Click here for feelings
Posted on April 3, 2014 1 Comment
Parts of this were filmed on the boardwalk of a beach that I frequent. So do vendors that sell homemade Jell-O shots out of disposable syringes. Can’t complain about that.
P.S. This gave me the feels (and a lady boner).
I’m a writer with nothing to write about
Posted on April 1, 2014 1 Comment
Except dancing on an Alphabet City bar stage to Salt n Pepa, posing outside of Irish Exit because “we’re 21 now…wait, we’re 23,” losing the head of a screwdriver to the cork on the inside of a wine bottle, and that guy from OKCupid who said, “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.”
Before or after thanking the bouncer for letting us in at 19. You decide.
Okay, okay. I have a ton to write about, but life/Lord Scott Disick has been throwing curveballs in the form of four-hour open bars, 15-hour work days, 24-hour stomach bugs and a vicious cycle of never-ending Netflix queues.
And I’ve been a little weepy. It is baseball season, right?
Consider this a “To Be Continued,” with tales of life, (perusing dating websites for) love, meeting an old friend’s four-week old baby for the first time and a five-year high school reunion (YEP. THAT’S A THING.) to come.
Cheers (I’m not dead, just a little busy living).
An open letter to my tolerance
Posted on March 6, 2014 Leave a Comment
It was midnight on a Saturday as I sat upright, dead sober and straight-faced at a small-town Brooklyn bar. My friends fed money to the tip jar and the jukebox (all rap songs removed by the bar-owner) while I forced back a Bud heavy like it was cough syrup and sulked. This gruesome public display of depression was (and always will be) worse than any public display of affection.
Unless you’re that couple making out on the subway. I still hate you.
I caught a glimpse of my hair — once again proving that it can, and always will get drunker than I do — and scowled at the bags under my eyes and food on my shirt in the Guinness mirror behind the bar. I called a cab for the six-block walk home, slipped into sweatpants and heat up a hot pocket because beers just wouldn’t do it and I couldn’t afford a mixed drink.
Netflix it was.
Sure, I signed a contract with my own business cards, benefits I don’t quite understand and an “eh, it’s decent for a recent graduate” salary, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying to black out.
Blacking out post-21 is as unpredictable as your everyday coffee order at Dunkin (I said Splenda, bitch). Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose and sometimes you lose your passport. Some nights, you can house half a bottle of Fireball and not remember getting home while others, the whole bottle will leave you wishing you tucked one of those airplane-size babies of Smirnoff into your strapless bra for the road.
And one more for good luck.
Some nights you’re invincible — eighteen and shitfaced again — only this time you aren’t sneaking Sparks from the Spanish deli you’d otherwise never set foot in. Others, it’s 9 p.m. and you’re already looking for a ride home because the idea of bar hopping causes physical pain. In fact, you haven’t left the bar stool since your last bathroom trip and your leg is asleep.
More than anything, you can’t stop wondering where the fuck all these seventeen year olds came from and what kind of sorcery they used to be served (YOU HAVE BRACES AND A NAMEPLATE. HOW DID YOU EVEN GET IN HERE? GO DRINK WINE COOLERS IN THE DUGOUTS LIKE WE HAD TO WINTER OF 2008).
Some nights, your tolerance is as strong as it was when it peaked sophomore year of college. Others, you’re on the floor of an AC nightclub because someone “pummeled into you” but really, you probably just fell.
So hey, tolerance. This one’s for you.
We need to talk.
I still loved you when you left me in the lobby of the diner, bruised and barefoot, waiting for an order of 4 a.m. waffle fries. I still loved you when you left me limping through the lobby of a hotel, one too many vodka-red bulls over the legal limit. I still love you every.single.time. you leave me the morning after with nothing but a four minute outgoing phone call to my ex and 47 text messages to the same four people.
(see: “wher ar eyou,” wHERE aRE u” and “wait but where are you”)
But last Sunday — somewhere in between an eight hour nap and being told my bare ass touched the floor of Revel nightclub — I came to a difficult decision.
