Appropriately-Named Products

Found the ad posted on the right in InStyle magazine today. Apparently I'm a child because it cracked me up.

http://www.purseblog.com/tods/tods-d-bag.html

For just a little over 14 hundred bucks, you can own your own personal D-Bag, folks!

Or, for a mere $21,000, you can have one made from dead alligator. How super D-Baggy of you!

As purseblogger Megs Mahoney Dusil points out - "This is not the first we have seen of the D-Bag..." Diane Kruger, Julianne Moore, Leighton Meester, and Nicole Kidman are all D-Bags-- oh, sorry, they OWN D-Bags.

Plus, they go beautifully with the shoes pictured above - I believe those are Tod's Peruvian Leather F***tards. Gorgeous!

Pleasant Mail

A few days ago I received this lovely greeting card. Looking at the cover, take a minute and try to guess who it's from and/or what it's celebrating. Take note of the elegant china, the glazed pottery shining gaily in the sunlight, and it's breathtaking centerpiece - a regal bouquet of colorful fresh flowers.

Here's the interior.


Apparently California gynecologists have far more panache than their East Coast counterparts. My question is, what happens if it's abnormal? Is it the same card, but the flowers are dead? Is it a cartoon of a worried puppy biting his claws saying "Call us ASAP"?

2010: A Waste Odyssey

So, it's pretty evident from all the people running in our neighborhood that it's a new year yet again. Well, I've decided not to make resolutions this year because it's essentially setting yourself up to feel shitty a few months from now (if not sooner, if you have no attention span and/or willpower like, say, oh, I don't know, ME).

You - "I'm going to lose 30 pounds in a month and only drink every other Saturday and pay off my credit card debt!!"
Me - "Pass me a doughnut, jerkface. I need something to dip in my wine while I buy crap on eBay."

I am kind of bored, though, because no one will pay me to write anything - partly because there are no jobs out there and partly because, to be fairly honest, I'm probably not that good at it. And, somehow, despite having a functioning cerebral cortex (I finally got to use something I learned in college!), I can't come up with one good idea for a spec (that's a screenplay you write on speculation hoping someone might pay for it eventually - aka a waste of a few solid months of work).

Seriously, try it out, folks. Think up an original story. Make it exciting and big. "Well, I could do one about this guy who gets bit by a spider and gets magical pow-- oh. Okay, how about a comedy about these guys that go to Vegas for a bachelor party then wake up and they can't remem-- hmm." Hard, isn't it? So what's a lazy, idea-less writer to do? Other than the Star magazine crossword puzzle/Sudoku section?

Maybe I will make some resolutions. It's a new year and I need to start fresh. Get focused. Take charge of my life. Here goes...

- I resolve to have my weight wildly yo-yo and employ at least one stupidly restrictive crash diet in 2010.
- I resolve to spend a large portion of my time playing video games and/or watching horrible TV shows instead of doing something productive. (Jersey Shore, anyone?)
- I resolve to be ridiculously easily distracted from any attempt at actual work.
- I resolve to make brash impulsive purchases that I don't need and/or won't ever use. ("That humidifier looks like a pig! I MUST HAVE IT.")
- I resolve to not intentionally rape or murder anyone. Unless they really deserve it.

It's going to be hard, but I'm summoning all my fortitude to make these resolutions happen.

Yeah, I'm like those dicks who give up spinach for Lent. And I feel good about it.

Reminiscing

An Equation Re: The American Girl Store in NYC

Hundreds of spoiled, screaming twat kids + tons of way-too-lenient parents who seriously should be beating their kids, but instead are buying them $500 worth of doll outfits and letting them run wild + small areas in which it is difficult to maneuver, even without a loud infuriating crowd all up in your business + lines the size of my ass (very big) for everything + being subjected to 10 perky child actors singing and dancing for what felt like back-to-back eternities + listening to Chris's Dad go on and on about how great his soup is as he sips it from his little pink bowl + the realization that we're going to the Toys 'R Us in Times Square next = Megan's sanity quietly slipping away as she wonders about how painful it would really be to run out the door and throw herself in front of a cab.

