TBT: Elle Woods vs. the Haters

Dude. Love Legally Blonde. Love Elle Woods. Next to my mom and Tina Fey, she’s basically my mentor/idol and next to Harry Potter and Santa Claus, I wish she were real/my friend.

This clip though. This is all I want to share today. Along with a few words, because duh.

This is that horribly sad but also necessary to move forward realization that no matter what I do, no matter where I move, no matter what job I get, or the success I reach, or the weight I lose, or the popularity I gain.. I’m never going to be good enough for certain people!

This is the moment where you kind of break a little inside. Because dammit, if that doesn’t hurt. But it’s also at this moment, we rise to our own potential. The potential we see in ourselves, the infinite distance we can go regardless if those people believe in you or support you or don’t.

Screw them. You don’t need them. You really don’t. You may think you do, but anyone who’s in your life right now who’s going to string you around, make you second guess yourself and what you are capable of whether that’s a job or a relationship or what have you is not only someone you need to cut out of your head immediately but also someone you will be so much more successful without.

Because you may never be good enough for them. It’s true! But you know what? They’re not good enough for you. Remind yourself that every time you see them. Either you believe in me, or you don’t. Either you support me or you don’t. Either you care about me and want to be there for me, or you aren’t. There is no grey. There are no excuses here. There is no half-way communication. No last-minute indecision. No second-guessing, no lame limp noodle lack of response. If you approach every relationship as such, you will know your value every time. Simply, I can do this. You can support me. But if you don’t.. I’m still going to win.

Maybe this is corny. Maybe this is silly. Maybe it’s an Oprah moment you’d just rather not. But like hell we all don’t need to hear this at least at some point during the disappointments this life presents. And for some of you, that’s right now.

This Thursday support group brought to you by Elle Woods and all her imaginary strength. May we all take some for our own today.



One time I almost died (A first date story)

I have been on a lot of first dates in my day.

A few tinder dates. A few blind dates. I’ve been on a few met you briefly at a party, give me your number dates. I’ve been on a couple you hit me up for free drinks and I hit you up for your digits dates. I’ve been on grocery store dates and awkward forced double dates and an obligatory let’s get breakfast I guess dates and oh wait is this a date? I thought we were meeting for work drinks dates but through all of them, I can tell you one thing: I’m still pretty single and I’m still pretty ok with that. And I still feel exactly the same about first dates with total strangers.

They don’t work. It’s a scratch-off lottery ticket experience. Tell me I’m wrong guys! You pay a wad of cash, to scatch at the surface for awhile and just to find out you’re dealing with yet another total dud. I’m sorry. I just don’t really actually believe in long-lasting longevity beyond “first-dating” a complete stranger. Maybe I’m a sad cynical person but I can’t remember the last time I went on a first time outing with a guy I hardly knew and I thought WOW! When’s the next one because I’m going to hang up to call you right back Usher style. I like you enough to wait in 45 minutes of traffic. I like you more than my University of Kansas sweatpants. I like you enough to want to do this again. And again. And again.

I  think we can both pretty much tell within the first 10 minutes of talking if this has any kind of legs to go anywhere. But at the same time, I mean out of respect, we both signed up for this night so let’s just enjoy the mutual unspoken agreement that ultimately, we really aren’t meant to see this thing past a bowl of tortilla chips and a couple of strong margaritas. We hug awkwardly goodbye, and never hear from each other again. Hooray. Peace out homie, thanks for the free burrito slash small talk about your obsession with The Real World season 29. REALLY. SEASON 29. Just throw in the towel already, MTV. Jesus Christ. Anyway, goodbye forever.

It’s just not natural. I’m supposed to spend 1.5 hours talking about myself but not really telling you anything. Because if we really told eachother the truth well then we’d have to be real, and real is kind of heavy you know, bro? Leave that personal shit at home in your diary you keep under your bed Bridget Jones. First date table manners demand you have 1 slice of bread when you want 4 and that you eat a salad when you’d really love the chili cheese steak. First date manners demand you do not gush, you do not whine, you do not talk about the fact that you are terrified that the life path you are going down isn’t really right and maybe you know you’re supposed to actually do something entirely different. You are fun and interesting and balanced and ambitious and intelligent but only slightly because don’t want to alienate the person across from you with your own vocabulary LOL, hair twirl.

I’ve been on a lot of first dates.

So it was my first time ever at a Korean BBQ place and I had a little too much too drink and mistook the moist toilettes at the end of the meal for marshmallows. So what? I still find this is hysterical, disgusting but also extremely informative for future Korean BBQ outings. Honestly, I think I did him a favor. He definitely thought they were marshmellows too. I saved us really.

And note to self, do not word vomit for 35 minutes about how sorority recruitment works to a guy who went to a small Catholic private school in like New Jersey or somewhere.

Oh, if you plan on going on a date with someone who’s an athletic boxing celebrity and he never drinks but then of course tonight he does and he has 4 drinks and is literally toasted like a quiznos flatbread and then he insists that he will drive you home in the morning  and you JUST moved to Malibu and have zero friends and so have no choice, and then he can’t find the key to his house so he throws A FREAKING ROCK THROUGH HIS FRONT GLASS DOOR and you’re like omg, this is how I die…. You will not die. But you will probably never speak to him again which will be fine because hello, first dates should only be awkward, not therapy-inducing/life-threatening.

And if you’re at a restaurant and the guy orders everything for you and you tell him you don’t actually like chicken because it grosses you out and then he orders everything on the menu with chicken in it “to be funny” and doesn’t let you pick one thing, you should probably just leave. Because wtf dude!!!! Also, why are you wearing flip-flops? Come on.

And fyi, men just so you know, “Why don’t you come over and I’ll make you dinner and we can watch tv” isn’t a first date. It’s a cop-out booty call, and you know it. So put away your Dave Matthews band playlist, the only song you know on your guitar (Collide, Howie Day.. how original), your signature steak rub, and man up and buy me an actual meal.

