Dating: Proceed with Confidence

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Ladies, ladies, ladies. I need to have a serious talk with all of you beauties on a lost art form I’d like to call “playing the field.”

Now if you frequent The Rose you’ll know I was horribly ugly once and a super late bloomer. But once I got bangs and started wearing mascara I went from boyfriend A to boyfriend F for the next 6 to 8 semesters. My last serious boyfriend and I broke up almost a year ago, lets call him…. Schmilly.

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Schmilly and I had fun until we didnt’t and once we broke up I realized I’d pretty much had a boyfriend since I was 18. There were gaps here and there for a few months when I’d collect myself back together and start really enjoying myself as I was and then bingo bango I’d find a boyfriend again. Which brings me to:

Tip #1 of Megan’s-pretend-dating-advice-that-has-been-successful-thus-far-in-guaranteeing-my-journey-towards-undoubtably-dying-alone:

Stop looking for a boyfriend.

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When’s the last time you found yourself getting some unexpected attention? My professional guess (remember I’m a PHD in Psychology and Lying) is that it was probably on some random Wednesday when you were out with your friends just genuinely enjoying yourself. It’s the times when we’re the most carefree that we get the most attention. Why wouldn’t someone want to approach you with your stunning smile and perfect mane of hair and look on your face that says “hey! I don’t give a hoot!”

We’ve forgotten to make *dAtInG* about us having fun because we’re so fixated on what the other person is doing and why he doesn’t like us.

First off, if he doesn’t like you…. ew. Next, moving on. We have a habit of getting ourselves into these crap situations because we want these sexy man candies to like us so badly that we forget that they have no redeeming qualities.

If you ask yourself “why do I like him so much?” and the only thing you can think of is “but he’s so hot” – the answer is you like him because he doesn’t like you. I’ll admit being guilty of this. There’s nothing quite like the rush of winning someone over, but it works about as often as a notch above never.

Playing the Field

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It’s time to start dating like men, bitches. And I say this, because those glorious little bastards have the right idea. You spend a little bit of time with a [few] people until you actually find one you want to spend more time with. Ain’t nothing wrong with having a little rotation as long as you’re keeping your pants to yourself.

I was recently talking to one of my friends lets call him “Some Big Idiot” about the differences between girls’ and guys’ opinions on dating, and I realized that guys are much better at sticking to their word. We all start out pretending we don’t want to be in a relationship either but when a guy says it – he means it. And unless you’re Giniffer Goodwin in He’s Just Not That Into You – then he’s going to stick to it even if you have good naked chemistry. Whereas we forget instantly and show up at his house unannounced with a boombox over our heads playing Hit Me Baby One More Time.

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When I did that to Schmilly he ate it up but I was his exception at the time.

I digress, but I think a lot of us are missing the point! Dating is supposed to be fun and it’s supposed to be about what YOU want and what YOU like. We’re going to be mothers one day and our lives are going to be over so stop wasting your free years thinking about why some guy who’s middle name you don’t even know didn’t text you before noon today.

Play the field, say yes to drinks, and do what makes you happy.

With this in mind there are some things you must know:

  1. He’s dating other people. Just because he took you out once and you had a great date doesn’t mean he’s going to have a ring for you the next time you see him. Expect that he’s seeing other people and don’t dwell on it because so are you (get it girl)
  2. You set your own ground rules for casual dating. I know a guy who won’t date a girl who eats meat lovers pizza. That’s just his rule. For me, if there’s no menu involved, there’s no me ‘n u involved (see what I did there) That’s just my style – some mens may disagree with it, but I say if you can’t put the effort in to buy me a $10 cocktail before I let you kiss me on the mouth then you don’t deserve it. It’s very minimal effort, I don’t think I’m asking a lot.
  3. Jealousy isn’t allowed until you’ve had a conversation about being mutually exclusive (and I mean a real conversation not one you had in your head. Not that that happens because it totally doesn’t)
  4. Say things like “but I’m not a doctor” “classic mix up” “le duh” and “boring”

Above all else, remember that people are just people and we all do unfavorable things to each other. Sometimes we text people we don’t like because we need some extra attention that day. Sometimes people do that to us. It doesn’t make us bad. We’re all just navigating our way through life one dick move at a time.

When Schmilly and I broke up I felt that all my past relationships had been failures, until I realized that they’re supposed to be failures until the one that’s not. That’s why they call it “the one” it’s the only one that works.

