Megan's Choise: A Heartwrenching Tale

Grab your tissues now folks! This is a sad one.

Anyone seen the movie's Sophie's Choice starring Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline? Yeah I thought so. I'm too tired to summarize so I'm going to let imdb.com do it for me

Sophie is the survivor of Nazi concentration camps, who has found a reason to live in Nathan, a sparkling if unsteady American Jew obsessed with the Holocaust. They befriend Stingo, the movie's narrator, a young American writer new to New York City. But the happiness of Sophie and Nathan is endangered by her ghosts and his obsessions.

Now for some spoilers. Divert your eyes if you don't want to know the ending to this hyper sentimental chick flick.

So after Stingo, Sophie, and Nathan all become friends, Stingo falls in love with Sophie. With much reluctance of course, Sophie confides in Stingo about her haunted past. She had to choose between her two children as to which one would be killed when she arrived at the concentration camp. Sad, I know.

But then the movie goes on and as Stingo continues to vie for Sophie's love and affection, you the viewer come to realize that the "choice" in the title of the movie is not the one having to choose between her children, but rather to choose between Stingo and Nathan. Nathan, being the crazy cat he is, suggests he and Sophie commit suicide together. I mean, nothing says love like a double suicide. In the end, she commits suicide and it is pretty fucking clear to Stingo she made her choice. Unless she knew he was into necrophilia. In that case it's still up in the air who she chose.

So while I'm not into sex with dead people, and I have yet to choose between which of my children I would let the Nazi's kill, there is a heart wrenching decision based on love I have to make every Monday night.

I have to choose between Peter Petrelli and Jack Bauer.

I can't fucking figure out which show to watch. I think of Heroes as my intellectual lover. Gets me to think and to question who I want to be. While 24 is more of the wham, bam, thank you ma'am kind of guy. Maybe I should consider it a sign that the actor who plays Stingo in Sophie's Choice plays badass Thomas Lennox in 24.

Really, thank God for DV-R.

Jon Stewart: please prepare to meet my bra.

Many of you ("you" being the 10 friends of mine who actually read my blog. And by friends, I mean those of you I pay on a daily basis to be seen out in public with me) have heard me mention this little thing called Awesomefest. As much as I would like to tkae credit for it, Awesomefest was not my idea, but rather the other Megan's and our friend Katie (aw Herb, you made it on to my blog!)

I'm not sure of the origins of Awesomefest, but because Awesomefest 1000 was so awesome, we decided to have 5 more. While I may not have been around for 1000 or 2000, Awesomefest 3000 can be briefly recounted in one of my posts detailing the top 5 most drunk I have been since college. See #5. Megs, help me out. What was Awesomefest 5000? Clearly it wasn't the Chicago marathon weekend as I was not drinking.

Awesomefest 6000 will be the grandest. Why? Because I get to do something that I've always wanted to do since moving to New York. And no, it's not get addicted to coke.

I'm going to see the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

See that? I'm so excited I even had to italicize that sentence. Yes, my world is now complete. I'm not sure who Megan had to blow to get tickets since they are quite difficult to get. But whatever, I don't even care if she let someone do her in the 2-hole for the tickets. Here's to hoping Demetri Martin will be a correspondent. I might have to double up on bras just for him.

Alright you fuckers.

Look, I know I am not funny. Especially lately. But in the past week I've been encouraged to set myself on fire (thanks Lozo), received death threats (figuratively, of course. Thanks Superbee), and encouraged to turn my blog into some kind of nudey show (although that would be kind of neat, that's the day when my dad will find my blog, so no thanks, Andy) Luckily I have my Me(a)gan's (her and her) to keep me from crying myself to sleep every night. Y'all are jerks!

But I have good news. Next Wednesday night I'm going to Dirty Jerz to watch the New Jersey Nets play the Detroit Pistons. While that may not seem too funny to anyone who doesn't live in NY, most trips to Jersey, whether it be Hoboken or the Jersey shore, serve as a catalyst to hilarity. I'm bringing my camera. Let's go kill some birds. I'm psyched!

The conversation no one will find funy but me and her

Clearly we have a lot to do at work.

