Like Riding a Bike

I saw a dude riding a bicycle today with a bag or groceries or whatever in one hand and texting with the other. He had no need for the handlebars. Handlebars are obsolete. He’s got this shit handled. And I thought damn, that guy can ride a bike. Like seriously, that’s talent. Now just imagine what would happen if he applied the same concentration and dedication it took him to get to that bike-master level to an actual skill he might be able to afford a car and not have to ride a bike everywhere.


The Teenagers Made Me Do It

A friend of mine (not yours, mine!) sent this to me today and aside from it being utterly hilarious, it’s also painfully true – and well timed.


About an hour before she sent it to me I was sitting outside a Starbucks with another friend, just lounging, enjoying an overpriced beverage and a patio, as I am wont to do. There we are just sitting there, discussing our RRSPs, mortgages and viable eggs… JUST KIDDING! On our agenda was custom made Star Wars dresses, internating and dubious decisions made whilst intoxicated. It was all well and good until four


sat down at the table next to us while they waited for someone’s mother to pick them up.

Honestly I was doing my best to tune them out and apparently I was successful because as soon as they left my friend started talking about one of them who apparently has been with the love of her life for SIX WHOLE MONTHS (it’s super cereal guys) and he just got her a ring. Sighhhhh. Drool. Stabs BFF/Bestie out of jealousy but it’s ok because that’s what girl 1 wanted her bestie to feel so she can at least die knowing her life was better than her Bestest Fucking Friend’s.

I’m sorry but y’all can’t even drive yet! Was the ring from a cereal box? Out of one of those machines where you put in a twoonie, twist the dial and out pops a plastic bubble containing what I’m sure is a quality ring that appropriately conveys the love shared by these two soulmates?


Your problems are trivial. You have no idea what a real problem is. Shouldn’t you be studying?! (I don’t care that it’s August.)

I’ve never felt more adult in my life. It’s not a good feeling. I’m going to go shower. With beer.

Liquor and Life

You know, I never understood alcoholism nor why someone would want to hide at the bottom of a bottle. It’s not like your problems go away. They’re there, and likely worse, when you’re sober again (or at least less drunk). I mean, if I want to escape my problems I’m not just going to hide from them, I’m going to run the fuck away from those bastards. To a different country. Where I’l live under an assumed name. And wear shirts that say “Fuck this shit!” and “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.” (Alright so it’s not much different than my current life but theoretically Foreign Country Megan has less problems and spends the majority of her time on a beach.)

That said, I think I should live my life slightly buzzed.

Why, you ask? I’ll tell you why.

  1. I’m nicer
  2. It feels less like the world is crashing down around me
  3. I feel calmer
  4. It’s easier to make small talk
  5. I almost want to make small talk
  6. I care less about the judgement and censure of others
  7. I’m friendlier
  8. I have less of a filter

So, ya, I think I’ll carry a flask with me from now on and maintain just a bit of a buzz. I’m not just doing it for me, I’m doing it for the good of everyone – well, everyone that comes into contact with me.

Life advise from Megan. No one should ever follow this.


This post brought to you by the Bailey’s in my lunchtime coffee.

Toga! Toga! Toga!

So I went grocery shopping the other day. Well, I was out with friends and we stopped so I could pick up a few things because, as usual, I didn’t have much of anything.

At the time I thought this was a great idea. I was being responsible! I would have food! Hurray!

Get in the store.

Walk the aisles.

Go to checkout.

Stand in line to purchase grapes, 4 litres of vegetable oil and cheese croissants.

Friends look at me, “You know, it looks like you’re buying supplies to deep fry these grapes and croissants and have a lot left over.”

Me: “Pfft. Like I’d deep fry anything. That shit is dangerous to my person and so bad for you! No, the oil is for greasing up hot Greek guys and the grapes are for them to feed to me while they’re fanning me with obscenely large leaves.”

Friend: “What about the croissants?”

Me: “Those are for stamina.” 😉

Checkout Girl: *trying not to laugh*

Woman behind me in line: *Absolutely horrified and disgusted*

My job here is done.

Bette Midler, My Hero

Recently, my friend and I were excited to go see the amazing, wonderful, effervescent, melodious Bette Midler in concert. Why, you might ask, would two gals in their late twenties want to see Bette Midler in concert? Admittedly, we’re not her key demographic but we’re both of the firm, but pliable, opinion that every once in a while everyone deserves a good BM.

A Great BM

Unfortunately the incomparable Ms. Midler’s concert date fell on the last day of our road trip and we decided to hit a safari in Oregon instead… in our defense, we did see lions and tigers and bears and absolutely said “Oh my!” at several points during the drive through safari.

