2015 Was A Thing That Happened

And here we are, folks: my final post of 2015. I’m really happy I accomplished my resolution and did one post a week the whole year. Yay for writing a lot of words about me!

There are so many differences between me now and me last January. For starters, my first blog post was from a swanky hotel room in Hawaii overlooking the ocean. My last post is coming to you from my little sister’s old (very pink) bedroom. I’ve obviously grown a lot.

This year, I turned twenty-two, graduated college, moved to LA, entered graduate school, and cut my hair short. I felt like my life was laid out perfectly in front of me, and then I figured out I was wrong about that. A few times. I changed my mind a lot. I made a few snap decisions. I took a few of those back. I decided I could drink whiskey on the rocks. I was right about that.

Graduating college was, weirdly enough, one of the hardest things I’ve done. In the months since, I’ve learned not to apologize for having such a hard time with that transition. It sucked. I knew this time last year that it was going to suck. I knew it sucked graduation weekend. I knew it sucked right after. It still sucks. It sucks less, but it still sucks. Say “suck” again; suck. Losing that security blanket was really tough: I still have a hard time with the concept that my friends don’t live a few blocks away from me anymore. And probably never will again. God, this got depressing really fast.

I had to do a lot of growing up that I was pretty adamantly against. But I pay rent without any reminders now. I also live by myself in a big city; though, that’ll change soon. The point is: changes were made. And I hate change. So that was stuff that happened to me.

Boys were different this year (or, rather, my relationship with them was different). I don’t think it got any better or worse necessarily, but it was definitely different. Not necessarily more or less mature, either. Just… different. So we can leave that alone.

This past week of non-stop family time forced me to reflect on where I am and where I’m going (“So, Megan, what’s happening with you? What are your plans? Lay everything out for us! We’re five five glasses of wine in! We’re gonna ask you the same questions tomorrow!”). A few months ago, I was pretty solid with my answers to those questions. And then, you know, I wasn’t.

As this year progressed, I learned a lot about myself and who/where I want to be in life. As that vision of myself came along, I got more and more confused: mostly because that vision didn’t incorporate what I was in school for. Since September, I’ve been struggling with the idea of my career. I started to have a lot of doubts about Marriage and Family Therapy after learning more and more about the profession. It took a lot of back and forth, a lot of research, a lot of self-doubt, tears, scrambling, self-actualizing moments, and job applications, but as of the beginning of this month, I’m no longer enrolled in the MFT Program at USC. I’m taking a hiatus to explore other career options. So far, I’m really liking the options I have. That’s all I’ll say on that.

In a few months, I hope to move in with Steph and Lauren (and the dog, of course). I realized that living alone isn’t for me either. I’ve enjoyed the freedom, but it’s incredibly isolating if you let it be; and I’m letting it. I’m really excited about this change: the apartments we’re looking at are fantastic. Plus, both Steph and Lauren are basically professional chefs. And the dog. And they’re cool with me getting a cat, which will definitely be happening in 2016. I love these two: I guess *~*sIsTeRhOoD*~* is a weird, post-grad thing too? I feel like AGD HQ would be proud.

I have a feeling 2016 will bring just as many changes as 2015. I won’t graduate from college again, but I’ve got some new milestones to look forward to: turning twenty-three in a little over a month, watching some of my friends turn TWENTY-FOUR, moving (again), coming to terms with being a full year out of undergrad, working full time, the cat, probably dyeing my hair a few more times, who knows. It’ll be the first full year of my adult life. I get to keep remembering to pay rent.

I leave NorCal for LA tonight and I feel both happy and sad about it. The meaning of “home” has morphed like crazy throughout the past four years, and I feel like I’ll be going back to a whole new LA after all of the life decisions I’ve made. I’m excited for all of the new adventures I have planned in the next few months and the prospect of a new job. The “New Year, New Me” thing is super big for me this year, if you couldn’t tell. With all of these engagements and baby announcements, I felt like I should probably step up my own “big change” game. That’s a career change for me, by the way. No engagement or babies here for a while. Just thought I’d make that known.

Thank you to everyone’s support this year: the blog really needed it. Even if you don’t support it, whatever, you’re reading it, so you’re supporting it. Got you. HAHAHA THANKS. I’ve enjoyed putting my thoughts/feelings out there this year, even if you haven’t enjoyed reading them. Depending on what I end up doing professionally, I may or may not keep the blog going. For now, this will be my last post. If I start it up again, it’ll be pretty obvious. But for now, I’m going to focus on work and some outside writing projects. But fear not, I’ll always be writing something, and I’ll let you know ASAP when you can read whatever that might be.

I hope everyone had a fantastic holiday. I hope you have super bomb plans for New Years. If you don’t, New Years plans are overrated. Make a resolution, or don’t. Follow through, or don’t. I feel like being happy with yourself is that real thing people should strive for. New Years can be a good reminder of that. I know that everyone feels like it’s overrated, but why bash something that makes people feel fresh and new again? We’ve had a lot of tragedy this year, why not wipe the slate clean and feel like anything is possible? I don’t know. I’m not a therapist. But you know, I have a lot of opinions.

Thanks for the love. Have a happy and safe New Year, and I’ll see you kids on the other side.

As I once said, “If I had to describe my people with music festivals; my Little is kind of more ‘Stagecoach,’ my Big is more ‘Outside Lands,’ and I’m more ‘listen to the Shrek soundtrack alone.'”

-Megan

Ice Ice BB

Plot twist: snow. Snow everywhere around me. I’ve done a 180 from the usual LA weather and it’s been snowing in Tahoe pretty consistently since we arrived last night. It’s insane, guys, I feel like I’m in the winter desktop stock photo. My family is slightly most accustomed to being in Tahoe during the summer, so this is a pretty big deal for us. This morning, I realized that I’d never actually seen snow fall. I’ve seen snow on the ground, sure, but I’m never around/conscious when it’s falling. And somehow I’ve met the Jonas Brothers three times.

This last week was a scramble to get everything done, but hey, I did it. I did all the shopping I needed to do and unplugged all the electronics in my apartment so you can imagine just how amped I was feeling when I got to LAX two hours early, buzzed quickly/efficiently through bag check and security, and boarded my flight calm, cool, and collected–Starbucks in hand. But the universe saw all of this and said, “yeah I’m uncomfortable with her being comfortable.”

I waited and waited and waited at baggage claim, but my luggage did not arrive. Everyone else from my flight had long since been picked up when I shuffled over to the help desk and calmly explained that my bag hadn’t arrived. The lady made me double check–still had not appeared on the carousel–then wrote up an incident report. I told her I had to come back to the airport in a few hours to pick up my brother, and she told me that it was probably on the next flight out of LA. When I returned for my brother at midnight, the bag still had not arrived. I’d called and checked maybe five times between 8pm and 12am, and nothing.