Patricia/ ... it's re-dick.
Megan/... re-dick?
Patricia/ re-diculous
Megan/... hey oh!
Patricia/ ... my friends and i always abbreviate
Megan/... so-rry!
Patricia /... like nast
Patricia /... or horren
Patricia /... we're too lazy to say the whole word
Patricia /... then my friends would say re-cock instead of re-dick
Megan /... so wouldn't it be ri-dic?
Megan /... re-cock is better
Patricia /... whatev!
Megan/... i mean, is it really that hard to type the extra letters?
Patricia /... no, we talk like that.
Patricia /... even worse, right?
Megan/... yeah
Megan/... nerds
Patricia /... chris thought I was saying nash
Patricia /... instead of nast
Megan /... haha
Patricia /... he's so old sometimes
Patricia /... i want you to spread the word "loud" into your vernacular
Patricia /... like.... jay-z's new song is sooo loud
Megan/... where did you hear that from?
Patricia /... or those jeans are so loud
Megan /... like obnoxious?
Patricia /... chris, paul, and i were joking around
Patricia /... loud like cool
Megan /... alright. i'm going to start it
Patricia /... and we decided it actually works
Patricia /... and if something sucks you say, no noise or shhhhh
Megan /... slang has to start somewhere, right?
Patricia /... exactly
Patricia /... chris' cousins are spreading it yonkers
Patricia /... so spread it downtown
Patricia /... we have uptown covered
Megan /... i'll bring it back to MN with me too
Patricia /... exactly
Patricia /... that would be loud
Megan /... very very loud
Megan/... i think i might have to post this on my blog
Patricia /... yes...prime way to spread it
Megan /... a LOUD way to spread it
Patricia /... someone's catching on
Patricia /... so loud
Patricia /... beyonce is soooo quiet.
Megan/... shhhh
Megan/... hey oh!
Patricia /... no noise no noise!
Patricia /... i can hear you. you're loud (literally and figuratively!)
Megan /... oh this is so going on the blog

So that's it. Spread the word people. Let's see if we can get this puppy started.

They need to put a warning label on iTunes

Yesterday was a horrible day. Really one for the record books. Rather than attempt to emotionally eat, I decided to emotionally download. $40 later I found myself the proud owner of the recording of the most random group of artists: from Chicago to Jay-Z to Audioslave to Great White to the Shins to 2 Live Crew to Velvet Underground to Beyonce. (yeah i know, but sometimes it's really fun to sing Irreplaceable in the shower. I'm just sayin'...)

I don't really have a point other than why is it that sometimes when you start downloading, you just can't stop. It's really like I went on a 5 day crack binge and woke up in a gutter with my underwear on my head next to some guy named Ricardo but really goes by "Ricky". OK, not really like that, but dude, that's a lot of money to spend on fucking iTunes.

On another note, somehow I found myself on VanHalen's page. I hate VanHalen, but if I was forced to choose between David Lee Roth and Sammy Hagar I would no doubt choose VanHagar every single time. Eventually I found myself listening to "Right Now" and suddenly had the urge for a Crystal Clear Pepsi. Well done, marketing team at Pepsi. Well done.

and yes, I do realize that absolute shittiness of the post, but if you knew what the hell was wrong, you would understand. So get off my fucking back! (love you!)

Ready, Set, Date!

Meet Megan, the Chicago chapter of my club of hetero life-partners and also author of the great blog the Gospel According to Gates. Megan told me some shocking news yesterday. She is going to try speed dating. Megan's story is very similar to mine. After breaking up with her boyfriend of 6.5 years a couple years ago, she has been on dates with a string of douchebags across the Chicagoland area. She is even dating one now whose bipolarity seems to be teetering on the "insane" side this week. The fact that both of us still remain single is God telling us we really belong together. But I digress.

Clearly I think she is too good to be scraping the bottom of the barrel of speed dating, so I created a list of things for her to do that would spice up the night a little bit, so to speak.

1. twitch uncontrollably a la Tourettes Syndrome.
2. flip through a Bridal Magazine making sure to mark every page with a Post-it.
3. Answer your cell phone. Scream at caller, “BUY LOW! SELL HIGH!”
4. Stare at the guy’s ear the whole time to simulate a lazy eye. Talk like a pirate. Argggggh matey!
5. Wet your breasts in the area surrounding your aeriola so it looks like you are currently breast feeding and it’s time to pump.
6. Respond to every question he asks you with charades/and or Pig-Latin.
7. Apply lipstick, but not in a seductive manner. Apply so none of it touches your lips but rather your whole entire face.
8. Talk about your new favorite sport, freestyle walking. Show him your new sick moves you learned the other day by jumping off the table.
9. Throw his drink in his face the moment he sits down and scream, “HOW DARE YOU! PERVERT!”
10. Bring a pillow with you. Take out, rest on table, and take a nap. Don’t forget to suck your thumb.
11. Cry. When he asks what is wrong, slap him.
12. Gush about how much you love the movie From Justin To Kelly, and how Clay Aiken is soooo sexy!
    
