Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
"I Work!"
As the opening sentence of thousands of lousy high school social studies essays suggest, communities come in all sizes with their own unique norms and values. And as mediocre as that sentence is, it’s true. Each job community comes with its own unique norms and values, which are oftentimes deemed stupid and petty by the outside world.
I’ve waited tables at a few restaurants, answered phones at a mutual fund company in Boston’s financial district, sorted books as a librarian, wrote about music for a weekly newspaper and manned the counter at a record store. These days I put stuff in buckets at a not-for-profit in the music business.
My first job (not counting short-lived stints as a bad bagel sandwich maker/even worse barista at Chesapeake Bagel and a surly, khaki-pantsed hostess at Tippins Pie Pantry, both of Overland Park, Kansas, both now defunct) was at Waldo Pizza, a popular beer and pizza joint in Kansas City. I got the job when I was 17, and I worked there during high school, after high school, then during college, and then after college. I was there for years, as most of the employees are, which is usually unheard of in the restaurant business. I haven’t worked there in six years, aside from the three month stint I did to raise money for my New York move in the Fall of ’07, but, to this day, every anxiety dream is me at Waldo, waiting tables without shoes, being completely distracted by co-workers having sex on the make table as my section is suddenly slammed with smoke-shooting-out-their-ears mad customers, and, to make matters worse, I can’t ring orders into the POS because it’s turned into a super complex game of Frogger. Total nightmare!
As chilling as the dream is, waitressing wasn’t all that hard, aside from the stressful weekend rushes of too many unattended kids running at your feet. The money was bananas. To this day, I’ve yet to secure a job where I make that much money. And the flexible hours gelled perfectly with my party girl lifestyle of rock shows and hangovers.
The restaurant was not just my place of employ; it was my social life, my grocery store, my dating pool. It was kind of like Melrose Place, where everyone’s limited to humping and dumping their neighbors (or working at the hospital, Shooters, D&D Advertising or Mancini Designs, Jane’s bullshit fashion house. Are there no other jobs in LA?). But Instead of Melrosian high stakes dilemmas like who stole Jo’s baby, it was “WHICH ONE OF YOU FIRST-CUT ASSHOLES MADE LEMON WEDGES AND DIDN’T SLIT THEM!?!? HOW ELSE IN FUCK ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO STAY ON THE ICED TEA GLASS, YOU GODLESS CRETINS?!?!” You know, stuff that in any other environment (aside from a psych ward full of OCD-stricken acute schizophrenics) would be no big deal. Only in the service industry does cutting lemons with slits, folding silverware neatly into a paper napkin, or facing the beer cooler with the warm bottles in the back deem a person fuckable.
Not that this sort of pettiness isn’t seen in other job fields that are considered “more important.” Two years after college, I partied like I was still in college. My father was promoted, meaning he had to pack the family and move to New England. I hadn’t lived at home in six years, but he wanted me to go with them too.
“You’re idling, Megan. I’m afraid you’re only going to regress more and more if you stay here,” he said. I couldn’t disagree. I was too hung-over to argue with the guy. So, in summer of 2004 I left for Massachusetts.
I had no clue what to do with myself there. We were about 30 miles from Boston. They were building the commuter rail further south, with a stop slated right by my parents’ house, but that wasn’t supposed to be ready until 2006 (or in Boston Big Dig years, 2212). I had no car, no job prospects. I was living with my parents, relying on them for rides and money and a life. Remind me again how this wasn’t regressing?
Eventually I got a job through my dad’s connections, working as a phone rep at Pioneer Investments, a mutual fund company in Boston’s financial district. You would think with a dad as a big deal boss, I could’ve scored a position higher up on the corporate totem pole. Nope.
Working at Pioneer felt like being in high school again. I was a total misfit. It was not good for my already-depleting self-esteem. Nothing but a cubicle farm of yuppy fuckfaces who spoke in sports metaphors and office jargon (“eyes on the prize,” “touch base,” “golden parachute”), and boasted about shit like paying $150 to see Jimmy Buffett at Fenway (and they were younger than me!). My only solace was listening to the music of my youth during my long commutes on the T. Liz Phair got me through some pretty heady times. Thanks, girl. I almost forgive you for sucking later on in your career.
At Pioneer, business attire was mandatory for phone reps, which didn’t make sense to me, because, as my title suggests, it was a fucking phone job. I could’ve worn bunny slippers and pasties made out of bologna and our customers would’ve been none the wiser. One day, Komal, my team leader, a young, married (arranged, so I heard!) Indian woman with an 18” waistline and a broken spirit, took me aside to discuss my wardrobe (a foreshadowing of my future as a Glamour Don’t?)
“You wear a lot of bright colors,” she said. “Maybe you should tone it down a bit? You want to be known as Megan the Hard Worker, not Megan, the Girl Who Wears Loud Clothes, don’t you?”
