I seeeeeee you.

So I'm not in a very bloggy mood lately, so forgive me while I youtube it up, yet again. I know you people are still reading cause my traffic isn't down really, so you few faithful, I present to you, one of the greatest dance sequences of all time. You're welcome.

How I spend my Monday night

With Cheech and Chong.

This conversation is in reference to the rumor that Iowa Head Coach Kirk Ferentz may be paying my former collegiate president, Mary Sue Coleman (see below post), a visit in regard to the newly open head coaching job at Michigan.

Sports blogger extraordinaire Brian at MGoBlog posted something tracking the flight of a mysterious private en route back and forth from Ann Arbor to Cedar Rapids. If you need a laugh, read the comments. They were the catalyst for all the laughter. Some Wolverine fans are so upset at the thought of Baby Ferentz donning the maize and blue, they are suggesting calling in bomb threats. For reals!

flop:

I don't know how the commenters are sure they got the right plane and flight crew. Willow Run is freaking huge, and it's probably not as if the airline's name is on the tail or it has a sign on it saying it just came in from Iowa.

Then again, maybe everyone looked up which building is the charter company's and staked it out. Who knows?

me:
cedar rapids airport is rather small.

crimenotes:
And Willow Run is not freaking huge. I don't know what the Flop is talking about.

me:
I don't know what kind of state you think Iowa is, but I don't recall seeing one private plane in my 4 years flying in and out of that airport. Maybe the Quaker Oats guy, but I heard he died a long time ago.

flop:

When I say Willow Run is freaking huge, what I mean is that there's a bunch of small ramps for various charter and cargo operators. It's not like some small airfield with one ramp. Any airport is going to be a couple miles in every direction, but most of them only have facilities in one spot. Willow Run has them on opposite sides of the field.

The MGoBlog commenters would have to be smart enough to look up the location of the ramp for USA Jet airlines or whatever this charter outfit is. Go look on google maps -- there's a shitload of hangars and stuff out on the backside of the field, which is where I was. It seems there's a rudimentary terminal building in front, but I'm not sure how/if people could see the planes through this. I'm guessing they showed up, saw the news van and hung out. If the passengers and crew got off the plane out of sight of the gawkers, then it's possible he is there to be interviewed tomorrow.

Or it's just a coincidence. I don't understand why an airline would need to get a flight crew out to Cedar Rapids at 7 at night, but as much as I'd like to be an expert, I don't know enough about charter airline operations to say.

crimenotes:
Willow Run flies private jets. It's where rich alumni go when they have to attend weddings in Philly after the Michigan-OSU game.

Flop, you're now as fucking insane as the MGoBlog people.

me:
Yes, well there are no rich alumni of the University of Iowa. I would suspect that is actually Ferentz. I am impressed you know the ongoings of your airport though.

crimenotes:
FOR THE LOVE OF BALLS WE ARE NOW DEBATING THE LAYOUTS AND PATRONS OF TINY REGIONAL AIRPORTS

Bite me, bitch.

Uh...

I don't know about any of you, but this commercial seriously creeps me the fuck out. This guy handles a bunch of wild animals entering his car a lot better than I would. I can't even tell you the noise I would make if a fucking wolf was sitting in my back seat.

Happy Turkey Day everyone! Part Deux.

In tradition.

Things I am grateful for this year:
1. Project Runway--when Michael Kors doesn't speak.
2. Snacks
3. Penis My vibrator
4. Blogs Blogs not titled _______ in the City
5. Albert Young
6. Romance Sex Making out Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip ice cream
7. Adrian Peterson
8. Fried turkey
9. 13 Going on 30, Red Dawn, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, The Princess Diaries, and every other movie I am embarrassed proud to own in my DVD collection.
10. Jack Daniels

Things I am not grateful for this year
1. Minnesota Vikings, Minnesota Twins, Iowa Hawkeyes, New York Mets (again)
2. The Writer's Strike (before y'all get indignant, I'm actually for it, just disappointed that my Heroes obsession will only last for 2 more episodes.)
3. Cranberries
4. Michael Kors--shut up and make the clothes, honey. PS, I like your shoes.
5. Gin. Any kind.
6. The use of the term "pant"
7. People who keep bowls of candy at their desk. These hips don't get fat themselves!
8. Dancing with the Stars
9. Global warming. It exists, Dad! I don't care what you say!
10. 2 day hangovers. (you hear that liver?)