13. In the middle of the conversation, turn to the girl sitting next to her and scream, “Stop talking to my man, cunt!”
14. Only ask questions regarding how much money he makes. When he starts asking you about other stuff, ask to see his wallet and count how much money is inside. Then openly pocket the cash.
15. Bring a vibrator with you. Turn it on mid-conversation and say, “yeah, I thought I would need this tonight.” Then ask him to hold it while you reach for some KY jelly.
16. Dress up in “Where’s Waldo” gear. Then start running around the bar shouting ,“See if you can find me!”
17. Fill your bra with chicken cutlets. Drop something on the floor. When you go to pick it up, have a chicken cutlet falls out. Shrug, pick up fallen chicken cutlet with a fork, throw it on the table and start eating it. Bonus points if it is marinated.
18. Bring a sketchpad with you. Begin furiously sketching when he begins talking. Position your hands in such a manor that you are looking at him through a camera. Hug the picture when you are done.
19. Cut a piece of his hair. Then gush, “Now I’ll always have a piece of you to remember you by!”
20. Make him a mixed tape. Not burn a cd, but an actual mixed tape of only Rick Astley/Richard Marx songs. Tell him the words remind you of him.
21. Eat oreos before you sit down and make sure huge chunks are in your teeth. Also make sure you smile a lot. When he tells you something is in your teeth, lightly pick at them as to not remove any of the excess Oreo from your teeth. Smile more.
22. Bring a dead hamster with you. Refer to him as Steve, the best lover you ever had. Then attempt to cremate him at the table by rubbing two stick together. Flip the table over when no sparks appear (from the sticks as well as romantics sparks. Oh zing!).
23. Do an interpretive dance of what you think your life will be like together. Bonus points if it resembles some form of capoiera.
    
24. When he sits down, take your socks and shoes off and begin to bite your toenails. Proceed to then spit out the big ones at him. Aim for his drink.
25. Say you don't drink.

I think these are all good solid foundations for her to begin her life with her new speed dating boyfriend. What do you think?

UPDATE: You can go here to see her actual recap of the night. I'm kind of disappointed she didn't try any of my suggestions. Boooorrrr-ingggg!

I'm going to put my evil inside you!

Since the dawn of time, people find the need to make fun of me. My family has done it since I was a child which has led me to develop an inferiority complex. In high school, a friend of mine used to retract his arms into velociraptor position , make some goofy face and start screaming, "FAS! FAS! FAS!" every time he would see me in the hallways between classes. Just in case you are dumb, "FAS" stands for Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I mean, sure, my mom had a few cigarettes and gin and tonics while she was pregnant with me, but I turned out okay! While I am far from the genius level of Stephen Hawkings or Britney Spears, I would like to think I have enough smarts in me that someone out there might consider me intelligent (gasp!).

The trend still continues to this day. Even my co-workers rip on me. When I approached my buyer with my question regarding his teasing of me he replies, "I don't know. It's just so easy." I don't mind. I can take a joke as much as the next girl, but usually it comes from people who I know me pretty well. Even I can admit, sometimes the teasing is well deserved. I say and do some pretty retarded shit a lot of the time.

Now I'm going to be honest with all of you. I hooked up with a boy a couple weekends ago. I know! I'm just as shocked as you. Before you start getting the wrong idea, it wasn't a "hook up" as in sex, but rather just a hookup of dry humping/kissing. May I state to you that dry humping is seriously underrated.

So the next morning, I apologized to him for staying so long. We did the obligatory exchange of numbers knowing full well we would probably never see each other until our paths cross again at various parties between our mutual friends where we will do the awkward embrace of, "wow, I know what you look like without a shirt on." I was quite taken aback when he actually texts me the following weekend. Of course he was drunk, but the dude still texts me. This is how our conversation went:

Him: "you suck." (sent at around 12:30 am)
Me: "Thanks. You really know how to sweet talk a woman." (sent the next morning around 10:30 am)
Him: "I don't think of you as a woman."
Me: "What the fuck am I then? Doesn't that make you gay?"
Him: "I want to beat you"
Me: "Gross. Pervert!"
Him: "It was not meant that way. It was meant to be very offensive and wrong."
Me: "I know dumbass. Now I really want the Colts to win" (he was on his way down to the Ravens game)Him: "I hate you."
Me: "No you don't. No one hates me. I'm so loveable."

And that was it. This could be a record for the time it has taken for someone to start ripping me to shreds. The previous record was held by Andy who took maybe a couple of days to really start on me. What concerns me the most is not this guy's desire to express his undying hatred for me, but rather how he questioned my gender. Despite the fact that I watch Sports Center and swear like a sailor, I can assure you folks that I'm all woman.

Fucking great

Now I have to listen to the Superbowl Shuffle from all my friends in Chicago. The 1985 season was 21 years ago. Get over it. And yes, I am fully aware how bitter I am.

Ladies is pimps too, go'on brush your shoulder off

In the year of 2005, I broke up with my boyfriend for about 3 months in the fall before getting back together with him in January of 2006. While we were still, you know, doin' it, I was still open to meeting someone else. Kind of. (this is a long one)

One night in September, September 10th to be exact (I'm like Rainman when it comes to dates), I met up with my friends Ria and Chris at a bar on the UES after their engagement party for their wedding party. I remember it was the same day Ohio State was playing Texas, so there were a lot of Ohio State fans in the bar I was at. Me being the loyal Hawkeye fan that I was, cheered for Texas to win (now isn't that ironic). After a few beers, I progressively got louder which is normally the case when I drink every day of my life.