Finally you know what? Because I’m already venting just once I’d like to get to the end of a first date, you know the moment where you are both awkwardly sitting in his car and he’s probably thinking should I kiss her or…. and I’m thinking no. Do not do that. Please. Please do not try. Then I’m silently plotting as to how I escape this car without it being uncomfortable or mean or rude but also at the same letting him know I like him and all but not enough to weirdly kiss over the console in his 2008 Toyota Camry, at least not yet.

At that moment? I would like to lean over and gracefully inform him,  “I had a great time. I’ll call you, ok? ” Exit vehicle, sans awkward terrible kiss. Sweatpants. Netflix. String Cheese. Chillin’ wit no makeup on. Drake. Done. If I was any more in command over this situation, I’d be a remote control.

Sadly, this is the dating equivalent of walking away from an explosion without turning around. This situation just doesn’t occur in real life. Because in real life, girls, we sit in the passenger seat, like a lab rat. At the mercy of the scientist to our left.

But yet, we keep trying ya know? God love us. We are a bunch of hopeful little rabbits, all trying to get our claws on something real. First dates are the mannequin version of our love lives. This is how we’re SUPPOSED to look. This is how I’m SUPPOSED to appear. But in reality, I accidentally ate a napkin thinking it was food and I know I look put together right now, but 45 minutes ago I was in my bed sobbing over yet another casualty on the Walking Dead. TBT: NOT LORI!!!!!!!!!!

But that’s the rules of engagement. That is how it is. You just have to keep throwing yourself into a big ‘ol vat of awkward small talk soup and hope, hey! Maybe this time I won’t have to go home and purge the memory of everything weird I said tonight from my brain because I’m pretty sure I referenced zombies at least 10 times. Also, I forgot to put my phone on silent and now he knows that the Harry Potter theme song is my ringtone.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Steve from Tinder just asked me if I wanted to “chill sometime”, and I have a witty pun about an ice cube I’m going to throw his way in hopes it inspires him to find his long lost arsenal of more original pick up lines.




Wingin’ it

This morning:


Running and juking around homeless people like a spy on a mission to destroy the carbs I ate at 2 AM Saturday morning. Carbohydrate, the spy. Seek and destroy. Mission FEEL THE BURN. Ok. I’m done.

Like any good multi-tasker, I used this time to think about important things in my life. For example: the other day I read that pigeons have a large memory and actually remember if you scare them and if you attempt to approach them again will run away from you in fear. Or fly I guess. Because they are birds and have wings. You understand.

At first I instantly believed this because whoa cool, pigeons are actually smart who knew that..? But then the more I think about this I’m like ok, really? This can’t be true. Where did I read this? Uber facts on Twitter? I think that account should be audited for factual accuracy. Because in this case– IF ANYTHING is coming at you full-speed and thus, potentially risking your life, you instinctively move. Even a pigeon brain could figure that one out.  This logic seems flawed. You know? Just hypothesizing. But hey…your move, Bill Nye.

Anyway, I’m running thinking oh these pigeons know me as fast-running-empress-with-awesome-hair (apparently, I have a native american tribal name) who will kill me if I get in her way. And I’m like that’s right pigeon peasants. Move yourselves. I am a powerful human who will crush you.

And this is a feeling that I wish carried me throughout the rest of my day. I wish certain situations and people and decisions were pigeons. I wish they would just get out of my way and bow to my power. But alas, life isn’t always the sidewalk of empowerment we hoped for and people aren’t pigeons and honestly thank god, because pigeons are pretty much rats with wings and gross.

Anyway– among other things I think about on my morning run–

Want to know what I did for Thanksgiving last year?

Well first, I ate my face off.

Like all of America.

Because that’s what we do.

Go Chiefs.

But then, despite my food triplets (Curly, Moe and Larry respectfully) , I ended up going over to see this guy I liked at the time. He was cat-sitting at his extremely religious newlywed co-workers house and invited me over to “chill”.

This is the part where I should have been like, chill huh?? OH HEY GIANT RED FLAG…. But of course instead, I agreed because he was hot and I was weak.

And so somehow, in a strange yet also (let’s be honest) unsurprising chain of events, I found myself making out with him while also subsequently watching Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter (which I confess, I personally brought over to defuse the very situation I was now in) AND ALSO while this is happening– found myself being stared down by several extremely grotesque (no offense God) Jesus’s dying on the cross while ALSO being observed by the cat whom I was quite sure was magical/evil and could talk and was going to tell on us to it’s disapproving and guilt-tripping from a far distance wherever they are-parents. 

Not that I really need to explain much more, but this was pretty much the height and extent of our relationship as it ended shortly after, something I will always blame on the cat.


…I’m still at a place in my life where I look at engagement and marriage of my peers with wonder and awe. Oh, you are going to spend THE REST OF ETERNITY TOGETHER? Wow. That’s really nice. What’s that even feel like? I made out with a guy who was cat-sitting for Jesus last Thanksgiving. Yep. And right now, it’s still in the winning for MOST ROMANTIC THING TO HAPPEN TO ME SINCE 2012. Things are going a-ok! Hold on, let me distract you with this picture of a sunset on the beach! Anyway, love right? Swell. Gotta get back to my big gulp. See ya later!

I’ve kind of adopted a live-on-the-fly lifestyle. Stretching my paycheck as far as it can go. Work with what I have, until I figure out something better. Can’t find a tissue in my car, so blow my nose into my Triple A membership papers. (Note: It was an emergency, and I had no other choice. Sorry Dad.) Moving 6 times in 2 years, 5 times specifically within the confines of Los Angeles, California.

I know you guys. You’re thinking 6 times? Holy cow Meg, you’re nuts. Chill out. You sound like an unstable gypsy! Someone put that girl on a leash. Stop shouting. I assure you all, I simultaneously have also held down a 9-5 job in a reputable company for almost 2 years (Humble Brag/Pregnant Sigh)– so it’s not exactly like I’m living out of my car (which for the record, I could totally do as Honda Elements are extremely roomy and versatile creatures, perfect for the modern-day box-car child)

Still though, it can be exhausting. Did I plan to move this much since August 2011? Would I prefer to be in a more stable, more settled, this is my house these are my things part of my life? Sure. I mean do pigeons fly away when you run full-force at their faces? Absolutely. But it’s also probably because they’re scared of the alternative, not because they’re smart enough to know better.

