Thursday, November 27, 2008

My Life, In A Nutshell

I especially appreciate the part where the beaver begins cackling at his misfortune.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The awkwarness of being awkward

I am not really good at this. This was an appoximation of my view much of the night. I hate pool.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

My type

So, there's a website that will analyze your writing to determine what kind of person you are on a Myers-Briggs scale. This is what it said about this blog:

ESTP - The Doers

The active and play-ful type. They are especially attuned to people and things around them and often full of energy, talking, joking and engaging in physical out-door activities. The Doers are happiest with action-filled work which craves their full attention and focus. They might be very impulsive and more keen on starting something new than following it through. They might have a problem with sitting still or remaining inactive for any period of time.

UPDATE The Gender Analyzer thinks that there is a 63% chance that I am a dude.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Megan in the middle

Erica: Megan ! A quote from you is currently the Huffington Post's twitter status!

me: That happens

It just doesn't often happen that my musings about caffeine are sandwiched in between Matt Cooper and CNN's Rick Sanchez.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Things I never do

Well, let me bury my lede, first off.

This morning, we got an e-mail from a former Jezebel/Wonkette commenter, one of several that I recall hating on me and my political coverage. This is what she said.
I'm a regular poster on Wonkette. I used to post a lot on Jezebel, but I liked Wonkette's political slant better, so I stuck with them when I had to choose which blog would get WAY too much of my free-time.

But this evening... well, not anymore, is my point.

I'm *******, and I'm fucking finished with Wonkette. I can't even express my rage over this post, honestly. I keep writing all kinds of rage-filled, angry missives about women, and how women are judged by their appearance, and how Palin might be functionally retarded but the bitch has got AMAZING legs, and yet I can't get anywhere. I feel like a huge gulf has been opened, and I can't possibly explain to the men of Wonkette why it's not OK to take perfectly healthy, slender woman, and call her a fat slob.

Hm, didn't like the political slant, huh? Didn't like the political coverage that much, i.e., me, so you went over to the site that fired me for being too lacking in insult comic humor and too ranty and not fratty enough in my political voice and -- let's be truly fair -- for catering too much to a LGBT-friendly crowd and for being too girlie and for telling the misogynists to fuck off and for banning them at will and now you're surprised that the site is run by the type of dick that thinks mocking Sarah Palin for being fat is funny and completely appropriate? Did you miss the last 10 months of his coverage? That's what he does, and that's what he lets his commenters do (no offense to Jim whose rant about Palin's use of gerunds was inspired and deserves to get him laid) and that's one of the reasons I was fired -- so he could do it. So, cry me a river, honey. You start off your e-mail by dissing me and now you're mad at him for doing what, with your page-view enticements, you've allowed him to continue doing? Whatevs.

Ok, second, "we" don't believe any such bull. She might -- and I'm sure she does -- but I am more or less on record as believing the complete fucking opposite. So, let me just say:
  1. 1. No. I wear tall shoes because I like them and I accept the full consequences of and responsibility for my actions and expect no such thing.
  2. 2. I don't care who gets in first, last, in the middle, or whatever. Seriously. In 10 years in D.C., I have learned to do this as gracefully as any man can and am not worried about the arrangement of my clothing.
  3. 3. OH GOD NO. No. Just, no. Uh-uh. I mind it. And I mind it not because of pride (although there's that) but because it's stupid and out-dated. I pick up checks or split checks as a sign that I am enjoying his company as much as he is mine and because I am as invested in having a good time as he is. It also doesn't hurt that I have my own money, prefer my independence and think that it is stupid for a so-called feminist to claim poverty. If you can't afford to go out, find other things to do. Stay home and fuck. Go to a cheaper place. Discuss it in advance. Come to a compromise. But this the opposite of what I believe -- and it's damn sure not feminism.
  4. 4. I do not dig on guys jizzing on me, but if I am closer to the Kleenex, I am happy to get one for each of us simultaneously. I am also happy to put the condom on, take it off, play clean-up patrol when on the rag, whatever. See above: I am as invested in both of us enjoying this as he is.
  5. If there ever comes I time when I get regular manicures again, I can sit still long enough for the polish to dry and I will not need a butler. Side note: never, ever, ever try to wipe me after I've finished urinating.
Ugh. I would be less annoyed if it didn't use the first person plural.

The Other Pair

Because I can't walk into DSW and buy just one, I began the process of breaking the new boots in tonight. My bartender had to touch them, my waitress loved them and my toes didn't even really hurt that much.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

No, I don't know what I'm going to wear them with. Yes, I do realize that my feet are probably going to hurt. No, I don't care. They are 70% off, they have platforms, and I have a coupon.