At one point I noticed two guys standing between me and the tv, one wearing an orange shirt, the other a navy shirt. While I was screaming at the tv, the guy in the orange shirt approached me.

Let me just put this out there that I am horrible with names. I usually have to ask someone about 80 times what their name is before I can remember it.

So the guy in the orange shirt tells me his name. He is quite good looking. I am rather impressed with myself that someone this good looking has approached me. He introduces me to his cousin, who is wearing the navy shirt. However, since I immediately forgot both of their names after they told them to me, I referred to them as "Orange" and "Navy" for the rest of the night.

"Orange" was definitely better looking, but seemed to be hitting on everything with a pulse in the bar. So I began talking to "Navy" who from what I remember was ok, nothing special. As I drank more, he seemed to get really cool....imagine that! "Orange" had the idea to go to another bar, so I yelled to my friends, "Don't worry! I promise I'll try not to get raped!" (yeah, I know). We arrived at another bar with two other chicks who were really really busted. Hmmmm, and I'm with them too. Not a good sign for me.

After a few swing dances with "Navy", and yes, I was that girl, we decided to go to a gay piano bar on the UES. I don't remember too much at this point except that the bar was awesome (if anyone knows what bar I was at, could you let me know? Thanks). Finally at like 3am, we head to another bar on the UES. Me and "Navy" are sitting at the bar enjoying some Guinnesses when all of a sudden I get a text message from "Orange": "where u at?". Now keep in mind I clearly was "Navy's" girl for the night. "Navy" grabs my phone and texts back: "waiting for you, big stud". Fucking great. "Orange" eventually figures out he is speaking to his cousin, but still decides to meet us at the bar anyways.

So the three of us are sitting there, chatting away. "Navy" excuses himself to go to the bathroom. "Orange" then proceeds to try and kiss me while taking my hand and putting it on his crotch. Yeah, seriously. Guys do that. Of course, being the respectable woman that I am, I push him away. "Navy" comes back upstairs and is none the wiser. Finally "Orange" leaves, and I'm sitting with "Navy" alone. All night he has been telling me about how much he loves to play piano. Being that I was still on a Chris Martin high from seeing Coldplay in Berlin the summer before, and the fact that guys who can play piano are hhhoooott, I told him that I wanted to hear him play. Of course, that meant I had to go back to his apartment. I wasn't going to hook up beyond just kissing the guy, but I legitimately wanted to hear him play the piano. So before we went upstairs I had to say, "you know I'm not going to hook up with you, right?". Of course he nodded, but I'll be damned if he wasn't thinking, "I put all this effort into getting this girl drunk, and now I gotta play the piano? I just want her to shutup and put out."

He agreed to be a gentleman, and then I proceeded to run up the stairs of his apartment building. That's when it happened. A moment that has forever changed my life. I tripped running up the stairs.

I was wearing flip flops, so I can't blame it on heels. No, the real reason I tripped is because I was a belligerent, drunk asshole. As I tripped, the outside of my foot slammed into the corner of the stair causing me brief, but still excrutiating pain. "Navy" begins to laugh, "You ok?". Yes of course I am. MAKE ME A BICYCLE, CLOWN!

A couple minutes later, I was sitting in his apartment listening to him drunkenly play piano. He was good! All of a sudden I decided I wanted to pass out in my bed. So I left. On the cab ride home, I get this text message: "Want to go to brunch tomorrow?"

Not from "Navy", from "Orange". Clearly this guy has not heard the term "bros before ho's". But whatever, I'm all about free food. So I agree to go. He calls me in the morning. While on the phone, I attempt to stand up and go to the bathroom.

I feel what is probably the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. I look down at my foot which is swollen to the approximate size of Nicaragua, and is completely bruised.

"Dude," I say, "I gotta go to the hospital"

"I'll take you," he replies.

Now at this point, a smart girl would realize this guy was kind of a slime ball for trying to hit on the same girl his cousin was trying to hit on, but I really needed someone to take me to the hospital since I could not walk (plus I didn't really feel like explaining this entire story at 10am). I had no idea if any friends were available, so I agreed to let him take me. And yes, I did tell him how I broke my foot and who I was with. He sat with me for a couple hours, which was nice. Eventually he got tired of hanging around with the crazies (no, not me). Anyone who has ever been to the emergency in New York knows that it is a virtual clusterfuck of wackjobs and drunken injuries. After about 6 hours, I get the news that my 5th metatarsal is broken, and I get fitted for crutches and a cast.

I only had to use the crutches for about 2 weeks, but let me tell you that those two weeks were the most miserable of my life. The thought of having to use crutches is almost enough for me to quit drinking, stop making out with guys in navy shirts, and stop falling. Almost. And let me tell you, from my short experience as a cripple, the handicapped are not treated well in this city. People would steal cabs from me and not hold doors open after they walk through them for me. No joke!

