Where In The World is Megan SanFrancisco?

I know, I know, it’s Tuesday. I haven’t permanently switched days on you, it just so happens that the last two Mondays have been just silly enough to the point that I couldn’t write a blog post. Hopefully, by next Monday, things will have settled down.

But ANYWAY, guess where yours truly is?? That’s right! Sitting on a thin blanket on top of a mattress pad on top of my bed frame in my brand-spanking-new apartment!! I spent Tuesday night through Monday morning at home in Pleasanton, lounging around my sister’s old bedroom by day and galavanting about the town with Camille by night. I must say, we had a pretty productive few days, seeing as she has work almost all day. She had to watch me get mimosa-drunk at 10:30am and saunter around the Farmer’s Market with me on Saturday and I think she really enjoyed herself. Don’t worry, there was hot-tubbing and chocolate milkshakes later in the evening to reward her hard work. She earned it.

On Sunday, I attended my twenty-third Mountain Play, an annual production taking place in an outdoor amphitheater on Mount Tamalpais. They do a different play/musical every year, and this year was Peter Pan. I have been every single year since I was born. I have not missed one. You see, my weird commitment/loyalty/attachment thing manifested itself in me very early. The production was fantastic. The hike up there was equally fantastic. Thank God for the Bay.

And now, here I am, after my first night alone in my new apartment, staring at all of my trash bags, filled with clothes and shoes and shot glasses, trying to figure out exactly how I’m going to tackle all of this. Oh, did I mention I don’t technically have internet? Yeah. I’m using my phone’s Hot Spot thing right now. The internet guy doesn’t come until Friday. Friday. It’s Tuesday. It’s Tuesday right now and I won’t have real internet until Friday. Let that sink in, millennials. So guess who’s gonna be spending the day in Orange tomorrow??? Get ready to get your wifi stolen, friends!

In addition to the general mess of my apartment, there are still so many things I need to physically go out and get. I even have a list. But that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I also need to order furniture online, but because I live in a secure apartment building, I don’t know the policy on how the IKEA people are supposed to drop off my stuff. That fact alone, me not knowing how that works, is making me too lazy to order it. I’m too lazy to go online and order furniture. That’s happening, you guys. I carried all of my insanely heavy things up to my apartment from my car, but I can’t bring myself to push “Order Now” on IKEA.com. I also can’t roll myself out the door and down to my car to drive it. I need a bunch of stuff from a store that’s not too far away. And I can’t go. I’m also starving. But whatever, I guess I’m just going to rot here on this blanket on a mattress pad on my bed frame in my room. I’m actually getting sleepy just thinking about it. I wonder if I have time to nap? Ah, who am I kidding? I make my own rules now! I have time for whatever! I’m an adult! I have a big girl apartment! Look how adult I am! Mortgage! Charles Schwab! The DOW! Champagne in glasses!

And with that, I’m going to curl up with my giant stuffed bear, my warmest blanket, and my undergraduate degree, and take a nap.

As Mindy Kaling once said, “True love is singing karaoke ‘Under Pressure’ and letting the other person sing the Freddie Mercury part.”

-Megan

Long Live

I know I didn’t post yesterday, but I’m not sorry about it. I’m sure you can imagine the tornado of family, furniture, and fake eyelashes that have run through my life this weekend. There was a lot of moving and crying and drinking. I felt like a terrible person all weekend because people continuously came up to me to congratulate me, and I’d say things like, “Thank you! It’s just kind of awful, though. I’m not ready to leave this place or these people. So it’s actually a terrible day for me!” Or you know, something like that.

To all the people that had to listen to me say that, I apologize profusely. I was very emotional. You caught me at a bad time. Like a really bad time. Obviously. And now, sitting in my house, completely alone, staring at the screen of this computer, I realize that it is, for all intents and purposes, really over. It all happened. It’s all there in my mind and in my phone’s picture library and on Instagram. I keep replaying everything in my head. Regrets I have along with the good decisions I’ve made. Sitting in the library, studying for my very first batch of finals. Screaming at my friends from across the piazza. Leading a giant group of girls through campus during recruitment. I’ve just been taking it in.

My memories of this place are the strongest I have. This school has given me everything, and I’m kicking myself for taking it for granted some of the time. Chapman made me who I am. And now I have to see what the rest of the world is going to make me. Yeah, it’s sappy and gross that I just said that. I threw up a little bit. It’s fine, it’s whatever.

But here we go, now. Clean slate. I’m moving. I’m going to grad school. I am a college graduate. I have a Bachelor’s degree. I am a grown woman. I can do whatever I want. But love live my memory of this place and these people and this time. Maybe by next week, I’ll have everything just a smidge more together. Probably not. We’ll see.

As Taylor Swift once said, “I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you.”

-Megan

An Open Letter to Chapman University, Class of 2015

It took me 10 minutes of staring at my computer to start this sentence. Maybe because I just woke up. Maybe because I need new glasses. Maybe because I’m trying to string together a bunch of incoherent thoughts to try to sum up my college experience via my words.

