ignore the tumor and focus on the baby, will you still be around?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Then we’re not doing it. Call the doctor tomorrow. Schedule the abortion. If it’s the baby or you, I pick you.”
“It might be NOTHING. I’ve been healthy for over two years! This mass or tumor or whatever they found could be scar tissue, it could be ruptured cysts, it could be nothing. You’re willing to give up our child for a chance?”
“With your medical history, with everything you’ve been through, with the medications you’re on . . . do you think it’s nothing? What about the medicines? Have they harmed the baby already? You’re 7 weeks pregnant, you think they haven’t had an effect? Just do it. Just call the doctor. Just have it arranged. I’m not letting you take the chance.”
The crying became uncontrollable.
He pulled me across the space between us into his lap.
His arms wrapped around me.
“I love you. I love you. Don’t make me lose you.”
“But you’ll accept the loss of our child.”
“To know that I’ll have you? Yes.”

The next day, I made the appointment.
Monday morning came and he never showed up.
I called Emily and “Ruby” to take me.
They held my hands through the procedure. They yelled at the protestors waving cameras in my face. They half carried me, half led me to the car.
Jeff called and apologized while I was waiting on my exiting counseling session.
“Big meeting at work, I couldn’t get out. Baby, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there tonight.”
He arrived at 8 P.M.
No explanations or excuses for where he had been since he got off work.
No more apologies for being absent for the death of our child.
He didn’t speak at all.
He just held me.
And that’s when I noticed.
He smelled of something.
Sweet and musky.
A perfume that wasn’t mine.
Mingled with something else.
I recognized that smell.

I watched him sleep that night.
His chest rising and falling with each breath.
He slept soundly.
What we did, what I did, what he did - didn’t trouble him at all.

That’s when they left.
My feelings of love, of safety, of security, of trust.
They were all gone.
I felt apathy move to fill the emptiness.
And it took up residence.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Just for a Second

I would be better off
Alone and Lonely
Than awash in this sea of faces

He buys me a drink
What’s his name again?
Ted, Sam, Mike, Steve
Does it matter?

The vodka bites at my tongue
It tickles my throat
He’s saying something I can’t hear
A droning noise fills my ears
He’s complimenting me

He’d turn away if he read my thoughts
If he knew I was thinking
Could he hit me?
Would he?

A sharp slap across my cheek
A purpling bruise tomorrow
Would it change anything?

Would the bright taste of blood,
The quick sting of pain
Wash the apathy away
Leaving anger in it’s wake

Some other emotion
Any impression at all
Displacing the numbness
Replacing the loneliness

Just for a second
A minute
An hour
Would it make it leave?

Sunday, December 11, 2005

I Am Being Punished . . .

For not appreciating my family.

Everyone has left.
Thank Heavens, right?

I decide, since everyone is finally gone, to start on the HUGE pile of work I've let stack up since Wednesday. ALL of which requires a printer.
My Epson All-In-One is a gift from the Gods.
I adore it.
It does everything I need it to do, plus some.
Unless I need it to.

I have about, oh, 28 pages of Medicaid Progress Notes to print out and fax to Medicaid, the treatment company I contracted these kids through and my employee so she knows where these kids are IN CASE she has to see them some this week since I'm not up to par.
Hook up USB cable between printer and laptop - CHECK
Turn on printer - CHECK
Hit Print - CHECK
PRINT - Umm, nope, sorry

First page prints all jacked up.
Missing portions of ink and such.
Easy to fix - have the system clean the print heads.
I go through this 9 times and nothing changes.
Screw it, just replace $100 worth of cartridges.
Throw all the old ones in the trash.
Repeat printing process.

Only this time, NOTHING prints.
No empty "spaces" just ENTIRELY EMPTY SHEET.

Okay, look, I admit I am COMPLETELY technologically impaired.
If, one day, some poor boy marries me, he will discover it is his responsibility to do all things regarding computers and printers.
I can handle TVs, VCRs, DVRs, DVD players, DVD burners, ANYTHING except computers and printers.
And until I find said-boy, I use my friend's husbands.
I immediately call Matt.

Me: "Matt . . . HELP!"
laughing Matt: "What's wrong, Meghan?"
Me (high panicky NOT pretty voice): "My printer has decided to hate me!"
laughing Matt: "Honey, that doesn't happen. Printers don't have feelings. What's it doing?"
Me (note of panic a bit higher): "I have all these things that needed to be done like yesterday and I can't print ANY of them and there is NO ink on the paper and I don't know what's going on and I need help NOW NOW NOW."
guffawing Matt: "Brian and I are on our way back home from Little Rock, we can stop by and look at it and see what we can do."
Me: "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you." and mentally thinking thank GOD "Ruby" married someone who majored in something computeresque.