So I’d be lying if I didn’t say, I didn’t envy the other side of the stable fence sometimes. The side where you are an accountant, and you know how to appropriately wear J-Crew accessories (a skill I’ve never been able to master as every time I try any jewelry from that store on, I just end up looking like a plastic lawn gnome) and where you watch hit tv shows on your west elm couch with your boyfriend and both drink wine and don’t spill on yourself once and talk about marriage in a future adult way that welcomes it but doesn’t rush or force it. And you’re happy where you are, and satisfied in your settling because for you it’s enough and it always will be.

You know you want to live in this place for the rest of your life. There is nothing else, there is nothing more. Your family is here, your friends are here, your life is here. That is all.

And I bet your car is clean and you keep kleenex in the glove box. And you would never get a runny nose with 12 sneezing fits as you go down the highway at 70 miles per hour. You would never go hang out with a guy who was cat-sitting for his weirdly religious co-workers. And you certainly wouldn’t move 6 times for the hell of it.

And that’s right for you. That’s better for you. That’s your story. That’s your choices. I constantly remind myself there’s not a life jello mold, and my path is a completely different one than every person I come across. And to compare myself, is merely wasting time, instead of enjoying it.

So that’s where I am at today. That’s what I’ve learned to thrive on. To not knowing what’s next and to welcome it with open arms. To be ok with the fact that I’m building a story that others will only ever read about. To be single from here to eternity, to move maybe 8 more times, to never being an accountant, to not really living out of my car but also sort of sometimes living out of my car, to usually always saying yes to impulse, to very often pursuing solo the places where I know I personally need to be.

And this morning:

To running head first at a large of entourage of pigeons, thinking I don’t care if you remember me or not, you better move bitches…

Because I’m rocking this Monday.

And I’m going to rock my entire life.

Pigeon 1a

..Or I’ll just wing it until I do.



This is not a list

I love lists.

I do.



2. Truly


photo (16)

But if I see one more, “14 lessons you survive in your 20’s” or “6 reasons as to why you should embrace your credit debt” or “3 men you should meet in the bar bathroom“, I will come up with “10 reasons to jump off of a cliff” and I won’t get past reason one before pulling an over-achieving reading swan dive off the nearest building with some stellar altitude and some killer bird-like grace.

And to be clear, it’s not that I don’t enjoy the occasional inspirational though-provoking list. On the contrary, there is nothing I like more than a solid inventory of poignant reasons 1-10 which temporarily improve my view on the world/my own existence.

But lately, I don’t feel like these lists are occasional. I feel like I’m being force-fed them like nail art on my instagram feed full of girls I knew in college that I can’t unfollow without offending. Which is stupid and petty but in the same way I can’t unsee these stupid nail images I can’t stop myself from reading these insightful little thought nuggets on what it’s like to be in my 20’s.

don't care. don't care. don't care.

don’t care. don’t care. don’t care.

And I can’t help but think ultimately these lists are just incredibly unhelpful. If reading advice about what to embrace and discover and learn from and avoid really ensured we listened and followed such advice, I think we’d be a much smarter, wiser, skinnier and less judgmental demographic don’t you think? Instead, I’m exactly the same person minutes later and most of the time I just feel worse about myself. Oh the 15 people we will love in our 20’s? Well shit Sherlock, I haven’t met any of those people. I haven’t even really been in love. Oh the 7 places I need to travel to before 30? Talk to my student loan debt because my wallet ain’t listening asshole.

But I can’t. stop. reading them. I can’t stop comparing myself against the author of said piece, thinking oh well yeah, I am totally taking control of my financial and emotional responsibility. I have list FOMO. What if this list changes my life? What if I read this and get so freaking self-actualized that I actually perform successfully every task and change my life and stop binge eating string cheese and binge shopping at Nordstrom? Do I need this pair of ‘perfect summer flip-flops?’ HELL YES I DO!!!!! I mean… No. No, I don’t. Right. I can do this. Cheese samples at Trader Joes don’t count, I’m going to have 5. Bite me thought provoking top 10 list about how to curb your impulsiveness. Free food samples are a life hack.

And I WILL have the best summer ever through these 10 steps. That’s all it takes? A pina colada and the desire to get laid in the shade? Done! Sign me up for the next top 10 list of excellent season-ery because I am going to make this summer my bitch. Where’s my two piece? Where’s my carefree, sun-soaking cheese-dog loving personality? Oh there you are, right under my rent check and receipt for 3 pairs of life-changing platform wedges.

So I’m going throw a white flag hashtag on #enough right now for everyone involved. Stick this on your pinterest and suck it. Hard. Because my YOLO is half empty and lists about life’s lessons are sending me right into a social media insanity. I can take 100 more pictures of silly catz. I can take your baby pictures. Your quotes you found on tumblr. Your picstitch dedicated to your bestie of 10 years omg. But the lists. The lists have got to stop. I love good writing just like the next little blogger, but let’s put some imagination into the mix hmmm? ’10 ways to fake sickness on your tinder date’ is something I’d love to read. 10 ways to make 10 dollars last until you get paid on Thursday is something I would totally bookmark. But the lists about 20 somethings and all our faults and shortcomings and ways to improve our existence, must end. quickly. Like Game of Thrones last night.

Let’s all make a pledge!

Let’s pledge to stop binge-posting self-help lists. We all suck and are bad with our money and are going to get our hearts broken and drink too much and stay up too late and most of us will fail at life for maybe forever. Also, if you don’t travel you’ll be unfulfilled and make sure to fall in love 6.25 times or you will die. But you might die anyway. So live it up. Or whatever that means. Anyway, I summarized every list in the history of ever. So now you have more time to post pictures of your nails and sunsets and your happy hour drink.

Carpe Throwback Thursday.

Seize the selfie.

Go forth and filter my instafriends. Because this is not a list.

And thank god.

You’re welcome,


Tinder me this

I’m what my advertising college professor would refer to as “an early adopter.”


