An Ungodly Affair…


After much deliberation with the voice in my head on whether I was going to be a productive member of society and run after work today or be true to my American heritage and catch up on Dexter while eating potato chips; I decided that being skinny during beach season sounded like the best option. I begrudgingly covered myself head to toe in Lululemon and off I went.


I’m pleased with my decision for several reasons:

1. Beach season

2. An old lady fell and I was there to help her

3. I was faced with a religious statement to ponder

As I rounded the corner of my first half mile and threw up in my mouth I saw her go down. I ran as fast as I could to get to her and took her hand to help her up. While this was going on a man driving by saw a seemingly capable young woman struggling for dear life trying to lift a tiny old lady. He pulled over and together we helped her get up and she was ok and on her way. Once she carried on, Mr. Man explained to me the proper way to lift someone up off a couch and the difference between helping someone off the ground. Thanks. Then instead of making small talk or simply shaking my hand and leaving like a normal person he left me with these words:

“Just because you’re a good Samaritan, doesn’t mean you’re going to Heaven.”

That’s a really weird thing to say to someone you just stumbled across doing something nice for someone else… A “God bless” would have worked… Perhaps a Mazel Tov or Lachaim, or good yontif would have also been accepted.

I was baffled by this statement so much so that through the entirety of my run I was deep in thought.

What does this man know about me to make such a statement?

  1. I selflessly help strangers
  2. I exercise
  3. I wear black eyeliner/mascara to signify the devil
  4. I wear spandex to lure men into the depths of my loins

I think the only reasonable conclusion I can draw from such a statement is that Mr. Man was questioning my virtue and purity as a woman.

Since when does wearing breathable, un-inhibiting work out apparel make me the modern day Mary Magdalene?


I’m sorry kind Sir, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what being a good Samaritan means, and questioning someone’s biblical purity is certainly not what’s going to get you into Heaven either.

So I guess I’ll see you in Hell bro – Maybe I’ll be the Siren that lures you into the depths of Hades.




The Shame of Being on the Domino’s Email List


Ladies and Gentlemen, readers of my beloved rose, I am ashamed to admit what this title has already revealed: I am on the Dominos email list.


I know, I know. It’s sad but it has been something I’ve needed to face for some time now. I’ve unsubscribed before and I wish I could say there was a glitch in the matrix that somehow caused 2 of my emails to now be subscribers, but really, I just made more online orders.


Louis C.K. feels my pain, only his vice is the dreaded Cinnabon. Everyone has one Louis…

…And by the way, Dominos Cinna Sticks come with the same hot syrup… I think…

“You’re a man if you’re eating a Cinnabon. In that moment you’re a man… What you think I have integrity? I’m buying a Cinnabon right now. I’m buying a Cinnabon at the airport I arrived at… I’m 20 minutes from my house where I’ve got bananas and apples and shit. And I’m sitting on my luggage just fuckin’ eating a Cinnabon… With a fork and knife.”

The worst thing about Dominos is that the next day when it’s cold and hard and still on my floor because I’m too disgusting to get up after and properly dispose of it at a nuclear waste facility – I finish eating it. All of it.

And like how bad are your eating habits when your delivery guy has a third means of contacting you? Henry and I are practically dating based on all the intimate details he knows about me. He knows my cell, my address, what time I usually need my midnight snack, and just how I like it hot and fresh out the kitchen. All he needs is my social and we’re as good as wed.


One night a few weeks ago we saw him delivering to an apartment near the bars.  He gave us a ride home and Susan Freedman’s large cheese and a 2 liter of Fanta. He didn’t even need directions to my mom’s house he’d been there so many times before. When I got out I felt like I should thank him for dinner and kiss him goodnight.

Plus Mrs. Freedman is probably pretty ticked off that she never got her tasty late night treats so it’s the least I could have done given that I’ll probably never see him again once she writes her angry letter and he gets fired. And then I’ll have to forge a relationship with the new delivery guy, who you know won’t be nearly as good of a listener as Henry, and will probably be seeing other late night pizza eaters on the side.

Damnit Henry, Why!?

