Thursday, February 25, 2010

I'm Sorry, I Think I Set Your Eyebrows on Fire

Scene 1: Approximately 6 p.m., Wednesday February 24. I am pacing about, twitching, and trying to keep busy. He is relaxing with a glass of pinot noir, on the internet.

He: Do you want any of this wine?

Me, opening fridge, rummaging around: No. What do you think for dinner?

A beat goes by.

He: Megan. Do. You. Want. Any. Of. This. Wine.

I slam the refrigerator door, and turn around. I do not look like me anymore. More like a fire breathing Lou Farigno in full on Hulk.


He: Are we a little frazzled today?

Me (less green, less fire): Yes. Are you hungry?

He: No. But if you are let's go ahead and eat. Whatever you want, dear.

Me: I'm not hungry, I just need to keep busy and I need something to put in my mouth.

He (lecherous eyebrows): I could help you out with that...

Me: Do you really want any part of your person anywhere near my teeth right now?

He: I rescind my offer.


Scene 2: 5:30 p.m., Thursday February 25. In the car on the way home, I am trapped by the train.

Me: Hey. Wait. I've got a new complaint. Forever something blah blah blah. Hey. Wait...Seriously? What is up with this train? Mumble, Nirvana, mumble. Seriously. This train is like a thousand miles long. They should put some kind of LIMIT on how LONG the fucking train can be. Especially if they are going to send it through the middle of fucking town at fucking rush hour. Seriously. I have been sitting here FOR-FUCKING-EVER.

I continued in that vain through Jeremy, Use Somebody, and Sabotage before I realized I was screaming obscenities at the train and people were looking at me.

Scene 3: 8:30 p.m., Thursday February 25. I am re-reading Alan Carr's Quit Smoking the Easy Way. Some of this book is quite helpful. It is helpful to think of being glad to stop smoking as opposed to constantly whining about wanting a cigarette. The idea of a positive attitude and the mantra that I do not need to smoke, and reminders about the fact that nicotine does not cure my withdrawal, but rather makes me want more nicotine, these things are helpful.

The idea that I should not use any sort of substitute, like gum or hard candy, is...stupid. So stupid that I threw the book across the room and yelled, "Screw you! I'm very super happy for you that you went from 100 to 0 cigarettes a day with NO PROBLEM. That does not make me feel awful or weak AT ALL. And I am eating this beef jerky instead of smoking a cigarette, and I think that should be OKAY. SO PUT THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT YOU SMUG ARROGANT CREEP!"


Its weird how the dogs won't come to me and he is avoiding eye contact and not making any sudden moves. I cannot imagine what everyone's problem is.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Humans are Dead

I bought these shoes. Yes, the exact shoes in that picture above. If you think they look flashy in the picture, imagine them more. More silver. More shiny. Very, very much more. In fact, they sort of make me look like some sort of human/cylon hybrid. I've had the phrase 'robot feet' stuck in my head all day, and I might have spoken in a robot voice for part of the day. Which might have been embarrassing if that might have happened in front of one of my bosses. When I tried them on last night, my husband said they made me look "special" and I'm pretty sure he didn't mean "special" like a million dollars special. More like "special needs, special services" special.


These shoes promised to totally improve my ass, legs, posture, joint health, and abs and they might have even promised to do the dishes and walk the dogs. And since I bought them directly from the sweat shop in Korea, they only cost like $20.00.

So the deal is, you just wear them. To the store, to the gym, just going about your life, and they work miracles. I figure $20.00 doesn't make me too much of marketing martyr if they don't really deliver.

But seriously, these are some freaking ugly shoes.

Monday, February 22, 2010

A Very Important Award

Maria at No One Reads the Copy gave me a very important award. I was supposed to answer these questions with one word. But whatever, I do what I want.

Plus, I quit smoking. If you ask me to follow the rules I'll probably scream at you and then cry a little and then curl up in the fetal position and sing to myself. I'd just let me do what I want. I'm pretty sure yesterday I screamed at my husband for his incessant blinking and breathing, and dear god, MUST you exist over there?!? Ahem.