Yes, Komal. You’re right. Please scrub away any residue of joy I may have had left by wearing yellow H&M sweaters with turquoise Marc Jacobs skirts. Dress me in muted grays and tweeds so that I can rightfully claim my title as Megan the Girl (not yet a woman!) Who Gives Customers Incorrect Price Share Quotes, Only Realizing so Immediately After She Gets Off the Phone With Them. Oh, the power and the glory!
I do not give a fuck about mutual funds, as my dour work attitude showed. I also don’t care to have small talk. Only in an office setting, is the answer “It’s Tuesday,” an appropriate reply to “How are you?” Tuesday is like the most arbitrary day of the week. How could I possibly know how you’re doing when you answer with that? Are Tuesdays stressful for you? Is it the one day a week your wife grants you the permission to screw her? Wait a second. I just remembered. I don’t give a shit! I only talked to you because we are cramped in the break room getting coffee at the same time! Quit replying to my simple questions with non-answers!
Although now I regard trips to Hingham as a respite from my busy New York life (peppered in with some occasional undermining and throw-away insults that can diminish months of therapy), I was anything but rested during my tenure as a worker bee in the financial district.
I turned 25 and I told them I was moving back to Kansas City, where I could feel like myself again, even if that meant being a rock ‘n’ roll-loving boozehound, which is what I am when I live there (and the only thing I know how to be when I visit). I even managed to make a career out of it.
Working at the Pitch, Kansas City’s leading alternative weekly as it says on my resume, was tits. My salary was puny, but so what, it’s Kansas City. Rent’s like $300. I got paid to snark about music I hated and slobber all over music I loved. So long as I got my work finished on deadline, I could come and go as I please. I could nap on my music editor’s couch if I was too hung-over from last night’s show. On Fridays we drank beer and had dance parties. I could wear whatever color I bloody well pleased. I had a tendency to write a little too cutesy, and I’m still trying to shy away from that, but I’m a published writer, dammit. I’ve got clips. I’m the first me who pops up when I Google my name. I matter!
I took all this clout of being a published writer with me to NYC when I moved here three years ago, and it did absolutely jack shit. The media bubble blistered and burst, and even if it hadn’t, there were a million other writers just like me, who had better adjectives for how a guitar sounds. I got a few gigs here and there writing on blogs for free, but, I’m a lazy writer who balked at the idea of not getting some form of payment for time spent. In fact, I am blowing my own mind right now that I’ve been able to write 1,400+ plus today. And it’s not even stuff I’ve had to make up! I’m just reiterating stuff that happened to me! But I’m sort of getting paid for it right now because I am doing it in the comfort of my current job. On my break, though, of course. I'm not a criminal.
These days I work in the music industry. When I tell this to hairstylists or dental assistants, or other strangers making small talk, they think it’s glamorous. “Who have you met?” they ask. When I told my therapist I couldn’t make my appointment because I was going to a three-day concert in Las Vegas she asked, “Are you going through your work?” If you mean, they supplied me with the pay check necessary to purchase the concert tickets and airfare, then the answer is yes!
I have friends here with much cooler music jobs, and I’ve met people I consider “famous” through them, but that doesn’t count. I am a cog. A cog in a very important machine, mind you, but a cog nonetheless. It’s an office environment like Pioneer, and people still answer my “how are you?” with “It’s Tuesday,” but I actually give a shit about what I do and who I serve. And, bonus, there’s no dress code. Today I am wearing mothergrabbing sweatpants because I’m PMSing (ack!) and I’m going to the gym after work. Don’t judge me!
My current job works for now. Mostly. At least I have one, right? But after this string of it’s-a-pay check almost-careers, I am ready for the dream job I deserve, which means the opportunity to partake in a little bit of arrested development at grad school come this fall.
I love school. I love the threat down of a deadline, and the chance to commandeer people’s attention while I go on and on about stupid shit that only I care about (like Melrose Place, por ejemplo). I want to make a job out of it. So, I’mma be a professor when I grow up, so I can wear whatever the shit I want, and if someone dares to answer “It’s Tuesday” to a “how are you?” I can shut them down in front of their peers instead of muttering to myself like some crazed lady. I can’t wait!
I’ve waited tables at a few restaurants, answered phones at a mutual fund company in Boston’s financial district, sorted books as a librarian, wrote about music for a weekly newspaper and manned the counter at a record store. These days I put stuff in buckets at a not-for-profit in the music business.
