Hiatus

There are lots of reasons to keep blogging, but lately I haven't felt the same way about it. I've tried to keep up regularly with my posts, to no avail. This is just the last priority on a list of things that keeps getting bigger. So this will be my last post for a while, until something truly blogworthy happens to me.

Also, I'll be in Wisconsin for a week, which guarantees no internet service. My parents are still in the stone age of dial-up, complete with modem noises. Pough is coming to Wisconsin to visit, which is even more fun, and I'm in love with him so every moment spent by his side is a blast.

I guess blogging was easier when I was miserable. Now that I'm happy, I don't want to rub it in. Or I'm just too busy enjoying myself.

Continual Craziness

This week for publishing people is insane, because the biggest book industry event/fair is this weekend: Book Expo America. Last night there were tons of book parties to kick off the weekend, and I went to the Warner party (technically the Grand Central Publishing party, since the publishing division of Time Warner was sold last year to some French company---but we all still call it Warner) and saw Stephen Colbert and Amy Sedaris lingering around....and met some terrific young agents, which is really important to me and my career since we'll "grow up" together and become super powerful together in about ten years.

SO. I hung out with my friend, the Karaoke King, and folks from his agency. It was a blast, and I ended up talking with a comic I knew from the Sherrod days (Remember that? It was around Memorial Day last year that I stopped seeing him, ironically) and she is going out with a book and loves me, so she introduced me to her powerful-and-cool agent who my old boss tried to buy a book from last year! It's a terrific feeling when a comic tells you that you're funny, by the way.

All in all, a fun night with free drinks practically the entire night (not too bad!). Especially since I spent the entire day working, not even breaking for lunch until 2pm (unheard of! I think this is the first time I debated whether or not I even needed lunch, I had so much work to do.) I am going to a brunch with one of my favorite authors today, which should be fun, and then heading off to the salt mines again before I come back uptown to go running (which may be ill advised since it's supposed to be a hundred degrees today. Just 90 really, but still!).

Tonight, I'm pumped because I not only get to go out with Pough, but also my gals Mishy & Kelly. We're going to see the Rock Bottom Remainders, a band comprised of bestselling authors, including Stephen King, Dave Barry and Amy Tan (how big of a dork am I?). Tomorrow, Mishy & I head to the actual Book Fair, and then I have to jump on Metro North, traveling to Poughkeepsie for a graduation party for Pough's sister. And lastly, there's the Mets game Sunday that we somehow have to get to Shea for.

I'm tired just thinking about it. But next weekend is fairly restful (I'm just having a birthday party--for myself--on the 8th in Central Park) to save up energy for the big bad trip to Wisconsin, which is freakishly close (two weeks from today!).

Ah, yes. Need to breathe. I'll be back with some crazy rants next week, where I try to finish everything on my plate before a much-needed vaca.

I'm no music expert, but...

I suspect that Shania Twain's Come On Over (despite the album's breakout status) should NEVER beat Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life.

I love lists like this. When I got my first Ipod, I had a playlist with the songs from the Rolling Stone 500 top songs that I owned. Some publisher is doing the Pitchfork book, which will probably end up being the hidden bible for the entirety of Williamsburg poseurs. (For those of you not familiar with NYC, Williamsburg is an uber-hip area of Brooklyn that's just run-down enough to house the entire hipster population of the city.)

As disappointed and surprised with the "Definitive 200" list that I magically found, I am pleased to see that the Dixie Chicks' first album, Wide Open Spaces, appears pretty high (#33). But then, again, I can't trust a list that rates 50 Cent higher than Notorious B.I.G. (not to mention rating Kid Rock higher than George Harrison).

I must note that usually the list is cooler than me; but I am so much cooler than the Definitive 200. I'm really hoping that this list is based on sales alone, even if it says it's not.

You Didn't Miss Me, You Know It. Don't Lie

I've had a crazy week. Absolutely busy and insane. That doesn't justify me being MIA for half of May, but I have a life now so I don't blog as much. Go ahead and sue me (or don't because I have no funds for you to take, unless you want $50K in debt.)

Lately, I've just been working and seeing Pough. Between those two activities, working out, cleaning my house and keeping myself sane by watching the insanity that is VHI attempting to cast the second season of I Love New York I haven't had a moment to take time and write something of my own.

I was at work the longest I've ever been this week (6:30 pm or 7 every night instead of my usual 5:45) and I've gone out every night afterwards, mostly in work-related capacities. I can't wait to ride the rollercoaster at Coney Island with Pough and scream my heart out without looking crazy. I haven't seen my friends in weeks, it feels like.