Let me start by saying that there is a large portion of you I have never met. I’m sure there’s going to be some awkward moment during graduation where someone hears me say, “Who the hell is that?” while pointing to another person in a grad cap. To all of you, I regret not meeting you. Even if you suck. I just like to know everyone. Even the douches. Congrats on graduating, unknown douches.

But to my people: my day-ones and my newest models, my kick-ass friends, my number ones. To the people I met on move-in day that saw a scrawny blonde who’d never had a drink and whose long-distance boyfriend took up most of her free time, and still wanted to be my friend. To the people I picked up through my classes, who inspired my mind and challenged what I thought I knew about the world. To my Greek family: to AGD and Beta and Gamma Phi–my supporters and my rocks and my shoulders that I’ve both cried on and insisted on sitting upon. To my roommates, the women who I relied on before I even knew them, the girls whose quirks and routines and likes and dislikes have taught me how four different people can live so close together for four years, still laughing and still helping and still friends. To my friends: hey.

Oh hey, party people. Wow so, yeah, hi. Are we really going through with this? Like I’m sure if we all made the decision to peacefully protest graduating, we won’t have to get that diploma just yet. It’s the same mentality we have in really hard classes: they can’t fail all of us, so why would they be able to force all of us to graduate, right? I’m right. Right? I get that some of you have “plans” for post-grad life, but like, let’s be real: Europe or another year of school??? Which would you prefer, huh??? Believe me, I’m with you, I have “graduate school plans,” but you know what, we are all just going to have to take one for the team here. This is a joint effort. Get involved.

This isn’t going to be a letter where I try to give everyone post-grad advice. I’m in no position to do that. I’m literally in your shoes. What kind of authority do I have? Besides the authority I think I have, and that’s mostly song lyrics, Disney trivia, and who’s hooking up with who. You know, the important stuff. I will say, though, what you already know: you’re all so amazing. You are going to do great things, no matter the category of those things. You’re the best kind of people I know. All jokes aside, I truly and honestly believe that.

Most of us graduating are the OG class of 2011, which, fun fact, I also wrote an open letter to one time. Probably on a blog. I can’t remember now, honestly, these things all run together in my mind. Fall of 2011, we navigated our way through the parking structure with our parents and our Container Store items, waiting for a shopping cart to become available so we could carry all of our desk lamps and extra long twin bedsheets up through the dorm. We were so young and so limber. So what if some boys across the hall had to help us “loft” the beds? We were on top of the world! WE HAD TASTED SWEET FREEDOM, AND IT TASTED LIKE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES FROM THE CAF.

And now, we’re here. We’ve all kind of darted in different directions. We were once the cohesive group that took Play Fair very seriously and was very excited about the Black and White dance. And GLO. And 3Oh!3. We were once psyched about venue parties because there was a definitive location and it could not easily be rolled. And now we go to O’Hara’s at 7pm on a Wednesday just because we can. We’ve become the age that seemed like some sort of distant goal when we were eighteen. We’ve made friends and we’ve alienated former hook-ups. We’ve embarrassed the absolute shit out of ourselves at a few events. We’ve done date parties and formals and Vegas. We are battle-scarred.

We’ve aced the midterm, but failed the final. We’ve re-taken classes. We’ve given scathing evals. We’ve found a mentor. We’ve made a connection for the future. They’ve written us recommendation letters. We still skipped their class that one time because we were marathoning a Netflix show. They taught us some stuff. We wrote down some things. We filled out scantrons. Sometimes we remembered that this was the reason we were here. Sometimes we didn’t. Either way, we’ve been sufficiently and excellently educated.

We’ve loved someone, we’ve lost someone. We’ve gotten together, we’ve broken up. We made out that one time, we never spoke again. There were flirtatious texts that turned into a date that turned into a relationship that turned into… God, what are we now? Rinse and repeat. And repeat again. Maybe we’ve found someone that’s down for all the ups and downs, and that thing occurs when they decide that their relationship is worth it and they’re staying together. God bless all of you. Bless your love and your strength. But also, bless your battle scars.

We had a love/hate relationship with food and alcohol. We had a love/hate relationship with late night conversations that turned into early morning conversations. We’ve had a love/hate relationship with each other. We’ve had a love/hate relationship with our alarms and Parent’s Weekend and spending money on dinner and the Caf and sleeping in a bed that wasn’t ours. I’m having a love/hate relationship with this post. All of these things are the facts.

I’m trying to will myself to get over all of you. To break up with you. To let you go. Because if I know anything about hangovers (I do), they aren’t pleasant to work through. This is going to be the stupidest, most cliched thing you’re going to read about graduation, but I do not apologize for it: Graduation marks the beginning of the worst hangover I’m ever going to have. Maybe there won’t be as much vomit (God willing, amiright) but it’ll be there. Hanging around, as hangovers do, interrupting everything I do to remind me of all the fun I had, and how I’m now paying for all of that fun. I realize I’m essentially comparing four years of college to one night at the D, but it’s me. I don’t know what you were expecting. So you see, even though there’s the looming sense of impending doom, I can’t break up with you. I can’t just stay in tonight. I can’t not go through with it. It’s the bad decision that I know I have to make. God, this sounds like a script of my entire college career.

