After the Battle

  • Meagan: I'm a criminal :'(
  • Cody: Why?
  • Meagan: When I was sitting on a bench, a squirrel hopped up next to me and came closer, and closer, and closer until it was LITERALLY 6 inches away and it didn't show any signs of fear, so I shooed it with my bottle of tea and accidentally cracked it on the face
  • Cody: OMG! You're an animal! I bet he'll be scared of people now
  • Meagan: Haha well I mean cracked in the sense that I just tapped it on the face...the bottle didn't break and the squirrel just walked away
  • Cody: I'm imagining him telling his friend about this bitch at the park who just bottle smacked him
  • Meagan: I know
  • I'm so ashamed
  • I was so upset i didn't even finish eating
  • I just left

A Brief Apology for Recent Behaviors

(Or, Field Notes From The Brink of Madness)

I know you guys get annoyed that I’m always talking about this Tyler fellow. I mean all over twitter and facebook, and during everyday conversations, etc. I’m sure it gets to be a bit much. The chipperness and relentless smiling is probably a tad annoying as well. And you know, if roles were reversed, and any of YOU were talking about someone YOU loved, I would feel the same way. I would roll my eyes and scoff and snort and throw my hands in the air and shout “SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!”. I’m sure I’ve already done this once or twice in reaction to a status or tweet or whathaveyou. It is quite literally the most disgusting thing to read sappy things between two other people. I gross myself out all the time with the mushy nonsense I feel compelled to say to this man. It’s just awful, really. 

But, I’ve got to be completely honest here, he’s just better than most of you. I know, that sounds extremely cruel. But…seriously. Take whoever you’re dating, or married to, or the latest crackhead who’s children you’ve squeezed out, and compare them to Tyler, and I’m afraid they will come up laughably short. He is EXCELLENT. That person you watch Gossip Girl or whatever with…yeah, they’re probably shit. Especially if Tyler is so much as on the same continent as him. 

So, I’m sorry I’m such a sloppy mushy romance-y mess. But if you had a Tyler, you’d do the same thing. Because he’s the best. And he’s perfect for me. And I’m going to throw up every single day because of how much we love each other. And I am so totally excited to be happy,  because for fucks sake, I deserve it.

In Case You Were Wondering…

…No, I do not need your opinion.

Here’s the deal: I’m moving. It’s going to happen. Maybe not as quickly as I would like, but it’s inevitable. Perhaps it is a bad call on my part, sure. I’ve made literally thousands of mistakes, and there is no doubt in my mind that I will continue to make them until my very last breath. I’m a human being, after all, and if we were perfect, we wouldn’t have invented so many Gods to explain away our misfortunes.

That being said, I respect everyone’s right to HAVE an opinion. I just don’t necessarily NEED to hear it. Do any of you homo sapiens walking about think that you are honestly the first person to betray the fact that you think I’m being foolish by leaving the East Coast again? Well, let me assure you…you aren’t. The record is skipping, you guys.

I can somewhat tolerate the warnings of friends and family members. After all, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t have so many people looking out for me all the time? But the negativity has seeped into the water supply, and now complete strangers are putting in their two cents about the goings on in my life.

Customer: So, what are you going to do with your life?

Me: Uhhhh you mean besides be a waitress? Um…well I’m going to California soon.

Customer: What’s out there?

Me:…besides it being a cool place? Um, well there’s a boy.

Customer: A boy?

Me: Yes.

Customer: Yeah but you aren’t going to MOVE there, are you?!

Me:…well, yeah. I’m going to visit again first, but the plan is to move.

Customer: Well you shouldn’t go anywhere if you aren’t sure. I don’t think you should move.

….the fuck?!?!?!