But I promise to try to be better, starting this weekend. I'm going to post about something cool, rather than how tired I am.

#11

I love anthologies like this one:

Even though publishers hate anthologies, partially because they cost a ton to the "editors"in permissions, and involve a lot of work on their part (here: Jaime Clarke) which inevitably leads to headaches during the process of publishing them, (and also because it's hit and miss whether anthologies sell) as a reader I can't get enough of them.

And as someone whose personality and confidence was boosted by the brillance of John Hughes (I even quoted a line from the Breakfast Club as part of a speech I gave for debate class my senior year of high school), I had to have this. And I know you will too. So support the editor of such a brilliant, brillant book!

I've been incommunicado, because I've been drop-dead busy for the past two weeks! Albeit in a good way, but when I've been writing tipsheets all day the last thing I want to do is blog when I get home! My good friend Alison came to visit last weekend, which was just as fun and tiring as I expected....

Some previous posts have challenged me to really do the 207 facts, since they doubt I can get the rest of them. This might be cheating, but:

#6: I can eat an entire small to medium jar of spanish olives, but strangely I haven't gone bonkers over the Whole Foods olive bar. Fancy olives still intimidate me.

#7: The awesome pillowtop bed I bought and fell in love with is now lopsided from me constantly sleeping on one side. Pough hates this and insists on sleeping on the lower side, which isn't helping things, since he's easily got 25 to 50 pounds on me.

#8: Regardless of how old I get, I still love Jonathan Taylor Thomas , Kids Incorporated, and Newsies. Don't worry, guys, I'm carrying the banner from Harlem to Delancey. For those of you that aren't in tune with the Disney, check it out on You Tube.

#9: I have a hard time letting go/breaking up with friends. Even if I know I'm better off without them, or have another valid reason to stop being friends with them. I think it comes from not having many friends as a kid. It probably also has something to do with that I hate confrontation.

#10: Often with Pough, I'm surprised at the complete lack of drama. It's simple, and if we get mad, we cool off. Pretty amazing if you ask me.

So only 197 to go! Hopefully I have more interesting facts next time. 'Til then, I'll be wearing my new jelly shoes (with peep toe).

Generation X or Y?

Today while reading a marketing survey for work that revealed American trends, I wanted to see if I was classified as part of Generation X or Generation Y. Born in 1981, I discovered via this wikipedia entry that I was part of the late-wave Generation X or part of the early Generation Y.

I definitely find myself more in line with the thoughts of Generation X; I easily relate to people older than me, including some people that are easily ten years older than me (Mishy is a great example). But I'm dating a barely Generation Y-er (sitting on his bed and typing on his computer) and most of my direct colleagues at work are Generation Y, since they were born during or after 1982.

I also find it immensely amusing that people born during 1978-1981 are in question; we're definitely in the middle of Generation X and Generation Y. We're not on Facebook, we do Myspace but we remember a time with land line phones (rotary, even) and before the Internet. I think we will be the most interesting result of the young people of "my generation"---both of them, from people who identify with "Singles" to those who would rather watch "Napoleon Dynamite".

Now I'll get back to listening to the Mets rally on the radio and watching Pough clean his room.

207 Facts in 2007: Five

My apologies for not posting---I've been too busy attending Mets games and being in love with Pough!!!

#5:
One of my friends disagreed with me awhile back when I said, "I love being alone. I need to be alone..."--she said, "C'mon Meg, you can't live without attention!!"

And yesterday it occured to me that she was right. When I was sick, I was home alone for a week. At first, it was great. Then after a while, I found myself counting down the hours until my roommate came home, or Pough came over.

Like everyone else, I need my alone time. But I also feed on people. That's probably why, even when I lived alone, I had a cat. Someone to talk to, something to need me.

Have a great weekend, y'all! I'm working (reading) on Saturday night, so I'll probably have a more substantial post when my eyes start to blur.

An Interview with My Favorite Glamorous Redneck

Glam Redneck offered to interview anyone who asked, and I love to answer questions, so here we go. She's obviously been doing her reading on me, since these questions are both intuitive and interesting! I hope my answers do them justice. If anyone would like me to interview them please post a comment and I will dutifully oblige (and I'd be happy to be intervewed again as well).

Five Questions for Meg:
1. What was the hardest adjustment you dealt with when you moved to NYC?