Mental monologue - Thank God, thank God, Matt's going to fix everything, I know it.
Oh shit.
Uhh. . . .
Did Matt say he and BRIAN were coming.
Umm . .. hottie Brian A. or not cute Brian E.
Uh oh.
Bound to be hottie Brian A.
Hottie Brian A. whom I would never do anything with because he's slept with anything that walks and wears a skirt.
Gorgeous Brian A. that I have been semi-obsessed with since Sophomore year of college.
Yeah, I know I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole, but do I want ANYONE attractive seeing me at this moment???

Black silk pajamas with light pink pin-striping.
Hair pulled into a ponytail almost completely on top of my head.
No make-up at ALL save some Carmex on my chapped lips.
Lightly dazed look in my eyes from a combination of shell-shock from a weekend with the family, pain pills and freak-out about printer.
Fuzzy pink slippers given as a gift from my grandmother this weekend.
House relatively trashed because my family, who loves me, leaves everything out because they don't know where anything goes.

Uh oh.
Spring from the bed.
Spend 3 minutes in tears because I sprung a little too hard and parts HURT.
Rush to closet.
Grab a pair of chinos, white long sleeve pima shirt, clover green deep V-neck cashmere sweater, khaki polo hat (because the hair is BEYOND saving, just gonna have to stick the ponytail out the back of the hat and hope I come off as cute and playful), scrub face clean of any and all dirt, slap on a touch of blusher, a bit of eyeliner and a pale pink lipgloss.
Presentable, right?

Throw EVERYTHING that's anywhere in the house into a closet.
Cry from exerting so much effort after being carried everywhere all weekend.
Retouch makeup again.

Think: Why the hell are you doing this???????? Matt's happily married and a great friend - he doesn't care what you look like. Brian has no hope of ever laying a hand on you and probably could care less if you look like you were just run over with a dump truck.

And yet, I am sitting here wondering . . . instead of typing this all out on the blog, should I be putting on some perfume?

I'm blaming this on Southern raising.
WHY do we Southern belles constantly have to be prettied up?
Can't, just once, I let these boys see me in PJ's and a ponytail.

And there's the doorbell.

Because I'm a Nice Girl

It's 2 AM.
And I'm FINALLY alone.
No one to tell me not to do things.
No one to tell me to take a pill.
No one to force feed me.

Alone, alone, alone.

And what am I doing?
Being BORED.
And because I'm bored, and because I like guys that are a bit forceful.
I'm going to do what TFS told me to do.

I wrote a list.
Just one.
It's a little one.

Men I Wish Existed . . .

So that I might date them:

#1 - Howard Roarke

#2 - Atticus Finch

#3 - Rhett Butler

#4 - James (Jamie) Fraser

#5 - Doyle AKA Darkness AKA Baron Sweet-Tongue

If you don’t know these men, pick up a book once in a while.
Oh - and Rhett Butler is in there for his lines only.
Any man that can and will say “You need to be kissed. And often. By someone who knows how.” Wins my vote for man of the year.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

If You Don't Hear From Me . . . .

Assume I have a new residence.
Probably a "pound you in the ass" prison.

Most likely, because I have murdered at least 4 members of my immediate and extended family.

My mother's going to bite the dust first.
Yep, she's the one I want to see gone the worst.
This is my fault, and I know it, but it doesn't change the homicidal urge.
We're the same person.
Yep, from the sarcasm to the flirting to the wit to the voice and laugh - we're the same person.

And if you ever questioned why your friends are your friends - it's because they're not you.
They are ENOUGH like you that you get along and have common interests.
But so different from you that you can have conversations and questions and good times.

But mom's too much like me.
Or I'm too much like her.
And if I could have pulled it off quietly, I would have slipped 4 of these Hydrocodone pills into her Diet Pepsi an hour ago.

Oh, wait, I'm completely off topic.
I was writing this to assure you all that I am well and good.
Recovering nicely, despite set-backs I caused MYSELF to have.
Thank you for all your well wishing and worrying.
It's strange to think about how our lives have intersected.
It's even stranger when I think about the fact that each of you are people I would worry about if you were in the same situation.
Odd what this blogging has morphed into.
It's like a family.
But one you don't want to kill.
Because they don't invade your space.
And force feed you sweets.
And make you stay in a bed.
And carry you - YES, carry you - to the bathroom.
I DIDN'T have LEG surgery, crazies!!!!!!!
My legs WORK!

Ranting getting a bit out of control.
Original post has turned to a stream of consciousness.
Obviously the latest pain pill has kicked in.
Say goodnight, Gracie.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


So I made a bad decision last night.
I know that.
But I did it anyway.
For whatever reason, I felt indebted to Mr. Clean for the roses.
Which, incidentally, are still at Chris’s house.
A guy shouldn’t have to spend $400 on a girl to get her attention.
And I feel like I drove him to doing that.
So I agreed to meet him for lunch today.