…Well… You have my information

UsTrendy and the Return of the T-shirt

Sam Sisakhti, Founder & CEO of UsTrendy

Sam Sisakhti, Founder & CEO of UsTrendy

I recently sat down with Sam Sisakhti the founder of UsTendy, a local fashion e commerce start up. Sam could not have fit the entrepreneur role better if he was molded out of clay. He was unconventional in that he quit his first job out of college after only 4 days. I don’t know about you, but if I tried to do that my parents would sit me down and talk about the downward spiral I was on and how the next thing they’d know I’d come home covered in tattoos with a baby.

Not Sam – he came home with a company that had experienced exponential growth in the last three years and a damn near household name. I asked Sam how he acquired connections such as London Fashion Week and his answer was among the best I’ve ever heard: “I just asked. I reached out on Twitter and people got back to me.”

Sam having had so much success in getting people to give him a chance was equally as helpful in giving me one. I guess successful people see success when they look it in the  beautiful blue eyes.


The second I told him I had a blog an opportunity arose (pun): “We can send you some clothes and help promote The Rose if you’re interested.”

Uh – yeah!

Thanks Sam!!

Upon this offer, I immediately set up a photo shoot with my brilliant director friend.

Stylist: UsTrendy & Skinny Bitch Apparel

Stylist: UsTrendy & Skinny Bitch Apparel

Which brings me to my next topic:

The Return of the T-shirt

UsTrendy Product Number: 50775

UsTrendy Product Number: 50775

Ever since I went to LA I’ve been getting deeply in touch with my inner glam rockstar; and nothing says rocker chic like the right T-shirt and an office-inappropriate shade of nail polish.


The first time I sported a T-shirt for anything other than gym-going was just two short months ago when I had an appearance to make in WeHo (that’s what all the cool kids call West Hollywood.) I borrowed a friend’s muscle T and felt like the biggest badass on the planet. Everyone there sports the T-shirt; it’s so LA to show up somewhere underdressed and over-fabulous.

Now I know why all the girls that rock boyfriend-jeans are so magnificent. It’s not that they’re hot it’s that being able to rock the care-free dude style creates the illusion and swagger of hotness.

So to glam up my muscle T I added a bright turquoise, layered statement necklace and I was good to go. I fit right in with all the beautiful people.

But now that I’m home, I think it’s even better… No one here rocks the T like they do in LA – so I’m the only one. And thanks to Mr. Sisakhti and Skinny Bitch Apparel – I’m bringing sexy back.

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An Ode to Magnolia Cupcakes…

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Dear Sweet, Playful, Cupcake,

What trickery your invisible peel can be. It’s almost cruel to have something so time-consuming blocking something so scrumptious, yet serving such a special purpose. As I peel you from your paper cup I notice the tiny detailing in your very being: your sugar daisy placed ever so gingerly atop the peak of your mountain of frosting. Such luscious, decadent frosting that has generously smudged onto your perfect, white baker’s box for me to flick a taste with my finger. What heaven the first taste is, as I release you from your papery prison and send you to my lips – pausing just long enough for your perfume to fill my nostrils. Then my teeth sink in to your frosting swirled top and down through your perfect soft vanilla core and release it in a bite so satisfying, I can hardly wait to take one more.

I know I just posted an Ode but this had to be done. I’ve tried desperately to talk about things other than food in this blog, but I can bear it no longer.

I went on a trip to NYC this past weekend and no trip to the big city is ever complete without a nice big cupcake from Magnolia Bakery. None of that Baked by Melissa stuff. I always feel so ashamed when I go there and I get a dozen cupcakes for myself. I don’t care if they’re bite sized I’m still cramming a dozen cupcakes into my face hole. I much prefer one nice light, fluffy, perfectly iced cupcake from Magnolia.

Magnolia is such a New York staple they should start calling the city ‘The Big Cupcake.’ I have yet to see an apple that can measure up…

I went to New York for a few reasons… Firstly, it’s the best city on earth. Second, the Belmont Stakes horse race was this weekend and you can’t call yourself a true fake Southerner unless you dabble in betting the house on the ponies (also wearing big hats.) And lastly, my incredibly talented Director friend and I planned a lovely photo shoot to showcase my 5’4” cupcake loving model bod, and get some fun pictures for my blog.

I thought that as a ‘thank you’ there was nothing better to bring him than a six-pack of Magnolia’s finest.

