Why is My Life Not a Telanovela?

I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but I have an inherent inability to leave a room gracefully. I honestly don’t know why I am so bad at it, but whenever I think I’m in the clear I usually run into the side of a table or can’t get the door open. Sometimes (this is a rare occurrence, something usually goes wrong before this point) I get completely out of the door, only to not notice the step, and fall flat on my face in front of passer-bys outside my dorm. This has happened at least three times this semester.

Is this real life?

Today, I managed the incredible feat (hah, feet) of pulling my own chair out from under me. Honestly, I have no idea. 

One particular day last winter, I was walking to class in heeled boots, feeling self-satisfied and generally too pulled-together for my own good, and decided to take a shortcut down some stairs. 

What I Expected.

Only, half way down I pulled a classic me and tripped on a patch of black ice. The action of me falling down the stairs, in front of a huge line pre-meds trying to get into their organic chemistry lecture, can only be described as herping the derp . 

What I got. (Well, minus the legs. Mine are not that nice.)

 Also, not one of those shits came over to see if I was okay. I’m glad no one in that line is going to pursue a career in making people feel better.

Oh. Wait.

Anyways, obviously I’m not really that great with hand-limb coordination. Which brings to me the actual story:

This summer I worked as an editorial intern at a fashion website in New York. Which is to say, I called Mary Kate and Ashley lazy hobos, and all my co-workers got mad at me. On the street where I worked there were enough organic food places to appease all of Portland, Oregon, and I was getting entirely too bored with eating things that were both good for my body and mean to my meager wallet. The golden arches of McDonalds were calling to me in all of their cheap, greasy deliciousness, and I wanted nothing more than to spend three dollars on questionable chicken.

Too real

The problem was that no one else in the office had ever brought back McDonalds. One time, someone brought back Chinese food, and everyone glared at her for at least an hour. But one day, something amazing happened. I walked back into the office after lunch break and the artery-hardening aroma of French fries hit me. There sat my boss, happily munching his McDonalds fries and burger, and that was all the permission I needed. The next day, I practically killed some tourist on the street to get my French fries, and self-righteously carried my prize back to the office. When I got there, a half-naked Brazilian model named Fernando was waiting for me.

Trust me, this does not end well. 

Possibly how my face looked at this point.

First, I dropped my McDonalds bag. Which was already embarrassing just because of how much more I know Fernando exercises than I do (abs people, abs). Then I leaned over to pick it up. Then, everything imaginable fell out of my pockets. Legitimately, it was like the Neverending Story of pockets. At this point I had two options: Sit on the floor in the midst of my broken dreams, or pull myself together and slink away under a desk and die. Instead, I sat at my desk, writing a snarky post about dicks (Anthony Weiner was a thing back then, children), and trying not to cry into my French fries. 

IN PEACE, I SAY!

Fernando spent the next four hours in Armani underwear, a bowtie, and glasses.

Stop that.

Here, Let Me Google That For You

 

Hey lovelies, I know it’s been a while, but I have Internet access and that shit is distracting.  I would show you a screen shot of the amount of tabs I have open but I’m lazy and that’s sort of weird, so no.

Speaking of weird, I inexplicably have a Twitter, and let me just say – some bizarre stuff happens on Twitter. Kanye West, mostly. But specifically, I am now being followed by someone with the username “Cat_Owners”. I have no idea why these things happen to me.

Someone actually took the time to make this.

The worst part about Twitter is that if I venture beyond the cozy circle of comedians, sci-fi writers, and accounts for random Internet memes (even though the account for Big Ben just says “gong,” I still think we’ve made a palpable connection) that I’ve created for myself, NO ONE CAN SPELL. When half of the trending hashtags manage to be both racist and misspelled, all I want to do is curl up in a little ball and have Big Ben hold me. #thingsblackfolkscarredof was both scary and scarring.

So majestic.

The spelling thing is unendingly frustrating, and unfortunately not sequestered in the quasi-dead space of Twitter. No, my friends, despite that little dotted red line kindly provided by your advanced and new-fangled Internet browser-contraption, words like “wierd,” “experiance,” and “relevent” are a staple of the average Facebook newsfeed perusal (I hope you all appreciate these examples because I’ve had to auto-correct them back to these mangled states at least three times each – see how easy it is to spell things correctly, people?). 