Everyone have a safe holiday. Remember, don't eat turkey and drive, but make sure you get so drunk tomorrow you pass out with the beer can in your hand. I know I am.

A song for you.

Every month or so, I pick a song that I become obsessed with and listen to incessantly until any note from the song makes me ears bleed. This month, the honor goes to Depeche Mode and their song Somebody. Below are the lyrics, which when I first heard the song reminded me of my ideal relationship. And no, I don't mean a relationship with my vibrator. While she helps me out numerous times, I do on occasion like to be seen in public with my significant other--an actual real live human being. Unfortunately me pulling up a chair for my mighty green machine at my favorite restaurant might not be condoned. Read through the lyrics, and then pay close attention to the last few lines.

I want somebody to share
Share the rest of my life
Share my innermost thoughts
Know my intimate details
Someone who'll stand by my side
And give me support
And in return
She'll get my support
She will listen to me
When I want to speak
About the world we live in
And life in general
Though my views may be wrong
They may even be perverted
She'll hear me out
And won't easily be converted
To my way of thinking
In fact she'll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me
Aaaahhhhh....

I want somebody who cares
For me passionately
With every thought
With every breath
Someone who'll help me see things
In a different light
All the things I detest
I will almost like
I don't want to be tied
To anyone's strings
I'm carefully trying to steer clear of those things
But when I'm asleep I want somebody
Who will put their arms around me
And kiss me tenderly
Though things like this
Make me sick
In a case like this I'll get away with it
And in a place like this I'll get away with it
Aaaahhhhh....

[record scratch] More like Aaaaahhhhh! Did you see that? This guy's got some serious commitment issues! I swear I like this song more and more every time I hear it.

Get...the fuck...out...of...my...way.

New Yorkers have a reputation of being in a hurry. To those who don't live here, and don't visit often, this can be intimidating and troubling. And slightly unwarranted. I'm here now to speak to the masses on why exactly we New Yorkers are pushy and aggressive when walking on the street.

Let me explain.

I was taking the AirTran back from JFK this evening when I finally reached the Jamaica train station (a big hub for the Long Island Rail Road). I check my watch which reach 5:56, and the next train to Penn Station arrived at 6:01 pm. There were two people in front of me in line.

Now, being that it is me, I automatically assume that everyone in line greets the ticket machine like it is an aircraft from Mars. I always end up behind the people who take the longest time possible because they are canceling their transaction every 2 seconds from some kind of miss key. Same with ATMs

And of course the two people ahead of me are, you guessed it, using cash. The first guy's ticket totals $3, and he puts in 3 $1 bills. Fine. Still slower than a credit card, but maybe he had some extra $1's from the strip club. He finishes, I check my watch. 5:58pm. Now Lady Time approaches the ticket machine, and starts fishing in her wallet for FUCKING CHANGE. Rule #1 when using one of those ticket arcades--HAVE YOUR MONEY OR CREDIT CARD IN HAND. NO EXCEPTIONS. I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE NO ARMS, YOU CAN USE YOUR LEGS OR MOUTH OR ASSCRACK.

Phew.

So she's fishing, and I'm tapping my foot. She knows this too. I'm being particularly petulant now trying to annoy her into speeding up, which never works.