I was right. There was nothing better because he’s on his way to LA and has already crossed over to the dark side of cutting out carbs and wouldn’t eat them. I enjoyed three Magnolia treasures; one red velvet and two vanilla, while my hungry director captured World War Cupcake on film.

Here’s lookin’ at you cupcake! Let the montage begin…

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And Ode to Butter…


My Dearest Butter,

‘Tis been thirteen darknesses less a fortnight since I’ve last tasted of your sweetness. If ‘twas not for our distance I fear I would have consumed thee wholly by now. I crave thee, sweet churned butter. I crave thy salt on mine lips and thine oil on mine fingers. I dream of suckling them clean to not waste a single taste of thee. My beloved butter, how does thee make my cookies so sweet? My cakes so light? My bread so flavored? What wouldeth life be without thine luxury? For how art I to live in a butterless existence? I shan’t want to think of such a life. For a life without thee, my darling butter, ‘tis no life at all.

“Forever thine, forever mine, forever ours.”

(Inspired by Love Letters of Great Men Vol. I and Carrie Bradshaw)

I love butter. I may even love butter more than bread. If one more person asks me if I’d like some bread with my butter I’m going to poke them with my butter knife and grease up their stupid short sleeved oxford. Yes I would like some bread with my butter. I thought I made that clear when I put a piece of bread on a stick of butter and commenced eating it.

I try to be healthy but there are just some things that I can’t be asked to sacrifice. One of my good friends is one of those paleo fanatics, so when she showed me the Whole 30 Challenge I agreed to think about it. During the five days of my 30 day challenge I discovered something so dark, so evil, so sacrilegious that I had to quit on the spot (really I quit the next day due to sugar withdrawal (not kidding) but go with me for the sake of drama.)

I’m talking about ghee, friends.


Never heard of it? GOOD.

Ghee is one of the three things you’re actually allowed to eat on the Whole 30. It’s supposed to be a butter substitute. This could not be further from the truth. I decided to try the Voldemort of the food pyramid on an artichoke that I had so lovingly prepared for the one meal I got to look at that day. The way ghee is concocted is very simple. You put a stick of butter in a sauce pan and cook it down until all the creamy perfection cooks off and all you’re left with is liquid sadness. When I tasted this atrocity I began to weep and could not stop until the 30 days were up. They almost called Noah to build another ark. Seriously, it was that bad. Look it up.

Having tasted that-which-must-not-be-named I’ve found a new adoration for what was already so dear to my heart. It must be so stressful to be such a palate-pleasing masterpiece of flavor and texture. I just want to say thank you. Thank you butter, for always being there for my bread, my sauce, and even my frosting. And thank you for being so transformative that you freeze and melt like an absolute dream with little to no effort and produce grand, unforgettable results.


HBO, Summertime, and my Carefree Attitude…


I’ve been feeling very bad and sad and traitorious* ever since I skipped my Thursday posting. I can’t imagine what you all think of my sluggishness. I could hardly even lift my hand today had it not been for the box of chocolate chip cookies that gave me strength. Also, I could hardly bear to pull myself away from Game of Thrones. I’m only on season two but good lord it is enthralling. And that bastard John Snow – Winter is coming indeed. (wink)

Its hottie overload in here

Its hottie overload in here

When he pledged his vows to the Knight’s Watch and swore never to take a wife I died a little inside.

Anyway, recently I’ve found myself overcome with a lack of motivation. I blame Summer for my carefree attitude. I’ve thrown my inhibitions and winter accessories to the wind and am left only with fantastic wind blown hair and no time for anything that isn’t fun.

Fantastic Wind Blown Hair

What is it about the Summer that makes you feel so invincible? And like all your responsibilities can wait until September? It can’t just be the warm weather. The summer breeze must be laced with fairy dust.

I wish I wasn’t such a loyal, hardworking employee. It’s a curse really, that I can’t just play hooky one day to go surfing.

The One Time I Went Surfing

...And The Results...

…And The Results…

This weekend I went for my first swim of the summer. We drove to a concert about an hour away and on our way back the only reasonable thing I could think of to do was jump in the water at 3am. I am a genius by the way. It was invigorating! Absolutely cold as ice. The one day of warmth we’ve had thus far apparently had not warmed up the massive body of water yet. Rude. But it was still a great time.

There is a certain weirdness that comes with doing things like this so late at night. Now I know why vampires are so kinky. It’s because they’re awake at weird hours of the night when we aren’t supposed to be conscious because that’s the time we think of the coolest ideas.