This is serious business.

When I encounter these atrocities, for the most part, my eye simply twitches a little and I go on with my day. But what REALLY irks me is when the word-mangler in question misspells something, and then, as if this makes it all better, puts a cute little  “(sp?)” after said offender. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU DO YOU NOT SEE THE GOOGLE SEARCH BAR IN THE UPPER RIGHT HAND OF YOUR BROWSER?

I don't know why people think I'm an angry person.

Alternately, apparently “daiquiri” is in the top 100 most often misspelled words which is both entirely understandably and weirdly frequent for a word like daiquiri.

They never buy a girl mozzarella sticks.

There's Something I Need to Get Out of My Hair...

It’s been a while guys. I kindly waited until all of you were done with finals so that I wasn’t the cause of major grade-droppage due to unseemly amounts of procrastination brought on by a new Liz Lemon Anonymous blog post.

 More believably, my absence may have had something to do with the fact that Netflix (God? Same entity?) answered my prayers and in a very be-careful-what-you-wish-for fashion put all of the seasons of Say Yes To The Dress on Instant Play the week of all four of my finals. 

My taste preferences CREATED this unseemly thing

I swear to god, if this TV addiction keeps up I’m going to need to get a fairy godmother in here to slap some sense into me. Or Intervention. Which would sort of defeat the purpose of curing my TV addiction, but would still be sort of cool. 

You are in no place to judge, you are in the animated Thumbelia movie.

It got so bad that I even considered staying up to watch the Royal Wedding live. Then I reminded myself that most of the wedding would be filmed behind Prince William and I realized that nothing, not even an Alexander McQueen wedding dress, would be titillating enough to make me voluntarily wake up at 4 am to watch premature balding in action. 

Harry is just so obviously the cooler son.

Premature balding is forgivable, mostly because no one really chooses to look like a molting bird that early (how about NEVER), but there are some manscaping decisions that honestly leave me reverse-salivating (it evokes a sense of “I just threw up a little in my mouth. No, really.”).

Facial hair: it does bad things to hot people. Sad Jack agrees. He also wants to let us all know, "WE HAVE TO GO BACK."

I have already declared war on the soul patch, but really, unless you’re Santa Claus, legitimately a lumberjack (who makes me pancakes), or Freddie Mercury, I have a hard time A-OKing anything more than some tastefully kept 5 o’clock shadow. 

Yes you were, Mr. Mercury. The root of all of my accidental gay man crushes.

To sum up, men with facial hair who are not in one of the previously aforementioned categories, or are not in facial hair competitions (which are obviously discounted since they make SCULPTURES out of their HAIR),  are on a similar level in my mind to people who talk incessantly about doing yoga. 

That is a moose. A MOOSE. WHAT.

No, I do not want to see your new Namaste tattoo or your patchy, rodent-attacked excuse for a beard. Just…no. Now excuse me while I go watch reruns of 30 Rock and quietly mouth the words to all of the lines, like the adjusted, successful human being that I am.

Update: After seeing X-Men first class this weekend, I can say with much certainty, that the following picture is the correct way to do everything. But specifically, facial hair.

You guys can make me comfortable any day.

Moar Fassbender/X-Men love: The Similarities Between X-Men: First Class and Inglourious Basterds

Christmas Cake

So I have this bizarre obsession with weddings, and I’m going to admit right now that it even creeps me out a little. First, I’d like to note that I’m not at all interested in the marriage or lovey-dovey aspect of weddings (ignore that I just seriously used the word lovey-dovey in a sentence).  I’m at that pseudo-thoughtful college-student stage in my life where I’m like, “I don’t even know if I beliiieeevve in marriage… mehhh, I’m a sociology major, I’m so sensitive to the realistic expectations of romantic relaaationnnshiiipps” (direct quote, guys).

                                          "Guys, Mean Girls is so relevant to Simmel's theory about the dyad!"                                                              "Stop trying to make Sociology happen, MEGAN"

Mostly, I’m just hopelessly in love with the reality television aspect of weddings. On a recent episode of 30 Rock, Jack tells Liz to “go home, have a glass of wine and watch a show about wedding cake disasters,” and I honestly paused the video right there and went to see if Say Yes to the Dress was streaming on TLC’s website (They make you buy that shit on iTunes, conniving bastards). 

