The Wad on My Tail

I have these faux Juicy Couture black velour pants that Aaron gave to me a while back. His roommate Pauly (how perfect is that name for a faux seller?) sells a lot of faux stuff and as far as the real stuff goes he says, “Let’s just say, it fell off the back of a truck.” Riiight. Anyway, these particular pants are just wonderful. Comfy as can be. The only problem is they can gather in such a way you feel like you are wearing a diaper. Price you pay for faux Juicy I suppose. Not really a big deal. No hole in the crotch or anything. So, the other day I was wearing these pants and knowing their bunching ability, I just wasn’t all that baffled when it felt like I had a Huggies on. I went to readjust only to find a big wad of toilet paper stuck in my pants. Now, how this happened…I am just not sure. But I have to confess, it isn’t the first time.
We've all had toilet paper stuck to our foot at one point or another and blushed when we realized we had been walking around like a little bit of an idiot. So, when I was at a party after senior year of high school and this nice, young lady approached me and said, “Excuse me but, umm, you have toilet paper hanging out of your jeans” I automatically looked at my feet. And then her words sank in..."out your jeans." Shit. It’s like I was in elementary school all over again, and I tattle taled on a fellow classmate. Did your masochistic teachers tape tp to your butt if you tattle “tailed” on someone? I can’t believe my teachers got away with that! Well, I must be my own worst enemy with all the toilet paper I am sticking to my own ass.
The moral of this short “tail” is this:
1. don’t tattle
2. check your behind before leaving the loo

**Update**
Apparently, it is not common for teachers to tape toilet paper to your wee elementary school butt when you tattle tale on a peer.

Tiny Pieces

My heart is on the floor in tiny, tiny pieces. I suppose I could attempt to assemble it back together with some Elmer’s glue. Or maybe I could just sniff the glue. Or, did they make that shit safe now so kids have to resort to inhaling feces and shit (a little redundant)? http://abcnews.go.com/Health/Drugs/Story?id=3834092&page=1
No matter, I’m lazy on all fronts and it doesn’t help that I am a recovering alcoholic. Well, I drank like an alcoholic last night with some Brits (those across the pond would drink the pond if you called it a margarita and added some salt) and I’m recovering from it. If Dr Golden actually knew how much I drink when I go out, I do think he’d faint. I really don’t understand this “just one drink or two a week” business. What the hell’s the point of that? Talk about empty calories. At least when you drink a substantial amount you are getting your calories worth. Those are not empty calories but “God! This is fun!” calories as far as I’m concerned. It’s the morning after that’s empty. The moral hangovers are the worst. Like the time in college when alcohol told me it would be ok to go home with some guy only to wake up and not know who the hell he was in the first place. “Um, hi guy. Can you scoot over and cover your eyes while I find some of my things. I’m Megan by the way.” And then you want him to drive you home, get the hell out, because, well, he is a damn stranger, only to have him tell you he can’t drive his car because he’s still drunk. WTF? I told him I would drive me home but I was still technically drunk too. Turns out it wouldn’t have been a big deal if he didn’t have a breathalyzer attached to his steering wheel that he had to breathe into before the car would start. Guess it’s better than that ankle jail some people are confined to. But that morning was awkward having to hang out with-dude I still don’t know your name-until one of us sobered up enough drive. It’s enough to make you want to start drinking all over again.
Anyway, work hard, play hard. You play very hard with your Kettle One and Soda and you work very hard with the toilet the next morning. You win some, you lose some. Touche you might say.
But none of this is why my heart is in pieces on the floor adding to an already unbearably messy room.
Aaron dumped my ass. To be fair, he did say I wasn’t the problem but that he wanted, needed to focus on himself. Be independent. He doesn’t know what the future holds. Blah, blah, blah. That’s all I heard once I realized he was leaving me. His face was blurry from my tears and I can only assume I was as sad as Steve Martin in The Jerk when he realizes he’s actually not black but white with no rhythm. All I could do was focus on this poster of Kanye West on the subway. It was an ad selling tablets that will turn you into Kanye West. There was a before and after picture. Before it was a white, balding dude and after it was Kanye! I was so angry Aaron was ruining a potentially hilarious moment by denying that he needed me anymore. I was making eye contact with poster Kanye while Aaron was blah, blah, blahing. He was sorry he asked me over to fuck the previous night. Blah. He should have realized it was going to hurt me. Blah. He told me I was special. Blah.
Then his stop came before mine. He hugged me goodbye and I was still crying while the homeless man across from me was spread out across the seats with his hand down his pants moving it around.
I wished I had just put my own hand down my own pants the night before instead of jetting to Brooklyn for what turned out to be a last fuck. Not love making. A fuck. I should have gotten paid actually.
Life moves on, they say. Time heals all wounds, they also say. Well I say, what about now? What do you do when you realize all your pajamas are his t-shirts and boxers? What do you do when you reach over to hug him at night and your arm falls onto the stupid mattress? What the hell do you do when you feel like you might not actually mind if the traffic doesn’t stop for the pedestrian that is you? And what do you do when you are not sure you love yourself enough to do it all alone?
I tell myself I must go through the motions of life. I must get up in the morning when the alarm goes off at 6:20am. I must go to work and respond with smiles and make small talk and get things done. I must put on my running shoes and dirty sports bra for a necessary jog. I must shower. I must go to bed (or at least lie there). And then I must wake up. And do it all over again. I must not call him or contact him at all because he doesn’t deserve me anymore. He may change his mind. He may realize I’m the best thing since cheese. But, and this is where it gets really, really tough, he may not. Either way, I’m enough for me. One day, I’ll believe it too. I am enough for me.
Until then, I’m just doing the motions folks.