Until that fateful day, play on players. Play on.

xoxo #CanIhaveYourNumber

My Six Months on the Wagon

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Let me start by describing what scientists have deemed “The Fear.”

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Ahh, The Fear. A feeling most of us are all too familiar with. It’s that feeling you get when you abruptly awake from the nightmare that was your previous evening. This untimely wake-up call is usually accompanied by your head in your hands and your decision to never drink again. The Fear is brought on by the distant memory that you’ve done something… to someone… at some point… somewhere… But you don’t know who, what, where, when or why. The appropriate response to this is being scared of running into anyone. The Fear.

Then there’s me. Who got so deeply intoxicated one fateful night in LA last April, that I was beyond waking up with any fear. Just a deeply misguided recollection that last night was normal. The only distant memory I had was from the drink that pushed me over the edge. You know the feeling. You can’t taste it on your lips or smell it in the air, but the flavor and scent of your last beverage is forever ingrained in your throbbing brain. For me it was some sort of grape disaster. I had managed to make it upstairs to the loft where they only served cocktails (so LA) opposed to the bud light I so classily attempted to order, so I told the bartender to surprise me. Mistake. He brewed up grape liquor, banana peppers and sadness into yellow Koolaid that I regrettably downed. And then I woke up.

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Needless to say as I rolled over on the mystery tiles I had clearly spent my coma on, my first thought after where am I and where are my sunglasses, was that I’m never drinking again.

And apparently I had a hint of brain power left because I realized that everyone always says it and no one ever does it. So I wanted to put my money where my mouth was and actually go six whole months without drinking. Which I proudly did. My six months ended on Friday without having a single drop. I responded by ripping shots of tequila at 6pm, but that’s besides the point.

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What I learned over the course of my six months sober was that I’m a thousand percent cooler and have a million times more fun when I’m not drinking.

Sober Sally

Sober Sally

Sober Sally

My game was absolutely on point. I stayed out later, and felt so much better waking up alive and being productive over the weekend.

Productive Saturday Sober Sally

Productive Saturday Sober Sally

I lost weight and kept it off, my mood dramatically improved. Overall, my quality of life became that much better.

The only negative result I found from this experience were peoples’ reactions to me as the sober girl at the party. A lot of people assumed that since I wasn’t drinking I wasn’t partying on the weekends, but actually my social life was really busy and fun-filled.

Sober Sally & Friends

Sober Sally & Friends

Oh ya gotta have friendsss

Oh ya gotta have friendsss

The worst part was when people felt uncomfortable around me because I was sober and they felt awkward like I was judging them – and that really made me sad.

Aside from running into that kind of thing every now and then, I think it was honestly the best 6 months of my life. We’ll see how I move forward, but after 6 months having it not be a priority it’s a little bit off my radar. Plus who has money to drink in New York?

#Yolo #Yesjustaredbull

In Memoriam of Breaking Bad… Bitch

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I’d just like to preface this post by saying that my life will never be the same again. And that I never thought I could love someone as much as R.Gos until Aaron Paul’s stunning face made an appearance in my bedroom one fateful Sunday night.

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Do you people follow his social media feeds? He calls his equally perfect wife pretty bird.

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Pretty bird. AKA she’s a bird. AKA if she’s a bird he’s a bird.

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He is literally perfect.

A perfect man for a perfect role on a perfect series. I could not have been happier with the finale of Breaking Bad. I thought the way it ended was positively romantic.

I just can’t believe it’s over.

And what the hell else was I supposed to do tonight? The first Sunday I am without Walt, Jesse, and the rest of the miserable gang. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry so that option was off the table. So instead of sitting around with my thumb up my you-know-what I just need to sit here and reminisce with you about the best series that ever lived.

I can’t even watch Malcolm in the Middle anymore, and for years I maintained that it was the best show on television. Well B. Crans. You’ve outdone yourself. Although now that I know your depth as an actor I just can’t look at Malcolm’s silly, unsure, freak of a father the same way anymore.

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I was behind a bald man in the elevator the other day and nearly shed a tear for Mike and he was gone a whole season ago… It just feels like it was yesterday.

Thank AMC Walking Dead comes back next Sunday, I don’t think I could stand another Sunday night un-entertained with this kind of loss still so fresh in my heart.

