Tyra - you know I love you.

So, pretty much the whole point of having a blog is the freedom to re-post C-RAZY links, right?

Right. Solid.

So this youtube video has pretty much Everything I've Ever Wanted From Life:

1. Tyra Banks being COMPLETELY INSANE.

2. Tyra Banks asking Robert Pattinson to bite her.

3. Tyra Banks telling Robert Pattinson he looks dirty.

4. An accidental: HOLY CRAP, TWILIGHT IS WEIRD AND CRAZY reveal.

5. Pie-eating contests.

6. Taylor Lautner telling Tyra that he'd bite her, if requested.

7. Perhaps more fodder for my, "Maybe T-Laut is the cutest 16-year-old-boy-EVAR...or more probably the newest about-to-be-gay-icon-EVAR" theory.

E.n.j.o.y.

Here's the thing, she's really only talking about parties in LA...

"Meg, why don't you ever update?"

"Because I hate you."

I very much enjoy that Miley Cyrus' diddy "Party in the USA" has spawned my two favorite kinds of cover.

ASL:

And fabulously tongue-in-cheek gay man:

That is all.

we'll call ourselves an upRISING. Get it? It's a yeast joke.

I want to start a movement, a grassroots movement that grows worldwide and engulfs the peoples of the globe in its loving arms.

I want to start a food movement. Like the local food movement or the organic food movement, I want my movement to grow out of the grass-roots initiatives of people who really care and have science on their side. I want my movement to begin in the blogs and the small-town newspapers and the yuppie west-coast coffee shops of our nation. I want my movement to be hip in Asheville and down in Louisville. I want my movement to take stay-at-home moms with slings instead of strollers by storm. I want my movement to be so cool it's a class statement.

I want to start the: I Am Not A Bad Person Because I Love Baked Goods movement. We'll take cupcakeries, doughnut shops, and pie-stands along with us as we sweep the nation! People will learn to love yeast again! The hip-hot spots like Voodoo Doughnuts, Sprinkles, Crumbs, and Magnolia will stand as our beacons of truth. Pies - unique receptacles of pastry goodness - will serve as our open door. Fill us with your regional specialty, we are willing. We are warm. We flake on command.

Baklava makes us international.

Muffins ingrain us in your morning rituals. We are filled with oats and bananas and blueberries and sunshine.

My movement will not, however, do several things. Firstly, no one will advertise my movement in cycling class. Or pilates class. Or at triathlon training. Or even, most probably, during yoga. My movement is not about diets or exercise plans or working it off. My movement knows no cycling class. It knows no pilates. It knows no jazzercize, no body pump, no nothin'. You see, the whole point of my movement is that you eat not that you regret eating so my movement has no checks-and-balances - it doesn't need them. My movement is already balanced, balanced with joy.

My movement will not hire nutritionists. Our scientists are psychologists who wish they'd become philosophers and philosophers with the sympathetic ears of psychologists. My movement is not about an obsession with food as a means to nourishment anymore than good sex is about procreation. My movement is about foreplay. My movement is about eating. I want my movement to be to food as the removal of abstinence-only education is to the budding minds of young teenagers. It is liberating. It is responsible. It is realistic.

Food today is a lot like sex education today. If we simply tell children that pre-marital sex is wrong surely they will abstain, right? It's wrong morally. It's wrong for your health. It's wrong for your future. But oh, oh oh, it's so good. BUT YOU CANNOT HAVE IT.

Yes, yes, I recall that all the teenagers I know respond well to that kind of message.

We do the same thing with food, baked goods especially. Those doughnuts are so good. They're calling your name. You want one. You need one. You should eat this diet bar instead, because otherwise your body won't look like a 12-year old boy's anymore, and that's wrong. That's bad for your health, looking like a grownup. It's bad for your future. Doughnuts and premarital sex are for kids who don't know any better and never plan on leaving this town.

Let's take back baked goods, folks. Let's take back childlike wonder. Let's take back joy. Let's take back first kisses and daring trysts and spices wafting through the house. Let's not let the naysayers rule our lives. Let's not let people who've lost touch with reality in some twisted crusade for Purity of Body and Spirit be those who dictate whether or not our carnal pleasures can lead to a higher enlightenment.

I see magic and dreams in our layer cake. I taste art in these brownies. I transcend with every bite of our maple-glazed doughnuts. I do. I really, really do.

So, if you'd like to end the abstinence-only education of our mid-twenties, come join me. I will be baking. And smiling. And loving. And free.

This is the reason I find it hard to blog

So, how appropriate is it to be all, "Hey - so I know we're not REALLY friends but you just confirmed my facebook friend request and...I think you should know I had a sex dream about you last night. Explosions were involved. It wasn't so much a 'sex dream' as a 'being held tightly to your (in my dream) manly, naked chest whilst being shielded from explosions. Your grease stains/scars were vaguely reminiscent of Fifth Element Bruce Willis. I believe we also rode motorcycles. Adam was there too." ?

Reason number 512 I think it's weird that I still have friends.

Just because it's 2am and you know I'll be in bed, thus easily findable, doesn't mean it's a good time to ask me to kill a cockroach for you.

Truth: I thought updating from New Haven would be easy, as I have one of those Totally Dynamic And Full of Stories Summer Jobs.

Truth, part the second: I was wrong. You see - my job is "RA/Instructor" at a summer camp for high schoolers, meaning I'm the RA for a living group of girls as well as instructor of two classes. This means several things which are prohibitive to blog posting. Thing number the first: I work two full-time jobs. That is exhausting. Really, really exhausting. Thing number the second: most of the things I'd want to talk about involve The Kiddies. Now, as evidenced by rarely blogging about The Kiddies this whole last year I worked with them, I don't feel super comfortable putting details of The Kiddies' lives on the interwebz. They are children, let their privacy be preserved.