Lions and tigers and bears


So, thank you to Wildlife Safari in Oregon and sorry to Ms. Midler that we weren’t able to grace you with our presence. We know you missed us and it just wasn’t the same.

If you’re in the area and in the mood to see some some carnivores and feed some emus, stop by. I highly recommend it.


Holy crap it’s here. It’s time. This is happening.

Breathe, Megan. Just breathe.

You may not believe it, I know I hardly can, but today I am doing something momentous.

I. Am. Going. On. A. Vacation.

First time in six years.

My friend and I are roadtripping down to Napa Valley for the Bottlerock concert(s). We’ll be pausing in Oregon tonight because Voodoo Doughnuts. And then depending on how things go tomorrow, a quick stop in San Francisco before spending the night in Napa and then three days of amazing concerts, food and wine (*sigh* Heaven). After the concerts it’s back to San Francisco because I can’t go there and not see Alcatraz. Then we it’s an early start and back home to wrap up our epic adventures with the effervescent Ms. Bette Midler.


I’ll be doing some posts here about our adventures and have been asked to submit some to my new favorite people, the Voyage Vixens. Watch for our hashtag…



These Are The Days of (My Friend’s) Lives

I’m not generally a story topper but usually when a friend comes to me with a ‘woe is me’ story, I offer up my latest escapade (because there seems to always be a latest escapade) and say “Hey man, it could be worse, it could be…[insert escapade here]”

Buuuuuuuut they finally did it. Two of my friends are officially worse off than me. I can’t compete. AND IT’S AWESOME! I think I’ll strut a bit today.

Friend 1 is buying a condo.

Why doesn’t anyone tell the truth about major life events? Why must they all insist they’re magical, fluffy unicorns when, in actuality, they’re more akin to being murdered by a horde of demons armed with thick paper (for paper cuts) and lemons (for squeezing in said paper cuts and they’ll give you so many that you die from it. Eventually.)

Buying a house, getting married, spawning a child. These are all supposed to be magical life events that are wondrous occurrences, signifying your leveling-up in adulthood. But what no one tells you is the SHEER HORROR OF EACH OF THESE EVENTS. There’s no magical unicorn. No fluffy rainbow. There’s just a maniacal bunny pointing and laughing at you and you want to much to pet the fuzzy beast but you just know it’ll go all Monty Python on your ass and you’ll suddenly be the headless horseman – horsePERSON, thank you very much, it’s not the bloody 50’s anymore, no one liked the 50’s anyways except maybe Coke, I feel like they liked the 50’s… what?

Buying a house sucks worse than a broken vacuum with no suction. It’s all fun and games until you see a shiny place that you’d like to purchase for yourself and then it’s all downhill like a big rig with no brakes from there. The seller drags their feet. The seller’s realtor goes on frequent vacations (ok, we get it, you make a fuckload of money…). You have to wade through months of bullshit strata meeting minutes that basically tell you which neighbors are whiny bastards and which try to hide dog poop in the gutters (WTF people? Really?) They also tell you which neighbors are cultured and pretentious and play the piano… and which ones are intolerant rednecks and complain about the strains of Chopin ruining their shopping cart BBQ.


You’ll also find out that your mortgage broker doesn’t really want you to get any money and, as much as they don’t want to give you their money, they want you to have your own even less. “What do you mean you deposited an extra $5 in your savings seven months ago? Where did it come from? I need a notarized affidavit stating it was a gift from your dead uncle’s hamster’s estate”.

And don’t even get me started on weddings – hello, Bridezilla. It’s a thing. Do you think those bitches are happy? NO! They’re wondering what the fuck they were thinking when they agreed to the whole wedding thing. “But Megan, some brides are happy,” I hear you say. Yeah, because they’re heavily medicated – and not necessarily with their knowledge or consent. Why do you think the divorce rate is so high? Because the husband stopped being able to sneak her the happy pills.

Sure, on the surface pregnancy sounds like fun. I’ll just sit around and eat all the things, right? Not so much. For the first three months your body will attempt to eject the parasite (because that’s what the fetus is) via projectile vomiting (that’s how the reproductive system works, right?). Then you’ll have to pee fifty million times per day. Then there’s the mile long list of things that could go wrong with you or the parasite baby and unfortunately nothing that could go right. As in, the mother never comes out the other side of pregnancy saying “Hey, my boobs got bigger and stayed bigger! Woo!” No. That doesn’t happen. You’ve got a damaged body and this crying thing that you hope to hell you can mold into someone who won’t stick you in a crappy home when you’re old and frail and you’ve spent all your money gambling on bingo and greyhounds.

Friend 2 let her boyfriend do buttstuff.