You can't not like this show.

On a related note, Anthropologie recently put out a line of wedding dresses and I want nothing more than to buy their $300 satin, mustard-yellow slingbacks and pair them with this dress and that humongous, head-eating flower and call it a day:

I was going to go the veil route...but this is nice?

I know that they are evil corporate monsters masquerading as a friendly vintage clothing store, but I just can’t resist. Their wedding website offers style advice, second opinions, and reassurance, guys. Do you think I can call them to talk about stuff other than weddings? Because I’m stressing about finals, and I could have really used them the other day when I accidentally lit those pork buns on fire in my microwave (note to self: microwaving for 10 min does NOT equal steaming for 10 minutes). 

An equally genius idea.

On the other side of the wedding thing, in the last few months, a puppy-litter worth of my friends, acquaintances, and people from high school who I am Facebook friends with but actually just secretly judge for their recent forays into body art have suddenly (often INEXPLICABLY) gotten engaged. 

I’ve responded to this with what I believe is a healthy mixture of excitement, disgust, and a feeling similar to eating a lot of funnel cake and then riding a rollercoaster (note: I have not been able to even smell funnel cake now without experiencing this feeling. Thank you, Chicago Loop). For the most part this stems from an irrational fear of a phenomenon that Japan calls Leftover Christmas Cake. You’d think that the dual pros of being from Japan and having to do with leftover dessert would mean this is a good thing. You’d be wrong.

“Leftover Christmas Cake” (no relation to funnel cake, although they incite similar feelings of nausea and self-loathing), to put it simply, refers to unmarried women over 25. Because apparently, once you’ve reached 25, no one wants to eat your Christmas cake. Your figurative Christmas cake. You get the point.  

Dear Japan: I think you are confused about what Christmas is. Also, feminism.

Anyways, I have about 5 more years before I become leftover - and i'm totally fine with that. In fact, I am looking forward to it. But good LORD do I not want to spend my time as Leftover Christmas Cake without the company of all my other Christmas Caker friends. So stop getting married you guys, because marriage leads to babies and me having a quarter-lifer crisis, which are two things that I do not regularly think happy thoughts about.  Also, I really want to be a cougar one time. That would be cool. 

Gameplan: This should not be yours

I just want a broomstick...

You guys, I don’t think you realize how much I despise exercise. I recently went to my yearly check-up, and under the “exercise” section, I wrote, “daily walking (up and down stairs).” I guess this is implying that some completely able, college-aged women may not partake in walking somewhere daily (to the fridge? Eh? Eh?).  Which is ridiculous and obviously I am a complete failure at something even Snooki does relatively well.

And this is not a recent development. Last summer, I ran into my elementary school P.E. coach. When he asked me whether I kept up with my exercise, instead of answering him, I blurted out something about how he looked much better since he shaved that stupid soul patch. (Side note: Soul patches? Never a good facial hair decision. Never a good decision, PERIOD). 

Soulpatch is displeased? How about, I am displeased!

The exercise thing wouldn’t be a real problem in the short term if I were not completely obsessed with food. Particularly food that involves butter. I was once sitting next to a kid on a plane from Boston to LA who both loved Los Angeles and hated butter. For the rest of the flight I tried not to make eye contact. (Side note two: Los Angeles is a terrible city full of people who like to exercise SO MUCH MORE than the rest of us. In particular, and most importantly, me.)

She is Rafiki, bringer of butter. Do not question this.

One time, I decided to take it upon myself to exercise at least once a week. I even enlisted the help of a friend. Our interaction was as follows:

Me: “Hey Lily, you want to go to the gym with me sometime?”

Lily: “Yeah, sure.”

And that was the last time we ever spoke of it.

I have realized as of late that the only way to confront this problem of mine is to embrace my laziness – with brooms. Harry Potter brooms. How much better would life be if, instead of walking to class in various types of inclement weather, you just flew there? I get that there are these things called cars, but cars are scary and metal and cost money (I am a 13 year old, this has already been established).