There is not a single doubt in my mind that the passed four years have been the best years of my life. Absolutely terrible, terrible things happened to me, and college still trumps everything else. It beat out my childhood (It’s most formidable competitor), killed high school, and just ANNIHILATED middle school. I can’t even begin to explain what these four years have meant to me. I am a completely different person than I was when I walked into Henley for the first time and tripped over my own feet. I still trip over my own feet, but practically everything else is different. I blame you.

I blame the school and my professors and my classes and the spiral staircase in AF and the fountains and Disneyland and the bagels at Einsteins and Homecoming Weekend. I blame all-nighters and Panther Bucks and philanthropy events and Vegas and Doys. I blame Undie Run and the library and parties that are “walking distance” and the football field. I blame Newport and my parents’ money and the Chap Cat and the Filing Station. I blame the microwave/fridge combo in the dorms and the fire alarms and the pool. I blame the “no power strips” rule and the secret snack stashes under everyone’s beds. I blame alcohol. I blame Netflix and Hulu Plus. I blame this three-story house. I blame Pinky’s. I blame print credits. I blame the top of Beckman. I blame my sorority and that one fraternity. I blame Orientation. I blame my acceptance letter. I blame those boys and those men. I blame my friends. I blame my best friends. I blame you.

I didn’t totally like me before I came to college. I like me now. I like me a whole lot. And I blame the class of 2015. Thank you for doing this to me. Thank you for giving me this experience. I refuse to say goodbye.

“I do believe I have been changed for the better.” -Wicked.

I love you idiots.

-Megan

I Don’t Know What To Do With My Hands

It’s almost hilarious that I’m trying to do work for my Capstone class today. All I’ve done so far is eat sushi and buy make-up. Does blogging count as being, like, half-productive? Like I’m sticking to a regimen… but I’m also avoiding schoolwork. Someone weigh in on this. Someone who agrees with me.

So okay, what step in the grieving process am I at this week? Let’s see, there was a lot of frustration, then some brief elation last week, and now I’m just… confused. That sounds weird, but I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s like I don’t know what to do with myself at this point. I still have a lot of work, and we still have a bunch of bucket-list-type things we need to do before the dreaded walk across the stage. I’ve just gotten to a point where I have no idea how to be. I’m sad, of course, but everyone’s congratulating me. Hence, “I don’t know what to do with my hands??????”

It should also be noted that I’ve upgraded from a stage 2 to a stage 5 clinger. I am trying desperately to grasp onto my friends because I can feel them slipping away. So don’t be alarmed if I seem more invested than usual. Or if I call you a few times a day. Or if I’m sitting in a chair in the middle of your room in the dark waiting for you to get home. These are all typical stage 5 clinger mechanisms and should be met with encouragement and love. It’s because I love you and I’m trying to strength the bonds of our friendship before you all up and leave me to die in the middle of the ditch where my emotions live. There’s alcohol down here.

There are mixed emotions, children, and there are a lot of them. We’re having all of these senior events for my sorority which are, of course, very fun, but also the saddest things ever. You all know I’m not one to be incredibly invested in my chapter, but we just had our very last meeting yesterday and I cried in the middle of it. Yeah. I cried over a sorority thing. That kind of stuff is happening to me. On the one hand, I NEVER HAVE TO TAKE TWO HOURS OUT OF MY SUNDAY EVER AGAIN. But on the other hand… my friends. These girls that I love. Many of them who I’ve known for four years and spent most of my collegiate career bitching and complaining about sorority stuff with. I hope I can clarify to the girls of AGD: just because I was never as in love with the chapter as others were, that doesn’t mean I don’t love you gals. Some of you are my closest friends and I couldn’t have made it this far without you. So there’s that, and they’re also giving us presents and planning events for us so like I don’t know what to think and I don’t know how to feel. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS!!!! ..??/…3###!!??

I should also touch on the fact that my room (not unlike my life) is a complete mess. Every time I think “Damn, I really need to clean,” I immediately stop myself and say, “THERE’S NO TIME FOR SUCH TRIVIAL THINGS” and then I’m on the internet watching Chopped for three hours. Ugh I’m the worst, you guys. I apologize for everyone who’s had to interact with me… especially this passed weekend. I’ve got to calm down. I’ve got to learn how to do yoga on top of the piles of clothes, books, luggage, grad caps, and empty goldfish boxes on my floor. That’s got to fall under the category of some sort of Vinyasa flow, right? Like some kind of complicated yoga? I guess if it’s too complicated it won’t calm me down at all, and then what was this all for? What weRE THESE FOUR YEARS FOR? WHAT WAS MY HIGHER EDUCATION FOR? WHAT IS happening to me oh my god. It’s like I go from the Hulk to Mark Ruffalo in “13 Going on 30” in under five seconds. Do you see what I did there, by the way? Do you see how both of those people are Mark Ruffalo? I’m hilarious. I’m so funny, you guys.

