So. My ass is on fire. Literally, fire. And I know I should be happy about this but I can't sit down and I can't stand up and I have a feeling that when I finally decide to use the bathroom it's going to kill me.
I know, I know...I'm posting something and it hasn't been three months of dead time. Tonight is just a crazy, sore ass kind of night. Maybe I'll post something else after I do a billion sit-ups.
I joined 24 Hour Fitness yesterday and I love it! Well, not right now, but I'm sure in a few days, after the initail soreness has left, I'll love it.
I love going to the gym, and it's been a long time. I've been doing workout DVD's on my T.V. for way too long. The last time I had a gym membership was before I got pregnant with my almost seven-year-old daughter. So after seven years of doing those monotonous DVD's (and I do still love them in an odd sort of way) I am back in the gym.
I took my first spin class and a guy twice my age kicked my trash and made me look bad. Still not happy about that. To make a long story short--I suucckkked at spin class. I looked like someone coming out of a grave when I left. Everyone else was smiling and giving each other high fives, but me? I was crawling across the floor, yelling horrible things at the instructor. Honestly, I still don't know how I got off that damn bike.
Anyway, my friend sent me this video, and I think it is soooo good that I just have to repost it. It is geared towards writers, but I think it applies to anything in life. Even spin class. And she puts it so well! Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nyhv80HDSj4&feature=player_embedded
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I am ridiculous
Apparently, I am ridiculous. I learned this from my husband about thirty minutes ago. What a wonderful morning.
Before you all get too judgmental, I have to take the blame for his words a little bit. You see, we have these crazy fights about every three an half hours, and while some of you think that sounds scary, I assure you, it’s not. Quite honestly, it makes my life interesting. Example:
BRAD: I guess I’ll go iron my pants now…?
ME: Sounds like a good plan, but why did you feel the need to tell me? Are you suggesting that because I am your wife it should be me ironing your pants? Because, seriously, hun, it’s like 2010, not 1953.
BRAD: I wasn’t suggesting anything.
ME: And I do ALL the laundry all week. I mean, I wash it and dry it and fold it. (Side note: I HATE laundry. If I had a maid—she’d be doing that, and I’d be scrubbing the bathrooms.)
BRAD: It’s just my mom always ironed my clothes….
ME: Are you comparing me to your mother? Honestly?
BRAD: No…I’m just telling you where I’m coming from….
ME: Ah-ha! So you’re still living in 1953. Do you want me to wear an apron and pearl earrings, too.
And after a few more spars back and forth, the pants are forgotten and we’re doing things that only two people who are married should do.
I’m just telling you how it is. And, really, it makes for an exciting life…most of the time. Occasionally, though, our banter gets out of control. I haven’t figured out why exactly, but it seems that hormones, lack of sleep, empty stomachs, full bladders, and over-excitement all play major roles.
Although last night, when Brad came home from an all day ski trip none of those factors were present. My hormones were mild, I wasn’t tired, my stomach was full, my bladder was empty, and I was anything but excited. So, I don’t exactly know why I exploded when Brad announced that a girl had asked if he was single. Normally, I would have laughed and said something to the effect of, “You? Single? Didn’t they see the trapped and helpless look in your eyes that just screams marriage???”
But for some reason, I didn’t laugh. Instead, I gave him a stark, cold stare and said, “Girl?”
And he said, (with a lopsided grin I might add) “Yeah, Thereon (his single work buddy) invited some of his friends (single girls) to ski, too.
And I was like, “Oh.”
And then he strolled off to bed, falling asleep within 25.2 seconds—a guiltless sleep. And I stood in the kitchen, angry. I wasn’t really worried about “the girl” but I WAS feeling a little bit pissed that I had been the one to stay home all day and watch our daughters while he went off and apparently got hit on by some ski tramp.
And again, I have no reason to complain. Only a month ago, Brad watched the girls while I went off with my sisters for a weekend. And last Saturday, I spend all afternoon shopping, while he made Kraft Mac and Cheese and watched Mickey Mouse. I have NO ROOM to complain. He is an awesome dad. Really. And besides the fact that we both hate laundry, he always helps me with the dishes after dinner, most mornings he makes our bed, and when I was stuck at the hospital with my sister this week, he cleaned the whole house, did homework with our six-year-old, made the girls top-roman with mint chocolate-chip ice cream (their favorite), and tucked them in bed. See. I have no room. But last night, this didn’t matter. Last night, I felt like the poor, picked on one in the relationship.
I finally went to bed, but the thought of Brad hanging out with a bunch of cute, young single women festered in my head all night long, and when I woke up this morning, I was like a hurricane. A ball of fire. With the eyes of the devil, I marched into the kitchen, where brad was eating a bowl of cereal and said, “So, you basically went on a double date yesterday.”
And Brad blinked in surprise and laughed and said, “No.”
And I said, “But you went skiing with a bunch of single girls?”
And he shrugged and said, “They were Thereon’s friends. I was the fifth wheel.”
And I muttered, “The fifth wheel that got hit on…”
And this is where it really came to a head. This was the moment where I lost it. Because this was the moment when Brad laughed and said, “Are you serious? You’re being ridiculous.”
And deep down, I KNEW I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop myself. So I continued to say a bunch of things that I won’t repeat here. (I might not be a red-head, but I have the temper.)
And after I vented, he said something like, “Wow. You’ve got to be kidding me. You are acting so immature. You’re being stupid.”
And this is when I deflated. All my unwarranted anger left and suddenly, I felt ridiculous. And stupid. And immature. Only not just over the fight that I had egged on. About everything.