Why am I in a hurry? The next train isn't for another 30 minutes, and it is cold outside. That's what people not from New York don't understand. Sure, there are subways coming every 2 minutes ideally. But that is just what that is, "ideally". The MTA is notoriously unreliable. So if I miss this train, I might be waiting 20 minutes for the next one. Then I have to wait another 30 minutes to catch the next train for my connection. You follow? Whether or not I make one train could either get me to a place on time, or leave me figuratively fucked for the rest of the day (or make me miss one of my stories on the tellie).

So moral of the story? Make sure I'm not in the line behind you. Especially when I'm coming from JFK.

And yes, I missed my fucking train by 20 seconds. You understand now?

My 1 in 8

I was a senior in college studying for the last semester of my college career at the University of Iowa. It was 2002.

My mom was watching my niece for my sister as she was uncomfortable putting her in day care at such a young age. My mom complained of a pain in her armpit, but figured it was due to her carrying a human sack of potatoes around combined with the fact she was older than time. She told me this. I said I would be home in a month or so to take care of the munchkin so she could go to the doctor.

"Don't worry, Megan," she said. "Breast cancer never hurts. I'm sure it is nothing."

So I went about my business drinking my Leinekhugels, dreading the day when I would don my cap and gown, and my dad would simultaneously rip up his check book. A month later, between midterms, I fulfilled my promise to her and went home to watch my niece.

When she came back, she told me when the doctor felt the lump, he was concerned, but assured her not to worry until further tests were done. This was good enough for me. Shit like cancer didn't happen to my family. It's all those other families. Sure, both of my paternal grandparents were dead, but my grandmother died a month before I was born, and my grandfather died when I was 4. I had only a single memory of him wearing a newsboy cap picking my dad and I up at the West Palm Beach airport in Florida. My maternal grandparents were pretty much going to live forever I was convinced. My grandmother still took swigs of whiskey that she kept "hidden" in a cabinet while both of them smoked packs a day. Hey, they were from Brooklyn. That's what they did.

Flash forward a few weeks later. I'm at the Cedar Rapids airport about to board a flight to see my boyfriend in Amherst, MA. I get a phone call from my mother. She said it's cancer, but assures me it's totally beatable, and not to worry.

I didn't. Shit like this didn't happen to my family.

I graduated.

I left to spend the summer with my boyfriend in upstate New York. Having spent the previous two years long distance with a boy I so desperately loved was taking its toll on me. I needed that summer with him in order to make it work.

My mom started chemo that same summer.

I chose my boyfriend.

My mom assured me this was fine, but deep down I knew she wanted me home. My mother pretended to be complex, but I could read her like a book. I still chose me. And him. Not her. I don't regret my decision.

Then I got a phone call. My grandmother had died. My mom wanted me in Florida with her, so I left. No tears were shed after that call. I barely knew the woman.

When I arrived in Florida, I saw my mother for the first time after weeks of chemotherapy. I remember when I opened the door for the first time and her the outline of her bald head through the shades. I will never forget that image. She always had this big bush of hair that older women seem to think is attractive. I called it "her helmet". She laughed. I always encouraged her to grow her hair out like when she was my age. She was so pretty then. She never grew it out.

The helmet was gone, and my mother's head was remarkably small. I called her "grape head" and told her she looked like Ja Rule. She didn't understand what this meant, but laughed anyways. The greatest quality my mother possessed was she was always able to laugh at herself. It was her greatest gift to me.

She went into remission. They told her the window would be 2-5 years of no cancer and she would be cured. They told her to rest assured that they caught it early, and her outlook was good. They also removed her breast.

She told them to take the other one. It was no good to her anyways. Was she going to walk around in a bikini? No. No reconstruction either. No one would be looking at her that way anymore. She was too old. Sometimes I truly loved my mother.

Two years later, she felt a lump in her chest, but this one is larger and since she has no breast tissue anymore, resting somewhere on her chest. She assured me it was probably nothing, but she suspected the cancer never left her body.

She was right.

The doctor said she had 2-5 years. It was October 15th, 2005.

