The Sentence Dust Up!

Today’s war of words is brought to you my Mama Kat, who decided it was OK to instigate a fight between the four major type of sentences and see which one would talk the most. Meg has decided to take a twist on this task and insert a situation that’s making her bat shit crazy this week, and we’ll just see what sentence comes out of top as a winner, OK?

Shall we?

Declarative: Your sister called and is getting married in June.

Exclamatory: That’s really nice!

Interrogative: So what do we need to do to get organized? And surely that shouldn’t include calling the rest of your family? You know how confusing (UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE CENTURY and lets include LAST CENTURY AS WELL) that can be, because when they all start talking they can’t decide a BLOODY F**KING THING, am I right?

Declarative: Well, let’s just rent a hotel room and be done with it.

Interrogative: OK, I’m going on-line and snagging a room. Let’s just decide what is most comfortable and within a reasonable distance and go with that OK? Oh, and the hotel bar needs to have a lot of high end vodka. LOTS.

Exclamatory: Good idea!

Declarative: (10 minutes later.) The hotel has been booked.

Later that week:

I have a number of Facebook messages about the wedding. Everyone is debating about where to stay and someone just found out there is a block of rooms available, but NO ONE SHARED THAT INFORMATION WITH ANY OF THE INVITED HOSTAGES GUESTS.

Exclamatory: F**K!

Declarative: I think we should just keep our reservations and never mind what the rest of the BORG is doing.

And even later that week…

Imperative: AIIEEE, they keep sending me mail messages!

We are keeping the reservations, that is that.

Exclamatory: Thanks honey! I love you!

Clearly, Meg interrogative sentences are the most wordy and convey her sense of frustration. They certainly win in a wordy war of words, but nothing beats a good exclamatory F**K when it comes to sentence structure.

And Meg will certainly keep you posted on that wedding scenario as the day draws closer. She can hardly wait to tell you about the bed she’s going to be sleeping in, and who might even be sleeping next door to them! Good times, everyone.

Out of the Closet

No, not that closet! This one:

Meg is usually an excellent closet cleaner. Each spring and fall, she diligently sorts through items she hasn’t worn in awhile, things that are long in the tooth, and then the other pile, What the hell was she thinking when she bought this? She then bags them up and deposits them at Goodwill or St. Vincent DePaul and forgets she ever owned the item.

Last week, during our streak of summer weather, Meg went to retrieve a pair of sandals so she could enjoy some patio time on the 80 degree day. Three hours later, she had this pile accumulated:

As she went through most of these things, she kept thinking “when was the last time I wore this?” She had answers like:


Meg won’t offend you by showing you these slacks, but trust her when she says, brown isn’t her color. In fact, she is here to tell you it’s NO ONE’s color.

Here the other thing. Meg looked at this pile of clothes from Talbots, Chico’s, Banana Republic and then the pile of heinous tropical colored handbags, and thought surely someone will pay for this stuff. It’s impeccable, it’s clean when sees some of the crap people wear, she thinks she should save society and sprinkle some of her stuff into the world.

So Meg has an appointment to consign all of her stuff, and she hoping that the woman that wore a sundress and flip flops a few days ago will put those Banana Republic pants on and cover up until May or so, when it really will be time to wear summer clothes.

In the meantime Meg is going to enjoy her newly curated closet like she would a museum exhibit, and see how long it takes before she adds to her collection.

The Regional Dictionary. Or Pissah, I Still Talk Like That?

Do you ever utter a sentence where someone does a double take and tilts their head? Meg likes to think she’s toned down her Boston accent so no one recognizes what city she’s really from. Except when she says she has a great idear idea.

As she well knows, a regional accent can be extremely grating. Some people still think New Englander’s talk like JFK. They may have may have in her grandfather’s day, but she doesn’t hear real people like that anymore.

She does, however, hear people talk like these chicks:

Meg remembers in high school she’d hit Manning’s pharmacy for vanilla cokes, followed by a trip to the Maynard Pizza house for toasted subs. When she was older, Meg and her friends would take a beat run to the packie, where they’d pool the contents of their fringed handbags to see how many little tiny Millah Lites they could buy, because who didn’t like the handy purse size beaahs for the movie theater?

DARE (The Dictionary of Regional English) has just come out with Volume V of it’s exhaustive list of words and can tell you things like “where people might live if their favorite card games are euchre, five hundred, schafskopf, sheepshead, or sixty-three; or where Americans eat apple pandowdy, lutefisk, or rivel; or where people are from if they live in dog trots, railroad flats, salt boxes, or shotgun houses.”

Meg is going to avoid all the places people play cards, because she hates sitting around staring at a deck of cards when she could be doing something fun. That’s why this could be such a handy book for her!

OK, you Pennsylvania natives, can you tell me what any of these things are?