So I never heard from "Navy" again. And what happened with "Orange"? Well, there were a few things wrong with him that made me never want to speak to him again:

1. He wore his cell phone on his hip.
2. He was too touchy feely in the hospital. Clearly he didn't comprehend that I was just using him to walk.
3. He would talk to me all the time about how hot his ex-girlfriend was and how much he missed her. Then when I was unresponsive, he would send me texts like, "I'm going to throw myself in front of a bus." DELETE! DELETE! DELETE!

So that's the story of how I ended up breaking my foot. It's one to tell the grandkids, I know. But come on, how many people you know kiss two cousins, break their foot, and still keep on drinking all in the same night? Get down girl, go 'head get down!

Without giving anything away...

Oh.my.god.

24.

No words.

Oh.my.god.

Damn those bad idea jeans again

I think I have made it pretty clear that I like to enjoy a cocktail every now and then. Occasionally, however, I have one too many cocktails and end up with a killer hangover the next day. Then there are the very few instances where I have about 11 too many cocktails, end up blacking out, and develop a hangover that lasts two days.

And one of those instances happened Saturday. Let’s forget for the moment that I just threw up in the bathroom at work. Oh god, please let’s forget that.

On Saturday, my New York heterosexual life partner Meghan mentioned to me that her friend could get us on “the list” at the Plumm. For those of you not in New York, the Plumm is the infamous club where Axl Rose got into a fight with Tommy Hilfiger at Rosario Dawson’s birthday party. I know, pretty fucking cool. Of course in anticipation of a celebrity fight, I agreed for them to add my name to the list despite my trepidation about being seen in a club with a velvet rope (anyone who knows me knows I actively despise the Meat-packing District/W 27th St. with a passion).

This is where I have to come to terms with my alcoholism:

Meghan: “Come over around 9.”
Megan: “OK, need me to bring something for us to drink?”
Meghan: “Well, I have a bottle of wine, so you probably need to bring another.”
Megan: “Yeah, definitely.”

Yeah, a bottle of wine each between the two of us. So I go over to Meghan’s apt, we drink the wine, our friend and her friend come over, share a glass of wine with us, and we go. It’s about 11pm when we arrive at the bar, and of course there is a line. Since our names were on “the list”, we were able to go in without cover and skip the line. I’m expecting this place to be packed because of the line outside. Yeah, not really. I would say there were maybe 20-30 people tops inside. Whatever. I head to the bar.

Megan: “I would like a vodka soda, please.”
Bartender: “That will be $10, please.”
Megan: “WHAT THE FUCK?”

So here is my $10 drink. There are no diamonds or gold in it. All that’s in it is well vodka and some soda, yet here I am paying $10 for this. Luckily I was drunk already. I look in my wallet. $40. Normally that’s enough to get me nice and toasted, but at $10 a drink, my night would be ending shortly. I get an idea.

Megan: “Excuse me, I would like to open a tab”
Bartender: “OK there is a $50 minimum.”
Megan: (calculates how many drinks that would be. 5. OK no problem) “OK no problem. I would like another vodka soda.” (approximately 15 minutes after ordering the first one)

And that is one my last few memories. I don’t black out, well, ever. I did once the very first time I ever got completely hammered in high school off of vodka and Mountain Dew. Other than that, I usually forget certain elements of my drunken nights out, but never full on blackout.10 years later, I black out again. Happy Anniversary, Megan.Some things that occurred that I do not remember:

• asking the bouncer at the Plumm if I can take a picture with Chris Noth (ie “Mr. Big”). I got denied.
• my friend encouraging me to dance like a stripper in order to get Mr. Noth’s attention. I feel so used.
• walking into a pizza place and shouting at everyone, “Why is everyone looking at me!?”
• getting a vodka and cranberry from a table full of guys (clearly trying to take advantage of me. Perverts).
• calling my friend 4 times within 20 minutes and passing the phone off to Meghan to leave a message.
• trying to hit on an acquaintance’s date right in front of her (ok, I remember this one a little. He was so my type though!)
• hanging on some dude from I don’t remember where in the bar for some amount of time.
  

I spent all day yesterday on the couch. The only time I moved is when I did the death march over to Chipotle to get some sustenance. It was a close one. I almost didn’t make it back. I actually thought about taking up residence on the corner of 22nd and 6th with the guys selling incense. I thought I was feeling better last night, but considering I had to stop writing this post twice in the last 20 minutes to go throw up, I would say my liver is still recovering.

Help me, please?

Dallas Clark!

Good to see former Iowa Hawkeyes are still kickin' ass and takin' names!

I have a big date on Sunday!

Yeah that's right! You heard me! Not just with any man. Oh no! This man is blond with one of those deep, sexy two packs a day voice. He doesn't smoke though. He does heroin, but now he has kicked the habit. What? Don't judge, he was doing it to save you. To save me. To save the world. If you don't like it, well, my date will just shoot you in the leg. Yes, a completely unwarranted gunshot to the leg. But it is warranted because he would probably do it in the name of national security. You do kind of look like a terrorist.

