An Afternoon of Beauty Takes a Turn.

Now that Meg is a Texas resident, she is receiving magazines at her house like “Society Life”. It makes her feel like Betty in Mad Men. Can you picture Meg sitting around kitchen table playing bridge or canasta? She admits, she has heard the ladies of Stone Lakes play something called bunco, which Meg had to Google. (it’s a dice game) And no, she isn’t about to join a bunco group.

Anyway, Meg was leafing through all the salon options in her fancy magazine. Yeah, she likes a good facial every once in awhile. She also realized the weather here is so drying that if she isn’t careful, she is going to look like an ancient Masai warrior in the the middle of the Sahara desert.

So Meg zipped off to a salon last week, recommended per Society Life, and had THE.WORST.FACIAL.EVER.

First of all, her head was tipped downward so all the blood rushed to her head, which WAS NOT RELAXING. Secondly, the alleged esthetician put a series of products on her face, each containing a scent factor that increased exponentially in a floral explosion. On went one product, and there is stayed for a minute, and then it came off. Then there was one that stung, and let’s not forget the part where cold bandages were draped over her face like she was Boris Karloff in “The Mummy”. The person never looked at Meg’s skin under a magnifyer which idly stood by, never extracted any crud from her face (isn’t this why we go to get our skin taken care of?), and never told her what she was putting on her face and why.

And Meg knows, she should have asked, but when you are 3 minutes into something and know you are never going back, you keep a stiff upper lip, or in this case, a freezing cold one, and plot the quickest escape that you can.

Meg came home and washed her face to get rid of the smell, and settled in with a glass of wine and a copy of the local newspaper.

Not surprisingly, the first thing she spied was an ad for a local gynecologist promoting “Free Filler Fridays! That’s right, get your lady parts examined and get some Botox and Restylane, too!

Meg does not know where her next cosmetic adventure will take place, but she sincerely hope the QT Mart on the corner doesn’t come with a free laser treatment with her next full tank of gas.

Where the Rubber Meets the Road…

or meets the Mudflap.

In the latest cultural adventure in North Texas, the family along with some former friends attended a comedy show this past weekend.

Meg, being very picky about comedians, (because her beloved Boston is loaded with famous comedians and whip smart improv troops) had a *LOT* of trepidation about this venture.

First of all, Meg would like to let know her spouse did the research for this adventure.

Let me repeat that. Her spouse did the alleged research.

He never researches ANYTHING. Meg does all of that, and she doesn’t care because she gets the job done and things usually turn out really good. Like a fantastic vacation in France, yummy places for dinner, exciting concerts and stimulating extra curricular activities.

So Meg all like, “What’s the name of the place“?
Him: “I forget”.
Me: “Could we look it up and see the line-up“?
Pause for Google Search…
Him: “It’s called Hyenas“.
Me: Screech! “Hyenas? Really? Let me see who plays there”! (Said in panic stricken voice)

Meg pondered a line-up of comedians, some she had heard, of, some that were washed up, (Bobcat Goldthwaite, anyone?)and none that were on her wish of list of dream funny people.

Yet, Meg soldiered on and said sure, she would go, and would attend the 8pm show starring a guy named Mudflap.

That’s right, Mudflap. That’s his nickname and you can look him up if you want. I dare you, in fact.

Oh forget it, here he is. I have no shame.

So kids, you should have seen the two opening comedians. The first did a whole set of boob jokes, and the next a set of drug jokes, which I’m pretty sure he was quite familiar with dealing.

Here’s another interesting fact about Hyena’s:


And so they did. Chain smoking one butt right after another.

Well, it could have been worse. She could have been at the rodeo with smelly cows and guys that had mullets like Mudflap, plus the chain smoking.

Meg had now notched another first in her cowgirl belt, seeing a redneck comedian in a smoky bar.

Next, stay tuned as she goes to the Texas State Fair and eats fried food.

I Can’t Help Myself Friday. Marco! Polo!

Oh Marco Rubio, when you went on the air for the Republican rebuttal to the State of the Union address, did you think anyone would remember anything except what you have done for the game of Marco Polo?

Marco Polo is a form of tag played in a swimming pool. One player is chosen as “It”. This player closes their eyes and tries to find and tag the other players without the use of vision.

And how ironic is it that Rubio has NO VISION WHATSOEVER?

Marco’s speech also proved to be a resounding success for water bottle sales:

What? Can’t small businesses make MILLIONS off of these?

But Marco proved he does indeed have buzz, and every late night comedian fell on their knees thanking him for a monolouge that wrote itself!

Here is Stephen Colbert’s take on Marco, the “board certified minority“:

Jimmy Fallon included Marco in his weekly “Thank You Notes” segment! (Great minds think alike, Jimmy!)

Of course, no week would be complete without my fake husband, Jon Stewart:

And Marco, the only reason people are following you on Twitter is to see the next dumb ass thing you tweet out.

In the meantime peeps, try to stay hydrated this weekend. Don’t let thirst HAPPEN TO YOU.

Where The Pope Has Had It.

