Admirer
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Deep Purple
I can be a brat sometimes. I know you find that so hard to believe. Not. I say sometimes, but there are folks who would disagree with me. I also am very easily amused which I consider a good thing as it can come in handy more often than you think. Sometimes my inner brat and my ability to be easily amused crash headlong into each other with amusing results.

How so? It resulted in one of my favorite dumb, but evil in the fun way, bar tricks.

Back in college, I was dating a guy named Fred. We were two peas in a pod and definitely instigators of all things trouble.

So one night, we were out with two of my friends, Deb and Laura, at the popular campus watering hole. Across the bar from us was some nauseating couple who were macking on each other to no end. Now, we’d been drinking your basic college fare. You know….mixed drinks, beer, shots, anything put in front of us. Yeah. Such a surprise that we were rather abbreviated.

So Fred and I came up with a brilliant idea. He called our favorite bartender over and asked him to send an anonymous shot to the female portion of the now literally dry humping on the bar PDA couple. GET A ROOM PEOPLE! You aren’t even close to hot enough for us to want you to perform a live sex show in front us! I’ve seen Tijuana donkey shows with better looking couples and one of them has hooves!

The four of us were across the bar watching the whole thing. The shot was put in front of her and she was all shades of excited. Captain Hump, on the other hand, was not. He immediately asked who it’s from and Mark simply said “an admirer”. The girlfriend went to reach for it and Captain Hump pushed it away, forbidding her to drink it. A really heated argument ensued during which the four of us were roaring with laughter across the way! She wants to drink it and he doesn’t want her to so she reached out and drank it in protest or perhaps out of thirst. He proceeded to stomp off in a full blown hissy fit. Let me tell you, it was classic!

About 20 minutes went by, during which I was delivering a Howard Cosell style blow-by-blow on the action. Finally, Captain Hump returned to his extremely upset and bitter chicky. We watched from across the bar as he apologized, she apologized and they started macking again in the making up portion of the mating ritual AKA so happy together….

Fred and I looked at each other, grinning like fricking idiots. “Oh yeah baby” I shouted, “do it!” So Fred sends another shot to Captain Hump’s girlfriend (Bwah! Ha! Ha!--that’s evil laughter) and all Hell breaks loose! It was like a cheesy B movie on rewind! The same thing happened all over again. Angry words. Violent gesturing. Pouty face on the broad. Captain Hump looking like his head was about to blow off.

Not us. We were across the bar in our front row seats falling all over each other laughing. Tears pouring down our faces as we mimicked them. It was hilarious! We couldn’t believe they didn’t know it was us as we were the only folks in a totally packed bar who were laughing hysterically to the point of falling off their bar stools.

The situation made me wonder. I looked at Fred and asked him would he care if some ‘admirer’ was sending me shots. He replied “Hell no! I know who you’re coming home with. He’d be doing me a favor getting you lubed so cheaply!” To which, we all started laughing again and reliving the snit fits of the PDAs.

Ah, devious and easily amused minds. My kind of folks. Now days, Fred is a career Marine who just finished his second tour of Iraq after stints in Afghanistan, Bosnia, etc. (which probably accounts for my popularity in Dubai)I feel safer knowing that someone with that kind of Machiavellian mind is protecting my sweet ass--Semper fi Froedlet!

‘Admirer’ has proved beyond amusing through the years and really has stood the test of time. Just ask the PDA couple Darrin and I pulled it on last night in Tempe. Bwah! Ha! Ha!

Of DC and Dog Bites
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Maria Callas
In fact, this trip to DC was far better than my last trip in May, but that’s not saying much. Why you ask?

Apparently two fuck nuts in a Cessna were unable to follow their flight plan and busted air space near the White House. What does that mean exactly? It means thousands of folks evacuating our Nation’s Capitol on foot in a panic. In a total fricking panic.

There I am at Cannon House building. We’ve just finished meeting with one of our U.S. Representatives when this unholy noise comes out of nowhere. WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WTF? It’s crazy! All of a sudden, everyone starts tearing out of the building in a rather weirdly organized fashion.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Security guards were running around getting everyone out. As I ran out, I asked one of them what the deal was. He told me that a small airplane was headed for the White House. Eeek! Good enough for me, I start bailing. As I bail, I am surrounded by some dork mall rat high schoolers who were turning their Sony cams on themselves and doing instant video a la Blair Witch Project. They blow past me muttering to their cameras “I’m so scared. We have no idea what’s going on, no one will answer our questions.” To which, I reply “A small plane busted airspace over the White House.” So much for Meg-O-Rama info central. The little pimply cretins simply ignored me and kept saying over and over “We so scared—no one will talk to us.” Oy! So not glad these kids will be voting some day but I digress….

It was a bizarre thing to participate in to say the least. Tens of thousands of folks evacuating the Capitol in minutes flat. A veritable fleet of black sedans and Suburbans screeching up to the curb and VIPs like Senator John McCain were being shoved into them, then security would slap the trunk and the vehicle would whiz off to destinations unknown. Perhaps to Dick Cheney’s ‘undisclosed location’ which contrary to popular belief is not the men’s room in the basement of the Hart Senate building, it’s Jackson Hole, WY, where he can usually be found fishing but I digress. Some folks were running full out for their lives. Others were lightly trotting. Some were simply meandering while eating lunch from take out boxes, apparently interrupted mid-nosh….bummer.

As I attempted to run as far away as I could (because at that point it was being reported as a terrorist attack) in 90 degree heat with five million percent humidity while wearing kitten mules, so not the footwear of champions, I was actually passed up by one our Arizona congressional members who, prior to this, I was unaware can run faster than an Ethiopian in a 26k race all the while flapping his arms hard enough to either take flight or at least to approximate a drunken chicken dance at a Minnesota wedding.

Long and short of it. Traumatic experience. And I say that as the uncontested queen of trauma. Take it from someone who was downtown when the riots broke out in LA, got held up at gunpoint in Santa Monica, got caught in the Sepulveda Dam Basin flood, lost her home in the ’94 Northridge Quake and then a week later got attacked by a dog to the tune of 42 stitches in her ass. Trust me, I know trauma.