Moving on.

Yesterday in Starbucks I passed a man who, were I the Short Story Writing kind, was most certainly fodder for short story writing. He was handsome, to be sure, but in this incredibly non-standard way - he was disheveled probably-a-crazy-person-or-perhaps-undiscovered-genius handsome. He was also using a brush and ink to create things that looked like cryptic punnett squares in a notebook of graph paper. Yes, Mr. Starbucks Dude, you are the stuff short stories are made of.

I often think a similar thought about my fellow camp counselors: you are the stuff short stories/movies about College Timez/ transparently autobiographical first novels to a lost love are about. The people I work with here are really kind of remarkable, it's overwhelming. I will include pictures, so you (the blogosphere) can be impressed with my skillz at having pretty friends.

Look how wholesome we are. We do things in parks! Wholesome! Parks!

It is impossible to doubt Rachel's wholesome intentions, to be sure. She's pretty unstoppably cute.

We went to see Harry Potter the first day it came out (we are too old for midnight showings, yo). I think this picture does a pretty good job of outlining our group dynamics.

Sam is skeptical! This is normal for Sam! Unfortunately, he left us after first session to go to training for his Fulbright. Like that's more important than MAKING FRIENDS AND KEEPING ME HAPPY!? Pssshhhht.

It is ACTUALLY impossible to take a bad picture of Patrick. Feel free to try. You won't succeed. Also - this may or may not be the night we drank the bar holding trivia night out of $2PBR.

These people are in charge of me. And always playing guitars. I think that's probably all you need to know in order to form an accurate picture of what my work life is like.

Once, on our day off, we went to the beach. Poetic. Poetic and full of beach napping.

We also do things like chaperoning children on trips. Trips to places like NYC. Then Chris comes down from the Norwood office and tells us we're going to do a photoshoot in Times Square. With 75 kids. And four chaperons. Woo and hoo.

Dancing in the dining hall to get pumped for 80s night. Also because, really, when SHOULDN'T we be dancing in the dining hall?

Some people took edible architecture really seriously. Those people are far more awesome at edible architecture-ing than I.

Tamar looks almost as silly in my Huge Zebra sunglasses as I do.

This makes our job look far more relaxing than it actually is. I'm okay with that.

A cautionary tale of the most serious nature!

On Going Dancing In Your Home Town: A Cautionary Tale: 

Ladies, should you find yourself Out On The Town in the same small southern city in which you were raised be aware - danger lurks! Yes, Dear Ladies - danger lurks, danger of a most nefarious sort!  Keep vigilant, ladies, lest you find yourself and your Leggy Blond friend ground allupons (grinded allupons?) by one of your former local news anchors.  Be wary ladies.  So wary.

So, so wary.  

That's it. I'm shopping for a place in Brooklyn.

I kid you not, moments after I'd posted the wolf t-shirt blog entry my hipster friend Hunter, who's subbing in this high school today, came down to show me the shirt he's just gotten for himself:



Oh...oh hell.

You know what? Hunter is 100% right when he says I only hate because I'm jealous. I hate out of PURE jealousy in fact. He's right. That shit is majestic. It is startling beauty deserving of both my respect and my adoration. I'm just pissed because I can't wear it.

I want unicorn t-shirts.

And my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper With Matching Pencil Pouch.

And a felt poster.

Hipster culture - why must you adopt and flaunt in front of me everything I ever loved.

Never fear: neither jorts nor a braided belt were involved.

One of the most hipster kids in the more hipster of the two high-schools in which I work was wearing almost exactly this t-shirt today, except the background was a shade of mauve-meets-lavender.

I say only this: wolf t-shirts? Oh hipster culture. How you've failed me!

This is why they shouldn't give us responsiblity

Mary, on her most recent interaction with the captain of our football AND basketball teams: "I may or may not have said to Darren Thomas, 'strip baby, strip' because he was taking off his shirt anyway...because he wanted to show me tattoos...and I was THINKING IT, and then I realized, 'OH GOD! I SAID THAT OUT LOUD.'"

Also, we once took a lot of pictures of my feet with her cell phone to compaire them to photos online to determine whether or not I have cankles.

It's really, really, really, really time for summer break.

TOTALLY CANDID, GUYS!

As is often the case in these blog-posts, let me begin with a List Of Truths About Meg:


1. I have a new camera, for the first time since, I think, 10th grade.
2. It is the Best Camera Anyone's Ever Owned, EVER. It's freeze-proof, shock-proof to 6.6 feet, and water-proof to 33ft. All of these things, while you might dub them "bells and whistles" are, in truth, MADE FOR ME. The creators of BlueBabe believe that I'm taking her camping, kayaking, spelunking, and into other TOTALLY X-TREME conditions. I am, in fact, taking her...to my life. Shock-proof and water-proof it is. She is also blue, hence I've named her BlueBabe, much like Babe the Blue Ox (Paul Bunyan's constant companion).
3. I am not a good photographer.
4. No. Really. You don't even know, dudes, you don't even know.
5. I can't really use most of the bells-and-whistles on my camera (the real ones, the ones that are for Makin' Pictures Pretty, as opposed to Makin' The Camera Not Dead).