So now I’m sitting on the counter in my pajamas feeling like the biggest loser ever. And I know he didn’t really mean it, just like I didn’t really mean anything I said. But now that doesn’t matter. For the rest of the day, I am a ridiculous human being.
Okay, so maybe my hormones aren’t as steady as I previously thought…
Before you all get too judgmental, I have to take the blame for his words a little bit. You see, we have these crazy fights about every three an half hours, and while some of you think that sounds scary, I assure you, it’s not. Quite honestly, it makes my life interesting. Example:
BRAD: I guess I’ll go iron my pants now…?
ME: Sounds like a good plan, but why did you feel the need to tell me? Are you suggesting that because I am your wife it should be me ironing your pants? Because, seriously, hun, it’s like 2010, not 1953.
BRAD: I wasn’t suggesting anything.
ME: And I do ALL the laundry all week. I mean, I wash it and dry it and fold it. (Side note: I HATE laundry. If I had a maid—she’d be doing that, and I’d be scrubbing the bathrooms.)
BRAD: It’s just my mom always ironed my clothes….
ME: Are you comparing me to your mother? Honestly?
BRAD: No…I’m just telling you where I’m coming from….
ME: Ah-ha! So you’re still living in 1953. Do you want me to wear an apron and pearl earrings, too.
And after a few more spars back and forth, the pants are forgotten and we’re doing things that only two people who are married should do.
I’m just telling you how it is. And, really, it makes for an exciting life…most of the time. Occasionally, though, our banter gets out of control. I haven’t figured out why exactly, but it seems that hormones, lack of sleep, empty stomachs, full bladders, and over-excitement all play major roles.
Although last night, when Brad came home from an all day ski trip none of those factors were present. My hormones were mild, I wasn’t tired, my stomach was full, my bladder was empty, and I was anything but excited. So, I don’t exactly know why I exploded when Brad announced that a girl had asked if he was single. Normally, I would have laughed and said something to the effect of, “You? Single? Didn’t they see the trapped and helpless look in your eyes that just screams marriage???”
But for some reason, I didn’t laugh. Instead, I gave him a stark, cold stare and said, “Girl?”
And he said, (with a lopsided grin I might add) “Yeah, Thereon (his single work buddy) invited some of his friends (single girls) to ski, too.
And I was like, “Oh.”
And then he strolled off to bed, falling asleep within 25.2 seconds—a guiltless sleep. And I stood in the kitchen, angry. I wasn’t really worried about “the girl” but I WAS feeling a little bit pissed that I had been the one to stay home all day and watch our daughters while he went off and apparently got hit on by some ski tramp.
And again, I have no reason to complain. Only a month ago, Brad watched the girls while I went off with my sisters for a weekend. And last Saturday, I spend all afternoon shopping, while he made Kraft Mac and Cheese and watched Mickey Mouse. I have NO ROOM to complain. He is an awesome dad. Really. And besides the fact that we both hate laundry, he always helps me with the dishes after dinner, most mornings he makes our bed, and when I was stuck at the hospital with my sister this week, he cleaned the whole house, did homework with our six-year-old, made the girls top-roman with mint chocolate-chip ice cream (their favorite), and tucked them in bed. See. I have no room. But last night, this didn’t matter. Last night, I felt like the poor, picked on one in the relationship.
I finally went to bed, but the thought of Brad hanging out with a bunch of cute, young single women festered in my head all night long, and when I woke up this morning, I was like a hurricane. A ball of fire. With the eyes of the devil, I marched into the kitchen, where brad was eating a bowl of cereal and said, “So, you basically went on a double date yesterday.”
And Brad blinked in surprise and laughed and said, “No.”
And I said, “But you went skiing with a bunch of single girls?”
And he shrugged and said, “They were Thereon’s friends. I was the fifth wheel.”
And I muttered, “The fifth wheel that got hit on…”
And this is where it really came to a head. This was the moment where I lost it. Because this was the moment when Brad laughed and said, “Are you serious? You’re being ridiculous.”
And deep down, I KNEW I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop myself. So I continued to say a bunch of things that I won’t repeat here. (I might not be a red-head, but I have the temper.)
And after I vented, he said something like, “Wow. You’ve got to be kidding me. You are acting so immature. You’re being stupid.”
And this is when I deflated. All my unwarranted anger left and suddenly, I felt ridiculous. And stupid. And immature. Only not just over the fight that I had egged on. About everything.
So now I’m sitting on the counter in my pajamas feeling like the biggest loser ever. And I know he didn’t really mean it, just like I didn’t really mean anything I said. But now that doesn’t matter. For the rest of the day, I am a ridiculous human being.
Okay, so maybe my hormones aren’t as steady as I previously thought…
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Holidays Are Over...
The holidays are officially over. There are no more excuses for over-eating, over-sleeping, over-spending, and under-doing everything else. It is back to the grind. Back to the dull grey skies of January, with not even the excuse of Christmas Lights to brighten the ugly, disgusting look of winter.
Do I sound dramatic?
Don’t get me wrong. I love winter—for the month of December. After that, I want the warm sun, the green grass, and an excuse to wear shorts to an amusement park. But that’s not going to happen for the next five months! It’s going to be ugly and cold and dark.
That’s why two of my sisters and I have planned to run away to St. George, Utah this coming weekend. It’s not going to be Hawaii, but hopefully it will be better than our current, colorless world.