First of all, nothing is more annoying to anyone in the service industry than someone prying into our lives. The single rudest question in the history of inquisition is “So what are you going to do with your life?”. Oh, I’m sorry, does my current employment not live up to your standards? Pray tell, what SHOULD I be? Also, can you clue me in to how this affects YOU and your shitty personage? I’m so sorry that my entire existence so offensive to you. I’ll be sure to try my hardest to become a “success” (whatever the fuck that means) so the next time we run into each other—and I’m sure we will, since I brought you food, we’re friends now, right?!?!—I’ll be the CEO of some evil corporation, and also an astronaut.

Secondly…fuck it. Seriously, just let me make my own fucking mistakes. When I get to the end, I want to have LIVED and suffered and failed equally for all of the good that has come along. I don’t want to be made of cotton candy and gingerbread. I want wrinkles and scars and battle wounds and a head full of sharp memories of what it is like to not just exist, but take risks and live exactly the way I wish.

And besides, without us, who is going to keep you fat white fucks in good supply of Diet Coke?

Ah, shit.

When I wake up knowing that I’ve severely messed up, I immediately clear out all my text messages so I can’t read them. I’d rather just not know all the stupid things I said and did. And right now I’m impatiently waiting for this out-of-my-leaguer to wake up and forgive me, because I know he will. I am focused on forgiveness, because if it were him, that’s exactly what he’d get. I guess that’s when you know you care about someone: when it doesn’t even take a second thought to pardon transgressions.

I always tell myself that my razor sharp wit and ample bosom are enough to get myself out of trouble, and most of the time…they are. Doesn’t mean I’m not a massive fuck up, though. Doesn’t get me out of that.

Big Love

This is what happens when you fall in love. Or lust. Or like. Call it what you may.

At first you are lost in the unbearable joy of connection. All of the people on this planet, all of the meetings, passing-by, constant interaction, and YOU, you two, stopped breathing, thinking just long enough to feel that glowing hotness of “Maybe?” in your chest. It seems as likely as meeting your love in the vastness of space. Floating around. Wishing. Ignoring. And then with a blink and perhaps a heartbeat or two, there is a person. A person whom, if you would have followed your immediate, most carnal instincts, would have been violently tackled by yourself. Tackled and held just so they couldn’t go anywhere or do anything because you just had to make sure they are real. You wouldn’t need to say anything…just make sure that this person lived, and breathed, and wasn’t some manifestation of supreme loneliness. A trick of the mind’s solitude.

And being so civilized as we all are, you don’t tackle anyone. Time starts back up times a thousand, and you have to think quickly to not only function as a human being, but scheme and manipulate the rest of everything forever (or so it seems) so this person can be somewhere, anywhere, that you, too, will also be…standing, sitting, talking, not talking, holding a beverage, hiding behind some other people, hoping for a quick glance, making sure to not tackle, DO NOT TACKLE, because you are a lady (or a gentleman).

And by some sheer twist of fate or luck or earthly rotations or (if you are clever and bold like me) the courage to walk straight up to this person and invite them for a drink, there you are. Sat next to one another. Talking, not talking. Talking to others to show how interesting and jovial you are. Smiling often. Not tackling. Waiting for the slow trickle of the others of this group, off to bed. Waiting, waiting, until you’re almost the only ones left. And there it is. And regardless of what happens next, this all happened because you felt…something. You controlled this by action or by existence.

Perhaps you just wanted to bed this person, perhaps something more. Perhaps what you thought you felt was just lust or indigestion. Perhaps you never see them or speak to them again…

But perhaps you do? And perhaps they saw you first, felt you first? And you were completely oblivious because you’d had one too many Blue Moon’s the night before, and were struggling to maintain composure in a tight red dress…a red dress that you didn’t even remember until they remembered it for you?

And at this point, the ecstasy of being one half of a pair is overwhelming. Constant contact. Getting-to-know-you-getting-to-know-me. Most things become, “This would be better if that other half were here, too”. Any communication from someone other than this person becomes a nuisance. Everything induces a smile. The constant downpour of daily life becomes a glistening trickle punctuated with citrus sunshine. Sweet, and simple, like honey and tea. You just know.