Did you see the Pope just up and quit the other day?

That’s right, Pope Benedict has had it. He’s tired, he’s sick of kicking around in that heavy cassock and hat, and he just wants to sit on a nice sunny beach with an umbrella drink and get a great tan.

Or maybe he just wants a more uplifting job?

Meg has always had an interesting relationship with the Catholic Church; her first experience was receiving the sacrament of First Holy Communion. Receiving communion was a big deal, you had to learn all your prayers, and somewhat try and wrap your brain around
the fact the wafer you were eating was the Body of Christ. Right, like a 6 year old was going to understand that. Nevertheless, Meg and all her friends attended Sunday school each week, dreaming of the day they could parade down the aisle of the church in a sparkly white dress and a pearl crown on their heads. The blingy rosary beads were a nice touch, too.

But there was one part of the process that Meg found unnerving, and that was CONFESSION. You had to pull back a velvet curtain and kneel in the darkness, contemplating your list of sins. (Years later, Meg and her friends wised up and curated a list of sins that provided some variety and interest for the priest). Anyway, Meg through an unlucky roll of the dice obtained the Monsignor, a well know crabby old man with a drinking problem.

When Meg said it had been two weeks since her last confession, something like this happened:

It really did seen like the Great and Powerful Oz was behind that little door…

Father Crankypants thundered “What do YOU mean it’s been two weeks since your last confession? You need to attend EVERY week!

Meg trembled just like Dorothy and all of her friends, and quickly exited the confessional thinking she was doomed for life.

Around the time she went through the confirmation process several years later, Meg was done with confession. She decided since the priests always said God is everywhere, then she could simply make a direct confession where ever she happened to be. So maybe Meg would be on a beach or having a cocktail poolside, but surely God would hear her plea for forgiveness.

Meg kids, but she can totally understand the Pope has had it and wants to enjoy a little fun time before he’s standing at the pearly gates.

In the meantime, I have for your consideration, the next Pope:

I’m sure two weeks from now, Benedict will leave the Papal palace and exclaim:

Certe, Toto, sentio nos in Kansate non iam adesse.

I Can’t Myself Friday. The Grammy Edition.

It’s Friday, and I feel like exposing CBS for the provincial idiots they are. Here’s the letter that the Standards and Practices committee sent to all of the Grammy performers and presenters:

Please be sure that buttocks and female breasts are adequately covered. Thong type costumes are problematic. Please avoid exposing bare fleshy under curves of the buttocks and buttock crack. Bare sides or under curvature of the breasts is also problematic. Please avoid sheer see-through clothing that could possibly expose female breast nipples. Please be sure the genital region is adequately covered so that there is no visible “puffy” bare skin exposure.

Dear readers, do we think whoever wrote this letter has an Oedipus complex? Either that or they were the screenwriters for this VD PSA from the seventies:

Seriously, was Pink supposed to wear sweats while doing this?

Oh no you don’t Rihanna!

(And P.S. Stop dating that thug Chris Brown. He will drag you down.)

Oh right. No cutting edge Lady Gaga?

And let’s face it, where would we all have be with Lil Kim?

Hear that celebrities? Pick up your pamphlets at the end of the red carpet, so that YOU know how to dress for success, and provide optimal coverage of all your vital parts.

Let us all hope that someone whips off a jacket and shows a little “Undercurvature”. After all, isn’t this why we watch the Grammy’s? Meg hopes the show doesn’t turn into turn into some Amish reality series on TLC.

Where I Left Texas and Walked Through Tuscany.

Last weekend Meg and the family decided to explore the nature trails in their neighborhood. By nature, she meant people’s backyard’s; Meg wanted to see what typical TexaN patios and outdoor kitchens looked like. Plus, she was also walking her dog, and Jack provided all the cover she needed to covertly check out everyone else’s abode.

So the family headed down to the tennis courts and took a right:

You can only walk around this lake so many times without losing your mind, OK?

Anyway, they saw some pools and nice patios, a few pergolas, and some spiffy outdoor kitchens, which they were thinking
would be cool for their yard.

Maybe a little something like this?

Or maybe this?

Pretty soon the houses along the trail started looking more fancy and yards more inviting:

Meg was all like, “Wow! There’s a whole other part of this neighborhood I knew nothing about!”

Then Meg and Leo saw this oasis:

And yes, she felt as if she stumbled upon a Tuscan villa, and promptly exclaimed “This is awesome! Wouldn’t this be just fabulous honey?”

A quick minute later, the couple emerged from the nature trail, and realized they had entered a gated community, the one where the Meg promptly wondered if she was going to undergo a citizens arrest for trespassing in the pish-posh neighborhood she wandered into. Would the fact she was not wearing Juicy Couture or Lululemon give her away?

They continued to stroll around anyway, and got some ideas they could scale back and fit into their yard, and firmly vowed they would be back to spy again.

Stay tuned as Meg keeps traveling to Oz with her little dog and her trusty scarecrow of a husband. Maybe the Lollipop Guild will greet her next time she visits the Emerald City!