Speaking of the dog bite shaped scar on my left ass cheek, boy was that a good time! Not! As I was homeless after the earthquake, I was staying with a girlfriend of mine in Burbank. Her neurotic Sheltie, Sir Percival (enough said), was not handling the earthquake nor the subsequent aftershocks well. As I soon found out, not well at all.

As he went to mount my leg for the umpteenth time in the dance of dominance or horny small dogness, I once again told him “No Percy—not the leg.” I apparently said this one too many times or Percy desperately needed to rub one out as the next thing I knew, the dog leapt at me in full attack mode.

I put up my hands to shield my face and he caught a piece of my wrist. As all animals love me, just not usually in the physical way, I am beyond freaked! I turn to run and he nails me—right in the ass! I look down and I basically have a Sheltie hanging from my butt. It always looked funnier in the cartoons you know?

I let loose with the mother of all screams which startled the crap out of the dog just long enough for me to make my escape to the bedroom.

I call my friend Veronica and tell her that she needs to come take me to the emergency room as her dog has just chowed on my ass.

The ride to the hospital was crazy! First, I have to lower myself carefully into Veronica’s bitchin’ Camero (tongue in cheek) and then ride all the way there precariously balanced on my right ass cheek (as the left one is bleeding copiously and feels like the fricking dog is still attached to it) as she shifts gears and weaves in and out of traffic like a NASCAR driver on crack.

The next thing I know, I am standing in the middle of a large exam room pretty much nekked. They have cut what remains of my sweats off and as I am normally commando, I am standing there clad only in a t-shirt and my partially tattered birthday suit.

Enter Dr. Tran. The man who further engenders the continuance of stereotypes. He walks up without so much as a ‘how do you do’ and gets down to the task at hand. It is bad enough that I am naked from the waist down, I now have a small Asian man crouching down at eye level with my twippy as he stiches up my ass without the benefit of any pain killers or anesthetic.

Pretty soon, I am hysterical….with laughter. I’m making jokes. I tell Veronica, “Man, that dog knew a sweet piece of ass”, etc. and then howling with laughter. Dr. Tran looks up at me (from crotch level mind you) and with one eye kind of squinted says in heavily accented English “Are you drunk?” To which I responded “Uh, no” wondering WTF so then he says “Are you on drug?” and I said “I wish—you got anything you wanna’ share?” and laugh some more. He looks even more aggravated and says “Then why you laughing? It no funny!” To which I started laughing all the harder which is so not good or bright when someone is wielding a needle and thread on your ass.

I explained to him that as I am accident prone, I tend to make a lot of jokes when I am hurt to keep my mind of the pain (Friends tell me that this is much more preferable than when I used to loudly sing show tunes) and that basically he has two choices: I can either laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. Which would be preferable?

He didn’t even respond. He just glared up at me from my nether regions and went back to stitching up my ass mudflap.

To make the event even more fun? Not only did I get a Tetanus shot which hurt like fuck all, I had to wear a paper hospital gown taped around my waist on the right ass cheek trip back home so that I didn’t startle other commuters on the 405.

Ah, the indignity of it all….

Fear O Flying
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Pink Floyd
So I’m back from DC. Other than the flight from Hell, AKA hurtling through space for hours on end in a metal tube filled with screaming babies and enough concentrated germs to wipe out the Avian Bird Flu, excellent trip.

How’s that? Well see, I am afraid of flying. As in deathly and psychotically irrationally fearful of flying. Just call me little miss panic attack. Ok. Nix that. Call me Lord God Queen Boofoo of the panic attack.

This bod never boards an airplane without holding hands and singing kum-ba-ya with Captain Valium and several Grey Geese first. Seriously. If I don’t ‘lube’ up before I get on, strap into my aisle seat (harder to get sucked out the window that way) and tune out to my favorite episodes of South Park, I completely flip out on planes. As in completely lose my monkey meat. And can I just tell you how much fun that is for my row mates and fellow flyers over the course of a five hour flight? Yeah. ‘Zactly

My dad, who is a former military fighter and TWA pilot, finds this situation completely hilarious. The Captain who used to teach fear of flying seminars has a child who is terrified to fly. Go figure. He tried to give me a mini ‘Pop to Daughter’ fear of flying seminar once. Once. The only comment he made before I decided this wasn’t such a good idea was “Meg, you have to remember, they aren’t here to kill you. It’s bad for business.” Uh, thanks, but no thanks. Pops, shutty the pie hole!

So I get on the plane in DC and I think I am prepped and ready to go. Xanax? Check! Grey Goose and lime on the rocks? Check times several! South Park episodes? Check! Aisle seat? Check!

Then, my seat mate comes rolling down the aisle. My uber scary seat mate. My giant Mexican ex-con seatmate with the tattooed tears on his face and “HATE” and “KILL” tattooed on his knuckles. No butterflies or smiley faces anywhere on this dude that I can tell. Like I need anything else to freak me out at this point! It was the chocolate butter cream swirl icing of overkill let me tell you!

The plane takes off. My mantra? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Then turbulence. The mother of all turbulence. The plane is swaying and shuddering worse than an epileptic mid fit, bucking harder that I thought mechanically possible. With how hard the plane was whipping side to side, I am certain that a barrel roll and then a hard corkscrew to earth, certain death and forensically matched remains are in store for me in my near future.

Apparently, I was not pre-lubed nearly enough. I start panicking. All right, panicking is a massive understatement. I am losing my fricking mind! I have a white knuckle death grip on the arm rests as I rock harder than an autistic kid after a few Red Bulls.

I can feel myself frothing at the mouth (for reals) and yet, I can’t seem to stop thefar spraying stream of spittle coming from my mouth as I loudly mutter a steady stream of f-bombers and unintelligible shit that sounds as if I am speaking in tongues….several of them. The only portion of my rant that I can actually recount with any degree of certainty is this:

“Oh fuck! I can’t believe this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! I’m going to fucking die today! Fuck! Oh fuck! I’m going to fucking die today on this fucking plane! Oh fuck! This fucking plane is going to fucking crash and my fucking house is a fucking mess! Fuck! My fucking mother is going to see my fucking dirty house ‘cause this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! Fuck!”