But you are not a new being. You did not just appear, fully grown, with no prior knowledge of the interactions of humans. You know other things, too. You know that the world is cruel at times. For every sunny day there is a torrential storm just over the horizon. You remember your own storms. The nights spent laying awake, crying to dehydration, then staring off at nothing, nursing the worst kind of wounds. The kinds that don’t heal, but just scar over, still aching when another rain is coming. Because despite all the honey in the world, you are trying to protect yourself. And then…

Why didn’t they respond to that message? Why didn’t they answer that call? Why did they word that this way instead of this way? What if they meet someone else? What if you are completely unable to feel anything for the correct individual? What if? Why? What if? Why? On and on. And so it goes.

So that sunny simplicity is the real trick of your mind, because no great crusade, least of all that of love, is easy.

And I find myself asking, as always: knowing what you do now, about how all great things end, sometimes excruciatingly, is it worth it? Do you build the monument knowing the wind and rain will someday reclaim the land?

I don’t know what is right, or what is easy, but I do know that there are some things I just cannot help. This is not just black and white; it is crimson and fiery orange like the sunset, and deepest purple like the coldest night. And I can run away from the setting sun, but I cannot run forever.

Battle Royale (With Cheese)

I think it was Socrates who once said:

“Teenage girls are a nightmare. Fucking psychos, man.”

So poignant. I myself was no exception to the teenage nightmare scenario. Anyone who recalls their young adult years with anything but horror is in complete denial. As an adult, the thought of making one of those things on purpose is terrifying. Sure, babies are cute, and they can’t fight back…but a teenager is probably plotting ways to kill you right now. Or embarrass you. Or leave an emotional scar that only heavy binge drinking and/or a brief hospital stay can possibly lessen.

My sister and I (unfortunately for our dear parents) went through the worst of our teenage emotional rages at the same time, being only 2 years apart in age. Probably the most difficult aspect of this awkward period was the copious amount of time we were forced to spend together. Our parents have owned a business since we were very small, and every weekend for almost 10 years was spent, rain or shine, “helping” our parents out (we were useless). My sister and I were relegated to Snack Bar duty, which I can safely say was mainly us eating all the snacks and fighting like wolverines.

One fight in particular stands out in my mind as utterly ridiculous. Even now, it doesn’t make the least bit of sense. I will tell you exactly as I remember.

I am pressed up against the corner of a very small shed, from which we peddled our snack-related wares. I am probably about 13 at this time, making my sister, Alexa, 11. My sneakers are squeaking against the dirty wood floor, my hands at my sides, and this eleven year old terror, probably a full 6 inches shorter than me at the time, has me pinned, with her little white hands gripped firmly around my throat. Full on strangulation.

When Alexa is mad, her green eyes turn jet black, much like a shark. Her upper lip tightens her mouth into a cruel, thin line, and I SWEAR smoke curls out of her ears. Even at the age of 11, she was quite scary when angered. And here we are, two small girls, locked in a battle of stamina and what-the-fuckery, all the while a business is carrying on just outside the door. An actual, legitimate, adult-run business. As her paws tightened around my throat, I did the only thing my weakening brain could think to do…I raised my right arm up into a sort of “Z”, the way a 1930’s boxer named Micky might have posed, cocked my wrist, and punched her square in her left eye.

She relinquished her grip immediately, and crumpled to the floor like a scarecrow relieved of his stuffing. She curled herself into the fetal position and began weeping profusely almost at once (we Haynes women have command over our tears), her blonde hair in torrents around her round little face. She was INCREDULOUS that I hit her. She kept screaming, through her tears,

“YOU PUNCHED ME! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU PUNCHED ME!”.

And she sobbed, and wept, and sobbed, and rolled around on the floor. Really selling it.

Through my laughter I think I managed to squeak out

“Well you were choking me, idiot!”