And I have a lot of fun getting away with my sisters. Three of us decided to start this tradition last year when we took off to Grand Junction, Colorado to go to a wedding. Someday, I hope that ALL of my sisters can come. Some are too young and one just had a cute, four-month-old baby that needs her. But someday, I hope all six of us can go away together.
There is something special about sisters. They get you in a way that not many people can. Maybe that’s because they’ve seen you at seven o’ clock in the morning when all your hair is standing straight up and you’re wearing your retainer and an ugly bathrobe. I’m not kidding around here; sharing the same toothpaste does something to you.
Right now, I am lucky enough to have all my sisters live within five minutes of me. I realize this probably won’t last, but I hope that I can always have close relationships with my sisters.
Anyway, this girl’s weekend comes at the perfect time. I’ve finished a second draft of my middle-grade book, and it’s getting reviewed right now, so it’s the perfect time to set it aside and take in a breath of life and hopefully (cross my fingers) sun. The truth is, I will be writing like a maniac until the moment we leave and then my sisters will have to hide my laptop, so I won’t sanction myself to the hotel room, looking like a mad scientist as I punch away at my keyboard.
We have all kinds of stuff planned for our get-a-way. We booked a hotel with an indoor pool—that was a must. And you can’t go to southern Utah without doing a little hiking. Little, not a lot. None of us is what you call out-doorsy. We like make-up and clean hair and shopping, and we’re not afraid to admit it. Why be a girl, if you can’t have fun? And we intend to have A LOT of, good, wholesome, slightly evil fun.
So, if any of you out there are feeling the lackluster blues of January, I suggest you take a little piece of advice from the book of Meagan’s Rules to Live by to Make it Through the Month Of January.
This will be on bookshelves soon, guaranteed. And yes, I realize the title needs help.
First: Get moving. Any form of exercise will suffice, as long as you are moving consistently for the next month, preferably the rest of your life.
Second: Buy yourself a new tube of lipstick or change your hairstyle or get a new pair of pants. Or do all three like I did... Obviously, I’m speaking to the women here, but guys, you get the idea. Change up the deodorant you’re using, take a different way home from work. One simple change can go a long way.
Third: Get out of your rut. Everyone has one. If you can’t get away for the weekend with your sisters, then get out for a night. Change your atmosphere. Change your routine. I highly recommend going to a Salsa Club or taking your favorite book with you to the tub.
Anyway, that’s my advice for the month of January. And to all you people who live in Florida, California, Hawaii, or any other place that is warmer than 30 degrees—I hate you.
Do I sound dramatic?
Don’t get me wrong. I love winter—for the month of December. After that, I want the warm sun, the green grass, and an excuse to wear shorts to an amusement park. But that’s not going to happen for the next five months! It’s going to be ugly and cold and dark.
That’s why two of my sisters and I have planned to run away to St. George, Utah this coming weekend. It’s not going to be Hawaii, but hopefully it will be better than our current, colorless world.
And I have a lot of fun getting away with my sisters. Three of us decided to start this tradition last year when we took off to Grand Junction, Colorado to go to a wedding. Someday, I hope that ALL of my sisters can come. Some are too young and one just had a cute, four-month-old baby that needs her. But someday, I hope all six of us can go away together.
There is something special about sisters. They get you in a way that not many people can. Maybe that’s because they’ve seen you at seven o’ clock in the morning when all your hair is standing straight up and you’re wearing your retainer and an ugly bathrobe. I’m not kidding around here; sharing the same toothpaste does something to you.
Right now, I am lucky enough to have all my sisters live within five minutes of me. I realize this probably won’t last, but I hope that I can always have close relationships with my sisters.
Anyway, this girl’s weekend comes at the perfect time. I’ve finished a second draft of my middle-grade book, and it’s getting reviewed right now, so it’s the perfect time to set it aside and take in a breath of life and hopefully (cross my fingers) sun. The truth is, I will be writing like a maniac until the moment we leave and then my sisters will have to hide my laptop, so I won’t sanction myself to the hotel room, looking like a mad scientist as I punch away at my keyboard.
We have all kinds of stuff planned for our get-a-way. We booked a hotel with an indoor pool—that was a must. And you can’t go to southern Utah without doing a little hiking. Little, not a lot. None of us is what you call out-doorsy. We like make-up and clean hair and shopping, and we’re not afraid to admit it. Why be a girl, if you can’t have fun? And we intend to have A LOT of, good, wholesome, slightly evil fun.
So, if any of you out there are feeling the lackluster blues of January, I suggest you take a little piece of advice from the book of Meagan’s Rules to Live by to Make it Through the Month Of January.
This will be on bookshelves soon, guaranteed. And yes, I realize the title needs help.
First: Get moving. Any form of exercise will suffice, as long as you are moving consistently for the next month, preferably the rest of your life.
Second: Buy yourself a new tube of lipstick or change your hairstyle or get a new pair of pants. Or do all three like I did... Obviously, I’m speaking to the women here, but guys, you get the idea. Change up the deodorant you’re using, take a different way home from work. One simple change can go a long way.
Third: Get out of your rut. Everyone has one. If you can’t get away for the weekend with your sisters, then get out for a night. Change your atmosphere. Change your routine. I highly recommend going to a Salsa Club or taking your favorite book with you to the tub.
Anyway, that’s my advice for the month of January. And to all you people who live in Florida, California, Hawaii, or any other place that is warmer than 30 degrees—I hate you.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I'm a good person that does bad, bad things...