IT COULD HAPPEN

Plus, everyone likes Harry Potter, and if you don’t, we’re probably not friends and you’re probably not reading this (I accept the fact that my blog is only frequented by my friends who feel bad for me, it’s all good).

Oliver Wood: Played by the illustrious Sean Biggerstaff. Ridiculously relevant to this image.

I was discussing this with a friend of mine while attending a Wizard Wrock concert (Identity withheld because of the subject matter. Namely Wizard Wrock), and this conversation ensued:

Friend: “I would want to be in Gryffindor, but I’d probably end up in Ravenclaw”

Me: “Yeaaaaah. I’d want to be in Ravenclaw, so I’d definitely be a Hufflepuff”

You say that now, magical Jesus, but you'd totally be in Hufflepuff.

Look at your life, look at your choices. What house are you in? Also, if you’re an orphan, your life is exponentially more interesting than the mundane lives of children with intact, nuclear families. Do not fret, dear readers! If you’re not an orphan, as long as one of your parents is dead or incognito, you can totally be a Disney Princess. Don’t even worry about it. 

So do I Cedric, so do I.

In conclusion, I’m a dork and I honestly do not know how I am not severely overweight. I am definitely keeling over at 35.

P.S. Friends who are at or above the threshhold for nerdy movie preferences,  if you haven't already, check out the movies on this list. They are going to be so cool. I am fangasming. 

I Swear I'm Not a Cat Lady

For the past month or so, I have been inundated with Lolcats, funny cat videos, and wallposts involving all things cats, sent to me by friend, relatives, and acquaintances, to the point of saturation. For some reason I have become that person. The one that you default to when you find something hilarious involving cats that you are too ashamed to post on anyone else's facebook wall for fear of being publicly shamed. Guys: I AM NOT A CAT LADY. The lolcat thing was a phase, A PHASE I say!

Seriously. I mean, obviously cats are better than dogs, and yes I totally have one in my dorm room illegally, but it’s not as if I would like to cram ten plus cats into any sort of living space and actually be pleased with myself. My slight OCD would never allow me to do this. Not that I want to do that. No really guys. I don’t. 

This manages to both prove my respective points, and refute them

So with that out of the way, I would like to point out that there is a distinction between cat ladies and people who own cats. If you haven’t already guessed, I am in the second category.  So is Mark Twain. He wrote, “when a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.” You can’t argue with Mark Twain. He is exponentially cooler than you. 

Mark Twain, being cooler than you

Plus, I have loads of other interests.Yes, most of them are shamefully unmentionable (i.e. musical theater), but still - they exist. For your reading pleasure, here is a list of things I am more interested than cats:

1.     The Oscar telecast

2.     Streaming content on Netflix

3.     Snacks

4.   Sarcasm

5.     Occasional human interaction that may or may not include the previous four things

I realize this does not make me a healthy person. It DOES, however, prove that I am not a cat lady. YES IT DOES. Do not argue with my infallible logic. Here is a picture of Sad Keanu:

There is nothing strange about this picture.

 

 

Changing the subject gracefully (a word rarely used to describe me without the use of intense sarcasm), if you were wondering how my fateful return flight from New Orleans Spring Break 2011 went (you weren't, I know), I slept through most of it, despite the gargling baby-thing behind me. I swear, that child was only a few notes off from a spot-on Sméagol impression.  Scary stuff. Perhaps because of this, I had some weird dreams. One of them might have been about infiltrating Mordor on our plane (to be fair, there was a lot of turbulence, and one does not simply fly into Mordor). 

In the spirit of tolerance, here is a picture of a dog, with an obligatory LOTR reference.

The real excitement stemmed from the fact that, at 9 a.m. that day, I received an automated call from a certain airline informing me my flight had been canceled. Of course, there was a 1 hour wait to reach a customer service rep, the .jpg that I had to select to reschedule my flight was glitching on the website, and I had woken up three hours before my normally-accepted weekend "awake time" for the expressed purpose of having a delicious, relaxing, last-day brunch in NOLA before I departed. 

Accurate representation of my face at this point

Deciding on the "haters-gonna-hate" approach, I went to that damn breakfast, ordered some goddamn salmon with eggs, followed by bananas foster, and got down to some serious business. After having sufficiently championed that breakfast, I eventually got to the airport, rescheduled my flight, and after a series of mishaps and delayed flights, arrived 6 hours late into Providence airport, at 2 a.m.

