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Santa Thinks I'm an Alcoholic [Jan. 2nd, 2003|01:21 am]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |amusedamused]
[Current Music |Elvis vs. JXL -- A Little Less Conversation (Who knew?!)]

Home, home again--feeling fine. I'm currently staying in the luxurious "Chambre du Frère," a charming little box which used to be my brother's room. With the conspicuous presence of a mountain of outgrown boy clothes (This time, he's six-foot-two.) complemented by a collage of tastefully selected bikini models, you'd think it would be any club-going, Calvin Klein-wearing, hot-to-trot young man's ideal space. But oh no, my friend. My brother has abandoned his former den in favor of spreading his cologne-drenched funk into the larger bedroom, née my room. So, while brother dearest enjoys my stereo (two weeks' pay from my job as a page in the local library during high school), my newly painted walls (two days of sweat and stained skin from the hottest days of the past summer), and my pretty, fuzzy blue rug (impulse buy), I am derelict in the smaller room with no one but calendar model Heidi Klum to feel my pain. *eyes narrowing* I am quickly growing to resent her face and superhuman proportions--if I were my brother, I would fear for her safety.

Perhaps my parents' knowledge of the new living situation led to the proliferation of amazing quantities of alcohol under the Christmas tree addressed to me. Already down are a large bottle of Malibu Rum (daiquiris), two bottles of champagne (one consumed, one accidentally broken due to impaired depth perception on the part of a certain embarrassed English major who shall remain nameless), a case of Grolsch (the real champagne of beers), and one quarter of a bottle of José Cuervo (licked, slammed, sucked). To go: one bottle of white wine, fourteen mini-bottles of sundry liquors, a case of Sam, a case of Corona, and the rest of José. Sadly, my current inability to become inebriated has caused my enthusiasm for binge drinking to wane. Happily, I've discovered chocolate truffle coffee and assorted herbal teas to temporarily satisfy the urge to imbibe. However, if history does indeed repeat itself, we could be looking at a few dry months in the near future...

But not this weekend. The unexpected voice of a friend from the far (north)east promises to bring carousing, cavorting, and commiseration back onto my scene come Friday. And bagels.


I'm posting? And I was on a streak, too! *shakes head* You'd think that by now I'd know when to leave well enough alone... but I suppose that we can draw comfort in this new year from the fact that some things never change.
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Wilde Horses Almost Dragged Me Away: A New Po-lice on Life -or- I long to Alan Rickman-handle Elyot [Aug. 2nd, 2002|10:53 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |tiredtired]
[Current Music |Billy Joel -- River of Dreams]

So which one do you want first, kids? "Meg has lovely happy day traipsing around midtown with Poolhall Man" or "Meg almost gets her underaged a** busted in kiddie park"? ... Oh, I get it. I'm only as good as my last and greatest misfortune -- is that it?! Well, in the interest of keeping interest, a little bit of sensationalism for you first and a little ray of sunshine for me last. That is, if I can actually make it through one of my own pieces for a change...

Meg Almost Gets Her Underaged A** Busted in a Kiddie Park: A Fairy Tale

I have a habit of acquiring people. I don't know quite when it started but I've been at it ever since I can remember. Never one to disturb the status quo, I enticed a certain Barnes and Noble employee to be my friend early in the summer after purchasing an Oscar Wilde book at his register. In support of my selection that evening, he offered up myriad Wilde quotes to make me smile. After thanking him for my receipt and the entertainment, I shuffled over to the in-store café with my friend Jackie to throw a coffee back and giggle like little girls because the cashier boy had talked to me. Once ensconced in the café, Jackie said to me: "Megan, you would be the coolest girl ever if you made that big manly hunk of alpha dork our new friend." Well now. Never one to back down from a challenge and temporarily emboldened by coffee, I sauntered back up to his register and laid down my lines. A friendship was born.

