A Grocery List Reality Check: (Or why I think you’re ready for this jelly)

Taking a poll tonight.

How many of you girls (guys too I guess) think the ideal place to meet your ‘soulmate’ is in the dairy section of a Whole Foods?


Maybe they accidentally spill coffee down the front of you in a rush at a Starbucks?

Then you are all angry but you look up and BAM!

Birds sing.

The world goes quiet (minus the birds).

That look.

And it’s like Hi… I’m (you stammer here, because you’re blown away at your instant intense infinite mutual attraction) so and so. And they laugh (with a perfect pearly white smile) and offer to buy you another but just so they can know more about you. And you’re all well I’m late but.. here’s my number call me maybe? and then Carly Rae Jepsen shows up and is all STEP OFF BITCH, that is my line. And then you blow up Carly with your eyes and the guy is all wow, can i take you shopping? And you’re like baby, you can take me anywhere.

End scene.

Or something like that.

Yeah? Now ask yourself this question. Out of all the couples and married friends and everyone you’ve ever dated, WHEN IN GOD’S NAME have you or they or ANYONE ever met in a grocery store aisle?



That’s right.

Because no one meets in the grocery store aisle. You want to know why? Because face to face sober rejection is probably right up there with setting yourself on fire.

No one is asking you out in the frozen foods section not because you’re not cute. It’s because you go to the grocery store and you buy your milk and you peace out. You don’t hangout in the freezer section and pick up chicks. You don’t leave your number on the freezer fog left on the glass door after you pick out your vegetarian lean cuisine. (Though this is a legit idea, thanks wintergreen gum commercials).

Because unless people start going to the grocery store a little drunk, the bar scene is going to continue to be the place to pick up strangers and the grocery store is going to continue to be the place you pick up your milk.

And I hate to be such a debbie downer especially when a story like meeting a guy at a starbucks after he pours his entire boiling drink down the front of my moderately priced shirt is something I  would totally aspire to achieve. If I really thought it was a possible meet cue don’t you think I too would be going around to Starbucks’s across the city of Los Angeles with superb clumsy hope that I survived such a delightful encounter without sustaining 3rd degree burns? Wouldn’t we all?

Instead, we meet the opposite sex in dark lit places without a caffeinated beverage or frozen poultry in sight. Where our dignity is safe. Where we are just another slightly shadowed blurry face in a sea of the same. And then we get mad because we can’t find anyone who stands out to us.


But you know what they say guys.

They: “The right person will come into your life when you’re not looking for them.”

Well, whoever ‘they’ is can kiss my wish on a shooting star ass because that is pedigree hallmark card bullshit. Because here we all are pretending Santa Claus doesn’t exist but secretly wishing he does. Like Oh, I’M NOT LOOKING RIGHT NOW UNIVERSE, this is just me casually scanning the crowd for future “friends”. Yeah. I wore this low cut dress FOR MYSELF. I shaved my legs FOR ME dammit.



Last year my parents celebrated their 25th anniversary. That’s 25 YEARS of commitment. Like holy shit. I can’t even commit to plans next Wednesday much less the next 25 years. Anyone out there want to be stuck with me that long? Really? Meet me in the grocery aisle. I’ll be waiting by the frozen pork loin.

And you know what, bite me universe. I’m not LOOKING, I’m just casually ASKING.

Anyway, no offense to marriage as a union but right now my plans involve just hanging out with someone I really like for forever. I’m thinking we could have a bunch of weddings. Like maybe skip the marriage part and have 27 weddings.

Whatcha doing this weekend? Oh ya know. My hypothetical hangout partner and I are having our 12th wedding in Tibet! Dude, come! It’s 80’s themed! We rented alpacas. Shit is going to get WEIRD.


Yeah. That is definitely something I could get on board with for 25 years. Maybe get a dog. I don’t know. I’m just talking now.

Seriously though, I think my real hesitation with marriage stems from my relationship FOMO. Because I like the game. And I hate the game. But I like going to the grocery store too guys. Because I don’t just need bananas, if you know what I mean. And I’d love for someone to break the hollywood mold and prove me wrong. But it’s cool that they don’t because if I do happen to meet my soulmate at the check out line that means the end of a lot of firsts. And I’m not really down for that quite yet.