Yeah. Needless to say, I reached out with my foot and snagged my purse so that I could grab another Xanax as I was obviously nowhere near my happy place. That’s the place where I am lubed to the point of feeling that if the plane crashes, hey, at least I won’t notice all that much.

I actually pop the Xanax into my mouth and dry chew it. Oh yum! Now, I literally have orange froth spewing out of my mouth.

Within a few minutes, I’m good. Or at least I am better which is still a major fricking improvement in my world! The same couldn’t be said of my seat mate, Killer the wonder vato.

I finally calm down enough to look around and when I do, all I can see are the whites of his eyes. He is sweating like a pig and has managed to shove himself as far away from me as he can physically manage while belted into the middle seat. The tendons in his forearms are literally popping with the exertion of heaving himself towards the window and away from crazy ol’ me.

And what do I do? I start laughing. Yeah. That’s the minute that all the Xanax and booze finally kicks in. Just in time for me to start howling like a fricking hyena in front of the man who probably raped his neighbor’s porch swing and I can’t stop. Shutty the pie hole is apparently not in my cards.

Although who’d of thunk that the one thing that completely freaks out and terrifies some hardcore medium security repeat offender is a psychotic white girl with rabies….

It's All About the Blog....
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Sade
One of my friends is just intrigued by the whole concept of my blog. As she isn’t a digerati or experienced Internet whore, she just doesn’t quite grasp the whole concept. In her mind, my blog is as groundbreaking as that Penn State broad who had the webcam in her dorm room broadcasting her every activity to the Universe and beyond.

Yeah. I think not.

I tell her there are thousands upon hundreds of thousands of folks who have blogs, most of which suck ass and aren’t worth a read. That when you find one you like and there are frequent posts, it becomes a regular part of your day or week or whatever to check it and read the latest installment. No different than regularly checking your horoscope, the Smoking Gun, eBay and Craig’s List.

Not mollified, she wants to know if I think it’s unnatural (READ: creepy) that random strangers are reading about my life. Hmmmmmmm....considering I’m putting it out there for random consumption? Yeah. Not so much. Although I have to admit I only posted the damn thing in the first place to shut Deb the Hell up! She badgered man! And that broad is a convincing badgerer.

And here we are. Somewhere I never, ever expected to be.

So, even though Marta’s read some of it and thinks it’s funny, she still doesn’t get why people would come and read it.

Her thoughts?

•It's voyeurism

•Readers seems to think they know you AKA instabond

•Scary to have people reading about your life

I look at it like this. I only did this because Deb nagged on me and because my friends think my stories are strangely funny. I never expected to have this many folks reading and checking in. I put it out there and that’s what it is. It’s just me and my randomness.

•I don’t consider it voyeuristic. It’s not like ya’ll are peeping in my living room window as I play naked PS2. If you are, at least ring the doorbell and come in for a cold one.

•Some readers know me, some might think they do and some never want to. No worries. You’re here because I make you laugh or at least shake your head in bewilderment or loathing.

•I don’t think it’s scary that people are reading about me, my thoughts and my life. I put it out there. I think I am more surprised at how many folks are apparently really easily amused or need my blog to use for their Masters in Abnormal Psych.

Random Thoughts
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Badge - Cream
•Food TV’s Sandra Lee is a freak and needs to be destroyed.

•It would be cool if everyone dressed like superheroes do. But having said that, I think that for some people, it should be illegal to wear spandex.

•I hate when a guy is no longer as fascinating as he once appeared.

•Polka music sucks ass…whether it is Polish, Mid-Western or Mexican. It is only entertaining when you and your friends are drunk in a Minneapolis beer garden.

•While door slamming isn’t a mature act, it can sometimes be beyond satisfying.

Thanks Tons
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass
So I talk to my mom and thank her again for her and dad giving me a roaring case of the creeping crud (AKA flu from Hell) over Christmas. How I still feel like ass and I have to go to D.C. next week.

She replies “Well Meg, everyone has it. You would have gotten it somewhere from someone eventually. Isn’t better to get it from your own parents then from a random stranger in line at Walgreeen’s?”

And she’s serious....

Still Recovering AKA I Almost Don't Feel Like Ass
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Sex Pistols
Here it is a week later and I almost don’t feel like total ass! UGH! This shit sucks! It’s like the Incredible Creeping Crud or the Creeping Crud That Would Not Die! I swear!

Part of the problem is that I never get sick at least sick like cold and flu stuff. I am more your basic small time industrial accident girl. I break my arm, sprain my ankle, dislocate my shoulders (Yes, both…at the same time) get black eyes, knock out my teeth, etc. I just don’t do run of the mill injuries and illnesses like Influenza Type B.

I am prepared for war—Motrin 800, frozen peas (ice packs), iodine, hospital formula benzocaine spray, Silver Sulfadiazine cream (SSD), knee braces, pain killers, liquid skin AKA Super Glue, Ace bandages for days, Epsom salts, splints....you name it. The Meg-O-Rama urban triage kit....

Seriously. Everyone who knows me jokes that if it can cut me or burn me, it will. No matter how careful I am, I am seriously accident prone. It is unbelievable at times. I am a total disaster zone. If I can run into it, I will. If I can trip over it, I will….at least once. If I can stab myself with it, I will. I might even hack off the top of my thumb. I am a magnet for injury and I have the scars to prove it.

I’ve always been this way. Apparently, unlike most kids, I just never grew out of it my ‘Danger Prone Daphne’-ness.

I was the kid who was constantly falling out of trees, cutting my arm open on rebar, having skateboard accidents, getting beaten up by my older sister, falling off my bike, etc. I was always covered in an array of rather spectacular bruises and scabs.

Kids wore them as badges of honor back then. Big, gnarly, slimey, mutant scabs that evolved and dissolved on a regular basis as we spent far too much time in the pool—blech! But I digress…

Anywho, I was injured so often that our family doctor actually asked to talk to me alone to make sure our stories were consistent. Sweet! I only wish I had been old enough to play that one! Could have been funny. “My sister attacked me with a rabid hedgehog.”