On my last call (after picking up my brother) I asked if there might be a way to track the bag, you know, to make sure it wasn’t on it’s way to Belgium without me. The lady was gone for a few seconds, then popped back on the phone to tell me that yes, they tracked the bag, and that TSA simply hadn’t taken it off my plane. My bag had gone on to Spokane, where they’d set it aside to be sent back to Oakland on the first flight out in the morning. Like it was that simple. Long story short, I didn’t get my bag until 3pm the next day, and I had to wear my sisters clothes to all the events that Camille had planned for us. Oh, Extra Smalls, how you taunted me. But whatever, I got all my stuff back before Tahoe, and that’s all I really cared about. Plus, Camille, Gina, and I went out on Saturday and I got to cut people in line for bar service so it all ended up fantastic for me.

But alas, the universe was not done with me.

Yesterday morning, we were up quickly, packed all three cars tightly, then started on our way to Tahoe for Christmas. We made like 49 stops (approximately), but eventually, we reached the snow. I was riding with my brother in his car, and there had been some concerns about chains for the car. We didn’t know if Scott would be pulled over and turned away for not having them, but we talked to some road assistance guys, and they assured us that policy was for trucks. Scott’s car is a stick-shift and it’s all-wheel drive with all-weather tires, so we were feeling pretty good. Until we started the descent into Tahoe. It was snowing, which hadn’t been a problem yet, but all of a sudden, when the breaks were required, something weird happened and we started sliding. My anxiety was already acting up quite a bit, so it wasn’t the best time to hydroplane (heavy traffic, snow fall, my baby brother at the wheel) so we pulled over.

My mom pulled her car over in front of us and noted that our tires were coated in snow. Then a highway patrol officer pulled over and told us the same thing (but I could tell, his motives were a little less “concern for us” and more “you cannot be pulled over here, damn kids.”) Long story short: my first ride in a tow truck. Scott and I hoped our driver would be worldly and full of stories. He ended up being a military brat with a powerful mustache and an approaching retirement. So… sort of what we wanted? We met the rest of the family at a gas station, wherein it took us forty-five minutes to figure out what to do. My brother and dad drove his car around the block like seventy times to test it out. Then, after the seventy-first time, they decided to take off and do the last thirty minutes of our trip with my brother’s maybe-damaged-maybe-not-we-still-don’t-totally-know car. And guess what? Two cars remaining. My mom, my sister, and my grandparents were left. It was dark. It was snowing. My mom turned to me and said, “you’re gonna have to drive.” Full. Blown. Panic. Attack.

You guys know my weird driving thing. As in, you know I have one. Familiar roads aren’t a problem, but living in LA has made me so anxious/marred for life against every other person behind the wheel of a car within a mile of me. Now add in snow, darkness, and unfamiliar territory, and you have what I like to call “Megan’s Little Winding Road of Horrors (And Also Anxiety).” What’s super awesome is that no one in my family totally understands my anxiety–least of all, my little sister, who’s exact words were: “don’t be afraid.”

“Annie, it doesn’t really work like that. This isn’t a rational emotion. Telling me not to be afraid is like telling someone with a headache to stop having a headache.”

“Fine. Whatever. Then I won’t even talk to you at all.”

So, you know, I had to have myself a five minute tear-fest while my mom gathered my grandparents (warm and content inside the convenient store; unaware of the storm of raw emotion brewing in the car outside). After asking me if I was okay to do it eight or nine times (“Oma can drive if you really really can’t” Yeah you know what I’m gonna let my eighty-year-old grandmother drive in the snow in the dark after she had trouble driving the usual route from her house to ours just yesterday. I’m gonna be that guy) I pulled myself together and got in the driver’s seat. My mom drive our big car and I drove my grandparents’ Lexus (the same make and model that I learned to drive in, so a little less terrifying. My sister (previous attitude officially checked at the door) rode along with me and kept me busy/happy by thinking up every theme song to every show we used to watch as kids and singing them with me. I must say, trying to remember how the theme song to Drake and Josh starts was about the perfect distraction from my constant belief that I was going to go a little too fast around a turn, hydroplane, crash, and kill us both.

Careful, careful… stay straight…

“It’s like, there’s that ‘PICKIN’ YOU UP WHEN YOU’RE DOOOOOWN’ part but I feel like that’s at the end??”

You literally cannot afford to make a mistake here, Megan.

“We could just sing the “WOOOoooo, woooo” part over and over again???”

Mom slow down I cannot keep up with you and I will probably faint if we get separated.

“Like… “shneh nehhh, shneh nehneh neh MIIIIIIIIND???”

THERE ARE TOO MANY DAMN EMBANKMENTS IN THIS DAMN TOWN I AM GOING TO DIE TONIGHT

“Let’s just sing the Phineas and Ferb one again!!!!”

As you can guess, we made it, safe and sound. Of course, that also meant I got a bunch of “atta-girls” and “knew-you-could-do-its” from my family, which is so much fun when you’re twenty-two and just drove for seven miles. So lots of wine with dinner.

Today has been lovely: relaxing and picturesque. I’m writing this post from the bottom floor of our cabin and staring out the window at an essential white-out. A graceful, peaceful white-out. Nothing like the office supply white out that’s messy and doesn’t always cover everything its supposed to.

We’ll be skiing and sledding the whole week–they’ll be skiing, I’ll be sledding*–and spending Christmas in the snow for the first time ever. We’re waiting on my aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive tomorrow, and then we’ll truly have the whole gang. I brought Clue: The Office Edition. It’s gonna get interesting up in here.

My next post will be my last post of the year. I can’t believe I’ve almost fulfilled my 2015 resolution. Next Monday, my last post will wrap up the year and explain what my 2016 plans are. I haven’t been super forthcoming with those in the blog yet, so I guess it makes sense to introduce them and then peace out.

I don’t think I’ll be doing the “post every week” deal next year, but I’m going to make a final decision about that this week, seeing as there’s some things coming up that’ll influence my choice.

I hope you’re having a great holiday, no matter what you celebrate/if you celebrate any particular thing. Stay safe and well-fed, my friends.

*In this case, “sledding” actually means “rolling slowly, barrel-style, down a small slope. This is my winter specialty.

As Carrie Fisher once said, “Someone said they thought of me every day from when they were 12 to when they were 22, and I said ‘Every day?’ and they said, ‘Well, 4 times a day.’ […] I went, ‘Ugh… thank you.'”

-Megan

Being Present With Presents

Hey what’s up hello, children of the internet. We’re halfway through December, it’s been a year since I was in Hawaii, and I’m not in college anymore. That’s where we’re at right now.

I have been trying to formulate my general “Christmas present plan-of-attack” for almost a month now, and I’m still only about halfway through my list. My mom, ever the planner / professional mother for twenty-three Christmases, has gotten all of her shopping done by now. She’s sitting pretty on her pedestal. Then there’s me: a planner, yes, but an idealist–and that has been my downfall. I get it in my head that I’m going to have time & money enough to put together these elaborate gifts for my family, and then I remember that I still need to pay for groceries and gas. Also, I’m struggling to find stuff for the boys in my life, as I do every year. Thank God there’s no boyfriend to shop for this year! One less thing to worry about, am I right, ladies???