Judging by our track records of good child-bad child, I’m sure I was blamed for this choking incident, and probably punished. I still claim self defense, because when an eleven year old shark baby has decided to kill you, you have no choice but to punch her in her stupid head.

I have to tell you guys this…

So…yes, today was hot and miserable and we are all dehydrated more from crying about it than actual sweat. I completely understand. I had to work outside, on the patio, so I know how bad it was. Four seconds in to the “umm”s and “well what do YOU think about the crab cakes?”, etc, and I was literally sweating through my shirt. Suffice it to say, I was frowning more than usual.

One of the last tables to sit down was made up of two couples, probably in their early thirties, and a pair of 1 or 2 year old twins, a little boy named Drew, and a girl named Liza. And they were ADORABLE. I hate kids, but Liza kept beating up Drew and pushing him around, and I’m a sucker for kids who are already assholes. I just don’t like it when they talk, or cry, or eat, or chew, or walk around. But pushing your little brother down with no remorse…that’s fine by me.

But I digress. As per usual, I was standing with my hand on my hip, pretending I wasn’t woozy from the heat, and listening intently as each member of this party detailed their dinner order as though it were the most precious recipe of all time. I nod frequently, and say lots of silly things like “Sounds great!”, and “Oh, you guys are killing me, I’m so hungry!”. I should be euthanized, really. Anyway, while the mother of the twins is talking, her little girl pushes herself up in her high chair, cocks her ass to the side, makes eye contact with me, and then lets one rip. Like a full-grown man fart. Like a sound effect fart. And it was so loud that it actually SCARED the little girl. Her own body sounds frightened her.

I lost it. I totally lost my shit. I was doubled over clutching a menu cracking up. Tears in the eyes, the whole deal. That one act of flatulence took me from a totally foul mood to feeling like a million bucks. The woman’s response?

“Uhh…I’m gonna go ahead and order another glass of wine.”

Awesome. Thanks, little farter.

March 31st

Today is good for a lot of reasons: First of all, I got to wake up next to the most gorgeous, albeit frustrating, young man. He’s like a playground for grownups. Definitely good. Then, in an attempt to smooth over some feathers I had ruffled during last evenings activities, I bought the most adorable animal erasers ever in the history of cute. Tiny animal things are good. I also got to purchase a balloon, which is absolutely a good. Whoa, did I mention I drank a smoothie today? Good. Good good! It may sound very silly, but a reply from one of my favorite comedians on Twitter made my head explode into glitter, because she is so good. I telephoned the restaurant at which I interviewed yesterday, and they informed me that I start on Saturday. THAT IS SO GOOD! Now I’m taking a nap sans clothes, which is the PINNACLE of good. All you good things get in here and give me a hug, you made it such a super day.

I think I’m turning into Nihao Kai-lan.

How To Pick Up A 21 Year Old In 7-Eleven

Fresh from my “Great Gay-sby” retreat, I storm into my house, all breathless and giggling, ignoring the growing number of texts from this poor fellow. I regale my roommate with the tale, and request of her a ride to the nearest convenience store, so I may replenish my beer supply to kill any remaining brain cells. She concedes, and we hop in her car and head down the street. I just cannot wait to be blindly intoxicated.

I walk into my local 7-Eleven, where everyone knows my name, and grab my requisite 12 pack of Miller Lite (It is literally always Miller Time in Meagan’s house), order 3 Monterrey Jack Chicken Taquitos (surely the food of gods), and wait for my turn to pay. As I am standing there, I notice to my right a talk drink of hello…this delicious, slender, broad shouldered handsome thing, a full foot taller than me, perfectly poured into his white T-shirt and dark jeans, a pair of size giant Chuck Taylors covering his feet. His smooth, perfect face betrays his age (young), but the mirror image of a 12 pack of Miller Lite cradled in his arm reassures me that, hey, at least he’s old enough to drink.

