The Adventures of Me

Drunk York

You guys, I forgot how many bars there are in New York. In summary: there are a crapton. That's an exact scientific figure. A couple of things: 1) having lived in LA the last 7 years I always had to temper my drinking because of the whole driving thing and it being illegal and in poor form to combine the two 2) thanks to the whole lacking a gallbladder thing booze hits me hard and fast. 

Ergo living here has  been kind of awesome but not what one would call 'responsible' or 'healthy'. It can however be called hilarious. I have taken to sending random texts to friends that at the time I find amazing, in the morning I find confusing, and then by midday find funny because WHAT WAS I DOING.

The most recent addition to this text collection is a picture text I sent recently. It was a selfie of me, fully dressed and watching tv, with a tee shirt on my head. The caption? 'Sex magic'. What the actual fuck? I truly wish I knew what I had been thinking because four days later I am still at a loss. 

Oh and the other day I sprinted down the street, cupping my own ears in a surprise thunderstorm, screaming about my hearing aids and how they can't get wet. That however was me stone cold sober. I guarantee the people on the street who looked at me perplexed, as I flew past them screaming about aids, probably wouldn't have guessed that one though. 

Wherein I Can Never Drink Juice Again

The scene:

Me, having run/walked 2.5 miles because it's Monday and I was therefore running late, sweaty, going into my most favorite juice place in all the world to get my morning kale juice. I KNOW, I'm an asshole. An asshole who pays a man $7 a day to juice kale for her. The shop is unusually packed full of people. So I send a text.

Me: My juice place is jammed this morning

Him: Worst euphemism ever

And now I can't drink juice because of vaginas. (I'm totally going to drink more juice because both kale juice and vaginas are awesome, I will however now never be able to disassociate them). 

Also, yesterday I was surrounded by pregnant women and one of them told me in detail how she dried her own placenta. So that happened. And then I had 47 margaritas to make it go away. 

One Month

A month ago I boarded a flight to New York and left my LA life behind. You guys, I'm not going to lie, it's been difficult. Mostly in part because I am a big, whiny, baby and also, LA has really great tacos. I miss them. 

This first month has been about finding my footing. I have some people here but I feel oddly out of place without my LA band of misfits surrounding me. I miss the sunshine and ability to wear flip flops everyday, every where and to every fancy dinner if you feel like it. I miss the fact that there's a vegan thai place on every corner. I miss being 15 minutes away from the beach. I miss wine country. I miss driving fast, singing along to the radio and the feeling it brings that makes you feel like you're the only person on the planet. I miss being able to talk about my astrologist and get knowing nods and a murmur of 'well, Mercury *is* in retrograde'. 

I gave those things up. I gave them up for rain, and jackets and steam heated apartments that are always slightly too warm. For bagels and italian food and weight gain. For opting to walk the hour to work with headphones on, watching the city come to life. For champagne. For that feeling like life can change in an instant and holy fuck is it ScaryAwesome. 

It's been really overwhelming. I kind of resisted it, for like, oh... 3 weeks? I didn't want to let LA go. I didn't want to lose the person I became there.  The one covered in cat hair, clutching a stripper pole. I like that girl. Somewhere in the last week I realized I can still be that girl here. That I'll find my footing and my own misfits here. They probably won't discuss astrology with me, but you know, I'm a big enough hippie on my own. That it will just take some time. 

In light of the insanity of last week and all of the loss and pain I saw happen in the world, it made me open my eyes to how fucking lucky I am. I mean, I get to live here. I get to be in love here. And I get the chance to fall in love with New York all over again. Even if my footing isn't quite solid yet, I'm on my way. 

A New York Moment

Last weekend we booked a storage unit. I know, the luxury in Manhattan, a storage unit of our very own. However, as we have ALL OF THE THINGS, this is a necessity. As we have another day before my stuff arrives (tangent: Stuff! Glorious stuff! I want to roll around on all of my things, laughing) we decided to empty some stuff into the unit beforehand. Thankfully, said unit comes with a storage taxi (I KNOW) and they will come to your house, take your stuff and you and drive it to the storage center.

The storage taxi, however, comes with panic inducing rules. You must be downstairs with all of your things curbside and be loaded into the van within 20 minutes. If you go longer than that they will leave you. Cut to me hyperventilating on the side of a Manhattan sidewalk. 