So my long winded point? (Do I ever have any other kind?) Give me a sprained ankle, knock out my teeth, anything! Just no flu. Please! I can stand pain—tattoos, broken bones, papercuts, etc. What I cannot stand is being a whiney, snot infested victim of my own useless self!

All I can say is this crap had better clear up before I head to D.C. or I will whip out my buddy Jack Daniels and continue to furiously hot toddy this thing into submission!

My Dating Rules for the New Year
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Tori Amos
1. I am going to stop looking for Mr. Right and spend more time enjoying Mr. Right Now more fully. Besides, if you look at the odds, I have a far better chance of finding multiple Mr. Right Nows than I do of finding one Mr. Right.

2. If I am bored and hungry, I will go out on a date. The best outcome is that I will kill two birds with one stone. The worst case scenario is that I still won’t need to figure out how my new hi-tech microwave works.

3. I am going to kiss everyone (this is not exactly a new rule)…except stalkers as this just further encourages them or narcissistic guys as they tend not to notice you are even kissing them or stinky guys unless it is the post manly workout sweaty stink which is acceptable or total toads as ugly cannot be overcome with copious amounts of liquor no matter what anyone claims or losers as again there is just not enough liquor to overcome the big “L” or self-aggrandizing guys which really requires no explanation.

4. I will improve the quality of the quantity of guys I date as I seem to be wasting a lot of perfectly good lip gloss.

5. I will strive to date guys who share the same first name as this just cuts down on identity confusion when dating multiple guys. Failing this, I plan on referring to them all by the endearing term ‘sugar britches’ to garner the same result….

6. I will no longer date guys who have been married more than twice because you have to know buddy, after the third divorce, it's you!

7. I pledge to do my very best not to re-date any of my ex boyfriends a fourth time no matter how much they beg and plead.

8. I will loosen my standards for my ideal guy which, according to my friends, are too strenuous. I therefore will now just require that he be relatively hair free, funny, cute to me, employed and have decently maintained feet. Did I say funny?

9. I will enjoy every date to its fullest, unless the guy’s a creep, in which case I reserve the right to plan a red herring emergency cell call to end the date early. “My neighbor’s iguana was just hit by a car—she needs moral support—gotta’ go.”

10. I will not date men who have pet names for their willies. Any man who refers to his maleness as the Super Sonic Master Blaster, Mr. Lovejoy’s Pleasure Stick, Ace, Mr. Bo & the Jangles, etc. is out. In the infamous words of a member of O.J.’s defense team, if the junk has a name, I don’t play the game (it was something like that).

Am I too Drunk to Drive? AKA Call a Cab Dillhole
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: Janis Joplin
I pretty much encourage everyone to drink and drink often and as New Year’s Eve is tonight and I still feel like ass, I thought I would share with you some signs that you may be too ‘abbreviated’ to drive.

As New Year’s Eve is rank amateur hour, don’t be a fool and drink and drive. No one wants to start the New Year in the can with a bunch of syphilis infected hookers and vomiting college kids (sometimes the same thing). It just doesn’t bode well for a stellar ’06 now does it?

Here are some signs that you are too drunk to drive. Call a cab dillhole!

•Talking way louder than normal. Stray dogs in the Philippines heard you tell your story about sneaking into the Pernod Rock Festival in ’89. Your own jokes make you laugh like a psychotic hyena. Call a cab dillhole!

•Slurring like a fucking retard. Drinking stuff you wouldn't normally touch like gin, or say Puro, because it’s there. Obese and slovenly members of the opposite sex are starting to look reeeaaally good to you. Call a cab dillhole!

•You are calling all females in your line of sight sluts and whores (regardless of your sex). Call a cab dillhole!

•Standing, walking, and breathing require intense concentration and/or help from a wingman/winggal. Call a cab dillhole!

•Nothing you say makes any sense as you are speaking fluent ‘drunkenese'. Call a cab dillhole!

•Telling all of the random strangers in the room how very, very much you love them. Call a cab dillhole!

•Vomiting, heroic or otherwise. Call a cab dillhole!

•Whoa tiger! Total loss of control as you attempt to mount a harmless houseplant. Call a cab dillhole!

•Wetting/shitting your pants is in the offing (pun intended). Call a cab dillhole!

•If you are a guy, you are dirty dancing with a teenage transgender Latino ‘girl’; if you are a gal, you are dirty dancing as the filling sandwiched between two white trash cheeseballs with pencil mustaches and NBA jerseys. You do not want to have to introduce yourself to any of these folks in the morning when you are wondering where the Hell you are. Call a cab dillhole!

•Dancing a la Paris Skank Hilton on any surface that was not originally intended for dancing (e.g., table top, toilet seat, bar stool, Greek billionaire’s face, etc. Call a cab dillhole!

The key to remember? If your friends really loved you, they would already have taken your drunk ass home and put you to bed on your stomach, not your back, to prevent you from choking on your own vomit and dying like Hendrix and a few other drunken 60's music idols.

Great way to start the New Year Skippy….

Tis the Season to Feel Like Ass!
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: Basia
As I post this from lung cookie central, I fear I may be dying. In fact, I don’t fear it, I wish for it with every aching fiber of my flu-infested being! So someone get your ass over here and put me out of my misery!

When my sis and I arrived at the ‘rents’ pad for Christmas frivolities, mom and pops were hardcore sick--hacking, dripping, sounding like Brenda Vaccaro after a carton of smokes, etc. You know. Sick as fricking dogs! My sister turned, looked at me and said “We’re so fucked!” and as usual, she was right.

I felt fine all through the Christmas. Woke up Monday with a bit of a narfy chest deal but put that off to a late night ‘dog walk’ of ‘stinkerbell’ (Belle), my sister’s lab puppy.

By Tuesday, I knew the high hard one of illness was coming to smack me upside the head and all I could do was try to prepare for the onslaught. It must be how those poor bastards in trailer parks feel after hearing a twister warning. There’s nothing to do but hunker down with provisions and ride it out.

