The True Foundation of Liberty, or my Sixth Grade Lesson in Civil Disobedience.

Meg can always count on Henry David Thoreau when searching for the right topic!

Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.

In searching for the next thing she could possibly write that did not contain a lurid headline about a Fox News anchor, or blatant lies about wiretaps (or tapps, as someone likes to call them) she came across this photo on Twitter:

empower2 The story behind this photo was a teacher found it in her classroom, and shared it with a friend. I am guessing the students were about 5th grade or so. Some complained and said girls that age would not be very tuned into social issues, or politically savvy, but Meg begs to differ.

It is totally in the realm of possibility for young ladies of that age to have a backbone and a brain, especially in 2017. Meg took a trip into her wayback machine, and landed in the year 1970, where as a young 6th grader, she and her classmates took on the establishment. And by establishment, she means her school principal Miss Sheridan.

Some of you young ones might not realize this, but it was an rule that girls wore dresses to school. This my friends, was even before the days of PANTYHOSE. I believe they had barely just been invented, so imagine all the gear we girls had to wear under our polyester jumpers with fake pleather pockets. The hardware alone to hold up stockings was MONUMENTAL. That year we had a particularly hard winter, and we girls just about had it trying to wear dresses to school. So with careful thought and attention to detail, we put together a petition stating we thought slacks were perfectly appropriate for snow days, and could we please not have red chapped legs each and every day we walked to school?

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Caveat: We did choose to get dressed up for the class photo.

Because we were so polite and thought out our cause, our request was granted by Miss Sheridan. The only rule was no frayed jeans, and that was that.

Meg was kind of disappointed because she dearly wanted to make a protest sign, the kind she saw on TV every night, that said “MAKE LOVE NOT WAR”!  It would have been so incredible to see a pile of dresses, in the previously mentioned polyester, going up in a toxic cloud over the Calvin Coolidge School playground! News stations would break with in with reporters descending on our little town, covering the 6th grade girls protest! Take that school administration!

Alas, all it took was simple negotiation. There is something to be said for the art of being straightforward, honest, and clear minded when negotiating a cause. It’s a lesson she learned in 6th grade, and Meg wishes some of our elected officials could learn a lesson from the intrepid band of girls who just wanted to stay warm on a cold winter’s day.

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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:

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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:

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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?

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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:

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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:

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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?

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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:

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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!


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:

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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.

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


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.


Hair Through The Ages.

This week Mama Kat asked us to post a Throwback Thursday photo and write about it. But honestly, Meg couldn’t limit it to one stingy photo when it comes to the subject of hair, or should I say the stuff on our heads and the bane of every women’s existence. (with the possible exception of of Kyle Richards).

Meg is the family archivist and photographer, and in her spare time she tries to scan, organize and keep photos together, because she hates the thought of every single photo of her family being held hostage on an android phone. While sorting through some of these photos, there soon was a common theme.

HAIR. Bad hair, good hair, blonde hair, brunette hair. Let’s take a look:

Baby hair.

Sweet one year old pixie hair. It never gets better than this people, they don’t call it baby soft for nothing.

Post college hair, circa 1981. And hey, look at that phone on the desk with all the buttons! That red button is called a HOLD button, kids.

Permed hair. Meg has posted this photo before, but it’s worth doing again, as it really does show the perils and danger of processing your hair in this manner.

Gigantic hair! Bold, blonde, big crazy hair!

I am quite certain that my hair was bigger than this baby, and Meg believes she was VERY proud of this look.

Regular let’s keep it real hair.

Thank God we aren’t expected to take a curling iron to our heads any longer.

When I see these photos, of course it brings back many memories. Mostly though, it makes me think two things:

What was I thinking? (Not sure)
Exactly how much money have I spent on my hair? (Enough to finance a luxury vacation to the Greek Islands for a month).

Sigh. Wishing I was on Mykonos right now.