I tell everyone I know about taxi alternatives. I like music before it hits the radio (preferably before it ever does). I know what everyone is going to be wearing this spring (platform wedges, embellished short-sleeved sweatshirts and dresses over pants). I wore a fur vest before Macklemore made granddad sweaters cool. I don’t see myself as a trend-starter, but I do typically know what’s going to be cool before the rest of y’all are buying leopard print by the boat load from your local Forever 21.

But more than that, I like knowing news first. I like sharing new concepts and ideas and opinions. Not gossip necessarily, but more like breaking information and up-and-coming thought-starters. It comes from a place of wanting to learn as much as possible instead of a desire ‘to show’ everyone how much I know. I just have a natural curiosity that begs me to suck in the world around me.

And today, this is to your direct trend-related benefit.

Because today, as requested several times by several different parties, we are going to discuss the very trendy location-based dating ‘service’, otherwise known as…



For those of you who have been hiding under a social media rock, or live in Nowheresville, USA, or are over the age of 35, you probably have zero idea what Tinder is. And it is for your benefit above all others, I write this. I hope I make you aware of what it is, make you consider why it’s important for the future and above all.. make you decide to have an educated opinion. Because I think that’s the most important thing of all. 

Oh and also, I hope I make you laugh.


Please sit back and behold…

The Top 9 things I’ve learned about 

myself, men and society in general from Tinder

(aka the app we all love to hate)

photo 4

Realization #9: Welcome to Tinder: Your virtual online sober dating experience.

You’re at a bar. It’s a Friday night. Hell. It’s a Tuesday afternoon. You’ve had 2, maybe 2.5 (3.75 if you’re a tank) and you see a hottie (hate this word, but it’s relevant here) across the way. Now why are they a hottie, kid? Is it because of how smart they look? Maybe they appear kind? Or really funny? Maybe it’s just because they seem to actually have their shit together.


Let’s be real here.

You go up to strangers in bars (generally) for the SOLE REASON being how attractive they look.

Thick long hair. Straight pearly teeth. Endless ocean eyes. A casual but yet, refined style. Whatever. The point is, that pick-up line you’re about to use? It comes from a shallow place within your inebriated loins and don’t you even try to pretend it’s anything else.

You’re attracted. You’re staring. You’re trying not to stare. You’re looking at your 4th drink. You’re gazing at your shoes. Annnnnd you’re going in for the kill.

Go get ’em tiger.

Now, I’m not sure how the rest of the story pans out, but if you know my philosophy on ‘bar relationships’ then you know I don’t believe in them and that they have expiration dates and blahblahblah, this isn’t about that.

Back to Tinder.

Tinder is a phone application. It’s basically flipboard for whatever gender you are attracted to within a geographical region of 50 miles (or so it says, they clearly have bugs to work out because I got a serious hunka-hunka-burning-beautiful-man a few weeks ago who tragically lived at least 250 miles away). From there, you can look at a series of up to 5 photos as well as a short bio. You can see if you have mutual friends on Facebook and/or interests (also from your Facebook page). Very simply, click the ❤ button if you like them. Click the x button to next, (X) them. AND If they also pressed the ❤ button, then SURPRISE you have a match.


Then, you can actually chat. If you didn’t get a match, tough luck champ. Better luck next time.

Do you hate me yet?

…Oh you just wait, I’m only getting started.

Realization #8 or : Am I really this much of a judgmental shallow freak?

All answers would point to yes.

Yes, yes I am.

I pass a completely superficial amount of judgement on men who I’ve clearly never met and still manage to make major assumptions about their character, personality and overall attractiveness based on nothing more than 1-5 pictures.

For instance, why do you need 3 pictures in a row of your modeling pics, dude? Here’s a little clue. EVERYONE looks good in glamour shots. Did you really never have senior pictures? You airbrush anything enough it’s going to look smooth and flawless. I don’t care what your face looks like on a filter setting that highlights your jawbone. I want to know what you look like in daylight sans studio lighting.

Furthermore, also equally unnecessary to have several shots of you checking out your own six-pack. We get it. You have abs. You love them. A lot. In fact if you could reach them with your tongue…

Moving on!

photo 2 (2)

And it continues. Too feminine. Too manly. Why are there no close-ups? Woah, foreign. How do I pronounce your name? Zanameetala? Huh? What nationality is that? Holy bad teeth Robin, keep those stalagmites in the bat cave. You look like you’re at a rave. Is that a graphic tee? Who’s that girl with you? Next.

Seriously. My attention and interest level have the life span of flipping ad pages in a magazine. When did I become so shallow? I have more depth than this. I am a nice person! Why am I having an existential self-reflective crisis based around a smart phone app? What have you done to me Zuckerberg? How do I make this stop?

and then…

Realization #7: Oh great, yet another pristine personal PR image I have to maintain of myself.

In the very same light that my carefully manicured callous eye will superficially survey others flaws and shortcomings, I like to throw that same judgmental mentality back into my own face because well, it’s only fair. Which always brings me to the humbling reality of the question– what kind of person can I possibly convey I am in just 5 pictures?


I think this is the bigger point than some silly little dating game. We put forth the image we want to be perceived as online. We convey the persona of the person we want to be seen as. We’re as fun as this picture of us smiling. We’re as pretty as the sunset behind us. We’re as cool as the plane we got to fly last year in Japan but really it was at an indoor aviation museum in Omaha. Everyone is having more fun than you. We have the same matches because we want the same thing. Acceptance. Tinder is as Tinder does. And as Shakespeare would say, you talk a good filter my friend, but do ya got a brain behind that beautiful body?

Realization #6: But also, as it turns out I like tall(er) men. 

What’s the nicest way to say, “Please tell me you aren’t a midget?”

There needs to be an update to this app to include this. Who doesn’t agree with me. Don’t even act like I’m the only one who’s thought this. I need some clarity. Tinder man height based anxiety. We can’t get drinks because I don’t know how tall you are and I’m afraid to ask because that’s rude. But is it more rude to just refuse because I think you’re a lot shorter than me? Does anyone know any rhymes that go well with the words itch, rich, stitch, ditch….

Realization #5: Two words: Man. Pinterest.

It’s hot guy roulette. Scrolling a male newsfeed.