Which reminds me, kind of a big/maybe somewhat expected announcement: I’m writing a book! It could turn out to be strictly an internet thing, seeing as that seems to be the way we’re leaning nowadays. But whatever, I’m doing it. I’ve been saying it for years, but I think I’m actually in a good place to get into it. Plus what an effing great closer in all of my Creative Writing classes? All my peers have written me off as a psych person masquerading as a writer, but JOKES ON THEM AS OF RIGHT NOW BOOM EVERYONE I’M GONNA WRITE A BOOK. Oh, you’ve already written three books? And you’ve published 24 short stories? And Knopf is looking at your novel? Oh. Well then. One time I saw Randy Jackson at Chateau Marmont so you can suck it.

(Warning: my next post will be my last post as a undergrad. Like prepare yourself.)

As Leslie Jones once said, “…we can’t [move on from a relationship] as women because [men’s] SPIRITS are IN US […]  Spirits just marching around in my body, making me think of him… WHY DO I KEEP SMELLING THIS JERK?”

-Megan

The Tough Get Going

Guess who’s on two legs, speaks limited French, and is no longer sick??? THIS MOI.

Guys, I’m feeling so much better this week. It’s like I went on a juice cleanse of the soul–except I’m not starving and I don’t have to pee every fifteen minutes. I’ve been having a pretty rad week so I’m on a temporary high. I’m considering this fleeting feeling the eye of the storm: my brief moment of happiness before I go back into the tornado that is graduation. It’s like I’ve stayed up all night and its 5am and I’m so exhausted but my body has given up hurting and has just gone into some weird hyperactive state where all I want to do is laugh at everything. Anyway.

After all of the apartment drama my mom and I endured, we finally got everything together, and this weekend, I signed the lease for my adorable, sunny, perfectly-place apartment. I’m in the same complex as my Big, I’m a short walk away from the Grove, and I’m across the street from a place that has bagels, so all of the requirements were filled. Finally getting the apartment makes me feel a little better about leaving Chapman (a small, completely minuscule amount) and going to grad school. After crying in the middle of the USC bookstore, I figured I needed something more tangible to look forward to. And now I have my adorable place. I have absolutely no gas left in my car from driving to LA and back 90 million times, but I am happy.

Chapman is also doing everything they can to ease the pain: our Senior week was filled with alcohol-fueled activities because God knows Chapman read the room. For the first time ever, I went to the D on a Wednesday night for Chapman’s taco event (Taco Tuesday… but Wednesday because of reasons no one understands) and got to watch my guy friends sing the karaoke version of “With A Little Help From My Friends” in front of everyone. There’s just something about watching guys do karaoke that makes me happy. Especially because no one but Matt knew the words. And they all got one free shot each after. And that’s what college is all about: tacos, singing, embarrassing yourself, friendship, and alcohol. I kept this notion in mind on Thursday when I was sick because I could not let my Thursday D streak die. I went to the D, sick as a dog, for about half an hour. Then I went home, popped two NyQuil, and passed out until 10am.

“Megan, Jesus, go home! Why are you even here right now?!”

“Because I’M NOT A QUITTER, CHU.”

And that’s me. I’m not a quitter. I’ve been told that I have a commitment problem. No, not that kind. The opposite kind. I commit like an effing pro. When I set my sights on something, I WILL NOT LET GO and this is both an awesome and a terrible thing. Awesome, because it’s led to me working really hard to achieve something (getting into Chapman, getting the dorm I wanted–twice–getting the off-campus house I wanted, getting into USC, getting my apartment, etc.) and terrible, because when things don’t work out, it’s like a personal attack on my very soul (not being able to get a pet in my house, my brother not getting into Chapman, obviously my break-up, etc.). I’m a very committed and loyal human. Alex has told me that one of my best traits is how fiercely loyal I am. Like “help you hide a body” loyal. Like let’s just say it’s a very good thing none of my friends have homicidal tendencies. So I set my sights on LA over a year ago, and I’m finally making it happen. If only it were possible to will myself into aging backwards and getting to live college all over again.

Oh, and the parties thrown this weekend by, who else, the gentlemen of Beta Theta Pi–they were great. I had so much fun wearing my batgirl costume again, touching the ice luge, getting extremely low, trekking to Pizza Press, realizing we’d missed closing by ten minutes, getting sad, driving to Albertacos, and playing Smash Bros with boys who basically play Smash Bros for a living. Also, going shot for shot with Amanda. Drinking tequila. And then going to a bar. And watching the boys flip some chairs on friend’s lawns. And having the friends I have. I don’t want to leave.

