Candy Blog: York Peppermint Patties

There's more where that came from. 

Candy makes me happy. It makes me so so happy. Not as happy as wine, but candy doesn't have the effect of bad decision making. At least not when it comes to whether or not one should attempt a "booty pop." I tried and fell on my ass, literally. My sister was disappointed in me.

So, my current unemployment candy of choice is the York Peppermint Pattie. Sure, the center is basically a minty/waxing substance and the layer of chocolate pretty much melts instantly, but it's just so fucking delicious. If there was a God of Mint, his name would be Mintalayous and he would bestow eternal beauty and happiness to all who ate peppermint patties. And they're good for you right? They have less calories and mint is healthy because it helps your body....um I don't know like metabolize metals or something... whatever, I don't give a shit. All I care about is that at 4:00pm, when I've either spent the day applying to jobs or getting rejected by jobs, it's the only thing that makes me happy. Also, it doesn't help that 4:00pm is the exact moment the Nate Berkus show ends. I'm not gonna lie to you guys right now. I had an entire bag at the beginning of this week and now I'm down to two.

It's Wednesday...

UPDATE: I just found a box of wine in my fridge. Besides the fact that I'm the kind of person that forgets about wine in their fridge. This is great news! I mean, I'm not gonna get better at the booty pop if I don't practice.

Celebrity Pregnancy Blog: No, Not Hilary Duff

Today Robert Downey, Jr. announced that he impregnated his wife. frownie face. 
 
I saw it on twitter this morning.  I got sad...and then angry because I was convinced People Magazine was just mocking me with their use of multiple exclamation points in the announcement.

I guess all the blog posts I dedicated to that guy and all the times I referenced boning him apparently meant nothing. I've seen Only You twice, sat through Heart and Soul and ENJOYED it, and one time I thought about watching Chaplin. So this is how he repays me. He impregnates his own wife! I'm just so furious I...wait...Ryan Gosling hasn't impregnated anyone right? RDJ you are forgiven.

         Oh happy day!

 

Bikini Waxing Blog: Heeeeyyyy You?

Now doesn't that look like a good time...

Waxing. It's a necessary evil. If you're a lady that is.

Good news! I'm totally a lady. Okay mom you can stop reading now. 

Part of being a lady involves making an awkward visit every four weeks. It doesn't have to be awkward I guess, but it is. It's awkward because every four weeks I see the same person and I say hi. Then she proceeds to torture me and I pay her for it. The thing is, every four weeks I walk in and say "Hi Holly, how are you?" Then she looks uncomfortable and I sigh "Meghan." "Oh hi, Meghan, how are you?" Usually, that's followed by pain, small talk, and judging her taste in music. Of course I keep the music judging to myself. After all, she is pulling hair out of me.

I've been going to the same place for almost two years (depending on my financial situation), and only two women have...ehem...groomed my nether regions (I couldn't think of a better way to put that, I'll take suggestions in the comment section). So why don't they know my name??? They're all up in my biznass and I have to remind them that I'm a regular costumer. Not. Cool.

I'm not the only one this happens to. My friend Emily actually brought this to my attention. I was amazed. I had never noticed. Of course, she's not completely oblivious to life like I am. As an aspiring writer I should probably work on that. She's right though, and it's crap. We go to the doctor for our annual lady check up. Do they forget our names? Maybe, but at least they try to pretend like they know us. "Hello, Ms." *hesitates and glances at clip board* "Ah, Ms. Storrie, good to see you again." As we all know, you're on a first name basis by the end of the appointment.

I've racked my brain and can't find a solution. I suppose one could put a name tag on their vagina, but I can't see how it would make everything less awkward. Besides, they don't even stay on that well...trust me. I guess it's just a fact of life. Every four weeks I'll walk in and reintroduce myself AGAIN.

Okay Holly, how about this? I don't get mad when you don't remember my name and you don't play Jack Johnson during my appointment...EVER.

Deal?

Good Looking Blog: I Like to Look at You

...but please God don't talk...ever.

I couldn't think of anything to write about so I went ahead and starting watching 17 Again. It's a nice little Zac Efron vehicle (for those of you who don't know, he's handsome). While watching it I was reminded of a conversation I had earlier with my buddy Flynn. Oddly enough, it wasn't about sharks, boxed wine, or which Disney movie most accurately portrays high school life.

It was about guys... shocking.

It was about the various times we kept a complete douche around because they were hot. Or we thought they were at the time or whatever. It's not the point. The point is that I remember an exact moment in my life when a guy told me Fuel was one of his favorite bands and I just let it slide. He was cute so I let it slide like it was nothing. Well it's something you guys! So is wearing linen shorts on dates, not being funny, and blaming your emotional problems on your parents' divorce. All separate instances when I just glossed right over dealbreakers and thought "Maybe I can get them to like Top Chef or something?"