He got back into town around 11:00 last night.
He called and apologized for calling so late.
But said that the moment his plane touched down in Little Rock, all he could think about was calling me.
Now I know these are all lines. I do. Honestly.
You guys have clued me in completely.
I’m aware.
But I owed him a lunch.

So we meet for lunch.
And I feel like an idiot.
There I am - hot pink scrubs, Nikes, hair screwed up into a semi-twist, barely any make-up, no jewelry save for the diamond studs in my ears and a fish watch that one of my kids gave me last Christmas.
There he is - gorgeous suit, french blue starched dress shirt, silk tie, perfect hair, beautiful smile.
There the restaurant is - too expensive and filled with people dressed like him.
I felt like the double-wide trailer in the middle of the million dollar housing district.
But it was a work-day, damnit.
I had no choice but wear scrubs.
I’ve made the mistake TWICE before not wearing scrubs.
Once I was thrown up on and the second time one of my kids got a nosebleed while he was in my lap.
I was NOT ruining good clothes to go on a pity lunch.

Lunch was really awkward.
I thanked him for the flowers last week.
I thanked him (yes, I neglected to tell you bloggers about this, I had a bit more on my mind this week) for the flowers he sent on Monday and chastised him about the Bear.
Yes, a bear.
To a 25-yr old.
A big, white, fluffy now relegated to the floor of one of my therapy rooms Bear.
Who sends a bear to anyone over age 14????
So after the thanks, there wasn’t much to say.

Small discussion about his business trip to France.
Awkward silence.
Small discussion about my business’s expansion and the troubles I’m having with the Little Rock School District.
Awkward silence.
“Wow, this food is really good.”
Awkward silence.

You get the picture.
So, I started my internal monologue.
“This is great. No one could possibly think that we would ever see each other again after this. This is horrible. We can’t even talk because we’re so uncomfortable with one another. We’re clearly avoiding the whole sex conversation where he stuck his foot not only in his mouth but about 5 inches down his esophagus, as well. This will be the natural death of what should have ended before he even went to France.”

Lunch ends, he walks me to my vehicle, we’re saying goodbye, and then . . . .
“I know I haven’t earned this, but can I kiss you?”

Side note to the boys/men who read me: Asking a girl if you can kiss her is sexy as hell. Sometimes we just want you to be all caveman and just grab us and do it, but other times, like in this awkward situation, the quickest way to melt our hardening hearts is to ask us.

“Yes, but a chaste kiss.”
Yes, I’m a loser and really did say that.
It’s okay though.

Ladies and gentlemen, my toes curled. It wasn’t a chaste kiss, but it also wasn’t a “I’d throw you in the back of your SUV and bang you until your head came off” kiss either. It was one of those long, slow, shallow kisses that makes you think of soft sheets and laughing in bed together. It was sweet and comfortable and melting. I was dizzy. DIZZY.

And that’s when it hit me.
Yes, he’s hot.
Yes, he’s what I’m looking for. . . . .kind of.
He’s not it.
He’s not the one.
Even if he does make my toes curl.

And then he ruined it.
He stopped kissing me, leaned over to where all I could do was inhale his cologne (Acqua Di Gio - OMG, my favorite male cologne!) and whispered, “I don’t want you just for sex. I swear.”

Obviously referring to the ONLY phone conversation we had when he was in France.
Where I told him I really felt that sex was all he wanted and that I wanted more.
Not just from him, but from anyone.
I can’t do just sex.
I wish I could.
But I can’t.

For a minute, I melted all over again.
And then I remembered my own advice.
If a guy has to declare that he’s NOT something . . . or that he IS something . . . then that’s a bad, bad sign.
Never trust a man that says to you “I’m a good guy.”
Never trust a man that says to you “I’m not like other guys.”
And now, a new one to add; Never trust a man that says “I’m not after you for just sex.”
If their words have to speak for them, it means their actions are against them.
And I trust action more.

So . . . I’m not seeing him again.
Even if I still smell like him because we were so close that his cologne rubbed onto my scrubs.
Infatuation is not true emotion.
Not seeing him. Gonna tell him tonight.

That’s the right thing to do, right??

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Back to the Cutting Board

Well . . . it's official.

After Friday, I will be able to write almost all my medical expenses from the year off my taxes. Good to know that Friday's minor surgery (let's call it a procedure, shall we?) will have allowed me to spend over 7% of my income on medical expenses.

This is a HUGE deal . . . because I NEVER thought I could write it off.
Mainly because I make too much damn money.
Which is not a complaint.
Just saying, the world of the self-employed is a funny, funny thing.

Why is any of this important??
Because I now have another $8,000 plus to write off my taxes.
That means not only do I not OWE the government a damn dime this year, but I will get a tax credit!
A credit!
A credit, did you hear me?

For those that have no idea what I'm talking about . .. I'll make it as simple as possible.