My lack of photographic skillzzz, combined with my urge to Live Life Unmediated, and a signifcant dash of "forgetting I have a camera" means that I'm not usually The Photographer. When I remember, however, that photograph taking is something of which I am capable, and something which I wish I did more of, I often feel the pressure to Document Everything. (This is what I mean when I say being the photographer gets in the way of Living an Unmediated Life. The pressure of needing to see everything as a Photo Moment is high! It means you're living to look back on the memories later, not to make the memories now! PRESSURE!)


My favorite mode of picture taking, thus, is what I've deemed TOTALLY CANDID. This means I take lots of unflattering pictures of people, often while shouting, "TOTALLY CANDID." Soemtimes, I make you STOP smiling and looking cute, to mimic the "candid" nature of my favorite photographing style. Guess what? This is usually a dumb strategy. Most of my pictures are dumb. Yet, since either evolution or divine intelligence has seen fit to give me at least the semblance of free will, I also have the free will to refuse to learn from my mistakes. TOTALLY CANDID it is.


I am going to include some examples of my TOTAL CANDIDNESS so you can see - sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't...and very occasionally, it's glorious.

I actually consider this something of a triumph of the "totally candid" school of picture taking. It's a photograph of my mother and aunt when we traveled down to Austin together for my Cousin's wedding. Is it a flattering picture? No (a common fault of TOTALLY CANDID). Is it interestingly composed? I would say yes. I like it. My mother does not. Tough cookies.


This picture? Kind of a failure as it's (1)really blurry (2)impossible to tell what's going on (3)kind of just of Caron's boobs. I will, however, swear up and down in similar pictures that they're great because they feature the energy of the setting. For instance, I really like this picture, blurriness aside:

ENERGY, GUYS, ENERGY.

Totally. Candid. Energy. C'mon. CCCCMMMOOOOON - isn't everyone willing to browse through grainy, poorly composed photographs in search of ENERGY? No? Well lame. (I'm also pretty darn anti-flash. I think it makes everyone look ugly. As a result, all of my pictures are fuzzy. All of them.)

Once in a while, though, Totally Candid pays off - you either get a really cute candid shot of someone you love (exhibit A) or a REALLY HILARIOUS shot of someone you love who will not de-tag because he is a good sport (exhibit B).


(exhibit A)



(exhibit B)



TOTALLY CANDID.


And, as is the recent blog theme: I love my life.

(It was an image search, by the way.)

So, I think I need to get better at clearing out my most recent search from that little google-search-bar at the top of my work computer. Obviously personal searches, at the end of the day, probably undermine my apperance of professionalsim

Sometimes I glance up there and see words like, "how do you become a physical therapist?" or "best pre-law programs in Virginia" or "african-american female buisness women scholarships." These searches, I feel, are fine.

Other times the searches are things like "fake boobs are better than rubber chickens."

...perhaps less fine.

My life is magical

Truth: Lately I've been the really lucky recipent of several unsolicited compliments. This is awesome - thank you, world, for showering this true kindness upon me. It makes me really happy.

Truth number the second: 100% of said compliments (all of which came from completely un-related parties) have been either of my skill with one-liners, or my breasts.

And I say again, and without any hint of irony: I love my life.

My hands smell like llama. It was worth it.

I got really hung up on the title for this entry. I want to make it, among other things, one of the following gems:

• "I'll tell you I love you when I catch my breath, post Zebra-Escaping-Sprint"


• "I'm not a smoker because dudes in hot tubs don't want in my pants badly enough to share cigarettes"


• "When you make fun of Trekkies and their commitment to the canon, it hurts me....we...we can still make out, though. I'd, uh, I'd be totally cool with that. Really. Totally cool."

and, my possible favorite,

• "All my life in an elaborate-lead in for an 80s-movie-themed music video."

Sometimes I worry about the wisdom of this blog. Many times I worry about the wisdom of this blog. This blog's wisdom is questioned for the following reasons:

• My students have the interwebs. It is but a matter of time before someone's bored enough to stumble across this bloggyblog. Most of the funny things that happen in my life are not, strictly speaking, the things I also think set up the most I-Am-A-Figure-Of-Authority-And-You-Are-My-Student relationship possible. Who, though, really wants to blog about non-funny things?


• One of the funniest things in my life semi-recently told me that this is the exact kind of blog he has some contempt for - the kind of blog that's just sort of...hey guys! Some things happened to me! And, you know, I care a lot about what people think? That's...in fact...why I have a blog.


• EMPLOYMENT! THE LOOMING THREAT OF ALL INTERNET ACTIVITY RUINING FUTURE EMPLOYMENT, etc.

Anywhoosles, allow me to tell you a story: My friend Chelsea, sometime around 11th grade (for those of you in the audience, that means she was 16 going on 17) was once stopped at a gas station by a band of Hot Indie Dudes who, upon being overcome by her beauty, wanted her to hop in their van and ride up to their NYC show. Chels, being educated in the ways of Stranger Danger, declined, but politely listened to the free CD the boys gave her, developed a taste for the band, and became a big fan. Fast forward two years to me, very uncomfortably in a hot tub (for which, let's keep in mind, I was NOT appropriately attired - though I'm going to go ahead and say my dress was damn cute anyway) in some random dude's house, post this band's show. With two girls members of the band Have The Hots For (oh, excuse me, Are Just Friends With), women who I adore and respect and who are Way Too Good For These Dudes. Srsly.