I moved to NYC on Labor Day weekend in 2004, and I have to admit that most of my "adjustments" and life lessons learned since then are not directly because of (or even related to) my move to New York. I had my heart broken (while I was writing this blog), lost and gained a few friends, and learned to move on from my former Midwestern life while still holding on to what I loved about that life (and some of the people as well).

But I do remember seeing my first cockroach in an apartment, as well as in a restaurant (ew) and I distinctly recall not knowing what certain items were on restaurant menus (sometimes I still don't know!). But truly, the hardest adjustment was not having any built-in friends and a lack of social networking (unlike college, where you meet people everywhere) that I had to overcome and build a whole new group of friends. Now I have some of the greatest friends I've ever had, but for the first six months I was really lonely--and quite bored.

2. If you were going to show someone who had never been to NYC a day in the life (not just the tourist attractions), where would you take him or her?

I actually try to avoid tourist attractions with my friends who come to visit me. I usually ask them to make a list of three or four things they absolutely have to see and spend the rest of the time doing "normal" things. Most of my friends arrive on a weekday afternoon, so I'll bring them into work and show them my desk and offer them books off of our free shelf (and ship them to their home!). Then I take them to happy hour or to dinner at fabulously affordable places that my friends & go to; or somewhere that I've heard great things about. I tend to pick places that have cool decor or unique food; Vnyl in Hell's Kitchen, Room Service in Chelsea, or Grimaldi's in Brooklyn Heights are faves. Then, in typical Meg fashion we go out drinking with whoever of my friends I can round up. Usually we go out to a neighborhood bar and then to a hot spot to pick up men. I also offer to take them to a show/concert while they're in town--on me.

My friend Alison is coming to visit in a few weeks, and the plan for Friday night is a dinner at Vnyl or Carmine's, then we're going to see COMPANY, a Broadway show, and then we'll head to Pough's neighborhood in BK to go out on Smith Street (a bar street) and to my fave bar there, Lido, where I know Molly the bartender and sing karaoke. When we wake up Saturday with hangovers, we'll go to Everything Bagel on Henry & Union for sustenance, just like Pough & I do every weekend we spend at his place.

3. What do you miss most about where you grew up?

I'm going to sound like Willa Cather, but I miss the land itself. Everywhere I've lived I have a special connection to the physical geography of the place but at "home" (Merrill, Wisconsin) every inch of that land has a memory to me. When Pough and I go camping this summer, we'll be at a campsite where my friends celebrated my 18th bday and where Alison & I got drunk in the middle of the day the summer after I graduated from college.

My absolute favorite thing to do at home now is go for a long run/walk/workout with my fam's dog, Coji. He doesn't need a leash so we walk down the gravel roads together, and he runs in and out of the woods...I only come home twice a year, but when I get home he will whine until I take him. Dad takes him for walks, but he doesn't go as fast or as far as I do.

4. Do you think that growing up in the Midwest helps you or hinders you in your day to day life now that you’re out of here?

I definitely think it helps. Not to insult my friends that grew up in the city or the 'burbs, but I think I have a different perspective than a lot of people do. I grew up among blue collar people and snotty small town judgment from those who were "white collar." I never really fit in either group, and so I think I developed a good sense of self through that isolation. I also believe that being a country girl helps me to be focused on what really matters: friends, family, and faith.

Plus, I can handle any NYC bug, and I have a better sense of direction than everyone I know!

5. Any famous people sightings? If so, what was your favorite one? If not, who would you LOVE to run into and why?

Although I didn't really see her (I was too focused on avoiding the subway grates with heels on and wondering why a photographer was crouched down next to a newspaper stand to notice), Sarah Jessica Parker once checked me out in the West Village near her apartment. It was so obvious that she was checking me out that my exboyfriend saw it and then told me about a block later. Apparently I met with her approval.

On my way to a bar I realized I was behind Jeffery Dean Morgan (Denny Duchette from Grey's Anatomy) I've also met Anthony Rapp (Mark from Rent) quite a few times, mostly relating to his book, WITHOUT YOU ---which is an amazing read. I really like him and his work, so I was really pumped every single time I met him.

I would adore to run into any country musician on the street. Although I'd love to run smack into Mary J Blige or Beyonce, I have a sneaking suspicion that its a lot more likely to run into country artists, who aren't really going to get recognized outside the touristy areas since no one here likes or knows country music. One of the members from my favorite country bands: Nickel Creek, Sugarland, The Wreckers, Rascal Flatts---or hottie extraordinare Brad Paisley would be awesome. I would totally buy Sugarland numerous drinks to keep them in my company.