I think it’s time we take a break, until you can commit.
Can I still handle Fireball? How many tall-boys is too many tall-boys? Will that thermos-full of Franzia leave my ex a voicemail? The real world is hard enough without having to wonder “will this Sunday Funday still hurt come Monday from the confines of my cubicle or should these bottomless mimosas might as well be water?”
Quit ripping the rug out from underneath me every weekend and LET ME LIVE.
I’m just asking for some commitment.
Until we meet again (probably this weekend),
A tired 22-year-old post-grad with a full-time job and love of whiskey
Here’s what ten-year-old me wanted in a man
Posted on March 5, 2014 Leave a Comment
Sober and stable, but one earring is cool. The next page was a definitive list of boys I had “CRAZY” crushes on*. Special shout-out to Claire’s and also my mom for not throwing this away with my provocatively dressed Bratz doll.
* Two turned out to be gay.
An ode to baggage and “being yourself”
Posted on February 7, 2014 1 Comment
“How far are you from your folks’ place?” asked a way-cooler-than-me 29-year-old punk(ish) band member I was interviewing over an expensive cup of coffee and apartment-talk in Greenpoint. Using the term “folks” made him instantly cooler. That, and his off-center nose ring.
“Oh, both my parents are dead.”
Thank God this wasn’t a date.
His face shifted as if he’d seen a ghost, or Kate Upton walking the 23 degree streets in nothing but a bear hat. Maybe he just burnt his tongue. Either way, he spit out the same sort of “sorry” everyone says when they don’t know what else to say and looked at me to either elaborate or change the subject.
I cut the tension with a sharp, “What if this was a date? Should that have been my pick-up line? ‘Hey, my name is Meaghan and I have a fuck-ton of baggage.'” He didn’t know what to say (go figure) but he laughed, and I think only half of it was out of pity.
I’m a 22-year-old college graduate with a degree in journalism, a hatred for spanx, and this interview was the closest I’ve had to a date in two years.
By the way, he’s taken.
Maybe I’m to blame for mocking online dating or not “putting myself out there” (whatever that means) but with an on-call job and a lot of laundry to do, socializing is stressful. The last thing I want to do on a Saturday night is small-talk with some stranger while my girlfriends order shots.
If post-grad life has taught me anything (besides what it’s like to feel your metabolism slowing down), it’s that dating in your twenties isn’t like dating in your teens. You can’t just date your friends. Dating in your twenties requires actual effort. It requires taking risks and changing scenes and saying yes to that set up with your best friend’s mom’s sister’s son’s half-brother.
It’s volunteering as tribute to the unknown and unfamiliar while still somehow managing to “be yourself” but how the fuck are we supposed to do that when, in our early twenties, most of us don’t even know who we are yet?
I like Dashboard Confessional but I love Diplo.
I’ve been known to get too attached but I’m scared of commitment.
Some nights, I dig being alone, binge watching Freaks and Geeks and spending some quality time with New York Magazine. Others, I’ll take your open bar, raise you a happy hour and meet you on the dance floor. Some days, I want to be a writer. Others, I’d rather marry rich.
All we can be in our twenties is present — and open — to whatever comes next. To swiping right on Tinder before knowing how tall they are. To writing a song for a boy who doesn’t know you (yet). To kissing everyone in a crowded bar and complimenting a stranger’s watch. To coffee with an OKCupid match you actually messaged first (even if its your first date in two years).
If dating in our twenties means wearing our baggage like a badge on our sleeves and grabbing life by the balls then so be it.
Here I am, fellas. Single, short, eclectic and a Cancer. Take it or leave it (just buy me a beer first).
Sometimes I forget she died
Posted on January 21, 2014 8 Comments
Sometimes I forget she died and it’s not until I stop everything I’m doing that I remember she did. It’s not until I see the president speak, work sixteen hours straight or consider ordering French Onion Soup. It’s not until I find that emory board she was always looking for or the wedding pictures I never asked to see. It’s not until I reach for my phone and dial a number I went and had cancelled myself. (Old habits die hard, right?)
