No, You Can’t Grab Anything, Donald.

It’s the blog post you never wanted to read, and the one Meg never wanted to write. She has finally got to the point in the election season that something needs to be said. Normally, Meg would have counted on Jon Stewart to frame those thoughts in a well paced video, but he had to go and retire. Sigh.

So let’s unleash the elephant called Donald Trump. Oh wait, he has already unleashed himself on America for the last 18 months, baffling many, pleasing untold others. It would not surprise anyone to know I put him, to put it gently, in the baffling category. But here’s where the rubber met the road for Meg:


Who would have guessed Billy Bush could bring a presidential campaign to its knees? But Billy and Donald’s little behind-the-scenes bro-fest apparently has done just that. I wish I knew where to begin! Is it the sound of Donald dumping Tic-Tac’s in his sweaty hand, thinking of kissing “Days of Our Lives” star Arianne Zucker? Is it Billy Bush cackling and shouting “and the Donald has scored!“? Is it the forced hugging? Oh not wait, it’s this:

I can just grab them by the P___Y.

That pretty much sent Meg off the ceiling, out the door and into some dimension that hadn’t even been discovered yet. After all the months Trump that has denigrated women, calling them, pigs, slobs, describing a network anchor with “blood coming out of her whatever“. The P___Y statement went far, far beyond the pale.

This “locker room” discussion had Meg flash back to a moment during her college days; she was walking back to her car after her last class of the day was over. It was a sunny fall afternoon; the parking lot was close to the student center, seemingly safe and where she always parked. She headed to her car and remembers seeing a white van cruising by.

(Pardon me as I switch from my usual funny third person vernacular, to first person for this paragraph:)

As I opened my door and entered the car, one of the occupants from that van was quickly making a beeline across the lot. Towards me. I managed to slam my door shut, but not before this asshole grabbed my crotch. That’s right, some stranger, someone I never had met, assaulted me in broad daylight. And just as quick as that, the person sprinted away leaving me shaking, thinking what I could have done to prevent that from happening? What made someone think they could touch me like that? By the way, I was dressed in grey wool slacks, a white blouse with a lace collar, and a black jacket. How provocative could that have been?

I could not help being brought back to my 20 year old self in 1978, and feeling completely defenseless as Donald Trump and Billy Bush bantered about touching women, grabbing them and kissing them, and thinking the whole thing was “in good fun“. I guess it took a light-hearted entertainment show to show the true colors of both of these men. One is now suspended from his network TV show, and the other continues to run for President of the United States.

I hope women vote their conscience this coming election. I know who I am casting my vote for, and it won’t be someone that says they can grab my P___Y.

Fixer Upper. Kinda Sorta.

Hi everyone! Meg has been enjoying a spectacular summer in New England logging many beach hours, walking and hiking with the family, and hunting for the forever house.

Did she mention hunting for the forever house? Hunt as in finding a needle in a HAYSTACK? Meg certainly forgot what is was like to go house hunting in New England. She got caught up in those first world problems of her former community in Texas, where not having a double oven or a secondary laundry room for your children were reason to shoot down a house deal. Bwahahaha! How Meg wishes those were her quandaries these days!

Would you like to take a real estate tour with me? Come, let Meg show you some of the things she has seen over the past several months:


Please note the absolute sh**storm of clutter. Could there possibly be more magnets on the fridge? Could we sign these people up for an episode of Hoarders?


And from the SAME house, I guess we could call this the living room/wet bar area, where I imagine many a shaken, not stirred martini is made. Cause I would need like 5 martinis a day to deal with this set-up.

Let’s look at another fine property:


This is what you call a DIY floor, clearly oriented (at least in my mind) in the wrong direction. And I did hear the tiny screams of hundreds of Beanie Babies from that cabinet, begging to be set free so they could breathe again. I am still crushed I could not help them.

Here’s the kitchen, same property:


You go figure this one out. I just saw every leftover in the Home Depot bargain bin was used to advantage, the advantage being it must have cost NOTHING.

Want to see the retro house?


There was more of that tile, too. Much, much, more.

Here’s the story, of a lovely lady, she was bringing up three girls of her own:


The Brady Bunch kitchen!

There have been many interesting open houses, like the one where there was a full catering kitchen in the basement, which what the HELL unless you cater food? Do I become Ina Garten with that deal? How about the one with the ladder into the laundry area of the basement? Do I lower the clothes down with a pulley like I’m a wench in medieval England?

Meg’s favorite was the house with the singer/agent. He came complete with guitar and as we toured the house, we could hear the groovy sounds of “Jessie’s Girl” coming from the back deck. We quickly bolted as Rick Springfield wanna be was chasing us down the path asking for feedback on the house and attempting another guitar riff.