Us self-employed folks are supposed to hold out around 33% of our income for taxes.
Why do we pay the government for ourselves to work . . . I have NO idea.
It makes no sense to me.
But whatever, I'm not trying to politically debate today.
Anyway . . about 19% of it goes to actual income tax.
The other 14% goes to Social Security so I can pay my parent's retirement (because God knows there won't be anything left of Social Security by the time I retire!!!).

Because the government pays me 40 cents a mile because driving is part of my job.
And I drive at least 700 miles per week (normally closer to 900, but we're guesstimating) . . . it makes for a HUGE tax write off.
Not to mention the fax line.
My cell phone line.
My retirement fund.
My health insurance (ha ha ha!! Like they EVER pay for ANYTHING . .. why do I pay for it?????????)
Etc etc.

And now the addition of my lover-ly little medical write offs.
Had I not had write offs . . . I would owe the government a bit over $25,000.00 in taxes. Ugh. Paying them that much money just so I can work.
On top of all the sales tax and property taxes I have paid this year. Etc.
Anyway . ..

But now . . . thanks to mileage and the like plus the official tally on my medical bills this year (Insurance covered NOTHING, I paid about $15,000 out of pocket for health related thingees this year) . . . I owe NOTHING.
They actually owe me.
They are actually putting a credit on my account for next year.

I did a dance when my accountant called.
Literally, a jig.

Does this mean I'm happy about having a "procedure" Friday?
If one more doctor takes a scalpel, needle or thermometer to another part of my body, I just might turn homicidal.
But . . . at least there's some light at the end of the tunnel.

Monday, December 05, 2005


Gosh, tagged again!
Another list . . . but a good one.
Enjoy, kids:

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?

Became completely independent of my parents/family. I supported myself fully for the first time.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Jesus, the question should be “did anyone close to you NOT give birth.”

3. Did anyone close to you die?

Too many people. Too many.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?

I didn’t have time to travel, I was trying to build up my business.
Best holiday memory - Getting toasty drunk with my family and friends on New Years and then planning our wedding with my male but very gay best friend. Apparently he can’t tell his parents he’s gay and I can’t find a man I want to marry, so we’re going to help each other out.

5. Best thing you bought?

My SUV. LOVE it beyond all reason. How materialistic is that?

6. Where did most of your money go?

House payment and vehicle payment. With a huge shoe alottment.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?

Sex and being with friends. I was too focused on my career.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?

Stressed about my business and my ex.

9. What kept you sane?

My family, my friends and routine.

10. What drove you mad?

My family and myself.

11. What made you celebrate?

My business taking off and finally becoming fully independent.

12. What made you sad?

The deaths of my friends and family.

13. How was your birthday this year?

I have no idea. I can’t honestly remember my birthday.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?

Arguing abortion politics with friends when a friend had a question in her mind about what to do about her newly discovered pregnancy.

15. Were you in love in 2005?

I thought so, but looking back . . . no. I loved him, but I was never IN love.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?

Happiness with who and what I am.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?

February 10th. The day a man killed himself and almost killed me in the process.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?

The Killers - Mr. Brightside

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?


20. Biggest achievement this year?

Creating a stable business.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?

Being unable to be happy with who I am and what I’ve accomplished.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

If I knew that, I wouldn’t constantly question myself.

23. Best new person you met this year?

I’m with Steph, all you crazy people here in blogging land.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?

Life is too short and too full of wonderful things to be taken for granted. Try and be happy with what and who you have in your life. If you can’t make yourself be happy, at least pretend to be so you don’t drag others into your mess.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Thanks, Steph

Reading Steph's post made me finally get something on paper . . . granted, she's being super secretive and not allowing if her writing is memory or fantasy, but mine's a memory that I've been wanting to get down for a while, so:


“Your smile always looks so sad.”
He laughed at me as he always did.
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve never seen lips that can turn up and yet down at the same time. You’re thinking of something.”
He laughed again. This time shorter. Almost harsh in quality.
“You’re presuming again. You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“You won’t let me.”
The smile stopped. Something in his eyes changed.
“You won’t give me a reason to let you.”
“I can’t.”
The soft breath of his sigh hit my cheek.
He shook his head ever so slightly before placing his lips softly against mine.
Just a second and the kiss ended.
Before I could taste his breath on mine.
“You won’t.”
He was right.
Loving someone hurt too much.
I couldn’t be hurt that badly again.
I wouldn’t recover.
“You’re crying.”
A solitary tear traced the path of my lips.
His tongue caught it.
If anyone deserved to be loved, it was him.
“Just hold me.”
His arms drew around me and I could feel the tension in his arms.
“Don’t make promises. They won’t last.”
The tension increased.
“Mine will.”
But they didn’t.
“Mine will.”