This sounds like an awesome date, right? I think so. But it can't last more than 43 minutes, because my date has lives to save. But whatever, I don't need more than 43 minutes. But this is a special weekend, and he is a special man. I get to spend another 43 minutes with him on Monday! Hopefully no one will set off a nuclear bomb, or an attempt to assassinate the president. On second thought, that doesn't sound so.....wait, no, I'm not allowed to say that. My date kind of talks on the cell phone a lot too, but it never seems to run out of batteries. You think Verizon sells that phone? My date also never sleeps, because he is too busy saving the world. He is even too busy for peeing, and shitting, and sex. Wait, do I really want a date that is too busy for sex? Well, he is Jack Bauer. You bet I do.

Happy 24 Season 6 Premiere Day, bitches!

For serious, y'all

So I've been a little bummed out lately. Before you starting worrying (ok, more like hoping) that I've got the razor blade to my wrist thinking to myself, "Cut the long way! You'll bleed out more!" let me explain. I've mentioned before that there are a few things going on in my life that are really quite devistating to me. Actually, it involves two people. I've been dealing with it somewhat ok up to this point. Out of respect of their privacy, I don't really want to announce on the internet what is going on, but let me assure you it unfortunately does not involve any sort of midget on a unicycle serving me drinks.

Since I broke up with my boyfriend in July/August, I've been coping with this sadness pretty well. I was even coping with breaking up with him pretty well. What's the rule? It takes half the length of a relationship (6.5 years) to get over someone? Great, so in 2010 I'll be ready! But really, I wasn't too upset because our relationship was dead probably a year and a half before I had the balls (metaphorically speaking, of course) to break up with him. That now has seem to all gone to shit.

A little over a month ago I met a dude who I started talking to. It never really progressed beyond anything besides talking really, but I liked him. He didn't invite me to any sex parties. Without divulging too much of my personal life (I would much rather talk about my masturbatory habits than this, trust me), we just don't talk like that anymore.

It's not really him that I am so upset about honestly. It was more the fact that I had that last call of the night again. You know, the one person no matter how bad of a day you have had you call just to say goodnight. For 6.5 years N___ and I called each other at the end of the night. He was my bestest friend in the whole world. The person who knew me the best. So last week when I had a horrible week at work and have been kind of coming to terms with the two people in my life, I had no one. Sure, I have lots of friends and a family who love me, but anyone who has actually been in love knows it just isn't the same.

So last night it hit me again when I wanted to watch The Descent, that I had to watch it alone. I love scary movies, but I can't watch them alone. I'm a pussy, I know. I tried to have a "few" drinks, but still, couldn't do it. It was then that I realized I really am alone. Although I love hanging out with myself, this was a hard pill to swallow. No more last call of the night. No more scary movies in bed. No more waking up practically sleeping on the person you love most in the world because your heat went off during the night and he was the only thing that kept you from dying a slow, painful, frozen death.

So maybe he is going to read this and think to himself, "Finally! That bitch gets what she deserves for breaking up with me!". But I hope not. It just doesn't work anymore between us, and that's ok. Hopefully he is happy with someone else (I really mean that) and sees now what I saw. All I want now is that last call of the night again. OH yes, and sex. Lots and lots of mind blowing sex (dude, it's been a while. ok?!?!)

So what am I doing this weekend? Watching the Descent. By myself. Cause I can.

It's so hard being me

Before everyone gets their panties in a bunch regarding my last post and the "Italians" on Staten Island, let me first say that yours truly has been the subject to many a prejudice here in New York City. I am the first generation on both my mother and my father's side to not be born and raised in New York. If I lived in the mid to late 19th century, my Irish roots would be subject to prejudice. If I grew up in New York in the early 20th century, my Italian ancestry would be the subject of ridicule and persecution. I am basically New York City scum. The combination of two of the dirtiest ethnicities to ever walk these streets. Good thing this is the 21st century, and people are a little more open minded to other peoples' cultures and races. Um, right.

My Irish/Italian heritage is not what makes me feel persecuted here in New York. And no, it's not being female either. I kinda like having the construction workers and delivery men call me "sweet tits". What causes that glazed over look that I receive from all New Yorkers from Canarsie to Pelham is when I say the dreaded words, "I'm from Minnesota".

So now let me give you a little back history of my life. Like I said before, my sisters and cousins are the first generations on both sides of my family to grow up outside New York City. My parents lived and met across the street from each other in Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn. My dad joined the Navy so my parents packed up and moved. My family lived all over the United States and abroad before I was born as is customary when a kid has a parent in the military. When I was born, my dad was serving in Jacksonville, Fl. When I was a year old, we packed up (well I didn't pack as much as just lie there and cry) and moved to a suburb of DC in northern VA so my dad could take a job at the Pentagon. Six years after that, my dad retired from the Navy to Minnesota where he worked for a company designing torpedos that had defense contracts with the government. Let's just say when world peace broke out with the collapse of the USSR, my family was one of the few negatively affected. My dad lost his job, but he liked it so much in Minnesota that rather than moving to another company to work in defense, we stayed.