I know what you’re thinking: “Megan, shouldn’t you have put more effort into finding presents for everyone, I don’t know… sooner? Like Black Friday? Or Cyber Monday? Because it’s December 14th and you’re flying home on Friday so…”

First of all, that’s very judgmental of you and you should feel bad. Second of all, don’t you think I have a great excuse? Don’t you think there’s probably a really good reason why I’m only halfway done with my shopping? Don’t you feel terrible making assumptions? Yeah. I bet. And as punishment, you don’t even get to hear my reasoning so, take that, Scrooge.

Normally, my solution to this dilemma is to do a crazy amount of online shopping. I can search for awesome stuff, order it from wherever, and have it waiting for me outside my front door in a few days. I’m glad I clarified: I know a lot of you probably don’t know how online shopping works. So there you go, and you didn’t even have to purchase the DVD or self-help book.

However, this year, I live in an apartment. Apparently, that makes things 49% harder, shipping-wise. In the last two months, I’ve had so many different shipping/delivery debacles simply because of the building number and apartment number in my address. Some websites straight-up don’t recognize them, and I cannot order anything. Others disregard the building number and only focus on the apartment number: a problem, because there are five buildings in my complex, and each has one apartment with the same number as mine. I’m pretty sure the holiday dress and the new yoga mat I ordered are with some feisty young couple three buildings over: sitting in the corner, watching as the scream at each other with all of the windows open so that the entire complex can understand the trust issues Julie thinks Corey has.

So, not going to trust my family’s gifts to that whole process.

Another problem: I live in Los Angeles, where there are more people than I’ve ever wanted to see in one place ever. Especially during this, the holiday season. What’s worse is that I live in West Hollywood near the Grove, which is one of those shopping places that tourists flock to in droves. If driving was a nightmare before, it’s a full-on night terror now. I’ve heard my Uber drivers say / scream things I never thought possible. Mom; for reference, think of that time we went to the mall on December 23rd to pick up “one quick thing,” and had to spend an hour finding a spot, two hours to get in, find the store, find the thing, and wait in line, and then another hour to get out. All that, but times five. Also, without the Bay Area suburb cheeriness.

So you see my problem.

I can handle the crowds, don’t get me wrong, it’s mostly the constant terror of being behind the wheel in this madhouse. I’m at the point where I want to pay to ride on someone’s handlebars, middle school style. That’s what I used to be terrified of. And now, in the adult world, it’s this. CH-CH-CH-CH-CHANGESSSSS.

I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll be able to get some shopping done in Orange County, or some super last-minute stuff back in the Bay. The Simpsons have decided that it’s about time we had a white Christmas (snow-wise, that is. Our Christmases have always been pretty Anglo-Saxon) so we’re jetting off to Lake Tahoe for the holiday. Scott, if your present from me is a bunch of pinecones “for decoration in your new house,” just have a little sympathy, will you? I’m trying here.

As Noel Wells once said, “sometimes i get upset when people drive show in traffic but then i’m like what if this is gods plan”

-Megan

No Post Today

I realize this sort of counts as a post, but in terms of my usual activity, I will not be posting today. I won’t sugar-coat it: this week has been awful. After all of the terrible things happening around the world and in my own backyard, the ignorance and hatefulness I’ve seen from politicians and people I know, and a tragedy in my own circle, I can’t bring myself to be funny or reflective. Let’s work to make this week a better one for all human beings.

-Megan

TGivin’ Bruh

Happy Monday, Millennials! (And Mom and Oma)

After another week of jetting around the western side of the United States, I’ve finally landed back in LA for an extended period of time (three weeks) to finish up the semester and honestly go to Disneyland a lot.

Being home for Thanksgiving was a treat, and not just because it made me gain ten pounds. It was really nice to see my family and to look at old photo albums and to see how far I’ve come, attractiveness-wise. That’s probably my favorite thing about going back up to the Bay now (besides the abundance of food and the chances that I’ll be left alone with it all). Though, for today’s topic, I want to bring up something slightly-but-not-entirely related to Thanksgiving because I’ve been meaning to post about it for a while, but I hadn’t gotten the chance: Christmas.

I do not mean actual Christmas. I’m referring to the hanging up of decorations/playing of music/celebration of the holiday in November. And my argument in favor of all of that.

Let me start out by saying that putting up Christmas decorations before Halloween is pushing it (I’m looking at you, THE GROVE) but let this be an open letter to all of you that bash Hallmark and malls and your local downtown for decorating for Christmas November 1st: dude no.

Have y’all not noticed how much the world kind of sucks right now? And that’s a really colloquial, down-played way of saying it. But everything is the worst. And you don’t want to see an ornament anywhere near you because “THANKSGIVING IS A HOLIDAY TOO AND I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO THAT.” Please. Everyone knows Thanksgiving is a holiday. Everyone also knows that it’s lumped into the holiday season. Just because you’re smelling some pine on your way into Forever 21 doesn’t mean the world has abandoned Thanksgiving. But I kind of doubt you want to see hanging turkeys everywhere. Or pilgrim statues outside your local bank. White people have always done some effed up stuff, but coming to America, bringing disease, and displacing thousands of Native Americans is kind of up there. So we focus on the day Jesus was born instead.

Of course, not everyone celebrates Christmas. I’m all for decorations that are “winter” and “holiday” themed, because who doesn’t love decorations? That are themed? And, you know, cheery and in good spirits? Seeing the video that Alex sent me of an animatronic Rabbit singing “Hava Naglia” was the best part of my Sunday. You guys have no idea how excited I am to lift her up in her chair on her wedding day.

I guess there’s an argument that it’s “too commercialized” if we celebrate early? And to that I ask the eternal question: why the hell is that? Christmas/the holiday season is commercialized either way. Prolonging the celebration isn’t making it more about that flat screen than about being with family. Black Friday is doing that.

Finally, I feel like I hear people my age say every year that “Christmas went by so fast,” which is a terrible, sucky thing. If only there were some way we could make it last a little longer without looking like a douche through January 15th? Oh wait. There is.

Early Christmas music on the radio and fake holly lining the aisles of Target is not the enemy. I happen to love listening to Christmas music while cooking/baking on Thanksgiving. Because of togetherness. And family. And, you know, like… love and stuff. I don’t have a bunch of time today, or this argument would be a lot more solid, and this post would probably be longer. But sadly, I have to go out and live my life in 65 degree weather because LA doesn’t understand what winter is. I have leggings and a crop top on. With Santa underwear. Because I’m not a goddamn quitter.

So be thankful, kids. Thankful for family and friends and love and food and the fact that I can put a wreath on my door whenever I very well please.