Fast forward to: AND THEN MY LIFE WAS HILARIOUS. Last night's is one of those stories I will never be able to do justice to, mainly because it's hilarity stems from its cliche nature. Tortured men, tempted by the Younger Women They Love, but loyal (ish) to The Women They've Left At Home. Beautiful young women...in a hot tub...after a rock show...with bottles of wine and cigarettes and laughter and quite the air of Movies About Rock Stars mystery. Me: the Overly Internal Not Lusted After Mother-Hen Type, torn between her desire to leave (fully aware that her friends can take care of themselves), her desire to stay (because when the hell else is this kind of thing going to happen to her), and her desire to smack someone in the head. We were a walking stereotype, and I'm kind of okay with it. I kind of love my life.

Allow me to tell you another story: this story features prominently Running The Fuck Away From Llamas:

The llama pictured above, poised to freaking kill us all, is one of the many inhabitants of the Safari Adventure located in scenic Natural Bridge, VA. Safari Adventure sounds like a really good idea...mainly because it is...but it is also WROUGHT WITH TERROR. I say to you this, and only this: you think feeding the animals is going to be a really, really good idea until you're suddenly in a car of college students shrieking like scared 8-year-olds, yelling "DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MEG, DRIVE!"

Zebras know. THEY KNOW.

Story number the last: There are many out there who are, far and away, bigger fans of Star Trek than I, this I readily admit. But how many people can claim that they've connected with a guy on a college-party dance-floor by asking, in earnest, "Do you ever feel like watching the Next Generation feels like coming home?" and receiving (again, in earnest) the reply, "Why do you think I still watch?"? Hm? Not many, I'd wager. Not. Too. Many.

I understand, Mr. Abrams, the need for Pointy Ships, Big 'Splosions, and loathsome loathsome I-am-death-to-everything-Meg-loves-when-I-touch-it Eric Bana. I really, in my heart-of-hearts understand your need for canoic change. Sure, I'll probably bluster around for a bit more about "Just Because Superman And Spiderman Can Do It, Doesn't Mean You Can Touch What I Love, Mr. Abrams! J.J? What's that stand for JERK...JERKFACE?!" and so on, but I understand. The canon had, I'm sure, grown restrictive. One of the beautiful things about the way Star Trek had successfully grown before, though, was its reliance on building forward, rather than having one, central, mythical creature around which everything needed to resolve. That's why Superman and Spiderman were more difficult, you see, Mr. Abrams. Each new creator felt the pressure to wipe the slate clean because one man can have but so many attachments. Star Trek was worlds and galaxies - a mythology based on the spirit of adventure, though I will readily admit much of the most satisfying adventure was to be found in the interpersonal relationships build aboard those ships.

So yes, I understand where you're coming from - the urge to seize onto an iconic figure, to build around his story (how very American) but the creative restriction decades of canon must have imposed. I understand it, and I think you handled it kind of confusingly, but I still probably don't exactly fault you for it. I do, though, fault you for letting them (the Pretty New Ones ) make fun of me, make fun of us, mock our possibility of indignation as Stodgy and Old and Delusional. Recognize what you're doing, sir: thousands of people cling to this canon because, at 2am on sketchy-house-party-dance-floors across the nation, people are hooking up because Star Trek felt like going home.

OMG GUYZ, 2FUN2FUNCTION!

I hate writing blog posts after a long spell of Not Blogging because, inevitably, there is that moment of "OMG GUYZ, I WOULD'VE UPDATED, LIKE, SO MUCH SOONER BUT MY LIFE IS JUST TOO INTERESTING AND FULL OF FUN THINGS FOR ME TO FIND THE TIME."



Truths it is essential for you, Dear Reader, to keep in mind:

1. My life does, indeed, have fun things in it. It is not, however, 2Full2Function of said fun things.

2. If there's one thing at which I do not excel, it is writing about things that matter to me, have any type of social or emotional connections, or writing with self-imposed deadlines.

3. I travel a lot on the weekends, and I'd intended this blog to be a log of Time Spent In Roanoke, so I always feel a little conflicted about basically posting a list of Things I Did While Not In Roanoke (omg dudez - SO MUCH FUNZ).



However, with the Three Essential Truths in mind, let us embark on A Blog Update.



This is for me, for when I'm re-reading through my blog and trying to remember what I did but didn't write about:

• I went to Beardfest - a festival for beards.


• I went to Jen's birthday party which was also beard themed at which I wore the best home-made beard known to man.


• I went on an Exploring Adventure in the park the day after Jen's birthday. And that was rad.


• I went up to C'ville to "help judge" UVa's debate tournament. I refer to this happenstance as, "In Wich I Attempted To Converse With People Who Like to Win At Talking...and spooned with Childers."


• I agreed to a nearly spontaneous road trip to Philadelphia. I refer to this happenstance as, "In Which I Thought 8-9 Hours Was A Totally Reasonable Drive For A Weekend Jaunt...and was perhaps not proven wrong!"

Also, I got sloppy with my Proper-Nouning. I did that a lot.

Here's the truth though: I do lots of fun things on my weekends. On my weekdays, though, I've started to do more fun things too. How odd! This blog used to be a way for me to fend off the inevitably near-crushing depression, the life-sapping boredom, and the isolation of South West Virginia...but now sometimes I do fun things. Sometimes, I even have friends. I'm not even j/k-ing you guys - this is not even an LOL moment.

Wednesday is dessert-and-game night. Mary and I drive out to our friends' (friends!) Jas and Josh's house and we have a game night. WE ACTUALLY DO THAT. We play games, and eat desserts, and are really cute.

That's revolutionary, ladies and gentlemen. That's adjusting. That's me not fighting Roanoke with everything I didn't know I was throwing at it. That's discontent, contented. Feel free to 'ooh' and 'ahh' at your leisure.