The family has considered several fixer uppers, and rest assured, nothing goes as easily as Chip and Joanna’s renovations on “Fixer Upper“. Several properties have fallen through, and Meg certainly knows her way around an inspection report, if nothing else. Wish her the best in finding a new home, and maybe if she’s really lucky the “Property Brothers” will land on her potential doorstep!

Where Meg Channels a Davey and Goliath Episode

Meg has moved back from Texas to Boston! It’s a long story, but she is happy to be back with her family and living near the ocean. This move has also precipitated a newfound longing to write on her blog again! Lucky you guys!

Meg and her husband found an adorable rental house, which includes a chicken coop in the backyard. Currently she only knows one chicken by name, the delightful Sylvia. The other members of the gang include a peacock and peahen pair named George and Martha, who like to irritate handsome dog Jack by displaying their magnificent feathers and disobeying his considerable herding skills.


Rest assured Meg does not take care of this flock, she is just the lucky recipient of their eggs and entertainment value, where entertainment equals staring at them while she drinks wine on the patio. But one fine day, the hens were were out free ranging in the field, and a straggler did not make it back to the coop by dusk. Concerned, Meg headed out back to open the coop and shoo it in, whereupon she got her boot stuck in a wood pallet and she could not pull it out. It was in fact, a Davey and Goliath moment, where one needs serious rescuing before they break their ankle and the mountain patrol has to come in with a cask of vodka brandy to calm the nerves.

Meg remembers feeling Catholic guilt watching a Lutheran show.

Luckily for Meg, her husband was looking out the picture window, concerned laughing his ass off and came out to pull her boot out of the slat. She regaled her husband for his heroics, declaring it was like when”Goliath when rescued Davey from the dangerous rocket launching pad by pulling his foot out of the metal grate“.*

Meg’s husband laughed, and then she became obsessed with finding that episode; could it really have been a figment of her imagination? Maybe she was thinking of the time Davey got trapped in a mine or fell overboard in the lake? Either way, she was a winner that day getting rescued, and most of all, for being back in New England.

(*Meg discovered it was Davey’s sister that got all tangled up with a rocket. She knew her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her.)

Meg would not have thought the spineless Jane had enough nerve to get into trouble.

Can Men Dress Themselves?

Or is it really because they are colorblind?

Meg often wonders which is really the case. Recently, she has noticed her husband coming home from work wearing all sorts of weirdly matched clothing. Green khakis with a purple hued shirt, and the ever problematic “I thought this was navy blue but I guess it’s black, right honey?“, which can result in what Meg considers the deadliest fashion sin of all, black pants with brown shoes. Add the brown belt to that, and let’s call it a full fledged disaster.

Meg has considered that colorblindness might be the problem so she did some research.

It turns out that 8 percent of men are considered color blind, whereas women only weigh in at .05 percent, or 1 in 200.

According to the Atlantic Monthly:

“It’s treated as a joke, even among the celebrity colorblind. Didn’t you know Mark Zuckerberg made Facebook blue because it’s the easiest color for him to see? If Van Gogh had normal color vision, would his paintings have looked more or less intense? Is defective vision the reason why Bill Clinton has trouble seeing stains? Colorblind men clash ties when they dress, buy unripe bananas for breakfast, and mix up subway lines on their way to work. They get confused by line graphs during meetings, and try to push through the red “occupied” signs on bathroom doors. To a colorblind man, the red lipstick you’re wearing might not be that impressive, but neither will your blemishes.”

Well, that part about the blemishes and good skin is a relief! Does this mean I might never need Botox or Restalyne, either?

Meg decided to test herself for colorblindness just to see how on top of her game she was. Needless to say, she passed with flying colors? Get it?

Her husband, not so much.

It seems these kinds of colors are problematic for him:


You guys know you’re supposed to see a number 2, right?

Well, it strengthened the fact Meg just needs to be more proactive in the morning to ensure her husband is not actually applying for an internship at the Barnum & Bailey circus ringmaster school.

While she was reading all the fun facts about color blindness, she came across a few that were interesting:

#44 Many colorblind people have problems with matching clothes and buying ripe bananas.

Which is OK, because we hate bananas in this household, unless they have been pulverized into submission in a banana bread.

#13 Dogs are not colorblind.

Well, clearly, I’m going to have to get Jack to start his new job as a valet starting tomorrow.


Good boy Jack! Bark if your owner picks out the wrong shirt. There’s a treat in it for you.

Here’s To You, Sister.

