Wednesday, January 27, 2010

I'm Not A Disney Princess. As Far As You Know.

When I was 15, a deer followed me home. My mom, my stepsister, and my stepfather and I lived behind the back of beyond at this time, on a fish hatchery. Wildlife was not an oddity, and animals have always loved me. So it didn't strike me as all that strange that a deer would follow me home. No, I am not a Disney Princess. But apparently I'm about as smart as one.

I let the deer into the house. Please don't ask me why, because I'm not very clear on the answer to that one. I imagine it was a combination of I was stupid and my stepsister saying, "That's so cool! See if it will follow you in! We could have a pet deer!" Perhaps we had confused a deer with a dog. We were not confused for long.

Ways a DOG is Different From a DEER:

1. I have never been punched in the head by a dog. I HAVE been punched in the head by a deer.

2. A dog will not kick you in the stomach. A deer will kick you in the stomach, the knee, and anywhere else it can land a kick.

3. When you pet a dog, the dog will enjoy it, generally. When you pet a deer, it will try to bite your hand off.

4. A deer has hooves. A dog does not have hooves.

5. When your mom discovers you have let a dog in the house, she will be moderately irritated and give you a stern mom face while she makes you take it back outside. When your mom discovers you have let a deer in the house, she will scream for a very long time. Also, you may have to pay for things that were damaged. And you might not want to try to leave your room for awhile.

I learned these lessons the hard way so that you don't have to. You're welcome.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


Last March my car was totaled when I was rear ended by a truck and shoved up the back end of a bus (insert your own "that's what she said" joke here). In order for the insurance company to give me cash money to get a new car, I had to turn over the title to them. Which I had conveniently stored in a different dimension where I could not find it. So, I had to go to the DMV. I waited in line for about 10 million years and finally got to the front. This is when the bored girl at the counter indifferently informed me that I couldn't have the title, because the bank had the title. I would have to pay off the car note first. Now, there was not and never was a loan for this car. It was paid for outright. But because I am insane, I spent about 30 seconds staring at the girl thining, "Jesus, how has this car not been repossessed? I haven't made a payment in 4 years...oh, right."

Me: There is no loan on this car.

Bored girl: Uh-huh.

Me: I paid for this car outright 4 years ago. Never once have I made a payment on a loan. I think I would know.

Bored girl: Says in the computer.
Me: And yet...

Bored girl: Says right here. Greg has a loan on this car.

Me(definitely not Greg): ...I don't see how that is at all possible. I do not know anyone named Greg, nor would I let them take a loan out on MY car. I don't even think you can DO that.

Bored girl: But you are Greg. Greg.

Me (still not Greg, but beginning to wonder if maybe I AM Greg): No. No, I do not think I am Greg. I was not Greg when I came in here. I've been waiting a long time, but I do not think I have been waiting long enough to turn into a Greg.

So she stares at me, and I stare back at her. My eyebrows have disappeared nearly into my hairline, and I am seriously considering either screaming and pulling my own hair or beating my head against her counter. Seconds are ticking by.

Bored girl: Are you sure you aren't Greg?

I guess at this point, the woman at the next desk (who must have been working DMV for awhile, based on how quickly she moved once she got a peak at my face) steps in and takes care of everything in less than 5 seconds.

It turns out, I was right. I am not, in fact, Greg.

And I only had to go back to the DMV 3 more times before everything was finally worked out!

Thursday, January 21, 2010

People Live in Large Trash Piles. This Disturbs Me. But Not in a Look Away Way.

I am addicted to "Hoarders." Which probably makes me some kind of creepy peeping Tom type, but, hey, that's okay. I am who I am. I love me. Or its not really like being a creepy peeper at all because no one gets naked and I don't get all hot and bothered by people living in large mounds of trash. So, I'm a peeper, just not a creepy one. Or something. What was I talking about?

Oh. I really enjoy that show on A & E. Hoarders. I find it fascinating that people freak out over throwing out garbage. I mean, I get not throwing out Great great grandma's china, or some collection that you spent eleventy million dollars on. But the rotted food? The empty beer bottle that's just another Budweiser bottle? Mounds and mounds of paper that you will never need? That is so totally the opposite of the way I am that I find it fascinating.

In my house, if you like something, it better damn well have a place and STAY in the place or I will throw it out. Or donate it. Not because I hate you or anything, but because the clutter is suffocating me and clearly you don't care about it because you just left it laying around on the kitchen counter. Seriously, I cannot deal with your STUFF being LOOSE all the time. So it went to Goodwill, get over it. I am very busy scrubbing this counter with bleach for the 100th time.

In conclusion, I like Hoarders because I am nosy and because I don't get the compulsion. I do not like stuff. You should probably shop at my local Goodwill because many very nice things that were not put away have been taken there.

The End.

Monday, January 18, 2010


I know that if all my towels match perfectly, then everything in my life will be perfect.
I know that if all of my dishes match perfectly and are stored exactly right, and I have everything stored neatly in plastic containers with pretty labels, that if my clothes are exactly right and my hair is perfect then my life will be perfect, and will look like a life straight out of Martha Stewart Living or Real Simple.