As Julie Klausner once said, “Oh, The Girls That You Will Ghost!”

-Megan

Plane Jane

I tried with the title this week, guys, I really did. I just couldn’t think of anything more creative. I also couldn’t cut it down, so this week’s post is super long. I do not apologize.

So I basically live on planes now–tomorrow, I’ll be traveling back to my new apartment in the Southwest terminal of LAX to go back home to NorCal for Thanksgiving. I landed back in LA from Oregon last night around 12:30. Also, remember that time I went to Seattle a week ago? Yeah. Planes.

I know we’ve talked about planes before, but I’m running on like three hours of sleep so I’m not going to take the time to figure out exactly which blog post I talked about them in. Basically, I get really introspective about my life on planes, which is normally very easy because of the solitude of it all. No one talks to me or distracts me or upsets me in any way, therefore, I am one with my own thoughts. And then this trip happened.

I left for Oregon on Wednesday. I haven’t seen Alex in months and I’d never been to Oregon and I was kind of in need of some wilderness (the concrete/juice cleanse jungle of LA doesn’t count, mostly because of the smog and I haven’t seen any non-WeHo bears around here). Because her town is difficult to get a direct flight to, I relied on Travelocity to book me the cheapest, fastest flights with the least amount of layovers. For some ungodly reason, these flights were not Southwest. I realized this the night before when I was packing. I’m not going to get to check my bag for free. Wait… I can’t bring this giant suitcase. I’d better switch to my much smaller suitcase. God, I’m so smart. I’m being really adult rn. Look at how practical I’m being. I should buy a briefcase online. And get it engraved.

So I did that–switch the suitcases, not buy the briefcase, it took me four whole minutes online to realize that it isn’t 1994–and, in the morning, I headed to the airport. In addition to my smart suitcase decision, I’d also printed out my boarding pass ahead of time, thus saving me from the check-in line (which, it turns out, was non-existent at the Alaska terminal at 8am on a Wednesday morning) and I went straight to the security line. I was incredibly efficient in removing my jacket and shoes and laptop and even my necklace (the one that always sets off the detectors at airports but I wear it anyway because of the drama), but when I got through and began picking up my items, I realized that my purple suitcase (you know, the smaller one) hadn’t come through. And then I heard what no perfect-attendance-award-Pleasanton-Middle-School-class-of-’07 recipient ever wants to hear: “Ma’am, is this your bag?”

First of, let me just say that the only other person that’s ever called me “Ma’am” is out in the middle of nowhere in Kentucky (because that person was a rural Kentucky mother who referred to me as ‘this lady’ to her five-year-old son whilst behind me in line for the Mickey Mouse Ferris Wheel in California Adventure, then proceeded to say, “Ma’am, can we cut in front of you? My husband is up there,” then proceeded to cut in front of me with her “something something High School, Kentucky, USA” sweatshirt, then probably traveled back to Kentucky to continue her life of mistaking seventeen-year-old girls with braids for adult women). Damn, that was a tangent.

Anyway, my bag was about as jam-packed as it could have been, on account of me transferring over from the bigger suitcase, so I was not excited for her to open it. Not that I would have been if it were a light packer, but it probably wouldn’t have been as dramatic. But that’s not the life I chose for myself. But, of course, she opened it and all my stuff started spilling out, including a bra that I’d decided to bring last minute, so of course it was at the top. She searched around and found my new face wash (purchased a day before) and informed me that it was over 3 ounces, to which I stupidly replied, “but I put it in a ziplock” as if that were going to save me. She told me I needed to check the bag, ship the face wash to myself, or she’d throw it away. Checking the bag was out, because I’d already switched to the smaller suitcase, plus the lady pointed out that it was “probably too late to check it anyway.” Mailing it to myself seemed stupid, because I’m a plane person now, so where would I ship it? And when would I pick it up? After minutes of agonizing, I reluctantly told her to throw it away, “even though I just bought it yesterday… ugh… *sigh*… *heavier sigh*” She threw it away.

Then guess what? As I was boarding my plane, the woman at the desk told me my bag was too big and they’d have to check it. And then they did. They checked my bag. My smaller suitcase. My face-wash-less cargo. My Barney-the-Dinosaur purple, fifth circle of hell. They checked it without a second thought. And I couldn’t do anything about it. It was like being on that goddamn ferris wheel again, regretting all of my choices up until that point and feeling completely out of control up there in the air.

I was sick for the first two days of my visit wit Alex, which is not unlike our first days in the freshman dorms together, so it was comforting. It was like old times: we went to Rite Aide and got zinc tablets and spent way too long in the pregnancy test aisle trying to guess how accurate each brand was. Then buying candy. The first two days I mostly just slept the whole time. Alex had to go to bed at 5pm and wake up at 2:30am for her morning shift at the news station so I guess it kind of made sense for me to get sick. Once the zinc worked it’s magic, it was the weekend, and we went to the snow (California girls in the snow is magical, I highly recommend watching if you ever encounter) and she showed me all the places she goes to eat and hang out and drink. We talked about our careers and unrealistic engagement rings and mostly about college. We went on a magical hike through this beautiful forest, following a river, and talking shit about everyone we knew. Her roommate and I also got her to watch the first Star Wars for the first time, which I’ve been trying to do for four whole years. We spent a lot of time eating. And we danced in a cage at a bar. I had a quick feminist crisis about it, but we did it. Then I lulled Alex to sleep with a feminist rant to make up for it. No, seriously. That’s how she described it, word for word. “Lulled me to sleep with a feminist rant.”

It was really difficult to say goodbye, especially knowing it be a while before I’d get to see her again. Also because she had to drop me off at the airport early because she needed to go to bed. She dropped me off at 5:30pm yesterday. Ugh, fighting the good fight, Biston.

My flights home just made everything better/worse. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s because it has to do with air travel, and nothing makes sense up there. On my first flight (Redmond/Bend -> San Francisco) I knew I was going to get wine. For someone who flies legit all the time, I hate flying. And it was a small plane. I hate small planes. I also hate really big planes. See, this is why I can never leave Southwest again. Anyway, I got a red wine from the flight attendant and she left without charging my debit card that I’d been waving around in the turbulence. The guy sitting next to me–who’d looked like he wanted to say something to me all flight, but couldn’t think of a good opener–finally spoke: “Wow, if I’d known alcohol was gonna be free, I wouldn’t have ordered a diet coke.” Damn straight, lumberjack beard, I’m like a magnet for free booze. Feeling lucky (because of the Chardonnay, not my bearded neighbor) for the first time on that trip, I downed that thing. My nerves were already fried and I needed that whole mini-bottle to take the edge off. At this point I was an octagon, so there were actually eight edges. And this little bottle took off all eight.