So I hit the market, the drug store and the video store in rapid succession for necessities before I lost strength and succumbed to the creeping crud. Airborne, Emer’gen-C (I’m telling you that stuff is a multipurpose champion!), Alka Seltzer cold & flu, gallons of Gatorade, gallons of juice, and movies. I start taking the Airborne and Emer’gen-C immediately. Take a hot tub. Hoping to sweat it out and, unrealistically, avoid the ick.

Well, that didn’t work.

Wednesday. Day from Hell. Ground Zero. Flu hits hardcore. Head feels like 50lb toddler is playing dodge ball with it. Sinuses have apparently been packed with rusty steel wool. I am shivering and freezing even though I am ensconced in fleece footie jammies, encrusted in Vick’s vapor rub, holed up under the covers. Coughing, which I am doing a shitload of, hurts. Moving hurts. Opening my eyes hurts. Hearing hurts. Being me hurts. If is official. I feel like ass. I am down for the count.

A hot tub would have been nice. Too bad that I hadn’t the strength to get in one but a bonus, in some small way, as I probably would not have had the strength to get back out. Seriously. I would have ended up as Meg-O-stew after parboiling for 14 hours or so before somebody found me…. or the dogs and cats ate me…. or something else a la Stephen King (which is actually what went through my fevered and delirious mind as I pondered a hot tub). Hey, I’ve heard it happens….pets eating you and all, not the parboiling in a hot tub bit.

I opt for sleep. Lots of it.

Thursday. I am barely existing in my misery. Ever growing heaps of snot rags litter my house. The piles on the nightstand and coffee table are especially impressive. Must think about getting a trash can when it doesn’t hurt to think. I am single handedly adding to the deforestation of Costa Rica by the snot infested fistful.

Can my misery be any more complete? Why yes, it surely can!

Thursday afternoon. I was still at flu threat level red. I heard some strange high pitched whining noise like a small animal being tortured. As I strain to figure out where it’s coming from, I realize it’s the sound of my own breath, rasping in and out of my chest that I hear. My ears are ringing. My joints hurt. I go into a coughing fit. I am coughing and heaving like no body’s biz. And can I tell you about the pain? Oy! It felt like my chest was on fire and I thought for a minute, I was going to pass out—it hurt that bad. You know, where your chest is all congested and you start that dry wracking cough and can’t stop? It just burns like nobody’s business.

So here I am, coughing my fool head off, when my house was suddenly infested with barking spiders (AKA fart attack: instead of blaming it on the dog, our family blames it on barking spider infestations) and next thing you know, and there’s no way to put this delicately, I suddenly felt something oddly warm and wet. Huh?! WTF? Well, I’d done soiled myself. Yup. Coughed so hard, I pooped my pants. Interesting that I was unaware I had the trots until that moment. Moderate leakage, but still unauthorized--an oop-poop so to speak (REMEMBER: NEVER trust a fart and PULEEZE, like it’s never happened to you—it’s mortifying, but funny)

So I freaked out! Classic understatement--I completely wigged out!!! I stumbled into the bathroom, still coughing, dragged my aching self over to the toilet and whipped down my sweats to check out the collateral damage, when I cough. I cough hard. I cough so unbelievable hard that my gag reflex kicks in and I hurl. That’s right. I roark up a roiling mass of Gatorade and God knows how many sundry cough and cold products and proceed to puke between my legs, right into the soiled sweatpants that were bunched down around my ankles as I sat on the toilet.

Yeah. Good times I tell you. Not. I have a much higher level of appreciation now for the party stunts my body is capable of performing. This one took the cake! I was a wretched beast to say the least!

Needless to say, the sweats were bagged up and dumped (pun intended) into the trash receptacle as there was no way I was going to try to recover them at that point--futile and disgusting thought there.

I wearily forced myself into a hot shower and managed to cleanse. I rolled into fresh jammies and poured my still horrified self bonelessly back into bed before I passed out for another 12 hours of sleep.

Friday. I faced the day knowing there was no way it could be as bad as yesterday. I mean, there’s no way anything can match shitting and puking your drawers almost simultaneously (I think I’ll call it the ‘up dump’ for the upchuck dump). Nice. Having said that, I then commenced to stress out wondering if I had just jinxed myself to another day of feeling like ass and the possibility of a repeat performance of the ‘up-dump’.

I feel better. I must have as I attempted to eat a bowl of cereal puffs. Bad idea. Ever tried to eat cereal when you can’t breathe through your nose? Yeah. ‘Zactly. Surprised I didn’t die although there were some rather close calls….I am down to a flannel nightshirt and red furry house scuffs. My nose resembles said furry house scuffs being a rather violent shade of red at this point. Head is still pounding at a level on par with a minor construction site noise sans the heavy duty jackhammer.

It boded well. I attempted a minor sojourn out for errands. Bad idea. Major, major space monkey driving behavior commenced. You know you get in the car, you arrive at your destination and have no idea how you got there AKA Autopilot. Not good. At my first stop, I start feeling all sweaty and faint. Time to head home.

At this rate, my New Years plans are completely verklempt. There is no way in Hell without substantial improvement that I will be doing ANYTHING for New Years Eve except feeling like ass!

Have one or twelve for me….I'm not going anywhere fast....

Random Christmas Memories....
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Best of Johnny Cash
Ah Christmas! It’s the most wonderful time of the year…yeah it is! I spent the Christmas holiday with the famn damily. We had a perfectly lovely time. For reals. Surprisingly. I know. We ate, we opened, we laughed, we played Oh Hell, my sister and I walked her Lab puppy, ‘Stinkerbell’ (AKA euphemism for sneaking off for a smoke) and we spoke of Christmases past.

Here are some of the holiday ‘gems’ that we remembered and reminisced about. Enjoy. I hope your Christmas (or other assorted Yule holiday or lack thereof) was bright…and full of good and shiny things.

Quality Control
When my sister was 8 or so the ‘rents got her the much-desired new bike with the highly coveted, uber cool banana seat. Oh yeah. Slick baby!

So it’s Christmas Eve and Pop was putting her bike together after he and mom had finished sucking back a few bottles of champagne.