No more crushes? No more waiting around endlessly for a weeny ‘what’s up’ text? No more making awkward eye contact!?!?!?! (which I love. Awkward eye contact is my jam.) What will I do at church if that happens!? What will I do at stop lights? On elevators? Escalators? Moving sidewalks? Actual sidewalks? I can’t handle meeting my soulmate in front of the finely packaged cheeses. I just can’t do it yet.  I can’t handle the pressure.

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But I suppose when I meet that right person— that will be ok.

For right now though, the end makes me even more sad than my endless miles of single-dom. I don’t want to be that person who’s so focused on finding someone to make me more myself that I never do the things I personally really want to do.

Want my advice?

It’s a little subjective since I’m 23 but whatever.

Move somewhere because YOU want to. Do things because YOU want to. People are going to judge you no matter what you do so make them talk about you on your own terms.

Don’t be afraid to look behind you and not see anyone following. Don’t be afraid to look ahead and see no one leading. And then after all your doings and seeings and beings are complete, don’t be surprised if you look to your side and someone has stepped into rhythm beside you. And you know what? Maybe that’s not your ‘dream man’. But you can bet your ass it will be people who truly care about you and who you stand for.

I remind myself this a lot.

Whenever I feel discouraged. Whenever I feel lonely. Whenever I feel like I’m playing it safe and wasting the talent I’ve been given. I just keep reminding myself. Never sit still. Never be that person in the elevator who doesn’t even acknowledge those around them. Never settle.

I don’t have all the answers. Obviously. I don’t even think there are answers most of the time. Just questions that follow questions and different directions people take and learning and learning again. You just have to keep falling for the wrong people and making the wrong decisions. Maybe ask out some girl in the grocery aisle and prove me wrong. I’d love that.

And so maybe ‘they’ are right. Maybe what ‘they’ say is true. Maybe the right person does come along when you stop looking. But maybe they just meant that when you stop looking for someone to make your life better, you start realizing–

You know what?

I’m going to make my life awesome all by myself, thank you.

Wrapping up your tuesday dose of Beyonce-powered blogging —

This is Meg.

Go get yourself some coffee America.

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one time I wrote this on an airplane

I’m standing in line for the bathroom on my southwest flight.


I wasn’t supposed to stand in line. They specifically asked us not to stand in line. But I was the first person and therefore, arguably, I wasn’t really in line as much as I was just loitering near the bathroom. I smiled at the male flight attendant.

“You’re breaking my rule”, he says!

“Sorry,” I say apologetically.

I’m not sorry.

I have to pee. I am going to pee my pants. If I actually do so– then, I’ll be sorry. So will he. And right now, unless he forcibly carries me back to my seat, I’m not moving.

I smile again.

The kid in this bathroom is taking forever. What is he doing in there? Do I even want to know? God, if he’s taking a giant.. Oh. Ok. He’s out. Good. Move shrimp, I gotta pee.

This bathroom is freaking tiny.

How do people supposedly join the infamous mile high club in these things? How is that even possible? Wouldn’t everyone know? Can you get in trouble for that? They don’t really say “no sex in the lavatories” . Though they do say no smoking. And apparently no waiting in line. Could you get arrested? I think you would have to plot it out. Like Ocean’s 11. But like for hooking up in the airplane bathroom. I’m sure there is a website detailing how to succeed at this. There’s a website for pretty much everything these days you know. Anyway, they really should make it a little roomier. Just for old people and like big people. To be nice.

I’m in the emergency exit row. Which first of all, hello why have I never sat here before,  there is so much room I could stick my legs all the way out and do a little horizontal running. I could learn the Justin Bieber backup dance in the space I have been provided. I could harbor a secret pet under my seat. This is awesome. I’m sitting in this row forever from now forward. Also until this experience,  I never pay attention to the emergency info they show us because I’m like if our plane is going down, it probably matters very little if I’m wearing my seatbelt or know how to use a life vest. Also like hell I’m putting on the oxygen mask on anyone but me anyway. I’m single forever. Thanks airplane attendant. You have bad pants.