I’m the world’s worst blogger. I already know this, so don’t get your pantyhose in a knot. The problem with blogging is I have to feel inspired when I write. If I’m not inspired, I don’t write. It’s as simple as that. So…yeah…my blogs come far and few in between.
That’s not to say that I haven’t been writing. Most of the time, the book I am working on inspires me more than the mundane in and outs of my daily life. In fact, I am happy to report that my middle-grade book is nearly completed—at least the first draft. I know, I know…hold the applause.
So, I have a confession, and it’s so horribly awful that for some reason, it inspired me to take time away from my book and write this blog instead.
Yesterday was my friend’s birthday, and about a week ago, she asked if I would go see a movie with her. Last night, I decided that before the movie I needed to get her a caramel apple from The Chocolate Factory. You know, the kind they first roll in caramel, and then in chocolate, or in crushed candy bars, or cookies, or anything else that adds about two thousand calories to your green healthy snack. These apples are amazing. Truly. And they make the perfect birthday gift if you only have five dollars to spend.
So at 4:30 in the afternoon, I decided that I absolutely had to get one of these forbidden fruits for my friend. I was in the middle of making an early dinner because I had to be to her house by 6:15 to make it to the movie in time, but I quickly decided that if I left the house at 5:30, I would have plenty of time to drive to chocolate heaven before picking her up.
At 5:30 I got in the car, cranked up the music, because that’s what I do, and jumped on the highway. I was singing as loud as I possibly could to Taylor Swift’s Love Story when I realized that I was stuck in commuter traffic. No problem. I had a full half an hour, plenty of time. To distract myself from the fact that minutes were ticking by, I sang even louder. At one point, I reached for an invisible microphone and the guy in the car next to me had a good laugh. That’s right. I’m a freak.
By the time I got to Orem it was 5:55. I had twenty minutes to pick up the apple and get clear across town. My mission was starting to look hopeless, and I began to tap my foot. By the way, this is a bad sign. It’s a habit I picked up from my mom. Whenever she gets angry, she starts tapping her foot to this really scary rhythm that only she can hear. To the rest of us who know her well, it is like a terrible warning, one of impending doom. Prepare yourselves, the red-head is about to explode! Oh, just kidding…it isn’t that bad. (And I have to say that because I know she is going to read this.)
Anyway, my foot was tapping, my hands were sweating, and I had stopped singing so that I could yell obscenities at the car in front of me. That’s right. The commuter traffic was completely their fault!
Now, I know you all think that I am confessing to road rage here. Nope. That is nothing. I get road rage all the time. Freaking out on the cars around me is just how I drive. It’s in my genes. Another gift from my mom. No, compared to what else I did last night, that makes me look like a saint.
By the time I pulled into the right parking lot it was 6:01 and I was thinking something similar to this: All right, Meagan. Park, run, grab, pay, run, drive. You can be out of the parking lot in one minute flat. Well, there was a problem with that thought process. The parking lot was packed. There were NO parking spaces. Okay, well, technically there were some spots available, at the end of the parking lot, about a mile away. It would take me a whole five minutes just to get to the store to by the apple. And I was OUT of time! I didn’t HAVE five minutes! I didn’t have ANY minutes!
At this point, I had stopped yelling and had started to cry. It was really ugly. The tears. The sweat. The banging of my head against the steering wheel. I will spare you the rest of the details.
So I was driving past the store, preparing myself to drive to the end of the parking lot, hike up my skirt, and run, when I spotted an open parking space right in front of the store! It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was for the handicapped.
I stopped the car; my whole life flashed before me. I looked in the rearview mirror. I had about five seconds to make a decision. It was wrong. I knew it was. It was illegal and rude. But it was right there! I would be in that store for less than sixty seconds. SIXTY FREAKIN’ SECONDS! And I was doing it for a good reason, right? I was buying a birthday present! That had to count for something, right? Right? Right? RIGHT?
About right then the angel on my other shoulder spoke up.
No, Meagan. Right now, you are doing what you do best. You are justifying all the bad things you do, like when you ate all that pie last week. Just because it was Thanksgiving doesn’t mean it was right to eat a whole pie by yourself, with whipped cream. It’s the small moments in life that define you. You can prove yourself right here, right now. Just drive away. Do the right thing.
This was the last thought I had, and then, God help me, I swung into that spot faster than I ate that pie last week. I jumped out of the car and ran in the store. I picked an apple and paid for it, all the while, keeping an eye out for someone wearing a uniform and holding a pair of handcuffs. I was in that store less than a minute. Forty-five seconds, tops. Apple in hand, I ran back to my car and pulled out of the prohibited space. And, almost immediately, I started praying for forgiveness.
That’s right. I broke the law for a stupid, scrumptious apple. Last night I traded my soul for a convenient parking spot. Disgusting.
I believe in bad karma. Mine is coming. Oh, it’s coming. Any person who steals a spot reserved for the handicapped deserves it. It’s like taking candy from babies, something else I’ve been known to do.
And if it was any of your birthdays, I’d do it again. I love you that much. Anyway, I hope my confession counts for something. I’m risking everything by writing it. My friend’s husband is a cop, and I don’t know if he could arrest me if he read this. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read this, so I think I’m safe.
And just so you all know, I was only two minutes late picking up my friend.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Don't take yourself too seriously!
Well…it’s been a while, hasn’t it?
It’s not that I haven’t had stuff to write about it. My life is full of all kinds of lovely little stories that would, if given the chance, make you want to pee your pants.
Like, a few weeks ago when I bought my first pair of skinny jeans. Seriously, skinny jeans have scared the hell out of me ever since they made their debut.