My first job (not counting short-lived stints as a bad bagel sandwich maker/even worse barista at Chesapeake Bagel and a surly, khaki-pantsed hostess at Tippins Pie Pantry, both of Overland Park, Kansas, both now defunct) was at Waldo Pizza, a popular beer and pizza joint in Kansas City. I got the job when I was 17, and I worked there during high school, after high school, then during college, and then after college. I was there for years, as most of the employees are, which is usually unheard of in the restaurant business. I haven’t worked there in six years, aside from the three month stint I did to raise money for my New York move in the Fall of ’07, but, to this day, every anxiety dream is me at Waldo, waiting tables without shoes, being completely distracted by co-workers having sex on the make table as my section is suddenly slammed with smoke-shooting-out-their-ears mad customers, and, to make matters worse, I can’t ring orders into the POS because it’s turned into a super complex game of Frogger. Total nightmare!
As chilling as the dream is, waitressing wasn’t all that hard, aside from the stressful weekend rushes of too many unattended kids running at your feet. The money was bananas. To this day, I’ve yet to secure a job where I make that much money. And the flexible hours gelled perfectly with my party girl lifestyle of rock shows and hangovers.
The restaurant was not just my place of employ; it was my social life, my grocery store, my dating pool. It was kind of like Melrose Place, where everyone’s limited to humping and dumping their neighbors (or working at the hospital, Shooters, D&D Advertising or Mancini Designs, Jane’s bullshit fashion house. Are there no other jobs in LA?). But Instead of Melrosian high stakes dilemmas like who stole Jo’s baby, it was “WHICH ONE OF YOU FIRST-CUT ASSHOLES MADE LEMON WEDGES AND DIDN’T SLIT THEM!?!? HOW ELSE IN FUCK ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO STAY ON THE ICED TEA GLASS, YOU GODLESS CRETINS?!?!” You know, stuff that in any other environment (aside from a psych ward full of OCD-stricken acute schizophrenics) would be no big deal. Only in the service industry does cutting lemons with slits, folding silverware neatly into a paper napkin, or facing the beer cooler with the warm bottles in the back deem a person fuckable.
Not that this sort of pettiness isn’t seen in other job fields that are considered “more important.” Two years after college, I partied like I was still in college. My father was promoted, meaning he had to pack the family and move to New England. I hadn’t lived at home in six years, but he wanted me to go with them too.
“You’re idling, Megan. I’m afraid you’re only going to regress more and more if you stay here,” he said. I couldn’t disagree. I was too hung-over to argue with the guy. So, in summer of 2004 I left for Massachusetts.
I had no clue what to do with myself there. We were about 30 miles from Boston. They were building the commuter rail further south, with a stop slated right by my parents’ house, but that wasn’t supposed to be ready until 2006 (or in Boston Big Dig years, 2212). I had no car, no job prospects. I was living with my parents, relying on them for rides and money and a life. Remind me again how this wasn’t regressing?
Eventually I got a job through my dad’s connections, working as a phone rep at Pioneer Investments, a mutual fund company in Boston’s financial district. You would think with a dad as a big deal boss, I could’ve scored a position higher up on the corporate totem pole. Nope.
Working at Pioneer felt like being in high school again. I was a total misfit. It was not good for my already-depleting self-esteem. Nothing but a cubicle farm of yuppy fuckfaces who spoke in sports metaphors and office jargon (“eyes on the prize,” “touch base,” “golden parachute”), and boasted about shit like paying $150 to see Jimmy Buffett at Fenway (and they were younger than me!). My only solace was listening to the music of my youth during my long commutes on the T. Liz Phair got me through some pretty heady times. Thanks, girl. I almost forgive you for sucking later on in your career.
At Pioneer, business attire was mandatory for phone reps, which didn’t make sense to me, because, as my title suggests, it was a fucking phone job. I could’ve worn bunny slippers and pasties made out of bologna and our customers would’ve been none the wiser. One day, Komal, my team leader, a young, married (arranged, so I heard!) Indian woman with an 18” waistline and a broken spirit, took me aside to discuss my wardrobe (a foreshadowing of my future as a Glamour Don’t?)
“You wear a lot of bright colors,” she said. “Maybe you should tone it down a bit? You want to be known as Megan the Hard Worker, not Megan, the Girl Who Wears Loud Clothes, don’t you?”
Yes, Komal. You’re right. Please scrub away any residue of joy I may have had left by wearing yellow H&M sweaters with turquoise Marc Jacobs skirts. Dress me in muted grays and tweeds so that I can rightfully claim my title as Megan the Girl (not yet a woman!) Who Gives Customers Incorrect Price Share Quotes, Only Realizing so Immediately After She Gets Off the Phone With Them. Oh, the power and the glory!
I do not give a fuck about mutual funds, as my dour work attitude showed. I also don’t care to have small talk. Only in an office setting, is the answer “It’s Tuesday,” an appropriate reply to “How are you?” Tuesday is like the most arbitrary day of the week. How could I possibly know how you’re doing when you answer with that? Are Tuesdays stressful for you? Is it the one day a week your wife grants you the permission to screw her? Wait a second. I just remembered. I don’t give a shit! I only talked to you because we are cramped in the break room getting coffee at the same time! Quit replying to my simple questions with non-answers!