It’s not until I need help.
Which insurance card do I use for my prescriptions? Are taxes a thing yet? Will putting my bed next to my heater set my apartment on fire? Would you microwave this?
It’s not until “Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World comes on the radio because of course it fucking did, or “Blurred Lines” because she hated it–just like she hated Robin Thicke. I’m not sure how she felt about Jim Adkins, but she did like the Black Eyed Peas.
It’s not until it’s six a.m. and I’m sweating through her tee-shirt from one of two recurring dreams where she’s screaming for help but I’m paralyzed, and she’s still alive but I can’t call her.
It’s not until it rains.
It’s not until it snows.
It’s not until I’m sad.
It’s not until I’m happy.
Sometimes I forget she died, but then I remember.
Dear Notebook: a seventh-grader’s guide to abortion, Good Charlotte and the real world
Posted on January 20, 2014 3 Comments
Moving is hard. I knew that. I’ve seen Casper. I saw it coming.
What I didn’t see coming (besides the blizzard that fucked my U-Haul)?
It being ten times harder (times the square root) when you’ve got your own shit, your parents’ shit and their parents’ shit. Three months, 50-something garbage bags, 25 reinforced boxes and one 10×10 storage unit later and I’m finally kind of home. While some things didn’t make the move from storage (see: two 40-year-old lamps, evidence of my scrapbooking phase and my grandmother’s tax forms), others didn’t even make it past the curb of my parents’ house (see: my Smirnoff-stained senior prom dress, the 8×10 of me hugging a plastic tree and that portrait sketch of Hilary Duff).
Still, some made the dreadfully dragged out move and others even made the cut for our slightly cramped third story, three-bedroom apartment (see: Big Fat Liar on DVD, unidentifiable silver trays we think are coasters and my cat’s ashes).
There it was — amidst a striptease record and my dad’s old flask — my 2004-2009 journal. I had high hopes that I had stopped using it come high school but one mortifyingly mean top-eight list called “Reasons to hate [my first ex]” said otherwise. In case you’re wondering, number seven read “SKINNY” and number eight was left blank. Sorry, Peter.
Thankfully/unfortunately, most logs were written by seventh grade me. Here’s some very real (very embarrassing) posts about abortion, George Bush, heartbreak and Good Charlotte.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in these journal entries are those of 13-year-old me and do not reflect the opinions or official position of 22-year-old me. I can safely say — almost ten years later — I’m anti-George Bush, pro-choice and have no opinion either way on Joel and Benji Madden.
On war and abortion:
This got really real. On the next page I talk about The Simpsons.
On Degrassi:
I think I meant firetrucks.
On Good Charlotte:
I’ll spare you the lyrics. At least it wasn’t “My Bloody Valentine.”
On Elvis Presley and “blue sweade shoes”:
Points for the song title. Extra points for the spelling of suede.
On heartbreak:
Written in gel-pen, post-Peter.
And on a random page:
It’s 2014 and I’ve come full circle, this song still reigning as a college classic.
While two thirds of me wants to douse this book in lighter fluid, that last third is glad I gave a fuck about anything at thirteen (most notably things that weren’t sold at Claires or on my AIM profile). In the end I’m just happy I was too young to know the phrase, “You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on” and plaster it on the cover.
It did have another Good Charlotte quote.
Still not OK, OKCupid
Posted on January 16, 2014 2 Comments
A friendly follow-up to Not OK, OKCupid.
Dear OKCupid,
I was wrong. It’s definitely you.
Stop that right now.
Oh.
Thanks! Definitely love your smile.
That depends. Does publishing it on the Internet and hoping it goes viral count?
No, but I see you’ve already changed your mind.
“Is that mold?”: the two week live-blog of my first apartment
Posted on January 15, 2014 4 Comments
DAY ONE:
The family before us fled to Egypt, locking the only set of keys inside our new apartment and prompting me to cry in front of a locksmith because it’s New Year’s Day, management’s closed and “God damnit I pay to live here now.”