This post feels forced and perfunctory to me. I can't help it. I feel like I have to get it out of the way before I can move on. I'm going to spell-check, hit post, and hope to overcome writer's block before long.

I say little more than:

omg, we are teh cutez.

Someday, I will again articulate thoughts! Until then - a picture!

It's like the bad part of an indie movie, really.

Dilemma, dilemma, dilemma...

I had a weekend filled with Blog Worthy Events of a positive nature, all of which I've been systematically organizing in order to, as luck would have it, blog about them!

I also had a day where I spent almost 3 hours talking to a kid who's unbelievably depressed, thinks about killing himself every day, and reminds me more than anything else of The One From High School.

I just...don't want to think about happy things anymore. This, you might note, is ironic as I spent those 3 hours brainstorming how we could make this kid happier.

I want him to be someone in my life I can hug. I want him to be someone in my life I can shake, or scream at, or call at 2am and say "we're going for a drive - you're snapping out of it." I want to have that power in his life, and I want to have it as a friend.

What he needs, I imagine, is what I actually am: an authority figure. I'm someone who has to tell his counselor if he tells me these things. I'm someone who's required by law to say and do and be certain things.

Today he told me he doesn't think of me so much as a teacher, but as a complete person. I don't think he meant it insultingly - he meant to say he thinks he can trust me. I value that trust so much, but I feel like just having it betrays it. I'm not his friend, I'm his College Planning Advisor, I'm a middle-man counselor. I'm not even certified to talk to him about his emotions (that may, at the end of the day, be on the 'frowned upon' spectrum of actions).

It'd be easier if he were just...not so much like friends I used to have. He hits close to home, this kid.

I gave him the link to the happiness project and told him to google MPDGs and why they're an impractical solution to sadness, alluring as they sound.

I tried to say Intelligent and Adult things.

I told his counselor.

I do not want to think about happy things right now.

You don't even know, dude.

Welcome to today's edition of The Story of My Life:

The sequence of events is as follows:

• Mary meets with One of the Totally Cool Punk Kids Who I (not-so) Secretly Wish Were My Friend today, and he is awesome, and he is in a Cool Punk Kid Band.
• Mary cannot recall the name of said kid's band, but merely that it was something he "couldn't explain in school" and we're playing the "can you remember any details" game. She says "um...several words? One beginning in....M?"
• I, using my powers of Punk Kid deduction say "Mung"?
• I am correct. The kid's band is, in fact, named "Mung Choke." We found them on myspace. We're totally going to a show. We're totally doing it. You don't even know.
• One of their band's myspace pictures features one of the punk boys I was hearts-for-eyes-for in high school. For realzises. THAT IS MY LIFE.

Mary wonders why I know the word "Mung." I remind her that, while she dated all the boys fitting the descriptions of boys I loved in high school, I merely loved them from afar which required far more detective work. Being a Creepy Swooning Stalker is a lot of work - you don't even know.

That's right: my most marketable skill is immediately being able to guess the Weird and Dirty word that Crazy Punk Boys are thinking.

So, I have The Plague (a bad head cold) which means I'm currently blessed with Fever Dreams. Fever Dreams, as it would have it, are great indicators of Things That Are On My Mind. Examples:

• I dreamt that a Hot Young Doctor named Julian was nursing me back to health. I have been watching a lot of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine lately. If you don't get it, you don't need to get it.
• I dreamt about really cute husky-shephard puppies who looked at me with their adorable puppy eyes and asked, "et tu Brutus?" Yes, my dreams of puppies are also dreams bout me being a meanypants...and involve Shakespeare. If you don't get it - it means...I don't want you to know how much of a meanypants I am. I am hiding my mean shame.
• I dreamt that my friend Greg and I were shopping, but also we were at a rave, and I'm pretty sure that we were also running some sort of relay race which involved us forcing people who weren't single to make out and I knew we were breaking up relationships, and it was very uncomfortable. Also, I think there were whales involved. Obviously - this is the dream most tied to Logical Things In My Life.

So sometimes I don't write blog posts for Forever because, you know, I'm bad at writing about The Real Things In My Life. So - real things happened. I met some puppies. I went up to C'ville for the Wash's Banquet Weekend, etc, etc, etc.

Head cold 2xtreme. 3xtreme, even.

It keeps you warm too, doesn't it?

It used to be the case such that I could only post things online after midnight. Considering I go to bed at 9pm these days - I think pushing 11 is dangerously late enough.

It's windy outside and despite the fact that it's still 60 something degrees, I imagine it's chilly. In true Meg On The Internet fashion, weather patterns such as these combined with the sudden Late Night Stir Crazies make me wish I were a runner. Well - more specifically, a runner across the forlorn moors, filled with a wistful passion witnessed only by the moon and the heart of her lover, stirring somewhere in the deepest of night. Tendrils of hair, softly caressed by the shivering wind, as well as sighs like the wings of a dove are also featured prominently in this scenario.

(True story: I've thought more than once - more than twice, even - about writing a romance novel. I think I'd try to make it a choose-your-own-adventure post modern experience. I am not actually being facetious right now.)

True story, the second: the reason I like the Idea Of Boyfriends is that I like the idea of someone who goes out and runs away with you when you're feeling restless. Autonomy? Sense of self? Individual goals and dreams? Pssshhhhht. Please. He needs to have (1)the flying kind of dragon, (2)a penchant for escaping into darkest of night like the last glimmers of the sunset and (3)something that makes him a feisty, yet non-problematic foil. True story the second, part deux: sometimes I wonder whether or not I'll encourage my children to read fantasy novels growing up.