I was like, “Where does my butt go? Oh, yeah? There? Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me….” or “But you can see the shape of my entire thigh!” or “Seriously, the zipper is like an inch and a half long!”
Let’s just say that I’ve avoided them for a while. But when I got to see how cute my mom and sisters looked in their skinny, totally-in-style jeans, I was like, “Hmm…maybe I can get away with wearing that, too. Maybe if I wear boots with them it will help balance out the size of my ass….”
So, after calling my sister and getting the inside scoop, I strutted into Pac-Sun and said, “Hey, I need some of those skinny jeans (in this particular size)!” And the really cute sales girl was like, “Let me get those for you! And, by the way, your daughter is sooo cute!”
And in my head, I was thinking, “Of course, she is, but kudos to you! You just got some major brownie points, and I’ll probably buy these pants, even if I don’t like them!”
In two minutes flat, I was in the dressing room, pulling off my totally-not-in-style, boot-cut jeans and pulling on these really skinny things that stuck to my legs like wallpaper. Literally, I had to jump up and down to get them on, but after I got them up, I was like, “Damn, these don’t look all that bad! I’m feeling kinda sexy!” And my daughter, Charlie—who is no doubt going to grow up and become a fashion genius—stood on the bench and said, “You look bootiful!” And, seriously, at this point, I was thinking it was a go.
Then the doubt started to loom. First concern, could I even sit down? I quickly sat on the bench. Okay…well, not without my butt crack showing. Shit. (I’m sure you’ve all said it in your head, too. I certainly didn’t say it out loud with my three-year-old daughter staring up at me.) Then I realized that I hadn’t even done up the button, which was, by the way, very south of my bellybutton. No big deal. I pulled up the zipper and…oh, yeah, that was not gonna work….
Now, honestly, I know it sounds like I’m five hundred pounds here, but I assure you, I’m not even close to that. I wear a size six. Okay, it’s not a skinny, model-like number, but I’m sure J. LO wears something close. (I use her as an example cause we are similar in the pocket area.)
So, I called over the cute, kisser-upper sales girl and explained my predicament.
I was like, “Hey, sweetheart, I have a problem.”
And she was like, “What’s that?”
And I was like, “Well…I’ve got a fat ass. Could you please bring me these in the next size up?”
And, honest to God, her eyes popped out of her head, and she started laughing so hard that she had to hold onto the wall to keep from collapsing on the floor. I’m almost positive she didn’t expect me to be that frank.
And I was thinking, “Hey, my big rear end just made some one laugh! How cool is that?” But, then she assured me that their sizes run small and she could definitely get me the next size up. I’m telling you, this girl was good. First, she tells me that she’s never seen a more beautiful three-year-old in her life, and then she feeds my ego by lying to me!
So, before I knew it, I was pulling on a size bigger, and, I swear on the goldfish that I accidentally froze, they were amazing. And I started jumping up and down and posing in the mirror like I was a model for Vogue, and Charlie started clapping, and I just know there has never been a bigger party at Pac-Sun.
I know this story is long. Sorry. I can’t help it. But I promise, it happened just like this.
So, I pulled the pants off and marched up to the register and the sales girl, who should seriously consider selling something more profitable than pants, told me that if I buy one I get another pair half off.
Well, sweet music! Get me these in black!
I walked out of that store with two pairs of skinny jeans, a huge smile, and a daughter that really, really, really had to go pee.
I was driving home when I decided to call my mom and tell her that I had completely grown up and bought my first pair of…well, by now you get it. Being the wonderful mother she is, she told me to come over to her house and show her how the first masterpiece she created in her belly looks in sexy, skinny jeans.
Well, why miss an opportunity to show off? I pulled in her driveway, and, on my way up to the front door, met the guy that was putting a fence around her house. He seemed nice, but let’s face it, I wasn’t paying him much attention.
I entered the house and pulled the miracle pants out of the bag, and my mom was all like, “Go try them on!”
And I was all like, “Okay!!!”
I ran down to my sister’s bedroom (the one where the dresser is the floor) and pulled on the pants. On my way out of the room, I checked myself out in the mirror and grinned. Then I started up the stairs.
Now, if you know me at all, you know I have a big mouth. Not just big. Huge. All of my brothers and sisters can back me up here. So, as I entered the front room, I yelled out, “WELL! MY FAT ASS LOOKS…”
That’s right. Dot. Dot. Dot.
Because I never got to the looks amazing part. Instead, I realized that my mom had the front door open and her and the fence guy were staring at me with huge eyes and two not-so-subtle grins. My mom started laughing, and I was like, “Hey, let me just back on out of this room and stick my head on fire. Oh wait, it’s already on fire!”
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I announced that I had a fat ass to the fence guy.
Please, tell me the same thing has happened to all of you.
That's okay. I've learned not to take myself too seriously. You have to laugh at yourself. You have to look at the positives. Like today when I got my long-awaited response from an agent that asked to see some of my manuscript. All I could see as I read the email was, "your manuscript’s obvious merits" and "clearly saw enough in your writing to request a closer look". I didn't see the part where she said she couldn't represent me because her client list was too full and the bad economy made it hard to take on new clients. I just didn't see that part.
I thought it would sting a little more, but honestly, I'm so happy tonight. Sure, I bet I would have been happier if she had wrote back and told me that she absolutely had to take me on as a client, but like I said, for some crazy reason, I am so excited to keep going.
Tonight, I'm going to read a good book. Tomorrow, I'm going to write one....