Lighting a barn burner near a doodle is never a good idea, whether or not there’s a mowhole nearby to use as an escape route. You might suspect a elbedritsch of trying such a thing, though. When planning a horning, try to find a way to keep people from playing hasenpfeffer or drinking ratgut. At the very least, get someone to make a kuchen and arrange for a skimmelton. No one should be snoopy about what is offered.

Meg knows for sure what all these things are in Massachusetts:

If you’re up in Gloucester for the day, maybe you can watch the fare come in and then grab a frappe afterwards. If it’s springtime and you’re down on the Cape, try to spot a pinkwink. But if you’re down there in the fall, pick up a scoop and start harvesting some cranberries. Hopefully there aren’t too many diddledees on the way. Watch your speed on the way home, so you don’t get pulled over by a statie.

She tried Montana just for kicks:

If you see a jerky headed toward you, it could be a homesteader bringing more people to help with the harvest. He built a house in a coulee, near a river stocked with flat. Last week, he hosted a pitch-in dinner, with guests from all over, including his friend the lamb licker. If he invites you over for the next one, say “yah!”

What cool words do you remember as a kid, or still use today? Meg has to admit, she still thinks a lot of things are “awesome“!

I gotta cut that one out.

I Can’t Help Myself Friday. The Beauty Edition.

Although fifty-something Meg feels pretty comfortable in her skin, she still thinks that skin could be tighter. She hasn’t tried any cosmetic procedures on her face other than glycolic acid cream a few times a week, and a good steamy facial every few months.

She did have those spider veins lasered last week, and as you can see, that actually results in bruising before the veins collapse. She has another round of zapping before suntan season lands, and hopefully that will get rid her of the pesky patch that looks like she walked into something.

Meg recently took to coloring her hair in the every 6 week one-color process, aided by Brazilian straightening products, and she loves her waterfall of glossy hair. It’s a miracle for someone who tended to look like Don King each morning as she awoke. “Oh hi honey, what’s wrong? Don’t I look like a spring daisy?. No? Well, Meg does now thanks to her hairdresser.

I reserve the right, much like Cher, to be shot in blurry cinematic light.

Meg is attuned to what people do to themselves in terms of cosmetic and beauty procedures, she can spot a boob job a mile away. Her friend John asked how she could possibly ascertain that, and in a phrase “See those? They don’t move. Think about it, they are supposed to jiggle somewhat”. Lately she has noticed especially long lashes on people, who are either using Latisse, or getting exorbitantly expensive eyelash extensions. I mean mascara is a pain, but $250 for lashes that last a month? And Latisse can allegedly change the color or your eyes right? Do I want to go from blue-green to muddy brown? Meg thinks not, she’ll stick with the Dior dark black.

Lately she has noticed the egregious offenses not only in celebrity land, but in her own little hamlet.

At her local gym, people just let their guard down and are rocking the worst hair extensions ever, She noticed a woman her age, with X-tina Aguilera hair, and trust Meg, wearing a haystack on your head is surely not a compliment. Her hair has platinum blonde, halfway down her back, and her roots her black. What made totally horrifying was the loose ponytail, in which you could see where every single extension had been attached to her scalp. Oh, sister, you need a hand mirror to see what havoc has been wrought upon your hair!

Yes, they looked this bad and even worse in person.

She keeps thinking when Lindsay Lohan had her distinctive red hair and freckles, she looked different and refreshing. Now she looks like a plastic Barbie doll gone wrong with her tacky hair extensions and botoxed face.

What’s the moral of the story? Choose your procedures wisely. Make sure your hair is going to look like real hair, your eyes won’t change color, and your lips won’t blow up like a nuclear power plant, and I’m talking to you Meg Ryan:

Have the best of weekends, and just think before you get a tattoo, OK?

Tales from Vacations Past

Meg has been happily plotting her trip to France. So far, things have been perfectly falling into place. She has learned throughout the years how to glean information from the internet, books, her friends, of course, bloggers. She usually puts together a balanced itinerary of relaxation, adventure and fun, sprinkled with cocktails and good food. She can’t remember many bad vacations except for 2. One involved Florida, in-laws and mouse ears, and that’s all she’s going to say on that subject.

The other involved the State of Vermont. There are many aspects of Vermont that Meg likes, but she liked NONE on this particular trip. It started off with Meg using a site called Cyber Rentals, and seeing a quaint house high over a lake:

The family agreed that this looked like a nice place to decompress, and Meg called the owner to get the details. The owner seemed to practically pounce on his phone, which she thought was odd for a DENTIST during working hours. That would be RED FLAG number 1. As he and Meg conversed, the man she will refer to as Dr. Myron swiftly asked for a credit card to secure the deal, when Meg simply wanted to send a check. He couldn’t guarantee the week would still be there, so Meg stupidly ponied up her credit card number, which was RED FLAG number 2. Before the call ended, Dr. Myron convinced Meg she couldn’t possibly want to haul towels with her, so she agreed to an additional $20 for those. RED FLAG number 3.