Welcome to LA, fat ass.

Day 6
States I Ass-Kicked Today: AZ
Current Location: Los Angeles, CA
Hours of Sleep Last Night: 4.5

So, amazingly, I made it to our new apartment in one piece and without any of the following: car problems, accidents, speeding tickets, diseases, ligature marks, clean clothes or interesting stories.

Here's a summary of my trek:
3200 - approximate no. of miles driven
51 - approximate no. of hours on the road
3 - approximate no. of hours spent actually moving over the last 6 days
15 - approximate no. of lbs of junk/fast food consumed
11 - approximate no. of lbs gained
3 - approximate no. of times Chris said "You're not that fat" when I got here
16 - approximate no. of cookies Chris baked for me
12 - approximate no. he ate before I got home
65 - approximate no. of times I heard Kid Rock's new song on the radio
2200 - approximate no. of times I heard "God" said on the radio
3 - approximate no. of hours spent talking to myself
26 - approximate no. of times Chris told me "something cute" the dog had done while we spoke on the phone
14 - times word "approximate" has appeared in this blog so far

Okay, day 6. I got up early to hit the Flagstaff Holiday Inn Express free breakfast to find... bedlam. A huge mob fighting for baked goods and juice. It was complete and total anarchy. Men had their ties around their heads, tourists had jelly smeared on their faces like war paint. I saw a 6-year old on a table brandishing a plastic knife and threatening to slice the throats of anyone who attempted to touch her Fruit Loops. I saw a soccer mom light a carton of orange juice on fire and throw it into the crowd, Molotov cocktail-style. I saw an old woman scream a battle cry and dive into a dog-pile for half a muffin. She didn't make it. I just wanted a piece of fruit. Sweet Jesus, just a piece of fruit. The things I did. The horror.

Back on the road I drove really far out of my way to see the Grand Canyon. And apparently I am soulless and evil, because I got bored after staring at it for 10 minutes, got back in my car and left. I have gotten nothing but shit about this. People are downright offended. Chris is horrified. "How can you not be impressed by the Grand fucking Canyon?!?!" I was impressed. I just didn't know what to do after I had done my staring. Should I compose a poem regarding it's vastness? Should I throw myself into it as a sacrifice to it's splendor? Should I talk to the myriad of Asian tourists milling about about how great our country is because, well, look at the size of our hole!




What's fun is when you get in your car and see a sign that reads "Los Angeles - 466 miles".

For a while I cut over and drove historic Route 66 - beautiful, with antique cars going by and little old-school towns dotted with soda shoppes and general stores and... Exxons. I bought a root beer and turned on the oldies station and drove. Awesome, until I realized I don't really like root beer and was getting a bruised butt.


Finally I arrived home, exhausted. After two days of seeing no one on the road, it's a bit jarring to be in a city again. It's a bit sad, because as much as I bitch, I actually really enjoyed the trip. That and I'm lazy and not looking forward to having to do work again.


Favorite pictures:

Woman at Graceland.

"Participated in drug experimentation" - from the old people at the Route 66 museum.

Apparently PBR was once used for gonorrhea.

Wow, if you're an insomniac or so hepped up on speed that your heart my burst if you don't calm down, read this blog. Bo-ring. Better stop before it gets worse.

Well, end of transmission I guess. Thanks for reading. Sorry if you did.

It's symbolic, jerk.