Unfortunately, my towels don't match (I'm lucky if they don't have holes in them), my dishes don't match, my clothes don't say about me what Stacy and Clinton say my clothes should say about me (I fail at external personality application! FAIL!), and my hair is seriously a mess (I haven't caught the small woodland creatures that clearly nest in it yet, but I WILL. Oh, but I will. God help them when I do).

But I have a mountain of debt from attempting to achieve this perfect life that I know can be mine for the bargain price of 19.99 per item.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

You Wish You Were Married to Me

"If you need to be that wrapped in blankets we need to turn the heat up."

"I turned it down. It's hot in all these blankets."

"I'm going to be sorry I asked this, but what? That makes no sense."

"I need all of the blankets because of serial killers and that creepy ghost thing Carnie Wilson saw floating above her bed."


"You know. Wilson Phillips. Hooooold on, for one more day..."

"And that's why you need 3 blankets?"

"So the serial killers and the creepy evil ghost can't get me."

"And blankets protect you from these things?"

"How do you not know this? The entire world knows that blankets protect you from possession by evil spirits. Also from axe murderers."

"Megan. Its a blanket. Not a magical force field of protection."

"You say potato, I say, if that's the way you feel about it, give me your blanket and we'll just see who survives until morning."

"I'm refilling your prescription tomorrow. And I'm turning up the heat."

Monday, January 11, 2010

Graceful Like a Gazelle

At lunch today I decided to do big girl shopping. For real clothes in a department store. Typically, I am intimidated by department stores. The price tags scare me and the mannequins are creepy and sometimes what I think is a mannequin turns out to be a salesperson. I can feel the fluorescent lights sucking my soul out through the top of my head and there are just too many choices.

But I put on my big girl panties and decided, "Hey, I'm 27. Its time to behave as an adult and do adult shopping."

So I was browsing, feeling pretty cool, I was doing well, I was blending in, they truly thought I belonged there...ha! I had fooled them!

And then I walked face first into a display shelf and knocked 8,000 pairs of little girls boots into the aisle.

Evil Genius

Just in case you ever need to be able to recognize the face of pure evil. This is Sunny. She enjoys long torture sessions involving poop breath and she farts pure sulfur. Her 5-Year Plan is global domination, and she has enlisted a minion to do her evil bidding while maintaining her appearance of purity.

We purchased her from a woman who billed her business as "Ren's House of Puppy Babies." If that doesn't sound like a place that spawned a hellbeast with evil plans, I don't know what does.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

If He Doesn't Have Buyers Remorse, He's Crazier Than I Am

My husband knew about my OCD before we were married. He didn't really believe me, I don't think, until we were living together. I think he thought I was telling him I was obsessive compulsive the way most people say it, like they are such perfectionists or neat freaks they say they are OCD. And then we moved in together. I was on an anxiety trip, and I started what I call "binge cleaning." Organizing, scrubbing, throwing things away, in a loop. I finish all the assigned tasks and start all over again. Normally, I clean and move on, but when I'm anxious it gets a little out of control. Anyway, I really didn't think anything of it. Okay, so he caught me cleaning the toilet at 3 a.m. because there was no way I could sleep thinking about what might be growing in the toilet that I cleaned about 4 hours ago. Its not like he caught me snorting blow off a dead hookers belly, or something. So I didn't think anything of it. I calmed down and stopped the "binge cleaning" and never really thought about his reaction. Several weeks later we were talking to someone who mentioned, jokingly, "Oh, I'm so OCD, I can't stand my counters to be cluttered. Haha." My husband (look, can we agree to call him Mr. Blonde? Because I like Reservoir Dogs, and he's blonde, and it seems easier). So, Mr. Blonde looks at the person and says, "Are you as terrifying as my wife when she's cleaning?" He was serious. Now, every time I get like that he moves far, far out of my way.
So, a couple of years later that show Obsessed comes out on A&E. I like to watch it. I don't pull out my hair or check my front door 30,000 times or have to walk an exact number of steps everywhere or anything, but the underlying causes and feelings are the same. They can't stop thinking about it. If they don't do it, something bad will happen. The magical thinking and the complete inability to control your own thoughts. And we were watching this one girl who was terrified she would horribly murder someone. And I was like, "I get that." And Mr. Blonde is all, "WHAT?!" I told him, I don't have recurring thoughts of commiting atrocities on other people, but when I was younger (before drugs) I would get obsessed with sharp things. I had a phobia of them, because the obsessive thoughts were about some accident occurring and someone being stabbed in the eye. Which is still disturbing to think about, but was especially disturbing when I could not turn the thoughts off. I have a lot of things that are still like that. I have learned to control the thoughts more than I could as a child. I've learned about exposure therapy, which is effective for me. Some things I just don't worry about. Who cares if the dresser drawers have to be closed exactly right for me to sleep? It doesn't hurt me or anyone else to make sure they are properly closed before sleeping. It is important to control the thoughts about driving my car off the side of the interstate on the way home from work or compulsion to exercise or not eat.
Anyway, my point is, I told you I was crazy before you married me. Its not my fault you didn't believe me, and now you are stuck with me, muahahah.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