Our van arrives and we start to load in the boxes. Easy. Done in a flash. Then came the point where we had to load in the bar. The bar that looks deceptively light. Apparently it's made of glass. And this we will call as 'thing I learned when trying to lift said bar and dislocated my entire body'. Luckily our driver was amazing and helped. In doing so he had to leave the van parked kind of well, in the middle of the street. This, needless to say, backed up traffic. Ahem. 

Cut to: Van blocking all traffic, cars rerouting away from our street

Clueless Brinks truck driver decides to come down our street anyway.

Brinks truck driver not just dumb but also a douche.

Cut to a truck driver laying on his horn, without stop, for 5 minutes. 

And then I had a panic attack and died. 

And then he put on a siren and stared at us. Seriously, I sweat out of pores I didn't know I had. Sexy!

The boys finally were able to get the bar into the van and I stopped pacing. We pulled away and as our driver was again, very awesome, he pulled to the side to let everyone pass. This is when this moment happened. (Please read in a very heavy, stereotypical, New York accent)

Brinks Truck Douche: Fuck you, you fuck!

Awesome Driver: Your muttha!

Awesome Driver to us: Why'd he have to go and do that? This is New York! We all gotta pull together. Work as a team, ya know? And then he went and did that! And I had to bring his mother into it. I don't know his mother, I'm sure she's a lovely woman.

And then he drove us to the storage unit and I contemplated proposing to a stranger. You guys, he was magic. 

Movin'

So you guys, I totally moved back to New York. As often as I say that and, you know, the fact I wake up in New York daily, it has not sunk in yet. Perhaps it's because my stuff isn't here. Or perhaps it's due to the moderately whirlwind nature of my move. Or, finally, perhaps because I am a very dumb person who doesn't understand things like moving and time. Whichever. Perhaps a combination of all of the above.

Let's back it up so I can tell you the story of the move because as is wont to happen in my life it was weird, moderately traumatic, and full of injuries.

The day of the move I woke up at the asscrack of dawn because anxiety. Also, because the movers who would also be packing my entire apartment were due to arrive at 8. I prepped stuff and got ready and then I waited. And waited. And then? I waited some more. You see, they didn't arrive until 11. When you are already full of anxiety because A) moving cross country B) dudes be touchin' your stuff and C) you're on a tight schedule and need to be out of the place by 5pm or forfeit part of your security deposit, each second feels like an hour. By the time they got there I was ready to jump out of my skin. Within the next 15 minutes I wanted back in my skin, to zip it up and run away screaming. This is due to the fact that the movers were APs. What's that you ask? It's shorthand for apartment poopers.

YEAH.

They showed up 3 hours late and then each went into my bathroom (where my poor, now traumatized cats, were locked up) and pooped. One dude let a cat out and I had to rescue him, calm him down and then put him back in the ROOM OF DREAD. You guys. The four seconds I was in there, not breathing, sunk into my skin and scarred me for life. It was bad. So bad I wanted to have a sit down talk with them about their fiber intake. Luckily, the smell knocked me mute for a few hours so I didn't get that chance. I did have a chance though to text everyone I know about the poop. You're welcome, friends.

Then I watched them slowly pack my life into many, many boxes and cart them to a truck. For hours. Until 6pm. At which point I had an anxiety attack the size of Texas and cried. Oh. I did. That's when I was scooped up, whisked away and deposited in a hotel with my cats and 4 bottles of wine. This was a wise, wise choice. I may have lost part of my security deposit but you know what? Wine. That's what.

The next day we flew to NYC. Have you ever been on a plane with cats? Cats that had been locked in a bathroom that smelled like a stranger's poop the day before? Yeah. It's not pretty. I had gotten kitty xanax for them and had tested it out to great (really funny) success. In short: stoned cats are hilarious. The fat cat took his xanax like a good little addict and then took a nap until we got to the new place. The other cat? That motherfucker grew thumbs and turned into satan. First of all, he meowed and thrashed for 6 hours straight. Second, at one point the meowing stopped and we looked down at the bag, shocked. What we found there was not a bag but a cat who had somehow unzipped his own case and was now making a break for it.