I heard the news at work and dropped the phone while burying my head in my hands. My friends knew I was expecting the call from my mom and dad, and had the courtesy to leave when I received it. One chick that I wasn't friends with never left, and listened to the call. It was probably the most personal moment of my life, and she violated it. Why? Because people get off on others' misery. I will never forget her, and she will haunt me with anger for the rest of my life. Some people just don't get it.

I went home that day and cried in the shower. My boyfriend heard me, opened the door to the bathroom, pushed aside the curtain to see me barely standing and leaning against the tiles. He hugged me better than anyone has ever hugged me in my life. It was probably the second most personal moment of my life, and he looked me in the eye and told me I would be ok. Not her. Some people just get it.

Life went on. Chemos went on, but I never really thought about the "end". People would ask me how she was doing, but since the cancer was never in a terminal part of her body, she always looked good despite the occasional return of her bald head. Even when she went to chemo, she would spend hours trying to apply her eyebrows and make sure she was dressed to the nines.

"Those people in there are sick, Megan. I don't want to look sick."

She never did, even with the bald head. I blame her laugh.

Last August we went on a family vacation to Brainerd, a lake vacation town in Minnesota, but my mom had chemo before we left. My sister and I went with her. I had hemorrhoids (it happens). We sat there the three of us, with my mom getting poison injected to her body, laughing at the fact her healthy 26 year old daughter was complaining about hemorrhoids.

I hadn't laughed that hard in a really long time.

We went on the vacation, and she could barely eat and get out of bed she was so sick. That's ok though, cause she always got better. But this time she didn't.

I returned to New York only to hear the news that my mother was having problems breathing, and needed oxygen around the clock. Her hemoglobin was shot from all the chemo, so she couldn't ever catch her breath. I came home to visit her. I walked into her bedroom, and she had tubes in her nose. This was my first realization that my mother was going to die. She looked up at me from my bed and said, "Hi honey." There were sometimes I wish I never said one bad thing to her. That was one of those times.

So the weekend went on. We watched America's Next Top Model. I wanted to stab myself in the eye with a spoon. But we sat there. She just kept on talking. I got irritated. It was what we did.

A month later I get another call from my dad that she has shingles. I ask my friends what this means, and they tell me it is not good. Painful, open sores on her back and face. I went home again. This time, she was not only sick, but actually started to look like she was dying. We sat around watching America's Next Top Model. We sat there, and she talked through the entire thing. I got irritated. It was what we did.

I left Sunday morning to say goodbye. I kissed her on the cheek, which suddenly felt like my grandmother's when I was younger, told her I loved her, and left. I was relieved to go back to New York.

Then Thursday night. 2 weeks, they said. She didn't recognize me, but that was ok. She was awake. I told her I loved her, and was partly relieved to get away. I almost didn't stop by that night cause I was tired, and she would be around tomorrow. Then I thought about my dad, and decided I should say hi to him when he got home (my mom was under 24-hour hospice care). He must be so tired. My sister and I were the last people to see my mom conscious.

Then 10 am Friday morning. 24-36 hours, they said. She was having problems breathing and was no longer awake.

I sat next to my mother in bed all day while people moved in and out. I was her least favorite, I know that. I'm ok with that. But she loved me, and I knew it. I watched her shallow breathing, and her chest. Now without breasts.

My sister was in Vegas and couldn't land until 2:30pm. She got to my mom at 3:15. At 4:00 pm my niece arrived to say goodbye. My other nieces and nephews said goodbye earlier in the day, although it was more a kiss on the cheek than an actual goodbye. This was my niece that my mom was watching when she felt her original lump in her breast.

At 4:20, my dad rubbed her cheek and whispered in her ear, "All your girls are here, Ann. It's ok." She became restless at that very moment, and her breathing became even more labored. I was watching my sister while everyone else was talking. She pointed at my mom and tried to get my dad's attention. My mom had stopped breathing, and I missed it.