On Christmas morning, mom noticed a box full of ‘leftover’ bike parts and my sister wasn’t allowed to ride it until Pop got it fixed. “She is NOT riding that bike Robert!”

We Like the Night Life Baby….
All of the kids in the neighborhood loved the Thompson’s Christmas party. It spelled a free for all for a bunch of long haired and semi-pimply adolescents.

Our parents were so fully tanked, laughing and smoking while we were running around perving forgotten glasses of booze left on the buffet table, in the bathroom, on the back porch, etc. surreptitiously combining them into one big drink and chugging it before a parent caught you. Sometimes you lucked out on the combination and sometimes, not so good. AKA The liquor version of a ‘suicide’.

It was also convenient for those kids who dabbled in cigarettes. My sister and the older kids could snake smokes from unattended purses and sports coats and no one caught on as the whole house was filled with smoke anyway (in a long ago time, AKA the 70’s, most everyone smoked and smoked everywhere—secondhand smoke not such a biggie and who worried about their kids smoking by association anyway?)

In a random way, I think it prepared me for college. Similar parties and all….

Dead Guy Clothes
My grandpa, Jamie, was the go-to guy in his retirement community in Scottsdale.

The widow Nelson needed her gutters cleaned? Gramps would whip out the ladder and get it done. Did the tangelo tree at the McGrath’s need a culling? Gramps was there. Saul dies in his sleep and you clean out the closets for the widow and keep his old clothes to wear for grubbies. Only problem with this thrifty Scottish, as we are, plan? Gramps was over 6’ tall and these clothes were all for much shorter gents. So the family referred to these too short cast offs as ‘dead guy clothes’. As in, any time we saw Gramps wearing them, we’d be all shades of “Gramps is sporting dead guy clothes today”. Needless to say, long running family joke.

It’s Christmas 1980 something. Calvin Klein, as modeled by the ever ethereal and hot in a rather disturbing jailbait kind of way, Brooke Shields. You remember: “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”.

So mom buys Gramps a pair of Calvin Klein jeans so that he can wear them to grub in rather than the dead guy clothes.

Gramps uses his pocket knife to carefully cut the tape away from the wrapping paper, then folds it and saves it to one side fully intending to wrap next year’s gifts in it (and did by the by).

He opens the box and pulls out the new jeans and my Pop says “Oh my God! Calvin Klein died.” At which, we all burst out laughing hysterically.

Gramps carefully folded the Calvins back into their box. We never saw them again.

The Tale of The Hell Bell
Ah the joys of yute! It’s Christmas. I’m five. We’re trimming the tree. It is my year to get on pop’s shoulders and put the angel on top—boo yeah!

It’s all fun, games and Burl Ives on the stereo until I spot the bell. I remember it well. It was beyond cool. Metallic green, glitter…garish. Have you ever noticed how kids that age are attracted to garish like moths to a porch light? So I tell dad that I want to put the bell on top of the tree.

Pop, ever patient, explains to me that we’re going to put the angel on top. I reply “I want the bell.” Pop explains that it’s my turn and I get to put the angel on the tree. To which, I respond with little fists planted on my waist, “I want the bell!” So Pops got down on his knees and explained the importance of the angel and the symbolism between her and the tree top. I folded my angry little arms across my angry little body and looked Pop straight in the eye and said “Hell!” Ooops!

Next thing I know, I am airborne. Flying down the hall with the greatest of ease as my Pop had grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down to the bathroom.

Wooshe….grind, grind, grind. That was the sound the bar of soap (think LAVA brand here folks) made as it made its way over the lips and ground down the length of my teeth towards my non-existent tonsils as I sat on the toilet seat and considered the extreme, extreme, error of my ways.

Ugh! Double ugh! Giant sobs through the bar of soap. Tough to do—lots of spit. Tears coursing down my little face.

Mom came back, eventually, and removed the bar of soap from my very repentant little potty mouth and says “Oh honey, you should never have said that.”

I blinked back some tears and went to respond to her and blew a ginormous soap bubble instead….

What makes this story is that every year at Christmas, whoever unpacks the bell says “Oh look Meg, it’s the Hell bell” and everyone laughs their asses off at my expense….as usual….

Gotta’ love the holidays!

Deck the Halls Until They are Slick with Blood....From the TShirtHell.com X-mas Jingle Bell Thingy
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Insane Clown Posse
Once again, I have to say how fricking much I enjoy the offerings (burnt and otherwise) from TShirtHell.com!

The t-shirts and other assorted goodies are fuck all funny. Beyond un-PC....in a very good way. If you are easily offended, don't bother going to their site to check it out. Then again, if you are easily offended, you shouldn't be reading my blog either as much like In Living Color--nothing's sacred!

Sometimes their monthly news letter is just that and other times it is screamingly hilarious. This month is pretty hilarious (at least to me) and so I am posting it for your happy daily consumption of un-PC fodder.

Now, go check out the site at:
www.TShirtHell.com and keep the dream of pissing off everyone alive by buying two....or ten shirts. I especially enjoy the Beyond Hell section of the site....but then again, I would!

Deck the Halls Until They are Slick with Blood
By Aaron Landau Schwarz, owner of TShirtHell

I saw on TV last night some good news for a change: America is winning, "The War on Christmas". I, for one, am glad to hear it because frankly I feel we needed the victory. The War on Drugs was a bust (no pun intended), and the War on Terror is still too close to call. But I think the War on Christmas is really a slam dunk.

Why a War on Christmas? Well, there have been uncorroborated reports of sleigh bells ringing, and possible evidence of reindeer droppings (some say pigeon) at the World Trade Center right before the first plane hit. So, for me, that's plenty of proof to tie Santa Claus to September 11th.

Not to mention the coded messages sent out to Santa's operatives around the world in songs like, "White Christmas". Long thought to be just a harmless call for ethnic cleansing, the real significance lies is in the verse, "May your days be merry and bright". This is Santa's plan for world domination. His call for a World both Merry and Bright, (or WMB as he likes to call it) makes the idea of Global Communism about as threatening as a pillow fight in a nursing home. Santa's already created one at his workshop at the North Pole, as well as at his Elf Training Camp. We must go there and find, and destroy these WMBs.