(Oh, and by the way, it doesn't matter what size you get in those jeans. You have to wear a belt if you don't want to show the world your crack!)
It’s not that I haven’t had stuff to write about it. My life is full of all kinds of lovely little stories that would, if given the chance, make you want to pee your pants.
Like, a few weeks ago when I bought my first pair of skinny jeans. Seriously, skinny jeans have scared the hell out of me ever since they made their debut.
I was like, “Where does my butt go? Oh, yeah? There? Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me….” or “But you can see the shape of my entire thigh!” or “Seriously, the zipper is like an inch and a half long!”
Let’s just say that I’ve avoided them for a while. But when I got to see how cute my mom and sisters looked in their skinny, totally-in-style jeans, I was like, “Hmm…maybe I can get away with wearing that, too. Maybe if I wear boots with them it will help balance out the size of my ass….”
So, after calling my sister and getting the inside scoop, I strutted into Pac-Sun and said, “Hey, I need some of those skinny jeans (in this particular size)!” And the really cute sales girl was like, “Let me get those for you! And, by the way, your daughter is sooo cute!”
And in my head, I was thinking, “Of course, she is, but kudos to you! You just got some major brownie points, and I’ll probably buy these pants, even if I don’t like them!”
In two minutes flat, I was in the dressing room, pulling off my totally-not-in-style, boot-cut jeans and pulling on these really skinny things that stuck to my legs like wallpaper. Literally, I had to jump up and down to get them on, but after I got them up, I was like, “Damn, these don’t look all that bad! I’m feeling kinda sexy!” And my daughter, Charlie—who is no doubt going to grow up and become a fashion genius—stood on the bench and said, “You look bootiful!” And, seriously, at this point, I was thinking it was a go.
Then the doubt started to loom. First concern, could I even sit down? I quickly sat on the bench. Okay…well, not without my butt crack showing. Shit. (I’m sure you’ve all said it in your head, too. I certainly didn’t say it out loud with my three-year-old daughter staring up at me.) Then I realized that I hadn’t even done up the button, which was, by the way, very south of my bellybutton. No big deal. I pulled up the zipper and…oh, yeah, that was not gonna work….
Now, honestly, I know it sounds like I’m five hundred pounds here, but I assure you, I’m not even close to that. I wear a size six. Okay, it’s not a skinny, model-like number, but I’m sure J. LO wears something close. (I use her as an example cause we are similar in the pocket area.)
So, I called over the cute, kisser-upper sales girl and explained my predicament.
I was like, “Hey, sweetheart, I have a problem.”
And she was like, “What’s that?”
And I was like, “Well…I’ve got a fat ass. Could you please bring me these in the next size up?”
And, honest to God, her eyes popped out of her head, and she started laughing so hard that she had to hold onto the wall to keep from collapsing on the floor. I’m almost positive she didn’t expect me to be that frank.
And I was thinking, “Hey, my big rear end just made some one laugh! How cool is that?” But, then she assured me that their sizes run small and she could definitely get me the next size up. I’m telling you, this girl was good. First, she tells me that she’s never seen a more beautiful three-year-old in her life, and then she feeds my ego by lying to me!
So, before I knew it, I was pulling on a size bigger, and, I swear on the goldfish that I accidentally froze, they were amazing. And I started jumping up and down and posing in the mirror like I was a model for Vogue, and Charlie started clapping, and I just know there has never been a bigger party at Pac-Sun.
I know this story is long. Sorry. I can’t help it. But I promise, it happened just like this.
So, I pulled the pants off and marched up to the register and the sales girl, who should seriously consider selling something more profitable than pants, told me that if I buy one I get another pair half off.
Well, sweet music! Get me these in black!
I walked out of that store with two pairs of skinny jeans, a huge smile, and a daughter that really, really, really had to go pee.
I was driving home when I decided to call my mom and tell her that I had completely grown up and bought my first pair of…well, by now you get it. Being the wonderful mother she is, she told me to come over to her house and show her how the first masterpiece she created in her belly looks in sexy, skinny jeans.
Well, why miss an opportunity to show off? I pulled in her driveway, and, on my way up to the front door, met the guy that was putting a fence around her house. He seemed nice, but let’s face it, I wasn’t paying him much attention.
I entered the house and pulled the miracle pants out of the bag, and my mom was all like, “Go try them on!”
And I was all like, “Okay!!!”
I ran down to my sister’s bedroom (the one where the dresser is the floor) and pulled on the pants. On my way out of the room, I checked myself out in the mirror and grinned. Then I started up the stairs.
Now, if you know me at all, you know I have a big mouth. Not just big. Huge. All of my brothers and sisters can back me up here. So, as I entered the front room, I yelled out, “WELL! MY FAT ASS LOOKS…”
That’s right. Dot. Dot. Dot.
Because I never got to the looks amazing part. Instead, I realized that my mom had the front door open and her and the fence guy were staring at me with huge eyes and two not-so-subtle grins. My mom started laughing, and I was like, “Hey, let me just back on out of this room and stick my head on fire. Oh wait, it’s already on fire!”
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I announced that I had a fat ass to the fence guy.
Please, tell me the same thing has happened to all of you.
That's okay. I've learned not to take myself too seriously. You have to laugh at yourself. You have to look at the positives. Like today when I got my long-awaited response from an agent that asked to see some of my manuscript. All I could see as I read the email was, "your manuscript’s obvious merits" and "clearly saw enough in your writing to request a closer look". I didn't see the part where she said she couldn't represent me because her client list was too full and the bad economy made it hard to take on new clients. I just didn't see that part.
