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Hey!

I'm Meg. Glad you're here. Come by anytime.

 

A brief, cherry-scented, kiwi-flavored glimpse into my mind.

A brief, cherry-scented, kiwi-flavored glimpse into my mind.

An Extra-Seasonal Thought About the Creme Egg

The person who thought up the Cadbury Creme Egg is a genius. Not just because they used the spelling “creme”, which makes the Creme Egg seem like something I should put on my face if I want to look younger, but because Candy Based on Things That Chickens Push Out of Themselves was an utterly (not udderly, because wrong animal, you rube) unexplored area of confection.

In a million years the Creme Egg never would have occurred to me, which is why a) I don’t design candy and b) I should own an Inspiration Chicken.

My Insides Are Self-Cleaning, But My Pants Are Not

The idea of a cleanse — drinking juices that clear all the bad stuff out of your system and leave you feeling at least 26 (unless you’re 23, in which case, you get to feel 13… or maybe not 13, because that’s less fun, and you have to move back in with your parents) — is appealing on the “I like juice!” level, but medically? Eh.

If something is going to get all up in my deviated septum and work things out, I don’t think it’s going to be half of a cup of kale purée. Unless you mix it with napalm. But that’s less of a cleanse than a CWC violation, and I don’t want my sinuses to have to explain themselves at The Hague.

Still, I put a green juice in my husband’s lunch every day, and sometimes, I take one for myself. I think it’s a nice little investment in our health, without pretending that we’re curing everything that ails us at the same time.

His co-workers call it, “hippie juice.” Mine call it, “what the hell did you spill on your pants?”

Hand Cream is The Devil’s Oil Slick

I have lizard hands a good portion of the time (I keep them in a small envelope in my pocket… just kidding! They go in my purse) so hand cream is a must if people are going to stop recoiling from me like I’m offering them a liver cupcake (don’t ask me how I know).

I’ve tried a million different lotions, balms, creams, salves, and ointments, but the moisturizing is either too insignificant, or I end up feeling like I just won a lard fight.

(Have you ever won a lard fight? That’s right, trick question, because NO ONE WINS A LARD FIGHT.)

Everyone has a recommendation, but in the end, my best option seems to be slathering up at night in the hopes that my scaly digits will heal while I’m sleeping.

This would totally work if I was the kind of person who slept for long periods of time, instead of the person who can’t sleep and ends up playing dumb games on her iPhone. I go to pick it up with my lotion hands, and drop it by the side of the bed.

Last night, I actually dropped it on my snoring husband’s head, but it didn’t disturb him at all. He just yelled, “Leave me ALONE, SANTA!” and went back to snoring.

Yankee Candles Are Weird

Why would you want your home to smell like “the sunny, sweet glow of exotic, juicy melons”? It makes no sense. Why would you want your home to reek of food, unless it’s the food you just had, and it naturally permeates the air? Like, say, onions (go ahead, say it: “ONIONS!” Didn’t that feel good?) Or garlic. Or liver cupcakes (I wouldn’t know!)

It reminds me of using restaurant bathrooms with that strange cherry air freshener that plants a lust for Cherry Jolly Ranchers in your heart. Sadly, you won’t find Jolly Ranchers… just paper towels and liquid soap. Which don’t taste like cherry, I’m just saying, and NOT FROM EXPERIENCE.

(Or yes, from experience, but it was once, so sue me, and the nachos hadn’t arrived at our table yet, and my breath smelled pleasantly bacteria-free for an hour. Win-win!)

Cottage Industry

People often refer to cellulite as “cottage cheese fat” and then they eat cottage cheese to NOT get fat.

Uh, USE YOUR DEDUCTIVE REASONING, people. It’s a damn trap!

Me and You.

Me and You.

Don't go to the party, be the party.

Don't go to the party, be the party.