Yuck! That’s Disgusting.

Meg was listening to another one of her fake boyfriends the other day (NPR’s Tom Ashbrook) and his topic was disgust. Naturally, because she can’t help herself, Meg perked up and tuned in to see what things truly brought shivers down the spines of average citizens. She knows she cannot be alone in some of her top revulsions, so she her interest was piqued by everyone else’s Fear Factor.

By definition, these are the three components of disgust:

1) Core disgust: the “core” of the emotion, which is about defending the mouth from contamination by dirty or inappropriate things like body excretions, certain animals like rats and cockroaches, and certain foods, like ice cream with ketchup.

2) Animal-reminder disgust: things involving death, corpses, and violations of the external boundaries of the body, such as amputations. These things remind us that we, like animals, are mortal.

3) Contamination disgust: this kind of disgust is a defense of the whole body, not just the mouth, from contact with dirty or sleazy people

Ok, all this stuff is a no-brainer, so let’s get to all the weird stuff. So we hate rotting garbage and people that hoard, but did you ever hear of someone that hates buttons? Meg is trying to picture how someone could live without the benefits of a crisp button-down shirt with their navy blue blazer? That concept simply escapes her. She has a pink shirt with soft white stripes and pearl buttons, and LOVES wearing it.

The only thing that could make Meg hate wearing that shirt is if she has to eat lunch with someone that is a condiment fiend. Have you met one? My sister in law and her clan insist on piling everything Meg has in her fridge on the delightful burgers she grills. I think great meat, yummy cheese and a brioche bun is the cat’s pajamas and just add some red onion and tomato, thankyouverymuch.

But no, they ask for mustard, ketchup, and MAYO. All three. The most egregious being MAYO:

So God help Meg, she has to leave the room when they eat. If she sits there, she starts to gag and heave and find herself running for a bathroom. No matter how she steels herself, she cannot sit at the same table. And no, averting her gaze doesn’t work. She knows all the condiments sitting there.

According to “That’s Disgusting” author Rachel Herz, if your disgust phobia starts young in life and continues, you most likely will never conquer the yuck factor. One young lady talked about her fear of things with holes, likes sponges and swiss cheese. That made me feel kind of good as I thought about my next phobia, the fried egg:

Young Meg remembers fleeing the breakfast table crying because someone was trying to make her eat a fried egg. Ever since the early sixties, she has remained steadfast that this is the most disgusting meal ever.

Oh and don’t get her started when summer comes, because she’ll go all crazy when she sees one of these:

Right, I know it’s just a grasshopper, but if some little boy throws one at you when you are in grade school, you’re done for life. From time to time Meg occasionally has seen one on her deck, and do you know what she does? She gets a snow shovel out of her garage and slams the grasshopper into oblivion.

She would also love to slam frogs into submission:

Did you ever have to CATCH YOUR OWN FROG for a high school dissection experiment? Raise your hand? I actually conned someone into catching the atrocious amphibian, but I still had to cut it open. I rest my case on that one.

Meg went on to take a disgust test and here were the results:

Meg’s scores are in green, so it would appear she scores higher than average on the contamination portion of the survey, no surprise there. Feel free to take your own disgust tolerance survey at the University of Virginia website, and see how you stack up.

And Meg would love to know, what disgusts you?


I Can’t Help Myself Friday. The Farewell to January Edition.

Meg is finishing up one sh**storm of a week, and saw this video of Tina Fey, which she could totally relate to:

And all she has to say about this week is what the what!@?

In fact, Meg has gone so far as to make up her very own blues name:

Please just refer to me as Jailhouse Jumbo Parker for the remainder of the month.

I love this guy channeling Samuel L. Jackson:

Lord. I just think I broke my own concentration.

I thought twinkly white lights were a nice thing to have in your house? Call me selfish, then.

Let’s end with a little Jon Stewart, who makes us all feel better.

This weekend Meg may listen to “Fly Me to the Moon” while she gets over her Jailhouse bad self. And see ya, January.


The Tweets You Wish Politicians Wrote.

Meg is a little gleeful, and yes, a little woeful over the Presidential debates. She sees all kinds of buzzwords being bandied about like “proud American” and “getting our rights back”. Excuse me, but aren’t we all proud Americans? I’m also pretty sure we have more inalienable rights than people in most countries. Yet people shriek and shout and then tell the Pillsbury Dough Boy they like him best. Yay, let’s pick the guy who brought government to a screeching halt in the 90’s!

Good Lord, President Obama, you must be kicking back and enjoying this:

Yeah, you showed him Newt. How dare he bring up the open marriage thing, it’s only all over the networks!

Mitt never gave a second thought to sticking his family pet in a carrier on TOP OF A CAR ,roaring down the interstate 20 years ago, but I bet he’s regretting that thoughtless little act now. Is that what a smart man would do?

Freddie Mac, Jimmy Mack, someone wants their money back! I assume you are all singing that to the tune of Martha and the Vandellas, correct?

I bet poor old Rick Perry didn’t think his foreign policy thoughts about Turkey would be his undoing:

And lest we forget the spouses:

Well, expect more fake tweets and unusual candidate avatars from Meg as the campaign rolls along. She’s here to make the election and the social networks a better place for all of us.


I Can’t Help Myself Friday. With a Side of Insulin.

It’s Friday, and Meg is thinking some football and yummy snacks for the Patriots/Ravens game this SUNDAY. Meg will not, however, be turning to Paula Deen for a casserole of cream cheese and a side of fried butter for her halftime snack.

Paula’s cooking never inspired Meg. Too much of everything. Too much fat, too much butter, too much salt. Most of all, TOO MUCH Paula. She is just too over the top with all the y’alls and and best wishes and dishes cornpone.