I hope I did all your questions justice! I've been spending a lot of time online this week, and check out my MySpace page. It reaped the benefits!

Obviously Picture Happy

After I fixed my links and spent some time in the posts from 2005 (so funny!) I decided to post this picture of my current life.

See? My boyfriend, Pough, is on the far left. I'm next in that snazzy purple top. Then, it's our friend Ted, for which there is no realistic substitute. Then it's my girl, Michelle, and Pough's buddy Andrew.

Seriously, though, every time I watch HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER I notice that not only does Pough resemble Jason Segel (Marshall) but they share the same mannerisms. This week, I also noticed that I share some personality traits in common with Alison Hannigan's character, Lily. The way Pough & I relate to each other is even strikingly similar.... but I comfort myself by knowing that there is no Ted out there, so clearly this is television.

Watchin' the CMT Music Awards

I'm seriously in love with country music today. I've been listening to it on my Ipod ALL day and I am watching the CMT awards (on DVR so I can forward through Hank Williams Jr, of course!).

I also visited The Glamorous Redneck today and I'm waiting for her to quiz me. But until then, please give my new favorite band, Sugarland, a listen. For some reason, they were advertising this album during the awards. I don't know if people aren't buying it, but country fans are notoriously stupid sometimes (after all, they snubbed the Dixie Chicks, whose album (Taking the Long Way) is one of the best I've ever heard.

But seriously, "Want To" and "These Are the Days" are my anthems. Pough, in deference to my devotion, has agreed to go to a Sugarland concert (with Kenny Chesney) in the summer, provided I don't make him listen to country during the drive.

He forgets that I get to control the Ipod/radio during half of a 34-hour round trip drive to Wisconsin. . . . passing through some serious country country.

Healthy Again!!

I've been sick for over a week! 10 days to be exact and my health has finally returned. I missed an entire WEEK of work (I've never done that before) and I'm finally ready to go back tomorrow.

I'm so happy to be healthy I'm actually looking forward to washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom!!!

You'll hear more from me after I've actually been out and about in the world.

207 Facts in 2007: #4

Before I get into my fact of the day, I have to apologize for the lack of posts. I was sick all weekend and very busy last week---which I know is no excuse, but I nearly forgot I had a blog at all until I had a full cup of coffee and nothing to do this morning (except go to work, but I'm not really ready to do that until said coffee cup is empty).

#4: I used to want to be a famous singer/performer.

Yes, like every other 13 year old girl I wanted to be a famous singer, preferably a country performer. I thought I was the next Faith Hill, or Martina McBride. But instead, I perform Sugarland songs at karaoke with my friends on a regular basis, and act out RENT with my gay friend TS to the delight of the Bridge & Tunnel Crowd.

I did, though, write down in a list of goals that I wanted to sing on stage for people, and I had my opportunity my sophomore year in college when I played the role of Margot Frank in The Diary of Anne Frank. We sang a song about Hannukah and I had to start it. So I guess that counts for something, right?

Needless to say a lot of my other dreams came true (New York, high-profile and cool job, a boy who loves me) so I can't be too picky with God or whoever that I'm not Carrie Underwood.

The Hottest Girl in the Room, Clearly

Most Saturdays, Pough leaves me to go to his mom's house and be a good son. Sometimes, I stay in and veg out. About half the time, I go out. Last night, I attended a friend's birthday party at a Murray Hill bar which proved my theory that I get hit on like crazy when Pough is not around.

Seriously. I know it must sound like I'm full of myself (which I sort of am) but this fact does not help. Last night, I got hit on my no less than 3 men. I could have actually gotten hit on by more (guys looking at me for signs of interest) but my hands were full enough with those 3. My single and cute friends next to me? No real action that I could tell.

This morning, while checking out my hungover complexion, I debated why I seem to attract entire groups of men while my friends seem to go unnoticed. I don't think I'm all that more attractive than them (in some cases I definitely am, and in others I'm not)---or even more attractive than I was when I was single. Perhaps men know I'm attached in some phermone-related sense and are attracted to that physically. Maybe I still give off a slut vibe (altogether possible) or I'm unknowingly flirting with these guys in some nonverbal sense.

I also think that I'm more open to talking than most of my friends, and have better game. I gave one of my guys (a really cute one) to a friend last night, she clammed up and he walked away. Talk, girl, talk! Anything flirty will do, really!