I remark on our matching shoes and beers, and he starts to laugh. Young men love high fives, so I reel him in with an epic, adorably-shorter-than-him high five. I ask him what he is up to (same as me…”drinking”), and ask if he wants to come hang out with me at my house. Surely, no normal person would say yes?

After we have paid for our truckload of beer, we get him loaded into my roommate’s car. She is staring at me venomously; even from the car, she could see that this boy was gorgeous, how on earth did I convince him to come with us?! Technique. Technique, Chuck Taylors, Miller Lite, and some high fives, sister.

We get to my house, and mass drinking commences. I cannot stop staring at this creature. He is beautiful, I tell you. His hair is a medium brown, and so soft. Short on the sides, longer on top, and just messy enough to be sexy and understated. His skin is fair, but freckled (I die). His shoulders are broad and his arms are long and toned, and his chest and stomach are perfectly formed, as though he were sculpted out of some Scottish marble. And his eyes…they are the bluest blue I have ever seen. They are azure, they are amethyst, they are Caribbean. They almost hurt. He is one of the most gorgeous things I have ever seen in my entire life, and here he is, on my couch, annoying the fuck out of me.

I have to admit, that first night, I was put off by his aggression. Youthful enthusiasm has it’s place, but around me is generally not it. I like the game. I like the waiting. I like to be coy (for at least 20 minutes). I essentially had to fight him off with empty beer bottles until I was finally ready to take him upstairs. And oh, was that wait worth it.

I have never, in my entire life, had a man gush over my body like this before. Not to my face…maybe afterward, in text form, but he had apparently only been with stick-thin troglodytes before, those “perfect” girls everyone seems so keen on dating. I am not anywhere near this. I am fair to the point that people think I am deceased when I am sleeping, and my body follows a much more natural, much more retro curve. And he loves this. He keeps stopping me, when I am up, grabbing a cigarette or lighting a candle, and making me stand still so he can just admire me. I’ll admit…that gets me. I am a cold hard bitch, but flattery is the name of the game.

The next day, he stays for several hours before I finally bring him home. I look awful in the morning, a variable nightmare, but he still looks like the Adonis I snagged in front of the chicken wings. He actually kisses me goodbye, and takes my number, which I assumed he would never use again…but in all honesty, does it matter? A beautiful thing is a beautiful thing, and I don’t need follow up sessions to appreciate an experience.

***

(We still sleep together all the time. I’m actually going to pick him up in about 20 minutes. No one likes a judge! You would do the same. And if you were thinking it before, you are right…his girlfriend’s name is Sarah.)

The Great Gay-sby

It is no secret that I am a sucker for artists. Painters, writers, musicians. I love people who create, who admire, who see the beauty in the mundane. I don’t count myself amongst them (maybe someday), but until then I will follow and adore them, and absorb what creativity I can. To me, a life without art, whether through your own creation, or simply one which enjoys your admiration, would be empty indeed.

So one of my online suitors just so happened to be a writer for the Huffington Post. Swoon. This is OUTSTANDING news, because not only can we discuss writing, but he can also be super condescending towards me about all sorts of world issues! This one may indeed come across this blog (I may have sent him the link before…whoops), so we’ll call him Ken, partially because it randomly came to mind, and partially because it makes me laugh to think about ever going out with someone named after Barbie’s husband, but I digress…

So, Ken is a writer, and a passionate one at that. He is clever, gets all of my jokes, and seems very easy to talk to. He is very environmentally involved, and most of his published works are regarding wind energy and the like. I know nothing of these things, but obviously have the common sense to support any sort of renewable energy source, so I can stumble my way through the topic easily enough. For me, it’s genuinely exciting to talk to a real writer, not a half-assed amateur such as myself who only writes about one night stands and failed dates (hey, you’re the one reading it). We make plans to meet at a bar in Georgetown, a rather posh and collegiate area of DC. I normally don’t go anywhere near this neighborhood, because A) I’m poor, and B) I never wear my sunglasses at night, but he was insistent. And Cava would be involved, so…ok fine, I’ll saddle up and make this happen.