They left us 60 cents, two wine glasses and a DiGiorno frozen pizza.
I borrow basement keys from a filipino couple on the first floor and meet the dog they dress in a pink polka-dot skirt. Her name is Grizzley and she hates people.
DAY TWO:
I nurse a Verizon-induced breakdown by sorting old photos into piles (Save, Store and That Small Child Could Be One Of My Parents). I booked a U-Haul for the blizzard because, of course I did.
DAY THREE:
Citywide classes are cancelled and so is my U-Haul.
That doesn’t stop me from taking the subway to the city to support my roommates’ band/start a tab/black out and use my debit card for popcorn. “Post-show party at our place,” I say, three Jamo shots in as I direct people to our furniture-free apartment and get in a cab without them.
Three hours later.
DAY FOUR:
Moving goes well given three feet of snow and our passive-aggressive neighbors. Turns out we weren’t so subtle for four in the morning. Roberto slips on the stairs and warns Tom to be careful. Tom slips on the stairs and warns Neil to be careful. Neil also slips on the stairs.
We remember that Brian did the same last night and broke a finger. We start a tally.
Found in the trunk of the U-Haul.
Our living room has a couch and my bedroom has a bed (minus some crucial nuts and bolts either scattered across Fifth Avenue or packed in a box inside another box still in storage).
Our stovetop says we ate the frozen pizza last night and I forgot to pack the fucking Keurig again.
DAY FIVE:
“That’s what your thirties are for. Matching your wood.”
Michael (Roommate #1) and I spend our first night at the apartment watching one of our three copies of Garden State without Neil (Roommate #2).
DAY SIX:
The one where we get lost in Ikea and Neil asks if he should pack a lamp.
DAY SEVEN:
“Is that mold?”
DAY EIGHT:
The one where Time Warner Cable is a cunt.
DAY NINE:
This is the first “Thursday night at the bar” I can’t ignore everyone’s texts about because “the bar” is now two and a quarter blocks away. I take shots from strangers and spend six dollars at the jukebox on Say My Name and Sum 41.
The entire bar mumbles along to “Fat Lip,” just waiting for that line about abortion.
To absolutely no one’s surprise, I drink too much for a worknight and use Melissa McCarthy as a pick-up line. To absolutely everyone’s surprise, I only fight with my front door once.
DAY TEN:
Our first pregame. Our freezer has some frozen corn, Australian liquor and a bottle of Fireball. We christen a $2 sleeve of coffee cups with Carlo Rossi and Michael blacks out.
Our first “I have to take my roommate home.”
DAY ELEVEN:
Sarah finds what looks like a fifth-grade suicide note/”last words” in a composition notebook that made the move:
Also this seemingly disturbing drawing of a girl we thought was drowning (alongside a picture of herself drowning?) but at second glance, she’s just doing cartwheels on a very wavy carpet:
DAY TWELVE:
The one where Erin drives to the Target adjacent to the Jay-Z concert for a bookshelf and we almost crash the car on purpose. We fall asleep at 9:30 p.m. to Michael’s Real World season one DVD.
DAY THIRTEEN:
Our first trip to the grocery store.
We buy eggs and milk and frozen waffles but put back the cilantro. We get knockoff everything, up to and including Apple Zings/Cinnamon Toasters cereal. Sean Greany lends us Fargo, we steal cable and we finally have wi-fi with the default password “freshriver908.”
DAY FOURTEEN:
It’s starting to look more like a home and less like a Craigslist ad. Arguable mold and scalding hot water aside, I wouldn’t trade our humble abode/shithole-above-a-vacant-store for anything — except maybe some shorter cabinets.
The cabinets aren’t crooked but the ceiling definitely is.
That painting will get hung eventually.
That bed’s not fully assembled and the curtains came with the place.
Cheers to progress, no matter how small the window between first and second month’s rent. Please pardon our appearance during this Three’s Company transition.
Meaghan McGoldrick 