Saturday, December 03, 2005


So, been trying to post comments so people know I actually read their blogs.
Actually, had some questions, etc for these people.
But blogger won't let me post comments.
I have the same verification word EVERY time "smenita" and I type it and it says "enter the letters just as seen above" and it just keeps repeating.

Possibly the Most Non-PC Post Ever

1. Do ugly people know they are ugly?????

And in the same vein:

2. Do white trash know they are white trash???? (and if so, why don't they do anything about it???)

Friday, December 02, 2005


And so here's proof that the goofy, retarded dancing girl you all know and love is fully back in swing.

Tonight was cardio night at the gym.
Crystal and I are trekking away at 3.5 miles an hour (wow, watch out Tortoise!) on the treadmill and I get bored, per usual with ANYTHING, and am trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm walking . . . on a conveyer belt . . in a gym.
So perky music is playing.

"This Love" - Maroon 5
Love this band.
So I take my hands off the handles and just start swinging my arms a bit.
And then I start slightly wiggling while walking.
And then I start almost all out dancing.
Hey, if you can't have fun, what fun are ya?
Yeah, I'm getting some looks from the "hard core gymmers" - you know, the ones who have muscles bulging out of their eyes??? But who cares?! I'm having a good time.
Yep, fun fun fun.
Right until Captain Coordination, also known as ME, can't maintain dancing, walking and talking while also watching the football stats running on ESPN.
Yep, I fell off. Fell smooth off the damn treadmill.
Not a graceful fall either. Not that cute, oops, I tripped fall.
Nope, an all out here I am falling, ooh oh oh, trying to catch myself, oh wait, that just makes you fall harder - BAM.

Does this teach me my lesson?
18 minutes later I do the SAME thing while dancing to "Good, Inc." by The Gorillaz.
I'm a genius.
Gotta love me.

Blame Eunuch

I know what's going to happen.
Auburn or Steph or one of you other lot is going to say something about me and my lists again.
I didn't choose this topic.
It was all Eunuch and his tagging me.
Though I loved every minute of it . . .
So here ya go.

Oh and . . .
Love you guys too much to tag anyone.
Or do the move your name up the list thing . . . not sure what that’s all about.
So I’ll do this instead - I’ll answer all the questions and ANYONE feeling benevolent enough to do the same, do so. There are some people I’d really like to see do it . . but I will keep those to myself.

What were you doing 10 years ago?

10 years ago . . hmm . . I was 15. It’s December, so I was attending highschool, working as a drive-thru girl at McDonalds (to teach me humility, is what I was told), and driving back and forth three afternoons a week to Arkadelphia - 45 miles from my hometown - to Henderson College to train with their college swim team. LOVED Coach Coke, he was the man! I’m sure I was counting the days until highschool graduation.

What were you doing 1 year ago ?

I was working at a job I loved but for people I hated, so in my spare time I was doing all that was necessary to start my own business.

5 snacks you enjoy :

1. Sunchips

2. Hershey’s Huggs

3. REAL popcorn, homemade popcorn with REAL butter - it takes forever to make it and it’s a mess but totally worth it

4. Chips and salsa and/or queso

5. Pecans

5 songs to which you know all the lyrics :

(Not fair, I know all the lyrics to almost EVERY song)

1. Untouchable Face - Ani Difranco

2. Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton (both can sing it and sign it)

3. If You Could Read My Mind - Gordon Lightfoot

4. Notorious Thugs - Notorious BIG

5. No Leaf Clover - Metallica

5 things you would do if you were a millionaire :

1. Buy a house that I could have THREE libraries in and then fill them with every book EVER written (okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I'd try).

2. Give a butt ton of money to Cancer research.

3. Pay off all my family’s and friend's debts and give them a fresh start.

4. Go to Scotland, Ireland, Australia, Belize and then just keep on going.

5. Have those surgeries I mentioned in my lists

5 bad habits :

1. Talking over people's heads

2. Road Rage

3. Setting really high standards and complaining when no one can live up to them

4. Obsessively cleaning

5. Buying up everything when it’s on sale . . and therefore having a huge stockpile of EVERYTHING at my house whenever it’s needed . . but no room to put other things. (Anyone need soap - I have about a gazillion bars of soap)

5 things you like doing :

1. Sex, sex, sex (maybe I like it so much because I get it so little???)

2. Reading

3. Writing

4. White Water Rafting

5. Watching football

5 things you would never wear again :

1. Any of my graduation robes - no one looks good in graduation robes

2. My high school ring

3. Anything white (other than this ONE pair of Hilfiger pants I have that are friggin amazing)

4. Gold jewelry (unless it’s white gold)

5. Hot pants (DONT ASK!)

5 favorite toys :

1. My Sony Vaio

2. My Motorola RazR phone

3. My DVD recorder

4. My SUV

5. My favorite pen and a big ole blank pad of paper (yes, I have a favorite pen)

Any takers on the list offer?
Dying to read some lists from some of you guys.
Us OCD people love lists . . .