Fast forward to yesterday night. Jenn and I decided to meet Paul at a diner after his B&N shift; it was our last chance to see him before he left for Pennsylvania for two weeks, during which time I would be headed back to Oregon for good. Waiting for Paul in the diner, Jenn started having a panic attack over what to order; hence I could tell the night was slated to be disastrous. When Paul finally arrived, what I was in need of was a good, stiff drink, not a plate of curly fries. Twenty-two years old and eager to please, Paul seemed to think a libation was a keen idea. Having seen him damn near a dozen times with various friends in various diners, I was fairly comfortable with this idea. Apparently, Jenn was not. After we had already agreed to follow him to his house so we could drop off his car before heading to a local park he knew for some liquid refreshment, Jenn decided to have a panic attack. "OHMYGODMeganwedon'tknowhimwellenoughohmyGodifmyparentsfindoutwhatifwegetintroublewhataboutthecopsohmyGodI'mhavingapanicattackeeeeeeeeee!!!" said Jenn. I could tell exactly where this night was headed. I assured Jenn that, if at any time she was uncomfortable, we would certainly spirit away. This calmed her down but it was really no use -- we were doomed.

The first thing I noticed when we pulled up to the park at midnight was the rather large sign which read: PARK HOURS: DAWN TO DUSK. Rii-iight. "Are you sure the police aren't going to come around here?" I asked a slightly nervous Paul. In answering in the negative, I could have sworn his voice cracked. A bad sign, surely, but what did I care? We were doomed and I was enjoying my first taste of fatalism. Same thing when the first shot glass out of the bag crashed to the ground in a sort of ominous manner. I just shrugged and chugged along.

Paul provided a lovely selection of potables. I started in on the rum, chasing my first shot with Vanilla Coke; Paul drank vodka, I believe. As I poured my second shot, I wondered how long it would be until the police showed up. I got my answer mere seconds after downing the last drop in my glass, in the form of a well-maintained black-and-white cruiser heading straight for the park. Bingo. Cue the panic attack.

A quick aside: Was drinking in a public park after dark while underaged a bloody stupid thing to do? Yes, it was. Did I really think I'd get caught? No, actually. I live in a small town in upstate NY where it probably wouldn't matter if I did get caught, anyway. In the unlikely event that the police actually did roll by, they'd probably roll down the window, ask how my brother was doing, tell me to "be good," and send my on my merry way to Drunksville. Were we still in Kansas, Toto? No, this was the real world. Once again, was this a stupid thing to do? Yes. Would I do it again? No. Was I one lucky bastard? Read on.

I quickly scanned the setup: two girls, one guy, three bottles of booze and three bottles of soda. I looked at Paul: shock. Jenn: panic attack. Now, usually I'm high-strung and a bit of a crier -- but desperate times call for desperate personality changes. "Paul," I said in my calmest smoothest voice," slowww-ly put the bottles back into the knapsack. There you go. Jenn, don't freak out. I'm going to go." More sober than I had been before my two shots, I stood and made my way to the waiting cruiser, followed at length my my friends. Happily, the policeman made our difficult navigation between the picnic tables more facile by turning the searchlight on us, full blast. Lovely. We assembled ourselves in front of the cruiser, the cop got out and:

Mr. Policeman: Whatchu doin' here? Don't you know park's closed?
Greek Chorus: No, sir. We didn't know.
Mr. Policeman: Says so on the sign. Closed after dark unless there's a softball game. Then the lights are on.
Greek Chorus: (baffled by superfluous information) Oh.
Mr. Policeman: Whatchu got over there?
Paul: Coke.
Mr. Policeman: No, that there on the floor.
Paul: That's mine. Alcohol.
Mr. Policeman: How ol' are alla you?
Paul: Twenty-one. Er, twenty-two.
Jenn: Twenty.
Me: Twenty-one. (Maturing just over one year in less than five seconds.)
Mr. Policeman: Donchu know there could be trouble havin' alcohol 'round a twenty-year-old?
Jenn: I'm not drinking.
Me: She's designated driver.
Mr. Policeman: Y'all should go to the bars. ... Er, uh. Whose car is that?
Jenn: Mine.
Mr. Policeman: Well, I'm gonna trust you that you're not drinkin'. But you should watch out. They see a bottle-ah booze in your back seat and you're underaged and there's gonna be trouble. Now get outta here.
Greek Chorus: Thank you, sir.