Although now I regard trips to Hingham as a respite from my busy New York life (peppered in with some occasional undermining and throw-away insults that can diminish months of therapy), I was anything but rested during my tenure as a worker bee in the financial district.
I turned 25 and I told them I was moving back to Kansas City, where I could feel like myself again, even if that meant being a rock ‘n’ roll-loving boozehound, which is what I am when I live there (and the only thing I know how to be when I visit). I even managed to make a career out of it.
Working at the Pitch, Kansas City’s leading alternative weekly as it says on my resume, was tits. My salary was puny, but so what, it’s Kansas City. Rent’s like $300. I got paid to snark about music I hated and slobber all over music I loved. So long as I got my work finished on deadline, I could come and go as I please. I could nap on my music editor’s couch if I was too hung-over from last night’s show. On Fridays we drank beer and had dance parties. I could wear whatever color I bloody well pleased. I had a tendency to write a little too cutesy, and I’m still trying to shy away from that, but I’m a published writer, dammit. I’ve got clips. I’m the first me who pops up when I Google my name. I matter!
I took all this clout of being a published writer with me to NYC when I moved here three years ago, and it did absolutely jack shit. The media bubble blistered and burst, and even if it hadn’t, there were a million other writers just like me, who had better adjectives for how a guitar sounds. I got a few gigs here and there writing on blogs for free, but, I’m a lazy writer who balked at the idea of not getting some form of payment for time spent. In fact, I am blowing my own mind right now that I’ve been able to write 1,400+ plus today. And it’s not even stuff I’ve had to make up! I’m just reiterating stuff that happened to me! But I’m sort of getting paid for it right now because I am doing it in the comfort of my current job. On my break, though, of course. I'm not a criminal.
These days I work in the music industry. When I tell this to hairstylists or dental assistants, or other strangers making small talk, they think it’s glamorous. “Who have you met?” they ask. When I told my therapist I couldn’t make my appointment because I was going to a three-day concert in Las Vegas she asked, “Are you going through your work?” If you mean, they supplied me with the pay check necessary to purchase the concert tickets and airfare, then the answer is yes!
I have friends here with much cooler music jobs, and I’ve met people I consider “famous” through them, but that doesn’t count. I am a cog. A cog in a very important machine, mind you, but a cog nonetheless. It’s an office environment like Pioneer, and people still answer my “how are you?” with “It’s Tuesday,” but I actually give a shit about what I do and who I serve. And, bonus, there’s no dress code. Today I am wearing mothergrabbing sweatpants because I’m PMSing (ack!) and I’m going to the gym after work. Don’t judge me!
My current job works for now. Mostly. At least I have one, right? But after this string of it’s-a-pay check almost-careers, I am ready for the dream job I deserve, which means the opportunity to partake in a little bit of arrested development at grad school come this fall.
I love school. I love the threat down of a deadline, and the chance to commandeer people’s attention while I go on and on about stupid shit that only I care about (like Melrose Place, por ejemplo). I want to make a job out of it. So, I’mma be a professor when I grow up, so I can wear whatever the shit I want, and if someone dares to answer “It’s Tuesday” to a “how are you?” I can shut them down in front of their peers instead of muttering to myself like some crazed lady. I can’t wait!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksforgiving!
When my brother Justin (who at 14 months is my "Irish twin") and I were little kids, he insisted on calling the fourth Thursday of November "Thanksforgiving," because we are "giving thanks for giving."
There was no persuading Gus that he had the name wrong, but screw it. Semantics. Unfortunately, Gus won't be making it to Massachusetts this year, so in his honor I will make sure to keep the Thanksforgiving tradition alive.
I am thankful for Hadley giving me Nyquil and ginger ale yesterday, and that I am almost all better after a two-day bout with some sort of aching sickness; I am thankful for the M60 bus for giving me a speedy ride to LaGuardia so that I can spend the next 108 hours in jammies with my sisters Katie and Maddie, my baby broseph Jack, and the family's beloved mini-dachshund, Klaus. I also want to thank Capt Teebs and Seannah-nah for giving me deep fried turkey and oyster stuffing, and two younger siblings who are now old enough to start doing the post-Thanksforgiving dishes by themselves. And most especially, I thank the lord Jeebus and I guess also the US Government for giving me a few days holiday away from the city, where I don't have to be reminded that I have $13.09 in my bank account until November 30th. Ahhhhhmenses!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
"I Make Food!"
“Tonight’s dinner: pumpkin ravioli with blanched asparagus and a mushroom risotto, paired with a crisp Riesling. Thanks, baby!!!”-Facebook status from anonymous wanker
Just like the sanctimonious Woowee, just got back from the gym! I love sweating once every six months!!! Or the self-congratulating Phew!!! I finished all my arduous, important errands like paying ConEd and changing the cat box! In case you were unaware I am very busy and a very big deal! Time to relax in front of my marble fireplace that my hunk of a hubby made with his own bare hands!, constant Facebook status updates about being a culinary mastermind is a one-way ticket to Hidesville, Population You.