So despite living in Minneapolis for 15+ years, I never considered myself truly midwestern. My parents have travelled all over the world. Crap, I almost considered myself more New York than Minnesotan. I chose Iowa over Wisconsin and Penn State because it was the best school at the time for pre-med/microbiology, what I originally wanted to study. When I started dating my ex-boyfriend, who went to the prestigous Amherst College, full of over privelaged East Coasters, I was quite surprised at the reactions I would get when I would tell them where I went to school.

"University of Iowa? More like University of CORN!" OK so no one actually said that, but I can definitely tell they were thinking it. Luckily there were a few people there from my high school, so they weren't completely dumbfounded by the fact I was from Minnesota. This weekend I was speaking with a guy who went to Duke. Same thing. I told him where I went to school, he told me I was a hick. I still put out anyways cause I'm easy like that, but I don't think North Carolina is the state known for haute cuisine and refined culture. No offense to all you NC people out there.

And don't get me started about how many people who actually live in Manhattan, are college educated, and could not place Minnesota out on a map. I can't even tell you how many people have confused Michigan with Minnesota, and when corrected reply, "oh all those M states in the middle are the same". Um, what? How the fuck did you get into Harvard and you can't even name all 50 states? Am I crazy here?

Then there are the select few who have actually heard of Minnesota and can hold a conversation with me regarding my great state. It goes something like this:

Me: "Hi, my name is Megan. I am from Minnesota."
Them: "Oh, like Fargo, eh? Wanna go for a ride on the boooat?"
Me: "I don't have an accent."
Them: "Oh, I know. I just like the movie."
Me: "Fargo is in North Dakota actually."
Them: "Oh..."

or maybe like this:

Me: "Hi, my name is Megan. I am from Minnesota."
Them: "Oh so do you know Prince? Or Kirby Puckett?"
Me: "Actually there are other great people that hail from the state of Minnesota. Like Bob Dylan, the great Walter Mondale, Soul Asylum (ok, maybe not), Bobby McFerrin (HELLO! Don't Worry Be Happy!) Josh Hartnett, Stiffler, Rod Carew, James J. Hill, Paul Wellstone (RIP), Tim O'Brien...I can go on."
Them: "SO you don't actually know Prince or Kirby Puckett?"
Me: "No, but Kirby lived in the same town as me. And so does Karl Polad. That asshole. I've got his fucking outdoor stadium right here!"
Them: "Oh..."

and then there is this:

Me: "Hi, my name is Megan. I am from Minnesota."
Them: "What is that? Like the Land o' Lakes?"
Me: "Um, actually that's the butter. It's actually the 'Land of 10,000 Lakes'"
Them: "Oh..."

So you get the hint. Yes, I went to school in Iowa, but I can guarantee you all you other assholes would have had the best 4 years of your life as I did there. And yes, I am from Minnesota, but I swear if one more person talks to me in that fucking Minnesota accent, prepare for your trachea to meet the side of my hand. Chuck Norris style. And if any of you guys decide after reading this post you would like to be schooled on the ways of the 'sota, I would suggest watching the Mighty Ducks. I can't even tell you how many times as a child growing up in I had to write on a chalk board "I will not quack at the teacher."

1,2,3, TRIPLE DEEK! GORDON BOMBAY 4 EVA!

Staten Island: Forgotten New York?

One of my favorite "I'm kind of embarrassed to admit watching, but still check my DV-R regularly for updates" shows is MTV's True Life. I could watch the Jersey Shore Girl/I Have a Shore House episodes repeatedly on end. Needless to say, I was ecstatic upon hearing about True Life: I'm a Staten Island Girl. I missed the first showing a few months ago, and have desperately been trying to catch a re-run. I hadn't seen it, until a few weeks ago. Oh boy, and am I sure glad I did see it.

For those of you not from New York, Staten Islanders have somewhat of a stereotype of tanning, big muscles, and gelling your hair to resemble a sharp Chia pet.. Think Gotti style. I personally don't see the appeal in this look, but there are girls who seem to go crazy for this shit as was apparent on the show. One chick I believed referred to most Manhattanite men as "yuppies" (I found one's of the "star's" myspace profile). OK, anyone who lives here would hardly refer to most of the guys in Murray Hill from Long Island as yuppies as they are only about one degree off on the meatstick scale from these Staten Island guys. But whatever. This show gave me an idea. For far too long have those who lives in Manhattan used the obligatory, "Oh! I gotta get my passport ready!" to get to Brooklyn/Queens/Hoboken/Jersey City/The Bronx (and the only reason anyone from Manhattan would go to the Bronx would be, I'm sorry to say, for Yankee Stadium). I do not know one person who ever goes to Staten Island. After seeing this show, I'm not sure I really understand why not either. Staten Island seems to have everything: Italian food, lots of gyms, fake boobs, acrylic nails, obnoxiously blond highlights, steroids, wife beaters, ridiculously expensive SUV's bought on a construction workers' salary, sexy accents, smoke machines, glow sticks, and lots of Aqua Net.