I am now safely back home in my dorm, and in a very not-cat lady-esque way, am writing this with my cat sleeping next to me. He is in no way using force to get me to write this blog post in which to convince you all that I am not a psychotic cat owner, and is certainly not plotting to take over the world, one post at a time.

I wish I was this important

Keep Calm, Move Along

The one thing one should ALWAYS keep in mind when flying to Orlando is to never, ever fly to Orlando. EVER.

Yes, our pilot was totally hot (no, I did not pull a Liz Lemon and stage a mutiny – but I was THIS close), and my exit row seat provided me three more glorious inches than usual, but the entire plane, the ENTIRE PLANE was full to the brim with prepubescent bundles of absolute terror all jumping in their seats in expectation for Disney World. I don’t think I have ever experienced as much hate towards Mickey Mouse as I did for those last four hours.

http://sirmitchell.tumblr.com/ - Check him, yo.

And you know what? I was totally fine with that. Peachy, in fact. They were strapped in – what possible harm, apart from a little seat-kicking, could they get up to? No, it was the parents I worried about. And I was right to worry. OH, was I right.

The entirety of our flight was narrated by a born-and-raised Rhode Island woman who punctuated her furious texting with an occasional gum smack and a running commentary of EVERYTHING that was happening out the window AT ALL times. After a particularly bumpy bout of turbulence, said woman literally repeated at LEAST once every five minutes that “it was like the ground fell out from under me,” to which I almost snarkily replied that it had, indeed, fallen out from under her upon take-off. Also, that amazingly the rest of had us felt the same thing she did, and did not need her to re-remind us that we were traveling at high speeds in a small, enclosed container, in mid-air with HER.

Artistic rendition of this woman. And by artistic, I mean this is a picture of Snooki. Use your imagination.

Her main concern, apart from making sure we all knew the blow-by-blow of her titillating plane experience, was the lack of sunshine in Orlando needed to “get her tan on,” and regulating her young child’s music selection. This is how, after I had finally managed to get some sleep, I was lulled awake by the dulcet tones of “I’m a Slave 4 U” (spelling: Britney can has it?).

An approximation of my hair at this point in the story

Okay, guys, I admit – I love Britney as much as the next ‘90s child. Yet there is something that is fundamentally wrong to me about playing this music, sans headphones, on a four-hour plane full of children under the age of ten. I dunno, that’s just my opinion on the matter.

Another of my opinions got me in a little more trouble, as the plane was coasting to a stop and “I’m a Slave 4” My Tan STANDS UP while the plane is STILL MOVING, yanks her kid up, and is confused as to why the entire row in front of her, in unison, tell her to “SIT (the f***k) DOWN.” Not to be deterred, this woman has the nerve to bad-talk me as I grab my bag from the overhead compartment and get off in front of her, despite actually BEING in front of her. In fact, she attempts to pretend I have hit her child. 

Meth is like parenthood: it does things to people. Specifically, it does Steve Buscemi to people.

Lady, I am this close to hitting something else. Just try me.

Moral of the story? Avoid children on planes. Because, and you’ll know this if you’ve ever been to a kiddie soccer game, the higher the parent to square foot ratio is, the more inexplicably ridiculous the insanity becomes.You just gotta:

OHAI, I like Star Wars. OMFG Star Wars. ALL day ERRY day.

Star Destroyer? I Hardly Know Her!

There was a lot of judgmental badger face happening this weekend. Mostly on my face. Mostly due to the Star Wars Holiday Special. Caveat: you may not have heard of it. Because George Lucas attempted to find and destroy all remaining copies. It's that bad.

Badger, badger, badger, badger. MUSHROOM.

I’d like to compare the opening ten minutes of this atrocity to the first thirty minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey, as they both involve large expanses of time in which large, furry mammals talk to each other sans subtitles, and I couldn’t really give a shit. The nice part about 2001 is that halfway through we get a break from the weird prehistoric trip. Star Wars Holiday Special? Not so kind.