Actually, all this boasting about the mundane was the impetus for writing this blog. My generation, myself included, seems to be alarmingly proud of functioning as a human being who practices semi-regular hygiene. Wow. You cleaned your bathroom. It’s such an incredible triumph of the human spirit that you are moved to tell 500 of your closest friends, acquaintances and former classmates, including George Glass, the boy who in third grade was your steady for two whole weeks, and whom you haven’t seen or spoken to since before you started menstruating. If only he knew then how sparkly you can make your toilet now, he probably wouldn’t have been so quick to let you go.
Trust me. I understand that sometimes it’s all one can do to just be. I’m on day two of washing my underwear in the sink because I am too lazy to go to the Laundromat (I’m going tonight, swear). But it’s not something to celebrate. With that said, maybe I’d be a little more tolerant if I wasn’t such a domestic luddite, especially in the kitchen.
A couple Sundays ago, Hadley and I went to my friend Tonian’s apartment in Fort Greene Manhattan
We arrived early to find Tonian finishing up with the hors d’oeuvres: eggplant tapenade, a beautiful mozzarella with olive oil, grapes and roasted peppers with warmed crusty bread. I was in total awe of her tasty and sophisticated-but-simple spread.
“This is lovely, TA,” I said. “I wish I knew how to make stuff like this.”
”It’s really easy, Megan,” she said nonchalantly.
Right. But you know what’s even easier? Calling out for Thai.
Figuring out food in New York
My father is Augustus Gloop trapped inside the body of a physically fit, financially successful 54 year-old man.
“You want to know what I’m thinking about when I’m eating lunch? What I’m going to eat for dinner,” he confessed to me once over a heaping bowl of pho at his favorite neighborhood Vietnamese joint.
Every phone call discussing my impending visit to see my family in Hingham , Massachusetts
Dad, or Ter Bear, or Captain Teebs, as he is lovingly called by his five children, doesn’t just eat. He also cooks. And he loves cooking for his kids and wife, my step-mother Seanna. About six months ago, he bought a panini maker. He was like Ralphie Parker opening the Red Ryder rifle on Christmas Morning. Capt. Teebs was frothing at the mouth over all the different sandwiches that could be made. My personal favorite is the BLT breakfast panini.
While I certainly inherited his love of eating food (these hips don’t lie, y’all!), my joy of cooking is seriously lacking. Only recently has this started to bother me. There’s a sort of sexiness to knowing your way around the kitchen. Tonian’s ability to go into any kitchen and whip up something inventive and delicious is very attractive. If I were a dude, I would totally wanna hit that (provided she made me dinner first!)
Lately I’ve been trying to expand my arsenal of meals to more than chili mac, tuna noodle casserole, salad and spaghetti. I’ve been working with quinoa and vegetables, and I’ve cooked salmon like seven times and it hasn’t been gross once. Ninety-percent of my cookware and dishes were inherited by other former-roommates, and they’re not exactly quality, but this Christmas, I’m asking Captain Teebs for knives and a food processor. And a ticket to Africa
Like the asshole whose baby made her pumpkin ravioli and asparagus and mushroom risotto, I have a wonderful boyfriend who likes to cook for me. He makes me omelets for breakfast and pizza with whole wheat dough made from scratch and so many sandwiches. These days I have to fend for myself in the kitchen, trying hard to fight the temptation of calling up my sushi joint (who will even deliver sake in a to-go Styrofoam soup cup). Mike’s away in South Africa until August, cooking for marmosets and lemurs and macaques and their keepers in a monkey sanctuary in Pretoria, South Africa
Thursday, November 18, 2010
My Kingdom for a Nap!
Last night's girls club rock show cum dance party was fun, but being at work right now is not. Growing up means not being able to hang like you used to.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
"I Clean My Room!"
Somewhere in the endless black chasm where my assorted hang-ups and neuroses fester like gnats on a knee scab lies a deep-seated aversion to keeping my room clean. It can be a mountain range of urban detritus, as long as there remains a little island on the bed for myself and my ‘puter, I’m golden.
My boyfriend is five years my junior (Cougar Town
“Oh yeah, well you’re a poopy butt who makes poops with your butt, so there!”