I thought it would sting a little more, but honestly, I'm so happy tonight. Sure, I bet I would have been happier if she had wrote back and told me that she absolutely had to take me on as a client, but like I said, for some crazy reason, I am so excited to keep going.
Tonight, I'm going to read a good book. Tomorrow, I'm going to write one....
(Oh, and by the way, it doesn't matter what size you get in those jeans. You have to wear a belt if you don't want to show the world your crack!)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Story Time
So, my weekend was interesting. I like to refer to it as the weekend from hell.
It all started on Thursday night at 9:45. I was working when I heard my baby, Charlie, cry. I went to her room—expecting that she needed a drink or something—and instead found her covered in her own throw up.
Immediately, I went into mother mode. It took me thirty seconds to strip her bed, undress her, and put her in the bath. And when vomit got on my hands, I bravely kept thinking: don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, and finished the job.
Breathing through my mouth, I proceeded to rinse out the chewed up sausage and pancake dinner from Charlie’s hair. While I was completing the job, I asked, Brad, my truly supportive husband, to get her soiled bedding in the washing machine. He graciously agreed and immediately started the load, smiling like he had just agreed to take a bullet for me. Which, in all honesty, he had.
The night didn’t improve. Every fifteen minutes Charlie was crying, and I was jumping out of bed, trying to stick a bowl in front of her before the contents of her stomach landed else where. And let’s just say… I was doing laundry all night long.
At 11:30, after she had spewed all over a make shift bed on the floor, I went to start another load. I was switching the laundry when I noticed chunks of washed out sausage dropping from the wet sheets and clinging to the inside of the washing machine. Sick, I know. But at the time all I could think was—Brad, you idiot! What had he been thinking? That the washer would magically suck up all the pieces of half-digested food? Just so everyone is clear, it doesn’t.
So, I barged into Brad’s office and told him that he needed to go clean out the washer so I could start another load. Harsh, I know, but honestly, it was his fault, and there is only so much gross stuff a girl can handle. While Brad was cleaning out the washer—and yes, I watched—he said, “Well, at least we know she’s getting enough to eat.”
That did us both in, and I started laughing so hard I thought I was going to hurl, too. Late night jokes are the best. They don’t even have to be funny.
Fast forward to just after midnight. Charlie was still getting up every ten to fifteen minutes, and I had just realized that this was going to be a very long night. In desperation, I asked Brad to run to the nearest gas station and buy a bottle of 7-up, hoping that it would help calm her stomach so we could both get some sleep.
When he gave me a look that said something like “You have got to be kidding me” I simply smiled and said, “Sorry, dude. That’s how it works. I get to hold the puke bowl; you get to make midnight 7-up runs. Being a parent is great, isn’t it? And, by the way, I know I’m going to be the one who is up all night with this sick little girl while you pretend to be so deeply asleep that the end of the world wouldn’t wake you, so please get your ass to the store!”
And, you know what? He ran right out the door.
The night continued like that, and by morning, I had been puked on twice, had washed three sets of bedding, and five pairs of pajamas. Looking back on it…the 7-up wasn’t such a good idea after all.
All in all, I probably got a whole two hours of interrupted sleep. Brad, however, looked quite comfortable and very much asleep on the couch the next morning. I almost poured a glass of ice water on him. Almost.
The sad thing is… that night was the highlight of my weekend.
It all started on Thursday night at 9:45. I was working when I heard my baby, Charlie, cry. I went to her room—expecting that she needed a drink or something—and instead found her covered in her own throw up.
Immediately, I went into mother mode. It took me thirty seconds to strip her bed, undress her, and put her in the bath. And when vomit got on my hands, I bravely kept thinking: don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, and finished the job.
Breathing through my mouth, I proceeded to rinse out the chewed up sausage and pancake dinner from Charlie’s hair. While I was completing the job, I asked, Brad, my truly supportive husband, to get her soiled bedding in the washing machine. He graciously agreed and immediately started the load, smiling like he had just agreed to take a bullet for me. Which, in all honesty, he had.
The night didn’t improve. Every fifteen minutes Charlie was crying, and I was jumping out of bed, trying to stick a bowl in front of her before the contents of her stomach landed else where. And let’s just say… I was doing laundry all night long.
At 11:30, after she had spewed all over a make shift bed on the floor, I went to start another load. I was switching the laundry when I noticed chunks of washed out sausage dropping from the wet sheets and clinging to the inside of the washing machine. Sick, I know. But at the time all I could think was—Brad, you idiot! What had he been thinking? That the washer would magically suck up all the pieces of half-digested food? Just so everyone is clear, it doesn’t.
So, I barged into Brad’s office and told him that he needed to go clean out the washer so I could start another load. Harsh, I know, but honestly, it was his fault, and there is only so much gross stuff a girl can handle. While Brad was cleaning out the washer—and yes, I watched—he said, “Well, at least we know she’s getting enough to eat.”
That did us both in, and I started laughing so hard I thought I was going to hurl, too. Late night jokes are the best. They don’t even have to be funny.
Fast forward to just after midnight. Charlie was still getting up every ten to fifteen minutes, and I had just realized that this was going to be a very long night. In desperation, I asked Brad to run to the nearest gas station and buy a bottle of 7-up, hoping that it would help calm her stomach so we could both get some sleep.