Aside from non-problematic male foil characters, I have pretty much two weaknesses when it comes to OMGBOYZ. Those two, for anyone who knows me well, are certainly floppy hair and beards. Long has my beard love been mocked. Long has my call for the hirsute gone unanswered. Long have I stood, the lone girl in favor of the face blanket.

But - my friends - my hour has come. Yes, MSNBC confirms it: 2009 is the year of the beard.

Perhaps we saw this coming - perhaps the hipster (were the hipster to self-identify in the first place, let alone acknowledge trends' power over him) would say he's been rocking the beard for at least a year now. Perhaps the hipster isn't wrong.

I am just thoroughly pleased to see a few things here, really. First and foremost - I am excited to see public sentiment sway in favor of the well-trimmed beard. They look so good on so many men, especially when properly maintained and, for the sake both of my male friends and my eye-candy, I am pleased. Secondly - and this is a big one - I am exceedingly pleased that MSNBC mentions the stubble issue.

Recently, I've become something of an anti-stubble activist. Dear dudes: we know it looks manly. Trust me, you're rugged like you don't even know. But you know what else you're doing? Rubbing our faces with shark skin. If you're one of those guys who has 3-day stubble by 5pm then, well, maybe you should be a beard man. Otherwise I can almost guarantee you've made at least one partner tear up, if not bleed. Melodramatic? Possibly. True? Certainly. Dear dudes, again: the time has come to stop claiming ignorance! The time has come to make your faces nice places to hang out! The time has come to go beard or go home.

Third, I am glad that the beard is in, which - while closely related to the mustache, is not the mustache and, perhaps, will kick the mustache out of fashion again. Let me explain - there are people who are allowed to have mustaches. Those people include: my father, Snidley Whiplash, dapper gentlemen taking ladies for a ride on their bicycles built for two, and a select number of Distinguished Older Gentlemen. Anyone who sports a 1970s porn 'stache, however, should seriously reconsider his decision. By "seriously reconsider his decision" I mean to say, of course, that he looks dumb. And creepy. And dumb. Join that mustache up with your chin hair and make something respectful of it! As I said before: go beard or go home.

Lastly - Zak mentioned that The Beard Is Coming Back, and I was not kidding when I said that was the best news I heard all night. See, Zak? The nation is behind your beard. The beard is your accessory, your means of self expression, your flair. With your impressive beard, you can make more bearded friends! You can have beard societies! You can...you know...introduce me to said bearded friends.

Make sure one of them has one of the flying kind of dragon, okay? Or, you know, at least some respectable floppy hair.

I do believe in fairies, I do, I do!

I wasn't lying when I told Katie that, very often, the thing I love most about visiting friends on the weekends are those Sunday mornings when everyone finds themselves draped over various couches, missing a sock or two, and enjoying the thought of watching televising, rehydrating, and curling up in a sunlit patch like the kind of cat I always wanted to be - but doing it all together.

While this past weekend in C'ville probably can't be summed up in "moments that were my favorite" it featured several "moments that were perfect."

I miss waking up on Saturday to do service projects, especially on beautiful days like this past Saturday. I miss that loud, boisterous group of rakers and diggers and people genuinely enjoying being out in the world, together, and helpful.

While up in the 'Ville I also managed to: go on a milkshake quest, finally take some of those "jumping in the air" pictures I'm always so covetous of, creep out some people who don't know me too well, and spend a really quality Sunday with three wonderful people. My Sunday, really, was paced just as Sundays should be paced, and that is quite the feat.

Stay tuned for an update on beards. Beards: my favorite thing.

Ole' yellow eyes...

In today's installment of Things That Are Confusing To Me we find: a big hoo-hah and necessary apology by Michael Phelps for a bong picture.

I suppose to say I "don't get it" is simplistic. I get it: role models, illegal action, etc etc.

But...I don't really get it. I mean, okay, sure - be mad at him if we discover that, during the off season he is doing all sorts of crazy, illegal performance enhancing drugs. But - do these people realize what's going on here?

He's smoking. Smoking. The fastest swimmer in the world is still the fastest swimmer in the world even with potential smoke damage to his lungs.

You know why we should be pissed off: BECAUSE HE'S TOO GOOD. I can't swim that fast, and I'm not smoking - NO FAIR.

Call me when he apologizes for being an android. That, folks, is an apology I'll accept.

Splish splash...I was annoying all the good swimmers in the pool.

Word to the wise: deciding that you're just going to "pick up swimming" is difficult.

Way difficult.

I am not a thing of beauty in the water. Not. Even.

No puns! NOT EVEN ONE!

As my last day as a 22 year old winds down, I am contemplating how little I made of being 2-2.

I chewed no double mint gum. I...did no other things in duplicate! Why, I treated twenty two as if were just another age - an age with no punning potential! How could I have let this happen, how?

Truth: 23 sounds a lot older than 22. For serious.

Lolthulu strikes again!

My life is complete.

My craigslist post, and my sushi chef's response caused THIS to appear on craigslist.

I am always happy to increase the number of Cthulu reference opportunities in the world. It makes me want to respond to the poster with lolthulu, but I don't know if that's taking things a little far.

Dear Richmond Craigslist: you now own my life.

It's education, yo.

In true form, I kind of don't like writing about Things That Are Actually Important.

But I say this: I will always, always remember what 9/11 looked like on TVs in my Center classroom. And, I imagine, similarly, I will always, always remember watching Obama get sworn in from the back of the marketing classroom in Fleming.