The Zombies Will Definitely Get Me

I'm not sure why the History Channel insists on continually rotating specials about the end of the world. I'm not sure why I watch them. Like I don't have enough to worry about? Now I have to worry the sun is going to go supernova or we're going to be invaded by aliens or all the nuclear reactors will spontaneously combust and the ice caps will melt and we'll all drown or go through an ice age or something? I can't survive an ice age. I hate the cold.
Although, the sudden death might be best. If Apocalypse Man is right, we will all be living in 28 Days Later. I definitely cannot rappel up a bridge using a tow rope and a tire iron. I forget why he says I would have to do that, I just know that there is no way in hell its gonna happen. Also, I don't feel entirely confident in my ability to defend my chosen hospital generator from attacking zombies. I've never been in a fist fight in my life. I don't do well in wrestling matches with my husband. I was raised in the south. I am way too polite to punch a ravening zombie in the face or anything like that. I am good at running, but then I would lose my hospital generator and this is important for some reason.
Maybe I can somehow befriend the zombies and use them as a sort of slave labor force to rebuild civilization with myself as supreme ruler of everything interesting. But how do you befriend a zombie? That is the kind of thing I need to know before the apocalypse. Not how to make fire out of my shoestrings and a blade of grass, but how to convince the zombies to do it for me.

In Which I Fail at the Internet, and Contemplate Exactly Nothing

Geez. This first post is too much pressure. Where do I want to go with this? What do I have to say? Do I want to write something thoughtful, introspective, luminous, beautiful? Eh. Maybe I want to write something funny? What if I'm not funny? Then people will mock me and I will fail the internet. My life will be ruined and I'll have to turn tricks for crack on the street. I don't think I'd make a very good crack whore...I don't even want to take off my clothes in the shower. So let's just accept that this first post is going to suck like a Baptist virgin, and let it go.
I ran out of anxiety medication a couple days ago and my brain is racing like a hummingbird on meth, anyway. Which makes me think of that phrase people use. The one about being comfortable in your own skin. This phrase puzzles me. Right now I'm not particularly comfortable in my own skin. Its trying to crawl away and it doesn't fit right. But I don't think I would be more comfortable in anyone else's skin. That phrase is sort of psychotic right? Like, Buffalo Bill psychotic.
I suppose I could introduce myself. I live in the south. I am a lapsed Baptist. I have anxiety and mild OCD. I have a master's degree in environmental science, and I work for the only republican environmental company in the United States. In fact, I work for the only environmental company where none of the higher ups believe in global warming or recycling, and they all voted for W and McCain. I've been married for four years. In total, we've been together for almost 10 years. I am likely to be hit on by homeless men at any given time. I'm not entirely sure what this says about me, but I'm pretty sure it says something. Crazy people love me and they can find me anywhere. My husband refuses to go out in public with me anymore because we are almost always accosted by strangers who want to tell me their life stories. This is a trait I inherited from my mother. In college, my husband had a roommate who seemed quiet, sweet, a little nerdy. The day he moved in I came over to see my husband (who was my boyfriend, then). The roommate stood in the doorway to the suite for 2 hours telling me about how he was gay but no one knew. He'd been raped by a man with AIDS who shot his cousin. And he had a hole in his heart. Interesting side note, he disappeared for two weeks half way through the semester. A strange man appeared at the dorm and banged on the door to their room for 10 minutes, shouting the roommates name. The roommate reappeared at 3 a.m. one morning and moved all of his stuff out.
I'm pretty sure a minor version of the 10 plagues is being re-enacted in my house. I mentioned the OCD, so please be reassured my house is clean. We have had fleas (I finally got rid of them, not before threatening to burn the house down, salt the earth, and start over somewhere else). We had a rat fall into the heater. It fell through the stovepipe into the actual furnace. Where it proceeded to die and deprive us of heat. We are overrun with palmetto bugs. If you don't know what that is, picture a roach, multiply it by 100 and give it wings. Giant mutant roaches that FLY and are completely NOT AFRAID OF HUMANS. This is an abomination. I am pretty sure they are sent straight from the pits of hell to torture me. And even though they are evil in a hard crunchy shell, I cannot bring myself to kill them. Sometimes the dogs kill them, but mostly the dogs dump them on their backs where they play dead until I try to clean them up. We have had ants, which lived in the dishwasher. Now candlemoths, which came from a bag of organic rice from the farmer's market. I know they came from that rice because I cooked that rice before I knew they were in there. Then I taste tested the rice. Then I noticed the worms. I cannot ever eat white rice again. These things are ridiculous, and when you kill them you look ridiculous. I am looking at my husband right now. His eyes are crossed and his arms are straight out from his body, and he is randomly slapping his palms together. He looks like a mentally challenged seal. Then there were some more rodents, and I am a little afraid of what is coming next. But since I am off my meds, I'm sure I can come up with something awful...snakes? Bats? Wolverines? Badgers?