Speaking of vampires, who’s pumped for the season premiere of True Blood in a few weeks?! (June 16th)


This post really seems like a plug for HBO it’s too bad they’re not paying me.

I said it’s too bad they’re not paying me………….

pay me….



*I used the word traitorous wrong on purpose for humorical purposes

Shows and Toes and Shoes, Oh My!


I’m going to attempt to explain the allure of EDM (Electronic Dance Music) to non-believers.

I want you to try and think about when you’ve had a really good, really intense emotion or feeling. Like when all you need is a hug and you finally get enveloped in someone’s arms and you feel warm all over. Or when the person you like touches you and the hair on your arms stands up and your whole body is filled with the most invigorating chill. Or when its 90 degrees on the perfect summer day and you finally jump in the water and you’re consumed by the intense feeling of cool refreshment. Or when you play with a baby tiger or a litter of puppies and you’re so overwhelmed with cuteness all you can do is laugh and squeeze the baby animals.


Now mix all those feelings together and add the confusion of being blinded by strobes and the excitement of being mesmerized by colored lights; with the feeling of the bass vibrating your rib cage and the rhythm guiding your body in movement.

Photo cred: Alex Pierson

Photo cred: Alex Pierson

For all you Beethovens out there it’s like a crescendo but for the whole song. Or for you literary nerds, its the climax of the story for half the book followed by the falling action which then leads to another, more shocking climax.

I think it was Bob Marley who said “when music hits you you feel no pain” and if you’ve ever been punched in the face by a beat dropping, you’d know exactly what he means. If you pay close enough attention you really can feel music. Especially EDM. Those sounds are designed to flow through you, and cause such an overwhelming sensation that you just have to jump and wave your arms in the air like a gorilla during mating season to express everything you’re feeling.

That being said, that same euphoria can be stripped away from you in a split second when Shrek fee-fi-fo-fums all over your baby toe.


I think EDM shows should have the same kind of height requirements they have on rides at theme parks, only if you’re “this tall” you can’t come in.


The ogres are always the most unsteady at these concerts and they’re always the ones to put the drunk girls on their shoulders right in front of me so that I now have Jack in the beanstalk trampling my feet while his tramp uses my head as a stool. It’s why I think banning Hagrid from these shows all together is probably the best move. Or at least give him a special “people over a thousand feet tall” roped off area.

With such danger afoot it is impossible to find the right pair of shoes to wear. Without a quality pair of steel toed boots consider yourself done for. Plus with style evolving into such weirdness these days I bet it wouldn’t even be that off-putting to show up in a pair – if they even make those for women… I wore a pair of pink leopard print canvas sneaks to Steve Aoki this weekend, which I thought were perfectly badass, but as it turns out with Lurch in the crowd they were insufficient. Since I’m not ready to fully take the plunge into “manual labor chic” I settled to purchase a cool pair of colored high tops from Urban Outfitters.

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Fresh Kick

I’ve been meaning to make the switch into being cool enough to pull them off for some time now, and I think I’m one sad toe past being overdue for a style upgrade. Hopefully, these will add an extra layer of safety while still being fresh ta death.

How I’ve Been Conditioning my Mom with Dubstep

Could this guy grow a beard or what?

Could this guy grow a beard or what?

Meet Ivan Pavlov. For those of you who don’t know, Ivan Pavlov is a Russian psychologist who is famous for conducting research with dogs, on what’s called a “conditioned response.”

Pavlov would ring a bell every time he fed the pups which would elicit an association between the sound they heard and the meal they received. He noticed that after a while when the dogs heard the bell they would begin to salivate and ready themselves for meal time even if no food was presented.

Funny things these responses – wouldn’t ya know you can condition people too.

Meet subject X:


My Mom.


Since I majored in Psychology, I decided it would only be irresponsible not to pursue it after college. And since I would be returning home and would be able to conduct my field research 24/7, subject X was the perfect candidate.

Hypothesis: By the end of Spring, I will be able to control the mood of subject X by playing 1 of 3 dupstep songs.