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Umm . . So I'm a Stupid Girl

Love ALL of you much for all the support.

But now you get to find out why I was so crazy.

Umm . . yeah . . . so on the way home from the gym just now . . .
I got a visitor - - one I haven't had in 8 months.

240 days of no visitors makes the hormones VERY unhappy.

But after working out, getting my protein shake and then learning the basis of all my troubles - - Happy Girl is home! :)

Promise no more craziness for at least another 8 months.
That's how it works for me.

And sorry to all the males that I just made vomit.

Hugs and stuff!


I’ve somehow moved from abject sorrow (so sorry about making you guys worry last night!) to complete anger.
And I’m terrified I’m going to take it out on someone who doesn’t deserve it.
I listened to my voice-mails this morning and took notes, so that I could return calls.
However, I can’t call them now.
If I call them now . . . I will do this:

#1 4:42 PM Mr. Clean

Just wanted to see if you got the flowers. I really am sorry. Just call me when you get this. Don’t worry about the time difference. I’ll go right back to sleep. Here’s the hotel where I’m staying and the number: blah blah blah

What I want to say:

No, I didn’t get the damn flowers. I can’t make myself take them. Chris has them at his house and he’s holding them until I decide what the hell to do with them. I’m not letting you buy your way out of your big mouth’s mistakes. I never want to hear from you again. I thought you were something that you’re obviously not. Why does it not matter how old a guy gets, all he can think with is what’s in his pants! I hope your thing shrivels up and falls off.

#2 6:00 PM Daddy (whispering)

Hey toot, it’s your dad, you need to call me but don’t call me tonight at the house. Call me tomorrow at work. We need to talk about your mom. Next week’s her birthday and then Christmas is coming up and we need to figure out what to get her. I’ll send $400 with your brother next week and you can go get her something for her birthday and start Christmas shopping.

What I want to say:

You know what, dad. Screw it. I love you beyond all reason, but I’m tired of doing your grunt work. Ever since I was 14 and got my hardship license, you’ve pawned off the gift buying and errand running on me. You haven’t bought mom a present in damn 11 years. She’s your wife, you married her, you go get her damn presents. It’s hard enough for ME to decide what I’m getting her; I can’t take another year of buying her gifts from me, YOU and my brother.

#3 6:50 PM Momma

Meg, I’ve been calling your brother for about an hour and he won’t answer my calls. Seems to be a habit with my kids today. Go over to his house and see if he’s alright and tell him to call me. Love you.

What I want to say:

Jesus, mother. He’s not answering because he’s too busy keeping his harem of women happy. He’s fine. He’s 21 years old for chrissakes. He was at my house when you called. And he’s not answering your calls because you call him every day and he’s tired of your mother-henning him to death. Hell, I’m a little tired of it, too. I’m 25 damn years old and I talk to my mother three times a day. Yes, you’re my best friend, yes, I love you, but I swear to God if I don’t get some space I’m going to pull a Menendez Brothers. We’re fine. We’re good. We’re more well-adjusted than ANYONE else we know. You did a good job. Now cut the damn umbilical cord.

#4 7:13 PM Will

Girl, you are queen of not answering my calls these days. Should I take that as a hint (laughing). Anyway, call me, I want to know what you’re doing this weekend.

What I want to say:

Run. Just run. Don’t call me again, don’t come by, don’t write. I’m NO good for you what-so-ever. I will only end up hurting you. You’re too good for me and you haven’t realized that yet. I haven’t called you back because I know if I end up dating you I will just screw things up, end things and hurt you. Run. Run. Run. And don’t look back. Pretend you never met me.

#5 7:58 PM Jeff

Hey gorgeous! Wondered what you were up to Saturday night. Madison and I need someone to watch Colton. She’s got some cheerleading thing and wants me to be there. Just call us back as soon as you get this so we can start looking for someone else if you can’t do it.

What I want to say:

Fuck you! I can’t believe I’m such a simp. What idiot babysits for the guy that cheated on her after three years together and an engagement! Even better, what idiot watches the child that was the product of him cheating!! Oh my God! You knocked her up while we were together, you didn’t tell me about it, I see you 4 months after we break things off holding a new baby and I’m supposed to be okay with everything. And what’s sad is that I’m too damn soft hearted and I end up being your friend and your sometimes babysitter!!! If that’s not sad, I don’t know what is!?!?! Go to hell. Burn there. I’m not watching your bastard love child. Oh and PS - it’s sad beyond all reason that a 31 yr old man is going to watch his WIFE cheerlead. I guess that’s what you get when you knock up a college Sophomore. God, hasn’t she graduated yet!! Why is she still cheerleading??

#6 8:03 PM Becky

Hey girl! Just wanted to tell you how good it was to see you Saturday and that I really miss you!! You’re going to have to come out to North Carolina and see me. I know things were a little odd when I left but I think we made up for it Saturday. Call me.