I think sending our special forces down to the North Pole will be a really nice break from Afghanistan. After a day of torturing... whoops, I mean talking to elves; our troops can enjoy a nice cup of hot cocoa. And there's no whore, like an elfin whore. Even the ones that are pushing 245 still look 197: and if you slick their hair back, 96. Santa's not hiding in a cave. He's in a well marked building. The place has a sign made out of gumdrops on a thirty foot candy cane. It will not be hard to find.

I figure we'll have this war won by February and those little elves will be holding free elections by March. Our troops will be home by April. Just in time to start The War on Easter. So lay those chocolate eggs while you still can Easter Bunny.

You're next.

All I Want for Christmas....
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Best of Johnny Cash
I have tried really hard this year to be nice and not naughty. These efforts have failed rather miserably as I am naughty by nature (and why did that have to be a rap band with street cred’s name and therefore ruin my line? Hey! ho! Down with the O.P.P….)

The good news is that I am naughty in a fun/enjoyable bratty kind of way not a seriously wicked or evil way. To be quite honest, I just don’t have enough short term memory left after college to handle the machinations of true evil. WAY too much stuff to try to remember and I still can’t figure out where I hid some of the Christmas presents I bought earlier this year. You would think that would be hard to do in a 1600 sq. ft. house….but I digress.

So all that being said, I think I deserve some special goodies from Santa Babe this year. Here’s my short list of random wants as I really can’t concentrate any more to try to compile something longer.

What I want for Christmas this year

• Super powers
• Black American Express card (if you have to ask, never mind)
• An evening without dog farts
• 60 inch flat screen tv….in every room of the house including the bathrooms and my walk in closet
• My two front teeth—no really, I’ve knocked them out twice and the bonding is coming off
• A bouncing, hydraulic, ‘vato’ gangster car complete with a chain steering wheel (the better to get my handcuffs around), a switchblade gear shift and a super cool flame paint job (I would look soooooooo cool as gangsta’ Meg!)
• Stretch Armstrong and a scalpel (I told you I was naughty)
• Life size Easter Island Tiki God thing or two (more impressive that way I think)
• Medium-size catapult with a supply of things to fling—preferably melons and gourds
• Suit of chain mail
• WD-40 (for the chain mail of course—DUH!)
• The Clapper (You know-clap on! Clap off! The clapper! NOT the other kind)
• A cabana boy complete with optional knee pads
• Trampoline shoes (seriously)
• Life sized robot (Danger Meg Robinson—return to the ship!)
• Hot pink footie jammies (the zip up one piece ones)
• An empty can with a string attached to it that I can carry around and pretend is my cell phone
• Tequila bandito bandolier (the shot glass shoulder holder thingy (technical term) that shot broads wear in bars)
• Vegas show girl headdress to wear to the grocery store-must be ginormous and horribly garish (are there any that aren’t?)
• Monica Lewinsky bobble head doll (isn’t that an oxymoron?)
• Potato gun (AKA spud mother)
• Finger puppets (an assortment of characters is fine)
• Leather Twister game mat (none of your beeswax!)
• A Peacock

Whew! I think that about covers it. Any combination of the above would make for a super cool Meg-O-Rama Christmas! Certain combinations could make for a unbelievably fricking stellar Meg-O-Rama Christmas!

Here’s wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blissful Kwanzaa, Exultant Solstice, Joyous Yule, etc. If I overlooked your religious beliefs, or the lack thereof, I apologize. Yeah, not really. I am beyond sick of all of this PC shit with holidays.

If you run into me on the street, I will wish you a Merry Christmas, against your will if necessary, because I’m Methodist and that’s what we do….

Just add liquor.....
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: New Order
So Friday night I was in DC Ranch (AKA BFE) for an evening out with a dear friend from college who I adore, Inga. Now, Inga is a darling Scandanavian gal who doesn’t get out all that much as she is married and is a stay at home mom with 3 kids: a 3 year old and one year old twins. Yeah—she’s a pretty busy broad on a daily basis to say the least. So it’s a rather big treat for Inga to get out of the house for a girl’s evening out.

When we met up at the bar we were ‘starting’ at, she was all shades of excited as she could actually stay out until 11pm! “Can you believe it?!” she squealed in happiness, “11pm!” I’m psyched as we will have a longer evening to hang out and gab.

So we plopped ourselves down, chattering incessantly the whole time. Our waitress came up and informed us that their monster Kettle One martinis (yum!) are half price for the next hour so we decided to order martinis. We ended up with appletinis…and I know better! You NEVER drink a smooth, quality liquor like Kettle One with fruity and sweet stuff added. It becomes a ‘stealth drink’ as the fruity covers the almost non-existent taste of the premium liquor and the sugar enhances the effect. Bad, bad combination.

I am yakking, telling her a story when she interrupts me to tell me I need to “hurry up” and she wants to order two more. What? I haven’t been flapping my lips that long have I? Quelle horror! I surreptitiously check my watch, only to find it’s been about 5 minutes. EEEK!!!! So she orders another one and continues to steadily drink. After about our 3rd martini, in less than an hour mind you, I tell her that we need to slow down. Just because the drinks are half off, doesn’t mean we need to schlog through them at a rate similar to a frat boy on nickel beer night. We also need to order some food to try to gum down the booze’s effect. An order of asiago dip and two more martinis later, sweet Inga is talking about ordering a 5th one! OMG! Now, I drink on a semi regular basis (one would have to with my job) and I have even been known to quaff back a stellar amount at times on par with a redneck spending the day tubing down the Salt River. The difference between me and the tiny blond Inga? I can hold my liquor—I’ve had shloads more practice in the recent past you see.