1. Where is your cell phone? In my purse. Or maybe in my car. Or...somewhere.
2. Your hair? On my head. Curly. Evil.
3. Your mother? Crazy.
4. Your father? Meh.
5. Your favorite food? Donuts. I'm sure I'm supposed to say something that indicates my general sophistication and good taste. But. Donuts.
6. Your dream last night? Technicolor
7. Your favorite drink? Diet Dr. Pepper
8. Your dream/goal? Be self-employed. Run my own environmental consulting business.
9. What room are you in? Cubicle.
10. Your hobby? Reading. Yoga. Running.
11. Your fear? Homelessness.
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Mommy.
13. Where were you last night? Home.
14. Something you aren't? Fancy.
15. Muffins? Sure.
16. Wish list item? Vintage Olympus OM-1 camera.
17. Where did you grow up? Arkansas.
18. Last thing you did? Work.
19. What are you wearing? Jeans, t-shirt, jacket.
20. Your TV? Bigger than any human being needs.
21. Your pets? Wild animals. In fact, I think I need some new ones, since I have ruined these.
22. Your friends? Wild animals.
23. Your life? Rollercoaster-y.
24. Your mood? Cranky.
25. Missing someone? Probably.
26. Vehicle?Volvo
27. Something you're not wearing? Coat.
28. Your favorite store? Goodwill
29. Your favorite color? Green
30. When was the last time you laughed? Before I quit smoking, probably.
31. Last time you cried?Yesterday. During Celebrity Rehab, of all things.
32. Your best friend? 60 miles away.
33. One place that I go over and over? The Used Book Store
34. One person who emails me regularly? No one.
35. Favorite place to eat? Hanna Roo's (sushi)

Also, I think another of the rules was to tag people. Which, we already discussed asking me to follow the rules right now didn't we? DIDN'T WE?

I thought so.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Awesomest Spam I've Ever Gotten

I got this spam in my hotmail account on Valentine's Day. I am still enjoying it. Its like someone decided why not combine a rip-off e-mail with a porn e-mail? And also a little side of ego boost if you're feelin' lonely!

E-Card Message:

Megan,This is difficult for me to do because I'm shy.. but I have a crush on you. I've never been able to tell you for reasons which you would quickly identify as obvious if you knew who this was. [Hey, I can understand that. I'm shy, too.]

With that said, I want you to guess who I am, and approach me yourself.To help you out with your guessing I made a few pictures and videos with ''Megan'' written on my body. [Because you're "shy." That makes sense.]

They're kind of risque photos so I had to make a profile at CAMSPACEONLINE.COM and post them there. I made my username on the site ''MeganandME09''. [I don't think the word shy means what you think it means. Also, 09?]

(It's a free website but you might need a CC or Debit to verify your age because I had to. Sigh.) [Right. They need my credit card number to verify my AGE. Of course.]

But anyway sign up [because I don't get enough free lesbian porn and offers to increase my penis size in my inbox already.] at CAMSPACEONLINE.COM and once you are inside search for ''MeganandME09''. I want you to guess who I am and then approach me yourself. I'm shy and this is the bravest thing I've probably ever done, but you need to do the rest. [Brave enough to post naked pictures with my name on your body...not brave enough to say hi.]

Kisses, Secret Admirer? haha. Bye [I love the question mark. It's like...I am sending you a secret admirer letter, but am I really a secret admirer? Muah ha ha!]

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

It Makes No Sense...I Quit

Cigarettes are not wrapped in paper. They are wrapped in black magic. That's the only explanation.

If I'm tired, I smoke a cigarette to wake up.
If I'm amped up, I smoke a cigarette to calm down.

I smoke a cigarette to stave off hunger pangs.
I smoke a cigarette right after eating, because I'm "too full."

I am a rational, educated intelligent human being. I am fully aware of the risks of cancer, aneurism, arteriosclerosis, emphysema, bad breath, and any number of other health risks.

I feel that I "need" a cigarette, when I can offer no rational explanation for why I "need" to pay thousands of dollars to dump poisons into my body.

I smoke to help me concentrate, but I know that smoking pumps carbon monoxide into my body and actually makes it harder to concentrate.

I say that I smoke because I'm bored, but there is absolutely nothing fascinating about smoking, except maybe for the fact that I still do it and couldn't tell you why for any amount of money.

I say that I smoke because its something to do with my hands. I never needed anything to do with my hands before I started smoking.

So. I am quitting smoking as of February 19, 2002. It might get a little...depressing...around here about that time. But screw it.

I quit.

ETA: I am actually not going back into the past to quit smoking. I'm going to quit smoking in 2010. Although it would rock really hard if I COULD go back into the past to quit...maybe I'll build a time machine. That should keep me from being bored, and give me something to do with my hands. Anybody know where I can get my hands on a DeLorean?

Friday, February 12, 2010

A Valentine's Day Letter

Dear Middle-aged Homeless Men of the Greater Metropolitan Area:

Seriously? No.

However, because I am a giver, I have enclosed a list of things that will make it easier for you to pick up women:

1. Shouting "GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER" is not the best approach. The delicate flower you are desperate to shower your romantic attentions on may get the impression that she is being mugged, rather than woo-ed. She may shriek and kick you in the groin, or run away, or some combination of both. This reaction is not conducive to getting your Barry White on, and you should definitely re-think this approach.