I’m going to skip over most of it, as I choose to do of my middle school years, because it is honestly too awful for simple summary. All I am going to say are that the highlights include the musical talents (in descending order) of Jefferson Starship, Carrie Fischer and this crazy-ass lady:

Please appreciate that I got this from the website www.toplessrobot.com

It pains me to say it, but the best part of the whole thing was the animated sequence with Bobba Fett. He appears, fittingly, riding on top of a gigantic dinosaur. I’m going to let that mull over a little bit in your mind while I make jokes about how much coke Carrie Fischer and gang did in the ‘80s and how George Lucas’s body “Fett”  (yeah, I went there) has increased significantly after the passage of such a noble decade. Coincidence? I think not.

Also, observe this artistic rendition of Han Solo and just TRY to tell me there wasn’t something else going on there:

It disturbs me how happy they are with their tiny cartoon lives.

Crack is wack guys. That said, if they had gotten Whitney Houston to sing their original song, I don’t think they’d be in this mess in the first place.

I may have actually had a separate, unrelated discussion about the theoretical sign for carbonite this weekend, but I’m not a total Star Wars nerd, you guys, I promise.

To prove it, last night I also watched, in quick succession, Swan Princess, Land Before Time, AND Anastasia. Admittedly, that sounded much more impressive, and less immature in my head.

For a minute, put aside the fact that I have the maturity level of a thirteen year old boy of questionable sexuality. Believe me when I say that Land Before Time really does stand the test of time. I can definitely see why my mother was more positive toward me watching that movie over and over as opposed to my other cinematically genius choices (Princess Diaries, Fern Gully, Swan Princess II, etc.). Also, baby dinosaurs are far superior to baby humans. Uncontested fact.

Why was Robin Williams even in this movie?

In more serious, world news, here’s  a picture of an old Japanese man being rescued from Tsunami/Earth Shake (yeaaaah, Land Before Time jargon):

Rescue Efforts: Japan Does them Cuter

Donate to Japan if you ever want your iPad 2 to ship. And also if you generally consider yourself capable of empathy.

Baby Sitting

I know this makes me, in the words of Jack Donahue,  “negative, pessimistic, and in danger of becoming permanently sour,” but there’s something about Liz Lemon – and frankly, most people – that I honestly just don’t get. 

That’s right: babies. What the heck is up with babies?  They are terrifying creatures. Have you ever had someone pass a baby to you, as if there is some inherent female instinct that knows exactly how to hold a squirmy, drooling, incompetent tiny human? Because I think I accidentally slept through that lecture. Seriously, people? Would you turn on a chainsaw and then deftly hand it off to an innocent bystander? Okay, babies do not equal chainsaws, but still. NOT COOL.

Stop that.

I would post a picture of me uncomfortably holding a baby, but only one of those exists in all of human kind  (it also includes me uncomfortably dealing with my teens – hell-O braces) and has thankfully not been introduced to digital form yet. 

Here is a picture of me holding a cat. Because cats deal with their shit all by themselves.

Another thing that has always baffled me is the persistence of the myth that babies smell like lilies or some crap. Some crap is right. Babies smell terrible, even if baby power smells awesome. Sure, they smell great after a bath… but so do I, and I have hair and can carry on a conversation about 30 Rock with you. Not sure how those last two things were relevant, but just go with it.

You might be thinking, “But Megan, you too were once a child!” First of all, stop thinking as though you’re having a conversation with me, that’s totally weird. Secondly, even as a baby I liked adults better, proving my theory that the state of baby-dom is one of absolute wrongness.

I was recently having a conversation with a few girlfriends of mine about this very topic. We all went around the circle talking about our siblings and whether we wanted kids. The conversation went a little like this:

“I think I want two kids…”

“I definitely want four kids, I always wanted to have more siblings….”

“rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb….” (this conversation became less and less pertinent to my interests)

“Zero kids is too many kids” (that was me, can you tell?)

Until we got to this absolute gem, from my illustrious friend, Liz: “Shit guys, I just want a car…”

And then I realized. I needed to prioritize my life. Because cars are much more important than babies (why have a baby, if only to buy an annoying sticker for your minivan that says “Baby On Board”?). I need to stop hating on babies so much and start loving cars a lot more. Because babies don’t have built-in seat warmers.

Unless you sat on them.

Don’t do that. 

Thank god I will never have to worry about this.