The family headed north on a crisp fall day, eagerly looking forward to some down time. They were greeted by Mrs. Myron, who referred to herself as the shiksa bride, not being Jewish herself. Umm, OK, Mrs. Myron (who will be herefore referred to as MM). MM chatted briefly and then turned to a COSTCO bag and handed over some bath towels.

Let me clarify this. She handed over THREE bath towels that were UNWASHED. That’s right kids, that what $20 bucks got Meg. And with all the money they saved ripping off guests, this apparently allowed Dr. Myron to install a sign at the bottom of his driveway, that looked much like this:

Meg can only imagine what the neighbors in the quaint neighborhood thought about Dr. Myron’s monument to his colossal ego, she wondered where the graffiti artists were then you needed them.

So the family took a tour of the guest quarters, and things just got better. Meg gazed at the dining area, replete with a butcher block table and bar stools. She quickly start calculating dinner reservations, as restaurants usually provide CHAIRS TO MATCH THE EATING EXPERIENCE. We also got a mini-lecture on providing our own trash bags, and MM conveniently pointed out all the leftover food from previous guests, because WASTE NOT WANT NOT, right? As Meg took in the decor, she noticed a number of antiques graced the walls. In fact, what made them even more special, were the PRICE TAGS attached to them. It’s a vacation experience, and a shopping experience, all at once!

That’s right I, too, could own a piece of fine capadeemonte for $30, or as I like to refer to it, as capidomonte, the crap they sell on QVC. Or maybe I wanted to buy that vintage MOHONGANY cabinet, because clearly that’s MO BETTER than regular mahogany.

As MM finished her tour, she gave a flourish of her arm to show off the phone, as in the PAY PHONE THAT TOOK QUARTERS.

As MM retreated to the main part of the house, the family heard a pack of BIG WHEELS on the hardwood floor above, and they decided to take a scenic drive. Later that day the host family left, leaving Meg and Leo alone. But not before they moved all the TACKY FURNITURE and blocked ACCESS TO THE UPPER DECK.

Naturally, Meg went up to peer at the deck after they left, to be greeted by ONE-WAY GLASS! Meg imagined the glass was to ensure the MM’s weren’t seen in their natural habitat, which she presumed must be rolling around naked in quarters and twenty dollar bills on the living room floor.

As you can imagine, the week was not a memorable one, and when Meg received a $200 speeding ticket for blazing by a chicken farm at 50 MPH, she f**king packed up and left the State of Vermont as fast as she could.

Meg still wishes she told Dr and MM off, but when she looked their name up, she saw the guy defrauded his patients, was arrested, and got his privileges to practice dentistry revoked forever.

Somehow it must have been painful for him to pull that giant ass tooth from the end of his driveway, which was undoubtedly the last extraction he ever performed.

Meg has never gone back to the Cyber Rental site, and she suggests you heed her advice, lest you be paying $20 for Costco towels.

I Can’t Help Myself Friday. Are We Still Burning Bras?

Lately Meg feels like she is trapped in the seventies:

She feels like this chick:

What the hell, politicians and pundits of America? All of a sudden Generation Y are a collective bunch of sluts. Does that make us older Baby Boomers one of these?

We’ll get to Rush Limbaugh in a minute, but let’s take a spin around the country and see what our various legislators are doing to create jobs:


The Utah state Senate passed a bill Tuesday that would allow schools to drop sex education, prohibit instruction on how to use contraception, and prohibit discussion of homosexuality in class,The Salt Lake Tribune reports.

Legislators passed Senate bill HB363 19-10 after a short debate during which many senators expressed their belief that sex education is meant for the home, not school.


The Arizona Senate on Tuesday approved a bill that would allow doctors withhold information about prenatal problems if it could make the decision to have an abortion more likely.

Republican state Sen. Nancy Barto introduced the measure to protect doctors from so-called “wrongful birth” lawsuits. Barto’s proposal passed the Arizona Senate 20-9 and will now go to the state House.


“…The Virginia Senate adopted a revised bill on Tuesday that still requires doctors to perform an ultrasound on women before they have an abortion, but also says that women cannot be forced to have an invasive vaginal ultrasound.”

You get the picture. So a creepy bunch of old guys have decided that ALL THE ULTRASOUND laws in the United States must be changed swiftly, dramatically, and posthaste.

Then we have the kicker, Limbaugh himself insulting the well spoken and intelligent Sandra Fluke, the Georgetown student who testified before Congress about birth control availability for college students. I’m sure you can find his tirade on the interwebs, and I refuse to put him up on my website. But since he apparently had dead “sponsor free” air on his radio show yesterday, he has groveled and backpedaled more than any married man I know. At least one that’s been married 4 different times.

Shall we end with a name that can set it straight, namely my fake husband Jon Stewart?

Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna find my petticoats and slap on some red lipstick so I can be the best durned old hooker I can be when my husband gets home later on today. That is, if I don’t burn my bra first.