Me vs. the Big City: A Lesson in Humility

This is my home now

This is my home now

I’ve never met a challenge I couldn’t spin some way or another into me coming out on top. That is, until now. And I’m sure that’s only because I’m too tired to be over confident… At least I hope that’s why…

Whelp! I’m officially a big kid! I finally moved away from the comfort of mother’s breast and into mine and Frank Sinatra’s city of dreams New York, New York. And with this dream come true came a level of humility neither I nor anyone who’s ever come within 6 degrees of separation of me could have ever imagined.

New York is kicking my poor little rich ass straight back into reality. I got a low key job at a financial product start up along side of the two co-founders and – no one. I wanted the start up life and good Lord Jesus I got it. The three of us work side by side in a 9×9 white-washed closet 11 stories above Madison Avenue. I know what you’re thinking – Madison Avenue! Fancy right? Not fancy. We’re sandwiched in between a pawn shop and an oriental rug warehouse, across the street from a brothel, down-wind from what I can only imagine is somebody dying a thousand deaths after eating Taco Bell for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I casually make an appearance in the office 10 hours a day and then bring work home most nights and weekends… Apparently this is the real American way… Although for the longest time I held on that free-loading off my good looks and charming literary wit and maintaining hope that under the hot garbage juice and asphalt the streets really were paved with gold, and that I would make it by doing absolutely nothing. Sadly no. Reality came a’smackin’. Which makes me even sadder that Kimmie Kardashian is the exception and I am the rule. I could make a sex tape with a black man and get someone to propose to me and then divorce me probably… And if I can’t, well, then I just don’t belong in society.

So here’s to you Kimmie K, New York City, and the job I am surely about to lose!

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I’ll just be here… Collecting unemployment. At least I’ll be skinny…

Xoxo a very hungry, poorly dressed, not-so-gossipy girl

My Worst Enemy

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Let me tell you people about a little something I like to call my worst enemy.

Every time I am forced to partake in involving myself with my worst enemy I swear it’s the last time. But it never is. I’m still poor and therefore must be reunited with my worst enemy on a regular basis. Because I’m also 23. And I like to party. My worst enemy makes me nauseous. It’s unsteady. It smells like a mixture of Burger King and the people who eat at Burger King plus 25 year old carpet. Which means I now smell like that. When I finally get away from my worst enemy I will forever smell like that. I will feel filthy until we meet again which I swear will be never – but it’s usually about a month.

I’m talking about the bus people.

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The dreaded, evil, “coach” Peter Pan, goddamn bus. Peter Pan flew to Never Land first of all. And I’m pretty sure that’s not fairy dust in that guys pocket. Every time I buy another bus ticket I die a little inside. I took it every freakin’ weekend in college and I swore that once I graduated I’d never take it again. It’s a hard knock life because I spend a lot of time in New York but I live in Boston with my Ma and I like to keep freshly manicured nails and an updated wardrobe… So you better believe there’s no $200 to splurge on the Amtrak.

So here I sit in the Devil’s lap. Stuck in traffic and trapped in Hell. And you know the first thing you do when you get on the bus is take a seat and offer the one adjacent to your bag and or feet and stick your headphones in to look as uninviting as possible but someone always sits next to you.

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“Is this seat taken?”

“Uhh yes it is. You can tell by my menacing stare and the size of my carry on, thanks!”

And it’s funny too because on a full bus what do you do? You look for the seat next to the most non-threatening person you can find – which is usually not much of a selection. So here I sit, all 115 pounds of white meat with my clean blonde hair and Macbook and the fat smelly guy looking for a seat just hit the jackpot. I’m doomed. And what the hell is that smell by the way? Because I’ve never smelled anything more horrific than the smelly guy on the bus and I’ve been to the bathroom at Six Flags.

The guy sitting next to me now is ok though. And I’m not just saying that because he’s reading over my shoulder…

 

But since you are… Hey…

 

Hard Fruit

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What’s everyone’s deal with hard fruit? If I hear one more person ask for a hard pear I’m going to start throwing patio furniture into the pool.

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Pears are supposed to be succulent, and juicy, and luscious – all adjectives that are not meant to accompany the word “hard”. Supple, perhaps. Tender, even. Hard, no. Hard = you’ve got yourself an unripe pear. I suppose next you’ll ask me for a green banana? It’s called a plantain get a clue.

