All That White Stuff In My Bathroom

I keep finding dried clumps of white stuff clinging to my lotion, my hair spray, my hair dryer, all over the sink… I even found some on the wall today. And I KNOW there’s some on the floor – I’m just not sure where.

It’s not what you’re thinking.

I tried to be a girl. I melted coconut oil and slathered it all over my hair. Well, not at first. At first I didn’t realize I had to melt it. Figured that out after I practically needed a chisel to get it out of the container.

Eventually I got enough into a separate bowl and melted it and proceeded to put the crap in my hair. Then I moved and shit went flying. I swear, I barely moved! It’s not like I felt a sudden and irrepressible urge to head bang. I didn’t! That shit hurts my neck too much. And I can promise you I have no love for haireography (hair + choreography. It was a thing on Glee… I’m pretty sure). But something happened and now, days later, I have clumps everywhere!

Good news is my hair is as soft and shiny as a newly minted puppy (because newly minted coins are shiny and puppies are soft. I’m tired. Go home.)

Bad news is that my shower has become as hazardous to me as a regular shower is to an octogenarian. I’m going to fall and not be able to get up. That bitch is slippery!

The internet all raves about the benefits of using coconut oil in your hair but no one ever mentions that it turns your shower into a death trap when you rinse the oil from your hair causing the non-water soluble OIL to coat your shower floor. Naturally, when you spell it out like that it kind of makes you *facepalm*.

PS. For anyone wanting to try this at home. What they also don’t mention is that the oil, warmed by your body heat, slowly drips from your hair to your neck and shoulders. It’s not a great feeling, let me tell ya. It’s slippery and slimy and kind of feels like someone ghosting their fingers along your neck which, when you’re lounging on the couch facing away from the rest of the presumably empty apartment, is not at all comforting.

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Valentine’s Day. You’re Doing It Wrong

Why are boxes of chocolates considered romantic?

Seriously. What genius decided that food known, nay proven, to add inches to your hips was the quintessential symbol of romantic gestures? Why not go with something that shows you care about her safety and security?

I’d rather get a box of condoms.

Flowers and Trojans, that’s the way to my heart. And vagina.

Who Knew It Could Get Worse?

A couple weeks ago I was drunk and bored so I decided to start a social experiment. I hypothesized (to myself) that I’d either be inundated with messages due to my purposefully appealing to stereotypical male loves or get none at all because my profile was one sentence. ONE SENTENCE.

It was somewhere in the middle.

As stated in my Social Experimentation post, I created a new profile on Plenty of Fish that professed, I make amazing homemade pizza, believe bacon goes with everything, and beer takes up 90% of the real estate in my fridge. Because what guy doesn’t love a chick whose priorities are pizza, bacon and beer, right?

I’ve had a regular POF account for a while and anyone who’s ever used this site knows, it’s note exactly a brain trust. Going into this, I thought my expectations were low…

They were not low enough.

In two weeks I got around ten messages that just said, “Hey.”

Several messages that told me how interesting I sounded.

I got one that said, “I want to bite your tongue.”

Several obligatory, “Hey gorgeous” (or some variation thereof) messages. Because if you tell a chick she’s pretty her mind immediately goes into squee mode and she’s gonna want to blow you, amiright fellas?

And my personal favorite, one that said, “Nice hoots.”

Honestly, this was probably definitely a waste of time and not nearly as entertaining as I’d hoped.

I think what we’ve learned here is that telling a guy what you think he wants to hear is not conducive to beginning a healthy relationship. (Shocking, I know.)

Unless you have nice hoots.

Are You Seeing Anyone?

It’s the question that every single girl gets tired of hearing after a while. Just four little words can cause uncontrollable shuddering, cringing, maybe even a facial tick.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Recently I met up with some former coworkers. We try to get together monthly for dinners but it’s typically hit or miss whether I can make it or not. I hadn’t seen them in a couple months so when I finally did arrive, late of course, and all the commotion died down and normal conversation resumed, one of my former work moms started a side conversation with me.

We talked about work and how that was going for both of us. She asked what’s new and I told her. Then the dreaded pause. I knew what was coming next. I had my canned response prepared. What I wasn’t prepared for was the fact that she couldn’t utter those four simple words without laughing at me!

Apparently I’m so chronically single that she can no longer keep a straight face when asking the (apparently mandatory) question, “Are you seeing anyone?”

COME ON!

It’s not that difficult. Or at least it shouldn’t be. Aren’t people supposed to want you to be in a successful, healthy relationship? Isn’t that why they ask? Now I can’t help but think that she’s asking me because there’s some sort of betting pool and she won that round.

Now I can’t help but wonder what’ll happen next time because I plan on answering in the affirmative for once. It’ll be a total lie but I kind of want to see her jaw drop 😉

Why You Can’t Have My Firstborn

Whenever someone has threatened to take my firstborn child in the past, I welcomed it. Have the brat! Take it! I never really wanted kids anyway. Better you than me. Good riddance! *phew* Bullet. Dodged.

But then I had a thought.

If I go through all the trouble of having the child, decimating my vagina beyond all recognition, then I’m keeping that little bugger and turning it into the free labour it was meant to be.

Right Megan, because that worked out so well for your parents. Rather than a child, I was like the freeloading, mooch friend in a movie who begged to crash on the couch for a week and then never left.