Pretty soon, Inga has decided that I need to hook up so she can live vicariously through me. Oh boy…

I come back from the bathroom. As I walk back to the table, I notice Inga has developed ‘glassy eyes’. Oy! Never a good sign. As I sit down, she says, “Hey, that guy’s pretty cute.” I’m like “What cute guy? I don’t see one.” She says “The one up at the bar eating the salad.” I replied “You mean the one that looks like Frank Sinatra?” And she says “Yeah”. To which I responded “Too bad he looks like Frank Sinatra….at 60! EWWWWW!” To be totally fair, I have to say though, the place had serious mood lighting. I kept grabbing the candle off our table and holding under my chin and saying “I am so scared!” in my best Blair Witch impression.

So then she’s all “Hey that guy’s cute. You should go for it.” I looked up and was all oh no! I like shaved heads, but that was about all this dude had going on for him even in the darkest of mood lighting! I look up to see this narfy looking guy ensconced in a pair of way too tight Wranglers (think male camel toe), a cotton Fair Island sweater and a pair of black, hi-top Reeboks tennis shoes. UGH! Can you say late/early for days?! This guy was stuck in a truly hideous 80’s fashion time warp!

Unfortunately, there’s no stopping Inga and she says “Sit down! Join us!” Ok, anyone can tell she is slam-dammered if not totally slam dunked as she has just asked him to basically sit down on our purses which is basically what I said to him with a smile. This guy acts like a total ass and is like “Yeah, I’m not sitting with you.” WHAT? What kind of asshole a) doesn’t want to sit with 2 cute girls and b) responds like a total dillhole to a clearly intoxicated and polite little blond? LOSER!

Soon, we find out the reason why he was such a total cheese ass. Captain fashion disaster is meeting a horsey looking farm broad. More power to him. More his style than us anyway. They decide to sit down behind us. Directly behind us. After they sit he starts telling her some wildly ‘enhanced’ version of what happened. How we were "totally hitting on him" and "that girl grabbed my ass" (As if! Besides, wouldn't I have gotten his narfy camel toe instead if I tried that?) I start chuckling and shaking my head in amusement whereas Inga starts getting indignant. I tell her to look at his shoes—PUHLEEZE! 'Nuff said! So she, very obviously in her stellar liquor haze, flips around to look at his shoes and lets loose with peals of laughter. FD gets all shades of pissy and says “Is there a problem? I saw you looking at my shoes.” Before I can censor myself, I snap back “Yeah, they’re lame just like you.” EEEEK! I can’t believe I just did that! I am usually beyond non-confrontational unless physically accosted, but I was seriously irritated that he would be that much of a shitbag to Inga and then lie about it to his hag chick. Apparently, my staring him down with major stink eye did the trick as FD sputtered for a minute and then left us the Hell alone.

Inga then spots a hotty blond and his entourage/posse enter. “Oh, he’s hot! You should definitely go for him!” To which I again started laughing and say “Yeah that would be Scotty McAlister, the Channel 24 weather guy. (NOTE: The broadcaster's name, appearance, job title, channel, etc. have all been changed to protect the innocent or the not so innocent....in this case, me.)He’s VERY married and has several darling kids that he dotes on.” As in beyond off limits in my book and with good reason.

She goes to order another ‘martooni’ and I frantically motion to our waitress with a slashing “cut off’ motion which sweet Inga notices. I managed to turn it into a casual hair flip. She’s tanked and having a blast. I do not want to rain on that parade, but I also know when to it’s a good idea to open an umbrella prior to a serious soaking.

The scarier part? It’s only 6:30pm. So much for that highly anticipated 11pm curfew. There is no way the tiny cuteness is going to make it that long. Her bright and hotly burning night out star has crashed and burned to earth like a fabulous, yet short lived, meteor.

I encourage her to head home. She didn’t want me to drive her, follow her or call her a cab. I was worried, but she assured me she was ok for the 10 minute toodle home and sometimes you can only push it so much. So after many hugs and a virtual “you’re the best!” love fest in the parking lot, we part ways. Inga to head home and me to head off for a ‘pick up’ date who I had contacted when I realized the evening was going to be rather short lived.

I’m proud of Inga for her all out, no prisoners willingness to tie one on….and hard. Willingness is half the battle or so says G.I. Joe. Next time, I just think she needs to treat it like a training for a marathon. Start small at first and work yourself up to the entire demanding distance. It’s all about endurance babe!

Hopefully, in two weeks when we go out again, we’ll start slowly and pace ourselves…I am SO looking forward to our next attempt!

No More Walt.....
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Squeeze
So it is with great sadness in my heart that I have to inform you that I will no longer be sharing updates on the ‘Walt’ situation with you.

One of my rules is that the blog is not for consumption by those I might be or already am romantically/sexually/passionately/adoringly/mashingly (or a variation of none, one or several of these) involved with. While the things I talk about are nothing I wouldn’t tell them to their faces, it’s just not cool to do so on the Internet if they know about the blog and read it. And you know they don’t call me cool chick for nothing as I am all about being cool.....

See, ‘Walt’ knows about the blog. That usually wouldn’t happen as I never tell guys I go out with about it, but I met ‘Walt’ through unusual channels, so to speak, and he has read it.

In fact, only four of my exes know about the blog and have the address—three of these are from college and I remain good friends with them so I really don’t care that they read it as there’s nothing that would shock them anyway. At the most, they might just shake their heads and think “Oh, Meg!” The fourth is Matty and, if he still reads this, I can pretty much guarantee you that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything I have to say about him. I don’t think there is anything I could dish out that he couldn’t handle.

At one point after we broke up the first time, he started dating a rather well-endowed (store bought) chick. He called up one night rather upset, and understandably so, as he had just found out that this broad, ‘Almond’ had been convicted of writing bad checks. Something he had been blissfully unaware of previously. Oops!

After he told me, I couldn’t help myself. I start giggling uncontrollably as that cheesy 70’s song “When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman” came to mind…but with vastly different words of course. So I started singing to him “When you’re in love with a big breasted felon, it hurts…” Yeah. So you see, nothing I could possibly say at this point could compare to that.

So anywho, I’ll have to take a pass on the hilarious ‘Walt’ update…use your imagination. It probably won’t be as good as the real story of torrid text messaging and utterly inane behavior but we’ll never know now will we?

Besides, in the dating game of Texas Hold'em, it's kind of stupid to show your hand on the Internet....