My Windshield is a Bug's Worst Nightmare

Day 5

States I Ass-Kicked Today: New Mexico

Current Location: Flagstaff, Arizona

Total Miles Traveled So Far: About 2,600

Dead Insects on Windshield: About 2,600

My favorite sign for today:

"Or they may not. Whatever." - state of New Mexico

This morning I awoke bright and early. Not of my own volition, mind you. I was on the first floor of the crack den Super 8 and a guy outside decided to rifle through his pickup while his loud car alarm went off. First I thought "He's robbing that truck!" and my reaction was relief, because it wasn't our car. Then, after a good three minutes, douche pulls his key fob out of his pocket and shuts off the alarm. Are you kidding, dick? I wanted to pull off his Calvin-peeing-on-a-Ford-symbol mud flaps and shove them down his throat. Finally I got back into bed and shut my weary eyes... only to be awoken immediately by two Mexican cleaning ladies screaming back and forth and cackling at the top of their lungs in the hallway.

So if this is garbled and crappy, go fuck yourself. No one else is reading this shit anyway. Chris.

After my restful, soothing morning, I headed to the Roswell UFO Museum and Research Center, where the woman behind the desk kept giving me nasty looks while she helped the old couple in front of me. How does she know I'm from the North already? What the hell, bitch?! I thought. Then it was my turn and I realized she had a lazy eye. I am a terrible person and should rot in hell.

Once inside the actual museum part, the first thing I noticed was a group of visitors wearing tin foil helmets. Seriously. I hope it was a joke. Otherwise, there's a large group of paranoid schizophrenics wandering the tourist attractions of Roswell. Be advised.

As for the museum, it's pretty interesting, actually. LOTS of text to read - it's not really "interactive", but I knew nothing about the Roswell Incident, so that was fascinating. I am a total skeptic about most things, but this gave me pause. They have a ton of sworn affidavits and articles and shiz. Read this is you don't know what I'm talking about: www.roswellufomuseum.com/incident.htm

Oh, and they also have a prop from the Showtime movie "Roswell".

That's actually Kyle MacLachlan in the lab coat. He hasn't had a lot going on since Charlotte dumped his impotent ass. Zing! Oh no she didn't!

Then I headed northwest to Tinkertown - a small museum out in the middle of nowhere. Not to wax rhapsodic (as I so often do), but the landscape and views and sky and mesas and sun and clouds - it was freakin' beautiful today. Okay, that's enough earnestness. Tinkertown started when some crazy guy decided to carve a little house and little people to live there. And he also started embedding bottles into the thick cement walls he was building around his house. Then he decided to make more little people, and more little buildings, and 40 years later he had 50,000 bottles in his walls and a bazillion little carved things sitting around, so they turned his house into a museum. Tin. Foil. Helmets. Anyway, the guy was incredibly talented and this place is insanely weird in a cool way. They have old-timey machines that still work. I did a fortune teller machine. Then they asked me to leave. Hey-oh! See, because I was implying I had sex with the machine... [coughs, clears throat] So, my fortune said I should be nicer to my husband and wear onyx jewelry. I'll do one of those things. If I can find some onyx jewelry. Here's a creepy woman that the guy carved, holding a most-definitely racist doll:Finally, my evening concluded at a restaurant in Flagstaff, where I am staying at a much nicer hotel. I don't like to brag, but can you say Holiday Inn Express? High roller! Anyway, ate dinner at a diner. The waitress was very friendly. She complimented me on my hair. I complimented her on hers. Mainly because I was afraid of her (she had a shaved head with one dyed-black patch of bangs in the front). She kept calling me "babe" and "sweetheart". I was weary of trying to concentrate on my book while the French tourists (no, I don't know why there were French tourists in a diner in Flagstaff) behind me argued loudly. Anyway, I asked for a slice of apple pie to go. The waitress came back with what appeared to be a trash bag. "We had a little extra," she smiled. Oh God, she's trying to poison the Northerner I thought, smelling the bag for an almond-y smell (that's how you identify cyanide. What the hell kind of spy are you?). When I got to the hotel and warily opened the container, there was HALF A PIE in there. Seriously. And... wait for it... wait for it... her number.

I am such a stud.

Edited for content...