I was lying next to her when she died. I was the closest to her. I could never be the closest to her emotionally during her life, but I was the closest to her physically the moment she left this Earth.

I love you, Mom. You were a handful, and very difficult to get along with. But you were my mother, and despite the fact I resented you for a lot of crap you did, and vice versa, I always loved you. You knew that though. I ain't gonna lie, you were unsuccessful at a lot of things you did in life, like us all, but the one thing that meant most to you which was raising the three of us, you did it right. A friend told me the night you died that it doesn't matter how you get there, just as long as you do. And you got there, Mom. You really did. I can say in all sincerity that I'm proud of you. Thank you for everything from the bottom of my heart.

Love,

Megan

1946-2007

[Editor's note: In lieu of flowers, my mom would have preferred you make a donation to the Susan G Komen Foundation. Thank you.]

November 9th, 2007

4:25 pm.

The date and time my mother died.

I'm going to rip off the band-aid here

I've never been good at really expressing emotions. The truth is, and this may come as a surprise to some of you, I'm semi-private when it comes to real emotions. Sure, I can write about my vibrator without a second thought, but I'm sad, in love, hurt...I have problems showing it. I have internalized everything since I was a kid. A result of having been teased somewhat mercilessly as a kid for growing into adult emotions (liking boys, etc.). So the past few months, when people ask me how I'm doing, I say, "Fine. Ok. How about them [insert random sports team here]." I've let one person see me flat out bawl my entire life--hiccups and all. And he is gone. So now I'm here alone, having to deal with the hardest thing I have ever gone though slightly regretting not letting a few more people see me sob.

So I'm going to rip off the Band-aid here. I'm not doing this for attention. I'm not doing this for sympathy. This is purely for cathartic purposes. I found myself in the middle of my sister's basement last night on my knees at 3am begging for this pain to go away, but I woke up and it was still here. I have have everyone to go to, tons of friends, family, but I have no one. And this has always been my choice.

Last night I flew hope because my mom is dying. Yes, she has been dying for 2 years now, but it looks like this is the end. My sister picked me up at the airport last night, and she told me to prepare myself.

I was home 2 weeks ago while my mom developed a mean case of shingles. She had sores allover her face, her beautiful green eyes were swollen shut, and she was bald. The drop dead gorgeous woman of my youth was finally gone. In her place was a woman with no hair, who shuffled along as she walked, and whose skin sagged off of her cheeks from years of chemotherapy. Then she laughed, and told me what to do, and I knew it was her.

Last night was not the case. My dad told me on the phone that my mom was shuffling around in the middle of the night this week with dementia talking about packing for a wedding. My wedding. And no, I am not even dating anyone.

Even that didn't prepare me for what I was about to see and experience. As I walked into my mom's bedroom, I was confronted with death. She has a huge burn on her forehead from a radiation, and she was trembling at the same time. When my sister told my mom she was going to pick me up, my mom asked, "You're going to get my baby?"

So imagine my surprise when I was standing over my mother, and she didn't even recognize her own daughter. I sat there holding her trembling hand, while her now 24 hour hospice worker stood over her feeding her morphine from a syringe. Her hands seemed so small. She was sick two weeks ago, but not like this. It just came so fast. The nurse said the dementia could be caused by her meds, but I don't think so. Sure, I'm hoping, but I'm realistic.

As I was sitting there holding her hand, she looked at me, lightly touching her forehead and said, "How do you like my scratch?" And she laughed. The laugh I remember growing up when I was in love with my mother.

Honestly, I'm not going to play this up like we had some glorious relationship. Anyone who knows me knows I loved my mother, but disliked her as a person. She never got me, and I resented her for that. I suppose I never got her. But there were times growing up when her magnetic personality that everyone but her own daughter loved would reach me, and those are the times I am remembering now. The anger and resentment are gone. All that is left is love.