Yes, I realize that sometimes it's like I have my mother's voice in my head when I go shopping. I can't help it.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Bad habits

  1. Calling Greg for rides when I'm drunk.
  2. Staring at Mike's or Andy's ass, and occasionally both (usually when I'm drunk).
  3. Obsessing.
  4. What John Clarke, Jr. used to call "bleeding in public," i.e., blogging too-personal shit.
  5. Getting fired.
  6. Eavesdropping.
  7. Not returning e-mails in a timely fashion.
  8. Snooping.
  9. Lulling myself to sleep with memories that shouldn't still lull me to sleep.
  10. Tardiness.
  11. Ego.
  12. Murder She Wrote
  13. Going to the same bar.
  14. Listening to morose music when intoxicated.
  15. Crying in cabs.
  16. Crying on my floor.
  17. Falling asleep crying to the point I wake up with salt crystals on my face.
  18. Procrastinating.
  19. Missing what I never really had.
  20. Mozzarella cheese sticks.
  21. Daydreams.
  22. Making lists I never finish.
  23. Focusing on my flaws.
  24. Buying shoes.
  25. Pretending that I matter.

Friday, November 14, 2008


I don't run away from a lot of things -- I think maybe it's not in my personality so much -- but I understand the motivation. It it nice to think that I could snap my fingers, pack my car and leave behind the things in my life that have wrecked me, that hurt too much to cope with, that I would rather bury my head in the sand than deal with. And while logically I know that I probably wouldn't escape them because they're deeply embedded within me, like the small piece of glass I stepped on in Salou that worked its way deeper and deeper into my foot until a moment of discomfort became a stab of pain with each step, I feel like maybe if I just took the last step in the life-destruction I've engaged in over the last year, maybe I could burn away the last of my hurts and regrets from this stage of my life.

I joked with a friend months ago that after this election that I was just going to sell my place, pay off my student loans, pack my car with what I could hold and discard the rest and just drive and blog it. You know, stop in a town, waitress or bartend, be some other, stupider version of myself and that maybe by discarding intellectual endeavors I could stop living in my own head so much. He laughed at me, and told me to make sure I posted pictures of myself in low-cut shirts so I could make money off the ads. But I wondered if I could just go be the stereotype of my looks, really. I have always envied people that don't have this much internal monologue.

I left New York last night two days later than intended and emotionally a little worse for wear. Halfway through Jersey, with rain misting on my windshield and the worst of the traffic behind me, alone in the dark but for a smattering of headlights, Jackson came on.
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
Once I get to Lafayette, I'm not gonna mind one bit
Once I get to Lafayette, I'm not gonna mind one little bit
Once I get to Baton Rouge, I won't cry a tear for you
Once I get to Baton Rouge, I won't cry a tear for you
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
Once I get to Vicksburg, I don't think I'll feel the urge
I get to Vicksburg, I won't even feel an urge
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
And I realized that that's what I sort of wanted out of the drive, and that it was probably going to be as futile as the song suggests. I can't run away from what's wrong because I'm always there, and it's me that's feeling it.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


I am an autumn child. I revel in the kind of weather that burns my nose and frosts my toes, that forces me to tromp around in sweaters and boots, that brings with it a level of chilliness that makes it feel perfect to be snuggled under the covers -- preferably with someone snuggly, lately an unusual occurance for me -- that makes me give the envious stinkeye to people sitting near fireplaces in restaurants. Today, where I sat working, there was a cold autumn breeze blowing over my toes occasionally. I liked it. It made me nostalgic for the smell of rotting leaves, the noises of kicking through them, the feel of the first night that makes one long for fuzzy gloves, the pretense that walking with his arm around me and mine around him has something to do with the temperature and not something more personal.

Friday, November 7, 2008

Fill Me

Last Friday, my friend got us tickets to Duffy. Well, technically, he got us tickets to Coldplay, but she opened. And, shit, seriously, Mark Ronson needs to drop Amy Winehouse and get on this shit. That voice filled the Verizon Center, and she was obviously not altered. It was amazing.

Also, that shit is real tears. When you're wearing mascara and crying, that's exactly how you wipe your eyes. Also, my upper lip totally swells up like that. And I'm not just saying that because I left a club, recently, and cried in the cab the whole way home and probably looked just like that only far less sexy. I listened to this song when I got home.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Voting in Virginia

I cast my ballot today!

Keep up with Virginia returns!

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Reasons to never go shopping alone

Because you will inevitably end up picture messaging someone from the dressing room asking which dress you should buy. It's just easier to buy someone dinner or drinks. And less annoying.