When he gave me a look that said something like “You have got to be kidding me” I simply smiled and said, “Sorry, dude. That’s how it works. I get to hold the puke bowl; you get to make midnight 7-up runs. Being a parent is great, isn’t it? And, by the way, I know I’m going to be the one who is up all night with this sick little girl while you pretend to be so deeply asleep that the end of the world wouldn’t wake you, so please get your ass to the store!”
And, you know what? He ran right out the door.
The night continued like that, and by morning, I had been puked on twice, had washed three sets of bedding, and five pairs of pajamas. Looking back on it…the 7-up wasn’t such a good idea after all.
All in all, I probably got a whole two hours of interrupted sleep. Brad, however, looked quite comfortable and very much asleep on the couch the next morning. I almost poured a glass of ice water on him. Almost.
The sad thing is… that night was the highlight of my weekend.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Quick Confession
Quick confession time: I love Halloween.
No. It’s worse than that. I am a Halloween junkie.
I worship everything about it. The smells. The sounds. Getting to dress in a questionable costume. It’s all beautiful.
I try to be good. Hold off until the end of September. But today I went to Target to get my three-year-old daughter some pajamas, and I knew I was in trouble when I spotted a pair of long underwear covered in witches and black cats. I had to get them. It didn’t matter that she’d only be wearing them for two months. I couldn’t come home with Halloween pajamas for one daughter and not the other one…so I got some for my six-year-old, too. Skulls wearing pink bows. She’ll love them.
I could’ve stopped there. I should’ve stopped there. But I do not call myself a Halloween junkie lightly. When I walked by a black shower curtain with skeletons and a matching bath rug—I almost cried. Then I threw them in the cart. There was an end to my insanity. I ran the other way when I saw the Halloween dishes. Spider web plates, skull tumblers, and little black bowls. Well, all right…if I’m being completely honest, I stacked them in my cart and almost drove off. Then I remembered that I wasn’t a millionaire, and I put them back. THEN I ran away.
I remember the first Halloween decoration I bought like it was yesterday. It’s a little sign that reads “Just call me wicked”. It cracks me up. Some people out there probably just said, “There’s your sign, Meagan. There’s your sign….” And if they’re laughing, I’m laughing with them. I claim to be nothing but human.
Back to decorations. I buy them. I hate craft projects, and I don’t DO cute. No painting, sewing, bead work, cross-stitch, or anything else that requires more than a minute of my time. I tried the whole craft thing once, but I’m bad at it.
I try to keep my decorating classy. Black roses on the table. A scarecrow. Some eyeballs in a jar. You know, just the necessities.
I think my obsession with Halloween stems from always wanting to be in another world, hence the writing. Not that I don’t love my life. I do. But most days my thoughts are somewhere else, leaving my body to stare into space. A forest. The ocean. A world only I know….
So, after I got home from the store today, I started setting up. I know it’s only September seventeenth. Very well aware of that fact, and yet…I simply don’t care. If it was up to me, everyone would dress up the entire month and what happened on Halloween night, would stay on Halloween night. All bets are off.
For any of you God-fearing people out there, say a prayer for me. My husband will be home tonight, and he’s in for a bit of a shock. I’m a tiny bit worried. But if he can survive the bat cave I made last year, he should be able to handle a shower curtain. I hope.
No. It’s worse than that. I am a Halloween junkie.
I worship everything about it. The smells. The sounds. Getting to dress in a questionable costume. It’s all beautiful.
I try to be good. Hold off until the end of September. But today I went to Target to get my three-year-old daughter some pajamas, and I knew I was in trouble when I spotted a pair of long underwear covered in witches and black cats. I had to get them. It didn’t matter that she’d only be wearing them for two months. I couldn’t come home with Halloween pajamas for one daughter and not the other one…so I got some for my six-year-old, too. Skulls wearing pink bows. She’ll love them.
I could’ve stopped there. I should’ve stopped there. But I do not call myself a Halloween junkie lightly. When I walked by a black shower curtain with skeletons and a matching bath rug—I almost cried. Then I threw them in the cart. There was an end to my insanity. I ran the other way when I saw the Halloween dishes. Spider web plates, skull tumblers, and little black bowls. Well, all right…if I’m being completely honest, I stacked them in my cart and almost drove off. Then I remembered that I wasn’t a millionaire, and I put them back. THEN I ran away.
I remember the first Halloween decoration I bought like it was yesterday. It’s a little sign that reads “Just call me wicked”. It cracks me up. Some people out there probably just said, “There’s your sign, Meagan. There’s your sign….” And if they’re laughing, I’m laughing with them. I claim to be nothing but human.
Back to decorations. I buy them. I hate craft projects, and I don’t DO cute. No painting, sewing, bead work, cross-stitch, or anything else that requires more than a minute of my time. I tried the whole craft thing once, but I’m bad at it.
I try to keep my decorating classy. Black roses on the table. A scarecrow. Some eyeballs in a jar. You know, just the necessities.
I think my obsession with Halloween stems from always wanting to be in another world, hence the writing. Not that I don’t love my life. I do. But most days my thoughts are somewhere else, leaving my body to stare into space. A forest. The ocean. A world only I know….
So, after I got home from the store today, I started setting up. I know it’s only September seventeenth. Very well aware of that fact, and yet…I simply don’t care. If it was up to me, everyone would dress up the entire month and what happened on Halloween night, would stay on Halloween night. All bets are off.
For any of you God-fearing people out there, say a prayer for me. My husband will be home tonight, and he’s in for a bit of a shock. I’m a tiny bit worried. But if he can survive the bat cave I made last year, he should be able to handle a shower curtain. I hope.
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