I remember these two similarly, not because they evoke similar emotions, but becuse there is something about watching history unfold in the classroom itself that is singular.

When I get famous, someone's going to find this on the internet and write a fanfic about it. JUST YOU WAIT!

So, after reading the craigslist fine print, I realized that posts go away after 30 days. My no-longer-missed connection, however, needs to be preserved for posterity. FOR POSTERITY.

Proof, my friends, that people are awesome and being an internet creeper sometimes pays off.

My post:

To the Sticky Rice sushi chef who knew a thing or two about octopi (Sticky Rice: the take-out portion)

Sure, maybe missed connections are an awkward medium. Sure, maybe if you (or a co-worker) stumble across this ad responding to it would be FAR too weird for any normal person to do, so you won’t do it. Sure, it’s pretty likely that you’ll never read this so it won’t make a difference either way. Still, at the end of the day, who doesn’t secretly want a missed connection written about them? I’ve decided that the potential good a missed connection can introduce into the world outweighs its impractical nature. To make this totally legit, I’ll try to write it in standard missed-connections speak.

You: the hipster-beautiful sushi chef working in the take-out part of Sticky Rice Friday night.

Me: the girl in the red coat who tried octopus for the first time.

We connected when you pushed adventurous eating and I awkwardly found myself unable to use the word “octopus” and, instead, really needed to identify the entire class – “cephalopod.” When I say “connected” I really mean, “chatted briefly” but, you seemed friendly, nice, and fun.

I was actually only in Richmond for the weekend (I live almost 3 hours away) – so I can’t really say something like “hit me up for a coffee and maybe we can continue that conversation about cephalopods and the way oxygen is carried throughout their blood streams” but, you know, I guess…good job? Good job being really friendly, interesting, and (as far as I can tell) good at your job. My sushi – with and without the octopus – was delicious. Yes: good job. Good job knowing interesting things about octopi, and rolling a mean sushi, and being (you must know it’s true) really amazingly handsome in a seemingly not-conceited way. Good job on that one.

We have hundreds of small interactions with people daily, and I just wanted to let you know that this one made a difference in my evening. Thanks for introducing me to octopus, and for being nice to a loud and giggly group of 20somethings, and for being part of what looks like a really friendly and wonderful dining establishment. Good job, in general – and good luck in work, life, and other octopus-related endeavors.

His response:

Re: To the Sticky Rice sushi chef who knew a thing or two about octopi

hello. i'm that sushi chef to whom your missed connection was in regard...

i'd just like to say that i do have a girlfriend, but your missed connection was the best missed connection that i've ever read about anyone, so good, in fact, that it has (obviously) generated an overwhelmingly positive response from its subject (me).

i would also like to say that i am honored to have received it, and although you live 3 hours away, if you ever end up at sticky rice, or of course its takeout franchise while i'm working, expect more sushi and conversation.

Oh. Em. Gee.

OMG.

OMGOMGOMGOMG.

O.M.G.

So, let's just say: thank you Amy for seeing this before I did.

It's all about connections

My name is Meg, and I post on cragislist missed connections.

Want proof? Go here.

Ways I justify posting a missed connection in a city I don't even live in. (1)Everyone I love dearly already knows I'm an Internet creeper. Proving it to the world, via craigslist, was really the next step. (2)At the end of the day, I think we'd all appreciate a good missed connection. I know I want to some day stumble across a quality MC about myself - how awesome is that? A really great missed connection is someone saying, via craigslist but saying none the less, hey you - you influenced me. You made enough of a difference in my day that I am going to take the time to go home, sit in front of my computer, and compose a coherent though about it. Something about you was striking, unique, and touched me. You win at not illustrating the principle that all people at all times have the opportunity to be influencing the lives of those around them. (3) That dude was really breathtakingly gorgeous and...I mean...you just...he was, okay? (4) Whatever, we totally had a connection. Totally.

While this weekend brought connections of the unrequited-type, I spent last weekend in connection-contemplation as well. Last weekend I traveled down to Austin, Texas for my cousin's wedding.

George is the first of our generation to Take The Plunge and, let's just say, I was bawling. Heather (his now wife) is, as far as I can tell, pretty much amazing, hilarious, fun, intelligent, and drop-dead-gorgeous. Even beginning to think about planning a wedding stresses me out beyond all piratical measure, but if I ever find myself planning a Traditional and Classy Celebration of Matrimony - I am keeping both Heather and my roommate Cor (who was married over the summer) on speed-dial. She baked cookies and wrote personalized notes for all the gift bags. Yeah. Yeah. She's a freaking phd candidate and she baked us all cookies amidst planning this complicated and gorgeous and perfect wedding. I get the distinct impression that standing in Heather's way is probably a poor life decision.

I still have some difficulty believing that a boy I associate most closely with Ninja Turtle themed birthday parties is now a ring-wearing, waltz-dancing, real-life Somebody's Husband. To be fair - the groom's cake was decorated with the Star Fleet Federation symbol. That's the Gorge I've always known and loved.

The wedding, overall, was less awkward than I'd imagined. Our family heald it together, I discovered family-in-law I adore, and I'm pretty psyched at being loose-in-laws with Heather's family now too. I think I'd really love the opportunity to spend some serious time with them and understand all of the dynamics going on there. Heather's line is is, apparently, old-school French Catholic from Louisiana which is just so different from my faimly and I'd love to know what those differences mean. Also, I believe capers, of the teaching me to dance variety, could be had by all. Seriously - I innocently accepted the offer of a dance from one of her cousins and he meant really dance. Note to everyone: I step on OTHER COUPLES when trying to be lead in real dances. I am bad. He was understanding. This, however, leads me to believe that everyone related to Heather (who is an amazing dancer herself) is infinitely capable of turning me into a dancing success story. I see great potential for a Quirky And Heartfelt Comedy/Drama About The True Meaning Of Family With Dancing Used As The Overarching Metaphor here. Just think about the Heartfelt Messages! The quirky Learning To Dance montage potential! The potential to dance our feelings, as well as our dreams, people!

