Category: Humor



Fuck it. I bought a Frosty.

I wanted to celebrate the last few weeks of hell, the end of a painful semester, the triumph of telling the world HEY, I’M MOVING TO ANOTHER STATE and having that declaration hold me accountable.

I wanted to celebrate, but I also didn’t want to put pants on.

Wait. So I had pants on, but sweatpants. And as much as I wish I could be one of those people jauntily strolling into the grocery in my sagging boy sweatpants, I just can’t do it. So I settled for a drive-thru run at 9 p.m., a little self-celebration. I’m both shitting my pants and reeling with excitement. I think the two go hand-in-hand.

Also, why the hell are Frostys so damn drippy?

What’s worse is I decided the only way I could squitch another ounce of work out of my body was if I gave myself an end treat. Not just the Frosty, but I downloaded a ROM for my computer to talk myself into relaxing after my work was done. Pokémon Blue. Get out of town! I felt like I was 13 again, swaggin’ about the Viridian Forest with my Pokédex and 3 super undertrained pocket monsters. Whatever. I spent the last hour holed up in front of my 27″ iMac—an ingenious tool pumped up with supersonic speed processing and a brilliant retina screen to play a pixelated and anticlimactic videogame from the 90’s. This is what life has come to. (I also named rival Ash, “PISSPOT,” which had me in inevitable hysterics every time he popped up for a battle.)

To better paint the scene, ENTER a burning Yankee Christmas Tree candle and drippy Frosty lid making a mess of me. What is this?

Why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. Because it’s nearly midnight, I’m to be up in a few hours for an adventure to Asheville, NC (future dwelling locale), with some amazing people and I’m fucking giddy. And I just did about one month’s worth of work for both jobs in like one week.

But this week held some heart gushers and it made me realize why I do what I do, which nudge of the Universe to let guide me. In the meantime, I’m going to ignore the raging guilt of having eaten a Frosty and spending an hour playing Pokémon.





Wii U Naught

Wii U - Super Mario 3D World

Remember that time I pined over the Wii U? You know, lingering a little too long in the electronics aisle of every department store, calculating the cost of accessories and desired games, searching online for the best deal…? Finally, after months or more of looking longingly at the doggy in the window, I shelled out nearly $500 on the Wii U Console and some costly Nintendo paraphernalia.

“Do you think this Gamepad needs a silicone case? How about a battery charging station for the controllers? Do you think it comes with at least one controller?” I asked A, hovering over Best Buy’s colorful display of Wii U gear.

She looked at me with that whatever-you-want smile she’s so good at, and you know, I indulged. The cashier who rung me up apologized 19 times for everything from fumbling with the bag to asking to look at my debit card. He was probably 17, dreaming of one day being so lucky as to be a big kid with a job. I was already feeling guilty—the same guilt I had talked myself out of an hour before. A had a little intervention.

“Why do you feel so guilty? You work hard.”

I couldn’t argue. She was right. When I wasn’t working, I was thinking about work, worrying about work, keeping myself awake with tagline ideas and new ways to say “delicious.” This was the lifestyle I chose… no children, no house, no major traveling, no shopping spree debt, two jobs. I am good with money: I save for what I want and shop sales. Unfortunately, my school loan debt could fill a small room with one dollar bills, but.

“But what?” she would insist.

But there are people in my life that could use more money for mortgages and daycare. What about all my friends who can’t even afford health insurance (Affordable Healthcare Act or not)? What about that scruffy 50-something that stands on the triangular median at the Walmart plaza red light with a sign that reads: “War vet with 3 kids. Will work. God Bless!” (Who am I to ask what a 50, more like 60-something man is doing with 3 kids?)

After some cajoling, A made her point. Really, I’m unmarried with nothing really to call my own but the few things in my room and the car I just paid off. I don’t get to look into the eyes of my children, care for them, tie shoes, tuck anyone in. Shit. Really, all I have is maybe the enjoyment I might get out of this Wii. That will do it.

Then, I took it back.

After a night of it—Mario and Peach bopping mushroom-headed Goombas and meandering Koopa Troopas—I sat up in bed decidedly ready to go back to my un-Wii life. It was fun, I reasoned, but not fun enough to take away from the rest of my life. Not $500-and-counting fun. I started to imagine the things I could do with $500 that I wouldn’t let myself spend otherwise: a new lens for my camera, those maroon-colored trousers from American Eagle I’d been eying up, the $55 pack of metal alphabet stamps for making my Christmas gifts… hell, I could go on a small vacation! Besides all that, it was confusing. There was a screen on my controller, about 19 more directions to move, other controllers with two parts to it conjoined by a wire. Man, I’m getting old.