How does a cat unzip a bag from the inside?

I don't know. I do know, however, what cat claws feel like when when go into your hand and try to dig through the other side.

Yeah. I do. I also know what it's like to have 3 airplane wines and a human xanax. So, you know, it evens out.

Asshole Letters I Send My Friends

Last week I went to Austin for SXSWi. This is what I sent my friends from my flight back.

 

You guys,

(To be sung to the reading rainbow theme song) drunk girl in the sky....I need a glass of wine. She's in a plane, a moving plane .... it's the Meghan writttinnngggg.

Before we get to sxsw I need you guys to know I just broke my James Bond cherry while watching skyfall. I'd never seen a Bond film before. I KNOW.  It pretty much reaffirms I should be a spy:

1) I'm in horrible physical condition
2) I barely speak English let alone any foreign language
3) I have like a 10% accuracy rate when shooting
4) NO ONE WOULD EVER SUSPECT ME

For the real. I look like I just fell out of Minnesota. And you know, the insanely amazing list above. But, I wanna be a spy. Because guns, awesome clothes, booze and sex. Also, travel. Oh, and the most important thing if you're a spy I'm pretty sure you're allowed to lick Daniel Craig. And dear sweet merciful Christ. If I can't lick him can I at least grate cheese on his abs? Goals, I haz them.

I also have a liver pain due to the previously mentioned sxsw. You guys I drank all of the tequila. Like woah. One day I also drank moonshine and it made my soul so happy that I know for sure that  in a former (or potentially future) life I lived in the back hills of Tennessee in a trailer. But moonshine. It's delicious. And potent. I got cut off at two because if I hadn't I would have napped in the street with less than zero shame. So, I was cut off and switched to tequila. LIKE AN ADULT. Which i drank for the next 4 days solid. Followed closely by alllllllll of the guacamole. So in case you were wondering I have to now wear caftans. And that's how I spent 5 days. Oh and networking and judging people (deeeeeeppllllyyyyy). So. Austin nutshell style.

I'm super excited to be home. And sober. And on a juice fast to negate the guacamole and wine and general Austin. Also, for my good bye party because holy fucking shit I'm moving. In 10.5 days. DAYS!!!!!!!

And now I need wine number 3. Because HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M MOVING.

I love you all and I can't wait to see you, awkwardly hug you for far too long and cry.

I am probably not Buddha but I should be a spy,
M

Deaf Meghan

There's a running joke among my friends and family and it's that I can't hear shit. It's funny because it's true. If someone talks below a scream I will end up staring at them and saying 'huh'? In short: it's super attractive and time efficient!

I knew that my hearing was bad but you know, how bad could it be? Well, it turns out, it could be really bad. On Monday I started my new job. I went to a meeting and I literally couldn't hear anything at the table. Guys, I panicked. I was sitting there and my pulse just started to race. I was lost and confused and really frustrated. Also, really, really scared. I couldn't hear people two feet away from me. AT ALL. So I walked back to my desk and made an immediate appointment to go see someone.

Let's back it up really quick. My hearing has been bad since I was a kid. I was on a flight when I was 8 and quite sick. Thanks to this I couldn't pop my ears and my left ear drum well, it ruptured. Do Not Try This. It hurts a fuck ton. Like woah. When my ears finally popped 3 days later I had lost a significant amount of hearing. The doctor said it could heal over time and it did seem to. I mean, I had some loss but nothing I couldn't live with. Ergo, when I went to the doctor yesterday I expected him to say it all related to that and my right ear was fine and whatever.

Not whatever. Apparently I have a disorder called Otosclerosis. It typically hits women in their late 20s to 30s and you slowly lose hearing. Thanks to my previous ear injury I had a head start to this amazingness. So, this disorder seemingly started in my right ear and caught up with my left. Hence the complete and total not being able to hear. Wheeee! Party! A party that I can't hear!

There are two ways to address this: 1) I can have surgery. SURGERY IN MY EAR WHICH IS LOCATED ON MY HEAD. Ahem. or 2) I can get even sexier by getting two, count them, two hearing aids. Being as the surgery carries a risk of complete and total hearing loss and also means people would be OPERATING ON MY HEAD I decided to go the hearing aid route. Which brings me to the most important question of all time: can you bedazzle a hearing aid? Because those bitches need some glitter.