Like most of the other twenty-and-thirtysomethings living in arrested development, I blame my parents’ divorce. When I was little, I kept my room pretty clean. It was my library, my art studio, my TV room and my playtime puppet theatre where I would simulate Sapphic heavy petting with Barbie and her Rockers after their sweet gig. At 13, when they split--my parents, not Barbie and her band. They’re still going strong--my dad left the house in Kansas City ’s Brookside neighborhood where we grew up and got a bachelor-pad rental on the West Plaza
Stephen was such a turd. He made my brother and sister and I feel wholly unwelcome in his rinky dink house, which was fine because we didn’t want to be there anyway. My six year-old sister and I shared a full bed in a sterile room with ugly French Country blue-and-mauve wallpaper. We were discouraged from making it our own. This and a lot of other things made me completely miserable as a kid, but I do take comfort in knowing that Stephen’s dead now. Just kidding. I mean, he’s totally dead, but I don’t take comfort in knowing that. I’m not that big of a vindictive Scorpio asshole, Jaysus.
Anyway. Being smack dab in the middle of my formative years and living between two places where I had no place of my own left me feeling transient. It’s a feeling that’s stayed with me ever since. In my apartments I have had as an adult, I’ve taken no pains to make them homey. There’s been some where I never even bothered to unpack. But I’m working on it. I recognize that there is a feeling of pride to coming home to a place that doesn’t look like an active volcano that shoots lava made of shoes and magazines. I bought some art for the walls. I’ve started this novel exercise where after I do my laundry I put it away in drawers. There’s no semblance of organization or anything, but I’ll get there.
A big part of growing up means getting over your crybaby upbringing. Everyone had a shitty childhood. If you didn’t you are boring and you‘ll never be a good writer or artist or alcoholic former child star. It’s science!
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
"I Wear Pants!"
There is no look more ghastly than a fitted velour pastel-colored sweat suit with the brand stitched on the chick’s ass (“Juicy!” “Pink!” “B’Holé!”), accompanied with a pair of Uggs. Astoria
I’m guilty of rockin’ a sweatpant outside of my apartment or the gym on occasion. I’ve even had the gall to leave my borough dressed like that. But when I do it, it’s different. You can bet your sweet ass there’s nary a word on mine. And I sure didn’t goop Dippity-Do all up in my hair. Chances are I didn’t even brush it.
Now, I don’t wear SPs in that Cathy “Ack I’ve given up, pass the chocolate, ack ack” constraint. It’s more defiant, rebellious. I’m a punk rocker in track pants. A suffragette in sweats.
I’ve been to LA once, 13 years ago. I stayed for two weeks, and it was about 10 days too long. Like any visitor, I was in awe of the legion of supercool vintage cars up and down the Boulevard: Karmann Ghias, Dylan McKay Porsches, Brandon Walsh Mustangs, etc. They were sweet. But isn’t the point of having a kickass ride being the hot shit amongst all the lame, conventional cars? If you’re just another cherry red fish in a sea of Cameron Frye
When Mary Kate and Ashley I’m the Cute One! Olsen morphed from tween-age cash cows into iconic, Marlboro Red-smoking gollums, their first major dent in fashion was reviving the Bohemian look. MK’s burlap caftan was Balenciaga, but twin sisterfriend still looked like a street urchin. Aside from the $2,500 price difference, how am I any less chic in my over-sized men’s Fruit of the Loom heather gray hooded sweatshirt?
I’ve always considered myself a fashion trendsetter. As a four year-old, I sported my Wonder Woman Underoos over my Osh Kosh B’Gosh corduroys. Six years later, Gaultier’s made underwear as outerwear for Madonna.
I clearly remember my first day of freshman year in Roeland Park , Kansas at Bishop Miege High School
After high school, when the other Lady Stags (yes, Miege’s female athletes were tranny deer) either burned or packed away their tartan skirts, I kept mine. My style was Latent Lolita: a look for the girl everyone thought was a total dyke in high school who blossomed into a cigarette smokin’ lily white perma-virgin sex pot. This was the late ’90s-early aughts and everybody wore Baby Tees. I had Aladdin Sane in glitter, Joan Jett in blue and red, and Blondie in black and gold. The shrunken tees barely stretched across my ample chest. Poor Debbie Harry looked like she had Down Syndrome. I paired the shirts with the Catholic school uniform or vintage crinoline slips, stockings and Chuck high tops. Instead of a purse I carried a metal Powerpuff Girls lunchbox. In retrospect, I looked a hot mess, but it was my hot mess, and I reveled in expressing myself through clothing. In those clothes, I told the world “I don’t give a fuck that I look like Baby Jane at 19! I’m infantile and starved for attention! Isn’t that so attractive?!? Someone, for the love of God, make out with me! I just want to know what kissing’s like!!!”
Maybe if I’d been a tiny little flat-chested Japanese girl, it would’ve been adorable, but I was a corn-fed Midwesterner with a pony keg torso and boobs too big for my frame. Not hot.
In 2006, I was still a Latent Lolita, and my look landed me in the pages of fashion rag Glamour. I was in Austin , TX
“Are you anywhere close to a Glamour magazine?” she asked.