Then there's the ex that strolls into town and takes over your life for a weekend. During that time he spends every moment dissecting your life into all the terrible choices you've made (your car is stupid, you can't pick a restaurant, why aren't you richer?, let me pick out what you're going to wear). Why thank you for your noble advice sir, I shant be able to live without it. You know what happens when that hot douchebag comes to town? You get drunk and angry and end up at a place called The Cowboy Lounge. Good things don't happen at a place like that.

These are just a few examples of the kind of people we keep around because we like looking at them. I bet that's why most good looking people are complete assholes.

...of course not you Zac Efron. You have amazing music taste, don't care that I'm poor, and find self deprecating girls super hot. YEAH!

No?

.

Unemployment Blog: There Will Probably Be A Lot of These

"Oh, it's going to be fine. It will give me more time to write."

That's what I told my mother while explaining that it's no big deal that her 30 year old daughter is now unemployed. Turns out there's nothing scarier than having no money and THAT is not conducive to letting the creative juices flow.

By the way, if you're wondering why there wasn't an I can't believe I'm 30 blog post, there are a few reasons. 1. It's lame. 2. I spent that birthday in Las Vegas 3. If I put that weekend in print I'd never work in this town again!

So sure, when you're unemployed you spend a ton of time applying for jobs, looking for jobs, emailing people about jobs, and just googling in general (google celebrities in leather vests, it's amusing). But what you probably don't know about unemployment is the embarrassing amount of bad movies you're going to watch. I watched a movie called Princess Protection Program, The Last Song, and The Bodyguard within a 36 hour period. Pepper in a few more romantic comedies here and there and you've pretty much mapped out my life.

Actually, The Bodyguard is awesome. My apologies to Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner. You deserve more from me. I could quote that movie all day and I will.

I've also got Jurassic Park on my DVR so yeah I rule...hard.

European Blog: An Open Letter to Rick Steves

Dear Rick Steves,

For months I've watched you travel through Europe explaining everything from cheese making in the Swiss Alps to the hot springs in Budapest, Hungary. I've spent many a relaxing morning enjoying your journey through the beer gardens of Munich. You should know these are some of the most magical times of my life. Times when I can just let all my troubles go and watch you tell the histories of churches and town squares.

You know why, Rick? Can I call you Rick? Rick, it's because you radiate pure sexual energy. It's the kind of man heat my mother used to warn me about as a child. You are pure fucking sex, Rick Steves. I know it's true because I can feel it through my television. When you went to Florence and stood next to the statue of David and you, how do I say this, made that statue look like a gigantic pussy?

You’re better than art; you're fucking Rick Steves.

Of course, some may disagree with me. They'll tell me that your voice is weird and high and that you're just a nerdy nerd face. I know better though. I know that beneath your pastel button up shirt and pleaded khaki's there's the kind of man that'll take a girl to see a Viennese string quartet like a motherfucker. And don't even get me started on when you have your jacket tossed over your shoulder. What are you just toying with me? Is this just a game to you, Rick Steves?!

I can tell your producers know what I know, and they're using it to suck me in. That's why those bastards began the Budapest episode with you shirtless playing chess in a pool filled with Hungarian man candy and mustaches. Ryan Reynolds couldn't pull that off.

So I stayed on my couch and watched the entire episode. How could I walk away from you, Rick Steves? How?

Yours truly,

Meghan

Dating Blog: Just Give Up

I'm not sure if it's good news or bad news, but this ginger thing is apparently not a phase.

My face hurts today. It hurt yesterday too. It hurts because I tried, unsuccessfully, to hit on a ginger this weekend. Theoretically, that's not a big deal. It's not like I successfully hit on guys. The truth is my expectations are pretty low. So low that I recently considered internet dating again. The key word is considered. It was so awful the first time I'll probably be three weeks out of my artificial insemination consultation before a match.com profile gets filled out.

Here's the thing: I attempted to dance with a guy and he accidentally elbowed me in the face. Dead fucking in the middle of my face. I'm talking straight up bow to the nose. I grabbed my face to make sure I still had one and my nose was bleeding.

Do you know what's super hot? Bleeding out of your face. The fellas are all "Man, there's all these chicks here, but I'm just drawn to the one with blood coming out of her nose. It's both elegant and refined."

How do you come back from that? You don't. You giggle way too loud and awkward and say, "oh no big, I'm totally fine!" Then you run to the bathroom and stick tissues up your nose and stare at yourself in the mirror and let out the long and overdue "OWWWWWW FUUUUUUUUCK!" To add insult to injury, it wasn't even tissues, I had to use one-ply toilet paper. I didn't even know that shit existed. And you know what...it shouldn't.

It's okay you guys, this story has a happy ending. It's the part where I passed out on a couch. Thus hopefully assuming I completely gave up and made no effort to talk to that guy again.

Who am I kidding? I probably told him I loved him after my 17th white wine.