What I want to say:

Oh Buddha. Look, here’s what I’ve been dying to tell you for 3 years. We’ve outgrown each other. We’re only still friends out of habit. We were friends in college and that time in our life was great. But we graduated. I went to graduate school, you started working and you changed. You changed more than any three people combined changed. And you were on my ass every second of the day about things that I really don’t care that much about. We all get that you’re reborn and all and that’s snazzy, but shoving it down our throats isn’t going to make us better Christians. Our walk with God is personal and none of your damn business. If God’s going to send me to hell for drinking once a week, then so be it. But I doubt it. Let your move to North Carolina be the natural death of something that truly died a long time ago. I still love you and hope the best for you, but we’re just too different now.

#7 8:27 PM Mrs. XXXX from the Little Rock co-op

Meghan, I know this is really last minute, but we just found out ourselves. 4 of the children you screened in October had parents respond to the conference notices. For them to count in our grant proposal they MUST be seen for therapy at least 15 minutes on or before December first. I realize that’s tomorrow. I hope that you can re-arrange your schedule to fit them in, because if they are not seen, we can not see them this year, and we would really hate for these kids to miss out on therapy just because we had some scheduling errors. I’m faxing over the names of the kids and the centers they are located in. Those centers are ones your company contracted for. Call me if you have any questions or concerns.

What I want to say:

WHAT????!!!?!?! You’re calling at 8 o’clock the night before and expecting me to work 4 hours of kids into my already full schedule and they HAVE to be seen!?!! What do you mean, you just found out!! If the parents were at the conference, then you knew then that they had to be seen!!! Why does this responsibility fall on me?? Particularly when the two centers the kids are at are 30 minutes out of my way and 15 minutes from one another. It’s going to take me 5 hours + with therapy time, travel time, etc and that’s on top of the 8 hours I already had scheduled. I’m going to have to cancel my NORMAL therapy kids to rush these in. Jesus, can’t anyone get their shit together?????? Night before! The damn night before! Are you kidding me??? But don’t worry, it will get done. I always get it all done, I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but it will get done. Bitch.

Wow, I feel better just getting that out. Even if they never hear it. Even if I could never say it.

I eliminated some of the voice-mails from the list because they are friends or work things that I have no anger towards. They’re just people doing their jobs or being friends. But these people . . . I didn’t even know I was this angry at them. I think I need a few more hours to calm down before I call any of them back.

I know you probably all think I’m off my damn rocker. Hell, I think I’m going crazy. Maybe I should call Dr. Naylor and tell him I’m having reactions to the new round of treatment. Oh God, when did this blog turn into my diary. First last night, now this. I swear and promise on all that is holy that this time tomorrow I will be back to the happy, flirtatious, dancing girl you all know and love.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Stream of Consciousness

I am not myself right now.
I don't know who or what I am, but I am not the person I know myself to be.
I can't decide right now if I want to cry, hit something or simply cease.
Just cease.
Sit down, stop breathing and stop hiding from the hurt that has been building in me.
I have NO idea what has brought this about.
I found myself on the treadmill at the gym tonight trying not to scream.
Just scream.
Scream and scream and scream until my throat was raw and my words were gone.
I still functioned.
I still hugged Matt and Brad goodnight.
I kissed Crystal's cheek and swore to call her as soon as I was home tomorrow - to go to the gym again.
I called Beachgirl back and carried on the same conversation I always carry.
But inside it felt like the wall that had protected me for years had split right down the middle.
I felt something spilling through the break.
It didn't rush, it didn't flow, it just oozed.
It was slow and aching.

I got home and tried to be normal.
I threw a CD in the disc player and cranked it up.
I did work related things and checked emails and blogs.
I ignored my ringing phone.
I couldn't stand the thought of faking speech.
Faking action is so much easier.
I just wanted to be quiet.
If I couldn't be quiet inside, I could out.

My brother came over.
I hugged him and talked as little as possible.
It wasn't that hard, he was on his own phone to his harem most of the time.
I hugged him goodbye and saw him out the door.
I locked it and collapsed.
I sat on the cold hard ground and cried until I couldn't breathe.
Then I got in the shower and cried some more.
And then I screamed.
I screamed and screamed and prayed the stereo was loud enough that my neighbors wouldn't run to check on me.

I turned off everything in the house and got in bed.
But I couldn't sleep.
I just . . hurt.

It's just hormones, it's just the drugs, it's just stress, it's just everything.
I'll be perfect in the morning.
I always am.
And I'll regret posting this.

Dance, Dance and a Dilemma

Dance, Dance

I would like Ang and True to know that I thought about them on the way to work this morning. I was listening to 93.3 The Razor (Always Rocks, Always Will) a completely kick-ass “all rock, all the time” station out of Little Rock and guess what songs came on The Rock Block?

Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard
You Shook Me All Night Long - AC/DC
Enter Sandman (One I forgot to include in party songs) - Metallica

So kids, you were on my mind.

And now for Auburn, who I engaged with conversation about our cute brothers and how we love them and do everything for them . . . but I won’t do this.

So, my brother has this bad habit of letting himself in my house.
Other than the two times I was naked walking around, this normally doesn’t bother me. However, last night I was a bit taken aback . . and embarrassed.

No, I wasn’t naked.

I was shakin’ my thang to Lo Fidelity Allstars - Battleflag. I do that a lot. Just put on a CD or the radio and dance around the house. It helps me calm down after work and traffic and the whole nine yards. Plus it makes me Hap Hap Happy. Anywho . . .so yeah, my brother walked in on me breaking it down. AND he apparently had been standing there a while because he engaged me in one of the grossest conversations ever:

“I wish I could dance. You can dance. I wish I could dance.” - the boy has a point, I don’t think he knows where his thang is, let alone how to shake it.

I’m desperately wanting to help him, but think teaching my brother how to bootie dance is a little odd. I mean, how do you teach a guy that if you can’t dance with him. And trust me, I am NOT going to back it up on my brother. Not happening. No, not never ever in a million years.

“You could take lessons or something.”
“How embarrassing! No way! What if, like, the guys found out.”
“Sweetie, most guys can’t dance. It’s not a big deal. What counts is that you’ll go out on the dance floor. But you won’t do that. Start just going out there. I promise, the girl will make you look good.”

Not gross so far . .

“I just wish I could dance. That would really make the panties wet.”

I immediately start to gag.
He’s my LITTLE brother. It doesn’t matter if he is 40, he will still be my little brother. I DO NOT want to think about my little brother getting anything .. . that three letter word that rhymes with pet.

“You’re a sicko.”
He’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. “Why does that make you gag??”
“Because that’s nasty! You’re like . . . you’re . . . you’re my damn brother!!! I don’t wanna think about you doin’ . . . that!”
Ugh, Ugh, Ugh.
Gotta vomit now. Excuse me.

However, due to our blogging about dancing and my conversation with my brother, I did something bad. I took 5 minutes out of my therapy sessions with my 4-year olds (I only have 2 that are that old) this morning and taught them how to do The Roger Rabbit and The Snake. Come on, you know those old 80's dance moves. I listed it under “Following directions, “ so, it totally counts as therapy. Right? Okay, please no one report me to Medicaid. But I’m officially the “coolest” therapist ever . . . they told me so. What’s even scarier, is I taught these kids to do it listening to Paula Abdoul. YES, I still have TAPES of Paula Abdoul. Deal with it. Nothing like “Cold Hearted Snake” to learn The Snake to. How apropos.


I got a call a few minutes ago.
From a flower shop in Conway.
Apparently, I am to call them when I get home so that they may deliver flowers.
This particular shop is my favorite!
Conway Classic Touch (shameless plug for their kick butt business).
They have beautiful home decor and jewelry and all kinds of wonderful things. I go into Classic Touch at least once a month and blow far too much money.
But who the hell would be sending me flowers??
Luckily, I know one of the guys that works there.
So I hang up, wait 5 minutes, call back and ask for Chris.

“Oh, Chris, my lovely?”
“Uh oh, this is gonna be trouble. What’s up?”
Laughing, “No trouble. No trouble at all. Promise. Just need you to check something out for me. It seems that you guys are going to be delivering to me later this afternoon. I need a detailed description of WHAT you’re delivering and preferably an idea of who sent it or what the note says.”
“Meg, can’t you just wait and see?”
Now, almost everyone that knows me is aware that unless you’re 5 years old or younger; I have no patience for you . . or for anything. Kids, I’m great with. Adults and things I want - I have this astoundingly annoying sense of immediacy that must be satisfied!
Very whiney voice (yes, I’m ashamed and abashed): “Puh-lease, Chris?? Pretty, pretty puh-lease.”
“Don’t do that, you know that gets me.”
“Then just do it, puh-lease.”

I have THREE dozen roses.
36 roses.
36 black roses ; which means they were special order.
Which means he paid a veritable butt ton for these roses.
Which means he actually listens to me because I hate almost all other roses.

Who is “he”, you ask?
Mr. Clean.
Mr. Clean has sent me 36 roses from France.
36 roses which probably cost about $300.
That’s the one thing Chris wouldn’t tell me: “I’m not telling you how much the guy spent on you! That’s just tacky! Pull it together!”
But I KNOW they’re special order.
I know because I sometimes buy black roses for myself.
Just one or two because I refuse to pay that much for anymore . . and it’s stupid to spend that much money on something that’s just going to die.
The card says simply “Can’t wait to see you when I get back.”

He’s working his ass off to redeem himself in my eyes.
Care to clue a girl in on how to handle this one????