So then the light bulb went off. Forget the Lower East Side, the East Village, Soho, Tribeca. I'm going to start a new trend in the hottest places to go out. That's right. I'm getting a group together to go to Staten Island. Think of how fun it will be. We're going to make a day of it. First, take the ferry. Then our activities will involve going to the gym, then getting fake nails put on, smoking, getting breast implants, going to the tanning booth, eating some Italian food which will most likely be Chicken Parmesan with a salad made out of iceberg lettuce, and then of course, hittin' up a club. I've already done some research. Apparently one of the more popular clubs on the "Island" (yeah, that's what I am calling it now) is called Atlantis. As quoted by New York Magazine:

It may have taken almost until the next millennium, but Staten Island now has Atlantis (2066 Hylan Boulevard; 718-980-1111), a dizzying 5,000-square-foot, $1.5 million (and long overdue) tribute to the lost underwater civilization. Every Friday and Saturday night, a long line of twentysomethings snake down from the club's entrance, all of them dressed in black. "No sneakers or casual dress," says Anthony Santo, a bartender and the son of owner Vito Santo. Once inside, patrons cavort amid the stucco coral reefs and dart, gobylike, into and out of deep-sea caves framing backlit wall murals of mermaids, eels, squid, and dolphins. People drink at bars decorated with rock overhangs, dance under a ceiling of marcelled waves, or attach themselves like barnacles to the champagne lounge, where crumbling Grecian columns jut out from simulated volcanic rock. "Without a doubt, it's the hottest place on the island; it's where a lot of people go before going up to the city," says one 22-year-old Staten Island barhopper, who goes even further: "The place is so phat, there's no reason to go to the city to party."

Let's make 2007 the year we turn our stereotypes of Staten Island from a glorified garbage dump into the hottest place on earth for people to party (think like Ibiza or St. Tropez). Get your gravity balls and glowsticks ready bitches. We're going clubbin'!

Kind of ashamed to admit this...

But there is something about Script Ohio that makes me happy--and wishes I was a sousaphone player just so I can "dot the I". OK maybe

Where do I sign up?

My kinda book!

So I am part of a book club. Yes, I know. I’m a nerd. But really it’s just a chance for us to drink wine and talk about Grey’s Anatomy while holding a book. We seem smarter that way, I guess.

Our last book of choice was The Memory Keeper’s Daughter—a real snoozer. Granted, I didn’t finish the book this week because I was stuck at work until all hours of the night this week (hi, my name is Megan and I procrastinate) staring at excel spreadsheets wondering why hyphens in a cell won’t center properly. But I digress.

Our next book of choice is The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. I looked up the introduction at www.borders.com and these are the first few sentences I read:

“On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York. Though there were already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances ‘above the Forties,’ of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendor with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy.”

You see that? I get to read about erections and the ladies of fashion’s boxes!!!! It’s going to be like fucking porn!!!!!

Just let me wring out my liver for a second.

Despite my best intentions of uh "not going out" on New Years, I inevitably found myself in Brooklyn on Saturday night furiously texting all my friends to have a good new years well on my 5th or so vodka soda (and and about 3 glasses of champagne). At about 12:15 when all but one person responded to my loving text, I sent out another text condemning all of my friends to a horrible New Year. I'm a good friend, what can I say?

And no, I did not make out with anyone from Jersey at midnight. But one funny thing happened...

I met up with another friend of mine at the Maritime at around 2. I've never been to the Maritime before, so I was not aware there were like 80 different places to drink at this hotel. Logically I go where the long line is. And there was a cover. Shit. There goes my plan of not spending any money tonight (girl's got skillz to get free drinks you know!). It was only $25, and I was rocked off my ass, so I went ahead and paid.

Now everything was a little hazy at this point, but what I do remember seeing was a lot of men in briefs, a smoke machine, some construction boots with matching belts (what, were they building a fort in there or something?), and a whoooole lot of go-go dancing. Needless to say, I felt a little out of place in my camel 3/4 length coat with matching plaid Banana Republic scarf. I finally found my friend who was drinking in the bar upstairs--without anyone wearing a tool belt of any sort. I was kind of disappointed.

Sorry to all the Michigan fans yesterday. I'm convinced any team I cheer for will end up losing. Yes I know Penn State won, but I didn't actually watch that game. And yes, Wisconsin won too, and although I did watch that game, I actually wanted Arkansas to win--there is an intense rivalry between my sisters (Wisconsin alum) and my brother-in-law and me (Iowa alum) that can never be forgotten. So without further ado....

GO BUCKEYES!

(suckers!)