But this lady is standing right in front of me showing this VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY STUFF. And I’m like what if the plane actually does go down? Then every man woman and child is going to be looking to me for help. I can’t freeze under pressure. I need to know my shit. I sit up taller. I’m listening. I will be an active helpful citizen. I look good in army fatigue. I could probably learn how to shoot a crossbow. I will be a leader in the face of danger. Y’all can trust me! I’m a survivor. Beyoncé bitches. I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!!!!!!!!!

The people next to me are talking about their kids and I have zero interest in listening. I already lied and told them I worked for the government. Sometimes I do that on planes. I don’t even plan on it I just start talking and all of a sudden I work in Washington specifically within aerial intelligence which mean in layman’s terms, I’m the correspondent between pilots and ground control. I’m off to work on the San Diego base for a few months. I don’t even know what I am talking about. They don’t either. I put in my headphones and start writing. I avoid their eyes the rest of the flight. I could have just said I was in beauty school or a struggling actress. But no. I had to say I was pretty much working in the FBI. Good.

I make a mental list of all the things my apartment still needs.

A kitchen table.

A couple chairs.

Proof on the walls that someone lives there.
New shoes.

….Not relevant meg.

I keep making awkward eye contact with a guy across from me. Probably my love interest when our plane crashes in the jungle of Las Vegas. He looks like he’s 19. Maybe 20. I can deal. (See what I did there with my Vegas joke? I kill myself. Hysterical.)

I’m starving.

I eat the peanuts they give us like a starving little street monkey. I don’t even freaking like peanuts. They should really serve something new.

I mean how long have airplane culinary service been on the peanuts train?

Far too long.

Who decides this stuff?

I vote hummus. Just straight. In little baby food jars. With spoons. I decide the airplane snack decider is someone akin to the Queen. Like they have very little seniority but it’s relevant in this particular category and someone is just waiting for them to die but until then its peanuts forever because they freaking love peanuts even though no one else does. But when they do croak, airplane food is going to go nuts. Not to make a bad pun. But also to make a bad pun.

I also would hope they would consider handing out little jars of nutella.

After telling the people next to me that I work for the government I feel the need to continue with my identity as a mysterious government worker. Which means pulling out the Allure magazine just chilling in my carry-on would be an obvious dead giveaway. FBI babes do not care about their cuticles or exfoliating their pores. They just look really good with a high ponytail and minimal eye makeup. And librarian glasses. Which are in my suitcase. Dammit.

Why do famous people never fly Southwest? Why do I never get to sit next to someone cool? Why do I always have to pretend to be the cool one and then they tell me they work in health care and I’m like yawn, you should have lied too because that would have shown me! One time, I sat next to a lady who had cancer. Which was obviously horrible to find out and sad. Except then she told me like 6 times. By the 5th time, I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her hand. It was weird. I thought she was going to want to be pen pals or ask me for money but I think she just wanted to talk. I didn’t lie about my occupation that time.

Up until recently, I thought all celebrities had private jets and never flew on normal planes. Like seriously. Until about last Friday until I gave this thought serious thought and realized that couldn’t possibly be true. And then I felt like an idiot. And then I desperately hoped I would see Adam Levine flying home for the holidays and he would be on my flight and we would talk and then he would write a song about the girl he met on the airplane and then I would melt like a human girl version of frosty. But instead I sat next to a girl who hogged the arm rest and played temple run the entire flight. I feel like this entire paragraph would make an excellent meme.

Every time the plane lands I grasp the arm rest and desperately hope the pilot is adequately sober and didn’t BS their flight training. I mean.. I have a lot of things I want to accomplish on the ground, I’d hate for the plane to explode and blow that for me.

For once… I don’t really know why I’m writing.

I had a point. But I forgot it.

Anyway. Hey Ben Folds, come pick me up.

I’ve landed.