2. Try not to approach her as she is handing out bread at the soup kitchen. This is a clear indication that you are homeless. Believe it or not, women are not all that hot to date men without homes. Try playing it a little cooler. Approach her somewhere she might not automatically assume that giving you her phone number will result in either a) you calling from prison because she's the only person you know who might be able to bail you out or b) you appearing in her home and never, ever leaving ala Gil Gundersson.

3. Everyone gets rejected and that's okay. There is someone out there for you. As most 18 year old boys and The Situation from Jersey Shore will tell you, its a numbers game. If you ask enough women one of them will say yes. But if she should reject you, do not follow her and continue to ask for her number, do not expose your genitals in an attempt to entice her, and do not tell her that it doesn't matter if she's married because marriage is not forever. These things will either frighten her or make her angry or both. Again, not the reaction you are going for.

I believe that by following these simple rules you, too, can find love for Valentine's Day. Just not with me because I am an uppity bitch, as the man living on the corner of Broadway and Gaines will tell you.

Sincerely not interested in dating the homeless,


Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Pigs EATING HAM. Its just wrong.

Some commercials piss me off to an unreasonable degree.

Have you seen the one for Burger King? The one where some random chick is sleeping and they sneak into her bedroom to prank her? The girl wakes up covered in an unknown sticky, creamy substance with a man in the creepiest mask known to humanity standing over her in the dark. Apparently, making a woman wonder if she's just been sexually assaulted is supposed to make me want a Whopper. Because nothing goes with random acts of perversion like flame broiled beef! If I ever actually ate anything at Burger King, I would totally stop eating there. In fact, it sort of makes me want to be a vegetarian for some reason.

There's one for ProActiv that makes me want to commit random acts of violence. The girl talks about how the breakout of pimples on her face takes the joy out of her life. Really. I mean, REALLY?! Am I supposed to be taking my face that seriously? Because honestly? I don't even remember the last time I LOOKED AT my face, let alone how much breakout was on my face (I know its there, I just don't feel the need to study the EXTENT of it. Because...seriously, do people care that much?) Maybe my face has been totally ruining my life for years now, and I didn't even know it. How much more joyful would my wedding or completing my master's degree have been if it weren't for my face? Damn you, Face.

The one of the frakkin' dirty pigs eating HAM in a restaurant makes me nearly incoherent with rage. I don't even know WHAT they are trying to sell me. I just know PIGS ...blerg, rarrr, argghhh DIRTY mother-, HAM rawr growl ASSHOLES.

These particular commercials make me so angry my husband will automatically change the channel. I know that means he just wants me to rant about them and scream at the t.v. and maybe scare the dogs a little again, because that never gets old. I'm pretty sure its his very favorite thing because he likes how my voice sounds just like Minnie Mouse on helium when I'm angry. And I think we can all agree that that is very, very sexy.

I don't know if the irrational anger means I need some kind of outlet for pent up rage or if maybe I just watch way too much t.v. Probably that second one.

But seriously. The DIRTY PIGS are eating HAM.


Monday, February 8, 2010

I Blame the Baptists

My family is not particularly religious, although I do have an uncle who is a Southern Baptist minister. By the time I came along my mother was already pretty disillusioned with church, but she enrolled me in a Baptist school and sent me to my uncle's church. This is important, because I don't know if the Baptist church caused me to be the anxiety riddled woman I am today, or if it just gave me a LOT of really convenient things to pin my anxiety to (I know, it should be 'to which to pin my anxiety' or somesuch, but I'm from the South. We end our sentences in prepositions while we're fixin' to feed the livestock, or whatever).

When I was 5 I was introduced to the whole 'ask Jesus to save you so you don't go to hell' concept. So I asked Jesus to save me. Ten times a day, because I had a little tic where I had to say things or do things a certain number of times. Generally the magic number was three, but I was pretty terrified about that going to hell thing, so it seemed like ten was better.

When I was 10, anytime I came home and no one else was there I would become terrified that the "Rapture" had happened (if you don't know about the "Rapture," that's a whole other post) and I had somehow messed up and was the only one that was left behind. With the Antichrist. Who was somehow related to Disney and Proctor and Gamble.

I had an obsessive fear about my mother sitting on a tack at work. I think this came from that song they made us sing that had a line about how if the devil didn't like it, he could sit on a tack. I forget what "it" was. Oh, wait, it was the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Reading this, you can tell I was REALLY joyful, right?

I was afraid the dog would end up poking an eye out, which I can't make the Baptists' fault, but I would really, really like it to be their fault. Someone get on that for me, would you?

I was worried that the people I loved were going to hell. I was pretty determined to keep that from happening, except whoops, that's pretty arrogant isn't it, and then I would be worried that I was going to hell. Also, just in the interest of full disclosure, this fear prompted me to pass out tracts with my church in front of the horse racing track in my hometown when I was 12. The same horse racing track my mom took me to once a year to watch the horses. The same horse racing track that I loved...looking back on it, I'm probably going to hell for the sheer hypocrisy of that. Or maybe just for passing out poorly edited tracts to unsuspecting tourists. Dear God.