It’s been awhile since Meg posted, and she has a good reason. She’s has writer’s block and angst over something she needs to write, but has been unable to do so.

Last month, I lost my beloved sister (in-law) to the big C. C as in CANCER.

A little over 30 years ago, I met Sharon. She was a southern belle from Virginia, and I was a colorful Bostonian. We both were dating brothers, and we found ourselves in the north country of New Hampshire for Memorial Day, aka “opening ceremonies” for summer. It’s the kind of weekend in New Hampshire where you better have a warm jacket, a gallon sized can of RAID, and boots if you are going to party around a campfire in the White Mountains.

Sharon and I became fast friends that weekend, sharing a bedroom, a curling iron and a hankering for Michelob beer. When she and Rene became engaged and married the next year, she did her darndest to throw her wedding bouquet my way. While I didn’t catch it, I did nevertheless walk down the aisle with the other brother a year later, as Sharon looked on with a wink and a smile.

We shared many events over the next 30 years, too many to count. I think the best way to show it is through photos, so indulge me and let me share a little bit of how special she was:

carnival7Winter carnival in Quebec. Did you ever try and attach those glitter flakes in Goldschlager to your teeth? Trust me, we did try it.

You actually don’t notice frostbite after some drinks.

grill3 The Outer Banks in North Carolina was one of our special places!


This was on the steps of our favorite rental house!

three_chicksThe sistahs at Fenway Pahk!

sistahs A little dinnah in the North End of Boston!

rene_sharon Sharon and her husband, Rene.

Sharon always had a courageous outlook on life. When she lost her younger sister many years ago, she, my sister and I made a pact we would always be the three sisters; together, forever. Over the years we shared good times on vacation, consoled each other at the loss of parents, and always, always, we had each others backs.

A little over 2 years ago, Sharon started feeling strange, and through a rather long process, it was discovered she had brain cancer. She may have been scared, I was never really sure, because she was always brave and confident that she would prevail in her battle. If Plan A did not work, Plan B would. If there was negativity, I never saw it, as she showed up for every appointment, willing to undergo whatever needles and shitty toxic drugs that they put into her. Because next week dammit, she was going to the gym and get in shape, get better, and move on with her life.

Sadly, Sharon lost her battle a few weeks ago. It was hard to not root for her to live, but it was also hard not to root for her to be out of pain and at peace. Luckily, I was there when she passed, which makes me think the higher powers align things in ways we just can’t comprehend.

I’ve said to various special people in my life, that when you lose a loved one, there appears a unique star in the sky that always twinkles for that lost loved one. In this case, I think there is an entire constellation with Sharon’s name on it, containing three sparkly sister stars; and they will surely shine bright, strong and clear as I look at the heavens and think of her.

Sisters always and forever.

Learning to Speak Texan. Or Not.

Meg is still learning to speak and pronounce the official state language of Texas. Sometimes she feels like she’s in a foreign country, one in which no one ever says her name correctly. She either gets called Mag or she gets called Megan. She infinitely prefers Megan, so she often goes to Starbucks and orders a mochacchino for MAYGUNN.

Meg gets a kick out of reading the local newspapers and magazines, because she is sure Texas is the only state where everyone puts an extra vowel or consonant in their name just to mess with you.

For example, she sees good old fashioned Maureen spelled like Maurrine. Arlene is spelled Arlyane. Then there are names like Eula Mae, Charna, Roddy Sue, Ina Irine, Tula, Patsy, and Odell. It makes Meg’s head spin, because nobody here is named just Beth or Jen.

Then there is the litany of words Meg constantly wrinkles her brow in puzzlement at. Want to take a like vocabulary and slang quiz with her today? Let’s begin!

RAY-ID – the color red, as in Santa’s colorful red jacket.

HAY-ALL – as in a 5 inch Jimmy Choo shoe. Also see: eternal damnation.

STANKIN’ – a term of endearment, as in “your dog Jack is stinkin’ cute.

INNNNNNNNN-shurince – stuff you pay a boatload of money for to drive your car in Texas.

AGGGER-vated – Meg just usually calls this pissed off.

Y’ALL – something that comes out of a Texan’s mouth every two seconds.

JAY-ZUS – Our Lord and Savior, naturally.

YAY-IN-KEE – Anyone not from Texas.

F**K – HA! Trick question, Meg has NEVER heard this word except from another New Englander, when we get together for our secret club meetings and let f-bombs fly.

Just for the record, Meg occasionally says YOU ALL, which IS NOT to be CONFUSED with Y’ALL, a phrase which she hears spoken as “How y’all y’all today?” To be which replies “Great. Howah you guys doin”? In her very best Boston accent, of course.