So fresh, so clean: laundry day with Meg

I’ve been feeling lately a lot like that scene in the movie Looper where the guy’s life is on a reel and he does the same thing over and over and over and over again. And he gets older and slower but the routine remains the same.

( because I’m a P.I.M.P gangsta like JGL. Actually just conceptually, not like plot wise. Whatever. Read this.)

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a sample template:

I wake up every morning saying I am going to go running.

I don’t go running.

I lay in bed.

I read my email.

I check my facebook.

I check my twitter.

I check my instagram.

I check my work email. (slave to the man, yeah I am.)

I look at the clock.

I still have enough time to go running!!!

….I don’t go running.

I finally get up.

I eat oatmeal (insert banana! maybe some blueberries in that biz if I’m feelin’ nuts)

I get ready (bed head chic– pronounced sheeek)

I drive to work. (like a BAMF)

I work. (super efficiently, diligently and energetically I might add)

I drive home. (to Ke$ha. Everyone listen to this song if you want to rock.)

I eat dinner. (microwaved eggs FTW)

I sit on my couch. (or bed. or floor.)

I clean my room.

I put on my workout gear. (PUT ON YO SHOES!)

I think about running.

I think about running.

I think. about. running.




….And I’m RUNNING!!!!!!!!!!

I die. (can’t breathe. can’t fucking breathe. Oh! There’s a hot guy. This shit is a breeze. I AM SUPERWOMAN! and he’s gone. As you were. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel my pinky toe. I hate everything….)

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..I revive.

I sit on my bed. (lay really. I am defeated.)

I look at the time.

I have enough time to write. 

I don’t write.

I shower.

I sleep. 

And. I. repeat.

How do I break the cycle!?!?

I sound like a 90’s grunge band. Shout out to Pearl Jam. You guys inspire me. No not really, but I do like some Foo Fighters. David Grohl, babe. Dave Freaking Grohl. Hey by the way Dave you get free lunch at some place on Venice Boulevard. I read it on a billboard. It said, “Free lunch if you’re David Grohl.” So if you’re reading this… 

Today during the drive home bit, I called a friend I haven’t talked to in ages. And she actually (imagine that– how vintage!) picked up.

And we talked and it was friggin’ lovely. McDeese I miss you and I know you’re not reading this because we talked about in our phone convo how you don’t read. Which you should! Especially to support me asshole. Just kidding. I love you. Visit me. Read this. Dammit. 

But anyway– then, I thought about how when people call me and I screen their calls and I’m like well if I’m going to talk to them I really want to talk to them and I don’t really feel like catching up right now, so I’ll call them back later.

And later turns into a week, a month, two months.. etc. And so instead of giving them a little time, I give them no time. 

And instead of catching up then, I let more space sit between us, more life events that I’m not taking a part in knowing about. And then when we do catch up an entire crucial scenario in my life, something that has absolutely rocked my world and changed who I am becomes nothing more than a couple of sentences.

Like “Oh yeah. It didn’t work out. Were not talking anymore.” or “Yeah! I got that job. It’s going well.” or “We grew apart, it happens.”

Just a vague, flat-lined one sentence description of something that may have totally turned your life around and left you for dead but now months later, catching up over a 30 min conversation, you don’t see the value or benefit in rehashing the whole thing and so this person will never grasp the magnification of just how complicated these few simple sentences really actually were.

Because that’s what catching up is when you put it off. It’s like trying to do weeks and weeks worth of laundry in one load. It gets kind of clean but mostly it just gets wet.

Anyway. I thought… I mean.. I just wanted to say I’m sorry to my friends who I’ve let our friendships just get wet in the washing machine of life.

Also to say maybe I’ll start writing little things like this so that my writing doesn’t just come in giant loads either. Though the thought of people reading this all getting wet with my giant laundry load of words.. makes me LOL as I write this. Alas, maturity isn’t my strong suit. Thank god for good grammar and a large vocabulary.

Looping this sucker out, I got some laundry and running and writing to do. 

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Enjoy your Wet (and wild?? I hope so.) Wednesday.