It’s become something I do when I’m bored and I want to pass the time. Why pin recipes in traffic when I can tinder men? Cute guys in exchange for cute clothes? This seems like something I don’t need to give much thought to. Like, duh. And just like that I’m flipping through the Southern California edition of (supposedly) available men in the same fashion that I mindlessly flip through the channels on TV.

Don’t want to watch that tonight.

Seen it.

Been there, done that.


Too serious.

And though I know it’s addicting and shallow, I also can’t help but think how is it this any different from another Friday night?

At least I’m sober.

Realization #4: But why can’t we use this for friendship purposes?? (aka why does everything have to be about sex)

A few weekends back, a friend finally met a man she met on Tinder in person. I didn’t feel much like being a wing woman to his perceived uninteresting friends, so I hung back and filled my mutual guy friend in on the situation. His first reaction? Shock.

“Tinder is a getting laid application. You go on that to find people to have sex with!”

– My dear beloved/concerned 28-year-old ex-roommate Matt

I found this interesting for a couple of reasons:

    • One, this was a statement made from a man who has never once used Tinder.
    • Two,  but I mean.. he has a point.

Which makes the case– If I’m receiving matches based entirely on what someone looks like, I wouldn’t exactly say that is a foundation for friendship–much less any kind of relationship–beyond physical attraction. And sure, I’m not matching with guys thinking, well if we meet in person we are so hooking up! But I’m also not clicking their profile thinking.. well if we meet in person this guy is going to be a good friend of mine for like forever!

Which made me think, this could.. this should.. have more depth. This shouldn’t be just about physical attraction. This could be a way to meet friends. I could get down with friend Tinder. I think anyone who has ever moved to a big city and struggled to meet people or just connect in general, could agree with me on this. In an age where we’re more connected than we’ve ever been, the world can still be a pretty lonely place.

Realization #3: But still.. we all feel a little better when we have at least one friend in common. 

Then, they aren’t completely random, right? Even if it’s a guy you haven’t talked to in like 5 years who you played football with in high school. That shit is officially legit and acceptable.

It. is. on.

Realization #2: Yet somehow some people manage to fail at Tinder before even starting.

It’s called…

Being a douchebag.

photo 4 (1)

Being a weirdo.


Being a.. (??? still wtf’ing over this)

photo 1 (2)And most importantly, being confused about which app you’re even on.

cough cough, Haoxiang, I think you meant to facetime…

photo 1

But what is the number one thing I’ve realized from Tinder? 

Realization #1: Online relationships are the future whether you’re willing to admit it or not.

Despite growing popularity, current societal appearance of ‘online dating’ hasn’t changed from this initial idea of being desperate and temporary. Every guy I’ve met on Tinder, I reason with myself as the same as any bar relationship, in that it’s already destined to fail based on the superficiality in which we meet. What am I supposed to tell people? I met my boyfriend on a smart phone app? I met my husband on a dating roulette website? Um no. Can’t wait to tell our future children that one. This is temporary right? It’s just a phase. This can’t last.  I can’t possibly meet a guy I really want to date and have a long-term relationship with on something so shallow and silly.

But yet, think about this. Today’s generation is online more than we aren’t. We’re glued to our mobile devices, our social networking, our online presence. We meet someone in person and what do we do? Well, I don’t know about you, but I immediately go online to find out more about them. What do they do for a living? Linked In. Are they witty? Twitter. Are they too self-indulged? That’s a lot of selfies on one Instagram page mista. Is their profile blocked? Can I see their pictures? What girls are writing on their wall? Is their musical taste decent? Spotify. Tumblr. Do they have a blog? What are their interests? Are they TOO present online? Isn’t that the same as being too available? Jesus, the list goes on and on. What’s the point of a first date? I already know more about you from a simple Google search than a couple of drinks and a tasteless appetizer could ever show me.

My point is, to use an old cliché for a new trend, is that ‘the-times-they-are-a-changing’. And as our online presence increases, so does our acceptance and tolerance for meeting others there.

Now I’m not saying Tinder is the future. I’m not saying any dating website based in such shallow and simplistic train of thought has the longevity to last as our technology and the way we perceive it continue to change.

What I am saying is that in a world where we now spend more time connected to a screen than ever before, who’s to say what is ‘normal’ in how and where relationships develop? Who’s to say Tinder isn’t just the online version of what people are programmed to do regardless?

We see. We like. We want. We take. Maybe a little archaic, but hey, that’s desire for you.

So who’s to judge what is normal anymore? Who’s to say what is trendy? Who decides if online relationships are the next thing? Who determines what makes something weird and desperate and something else socially acceptable? Who? Who makes it ok?? 

Well if it were up to Tinder..


I guess you do.


Why L.A. is over-rated (and why I love it anyway)

Last night I  listened to Dylan attempt to put together her “easy-to-assemble” shoe rack, hearing rounds of furious hammering followed by angry squeaks coming from the living room around the corner and I was happy.

Not over-the-top reach for the stars in my own elation happy, but the kind of happy when you realize  your life is eerily similar to an easy-to-assemble shoe rack in that the instructions suck, there’s a few pieces missing and if you had enough money, you’d probably buy one that’s already been put together for you.  And that’s ok. Because this isn’t the time in your life, where you buy shoe racks that are fancy and made of handcrafted wood –slaved over by keebler elves in a rack city, rack-rack city, far, far away from here. In Germany probably.

Or wherever.


We are slowly but surely furnishing our home. That means now a grand total of 4 pieces of furniture. Which is huge. I’m sick of lifting things. I think I have a permanent tweak in my left shoulder. Little things people. It’s the little things.

Having a nearly empty house entails the following:

1- Tons of room for activities. constant dance parties. And space to do the Worm without injuring yourself (which yes, I can do.)

2– Eating on the floor. Cross legged. Like savages. Like Indians. Like Pocahontas.

3. Attempting somersaults  And failing. Attempting hand stands. And failing. Attempting cartwheels. And bruises.

4. Concluding that despite the ample room for activities, you are still not (nor will you ever be) a gymnast.

Once again, it’s whatever. I know where my talents lie. I can sing a killer version of every Disney song in the shower. I’ve got a wicked jump volleyball serve. I’m more of a Cyber Monday than a Black Friday girl. I like cat jokes, pop culture references and making lists.