It’s the same with peaches, plums, and nectarines. Which, by my standards, all may as well be the same fruit but regardless, are not meant to be eaten hard. Pitted fruits are meant to be svelte; with just enough give when you press gently on the skin to sink in and spring back slightly but never mush! And it should smell so sweet and watery that it makes you want to bathe in it. If it smells like rubber and bounces off a brick wall keep looking.

Orange Throwing Festival in Italy

Orange Throwing Festival in Italy

The only fruit that should be hard is something with a rind. Example: melon, coconut, that’s it. I’ll go firm for you if you want. I like my berries firm – but that’s where I draw the line. There’s nothing worse than a soft berry. You know why it’s soft. It’s because a worm has been or is currently living there. Inside your berry and or grape. I want the peel on my grape to crack when I bite into them and explode like a gusher – save the soft grapes for Welch’s.

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My Type…

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For a long while I was unaware that I even had a type. “Boy is my type” I’d say. I heard Pamela Anderson say it back when she was Pamela Anderson Lee and they still aired new episodes of Bay Watch and I thought it sounded cool – she saved lives on TV it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, I always had a general sense of what I was attracted to: broad shoulders, scruffy chin, athleticism, Ryan Gosling – the usual. But it wasn’t until the past few years that “my type” fully emerged.

Let me begin with a brief description of myself in high school… Remember how in junior high there were two types of kids? One was kind of chubby and a little bit big for their age and the other was the saddest, scrawniest thing you’d ever seen?

I was the latter until I was about 18, but with huge sunken eyes, braces, and eyeliner with no mascara.

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Needless to say I was the pick of the litter in those days, and had to beat the dudes off with a stick.

...And on my 18th Birthday...

…And on my 18th Birthday…

Not.

But it’s no surprise that my type bloomed as late as I did, and now that I’m about three and a half years out of my awkward stage it’s becoming clearer and clearer… My type…

Is:

Gingers.

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I love them.

I love the fiery armpit hair they have to offer, the one skin tone on this planet that’s paler than mine, and the fact that they freckle in the sun instead of tanning. They always have something else weird going on too like a speech impediment or a short thumb that I find adorable.

Now if you ask me, only three out of five men in my life worth mentioning were honest to God gingers but I guess the other two are grandfathered in on a count of their reddish facial hair and their:

A) freckles, or

B) Irish skin.

Potato, tomato – My mom never lets me live it down…

As a halfling, (they call me strawberry blonde but, in truth, I was a ginger baby)

Diva

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I feel as though I need to stand up for my people and love them the same as if they weren’t a genetic abnormality. I honestly feel that I’m drawn to them as if fate brought our similar hair colors together. Either that or God really is playing the Simms with us and is purposefully trying to mate me with a pure bread so we make Him more little baby cupids.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

 

Either way, here’s a list of hot gingers I’m throwing your way so you can catch my fire:

Jessica from True Blood

Jessica from True Blood

Owen from Grey's Anatomy

Owen from Grey’s Anatomy

Gettin' Some Ginger Lovin'

Work It.

Emma Stone - Duh

Emma Stone – Duh

Isla Fischer

Isla Fischer

Prince Harry

Prince Harry

Ron Weasley

Ron Weasley

Louis C.K.

Louis C.K.

Conan

Conan

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

 

And the list goes on my friends… The list goes on…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

America and Throwing Up the Rock ‘n Roll Sign

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Ahhhhmerica – land of the free sample and home of the fat kid. The fourth of July always serves as the best reminder of the values this country was founded on: Bud Light, grilling, croakies, and blowing shit up. I love America; the country that allows Kim Kardashian to legally name her daughter North West and plays full day marathons of Rock of Love on VH1. It’s just the best place on earth. Where else can you get a cronut and an all you can eat pancake breakfast? A Baconator? Henry the Dominos delivery guy? Beer drinking helmets? This guy:

This country lets you openly express yourself in any which way, and I’ve chosen to do so by throwing up the rock ‘n roll sign any chance I get. It’s such a great symbol to throw out. Peace signs and middle fingers are so out. And sticking your tongue out is way less cliche than the duck face.

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I feel like it must go hand in hand with my new found glory of wearing t shirts and painting my nails blue. Also, I’ve been really into crop tops lately, which I suppose are a class of t shirt so I’m still considering myself heavily into my glam rockstar stage, just now featuring my belly button.