I entered the San Francisco airport tipsy and confused. After figuring out where my next terminal was, I power-walked there, complete with the song “Beep” by the Pussycat Dolls playing on repeat in my head for no reason other than to make me look insane in front of everyone in the airport. I was fast-strutting on the moving walkway. I’m pretty sure I hip-checked a guy. Then, I saw the goddamn insignia of Boudin and I almost cried. I definitely stopped hearing “Beep” and started hearing “I Hate This Part.” I decided, based on literally nothing, that I had time to get a bread bowl. I had the good sense to take it to go, so I packed my bowl (heh. Oregon.) into my Boudin travel bag and continued on my tipsy journey to gate 81. Once there, I remembered I needed a ticket, because they couldn’t print one for me in Redmond, so I strutted up to the desk of gate 81, took a full 45 seconds to get my ID out of my wallet, and got my final boarding pass. That’s when I finally checked the time and realized I had 15 minutes to eat this son of a bitch. Luckily, there was a group of tables next to my gate, so I found a way to situate myself so that I could stare at gate 81 whilst I consumed my bread bowl. And I downed that thing. One could say I shotgunned it. I stopped only to text my mother this series of texts:

“I’m doing fine. I’m eating a breakbowl.”

“**Breadbowl.”

(She says “Happy SF!”)

“I miss homeeee (bread emoji, bread emoji, bread emoji, bread emoji)”

(She says “You’ll be here soon!” as in, literally on Tuesday)

“Ugh not soon enough #lessthan48hours”

You know you’re at least a little drunk when you text things in hashtag form to your mother. Predictively, she did not reply.

After shotgunning, I got in line for boarding group 5 (I suck) at my gate. I’d been standing there for about 20 seconds when a girl approached me and asked if this was the general boarding line, to which I replied, “if it’s not, I’m definitely in the wrong line!” like I was some 1940s aspiring stand-up that didn’t understand the concept of comedic timing. Remember, it’s the wine, not me. The girl laughed politely and then got in line behind me. And then she made a phone call to whom I assume is her best friend. And in the next twenty minutes, I got to hear a table-read of the script for the newest romantic comedy starring some actress that a casting director probably deems “Emma Stone-like.”

This girl was in San Francisco to visit a male friend–they are NOT together though, Hannah, I definitely wouldn’t say we’re together. They’d been talking for a while now and she’d finally gotten the courage/free time to meet. They actually started talking a year ago, but he stopped replying after a while due to some commitment fears. Though apparently, he (Nathan, as I would learn) refocused his life and started chatting with this girl again about a month ago, and invited her to visit him in San Francisco. I knew she wasn’t from around the area when she grossly butchered the pronunciation of Ghirardelli like four times before exclaiming to Hannah that “oh, apparently, I’ve been saying it wrong my whole life! It’s Gheer-a-delli, not Ghwkrlfndbsidt like I thought.” It should be noted that her corrected pronunciation was also incorrect. I was glad she was leaving the city: that shit can get you shot north of Pier 39.

Anyway, Nathan had been a “complete gentleman” and showed her the best parts of the city, which, it turns out, are as follows:

  • That science place
  • The place with the Dome that’s really old and pretty
  • The Pier (you know how San Francisco is famous for our one, singular pier??? Ah, the City by the Lake)
  • The aquarium
  • Ghwkrlfndbsidt Square
  • The trolley carz (the “Z” was implied)
  • The Golden Gate Bridge

(Now, don’t get me wrong, I love these places/things, but it was funny because of tourist reasons) (Okay moving on)

While at the place with the chocolate, the would-be lovers played a rousing game of 20 questions, and it was “super sweet.” For this next part, I’m going to just loosely quote what this girl said, because it’s hard to work it into a disconnected sentence:

“So, at one point, I asked him the question that I always love to ask during these question games: ‘if there were no repercussions and I couldn’t judge you, what would you want to ask me right now?'”

Nothing like a hypothetical immunity idol to hand to the island natives that aren’t aware of what the show Survivor is, nor how it works, nor do they care, and they’re still going to kill you.

“And he said, ‘like I can ask you anything, and you’re not gonna judge?’ And I was like, ‘yeah, of course,’ so then he was like, ‘okay, would you marry me?’ *pause for Hannah’s excitement* Yeah, I know! But then I was like, ‘I mean, no, not right now because we’re too young, but like I don’t know what the future holds!'”

First of all, it took everything I had not to spin around and yell, “Wait then HOW OLD ARE YOU???” Second of all, the amount of wine-drunk amusement I was feeling couldn’t have been measured. I started laughing to myself. I actually laughed even harder when I realized that I could very easily be having the same conversation with my best friend Hannah in an airport. Like this girl could be me. Minus knowing NOTHING about my favorite city. But she talked a lot like I do when I like a guy. I got especially weirded out/amused/I laughed again when she said, “Oh, and get this! We’re so similar! Like we want the same number of kids! *pause for Hannah talking* Well, I asked him how many kids he wants, and he said, ‘between three and five’ and I want four kids, which is between three and five!” Wine from two hours prior came out of my nose. It should be said that I felt a connection there because I, too, want four kids, not because I’d ever get excited about one number being very obviously in between two other numbers.

After she got off the phone with Hannah, the guys in line behind her started hitting on her, and I found out that she makes designer cupcakes, but not for a living, “just as a hobby… but hopefully one day!” And goddamn it, do I ever hope this beautiful bastard caters my cupcake-laden wedding. And I hope Nathan is her head of marketing. And their three to five children are their waitstaff on the weekends when they don’t have too much homework. And I hope they’re absurdly happy in their big-ass apartment on Post Street. And that Hannah lives in their guest bedroom. Because people deserve to be happy, and that’s kind of the moral of this long, stupid story.

Also, I sat in the emergency row next to two strangers who talked the whole goddamn flight and I didn’t get to sleep at all, so to the Orange County native who’s suing his neighbor for some reason and looked like he was my dad’s age but kept referencing his girlfriend and tried to describe Pike’s Place like a Seattle native but was clearly not from Seattle nor a knowledgeable person: you’re awful. To the pretty, mid-twenties girl who either showed or feigned interest in this weird man and commended him for guessing that she was Lebanese after guessing EVERY OTHER COUNTRY around Lebanon: don’t encourage him. He was a dick and you and I both knew it. It’s just that you got stuck with the middle seat, and I got stuck with a male flight attendant that liked to linger in the aisle next to the emergency row. At least I learned a lot about United’s stop-over trips to El Salvador. And I didn’t die on the cab ride home.

As Ilana Glaser once said, “Oh my god, he ‘likes’ Roseanne? Okay this is… this is your new sexual partner.”

-Megan

 

 

There Are Places

If you finished off my title by singing “we can hiiiiiiide” in your head (re: Taylor Swift) then good for you. I thought of that title and now I can’t stop hearing that song (just that part of the song, I might add) replaying over and over again in my head. Ugh, someone sing “Get Low” or something to me… that’s the song I usually have stuck in my head anyway.