In addition to my seemingly stellar game, I do admit to shaking my booty a bit and sauntering back and forth to the bathroom. Despite that Pough and I have a solid, loving relationship and I'm assured he thinks I'm awesome, I still want to see my price tag out in the single world...which seems to be rising.

When I do talk to guys, I'm really confident--sinceI don't care if they walk away. (Some I do, the ones I would actually pursue if I was single, but I really can't care too much.) Flirting now is a complete game to me, because I get to decide when to cut their game off by saying I have a boyfriend, usually to their surprise. And my game has definitely improved, as well--I know what to talk about (baseball, music, other sports and girls) and I don't tell them jack shit about me other than the basic information that they need to know to buy me drinks (asst editor, from the Midwest, likes the Cure).

But I bet when I'm single, none of my boyfriend-having, flirting expertise will come in handy. I bet I'll still be the (moderately insecure) girl at the bar, waiting for a cute guy with a good job and a full Ipod to talk to me, or call me again after we hook up. When I'm flirting with someone who somehow seems better than Pough, I remind myself that Pough is the man in my life, the one who will always call me back, the one who I share dinner and drinks with, the one who my friends love as much as I do.

And that's more than a million business cards from randoms in my back pocket (today's is Mr. Seth M). But all the male attention does work magic for my self esteem (which in turn brings more men to my side at the bar).

The Victory & The Defeat

So, if you don't already know, Winona State lost on Saturday, ending an amazing winning streak that lasted over 2 seasons (14 months), the longest in NCAA Division II history. WSU literally lost at the buzzer, which was devastating and depressing.

As my friends & I were walking back to the bar where all the WSU'ers congregated before the game, we were all sullen (Even the drunk undergrad students behind us following us like we were Pied Pipers) and then someone yelled, "We'll do it next year!" and everyone cheered and was relatively merry.

But what Reid and I did succeed in was drinking everyone else under the table. Friday night we went out so hard that Pough couldn't get out of bed the next day when Reid & I got up at 5am and left for Massachusetts. There were shots involved, though, which helps to excuse Pough's demise.

By 11am on Saturday, we were drinking again, this time with Reid's friends Heather & Lee. We had five beers each before the game and then took a hiatus during the game (they didn't sell beer). Then we went back to the bar for six more before going back to the hotel to change to go out in Springfield for the night.

When we went back to the hotel, Lee went down and stayed there instead of going out. Then we went to the Salty Dog Saloon where Heather, Reid and I danced, Reid got spanked with a giant paddle on top of the bar (apparently that's how they roll in Springfield) and I rode a mechanical bull. The next morning, Heather was so sick she couldn't eat breakfast.

But through all this, Reid and I fought hangovers, dehydration and the occasional shot to survive the weekend. Although we made it, I can't lift my right arm over my shoulder (apparently because of the bull) and I lost my voice screaming at various drinking establishments. But with three returning starters next season, Winona will probably be heading to Springfield again next March.

And Reid, Heather, Lee and I will dutifully don our purple shirts in order to massively binge drink and drive three hundred miles to cheer on our alma mater---when we could have been cheering from the couch. But that's not nearly as fun.

Pictures soon!

No Sleep 'Til Springfield

The brilliant plan:
1. Party all night on Friday
2. Get up at 5am (ouch) and drive four hours to Springfield, Mass.
3. Start a tailgate party at 10:30 am
4. Proceed to drink through NCAA Division II game
5. Celebrate
6. Pass out at random hotel
7. Drive four hours to New York City
8. Collapse on couch.

And all of this, because I want to see my undergrad win the Division II Men's Basketball Championships. Even though they a) won last year; and b) it will be broadcast on CBS.

If you picture this sort of irrational and money-wasting decision making spread over the course of five years in a town with less entertainment, you are imagining Meg: The Undergrad Years.

My college friends are so much fun: they're people who I've drank with through any occasion and/or holiday, who remember someone who once climbed inside her own refrigerator "just to see if I could do it" and who find nothing wrong with paying $425 to fly across the country to watch a team that we know no one on and could watch on our own TVs.

So watch Winona State kick ass while you're hungover--the championship game will be on at 1pm on CBS. And if you're lucky, you may catch a view of a drunk, tired me cheering on my alma mater.