I spend so much time trying to fit in all the stuff I love to do, from ukulele playing to doodling to writing, that adding another (useless and distracting) item to the list seems foolish. I’ll never play it. I’ll never take the 10 minutes just to set it up to play. So I took the damn thing back, realizing what I was really craving was some unproductive fun—without feeling guilty, without looking ahead to the next item of business or errand or chore. I’m regressing, folks.

And so I spent $16 on a Logitech controller, plugged it into my computer and played some old-school Mario 3 (Nintendo) and had a blast. Albeit, I’ve been waging about 15 minutes a day here and there, which is just enough for me. And you know what? It was more fun and much less complicated than that crazy Wii U—even if you could be Mario in a cat suit crawling around on all fours.

I hope you find your relaxing, unproductive, belly filling happy place this Thanksgiving (without the guilt)! <3

In all my nightmares, I’m wearing the wrong underwear

My mouth hurts. I keep imagining the look of gums, the redness, the swollen horizon around my teeth, that pink vulnerable skin scratching against everything. Yesterday, I had one of the worst dental experiences of all my 28, nearly 29 years: it was just a cleaning and exam.

Due to my god-awful dental insurance (one of few reasons why self-employment blows), I am only able to visit a handful of dentists in the area. I had to part with my former dental gang, which—trust me—wasn’t easy. I love them. I really do. I know about their cats, their hobbies, their schooling… I’ve introduced them to things like My MilkToof, which just might be the coolest blog about clay-made teeth I’ve ever seen. Plus, they kindly humor my anxiety and kindly hook me up with dentist-goer perks like a free toothbrush and coupons for mouthwash.

I’m serious when I say that I leave Dr. D’s office with a huge smile on my face and a reminder card for my next appointment, which I’ve already scheduled. Listen. Teeth might just be everything to me.

“For a smoker, you’re really obsessive about your teeth,” said the curt hygenist that nearly scraped my gums out of my mouth yesterday.

“You have to be when you’re a smoker,” I replied.

“Or you could just quit,” was her retort. No shit.

Perhaps I didn’t think of that. Maybe she thought she was telling me some grand secret, like the time it never dawned on me just to roll up the bottoms of my pants, instead of holding them at the knees as I walked in the rain… DUH! But chances are she was just being an asshole. Sit tight. This shit gets better.

My appointment was at 12:30 in the afternoon. Now that I work from home, I can do those sorts of things. Make doctor appointments. So I was told to come in early to fill out the paperwork. When I stepped up to the counter and conversed with the woman on the other side, she smiled big into her computer screen then looked up: “You’re K’s friend it says.”

I was referred by a friend and someone had put it in the notes—hilarious. So from here, I expected special treatment. Maybe they would let me cut the line or put me in a special room—or better yet they were going to give me two toothbrushes. I was set for another six months with two toothbrushes!

“Hey guys, if you could let me know what this is going to cost me, I’d appreciate it. I have a new insurance and it’s kind of crappy…”

My bubble quickly dissipated when the other woman behind the counter, a middle-aged blonde with a romantic croak of a voice, raised her head: “OH! IS THIS THAT OBAMACARE?” (Loudly.)

I felt like someone just pulled my pants down in a crowd—only to reveal I was wearing the wrong day-of-the-week underwear. But it’s Thursday… I imagined the crowd murmuring, staring down at my two-day-old, “Tuesday,” day-of-the-week underwear.

Ok. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take offense to the “Obamacare” remarks; however, she’s not the only one with which I’ve employeed my defenses. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m getting something for nothing, or I’m cheating the government. I feel as dirty as the word “Obama” in this conservative, a-little-too-close-to-West-Virginia town.

“Umm… you mean Yeah. I pay for my own insurance. Myself.”

About two years ago, I had no real concern about the healthcare industry. Sure, make everyone healthy and happy. Why not? Give those people without insurance some damned coverage already… the important word being them. Now suddenly, I am them.

I didn’t get called back for my cleaning until 1:15, nearly an hour later, which is when I encountered the “Tasmanian Devil of dental hygienistry,” or so I’ve dubbed her to everyone else. I’m sure there is a more fitting title, something funnier: The Edward Scissorhands of Teeth Cleaning, Freddie Whiter Smile (or Else) Kruger… Anyway, she RAVAGED my mouth—probably for the sake of hurrying. I was flinching, pinching my legs, groaning with my mouth agape. Was this happening?

photo cred:

“Stay still,” she said coldly, continuing with her icepick, plaque bits hitting me in the cheeks.