I’m kinda by a drug store, so I’m as close as anyone could be,” I said. “Why, Taylor
“No. You are. You’re a Don’t, Megan. A Glamour Don’t.”
The three of us hopped in Hadley's Rodeo and made a beeline for the nearest Walgreens'. There I was on page 191 of the June 2006 issue. Uma Thurman's on the cover. I even made it to their end-of-year coffee table book, Glamour’s Big Book of Dos and Don’ts: Fashion Help for Every Woman. I am “Don’t Dress Like a Little Girl.” It is the greatest achievement of my life thus far.
As I’ve gotten older and more accustomed to my life in New York
And okay, I occasionally go to work in my sweatpants. My office doesn’t have a dress code, and you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, right? Well, I want to be a grad student, so I’m wearing the right uniform. And okay, I confess, I’m not all that noble in my casual wear as I previously avowed. Sometimes it is a bit of a Cathy moment, but it’s not chocolate, it’s too much vodka from last night’s karaoke sesh in Union Square and I just couldn’t bother to put on pants that fasten this morning. You’re lucky I woke up at all.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
"I Poop!"
In the Ladies’ Room, while other women were washing their hands at the row of sinks, redoing their make-up at the mirror, or just plain ol’ peeing in another stall, I was right there with them, pooping. Proudly pooping right out in the open. Well, not really out in the open. You know what I mean.
This triumph of the human will didn’t happen overnight. When I started my job a few years back, I was disheartened to find no private stalls. Previous employment offered such a gift, a refuge where one could BM in private, but at my new job, commodes are communal.
I spend eight hours here, five days a week. I like my coffee black and strong. Naturally, nature’s gonna call. Always the industrial type, I noticed a Starbuck catty-corner from the building (and two more a block apart in opposite directions). While Starbucks is NYC’s go-to for quick, sub-par coffee, it’s also known as our fine city’s #1 public bathroom. There’s no “Bathroom for Customers Only” sign on any of their many doors, so I feel no Catholic guilt for using their facilities without ordering a grande frappamacchiatini. Starbucks’ shitters are the Ellis Island of toilets: Bring us your stinky bums, your tired shoppers, your public-poop shy.
So, if ever I needed to drop some kids off at the pool, I ducked out of work and no one was the wiser. I was a mastermind!
My twentysomething co-worker, Stefanie thought so too. She, like me, was afraid to make her business known, but instead of thinking outside the shit box, she resolved to just hold it until she got home, which made for some unhappy days to say the least. She confessed this to me one day, and I shared with her my Holy Grail.
“OhmoigodMeganyou’reafriggingeniusyousavedmylife!!!” she gushed in a thick Queens accent.
Stef was a poopin’ machine. She was unstoppable. But even she was more self-conscious than me. If ever she needed to go number two, she’d shoot me an email:
“OMG I GOTTA MAKE A STARBUCKS RUN I NEED TO GO BADDDDD.”
Being the Yoda to her Poop Skywalker, I accompanied her for moral support. Instead of a light sabre, Stefanie armed herself with a Lysol spray can to mask her scent, and when she ran out of that she went next door to Duane Reade and bought a travel-sized Axe Body spritzer. Even I thought that was a bit overboard.
“I don’t want anyone to know what I did in there,” she explained.
“Girl. It’s a bathroom. I think we have a vague idea of what you did in there,” I said. “I don’t think anyone really cares. Besides, that bathroom smelled like a monkey house before you ever showed up, and don’t you think the person behind you will think it’s weird you left it smelling like cheap men’s cologne?”
There was no getting through to her. But her paranoia got me thinking. What is it about pooping that women find so shameful?
Not to get all gender studies over here, but seriously. What’s the big deal? We all poop. I’ve never had the pleasure of spending time in a men’s privy, but, like, don’t dudes find a point of pride in their dookie? Some women are afraid to be gross because being gross isn’t feminine, and that’s not only silly, but potentially dangerous.
I went to visit my friend Kelle when her husband was stationed in Hawaii a little over ten years ago. They lived on the barracks in a small but cute apartment with thin walls and the only bathroom right by their bedroom. I was so terrified of the possibility that they might hear me shit that I didn’t the whole week I was there. I was playing with fire.
On the turbulent plane ride back to the Mainland, my digestive tract decided my week’s worth of poi and pineapple overstayed its welcome, and it was time to hit the bricks. I spent most of the seven hour flight in the cramped airplane lavatory, negotiating with my digestive system and the poorly flushing toilet. I’ll never forget that trip to Hawaii. And not because of all the double rainbows.
With each Starbucks bathroom trip, I started recognizing the banality of my self-consciousness. Am I really this vain that I can’t let anyone think gross stuff comes out of me? For those of you who have the infinite pleasure of knowing me, it’s pretty obvious I really don’t give a shit (ha) what anyone thinks for the most part. I’m not high maintenance even a little bit. I don’t wear make-up. I don’t exfoliate as much as I should. There are times when I can’t even get it together to put on pants that button and zip (another story for another day). I’m not a delicate flower. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Smell my poops!