Winona on my mind

Pough and I recently noticed that we have recurring themes. We have been hearing or noticing random things multiple times within a short span of time. For example, we heard "500 Miles" by the Proclaimers three times in one day (on different radio stations) while driving to Lake George.

"Look," he said Wednesday as we walked through Chelsea, "Unicorn DVD. That's the third "unicorn" reference we've had in the past hour."

"Weird," I agreed. But as I thought about themes lately in my life. Winona, the town in MN where I went to college, has been popping up ALOT. First of all, Pough & I are planning a stopover there during our cross country adventure to my hometown in Wisconsin to visit my friend Alison and spend time in that beloved city where I spent five years of my life; Alison herself is coming to visit in April or May, which I'm super excited about.

And I've been in touch with two girls from my alma mater, Winona State University, who want to go into publishing and are coming out to NYC for a weekend in April to check things out and meet with me and a couple of my friends in publishing. Those two girls were referred to me by a former English professor of mine, who called me this week at work to congratulate me on all my successes and to give me her home phone number so we can catch up while I'm in Winona with Pough.

Also, as I mentioned before, my favorite country station is KQ98 which I've listened to online pretty much all week----and, to top everything else, the Winona State Warriors men's basketball team, currently the defending NCAA Division II national champions, are heading to Springfield, MA for another championship game. As promised last year, I'm going this year with my friend Kiddo and a couple of his friends if WSU goes all the way.

I initially questioned it: do I miss my life in Winona that much? Do I want to move back? And then I thought, no, I don't. But it's a part of who I am, a part that I celebrate. And I can't help but be amused at all the Winona references this week--and that I'm a role model for two girls that are pretty much exactly like me, only a few years younger.

Hopefully next weekend I'll be riding on a bus to Massachusetts to meet one of my good friends from college and to join a ton of people that are wearing the very same Winona State sweatshirt that lasted me through three years of college, multiple camping trips and gave me comfort when I first moved here that I had the strength to succeed in this big, bad city. It's always heartwarming when things come full circle.

207 Facts in 2007: Part Deux & Tres

#2:
My two favorite genres of music: country and hip-hop.

Although I'm fully aware that these two musical genres couldn't be farther apart, both culturally and musically, they are my two ultimate favorites. I miss CMT for lots of reasons (no country stations here to keep up on new music and industry goings ons) but especially for Crossroads. For those not familiar, Crossroads pairs pop artists with country artists, and both artists sing each other's hits. John Mayer's renditions of Brad Paisley songs are my favorites, although the Sheryl Crow/Wilie Nelson pairing was pretty awesome too.

If I was the producer of that show, I'd invite Ludacris to redo some Montgomery Gentry songs; Martina McBride or Sara Evans would kick ass on the female vocal for Ludacris' hit right now, "Runaway Love," which Mary J. Blige sings (and who I also adore). Although I would kill to see Sean Combs/Puff Daddy/P. Diddy in the same room as George Strait.

Imaginary Crossroads pairings aside, I think what draws me to hip hop and country is the same. Despite their differences, hip-hop and country were both spawned out of an uniquely American experience and subculture that I identify with. Growing up in the Midwest with bluegrass musicians as my grandparents, country is in my blood. But since moving to NYC, I've seen a side of Black and Hispanic America that most (white) people don't get to see, thanks to living in Washington Heights and working on black books.

I strongly believe that if anyone digs the beats of Mary J or the steel guitar of Sawyer Brown that they, too, are part of that community. Sometimes I wish people would be more open minded to both of these genres, since they have so much insight to offer past the gang-banging and hillbilly stereotypes. If you feel like giving country a try, listen to KQ98's stream. KQ98 played in my college town and is the best country station I've ever heard. (And my friend Alison works there!)

#3:
As of today, I have 5,577 songs in Itunes and on my Ipod. It's getting to the point where I can't make a new playlist without giving my self a headache and making my ass hurt from sitting on this desk chair too long. But somehow, I still feel out of touch with new music.

My Boyfriend is Broken!

My brilliant boyfriend Pough had back pain--not horrible, but uncomfortable. So he went to a chiropractor on the Upper West Side. He found out that one of his legs was shorter than the other because his hips were misaligned.

While we both found this hilarious, I was suspect. If your arms are different lengths, why shouldn't your legs be? But a month later (last Sunday night) he had incredible pain in his legs and back. So he calls out of work due to a lack of sleep and the pain, goes to the chiropractor, who fixes him again, and he's a happy camper.