We collected our belongings and paced over to the car. I could feel the embarrassment radiating from Paul and the ire rising in Jenn as we stowed our contraband in the trunk. As we swung ourselves into the car, the cop turned onto the main road and swiftly disappeared. As proper "Defender of the Law" theme music was missing in the air, I had to be content with humming an appropriate tune to myself. Jenn started the engine and we drove into the night. We dropped a slightly pink Paul off at home, exchanged e-mail addresses and quietly made for the other side of the river.

Funny how these things work out, eh? Funnier still how they come about. *shakes head*

Well, I've tired myself out. Two posts in a week! Who would have guessed I could be so prolific? Not I, said the Meg.

Oh, yeah...

Meg Has a Lovely Happy Day Traipsing around Midtown with Poolhall Man

I saw Private Lives and it was oh-so-good. :D


Bah, I'm not going to proofread this. More later.
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Semester Sequestered from Written Word: Why Four Full Months May Be Absurd [May. 23rd, 2002|10:25 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |complacentcomplacent]
[Current Music |Magnetic Fields -- Reno Dakota]

So I'm back.

*cough cough*
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Rage Against the Manchine: The Fine Arts of Dada -or- Ho Ho Home for the Holidays & Ha Ha Hating It [Dec. 23rd, 2001|12:39 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |mellowmellow]
[Current Music |My Father -- Merry Irish Christmas to My Worthless Daughter]

Today's Variations on the Daily "Wake-up-the-college-student-at-ten-(EST)-with-no-regard-for-when-she-went-to-sleep" Ritual:

1. Whistling -- I hate whistling. Maybe it's because I've never been able to master the fine art; perhaps my loathing springs from jealousy. Or it could be because high-pitched noises have always irked me, especially first thing in the morning. Which brings me to...

2. The Bell of Insanity and Destruction -- My father has this fey little bell that he was *cough* fortunate enough to acquire from the leftover pile at one of his many West Point restoration projects. Dating back to the turn of the century, I'm sure it was a valuable army tool in its day--I know I want to spring up and slaughter people when I hear its shrill ring. Arrrgghh!!! And speaking of insanity...

3. He opened my bedroom door! -- Come on, man, I'm nearly twenty years old! Have the decency to raise your hand and knock! Or get someone else to do it for you!! My father, like many second-generation Italians, is really big on the whole "Serve Your Elders" thing from which he is, of course, exempt, being roughly the age of SPAM. But apparently that's not old enough to render him completely sessile because...

4. He did THAT THING THAT I HATE! -- You know that thing parents do to toddlers to test for motor skill deficiency? Where they wave their hands all around the poor unassuming baby's head without touching it so they flinch and grow up to be the kind of twitchy adults that society shuns?! YEAH! THAT THING! After he had succeeded in smoking me out of the hole that is my brother's room (My brother gets the guest room because he likes the bed better, while I have to sleep next to a poster of four women's posteriors perched in a pickup truck which cleverly reads: Haul Ass. Brilliant!), he followed me down the stairs, through the living room, around the corner, across the kitchen, into the bathroom, back to the kitchen and right up to the computer terminal at which I am currently stationed. Now, if you know me at all, you know that I'm a flincher; it's because of the nefarious schemes of my father, worst of which is THIS STUPID GAME! You know, they say you shouldn't write angry but since I'm already this far along...

5. After I wouldn't respond to his pathetic attempt at interpersonal niceties (That's the worst part: he thinks he's being nice and communicating with his daughter. Of all the delusional...), he called me "stupid". -- Out of all the things I've been called during the past two decades, "stupid" is my least favorite of the bunch. I've never been completely confident in my academic abilities; I didn't really have a lot of the advantages of my peers at my small stimulating liberal arts institution (re: no AP, no academic fast track (If the rest of the competitive world is the NYS Thruway, the closest my high school comes is Podunk Ave.), no snazzy extracurriculars or internship opportunities, etc.). Not that I'm whining, but I did toil laboriously at understanding self-assigned supplemental readings during grammar school in an attempt to augment my intellectual prowess. And I still feel inferior to you. *sigh* I'd attempt to explain the phenomenon that is my inferiority complex but...