I am putting this post up because those closest to me, family members and friends, have told me for years I need to talk about this. I don't believe in therapists, and still as I'm sitting here crying about this, cringe at the thought of complete strangers reading this. So please, no harsh words or judgment. This is harder for me than you will ever realize.

I'm just going to post this, please no wisecracks about spelling or grammar mistakes. I don't even think I want to re-read this post ever.

And to Lindsay. I want to say thank you to you. Our short IM yesterday and what you told me is something I won't ever forget.

Thank you...

to everyone today. You know who you are, but I will remember your kind words for a very very very long time.

(I apologize for the cryptic post for those who do not know what I am talking about, but a mass email is too much and most of my friends read my blog anyways.)

I hate Sex and the City

I have a confession. I hate Sex and the City. Always have. When my friends curled up to the television once a week to watch the four ladies fuck every dude in Manhattan, I sat along side of them pretending I liked the show. I even went as far to buy 2 seasons on DVD. I know! I totally would jump off that bridge too.

So much to my own chagrin, I've been reading about how they are making a movie about these ladies. Let me summarize my feelings about them.

• Carrie - Total narcissist. She brings every conversation back to her. She is completely one dimensional despite her self proclamation of being so hard to figure out. It seems the entire show is about her shopping. Look, don't get me wrong. I work in fashion, but can we have a few more interests besides going to Barneys?
  
• Samantha - an urban legend. No self respecting woman would behave this way. Before you start typing out your comment about how I would never be as critical if Samantha was a man, just stop. I would and have the same criticisms of men who take sex so casually. While I like sex as much as the next girl, I find that people just don't sleep around like that for the sake of sex. They are usually trying to fill a void somewhere else in their life. I know, such a newsflash!
• Charlotte - Completely shallow and uptight. They played her off as a prude, but in reality she slept with more guys in one season than I have in my whole entire life. She married a dude who was about exciting as a board just because she wanted to get married. I suppose her character was the epitome of the women I most despise in this city--the ones who correlate the size of a diamond to the love of their fiancee, and who read the Sunday Life and Times religously to see which of the latest Dartmouth grads from Connecticut landed themselves a hedge fund manager. Blink Blink.
  
• Miranda - I found her the most refreshing, mainly because I found her the most similar to myself. She was constantly judging (hello!), and seemed to talk about other stuff besides shopping. What I don't get is how someone so beautifully challenged could land so many dudes. I mean, am I alone here? Miranda was just not cute. At all.

Yeah, I'm angry that this shit is being made into a movie rather than Six Feet Under - a brilliant show with complex characters with plenty of depth. I thought I was done for good with Sex and the City stereotypes, but this movie will only re-hash them.

For the people reading this blog who think life in New York is actually like this show, let me tell you, it is not. If you're thinking of moving here because of some grand dream you have of shopping in Barneys and drinking martinis at the latest restaurant, let me fill you in. It ain't. Don't get me wrong, I love this city. But right now I'm sitting in front of my television watching the Biggest Loser reading about how excited everyone is for the new Sex and the City movie. Oh yeah, I take the subway too.

Yawn.

Someone's got some explainin' to do!

From AOL Fanhouse:

It has been a bad couple of months for Philadelphia Eagles head coach Andy Reid and it just keeps getting worse. Earlier today, Andy's son Garrett was sentenced to up to 23 months in jail. It was also discovered that Garrett smuggled upwards of 90 pills into jail earlier this week "by secreting them in his rectum."It turns out Garrett was rather popular in the 'hood and enjoyed that lifestyle.

"I liked being the rich kid in that area and having my own high status life," Reid told a probation officer in a statement read by the judge. "I could go anywhere in the 'hood. They all knew who I was. I enjoyed it. I liked being a drug dealer."

He said in court Thursday that he has stopped selling drugs.It is possible that Reid will face more charges after the drugs were found in his possession while in jail.

They have Blogger access in jail too? Garrett, how's that rectum working out for you?