My response: "Did he take Xrays? Give you an explanation?"
Pough: "He just said I did something to really throw it out of joint. I can't think of anything I did, though...."
Me:"You need to go to a real doctor, right now. Let me ask Sick Roomie where she went since you guys both have Oxford."
Pough: "okay, I'll schedule an appointment for Monday."
Me: "NO. You call as soon as I give you the info."
Pough: (reluctantly): "fine"

The very next day, the pain is back and its worse---and a real doctor (a GP and a orthopedic) give him Xrays and a diagnosis: a herniated disc in his back. So last night, I went to hang out with him as we usually do. He was bitchy about the pain while trying to be masculine.

And I was a bad girlfriend:

1. As soon as I got to his apartment I said, "What am I? Oh yeah, I'm right. Unequivocally right. Ha!" ( Although the truly kick ass moment was when both of his roomies looked up from watching UFC and nodded.)
2. We got Chinese food last night. Not only did I allow him to pay, but I made him go down the stairs to get it and get me a bowl to eat it with.
3. While he was tossing, turning and getting frustrated because he couldn't find a spot to stay in for two minutes to sleep, much less cuddle with me, I fell asleep during the conversation and then again in the morning to a similar conversation.
4. I lamented about not being able to go out on our planned weekend of awesomeness (a viewing of COMPANY Friday, a relaxing do-nothing Saturday, a Sunday afternoon spent drinking and bowling and Monday off).

But karma got me back. I had an unexpectedly bad day at work today and then a hopeful epiphany on the train ride home, all of which I wanted to relay to him before I heard about his day of pain. But Pough, alas, was too busy cavorting around Brooklyn with his roomies in a borrowed car to hear about my pains. When I told him I got a new boss, he said, "what? ha ha ha (to his roommates).... What?"

Pough's pain apparently disappears when he hangs with the boys in a car, but I bet it will be back in time to take care of him all weekend (which comes with the stipulation that he recovers in my apartment, not his.) Still, I get a sick feeling of joy (accompanied with a twinge of ironic revenge) that I can withhold sex with good reason. See? I'm a horrible girlfriend with no sense of compassion--or remorse.

Especially since I think its hilarious that Pough has the same medical condition as his grandmother.

Inspired by Genius and the Ghetto Revival

So I'm blatantly copying. Jess can sue me if he wants, but here begins:

207 Facts in 2007:

#1: I love movies that have anything to do with free speech and disenfranchised and/or disenchanted youth. Songs are preferable, but not mandatory. An example is my living room wall. I spent over $200 to transform our red accent wall into a personal shrine: The Breakfast Club, Footloose and Rent. And even I'm a little bashful to say that Footloose is the biggest. Kevin Bacon is nearly as big as me.

When Pough watched FOOTLOOSE with me for the very first time (at the age of 25! Can you believe it?) I got teary eyed at the school board meeting like I always do, and he said, "I told you that I thought you'd cry" and I replied, "It's about free speech, damnit!"

Thus, it should not be all that uncommon that the newest add to movies I love is FREEDOM WRITERS. I have to admit that I purposely pirated it so I could sob in the privacy of my own bedroom rather than give myself a sinus infection by holding it back in the theatre.

I'm not sure why, but if you involve free speech in a movie, TV show or a book I'm a big fan. If you include gangbangers or life in the urban ghetto, I'm also there. The combination is simply catnip for the Megster. Probably also the reason I love when hip-hop artists remake 80s songs: combine the cheese and the streets and I'm down, bitch!

Newly Improved & With Discussion of Fergie

Just yesterday, I had decided to just let the blog sit for a while, post-free. But tonight I spent a little time reading the utterly fab blogs of my friends, including this one about Avril Lavigne, and I was struck by inspiration. After all, I make random commentary to my friends ALL THE TIME. So this site just needs retooling. And here is the brand new ROCK CENTER MEG, complete with bitter culture-related complaints.

Culture Complaint #1: Fergie, contrary to common belief, you are not cool, and nor are you black.

I don't know if anyone else remembers Kids Incorporated, but ahem, I do. I love the show so much to this day that I have the theme song on my Ipod, and can recite it from memory. It launched the careers of Jennifer Love Hewitt and that guy that played Marisa's abusive Chino-based boyfriend on the OC.