But in the meantime, I’ll keep doing schoolwork, eating food, and drinking with my friends. I’ll probably still be doing that after graduation. I’ll probably still be doing that after retirement.

As Amy Schumer once said, “Nothing good ever happens in a blackout. I’ve never woken up and been like, ‘What is this Pilates mat doing out?'”

-Megan

When The Going Gets Tough

Hi mai bbs. Short entry today because of my complete lack of energy due to this weekend.

So everyone is aware, Chu and I had a great time at formal (as did my merry band of idiots) and I shall give note that the highlight of the evening was running up the ramp that lead to the bar and screaming “ALCOHOL” with Stephanie. We did that at least three times. My sense of pride in myself is overwhelming.

Yesterday, my mom flew down, and we headed to LA to finally make headway on the whole “apartment hunt” business. I’ve been eyeing a specific building–my Big’s building–for a while now, so naturally, we made an appointment there. I guess I thought it would be a lot easier than it turned out to be. 48 hours later, we still don’t have a definitive plan yet. I won’t go into the gory details (I cried, mom cried, the realtor cried, my potential neighbors cried, the douches that Char and I always run into at the pool cried, it wasn’t the most sophisticated thing you’ve ever seen) but it’s been v v complicated.

I also walked around USC today and basically almost fainted 90 times because of how overwhelmingly big that school is. I am used to Chapman. I’m used to Lambos in the parking lot and walking across campus in 5-7 minutes (30 minutes, if I’m being real, because we’ve got to say “hi” to 50+ friends along the way) and having to walk to the circle to go to an actual restaurant. This weekend has been a lot. On top of graduating and leaving my beloved Chapman, I have to deal with this bullshit. I want to curl up for the rest of my life. LA is expensive. I hate money. Big schools are big. But I bought a USC shirt though.

As Kristen Schaal once said, “Not allowed to dance after a touchdown? The NFL is like that town in Footloose. #SuperBowl”

-Megan

First Of All, How Dare You

I’m going to get flack for this, but can I just say thank the lord Coachella is over? All my friends are back in town and they’re no longer distracted by 80 billion bands I’ve never heard of, plus Kanye West and Drake. I like when I can keep tabs on everyone. I like knowing where everyone is. The trackers I put in their heads don’t work in the desert. Anyway, we move on.

Quick flashback moment to high school (I promise, it’ll be fast): y’all remember senioritis, right? That made-up psychological condition explaining why all the seniors were mentally “checked out” of their classes toward the end of the school year due to three and a half years of hard work/seeing the light at the end of the high school tunnel/finding it hard to really give a shit after they got into colleges. Remember when underclassmen would claim they had senioritis? Ugh.

Senioritis has a slightly different meaning in college, wouldn’t you say? I mean, of course there are the people who are just itching to graduate, but generally, everyone’s pretty nervous for post-grad life. It’s no secret that I’m one of these people. We’re leaving the place we’ve created a home in, the friends that we’ve made family, and the party atmosphere we’ve gotten so used to. It’s awful. This is our time to grieve/drink a lot/hook up with people you’ve always wanted to hook up with. And do you know what’s getting in the way of that?

“Alright, for next class, I want a three paragraph reaction to the reading and a write-up on the movie we watched. Oh, and don’t forget, your midterm date was moved to this Thursday, so study accordingly.”

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

On top of all the work we’ve done. On top of the graduate schools we’ve applied to. On top of the fervent job searches we’re conducting. On top of the sadness and stress we’re feeling about leaving college. You’re giving us homework?

Am I the only one that gets legitimately offended when professors assign homework and tests now? It can’t just be me. And forget about the ones who are actually making us take a final. Even if the class isn’t all seniors, we should get a “get-out-of-this-shit-free” card and at least be able to take the final early or something. I know a few people who have a final scheduled for Friday during our Baccalaureate ceremony. Those better get moved. Sorry, I know I’m sounding hella entitled right now, but I haven’t pulled the “senior” card like that much this year (maybe three to… fifteen times… MAX) and I feel strongly that our last month should be relatively stress-free.

This coming from the girl who, as we speak, is writing/putting together a 92-page portfolio for her senior thesis class. It’s just a lot. We’re being bombarded with a lot right now. I have to write a paper for my Sex & Gender class tomorrow (a class that is like 97% freshmen) and I can’t even bring myself to look at the book, let alone title the Word Document. There’s too many things to think about! Formal! Apartment hunting! AGD Senior Photo Shoot! What to get the bartenders at the D for their end-of-the year gift! Not to mention all of the things I need to do before I graduate. Swim in the fountain again! Hug the Berlin Wall! Shout “Penis” in Jazzmans! Shout “Penis” in the Library! Shout “Penis” in Dean Price’s office! Still be allowed to graduate!

Honestly, my schedule is completely booked. Sorry, prof. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Alex just got done with her internship and she’s now home all the time, so you can imagine that we have some shenanigans to get up to. They’re opening up a new Lemonade in Irvine. My Godlittle’s neighbor’s cat just had kittens. I just don’t have the time.