6. My father is singing situationally appropriate songs in the style of a drunken Irishman, complete with accent. -- Usually my father saves this offensive persona for the special occasions when "tuber head" is not sufficiently insulting to my mother's Irish heritage. He has a new resource for this favorite hobby: those annoying music channels from our friends in the high-number cable-programming department. Apparently, even cable executives run out of unabashedly flamboyant kin to fill their programming charts with low-budget basic access shows � la Wayne's World. Thanks to their ingenuity, during dinner we're treated to MTV 527--"Easy Listening" or, MTV 523--"Singers and Standards" and breakfast means MTV 540--"Modern Rock". My personal favorite is MTV 533--"Atmospheres" because its vomit-inducing ballads are really helpful in keeping off those extra holiday pounds. So, the obnoxiousness of the 520s combined with my father's song style is currently driving me up... the... WALL!!


I'll save the sample song lyrics for another rant. I've finally calmed down; my affection for my father is rebuilding itself bit by bit (Hey, I like a good Irish joke and jig as much as the next McGuinea.)... but, ooooo, he got me good this morning! I suppose I'm fortunate that he cares enough to participate in my life, no matter how misguided his mission may be... but I also suppose I wouldn't mind smacking him around a little bit. *smack smack* There you go, Dad. Merry *smack* Christmas.

Whew. *exhale*

To Be Continued, I'm sure...
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R.I.P. VanWinkle: Good-bye to the City that Always Sleeps -or- Re-turning Tricks No More! [Dec. 12th, 2001|02:49 am]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |awake]
[Current Music |Fleetwood Mac -- Don't Stop]

It's on.
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Nostalgsick: A Sister Living with her Past(or) -or- Indian Burn Summer: Back in Black&Blue and Not [Oct. 25th, 2001|01:18 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |accomplishedaccomplished]
[Current Music |Three Dog Night -- Summer in the City]

I wrote this twenty-two days ago:

So, Im sitting in my new room, in my new apartment, in my new state... and I cant think of anything new to say at all. This has become painfully apparent to my circle of close friends, God bless their pointed little heads, who are treated to the endless redundancies which Ive been regurgitating since my return to the lesser coast. At some point, it seems as if my experiences stopped being enjoyable isolated incidents and simply became pieces of several mental jigsaw puzzles of which I am comprised. Currently, my mind is an incestuous nest of nouns interacting with each other to produce inappropriate instances of revisionism in the analysis of present dealings. In laymegs terms: I have become entirely tedious; its time to move on.

But move on from what?! you ask yourself aloud in a (forcefully perplexed manner/British accent), prompting contemptuous glances from the (daytrader/Diablo II junkie) at the next terminal. Ah, my friend, you have no idea. Granted, this is due in part to the fact that I havent posted in a solid three months. However, nothing I could have written during those wanton weeks could have possibly come close to explaining the awesomely disturbing events of my summer. Its going to be a long and winding road to recovery... but when liberation from these burdens finally comes--BAM!

Now, that some semblance of a crude apology for my absence and newfound vapidity has been danced around like a maypole, lets make a slight attempt at getting back to good, shall we? In the next few days, look for some possibly amusing anecdotes about Homeless Man, Pool Hall Boy and the other Christian-nameless characters from last semester, in addition to some recent recounts of hearts purloined from freshmen and inebriated performances in the greater campus area. It promises to be all the superficial fun of previous posts with half the fa(c)t for now. But please stay tuned for greater things. This time, good things shall come from she who bates.


Eh, it'll do


P. S. This made my day:


From the Chinese root meaning "Licker of Toads"

Meg can't get a date.
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(no subject) [Sep. 30th, 2001|10:57 am]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |confusedconfused]

Hot damn.
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Life's a Bowl of Cheery and I Am the Kibitz(er) -or- Nothing Sucks Like Meglectrolux [Jun. 22nd, 2001|02:21 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |venomous]
[Current Music |The Sound of Silence]

I haven't been feeling myself lately. Although this remark would prompt congratulatory remarks from me if I had heard it from Eileen, it doesn't hold the same double-entendre appeal when I say it to myself while seated in a house which, while seemingly too small to accommodate a family of four's simultaneous usage, feels too large for my solitary comfort.