Five minutes later: “You have to quit jerking. Stay still.”

After that, it felt like she was going at it harder, sadistically, and once more I was six years old being scolded with the same line over and over: Meghan. Meghan, don’t jump down the stairs. What did I say? Meghan. Don’t. Meghan Patrice… don’t jump down the stairs. Walk down those stairs. Meghan Patrice, if I have to… I swear I’m going to… (I didn’t listen as a kid—or now either, I suppose.) I actually broke my leg this way when I was five, jumping down stairs.

“It just hurts really bad,” I tried to explain to Buffy the Gum Slayer, as she vandalized my face.

“Well, I can’t do my job if your teeth are traveling all around the room.” She pulled back with a frown.

That’s when I noticed all of the blood on her blue latex gloves, my blood. I wiped the tarter sprinkles from my eyebrows, from out of my nostrils, and opened my eyes to see a bruiser of a kid, highschool aged, looking at me from a room from across the hall, half-grinning in his cut-off t-shirt. Had he witnessed the whole thing? Was he taping me with his iPhone and shooting all over the interwebs?! Why in the bloody hell didn’t she close the door?

I walked out of that room to—I supposed—another room for an x-ray or an exam with the dentist, whatever thing came next. But I followed her… to the waiting room? Again? I waited for another 20 minutes among the unaware, pre-pain-stricken souls in the large lobby, my mouth sore and tasting of blood. I never left the dentist’s feeling like that… cleanings were refreshing, pleasurable even. I left with a fresh coat of mint and silky smooth teeth that I rubbed over with my tongue for days. Really, folks, I’ve only had one cavity in my life, ONE, (humble brag) because I’m that cautious and thorough with my oral hygiene. I am so sure she didn’t need to go all Kill Bill on my gums.

Best part… ready? Finally, I get called back for the exam, where I wait for another fifteen minutes for the dentist WHO COMES IN WITH HIS CELLPHONE IN HIS HAND going, “My wife called at 12:41 and left a message… Let’s see what she has to say.” Then, he leaves the room with his phone in his ear. WHAT?!

In total, the visit took a little over two hours for a cleaning! I just want to know what kind of treatment I would have been given had I not mentioned my friend’s name. And you know what? I didn’t even get a fucking toothbrush!


I’ve been “Searching My Soul Tonight”…

Georgia: “So what makes your problems bigger than everyone else’s’?”

Ally: “They’re mine.”

I think watching this show at such a crucial point in my life has turned me into the beloved main character, Ally McBeal. Just sayin’.

Ally: I like being a mess. It’s who I am.

I have hardly admitted this trash to myself, but seeing it on the screen with a skinny-as-I’ve-always-wanted-to-be actress playing it out—I can’t ignore it.

I’m nearly typed, “This troubles me,” but stopped myself. Ha!



Getting up at 5 a.m. for the gym rarely has its immediate rewards, but on Monday as I was flipping through the channels of hideous morning TV, I caught an episode of the Golden Girls.

If there is one thing you haven’t learned from my blog of reflections and rambles… It might be my love for these ladies. The death of each Golden “Girl” felt personal, for example. I grew up watching them, but I also own every season (along with the Lifetime Intimate Portrait of each actress). It sounds like I’m bragging. Kind of.

Anyhow, it was the episode where Blanche began being friendly with Dorothy’s ex, Stan, and in turn, she and Dorothy had a bit of a blowout. At the end, the two made up in their cheesy sitcom way, but then Blanche said something pretty spot on.

I’m always using colors to describe how I’m feeling. Not sure if it’s a painter thing or just the inability to give words to emotions.
Magenta…that’s what I call it when I get that way. All kinds of feelings tumbling all over themselves. Well you know, you’re not quite blue, because you’re not really sad. And although you’re a little bit jealous, you wouldn’t say you’re green with envy. And every now and then you realize you’re kind of scared but you’d hardly call yourself yellow…I hate that feeling. Just hate it. And I hate the color magenta. That’s why I named it that. Magenta. No way to really explain it, but fortunately between friends you don’t have to.”

I suppose today I’m feeling “magenta.” But not so much in a bad way as a confused way. A little hot, a little loud, a little chaotic. I don’t know.

What color are you feeling today? Do you ever feel magenta?

Just wondering if I’m the only goofball (along with Blanche) that puts colors to feelings.


Technology: Making it easier to break your heart

It makes sense, right? Now with the forever-reach of the interwebs, breaking your own heart is not only easier, but more efficient.

Have you ever Internet-stalked your ex? Re-read your own blog from years ago? How about plotted horrendous events on your Facebook timeline?