*~*~*I lOvE mYsElF*~*~*

No but seriously, I really do. That’s why Tinder doesn’t work for me. I am hilarious & all those guys are the worst.

As Mindy Kaling once said, “If I were a dentist I’d say ‘Another day, another molar’ making eye contact with the hygienist and they would know i wanted to start an affair.”

-Megan

It’s Very Greek

How was your weekend, friend? Do anything fun? Meet interesting people? Call your parents? Tinder whilst drunk? Regretted a snapchat? Regretted two snapchats? Regretted your whole snapchat story?

Now, y’all know me. I’m in a sorority, like many of us are. I’m not, like, queen of AGD though. Like I’m not even the jester. I’m in the kingdom, though. Somewhere in the back. Probably napping.

This weekend has been a pretty Greek-filled weekend. That’s always how it is, isn’t it? All Greek things just somehow happen t fall on the same weekend. So it was no surprise that my sorority’s International Reunion Day fell on the same Saturday as Skit Night 2015. Unwittingly, my roommates and I also scheduled our Graduation Photo shoot (one of the many vain Chapman traditions we panthers hold near and dear) in the few hours between my IRD and Skit. That meant hanging out with alumni in the morning, hanging out with Nathan Worden in the afternoon, and hanging out with everyone I’ve ever met in the evening. These three events called for three very different versions of me, and I took pleasure in relishing the fact that I was going to get to be all chameleon for the whole day.

First off, IRD. I woke up to my alarm at eight, realizing that I had not yet picked out an outfit for the event. Let me explain: International Reunion Day is the one day a year that I have to get up, look at myself in the mirror, and say, “Megan: what’s the most conservative outfit you own?” Now, I am just not a high-neckline type of gal, my friends. You all know this about me. high necklines do terrible things for my figure because of certain reasons.  So, of course, I had to pick something that would go well with a cardigan. We wouldn’t want those lovely older ladies clutching their pearls over little old me, now would we? So I gussied up, stopped by the AF parking lot so that my outfit could be judged (I AM A FEMINIST! THIS IS WHAT WE’VE BEEN FIGHTING FOR, LADIES!), and made the 40 minute drive to a Hilton in Long Beach. I’ve just got to say, every year, IRD reminds me that I love my chapter. Obvs we’re all in the same sorority, but I feel like a goddamn superstar being from Chapman. The other two chapters (UCLA and USC) are super new and don’t entirely have their footing yet. They’re doing a bang-up job so far, don’t get me wrong, but we’re the seasoned veterans. You guys know I have a superiority complex. Everyone knows that. I can’t help it.

I had fun pretending to be a proper lady for a few hours (I mean… not the whole time), but I will say that the one thing that really gets my goat is the fact that, at twenty-two years old, I am not allowed to have alcohol at this event. I was upset about it last year, too, as you can imagine. They had the most delicious-looking mimosas for sale, and I had a good amount of cash and my ID on me. I wanted that damn mimosa. My friend, Jenny–who’s my year, but graduated a semester early–is twenty-one and she was allowed to have a mimosa because she graduated. I don’t know why a diploma means the difference between me having nothing to complain about versus me being a bitter bitch. I don’t know, man, I don’t think the world wants to see me happy. Despite my annoyance over the lack of mimosa in my manicured hand, I enjoyed my plate of food, our beautiful president’s speech, and the large amount of laughter and good times that emanated from my table. These gals are winners, I tell you.

Then, I sped back to Orange, jumped in the shower, threw on some fake eyelashes, and packed into the car with my three roommates–headed for campus. I love photo shoots with Nathan: it’s literally just derping around, but like, looking 5 times prettier than I normally do. I’m so glad my roommates are weirdos because we definitely took some pictures that make me laugh. There was jumping, there was hanging, there was the slow seduction of the statue of the panther in the Piazza. I also stood on the ledge on the fourth floor of Beckman because I wanted the world to know I’m a dangerous femme fatale. We got some stares from some families that were touring the campus–their momentary confusion on whether or not they had just stumbled upon someone’s actual graduation was my small version of payback for the fact that their kids hadn’t even started college yet. I’m so jealous of them, you guys. They have four years of this fun shit ahead of them. I have a little over a month. There was a point when I was standing on the Chapman University sign, grad cap and all, holding back tears. But more on my sadness next month.