Writer’s Block and How Sand is the Worst

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I can’t think of anything funny to embarrass myself with on the internet. I often find that writing about my lack of inspiration/motivation usually gives me something…

I got nothing.

I was going to write about how sand is the worst – which is really is – but I couldn’t think of how to start.

The towel made no difference.

I wanted to write this long visual about how you’re on the beach in your favorite chair (navy blue, canvas, from the 1970’s never fails me – except sometimes gives me heat rash on my back but YOLO). Anyway you’re on the beach juicy girl chillin’ in your chair and you tip your head back and sink a little deeper into relaxation. You close your eyes and alert the rest of your senses. You start to notice a cool breeze awakening your skin, making your hair stand on end. The warm sunlight on your face and in your hair. The sounds of the gentle waves rolling up the beach and the seagulls hovering in the sky above you. And finally, the sand on your feet. And as you rub your feet back and forth in the sand and dig a little deeper into the coolness of the grains that have yet to be warmed by the sun, you realize…

It’s. All. Over you.

A boy covered in sand on Bamburi beach, Mombasa, Kenya

It’s forever trapped underneath your toe nails.

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

It’s wrapped in the one day old leg stubble that’s grown in because the breeze is freezing. Its in the crease behind your knees sticking to the sweat from the beating heat of the sun. It’s in your belly button somehow, even though you have yet to lay down in it and be completely consumed by its wrath (yet somehow you already are). It’s under your fingernails and in between your fingers where it will sit until the end of time.

It’s in your armpits and elbow creases, again sticking to the sweat from this desert heat. It’s climbed it’s way up your body and sits in the sand-bowl perfectly engraved into your stupid collarbone. It sticks to the sun tan lotion on your face and worst of all it’s in your mouth.

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Somehow, it’s found it’s way into your once refreshing lemonade that you ever so gingerly placed in the cup holder of your retro recliner 48 feet above sea level so this would stop happening. But it won’t.

The ice cubes are melting and turning into sand that you are now drinking; and the next time you close your mouth you will find the most unpleasant, out-of-nowhere, shutter-inspiring crack and slide and crumble between your teeth. And once it happens, you’re doomed. No matter how many time you swish and spit, brush your teeth, shower, eat, swallow, this feeling will never escape you. You now have sand in your mouth for the rest of your vacation even if the first day at the beach with the sand was so traumatizing and you don’t go back the whole time – there will still be sand in places you now know you have, and there will still be sand in your mouth.

Forever.

I can only hope that beverage companies start making screens to go over your drinks – but I’m sure the sand will find it’s way through the minuscule spaces in the screens, or just sit on top to give you the same effect. Although, it doesn’t even matter if you have a drink on the beach, you still will wind up with sand in your mouth and no solution.

*sigh*

*crack, slide, crumble*

Don’t Tell Mom There’s a Serial Killer in My Office

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There is a woman in my office building who is silent. Dead. Silent. I’ve never heard her speak. I’ve never heard her foot steps. Her hair doesn’t move. I have no reasonable assumption to conclude other than the fact that she’s a serial killer.

This is not just because I’ve been watching reruns of Dexter. Although, he has given me some valuable information on what to look for in a sociopath… I bet she has blood slides hidden in her air conditioner too.

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Serial Killer Lady arrives at the same time I do every single morning which means she’s clearly stalking me as her next victim. Probably because I stare at her with awe and terror every day while she rides the elevator up a single floor. She’s probably saving all her energy to cause blunt force trauma to someone’s head.

Each morning she wears the same dark sunglasses, trench coat, leather gloves, and structured, square Kate Spade bag that would hold its shape in a tornado. She’s probably hiding crazy eyes and any bodily signs of a struggle.

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Sometimes she brings unidentifiable objects in plastic grocery bags which I assume are her murder weapons. And her hair always looks the same and it never moves. It either doesn’t grow or she trims it every night before she goes to bed and then lays down in a pillow hair mold filled with extra hold hair spray. This woman’s appearance is meticulous. I bet she has Patrick Bateman’s morning routine down to the tighty whities – and his evening routine for that matter. She’s probably returning some video tapes right at this very moment…

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One day I’d like to follow her home. I can only expect to find eerie neatness and an alphabetized medicine cabinet. Of course this is all probably what she’s wanted all along, and will already have a kill room waiting for me when I get there…

 

Pray for me…