Independent Variable: Choice of three songs:

I love it – Icona Pop (not really dubstep at all but it’s my jam)

Sierra Leone – Mt Eden

Crave You – Flight Facilities

Dependent Variable – The state of subject X’s mood: annoyed/angry, tired, or generally good/happy

In the beginning I had to have her grow accustomed to feeling the emotion while the song was playing in order to one day, hopefully, achieve my dream.

A common encounter  follows as such:

“Hey Megan, have you seen the shirt I was planning on wearing today and don’t have time to re-accessorize before my presentation?”

“Why yes Mother dearest, I took it yesterday without asking and it was ripped off by wolves so you may be running late.”

And as I’d notice the steam rising and her face getting redder, I’d cue up Icona and start dancing wildly, innapropriately close to her face.

The seed was planted.

…I don’t care. I love it.

The experiment continued similarly along the three emotions I was hoping to manifest in subject X’s brain.

If she woke up tired I would blast Mt Eden in her face, and if she woke up excited about the day we’d rock out to “Crave You.”

This went on for about a year until one fateful morning. I was listening to Icona Pop at a screeching volume as I got ready for work and attempted to subliminally reach my sleeping mother, when all of a sudden she emerged from her bedroom scratching her head in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“I’m really irritated and I can’t think of why… I feel like I’m missing something.”

And just as they crashed their car into the bridge and watched and let it burn, the music slowed; my heart grew louder and I realized… I had done it.

I had successfully manipulated a conditioned response of annoyance in subject X by the subconscious association with Icona Pop.

My name should be published in the Scientific Journal next to Ivan Pavlov himself.

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I’d like to thank the electronic dance music revolution for providing such quality variables for my experiment. Also, the University of Massachusetts – Amherst for their dedication in giving me such a top notch understanding of what it means to be a Psychologist. And of course subject X, without whom this experiment wouldn’t be possible.

And also, sorry I’ve been scientifically manipulating you for the past year.

Although, I think you should be thanking me for putting my higher education that you so generously paid for to good use.

Signing off,

Megan Deford, PhD in Psychological Studies and Lying


Ever Since Graduation, I’ve Been Slowly Dying…


With graduation season in full swing a lot has been on my mind. Partly, that I’ve been a big sassy real-worlder for a whole wide year already; but mostly, that with that year came a level of softness I thought I could never attain.

Thirsty Thursday used to mean high heels, short skirts and Long Island ice tea specials at Monkey bar, followed by a Celeste pizza for one in bed (10 for $10 at the local supermarket YOLO) and a truly sinister Friday morning. Now I lose my balance in my heels when I’m sober and all Thirsty Thursday means is that I’m dehydrated from hot yoga and I’m shopping online for clothes I could only afford if someone was paying me to blog.

Oh how the mighty hath fallen.

A caramel macchiato does now what a 20mg a day Adderall prescription did just 12 short months ago. I don’t even know what would happen if I popped one of those suckers in this condition. I think my heart would explode. Is this what old people feel like when they reminisce about how it used to be easy to walk? If this is to continue my future looks very, very grim.

“Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing to do with it.” – W. Somerset Maugham

Easy for you to say W. I’m 23 and I have lower back pain.

Peter Pan said it was supposed to be an adventure. Idiot. What are we doing listening to him anyway? He also thought he could be a kid forever.

Thanks a lot Peter.

Short Sleeved Oxfords


Hiding my face with shame that I wore this in public

With Summer right around the corner, I’ve noticed a grim change in office attire. And as the weather gets warmer, the sleeves get shorter, and the dry edge of your winterized elbows begin to peak out of the abomination that is your short sleeved button down.

Let’s take a glimpse over the years of who wears short sleeved oxfords:


Dwight K. Schrute, Assistant to the Regional Manager – Dunder Mifflin Scranton, and 17th Century beet farmer.


Milton from Office Space, who got fired 5 years earlier but no one fixed a glitch in payroll that still cuts him a check, and is in love with his stapler.

These are the only two characters I found with ease, which should speak volumes to how pitiful you have to be to show your face in public in one of these bad boys. Even Napoleon Dynamite cleaned it up with a long sleever.



Have you ever seen George Clooney in a short sleeved oxford?



Because they’re disgusting and no respectable man would ever be caught dead with his elbow popping out of something that needs to be dry cleaned. I don’t care how hot it is guys! Roll up those sleeves if you have to. Don’t cut them off and hem them like a 4th grader on picture day.