So I’ve embraced my boldness and am now proud to call myself a public pooper. Can I just say how liberating a feeling it is? I am shitting with abandon. And it feels like I’ve scaled the highest mountain. I am healthy and free.
When I told Stefanie about my newfound freedom a few months ago, she thought I was crazy, but just this morning she confessed to me she too is a public pooper.
“I’m flying without wings, Megan,” she beamed.
Yes you are, girl. Yes. You. Are.
This triumph of the human will didn’t happen overnight. When I started my job a few years back, I was disheartened to find no private stalls. Previous employment offered such a gift, a refuge where one could BM in private, but at my new job, commodes are communal.
I spend eight hours here, five days a week. I like my coffee black and strong. Naturally, nature’s gonna call. Always the industrial type, I noticed a Starbuck catty-corner from the building (and two more a block apart in opposite directions). While Starbucks is NYC’s go-to for quick, sub-par coffee, it’s also known as our fine city’s #1 public bathroom. There’s no “Bathroom for Customers Only” sign on any of their many doors, so I feel no Catholic guilt for using their facilities without ordering a grande frappamacchiatini. Starbucks’ shitters are the Ellis Island of toilets: Bring us your stinky bums, your tired shoppers, your public-poop shy.
So, if ever I needed to drop some kids off at the pool, I ducked out of work and no one was the wiser. I was a mastermind!
My twentysomething co-worker, Stefanie thought so too. She, like me, was afraid to make her business known, but instead of thinking outside the shit box, she resolved to just hold it until she got home, which made for some unhappy days to say the least. She confessed this to me one day, and I shared with her my Holy Grail.
“OhmoigodMeganyou’reafriggingeniusyousavedmylife!!!” she gushed in a thick Queens accent.
Stef was a poopin’ machine. She was unstoppable. But even she was more self-conscious than me. If ever she needed to go number two, she’d shoot me an email:
“OMG I GOTTA MAKE A STARBUCKS RUN I NEED TO GO BADDDDD.”
Being the Yoda to her Poop Skywalker, I accompanied her for moral support. Instead of a light sabre, Stefanie armed herself with a Lysol spray can to mask her scent, and when she ran out of that she went next door to Duane Reade and bought a travel-sized Axe Body spritzer. Even I thought that was a bit overboard.
“I don’t want anyone to know what I did in there,” she explained.
“Girl. It’s a bathroom. I think we have a vague idea of what you did in there,” I said. “I don’t think anyone really cares. Besides, that bathroom smelled like a monkey house before you ever showed up, and don’t you think the person behind you will think it’s weird you left it smelling like cheap men’s cologne?”
There was no getting through to her. But her paranoia got me thinking. What is it about pooping that women find so shameful?
Not to get all gender studies over here, but seriously. What’s the big deal? We all poop. I’ve never had the pleasure of spending time in a men’s privy, but, like, don’t dudes find a point of pride in their dookie? Some women are afraid to be gross because being gross isn’t feminine, and that’s not only silly, but potentially dangerous.
I went to visit my friend Kelle when her husband was stationed in Hawaii a little over ten years ago. They lived on the barracks in a small but cute apartment with thin walls and the only bathroom right by their bedroom. I was so terrified of the possibility that they might hear me shit that I didn’t the whole week I was there. I was playing with fire.
On the turbulent plane ride back to the Mainland, my digestive tract decided my week’s worth of poi and pineapple overstayed its welcome, and it was time to hit the bricks. I spent most of the seven hour flight in the cramped airplane lavatory, negotiating with my digestive system and the poorly flushing toilet. I’ll never forget that trip to Hawaii. And not because of all the double rainbows.
With each Starbucks bathroom trip, I started recognizing the banality of my self-consciousness. Am I really this vain that I can’t let anyone think gross stuff comes out of me? For those of you who have the infinite pleasure of knowing me, it’s pretty obvious I really don’t give a shit (ha) what anyone thinks for the most part. I’m not high maintenance even a little bit. I don’t wear make-up. I don’t exfoliate as much as I should. There are times when I can’t even get it together to put on pants that button and zip (another story for another day). I’m not a delicate flower. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Smell my poops!
So I’ve embraced my boldness and am now proud to call myself a public pooper. Can I just say how liberating a feeling it is? I am shitting with abandon. And it feels like I’ve scaled the highest mountain. I am healthy and free.
When I told Stefanie about my newfound freedom a few months ago, she thought I was crazy, but just this morning she confessed to me she too is a public pooper.
“I’m flying without wings, Megan,” she beamed.
Yes you are, girl. Yes. You. Are.
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