Then, Skit. Dear lord, do I love Skit. We here at Chapman take it VERY seriously. Someone–I can’t remember who–posted a status on Facebook the other day that said, “Chapman University: D3 in sports, D1 in Skit” and it was the most correct thing I’ve read in a very long time. When it comes to Skit, what passes for “amazing” at other schools is like the mud on the bottom of our glitter-soaked jazz shoes. We are Broadway level, baby. I so enjoyed watching everyone dance and act their little hearts out. It makes me so proud, I feel like we should compete against other schools with this. Anyway, then I went to Beta’s after party, drank the alcohol I wasn’t allowed to consume earlier in the day, and spent an hour finding each of my Beta friends and telling them how proud I was of them. I squeezed Jason’s face so hard, I thought his stubble was going to pop off. I relished in the company I was keeping, kept track of my Little as she twerked her way through the party, and got to hang out with my Big, who I never get to see. Conner, not Charlotte. I don’t think Char would come back to a college rager if you paid her. Ugh, my friends are the best. My fraternity is so talented. YOLF is the best party house. It was a good night. Yes, Chu, I really did have fun. I can say “I hate everyone” whilst pouting on a couch and still have fun. I’m dramatic. You know this. Now FIND OUT IF YOU CAN GO TO MY FORMAL OR BE PREPARED TO WAKE UP TO SNAKES AND SPIDERS IN YOUR BED. I KNOW HOW TO GET INTO YOUR HOUSE.

As Olivia Wilde once said, “Can someone please write a romantic comedy set in the real estate world called ‘Looking Foreclosure’? I’ve been waiting long enough.”

-Megan

Literally Next Month

I only dream about assorted meats, fried rice, and McDonalds hashbrowns, but otherwise, I’m good!

Oh, you didn’t ask how the diet was going, right.

In the interest of full disclosure, I haven’t been, like, super duper sticking to it. But it’s the thought that counts, right? Isn’t that how diets work? Throwing in some healthy, random stuff hasn’t been incredibly difficult, but I swear to god, I do not understand why people would EVER prefer brown rice to white rice. I am baffled. Also, I don’t think I steamed the kale correctly. Or they may just taste like that. I don’t know, this world is very foreign to me.

So a few things happened this passed week: I had dinner with my sister, I got my ear pierced again, and I got all my graduation crap in the mail. Alex and I came home from an enjoyable, sunny day in Newport to see two giant, brown packages sitting outside our front door. We weren’t expecting them for a few days, but we knew immediately what they were. I’ve never opened a package with more distain in my life. Usually, I’m uncontrollably excited for whatever I ordered (we’re just going to forget that textbooks exist for the sake of this post) but this was a whole new feeling. I was sad. Alex was legitimately mad. I put my cap on for a moment and she ripped it off of my head and yelled “DON’T EVER PUT THAT ON AGAIN YOU BITCH.” She ended up putting hers on five minutes later to asses how she’d have to do her hair.

Having that goddamn black and red monstrosity hanging in my closet is just a gloomy reminder that graduation is next month. Sure, it’s technically at the end of May and this is the beginning of April, but that doesn’t make it any less of a “next month” obligation. Now, when mysterious men in swanky bars ask me what I do, I’m going to have to say that I’m graduating college next month. Now, when young, handsome millionaires stop me in Ralphs to hear my life story, I’ll be obligated to say that I’m starting off in the real world come next month. These men will take such pity on me. They will buy all of my drinks and all of my groceries. Then I’ll drive away in my 2010 Ford Edge ’cause I don’t need a man.

I’m sad, okay? This is the worst. I keep running into people I knew freshman and sophomore year, and we talk about our stupid memories and it ruins my day. Seeing incoming freshmen on tours ruins my day. Getting stuck in line for bagels behind a gushing parent asking dumb questions like “Where exactly IS the cafeteria?” and saying things like “Argyros Forum” ruins my day. As much as I’m curious to see what this new chapter of my life brings, it’s going to take everything I have to leave this place. As Chu said, “No other time in our lives will we be able to commit the minor felony of Breaking and Entering into all of our friends houses to eat their food and scare the shit out of them when they come home… no other time but college.” I’ll miss living so close to all of my idiots. I’ll miss lounging in my bed in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. I’ll miss getting excited for skit and airbands and formals. And this premature feeling of sorrowful nostalgia is all because the Post Office did it’s job too well.

As Alison Brie once said, “Just whispered to me by a stranger at Trader Joes: “You look like a nice little girl.” sooo… guess I know who’s kidnapping me tonight”

-Megan

You’re An LA Girl Now, Meg

It’s actually closer to being official, seeing as I got into USC for grad school this Friday. (See guys! I’m smart! I don’t just post sarcastic and whiny blog posts! I do school! I do school real good!)

The theme of the week, kids, is LA: not only because I was there all weekend, but because I’m now on a diet and I have a sunburn. That’s right, everyone–I spent four days in sunny San Diego, all exposed and intoxicated, basically begging to come home with red shoulders and arms and scalp (*~*~so german rn~*~*), but no, it would be the hour I spent by the pool, half covered by all of the clothes that I wear to the pool (~*~*so body conscious rn~*~*) that would be my undoing. I know, I know, mom, I put on sunscreen, but I was sweating a lot because it was hot and there are cute guys at the pool. Sorry.