Now when Paula announced on national TV she had diabetes, she was not surprised. In fact, Meg must admit she had a case of schadenfreude when she heard the news, but she suspected someone who’s overweight and cooks like that may lean toward that type of condition.

Meg was also not surprised when Anthony Bourdain tweeted this:

Needless to say, all the Paula groupies hopped on Facebook and Twitter to diss Bourdain’s witty and astute observation.

Guess what Paula groupies? Paula partnered with a drug company and gets PAID by Novo Nordisk for promoting her disease. She also is all over their website touting alleged HEALTHY recipes with her two talentless sons, who are also promoting a HEALTHY cooking show. Oh, and guess what? If you want those HEALTHY recipes, you have to sign up and give them all of your personal information. Name, birthdate, address, phone number. Really? You need all of that for me to look at Paula Deen’s recipes?

“I’ve always encouraged moderation. People see me cooking all these wonderful, Southern, fattening recipes … it’s for entertainment. People have to be responsible.”

Here is part of Paula’s recipe for a HEALTHY lasagna:

OK, that contains 7 different types of cheese. Seriously, isn’t that like a whole herd of dairy cows? No wonder there are dairy shortages in Scandanavia, she’s hogging the world’s supply of lactose!

Here’s the deal Paula. You had diabetes for three years, and you are now monetizing your brand by being a spokesperson for a drug, and promoting a TV show with your goofy kids. Worst of all, in any interview I’ve seen, you haven’t said once how you changed your diet, how you modified your routine, or what kind of exercise you’ve incorporated into your life.

Meg suspects the only exercise she’s done is jump up and shout Hallelujah with her accountants about how much money she’s raking in.

This weekend, Meg is going to relax and tune into the Barefoot Contessa, where the soothing Ina Garten will melt Meg’s Paula Deen rage by gently saying “how good is that” and serving lunch in her garden of hydrangeas.

I usually include a relevant video on Friday, but I couldn’t bring myself to post any of the Deen interviews. Today, I bring you the President channeling Al Green:

I’m heading out to Pandora radio for an Al Green fest right now!


The Dangers of Someone Named After a City.

Meg always speculates about people that are named after cities and states. She wonders whatever happened to the tried and true baby boomer names like Jane, Janet and Janice? (actually three of the most popular names in her high school!). What can the parents be thinking when they say, “I love the name Tampa Bay. Let’s go for it!”

Meg is always suspicious when she see a major broadcaster named Savannah. She pictures lush deltas, boiled peanuts and fried chicken, not someone with a brain in their head. For awhile it was de rigueur for a Hollywood celebrity to name their child Dakota. Was the mom to be channeling Mount Rushmore during her epidural?

She sees Brooklyn is a new fave, and she knows a tree grows there.

Vienna is an awesome city for waltzes and sausages, but did it really fit the ho-bag Bachelorette from last year?

Meg thinks not.

It was with trepidation last week that Meg let someone named Alexandria take blood from her arm. Meg saw she was sporting Betty Boop scrubs, which irked the living shit out of her. She promptly started thinking of her as Constantinople instead, because she knew she was in for a battle. She sat in the chair and offered up her left arm, which she often does to spare her go to all purpose right arm. Constantinople wanted to go for the right, because she was all like, this is no problem.

She tied her arm off and tapped for a vein, of which there are plenty, and in went the needle. The minute Constantinople went in Meg knew she was toast, and as the needle came out, so did a bunch of blood.

Meg would have loved to fight Constantinople to the death as she left the building, because she IMMMEDIATELY knew her arm was going to be f**ked up. Sure enough, 30 minutes later, a soup bowl sized black and blue started creeping up and down her arm, and she couldn’t lift her appendage for 24 hours. She wonders if Constantinople thinks because she was named after an ancient city, that she must leave all of her patients battle fatigued and wounded as they leave the lab.

In any case, Meg will be on the lookout the next time she has blood drawn, and her technician better not be named Newark, that’s all she’s sayin’.


Tuesday Potpourri for $200

It’s January people, and let’s face it, it’s a boring month. Meg’s excitement over the holiday weekend consisted of re-grouting her bathroom tub (a joint project with the husband), shopping on-line for laptop batteries, and continuing her lucky streak of not having to shovel a single inch of snow so far this winter. Good times!

She doesn’t have much on her mind today but feel free to play low stakes Potpourri Jeopardy with her anyway. Shall we?

Meg is fascinated with the Bachelor, who reminds her of a cross between Owen Wilson and Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which is assuredly NOT a good thing.

Isn’t he so deep? Can someone explain to me how skiing with a group of ho-bags in San Francisco is worthy of a bucket list life experience? That’s all the shallow Meg needs to know.

Wait. There’s more shallow:

That right kids, the Bachelor has about 18 girlfriends right now. Why would a group of 8 year olds even be aware of this show? Moms, would you let your kids watch this? Not sure what ABC genius thought this promo up, but they should be fired, pronto.

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Meg loved the Elton John/Madonna feud the other night at the Golden Globes. Elton’s hubby got into the act with some nasty Facebooking:

But honestly Elton, shouldn’t we be more upset about the dress she was wearing?

Madge, when a designer gives you a sample dress, it doesn’t mean wear it. Get the right size.

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Want to see something cute and adorable?

I know! Squeal! Adele Enerson took a cheap pocket camera and arranged everyday household items around her sleeping baby to create adorable little montages!

In other baby related news, it turns out babies can read lips while they are learning language. Oops! Parents, better not let them catch you reading Go the F**K to Sleep.

Stay tuned for Meg’s next Potpourri post, where she caulks all the bathtubs in her house.