In short, it was scary and I cried and apparently insurance doesn't cover hearing aids. But, tomorrow after I pick them up I will finally be able to eavesdrop on conversations in restaurants. Dreams really do come true.

Let Them (Me) Eat Cake

You guys, I have The Stress. All caps. Bold. Perhaps with sparkles.

As you know I'm moving cross country with a cat under each arm. I'm also changing jobs and well, my whole life. It's kind of, what's the word I'm looking for here, really fucking stressful. It makes me slam my head into my desk repeatedly and mumble in incoherent ways that sound weirdly like swedish. After a particularly stressful day at work (broken computer, can't do anything, need to as am leaving) I received a call. My phone flashed saying 'Beverly Hills'. I answered under the misguided impression that someone was like 'hey buddy, you're having A DAY, here's rich people cake'.

Dumb.

It was the hospital I went to in December for Kidneys of Doom Round 2. Apparently they hadn't been paid because my insurance company was claiming I had another insurance carrier. I don't. So, thus began an hour and 10 minutes on the phone with a wonderful, very helpful (no sarcasm) dude at my insurance company. A snippet of the convo:

Him: Um... this is a personal question but how long have you been on dialysis?

Me: Never? Like, I've never been on it nor am I currently. Like, never.

Him: Oh. Then how are you dealing with your renal failure?

Me: I'm not in renal failure and if I am, this is a weird way for me to find out.

In short the hospital wrote some weird shit down on my chart, y'all.

Due to this and the stress of life I have developed the following coping strategy:

1) go to therapy

2) cry it out

3) leave therapy and buy a whole fucking cake

4) eat said cake

5) open a whole fucking bottle of wine

6) drink it

7) quickly

8) solo dance party

So. If anyone needs me I'll be the girl solo dancing to Billy Idol. I will not, however, be the girl who is renal failure.

Here I Go Again

How does one tell their loyal (all 10 of you) blog readers that you're moving back to New York?

Well, if you're me you do it in an awkward opening question. 

That's been the cause of my most recent blog silence (blogence? no, that's just bad). It's been a lot of travel back and forth and there's a really good reason to move there. Like, a really good one. So, I'm looking at that good reason and relocating come the last weekend in March. Until then I am going to enjoy every day of sunshine here, do a lot of random LA stuff I've put off and see all of my friends. I'm also going to hug the hell out of them, crazy lady style, so they better be prepared for that. I'm sad and scared but also incredibly excited. So you, readers, should be prepared for a lot of blog written words coming your way covering ever spectrum of human emotion possible. You're welcome in advance. 

Moral of the Story: This Soup Sucks

Me: if I try to buy dehydrated soup in a cup
again and claim it's edible food EVER again feel free to shake me like a
baby. This ish is FOUL

Him: why did you do that
in the first place?

Me: because I make
horrible life decisions. duh.

Me: some are bad:
dehydrated soup in a cup

Me:and some lead to
awesome: miniature deep fryer

Him: true

Him: what if you put the
dehydrated soup in a cup into the deep fryer?

Me: I think you create
Mitt Romney

Him: gross

Me: correct

Me: this stuff tastes like
the hopes and dreams of satan. that were dehydrated. 

Him: this was really a
bad choice on your part

Me: it ranks right up
there with the time I got bangs, yes

Him: hahahaha

Me: on the plus side
this conversation amuses me

Him: that's good

Me: yeah. I would blog
it but then my blog is even more 'hey look, I had amusing conversations with
other people that are only amusing to me'
Me: and then I'm all 'awww... I remember when I
used to be funny'

Him: aww

Me: THANKS FOR THE MORAL
SUPPORT

Him: hahaha

Me: this is a
relationship built on a solid foundation I tell you.

Me: and speaking of
foundations I'm pretty sure my black bean soup (I KNOW) has formed some
kind of cement

Him: gross

Me: thus tying this
conversation up in a neat and tidy bow

Me: and that's called
Skillz
Also, I just got back
from Thailand and therefore I am The Tired. There will be stories, shortly, as
the people (my mom) demand them. Happy New Year.