Listen. I’m pretty good at snapping my black heart to bits all on my own. I don’t need visuals. Or the aid of some Internet spiders spinning the web of my life into a tragedy.

The gossip train just gained some ground. And practically everyone I know has a story about it.

Apparently this post has no real point. Maybe a lesson somewhere. Such as: what if we extended all of our energy only on the things in our lives that give back: jobs, friends, family, hobbies. Enough with the soul-sucking white screen of the Internet. Namely, the entranced way we end up on pages and profiles we needn’t be.

Talk about epiphanies.

Doctor’s office blues

Ah. Is there anything more obnoxious than waiting in the lobby of the doc, only to be taken into a room by a nurse, cuffed up, poked at, questioned… and then left for like 20 minutes in the small, sterile, plasticky-smelling room waiting for the doctor (i.e. your fate)?

Listen. I’m not expert on home decor or medical solace, but these posters haven’t changed since I was 18. There’s nothing glaring at me but the see-through jar of oversized Popsicle sticks, a “Cover Your Cough” poster printed out on an 8.5 x 11 and the ugly, scribbled on “What Is Your BMI?” chart reminding me, disappointingly, that I am “overweight.

So. With all of this in mind, by the time doc gets here, I’m ready to jump ship. Fuck.

To add to the glamour of this visit, coming here to switch anti-depression meds, I get asked if I want my “living will.” Hahaha. Talk about being faced with my own mortality. I say. Do not recessitate!

The sky might, indeed, be falling…

Yesterday, I told D: “I think the world is trying to kill me.”

It’s nearly the end of March and besides meeting someone lovely, 2013 hasn’t been so kind. I have come to realize, perhaps just admit aloud, that this year is just the lame sequel of 2012—and it’s getting old. An extension of the shit storm, as it stands.

I could depress myself with the tally, the list of nasties I’ve encountered thus far, but I’ll spare us all. But first, not without dump-trucking on you poor folk a brief synopsis of my weekend:

It began Friday with my work computer crashing, finding out that all is lost hard-drive-wise, and then my Gram’s passing. The weekend ended with me pulling something in my back and becoming a near-invalid, twinging on the floor.

Loss isn’t something I yet know how to process. I thought… maybe since I was hit with it early on that I’d have learned the ropes or something. But I haven’t. I wish I could describe the way it feels in a way that makes it tangible, easier to choke down in the night when it hovers above me like a wet memory. But I don’t have anything to strangle. Not yet.

There are bright things to look for—one of which being April, National Poetry Month. And guess what time it is again? Poem-a-Day Contest. I’m gearing up to get busy.

I thought it might be cool to share some poems on my blog, each day. We’ll see! Maybe form poems [not mine.]

Anyone else doing anything for National Poetry Month? If not, try it out? It’d be a great way to start writing something. Even if they’re haikus!

Wednesdays feel like hope,
sweltering and nondescript—
get over the hump.

There’s my Wednesday poem. Enjoy! hahah.. feel free to share your haiku!

Viva la Furby

Yes, I know this news is about a week-or-so old, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why it was news at all. For several reasons.

On February 21st, 2013, The Tribune Review reported that a local Pittsburgh woman was arrested for hitting her boyfriend with a Furby. Yes, kids, you heard me: a Furby. And if it’s not bad enough that this big-eyed, fuzzy-bodied robot made the news, it seems the suspect threw said toy at her boyfriend because of “a negative post he made about her on Facebook.” Not only is this laughable on its own, but please, please, please click the link and check out this woman’s mug shot. PLEASE.

I don’t know about you, but there are SO many questions I have:

A. WHY would this man find it necessary to report his girlfriend for a flying Furby?
B. WHO in the hell still owns a Furby? DID the Furby actually hurt the man?
D. WHAT could the Furby possibly have done to deserve this?

The Trib article tells us that when police arrived at ONE IN THE MORNING, the man had some red marks on his face and a small, bleeding cut that didn’t require medical attention.

Furby – 1    Stupid boyfriend – 0

I recall sitting in the waiting room for a dentist appointment when this tidbit came over the airwaves—followed closely by a disgruntled granddaughter. Apparently she was angry that her 104-year-old grandmother had to “lie” on Facebook about her age, since the digits only go up to 99, pressing Facebook founders to change this little nugget. again, more questions. But I’m not even going there. What’s the world coming to?

As a side note, Furbys have always creeped me the fuck out. I don’t know if it was the fact that it often had drowzy drugged up eyelids, or that it spoke some demonic, sing-songy language, or maybe just that it used to wake me in the middle of the night while I was trying to sleep: dee du li da.

Nobody’s safe anymore…