Fear not! I’ve found a way to ensure this NEVER happens to anyone else.

Threaten to yell, at their sixteenth birthday or some other opportune, highly publicized moment, “YOU RUINED MY VAGINA!”

I feel this’ll be especially effective on males.

Not only will that ensure your spawns compliance, but I feel it’s the least the universe can do for you after ruining your vagina with a melon-headed child.

Social Experimentation

It’s that time again. I’m bored. So I’ve decided it’s time to do another social experiment, similar to that time I posted on Craigslist seeking a houseboy. We all remember how well that went. Clearly this is a brilliant idea.

I’m going to change my online profile to read as follows:

I make amazing homemade pizza, believe bacon goes with everything, and beer takes up 90% of the real estate in my fridge.

Let the demands for my hand in marriage commence! Remember, when bribing my sixteenth century father, I’m worth at least a cow and two goats. I’ll not settle for anything less.

I’ll post the results after the data has been collated. Stay tuned.

****

BACON!!!!!!!

Would make an excellent war cry. In fact, I imagine it’d negate the need for war. Though some vegetarians might be sacrificed to the god of bacon.

I dress fancy

I went on a date the other night. A rare occurrence, I know, like a yetti sighting or Rob Ford doing an instructional video on snorting cocaine. (Oh no she didn’t! Also, how dated is that joke? Is he even still relevant?)

All my friends were excited. They’re all in relationships and like all good cult members, they desperately want me to join them.

In true girly fashion, I was nervous all day long. I showed his picture from his online profile (please, as if you didn’t already assume this was an internate kinda date) to everyone who dared to make eye contact. I used PhotoShop to create what I felt was a tasteful, yet effective, wanted poster lest the date go poorly and no one finds my body. To which I assume someone’s thinking, but Megan, if they do find your body don’t you still want them to find the guy? Why is the wanted poster to be used only in the event that we can’t find your body?

I’m glad you asked.

If you find my body and my brain is intact, I’m confident I’ll rise as a zombie. In which case I’ll take care of business myself.

However, should my body not be recovered, it is up to you, good friends, to find him and torture my current resting place out of him because I’ll be damned if I let some random internet dude choose where I spend eternity! And at that point I may literally be damned…

And, as always, upon my death, SOMEONE DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY!

Moving on.

The date was a dud. I mean, I had fun. I laughed. I had an awesome burger (though the pub was my idea so I take full credit for that) but what it basically came down to was that I didn’t to touch him inappropriately. And really, why bother dating someone if you haven’t the urge to wrest their clothes from their body. Preferably in tatters.

We part amicably and as I’m sitting in my truck, I take out my phone to find several missed messages. This may not sound like a lot to some people but in my world, bitch was popular.

My first return phone call was to Friend1 (yes, she’s in a relationship and I’m confident in assuming she had the cult membership papers already filled in on my behalf awaiting signature in blood). After ascertaining that I was alive, her first question was “OMG what did you wear?!”

I’m sorry, have we not met before? I wore the same shit I wore all day except I switched hoodies.

“What? You can’t be serious.”

No. Really. I wore my going out hoodie. It’s red.

I’m pretty sure I heard weeping.

When Multitasking Isn’t Such a Good Thing

You really don’t want to attempt to multitask while eating an ice cream cone. Eating an ice cream cone and a quick wardrobe change do not go hand in hand.

Here’s a tip, don’t do it. Just don’t.

Eat your ice cream then get undressed. It’s imperative you do it in this order. I can’t stress this enough. Ice cream THEN clothes. It’ll have you a lot of heartache and tears and messy, ice cream covered clothes which means it’ll save you from doing laundry. I can’t guarantee this, but there’s a significant probability it’ll also save you from falling on your ass. Or so I’ve heard.

Future Career as a Gourmet Chef

As we grow up our tastes expand, our horizons are broadened, our palettes honed. We become discerning experts in what we like and what we don’t like. We try new things for the thrill of experience. We delight in delighting our senses; turning dining into a taste-filled tactile adventure for our tongues, a visually dynamic smorgasbord, a symphony of scents, and while food doesn’t typically make a sound, I like to think our ears get to join in via some sort of gastrointestinal-aural contact high.

With that in mind, I set out to the grocery store the other day to procure ingredients for a culinary masterpiece. Not that I had anything particular in mind but I figured eventually inspiration would strike. And strike it did! I would made a pasta medley with creamy four cheese sauce! Not the healthiest of choices, certainly, but high on the yum factor.

I gathered what I needed and headed for the check out.

“That’s quite the variety of Kraft Dinner you’ve got there,” the cashier said, scanning my three different boxes of KD.

“I’m a veritable connoisseur,” I sniffed, then proceeded to walk away with my head held high (after paying).

What Uptown Funk is Really About

The line in the song that gets repeated a bajillion times is like the beginning of any trench coat wearing flasher’s taunt.

Flasher jumps out, opens coat and says,

Don’t believe me just watch… You won’t believe your eyes.

Don’t believe me just watch… It gets bigger. (Lecherous wink)

Don’t believe me just watch… It can windmill.

Dont believe me just watch… It’ll wear a hat.

Don’t believe me just watch… My pecs can dance. Hold on… No really, they can! I swear they did in the mirror last night.