I’ll be honest with y’all (“ah yeah thanks, Megan, I’ve gotten so used to your lying!”) I don’t really know how to write the blog today. When I woke up Friday morning, my plan was to re-cap my super-secret-surprise trip to Seattle for Matt’s birthday. (Spoiler alert: he was sufficiently surprised). However, when I landed in Seattle, I was walking swiftly and excitedly toward baggage claim, glued to my phone like any good Millennial, when I saw the news. Now, I’ll admit that terrible things have happened all year, both nationally and internationally, that I have not commented on via this blog. That’s usually because I don’t know how to formulate my thoughts in an appropriate and meaningful way. However, I wanted to say a little something this time, because terrorism is affecting so many people all over the world.

I took two planes this weekend. I’m going to be taking more in the following months. Planes already make me incredibly introspective, but the added amplification of terrorist attacks just makes it that much more nerve-wracking. Over my weekend in Seattle, I saw a lot of support for Paris: The ferris wheel and their stadium sported the French colors, etc. I don’t want to repeat what’s been said a million times over social media, but maybe for the millionth and first time: Kenya, Lebanon, Mexico, Japan, Turkey, and more countries suffered great tragedies in the last week as well. Plain and simple. Ma coeur, Paris, was hit hard, and so were they.

This weekend (as with most of my weekends away) reminded me that I live a charmed and privileged life, to be able to jet up to Seattle to dash into a restaurant and hide behind a tiny menu, waiting for one of my best friends to round the corner so we could casually yell, “Oh, hey!” when he sees our faces. We used our crazy technology to coordinate this whole stealthy mission to another state in order to make Matt’s birthday a memorable one, full of his idiot friends. We got to do that, and dammit, I am so thankful. Even when everyone told me that “only tourists use umbrellas” so I got soaking wet walking around Pike’s Place: Disneyland umbrella sitting comfortably in my purse under my arm. Even when Matt said the underground tour was “super close” and that there was “no need to Uber” and then he was wrong and we walked forever, also in the rain. Even when we went to the wrong tour place and they told us that “this wasn’t the place, and that we’d have to walk a few more blocks to find “the scarier tour.” Even when they surprised us by telling us the tour was “mostly outside” and that they hoped we “brought our umbrellas.” Even when my anxiety was acting up something crazy about the fact that it was going to be scary. Even when the other girls had boyfriends and I told Matt he had to be my boyfriend for the night and not leave me alone at all. Even when I admonished myself for this sexist, anti-feminist thinking and gave myself the “I don’t need a man” speech. Even when, despite my best efforts, gender roles were so completely ingrained in me that I spent half the time with my face in Matt’s peacoat. Even when Marlin saw a rat and then didn’t shut up about how much he hated rodents the entire hour and a half. Even when I got hit on at a gay bar later that evening (the straight men… they’re learning! Evolving! And not in a good way! They’re just getting better at being the worst!)

Despite every ounce of complaining I’ve ever done, my life is fantastic. I have amazing friends who spoon me and hug me and love me unconditionally. I have a great apartment in the middle of one of the most exciting cities in the United States. I have loving, supportive parents (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!) who taught me it’s okay to fail & who give me the freedom to make my own decisions. I have great siblings who are smart and self-assured. I have a phenomenal extended family who keeps in touch and loves each other like it’s their job. I have skills that can be utilized toward getting paid to do stuff (…a career, I want to say? Is that the word?) that I want to do. I’m healthy, I’m young, and I’m pretty damn funny when I don’t try to be. I’m thankful, I’m blessed, I’m #blessed, I’m privileged, I’m safe. Not everyone in the world can say that. And while I’m looking at the map with a spirit of adventure and wanderlust: planning my life out, others are making different kinds of plans. Plans that, no matter where their carried out or how big the body count, need to be stopped. My heart and prayers are with all affected.

As Maysoon Zayid once said, “#CommentsSectionRunsForPrez”

-Megan

Double Life: Without The Cool 007 Stuff

Good day, hooligans. I’ve been taking a light sweater to school and I saw a leaf on the ground yesterday so I guess it’s officially FALL IN LOS ANGELES. It only took two whole months, a lot of 11:11 wishes, and the emergence of Starbucks’ red cups to get the season going, but nevertheless, it’s sort-of-basically here.

Today’s post will be kind of short (to offset the novel from last week) so let’s dive right in: as a post-grad, struggles (more often than not, without snuggles) are everywhere. Whether they come from the hours you’re suddenly working, to the separation from friends, to the feeling that we’re a little more lost than we’re letting on. I’m dealing with a variation of this post-grad syndrome, as I’m sure everyone else is, and like my blog posts, I offset these worries with my weekend plans. For example, this weekend, I went to the Fall Out 4 release party with Charlotte to walk the (back of the) red carpet, make eye contact with the guy who played Simon on 7th Heaven (full beard now, y’all… like, almost Duck Dynasty-length), almost say a timid “hi” to Brian Wilson (RIP Fear the Beard, go Giants), stand next to Randy Jackson for a full seven minutes (did not have a beard, just for continuity’s sake), and watch Calvin Harris kill the game, full Vegas style (confetti canons, smoke machines, and a blonde, Scottish beard). Also, In n Out catered. That was Thursday.

On Saturday, Steph, Lauren, and I went to see a musical at the Hudson Theater. A fellow Chapman grad is in the cast and we’d heard great things, so we met up (Steph and I walked nine blocks to find a restaurant we liked, then decided on a deserted Thai restaurant because they had an aquarium with a puffer fish) and watched. It was fantastic, y’all: singing, murderous cheerleaders. The music and voices killed it. It was one of those productions that made me ashamed I stopped doing theater after high school, so you know it’s good. Anyway, new dog-mom Lauren (WELCOME, ROCKET) had to scurry home to her child, so childless Stephanie and childless Megan decided to hit the town. And by “hit the town” I mean a gay bar, high-end bar, and then the patio of the Den. So… yeah, that’s actually pretty active. We did bar-hopping really well, actually.

  • The gay bar: The Abbey – I drank a lemon drop while Steph knocked back her usual Jameson on the rocks. We felt safe from being hit on. We were hit on. Steph glared. They assumed we were lesbians. I was going to give them a speech. Steph scared them away. We watched the male dancers. We fell in love. We wanted to ask if they had a day job, and if so, what was it. We didn’t have any cash. We couldn’t get close enough to ask our question. A bachelorette party almost passed out on us. We left.
  • The high-end bar: The Bar at SUR Restaurant – We just wanted to see if they’d let us in. They did. The place was v tiny, but it took us twenty minutes to get to the bar. Because rich people don’t like to move when they’ve planted themselves somewhere. Even if that’s being belly-up to the bar. We were the youngest people there. By fifteen years. Or more. And we were by far the most casually-attired. Women had on Harry Winston necklaces and Louboutins. My neon-pink bra straps were showing. We saw Jax from “Vanderpump Rules.” They were playing “Vanderpump Rules” on the TV behind the bar. He was watching. He was watching himself, on TV, in the middle of the restaurant the show is shot in. We left when a drunk sixty-year-old knocked my drink.
  • Our comfort-zone: The Den – We stood around for like thirty minutes with drinks. I left for three minutes to go to the bathroom. Returned to find two Irish guys chatting Steph up in my absence. Self esteem punch. Questioned their accents. They were real. Bar closed. The four of us walked the streets of LA. Hung out with them until 4:30. Wanted to go to sleep. Couldn’t shake them. Ubered through the McDonalds drive-thru with them. Semi-tricked them into getting out of the car at their apartment. Speeding away in the Uber. Falling asleep at my apartment. Having a dream about an Irish McDonalds hashbrown. Reminding myself how much I love Irish accents.