And speaking of lists.. I got something special for you all today. But first!!!

An awesome quote:

“There’s the risk of spending your life not doing what you want on a bet that you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later.”

Let’s discuss this. Or rather, let me talk about it and you read. Go get some coffee. I’m going to ramble.

Sometimes, I think about the polar-opposite Meg. The one who plays it safe. Waits for life stability to come before taking a chance. The one who majored in business. The one who works in e-commerce. The girl who wears a lot of pants suits. Shops at banana republic. Wears sensible flats. Saves her money. Saves her dreams. Someday, she’s going places. Someday, she’s just going to get into a car and drive somewhere. Someday.

Someday is now sensible Meg! Put on your Hilary Duff take a chance pants and get outside you twat!

Then there’s the other Meg. When I moved out to LA, I got the feeling that both my parents thought I was going to join a sex drug trafficking circle and lose all recognition of the person I was– to become the person that Los Angeles would make me. I had several friends implore me to not lose my “mid-western” charm living in California. It’s like my whole world thought that my move would change the very root of the person I am and make me into a callous, shallow, drugged-out, sex-crazed democratic hippie. The truth is, I was a little afraid of this too. And did it? Have I changed? Is the above true? I guess that’s up to you.

But despite this initial over-arching fear, I got to say… I like the way Los Angeles looks on me. I’ve never felt so fun in my entire life. I live on the west coast. That makes me naturally interesting right?

…And I continue to fight between these two people. The one who plays it safe and the one who jumps off a cliff. I’m a balancing act of finding the perfect equilibrium between them.

My life is exciting. But if you’re sitting in your office, thinking yours is not, know that I have those moments occasionally as well. Tis life kids.

Anyway. Back to my little point. Los Angeles. Smog nation. Traffic town. Ze Citay of Angels.

Much like my constant banter between the two people I am, I find myself finding Los Angeles exactly as you would imagine followed by being everything I want it to be and more.  It’s over-complicated, over-crowded, over-the-top, completely and absolutely over-rated. And here is why.

10 Reasons why L.A. is over-rated

(and why I love it anyway)

10. Celebrities are Over-rated

“So do you see like famous people, like all the time?”– first question out of everyone’s mouth when they ask me about living here.

The answer to this question is yes. and no. And I don’t care. And I’m really bad at it. And I don’t care.

And here is why:

Celebrity sighting (for me) is  extremely anticlimactic.

I mean they look tired. and make-up less. And bored. And they have thinning hair (at least the guys.. and you know how I feel about good hair). And they wear oversized sunglasses and trench coats and you kind of want to be like I don’t get it. It’s also totally possible this is all just me. But honestly, unless it’s Adam Levine or J.Timberlake standing in front of me in Whole Foods- as McKayla Maroney would say, I’m seriously not impressed.  Because, Oh wow, there’s the guy from Always Sunny buying a tomato! That’s exciting Batman, can’t wait until he gets over to the cheese aisle. Here’s all I’m saying: Adam Levine letting me burrow inside his sweater for 30 seconds? Awesome. Adam Sandler getting gas? .. Can he pay for mine? No? Well then, I don’t care.

Just sayin’.

9. The beach is over-rated.

It’s like a gym membership. Its existence nags at you all day long because you know you’re paying for it and it’s also right around the corner and everyone else is going without you. My brother always says (Hi Nick), “you never regret going to the gym.” (of course he does). The beach is the same story.  When I get there– I’m like: this was a good decision. Good work Meg. Because good god it’s beautiful! I love sunsets and sunrises and I just appreciate my life so much more when I’m on my bike and I’m riding beside it. But despite this, it’s existence nags at me. The time I don’t spend there I feel like I should be. And THAT feeling is over-rated.

8. Traffic is over-rated.

According to Time Magazine (Yeah, I freaking researched this bitch. Get at me, college kids), commuters in LA spend an average of 70 hours in traffic a year.

I thought about this some and have decided that doesn’t seem like a lot. That’s about 3 days just sitting in traffic. In the long term, that seems like barely anything. I’ve probably spent longer than that doing my nails. 

However, at the same time,  I am convinced that Time magazine is actually lying to me. Because sitting in traffic in my car is only one component of “traffic” that I regularly endure living in LA. I wait in line literally everywhere.

Let’s talk Costco. Costco used to be an enjoyable place for me. I used to be a huge fan of free sample Sundays and bulk food and obscenely large shopping carts. Since moving to LA, going to Costco is like going to an upper level of hell. I never get free samples. Why people STAND IN LINE for a measly morsel of a veggie burger is beyond me. Here’s a PSA. You can pick up a bulk package of 17 of those bad boys in less time it takes you to wait in line for one eighth of one. And people are mean! One time a lady hit my cart with her hand. Like seriously, how rude are you. I almost bounced a 24 pack of gala apples off her stupid mom hairdo. At least some string cheese (60 per pack!!.. bargain alert). But I restrained myself. Zen Meg. Everyone hates it here. Be the more mature Costco Member.

Traffic is over-rated in LA. In cars, On-foot, In Costco. That shit is Bananas.

7. Sunshine is over-rated.

Los Angeles is a city that averages 330 days of sunshine a year.  It’s insane. It’s beautiful. It’s overrated. Here’s why:

You know when it’s nice outside and you’re like aw shucks, I really shouldn’t be indoors, I should be outside enjoying this nice weather because sunshine is a commodity I can’t afford to not take advantage of? Yeah. Imagine that shit EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

Like you’re laying in your bed, slowly dying from a hangover that is both criminally unfair and life-ruiningly painful and the sun is shining outside taunting you with it’s existence. Like Meg, screw you for drinking too much whiskey. You are a bad human being. You are hiding from the sun. You are a vampire.

Or those days where you aren’t even hung over. You just want to sit on your couch and watch 15 lifetime movies in a row (totally acceptable behavior) and you’re like it’s cool because it’s rainy outside and that means God wants me to do this. Well what if God makes it sunny and perfect and beautiful outside? Then what? I’ll tell you then what. Then you feel like an asshole for sitting on your couch all day.