I arrive, and this is literally my nightmare, in bar form. Everyone is in a polo shirt. Everyone has khakis. All of the waiters are wearing bow ties, and not because they are cool, because this is the actual uniform. It is so bright, and everyone is talking about sports and poor people. Great. I start drinking hard immediately, and it turns out I have plenty of time, because he’s almost 30 minutes late.

I’m about halfway through a bottle, and have already given the bartender my phone number, when he finally arrives. He is…about five inches shorter than I thought he would be, and physically reminds me of Chaka from Land of the Lost. Intensely furry eyebrows, fuzzy kitten hair spiked atop his tiny head, sweat pooling on his brow…not unattractive, but certainly not worth sobriety. I’m ok for all of thirty seconds, when he opens his mouth…

The light, fluttery voice of an exhausted queen floats out of his mouth and hangs above us, like a glittery storm cloud. His nails are exceptionally manicured, he dabs his sweat like the most delicate of genteel ladies, and he actually SAYS,

“I’m going to go freshen up.”

Gay. Gay gay gay. GAY. You sir, are not interested in my female naughty bits! Now, I have made it perfectly clear that I am the most accepting person (as far as sexual orientation goes…I mean if you’re a big idiot, you’re a big idiot, and that has nothing to do with sex), but that doesn’t mean I’m going to date a gay man! I mean, yes, we can go shopping or dancing or whatever activities we enjoy together, but sex will most certainly not be one of them.

He saunters to the bathroom, I turn to the bartender, and we are staring at each other in disbelief. I order a double shot of tequila. This is going to be tough.

He’s nice enough, in conversation, I just can’t get my motor to rev for someone who is more feminine than me. I don’t necessarily go for big, burly lumberjack types, but I do like to feel like a girl, to feel somewhat delicate. This man will not be able to give that to me. Many of you have suggested that maybe he was just a little “metrosexual”. Well that’s fine, but I can’t MAKE myself pretend that he could actually get it up for the female form. That’s just not my problem.

He suggests we leave to check out some pool hall nearby. Yeah, one more shot and I’ll give you a piggy back ride on the way there. We run outside, cross the street, and head down this incredibly long staircase. When we reach the street on the other side, we grab a cab and he gets us there. At this point, I’m mentally shutting down, because he keeps attempting sexy eyes at me, and it gives me the same feeling that sexy eyes from, say…a cousin, would give me: sheer, palpable discomfort and a desire to run screaming.

We arrive at this hipster-laden bar, packed to the rafters with Ray-Bans and disapproving looks. Pool tables are littered about, and Kanye West is thumping through the speakers. Two bartenders are seemingly making no effort to actually make drinks, they are instead letting crowds build until they feel it’s obscure enough to make a drink, and then filling orders. I have no time for this lack of alcohol. He heads to the bar to order a couple drinks, and I stand propped up against a pool table, glued to my phone, having an intense internal dialogue.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? FIGHT OR FLIGHT? I do not like this person. I do not want to have sex with this person. This person is wasting my time. I see him at the bar, my eyes dart to the door, back to my phone. My heart is pounding in my ears. My eyes go back and forth: door, gay-straight man, phone. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I throw my phone in my purse and bolt. Top speed, out the door, up the stairs to the street. My arm cuts through the cold air and I hail the first cab I see. I continue running, throw open the door, and literally dive inside headfirst, across the back seat like a sad dolphin.

“Arlington! Hurry!”

I explain to the cab driver that I was duped into going out with a gay man, and I just couldn’t handle it. He laughed, and I caught my breath, happy to be away from that most awkward of situations. This is where me being a bad person comes back into play. In my mind, it is more important that I am happy and comfortable, than it is for you to be treated well, most of the time. I’m just too old and too stubborn. And besides, being best friends forever with this gay and his eyebrows? Maybe. But like…taking off our clothes and doing things? Absolutely not.