No but seriously, I love Irish accents. I wouldn’t have hung out until 4:30 if I didn’t.

As much time as I spend during the week agonizing about my life and my future and the decisions I’m making, this is the stuff that makes everything worth it. I hope everyone knows that I don’t blog about every aspect of my life: I promise you, my weekdays are vastly different than my weekends, but I blog on Monday for a reason. Talking about the weekend is just far more entertaining. If I wrote about my weekdays, all the posts would be named things like “Today I Cried Again,” “Trying to Have it All: Doing Homework While Watching a Documentary About Sharks,” or like “I’m Going to Rehab for Excessive Open Tabs on Google Chrome: Job Hunting While Doing Five Group Projects, And More.” They wouldn’t have the same pizazz, I can tell you that much. That reminds me, I’ve got to book ninety flights and help my sister with her history homework. ~*wEeKdAy MeGan*~

As Jenna (Marbles) Mourey once said, “Always talk to him about your period. Guys love that! Because they don’t have periods! The curiosity will just kill them.”

-Megan

Halloweekend, Unexpected

We’ve got another long one, folks, but I did bullet-points this time so I don’t have to write full/complete sentences! #EnglishMajor?

I couldn’t create a witty title for this post that wasn’t some sort of play on “Girl, Interrupted.” That sounds insane, but I kept coming back to “Halloween, Interrupted” and “All Hallow’s, Unpredicted.” I haven’t even seen the movie recently. Angelina Jolie sending out vibes to the universe again, I guess.

Tuckered out doesn’t even begin to describe my current state. I had four nights in a row of non-stop stuff: two nights of which had nothing to do with Halloween, mind you. I only had to wear two costumes. The week, for me looked something like:

Lauren’s birthday on Wednesday, Megan Kelly’s gallery showing on Thursday, the Casper company Halloween party on Friday, and the strangest Halloween mansion/club adventure with Char on Saturday.

Lauren’s birthday consisted of meeting her at work, going to see the band ‘Passion Pit,’ hanging out at a bar on Sunset, and hiking the Hollywood Hills in our going-out attire. The players were Lauren (the reluctant birthday girl), Steph, friend-from-work Amanda, and myself. The duration was 7pm – 1:30am. Alcohol was involved at Lauren’s work, the concert, and the bar. Highlights include:

  • Steph and Lauren attempting to do our sorority’s “door stack” song (from recruitment) at random intervals throughout the night while I looked on in confusion because I was a Rho Gam and I had forgotten recruitment even existed outside of yelling “WALK WITH PURPOSE, LADIES” and tossing Goldfish into girls’ mouths.
  • Steph and I focusing all our attention on a particular intoxicated gentleman–okay, gentleman wasn’t the right word, he was wearing a baseball cap at a concert at 10pm–fist-flailing (fist pumping, but when you’re tall, lanky, and drunk) and mouthing all of the words to every song. Steph and I don’t know Passion Pit’s music, so we looked to him as sort of a beacon of knowledge and power throughout our evening. We somehow got the honor of high-fiving him on his way out.
  • Purchasing and consuming hotdogs from a street vendor that tasted like replicas of D hotdogs so I cried a little bit.
  • Jay-running across busy Sunset Blvd. to get to the bar because that’s the life we’ve chosen for ourselves.
  • Making a foreign gentleman put out his cigarette and look me in the eyes as I told him Stephanie was a “grown-ass woman” and would “respond to his call if she felt like it.”
  • Random cute guy buying Lauren a birthday drink after Steph told him that her friend “thought he was cute. Also it’s her birthday. Do what you will with that information.”
  • Hiking back up to Casper from Sunset because Stephanie is a sadist and would rather watch her friends die than get another Uber because the walk was “less than a mile” and “you two are such babies” and “I’m not MAKING you do this.”

Megan’s gallery showing consisted of meeting Charlotte outside our apartment building, Ubering to a super-trendy office space in DTLA, eating free tacos, drinking free booze, getting a free Tarot card reading, and complaining about boys. The players were Charlotte, Megan, Megan’s friends, and myself. The duration was 7:30pm – 11:30pm. Alcohol was, as mentioned, involved. Highlights include:

  • The entire 40 minute Uber ride where Charlotte and I were verbally giving ourselves Oscars for trying something new and being “v New York” because of art reasons.
  • That same Uber ride where Charlotte and I prayed there would be food.
  • That same Uber ride where Charlotte and I prayed we wouldn’t be the only ones not wearing costumes and that we wouldn’t be quizzed on our knowledge of artists and other such things.
  • The free tacos we got immediately upon arrival.
  • The many dogs in costumes roaming freely around the event.
  • The throwback songs the DJ played (“One Two Step,” y’all) and our ability to dance whilst seated.
  • The psychic telling Charlotte that she was going to meet her man in a matter of months, and then that psychic telling me I’d already met the next guy I was going to date to which I responded, “But… I hate everyone I know.”
  • Honey Liqueur Jack Daniels and Diet Coke combo.
  • Watching drunk people ride the mechanical shark (yep. bulls are too mainstream, this is DTLA.)
  • Reading into our Tarot card thing way too much.
  • Getting hit on by a guy that I’m pretty sure is in his forties.
  • ^In line for the bathroom.
  • Ubering back while screaming about a particular man and his tendency to be awful: the typical Big/Little way that Charlotte and I like to end all of our nights together.