6. Rent is over-rated.

I sold my first-born child and several organs to afford to live here.

Is it worth it?

To me?


Is it actually worth it?


California is a money raping monkey. My view is of my neighbors wall. I mean I go around the corner and up a block and the beach is there. So that part is sweet. But still man, come on! It’s a little rough. It’s manageable, it’s survivable. But it’s insane. Every month my checking account gets absolutely Hurricane Sandy’ed (I’m so not PC- Sorry.) So.. Pretty much entirely wiped out. So thanks for that California. You little over-rated rent monkey.

5. Men are over-rated. (women are too)

Oh stop, like I’m going to tell you my secrets.

Here’s all I’m going to say. Los Angeles is just like Kansas City is just like Denver. I’ve said it before I’ll say it again.  A valuable lesson for us all is that there is no magical land of Oz full of perfect guys. Los Angeles is full of jerks, idiots, ditzs, losers, and man children–  just like everywhere else. Yeah I said it. Los Angeles men— YOU are over-rated. You who roll up your pants and wear cotton cardigans. You hipster surfing business ninjas with an affinity for marijuana and whiskey cokes.


…I love every single one of you.

4. Parking is over-rated

There is something innately wrong with the civil engineers of Los Angeles. And it worries me. Specifically the ones who design grocery store parking lots. Even more specifically Trader Joes Parking lots. I’ve lost years of life in frustration. Watch this.

3. Trends are over-rated.

I work at a magazine company. We pretty much tell YOU what is popular. Some editor decides shes going to do a story on color-blocked nails and all of a sudden pinterest is straight BLOWING UP with tutorials and grams (#instaCUTE) in middle America. So by default, I know trendy.

– I know you don’t wear tennis shoes to brunch.

-I know what good ombre hair looks like.

-I know that Chocolate is the BEST coconut water.

-I know ox-blood is the color of the moment.

-That “pop-up shops” and “sample sales” is just every-day native shopping jargon.

– I know that when Topshop opens at the Grove, it will be crowded for over a month and I know I’d get laughed at if I tried to go to Gjelina without a reservation on a Friday night.

…So I get it ok?

And I also kind of like knowing this stuff.

BUT god, it’s over-rated sometimes. If I hear the phrase  “boozy brunch” one more time, I’ll vomit on my tennis shoes. (Which means I’m probably going to).

I wish I didn’t know dry bars existed.

Food trucks are ruining my life. And waist line. And don’t even get me started on Sprinkles Cupcakes.

I’m just saying.. My brain is full. I miss the days when the biggest news in my life was the H&M opening on the plaza. Those were simpler times.

2. Relationships are over-rated.

It is freaking difficult to make friends in a city full of so many people. Really. Even for me. I know that’s shocking and hard to imagine. But if you’ve ever moved somewhere new and didn’t know anyone. Or even if you do know people and you’re just trying to meet new people, you understand. And no kids, college absolutely does not count.

It’s hard to connect with people. And I mean really connect.

This does not include:

– your mutual love of drinking and/or drugs

– your mutual affection for stalking celebrities

– your mutual fear of homeless people

Connecting with people, as you might have guessed, is a little more. And it’s really hard in the bright lights, big city.

I’ve gone to many a party where pretty much the entire time, I was aware of the fact that I was easily  the least cool person here. Everyone had great hair and long legs and looks fantastic in a pair of cut-off denim shorts (I mean seriously) and really actually rocked a mustache in a completely un-ironic way and you’re kind of like WTF! I look like a ninja turtle. Wait, are bangs in again? God, I can’t keep up with you people. I’m going home and painting my nails black.

1. Los Angeles is Over-rated.

So here’s the truth. And it’s exactly what you want to hear. LA is full of surface level, fake, seedy, botoxed, plucked fame loving freaks. It’s materialistic and rude and fast and eats you up and spits you out and doesn’t care about your sob story or your dreams or your petty little ambitions. It doesn’t care that you want to be an actress, a writer, a professional trumpet player. If you can’t pay your rent, if you can’t afford your lifestyle, get the hell out-of-town. The city doesn’t want you. It’s full of attractive, brilliant, talented people and guess what? Here’s the biggest truth of all. All your mid-western parents who told you that you were special? Well, they lied. You aren’t special at all. You’re just another pretty wannabe in a city of pretty wannabes. And it comes down to who you know and who you’re willing to blow.

And that’s the most over-rated thing of all.

The traffic sucks. I get called an asshole by other drivers at least twice a week. The place is littered with tourists and tour buses and people who only want to be your friend because it benefits them. Taxi drivers are mean and don’t take cards (which is infuriating). Parking tickets are inevitable. You constantly feel the need to keep up with the Joneses but don’t have the funds to really do so. You get really good at giving yourself your own manicures. It’s lonely. It’s frustrating. People are flaky.

However, before you go and think that I’ve lost a little light inside of me and I’ve become just another hopeless jaded drone that LA destroyed — here’s another truth:

Los Angeles is a city of incredible opportunity. Of extreme gambles, of luck, of dreams, of fortune. It’s the kind of place you can wake up and truly anything can happen. Today could be your big break. Today could change everything. It’s a lottery ticket city, a day-in, day-out scratch card. Every day you could strike out, but every day you could make a home-run. It’s a place you can see snow and the beach on the same day. Where you can still see the stars.  Where you can be really whoever you want to be.  Where one day you’re an almost homeless nobody and the next everyone knows your name.

I live in Los Angeles.

It’s crazy.

It’s weird.

It’s sweet.

It’s kind.

It’s absolutely perfect.


I live in Los Angeles.

It’s totally over-rated.

And I love every minute of it.


Dear John: A T-Swift Inspired Rejection Letter

I’d like to speak on a subject that I know pretty well.

And that.

is the subject of rejection. 

To say I’m an expert on rejection would be an understatement. To say I’m a highly knowledgeable scholar on the matter would be a sort of  stretch.. but really not too far from the truth.  Regardless, I’ve had my fair share of something that we all have experienced at one point or another. 