Day 4
State’s I’ve Ass-kicked Today: Texas
Current Location: Roswell, NM
No. of Days I've Worn These Socks: 3 (I wore flip-flops Monday)

So I'm chillin' in a crack den, otherwise known as the Roswell Super 8. I chose it because it's cheap. That should be the slogan here: "Come because it's cheap. Leave because you got burgled and strangled to death." The room is something out of those movies where the family has to go into protective custody and they get put in the shady hotel with dirty carpet and a bedspread from 1972. If there's no blog tomorrow night, somebody call the po-po.

This morning, in Oklahoma, I met God.
And he was made with gravy.

I went to "Classen's" for breakfast - a run-down dive that happened to be within thirty feet of the hotel I stayed in. I got my share of odd looks, for being alone and because I spoke with an English accent. Obviously, I've been eating and going to movies and stuff by myself, and that's slightly unusual, but I've been thinking of ways I could take it a step farther, do shit that would be really weird to do alone. Like, I could go through a corn maze and then celebrate wildly with myself at the end, hugging myself and shouting "I DID IT! I DID IT! I didn't think I could, but I did! Yaaaaaay!!" And I hate how people give you automatic pity when you eat by yourself. "Just one?" said with furrowed brow and pouted lip (you can see the thought bubble reading "You poor pathetic girl that nobody loves. That's it, come in and eat your feelings"). So I've come up with some inappropriate responses to the "Is it just you today?" question: "Yeah, my best friend died three days ago. Thanks for rubbing salt in my wounds." OR "Yeah, I shot my boyfriend point blank in the face this morning. Stupid cops think it was his business partner. Ha! Fucking pigs." OR, my favorite "Yeah, my husband left me because we found out I'm barren. Could I have a booth, please? Thaaaaaanks."

Anyway, back to my spiritual breakfast experience. I asked the waitress what to order and she said she'd have the kitchen put together something, which I took to mean five cooks were going to ejaculate in my food. What came out was ejaculate-free (I think) and nothing short of amazing. They call it "Biscuit Debris". It's biscuits and gravy sprinkled with three kinds of meat and smothered in cheese. Not going to lie, I got a little moist. I took a bite and angels sang. It was RIDICULOUS. I could only eat about a third of it before I felt full and sick. Later I had explosive diarrhea at the Route 66 museum. It was totally worth it.

Next stop, Route 66 museum. Run by old ladies who really want you to know and love that darn road. Not necessarily for the MTV generation. I felt guilty enough to spend a while pretending I gave a shit about road-building so the sweet old lady at the register wouldn't feel like her twilight years were a total waste. Okay, it wasn't that bad. I think my memories are just colored by the unpleasantness I did in their bathroom. Here's a picture of a picture of a sign that might have been somewhere on Route 66 at some point. And now you know what my afternoon was like.

Next I hit the road. It poured today and the only CD I hadn't listened to four thousand times was a Death Cab for Cutie CD. Needless to say, I almost drove myself into a telephone pole. I tried to distract myself with the signs - lots of weird signs out there today. There was an exit sign that read "Corn". There's a town called Corn, Oklahoma. Awesome. Oh, and I forgot, in Tennessee there was a sign praising "The Infant Jesus of Prague." I looked it up and apparently people worship a wooden statue of baby Jesus from Prague. Really. There's a church dedicated to the thing in fucking Tennessee. Southerners are craaaazy. Speaking of which, the radio is a complete void now. Christian rock, Christian ministry, Christian "news" (basically people talking about how they're trying to "pray away abortion"). Yikes.

Later I stopped on a frontage road in Amarillo, Texas to see Cadillac Ranch - an art thing where these cars are lined up in the ground and people spray-paint them. Pretty cool, actually, until I noticed someone was videotaping me looking around at the cars. I pretended not to notice and tried my best to suck it in. The guy said it was for a Swedish TV show. Right. Definitely a news piece on obesity or a segment on the Style Network about how not to dress.

Then I arrived here in rainy Roswell. Memo to self: Roswell sucks my balls.

Luckily, I can sleep well in this murder hole knowing that I'm under the watchful protection of a small wooden statue of the infant Jesus purchased by someone a long time ago in Prague. Whew.