I'm supposed to be packing for a seven-day stint at Canoe Instructor Training up at "The Lake," which I'm scheduled to depart for at five o'clock tomorrow morning. I haven't seen five o'clock in a long Eastern Standard or Pacific Time... so it should be an interesting three hours in the family car with my mother, who is finally exhibiting a tinge of the exasperation that comes from wrangling with an aging process which is being catalyzed by the outlandish behavior of a roguish second child.


Stress caused by said child, preparation for departure, peripheral interpersonal problems and the new job have rendered me literarily inadequate. I'm going to have to derail this train before I make it to the station of condemnation for its consternation... My critical fangs are dull and could easily be sharpened on my own tough hide today.
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Cardboard Box Tops: Homeless Is More? -or- (For)Give an Inch...? [Jun. 6th, 2001|10:40 pm]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |curiouscurious]
[Current Music |Violent Femmes -- I Held Her in My Arms]

I received two postcards this weekend: one was from Emily in Idaho, Dawn's and my original lab partner and overall wonderful human being; the other was from Homeless Man. Just when I thought I had put my cardboard box antics behind me, the former romantic bane goes and keeps his promise to correspond. This is especially surprising due to the manner in which our last informal encounter was conducted:

Drunken Meg is leaning on the wall of an ugly Asylum Block corridor waiting for Sara, who has invited D. Meg over to say good-bye before she departs for her home in California... and also to help clean out the communal beer in the social room fridge. Homeless Man, who lives down the hall from Sara, is shuffling about in his room, packing books and moving tchotchke.

D. Meg: (to H. Man) Good-bye, creepy guy.

H. Man: Good-bye, girl who has had too much to drink.

D. Meg: Good-bye, sleazy man.

H. Man: Good-bye, sleazy girl.

D. Meg lunges for H. Man only to be caught and restrained in mid-attack by Sara who possesses a strength that belies her petite size. Sara drags D. Meg loudly into the night.

Though he had already seen me at my worst (see: Scarlett O'Hara Meets the Bathroom Sink), I was sure that my newly manifested belligerence a la Liz was enough to scare away even the bravest mate-y (Arg!). However, sure enough, three weeks and three thousand miles later, he kept his promise to write. Although the urge to purloin a free postcard from the local mall was most likely prompted by boredom, he did follow through... which is more than I can say for some people who consider my logic "preschooler-esque" and never wear t-shirts. Harumph.

As for the contents of the message, well... let's just call them surprising. It turns out that my half-hearted pledge of hospitality should he be in New York is in jeopardy of being accepted. Unbeknownst to either of us when I made the offer, Homeless Man is scheduled to attend a wedding on Lon-gai-laynd this summer and to make some cameos in the greater Hudson Valley. Perhaps he'll stop by; perhaps he won't. Either way, it looks like the torrid non-relationship has settled into... almost a friendship, of sorts. Hmm. We may just have found the quickest route from Point B to Point A.

"How I spent my Wednesday evening" is another entry unto itself. Perhaps tomorrow...

P. S. John Waugh called; we're going to shoot pool next week.
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Ready oar Not, Thar She Blows It! -or- No Glenn Miller. [Jun. 5th, 2001|12:07 am]
Oh, You Know
[Current Mood |listlesslistless]
[Current Music |Soundgarden -- Burden in My Hand]

So, it's official: Small Crafts Director. As campy as that sounds, I'm actually looking forward to treading water for three minutes and trying to lift forty pounds above my head during a week of paid "vacation" at Lake George while I get my certification. That's "watercrafts," by the way, for those of you who scratched your heads and wondered aloud (actual quote): "Why do you need to lift forty pounds over your head? Popsicle sticks aren't that heavy." Nay, my catachrestical camarades, I'm not planning on spending much time on land, let alone landyards; I'm only in this for the funny. And I seriously can't think of one thing funnier than myself on a boat dock in authoritative khaki shorts, wielding a whistle.

As you can most likely tell from precedent, I'm not feeling all that inspired tonight. The life was sucked out of me during a two-hour stint in a highway diner and was replaced with the faint odor of skin-permeating cigarette smoke. However, my word is my bondage and I knew that Tamara would hold me to it the next time she could tie me down. So, the mediocre's on me for the evening... but I'll dust off the trusty ol' puns and have a go at it again tomorrow night.

It's times like this when I wish I could write like Dawn. Wait... that's all the time.
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