Wow. Maybe I really am the Baptist church's fault after all.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

I Don't Think I Understand the Rules of This Game

We literally have this conversation at least once a week:

Him: I am tired of making all the decisions. You pick something for a change. (He knows what he wants, he just doesn't want to tell me).

Me: I don't care. (Truly don't care).

Him: Seriously. Italian or Mexican. I made it easy. Pick one. (This is a test. He really wants to eat one of these things. He does not want to eat the other. He just wants me to...guess? be psychic? be so in tune with him that I want what he wants? I don't know.)

Me: Either one. Whichever you want. I know you have a preference, and I don't. (Still don't care. Also very over this game that I NEVER win).

Him: Just make a damn decision. I don't have a preference. I don't care. (He is totally lying).

Me: Italian, then. (I give up.)

Him: God, no, that sounds awful. (You lose. AGAIN!)

Me: ...

Being married is so AWESOME sometimes!

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

There Must Be a Middle Ground Between Zombie and Vibrating Mass of Writhing Nerves

I've been stoned for several days.

I decided after several weeks of extreme anxiety (so! MUCH! ENERGY! Concentration of a crack addled rabbit!) to get back on my anti-anxiety pills. Sweet, sweet little white pills that make me so happy! But the doctor decided to "try something new." I hate when they do that. I've been through this whole deal before with trying to find the right dosage. Too little and you are wasting your money. Too much and you sit on the couch like a zombie, unable to feel the slightest hint of ANY kind of alarm, good or bad.

An example of overmedicated:

A couple of years ago, my husband and I decided to have the first Christmas ever at our house. On Christmas Eve, I was doing some pre-cooking. At one point, I noticed that it seemed a little warmer than it usually gets in my kitchen. The OVEN was on FIRE. Literally. And I...did not react at all. I sort of mosied around the kitchen looking for baking soda, in case it was a grease fire. And I casually mentioned to my husband, "Darling of mine, the oven is on fire." To which he did not react for several more moments. I am still looking for baking soda when he wanders into the kitchen. "I'm sorry, did you say...holy shit the kitchen's on fire!" I took several more minutes to explain to him that it wasn't the KITCHEN it was the OVEN. Meanwhile, he put out the fire in about 10 seconds. And then he made me stop taking the pill I was on at the time, and dragged me to the doctor after the holiday.

This time around, the doctor took one look at my hands (I gnaw at my cuticles when I'm nervous, which is always, so my hands are about as attractive as...uh...scabby hands) and left for a minute to go look something up. When he came back, I had restacked the magazines, arranged everything on the counter so they lined up at perfect 90 degree angles, and was in the process of putting away some loose tongue depressors. This behavior may have influenced him to write a prescription that could have felled a moose. An obese, obsessive compulsive moose. I took three days worth of the stuff and I spent hours either staring into space, or hung over and tired, what with all the staring into space I was doing.

So, now the medication is leaving my system again and I am a little overly strung. But I want to be completely free of chemicals before I go back for some more chemicals, and I'm trying to tough it out. Then I thought: Self! You have a blog now! Go talk about some of your silly anxieties and maybe you can laugh at them and then they won't be so bad! Sometimes I'm very smart.

Things I Have a Tendency to Have Panic Attacks (no, really, panic attacks) Over:

1. A meteor may randomly fall from the heavens and land on me. Where I am. Killing me and making me dead. Very dead. And the part that truly panics me, is the complete lack of control I have over this event. Or any random event. Anything could happen at anytime that could render me dead. And then where would I be? I'd be dead, that's where.

2. I fully believe that my car is invisible as long as I am in it. People cannot see me. They are going to swerve into me at 75 miles an hour and if I am not dead, I will probably wish I were.

3. Losing my teeth. Either by having them knocked out or some dread dental disease or something, I am going to be toothless. In fairness, my grandmother had to have all her teeth pulled when she was my age. She wore dentures for the rest of her life and was forever worried that my grandfather would see her without her teeth. All I'm saying is, there's some precedent there.

4. My husband leaving me, which will end in me being required to sell my body for rent and drugs. I'm fully convinced. Even though I have a job, a master's degree, and various other factors in my life that make it unlikely I will ever have to be a crack whore, I am terrified of becoming a crack whore. I don't even think I would particularly enjoy crack. I vibrate like a tuning fork on a GOOD day, I'm not sure why I would ever choose to take something that would make me MORE like this. I'm not all that dependent on my husband, either. Maybe I'd need to live somewhere cheaper, and not have cable or internet, but I'm pretty sure a divorce does not equal a crack whore in most regular math.

And this has gotten super long. So consider this the ending to the post. Next time: Yes, yes I HAVE always been this way. Interesting childhood anxieties.