Austin is a beautiful city, I've added it to the list of places I could spend a few years one day. Now I've officially been to the state of Texas - another accomplishment. Something about our brief experience with the lay of the land makes me feel like I should spend some time in the southwest. The thing which struck me with the most force is that the Texan countryside looked exactly how you imagine it should. There were low-laying shrubs, expanses of brown, and skeevy looking low, square buildings with most of the paint worn off. I want to spend time in the southwest because I'm not sure I understand it. I'm adding "time in the southwestern part of the country" to my to-do list.

"I'm a white boy - I only know three dances, and none of them are approprate for this dance floor."

True Story, installment #21: In Which Hilarity Ensued - to a spicy Latin beat!

One of my New Year's Resolutions is to stop whining about how there's nothing to do and no one to see in Roanoke and, instead, start doing things and meeting people. Last night, to kick things off, I tried to go to see an improv comedy show with Mary and my friend Lauren and, later on, meet up with my friend Aaron to have fun timez. Unfortunately, the comedy show sold out, so we just ended up trying to make the best of the Roanoke Bar Scene.

Warning, folks, "make the best of the Roanoke Bar Scene" is always code for, "hilarity alert!"

After bouncing around a bit, Aaron called to meet up with us and give us bar suggestions. Our stipulation: hilarious dancing. His suggestion: 202 Market Street. Now, let me tell you - the last time my friend Kate and I went to 202 we asked the guy at the door, "Is it busy in there?" and he said, "oh yeah - packed!" "Packed" was apparently bar-dude lingo for "a guy with a belt-clip cell phone and a lady in Jorts who appears to want to shank any other girls who get on the dance floor because they might steal her thunder."

We were ready.

We made our way to the top floor, which was apparently Hot Latin Beatz floor, where Mary (who is, for the record, a blond Puerto Rican - so, 1# desirable lady in the club) danced the night away with The Sketchiest Dudes You've Ever Seen, Jorts made a re-appearance (but this time, an an entire denim skirt-suit), a girl who looked kind of like a tranny employed the hottest dance moves I've ever seen, Aaron got (I think) pseudo picked up by a very drunk man named Mario, and I stepped on two couples trying to learn how to salsa.

Can I just say: I kind of love Roanoke.

Mary's currently in a Hot Mess of texting back and forth with a Nicaraguan hottie (also, conveniently, named Aaron) who is trying, with quite a lot of acumen, to game her. You don't even know the joy this brings the two of us - almost enough to temper the sadness brought by knowing that we have to go back to work tomorrow.

Next on the list: start volunteering places again, and learn how to rock climb.

Should old aquaintence be forgot.....we'll sing it ore' and ore'

Advice from Nick, which I plan to adopt as my mantra for 2009: "Do what makes you feel free. Go forth and be fierce."

Unfortunately, when given, the advice applied to wearing totally fierce red shoes with a snappy dress. This decision, in turn, resulted in Partying Like It's 1999 which - in its own time, may or may not have resulted in Fran holding my hair back while I became intimately familiar with the contents of both a trashcan and my stomach. Being graduated from college is not, Gentle Reader, necessarily synonymous with being classy or making consistently good decisions.

On the bright side of things: the shoes were really fierce. And made me feel free. And I've discovered that my Secret To New Year's Eve Success held true, once again, so that's rockin'. I've noticed, over the years, that NYE tended to be the most disappointing of holidays. No matter what December 31 promised to hold, I usually found myself a little bummed out once January 1 really got itself going. This, I feel, resulted almost entirely because NYE was always played up as this TOTALLY AWESOME PARTY OMG BEST OF THE YEAR EVER BETTER DO IT WHILE YOU STILL CAN BECAUSE SOMETHING SUBSTANTIVE WILL CHANGE FROM 11:59 TO 12:01 IF YOU MISS IT YOU SUCK (also a good time for makey outy!). In fact, New Year's Eve is just...a day. A day on which you go to a party sometimes. Or not. Woo. It's the same as Begging Of April Eve or a solstice. Yeah - it only happens once a year, but so do the other 364 days. The secret to success then, is to say to youself, Self: this may or may not be Totally Fun Timez - but if it's not The Most Fun Timez EVARHHHH, that's cool by me too. This, I feel, results in times of funness proportionate to what should be the expectation.

Also, makeyouty can't be forced into a date like that. Come ON. Geez! You do not understand the unleashable power of makeyouty, people who are alls about kissin' at midnight.

So - that's my story. I wore some fun shoes and went to a fun party and maybe hit the Cheap Bubbling Wine a little hard, and it was fun. And now it's 2009. And that's awesome.

Now Matthew Lukens is staying at my house and we're having Fun Roanoke Adventures. Earlier, we had to stop talking about horror movies and urban legends because, as he pointed out, being The Kids Driving Through The Woods At Night Talking About How Urban Legends Will Certainly Not Come True, Ever, is a moderately auspicious activity.

True story: I don't like walking through the woods while holding hands - because you know how chainsaw killers feel about couples in the woods.

True story, the second: the horror/slasher genre makes me a paranoid, unhappy person.