God Speed and The Holy Ghost

The two things you need for weight loss. Oh, and that motivational song Highway to the Danger Zone.

Josh has a License to Rock

I may or may not see this guy Josh Groban all over the place. I really want to meet Josh. I want him to critique my voice and give me a license to rock like him (When I finally meet him, I have picked out to sing the beautiful aria Arielle performs in the Little Mermaid...Part of Your World I believe it's called). My mom loves him too. She always tells me I should love him like she does. I hope she is not a cougar like Stifler's mom. That's gross. Emily's mom and Oprah love him as well. He can rest assured that he is loved. He looks really cool in that picture, right? Like Bob Dylan meets Michael Jackson if you ask me. (Hope that's pleather he's wearing so no animals were killed in the making of my blog!)

Lessons Learned Too Late

I dated a guy named Adam once. He was named after Eve's husband and not that old adage, "Up and Adam!" I loved saying to him "Up and Adam!" He never got the "up" part as he always stayed in bed but he never failed to glance my way...WHICH MEANS he got the "Adam" part right!
Then today my friend Nikki IM'd me that Lori is going to the birthday party tonight. See, our friend Lori has yet to debut her new nose to the world! She just got it last Thursday. But Nikki informed me that Lori was, "Up and at 'em". "Up and at 'em?" All that is holy. It clicked right away. It immediately felt like I had just found my mom's missing ice cream cone (my mom misplaced her ice cream cone one day in 1994 and made me look for it before admitting she possibly had eaten the whole thing). Sometime a long time ago, people must have been saying, "Get up and get at them!" Then it shortened down like "totally" has simply become "totes" and "Mother I'd like to Fuck" is better known as (aka!) "MILF". "Up and Adam" never did make much sense to me anyway. HOWEVER, I cannot say the same for "Wind Sheild Factor". You probably know it better as the "Wind Chill Factor". But how many times has your mother said, "Up and Adam!" and you rubbed your booger laden eyes and touched the window to find out just how cold it was outside before embarking on your day? You my friend, were checking the "Wind Sheild Factor".

The Spectacle with My Spectacles

When I was 14 I had $125 to my name. It was a lot of money at the time (it is a lot of money now). I did not go to the corner store and spend it on 125 cokes. I did not go to Contempo Casual and buy 8 baby tees. I did not buy one huge mum for my Homecoming date. I did not give the money to Amy to give to Mike (who had a fake ID) to buy 20 cases of beer. I did have my mom drop me off at the mall and walked myself right into Lenscrafters. I bought the best tortoise shell oval frames I could find for my money. And when I put that fine pair of specs on I knew it was the first time I could really see. People were looking at me and I knew what they were thinking, "What a smart young gal." Parents would look at my mother and think, "My kid beat up your honor student." Teachers would give me the benefit of the doubt and scooch my grade up just a hint. I was smart folks and I looked it.

I loved pushing my glasses back to act as a headband. So casual. So cool. So smart! Lost your contact??? Just let me slide on down my glasses and I'll find it! I can see. I have glasses.
My best friend Stacey and I were dropped off at the Galleria one Saturday after a Bar Mitzvah. We were browsing the GAP when a nice, older lady came up to me and said, "Uh oh honey. Looks like ya lost a lens there." I smiled and feigned shock. "Oh shoot it must have just fallen out. Thanks. Where did that sucker go?" I put my fingers to my lenses. I touched my right eye. Damn. No protection. I took my glasses off and looked for the missing lens. I retraced my steps throughout the store and turned up nothing. I felt lost. I felt blind.

Now, you might be thinking, "Poor Megan. She probably would have been able to find the lens if she had her lenses to see! The irony. The despair." And you would be right. And you would be wrong. I folded my hollow glasses up and put them into their case. It was goodbye and I knew it. Who knows when that lens popped out? I sure didn't. I was way too lazy to go buy more lenses. I was way too poor to buy another pair of glasses. And I was way lucky I had 20/20 vision.