Anyway, upon learning of my acceptance to USC’s MFT Program (side note, it was a phone call during an early dinner in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Belated apologies to the elderly women and the couple on their first date that heard me dry-heaving), I was elated and, frankly, a little panicked. This solidifies things for me: I’ve known for at least a year that I’d most likely be moving to Los Angeles after graduating from Chapman, but this made it real. I actually looked at apartments. I’ve already named the cat that I’m going to get. Like it’s happening. So, in true *me* fashion, I decided to make a giant life change on the spot and just run with it: I’m going to lose weight.

Backstory on me: my entire life, I’ve been a skinny little twig. I ate like a monster in middle school and high school. I literally hid food in my room because my parents were getting too judge-y for my liking. My mom said, “You’re going to ruin your metabolism, Megan.” To that, I said, “HA JOKE’S ON YOU I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT WORD MEANS,” and I kept eating my three burritos. And then I got to college.

I never weighed more that 100 pounds soaking wet before I met what would later become my undoing: The Caf. We all know it’s true. Even after a weird period of dramatic weight loss (due to literally just the hangover of a semester I had) my Sophomore year, I just gained a whole bunch of weight. You know why? I love food. And I hate the gym. I hate running. I hate having to plan the quickest shower in the universe before I have to go to class. I hate how people look at the gym. I hate how people talk at the gym. Mostly, I hate how people look at me at the gym. And I hate that my gym is full of people I know who I have to see in social situations. I hate the healthy lifestyle. I hate quinoa. I hate kale. I hate the two juice cleanses I’ve been on. But you know what I love? Looking good. Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m doing this for superficial reasons. The only healthy reason I can think of is so my body will be strong and happy when I have kids. Fingers crossed that I haven’t already done some damage on my future children by all the McDonalds I’ve eaten. I love McDonalds. I love burgers. I love fries and pizza and sushi and BREAD. But I’m an LA girl now, and I think it’s time I start caring a little, teeny, tiny bit more about what I put in my body.

So, long story medium, I’m on a diet. It’s not a crash diet, it’s healthy. There’s whole grain and spinach involved. Upside: my water is FILLED with lemon, cucumber, and mint right now and I am loving that. It’s like I’m consistently at a spa, except for instead of a massage, I’m eating steel-cut oats and rolling around on Alex’s exercise ball.

Also fueling the LA-theme, I watched the most uncomfortable yet entertaining interaction ever whilst lounging by the pool (with my towel covering everything but my face) with Charlotte this weekend. I’ll give you a hint: a group of Swedish girls, a group of spray-tanned frat guys, and… wait, sorry, this sounds like I’m describing something else.

Anyway, the girls were hanging in the pool when Charlotte and I sat down. I knew in my soul, as soon as I saw the Frat-Tastic Four leering from their lounge chairs, that something was going down. As expected, the guys approached the Swedish babes (they were gorgeous, but you guessed that) and introduced themselves. God, guys make the weirdest faces when their shaking the hand of a woman they are ogling. It was a little more than obvious that the girls were about 40% interested in these guys. They were laughing and speaking Swedish, at one point they pulled out some sushi and started noming on that, they were doing their own thing. Watching the guys keep trying to put themselves in the middle of whatever the girls were doing next was hilarious. Charlotte and I stifled our laughter on numerous occasions.

“I keep staring right at them, I’ve got to stop doing that,” Charlotte said.

“No, Big. We must stare. It’s the only way they’ll be able to realize how stupid they look.”

After a while, the girls started to pack up their things, but they only made it a few steps away from their chairs before two of the Frat-Tastics (let’s call them “Human Tool” and “Doctor Douche” because I’m original like that) raced over to, what else, tell the women how much they respected the girls and their incredible culture and to have a great rest of their day. Or…

“Hey, before y’all leave, uh, you doing anything tonight?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Oh, that’s cool, that’s cool, uh, we’re actually in this concert thing tonight–”

“You’re in a concert?”

“–and we’re meeting up with some friends afterword for some drinks and some good times, and, y’know. So maybe we could exchange info and we could call you and we’d meet up there?”

“Meet where?”

“What’s your number?”

She gave it to him, too. And the rest, we can only assume, was history. I see them all pairing up beautifully, spending a fun and inexpensive evening together, dating seriously for the next two years, and then, a quadruple wedding. They’ll all live in a compound and everyone will be happy and those guys will never, ever compare penis sizes after all of their steroid use. And they’ll never cheat on their Swedish wives with prostitutes.

I realize I’m being a bit presumptuous here, but let’s just say that Charlotte knows these gentlemen to be… what’s a nice way of saying “gross human beings?” Oh, there’s no nice way to say that? Oh. Well then.

It was a great LA getaway. Thanks, Char. I love you and I can’t wait to move and be near you.

And now, back to the ol’ Chapman grind for a final tow months before graduation. Hey… I wonder if any senior has posted a Facebook status saying something along those lines yet…

As Kat Dennings once said, “Do you think Benedict Cumberbatch ever goes to a restaurant and orders “eggs me'”

-Megan