Casper’s Halloween party consisted of Stephanie getting to my apartment at 4:30, us getting wine-drunk, going to see a real psychic because we’re dumb, #PeterPanSquadGoals at the party itself, the latest dinner ever, and the three of us crashing at my apartment. The players were Lauren, Steph, Tess, and myself. The duration was 4:30pm – ??am. Alcohol was involved at my apartment, the party, and our late-night dinner. Highlights include:

  • Steph making a big life-decision and, thus, helping me make one.
  • Making a whim-like decision to see this psychic and have her basically read Stephanie’s life to a T (and now we know who her husband is and I’m pretty pumped to meet this dude) and then turning around and telling me that she sees me in the medical field. Mind you, this was all done while I was wearing my “Step Aside, Coffee, This is a Job for Alcohol” shirt.
  • Steph having a full-on life-attack about what the psychic said, then getting a fateful text from possible-husband, then almost passing out on my living room floor.
  • Then Steph pulling herself together to transform into female Captain Hook while I (the real-life female Good Luck Chuck, I’ve discovered) transformed into Tinkerbell–a costume I got when I was fourteen and trying really hard to be a grown-up, so it’s ironic that I wore it again as a twenty-two year old trying really hard to be a kid.
  • Walking into the party and greeting our Trendy Wendy (Lauren) and having all of her co-workers say, “Ooooh, NOW that outfit makes sense” because we complete each other.
  • Taking pictures with all of LA as our backdrop (when all we cared about was how fire our poses were).
  • Watching Steph drink Jameson on the rocks and thinking, “I could do that with vodka no problem.”
  • ^Being wrong.
  • Eating tacos and catching up with Tess (who killed it at Medusa because fake snakes in her hair and a YouTube Halloween makeup tutorial).
  • Grinding on Lauren when she was trying to have a conversation.
  • Hanging out exclusively by the snack table.
  • Going to dinner because Stephanie’s snapchat story is filled with me doing stupid things because of the effects of the aforementioned “I could do that with vodka no problem.”
  • Somehow getting us back to my apartment and waking up with my costume still on, but my spanx and self-respect on the floor. But the girls ordered post mates and we watched 30 Rock for hours and I love them.

And lastly, our actual Halloween consisted of a four-story mansion party where we knew no one, more steep Hollywood Hills streets/driveways, an awkward waiting period at our favorite nightclub, some very interesting costumes, some table-hopping, and an early run to Taco Bell. The players were Charlotte and myself. The duration was 9pm – 12am. Alcohol was involved at the mansion and the club. Highlights include:

  • Not wanting to drink because, dude, this is the fourth night in a row and I’m about 97% done.
  • Dressing up in basically my undie-run attire and a robe, slapping a crown and a sleep-mas on my head, calling myself Sleeping Beauty (“take off the heels and the crown and you can crash right when you get home, Megan! This is a smart decision!”)
  • The confusing Uber ride to the party at the mansion the club promoter invited us to, added onto the steepest driveway in all of Los Angeles, I’m sure.
  • The ostentatiousness of this damn house. This dude had a clear garage door so you could see the expensive car inside, like 90 balconies, and I’m pretty sure I saw a samurai sword in a glass case on the wall.
  • We knew no one (besides Char vaguely knowing the promoter) so we commented on the view for a full 30 minutes.
  • Char took a shot with the promoter while I averted my eyes from the vodka bottle they were taking swings from. But that forced me to look at a Swedish model dressed in the tightest army girl outfit I’d ever seen and I couldn’t decide what would be worse for my self-esteem.
  • Leaving the party early and waiting for the promoter and co. at the club we had a table at (so a lot of awkward dancing on an empty dance floor and trying to see celebrities in the dark).
  • Having a 10-minute conversation with the bathroom attendant about her seeing Kylie Jenner at the club only to realize at the end that she meant someone dressed up as Kylie Jenner.
  • Perching ourselves on the couch at the table and watching two girls dressed up as “hood rats” (hoop earrings and mouse ears… hey kids, there are new and fun ways to culturally-appropriate this year!)
  • Thinking a guy with significant face paint was probably famous, working our way up to his table, being forced to talk with two guys that dressed up as “club go-ers” for Halloween, knowing the kind of pickle we’d gotten ourselves into.
  • Slipping out early and forcing our Uber driver to wait while we got Taco Bell (and chanted “T-Bell! T-Bell! T-Bell!” while we waited in line).
  • Going home and eating our food in our respective apartments. I rung in the new month by saying “Rabbit, Rabbit” with a mouthful of Soft Taco.

That, my friends, is Halloweekend in the real world. Chapman students: be warned. I ate probably two pieces of candy the whole weekend. And I forgot to check for needles and razor blades. This is twenty-two.

As Alice Richmond (Tina Fey’s young daughter) once said, “You know the most romantic part of the human body is the butt.”

-Megan

The Feels

Super short post today to off-set the novel I wrote last week (and I couldn’t even include every detail–I keep remembering tiny, hilarious moments, and saying “damn that didn’t make the blog” out loud so my priorities are adult and practical). Just a quick word on Tropical Storm Simpson.

With the release of Adele’s new song, the overwhelming amount of tests & papers I have for school, my super-fun anxiety attacks, and new choices I have to make, I’m running on like 13% day-to-day. Those feelings mixed with all of the happy little things–upcoming Halloween shenanigans, some travel plans, my general friend group of loveliness, and my super-supportive parents–are creating one of those “hot-weather-mixing-with-cold-weather” type things that’s leaving me in a constant state of confusion, and that makes for a v unpredictable Megan. Not like you guys should be worried, it’s more like I should be worried, because so far, the only person I’m surprising with my moods and quick-changes is myself. I know everyone knows feeling optimistic/”MY LIFE IS GREAT LOOK AT ALL THE PILLOW PETS I HAVE AND I CAN PAY FOR THINGS AND I LIVE IN AN APARTMENT BUILDING THAT HAS A DOG PARK” and then suddenly feeling overwhelmed with twenty-something-life-anxiety. So that’s Tropical Storm Simpson right now.

I’ve used the term “Quarter Life Crisis” before, but I don’t think I truly meant it until now. I definitely made a blog about being on the verge of this kind of situation over the summer (I checked) so I guess this makes sense in a way? Like I kind of saw this coming? You know, my general day-to-day life stuff mixed with my existential “WAIT WHATS HAPPENING WAIT A MINUTE” feelings: coming together to create my dismissive sense of humor, my weird knee-jerk reaction to say the word “same” while essentially making a ‘peace’ sign over the side of my eye (Chapman kids may understand this), and my affinity for pretending I know how to moonwalk while saying “moonwalking away from my responsibilities” a la Nick Miller of New Girl.

Like it’d technically more comical than anything else, so no need to worry about me, I’m just going through some episodes. And by that I mean I’m watching a lot of Netflix. Also I love to liken my own life to a TV show. I learned a long time ago not to pretend my life was a movie, because movies are over in under two hours and their structure is crazy rigid. Nah, my life is a TV show: a bunch of problems, gradually solved one after another by Shonda Rhimes or Tina Fey. Honestly my life is 30 Rock. Minus the New York. And the writing for a sketch comedy show. And the blonde woman that’s so self-absorbed that… oh wait no, never mind.

Basically I’m the love child of Jenna Maroney and Liz Lemon if Liz were my primary caregiver. Okay this took a turn, I’m going to maybe write my paper now.

As Natalie Tran once said, “You know what I’d be worried about in a zombie world? Losing my hair tie. Lots of hair tie raids in my squad”

-Megan