It’s not something I’m like super proud of or anything. I don’t necessarily want to shout from the rooftops that I’ve had my fair share of letdowns in life. But I feel like it’s something I should probably talk about anyway, so you can feel confident that when I say takes one to know one? That I know what the hell I’m talking about. 

 I really debated writing this.  Because I know how you kids are. You either want to either A) be written about in my blog or B) wonder if you are who I am talking about in certain posts.

So let’s just save us all the trouble and skip to that part ok?

I work like Taylor Swift in my writing. If you break my heart, you get a song. Now- I’m not a country music star with millions of fans to sing my music, so I work with what I have. And what I have is occasional moment of clarity from my real-life experiences that I put on a screen and then blast over social media. I can’t rock a guitar and make a verbal slam of an ex-boyfriend make me millions, but at least I can still say how I feel and hope maybe you feel the same. 

And so I thought I’d just go ahead and say at the beginning that yes. Yes it is about you. You and you and you and you and you. And everyone else who’s ever kicked me to the curb.

But also, it’s so much bigger than that. It’s about rejection as a whole. It’s about the idea of being let down. It’s about where it’s taken me from and where it’s going to take me to. It’s about sitting on the sidelines. It’s about being second-string. It’s about the frustrating, the heart-breaking and the down-right humiliating.

It’s about my turn to play. 

So let’s get to it shall we?

I don’t really remember when it started. But at some point, someone came along and didn’t follow through. And ever since then, It’s been a pretty constant stream of denial and disappointments. 

I spent a good amount of high school feeling like I was the scraps of what was left over.. the remainder of all the good picks. Coming home to your mom asking how your day went and just bursting into tears. Applying too much eyeliner and wearing some kind of metaphorical shirt that said NOTICE ME!!!!!!!!!.. in invisible ink. Laughing at some boys idiotic joke about your lack of cleavage. Balancing jumping up and down on my bed blasting Avril Lavigne with the first time I was ever drunk wearing an sombrero, singing to a random guy the country song, “Stay with Me”. 

Oh yeah. We’re going there with this.

Continuing on…

It’s slamming your head repeatedly against your keyboard because you accidentally asked a guy two years older than you to homecoming via computer. And then him (very sweetly) telling you he already had a date. And then him not even actually going. 

It’s talking to someone all summer long and being so excited to see them in person..  only to find out they’ve been harboring a secret girlfriend. 

It’s one embarrassing night in college, My freshman year, I think I drunkenly sang to a guy I was totally in love with– “Take me or Leave me”  (What is with me and communicating my love via drunken singalongs? Sheez, I’m a train wreck.) Anyway.. Thanks for still being my friend after that Elliott. 

It’s about writing a long, long letter to a guy you cared deeply for and never, ever hearing back. 

And I’ve been dumped through a text message. I’ve been dumped over the phone. I’ve been dumped over freaking AOL Instant Messenger.  I’ve been stood up with no explanation. I’ve just been out right ignored until it was clear that things were probably going no where but no where (that’s always fun!). I’ve spent a lot of time waiting for explanations. I’ve spent a lot of time waiting in general.

I’ve fallen. And I mean on my face. Multiple times. continuously. To the point where if this was a literal thing, I would be pretty damn attractive come today. 

And people will say they care…. And they’ll never call. 

And people will smile and tell you the prettiest of words to your face…. And then behind your back, tear you apart.

People will tell you you’re beautiful and perfect… and then they’ll say the exact same thing to the person right behind you. 

People will lie to you.
They’ll make you cry.

And then? Worst of all?

They’ll forget you faster than you can say “See ya never.”

And that’s the truth.

Because I know I write about happily ever after and fairytale endings a lot. And I still believe in those things. I refuse to not believe in them.

But the truth of it is that before you walk out into that sunset, and jump in the car with that knight in shining BMW, you gotta take the bus next to the creepy homeless smelly people for several rounds. 

So on that note—I think by now if you are reading this.. and you’ve been reading for awhile, you know that all I really want to do for the rest of my life, is write. I love what I can do with words. When I finish writing here, I’ll re-read it maybe 20 times, making sure every word is just right. And then I wait. For you. For your approval. 

The other night, I was debating posting something and I asked a friend to pre-read it and after she told me she liked it— I was like, “Yeah, but do you think other people will like it?”

And then she said, “Who cares what other people think? It’s YOUR writing.”

And dammit, she’s right. 

Because I’m pretty good at getting rejected by people. By girls. By guys. For who I am. For the person I really can’t help but be. Because I’ve grown comfortable with the fact that if someone can’t accept that I don’t fit their equation of awesome… well, then they probably never deserved me in the first place.

But my writing. That’s like putting that person that I can’t control…on display…for everyone and just asking them to reject the thing I love the most in the world. 

And that’s terrifying for me. You guys are basically reading my diary. It’s like I just set the lock to my journal on fire and read it across P.A. system of the internet. 

So yeah, I’m a little  afraid sometimes to share what’s on my brain. But each time I write, I find something. It’s that–most of the time, someone somewhere feels the same. Someone gets what I am trying to say. 

So I’m guessing.. and maybe it’s just me.. but I’m guessing you’ve been rejected too. Maybe a lot of times. 

And if so?

Well here’s my secret:

One day you wake up and you realize, it’s never going to end. For the rest of my life forever and ever, I’m going to keep being let down. Maybe it won’t be a constant stream of boys breaking my heart, but someday (and knowing me.. probably soon)– I’m going to fall on my face again.

And again.

and again.

and again.

And then one day? I’m going to get my big break. Take that as you will. Because I don’t even know what that means yet. But I think.. I think it means that one day, someone’s going to realize everything I do is straight gold. 

Long story short, I’m not afraid of a little rejection. I’ve gotten this far in life by myself. With no one there to catch me. And I’m the best I’ve ever been. And personally, I think I just keep getting better.

So I’d like to personally thank all the nay-sayers, all the haters, all the people who pretended to hold their hands out–for never catching me. 

“Because even the biggest failure. Even the worst. Beats the hell out of never trying…”

Fall on soldiers. 

I’ve got your back—