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.

Greg

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!

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.

Compelled

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.

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."

"Who?"

"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."

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.