It also featured (For several years) a blond with poufy hair and skirts named Stacy Ferguson, who doesn't look familiar now but soon will:

Quite a striking similarity, wouldn't you say? Now, don't get me wrong. The chick's got a killer body (she certainly did away with the knobby knees) and an even better voice. And she did save the Black Eyed Peas from college station hell. But every time I hear "Fergalicious" in a bar, I want to start singing the damn Kids Incorporated theme song and remind her that a lot of spray-tan and a beat box on your song about yourself does not a hip-hop artist make. Perhaps she should have stuck with singing the hook for the Peas.

Unlike Amanda Bynes & Hilary Duff, former Disney-ers who are proud to be Caucasian, Fergie not only decided to keep a blatantly copied nickname (which rightfully belongs to one of the coolest ladies in Britain) but also to sing about it.

Certainly, I believe that Non POC (people of color) folks CAN cross over into the POC (people of color) areas of hip-hop and R&B, and vice versa. I'd be a hypocrtical reader/editor/fan of all things Mary J. Blige and Beyonce if I said that we as a society should be multiculti and cross racial and socioeconomic boundaries, etc. But I am a strong believer in respecting subcultures.

We white folks should take heed and respect traditionally black music by following the path that Justin Timberlake and Lily Allen have forged for us---and stay far, far away from the Fergie/Vanilla Ice method of becoming a celebrity.

Yet again, I'm just a chick from Wisconsin. What do I know? I listen to hip-hop covers of "She's Like the Wind" for god's sake. If that's not crossing some boundaries, I don't know what is.

The Third Post of February

Once in a while, I'll think of a subject--from current events to what I'm dealing with in my life--and thin, that would be a great thing to blog about.

But I've only blogged TWICE since in the past 21 days. That's weird for me... back in the day when I had more time, I was blogging every day or at least every other. Now I'm lucky if it's once a week.

I've debated just walking away from Rejection at Rockefeller, but I like giving my opinion on cultural things and venting about my own life. But at the same time, I think I've got more important expression to do than what I've been writing on this blog.

When I nearly broke up with Pough and started comtemplating what was really going on with my lack of interest in our relationship, I went the old-fashioned way: I confronted my feelings with a pen and a journal, not a keyboard and DSL.

At work, I recently bought my first book (YAY) and edited my first manuscript (double YAY). I got my first editorial nod on the second author's manuscript---he said that my "talent and skill" helped and bettered his writing. How amazing! So as important as my own writing is (at least to me), I'm starting to think that perhaps my talents (and time) are better utilized in an editorial capacity.

Yesterday, I went to a Young Publishing Group luncheon with the co-founder of Gawker. She talked extensively about blogs and so-called "blog books". As she named off some respective and successful blogs, I thought: my blog sucks. It's been the victim of my schedule and lack of a computer when my ideas strike. So I'm debating retooling as well.

What do you think, dear readers? I'm at a crossroads.

In Memoriam

On Friday, I received a copy of my local paper. I showed it off, laughing with my coworkers when we realized that apparently, there's a higher fine for underage drinking than shooting a gun across a highway. And we can rent a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house with a hot tub there for what we pay for a closet in NY. God bless Wisconsin.

I showed my friends a picture of my friend Pete and his band, who were playing a local bar two weekends ago, and told them how I had a huge crush on him, and how that led to me finding him about a year ago and that we're finally friends.

But in contrast, yesterday I got two emails from my friend Holly, who I grew up with. Her first email said "obituary" in the subject line and the second was a reply to the forward I sent her. So I opened up the first email--and discovered that one of my favorite teachers in school was dead--the teacher who just happened to be Pete's dad. But the second email shocked me. It said plainly, "I'll respond to this when I have time. Mr. C killed himself on Saturday."

Apparently, Mr. C (as we called him) had been diagonsed with Parkinsons a few months ago. When I talked to Poofy last night, he had already known the news about Mr. C for a few days through our friend Mindy, who apparently had friends who were working at the hospital when Mr. C's family brought him in. (This is how small town gossip works.) Apparently, Mr. C shot himself with a rifle.

As someone who attempted suicide in adolescence and lived to be grateful that 20 Advil pills will not require a stomach pump, much less a funeral, I don't know what led Mr. C to do what he did, but I imagine a life of being mentally fine but physically unable to control my body might lead a lot of people to the same decision.

Mr. C was the type of high school teacher who was close to retirement and basically taught about life in class, not about journalism or literature. He'd talk about the beauty of the world, sunsets in particular. He'd tell us about Vietnam, about raising kids, about what we didn't know yet and what most of the students didn't appreciate or even listen to. His words helped me through college, and when I see a sunset this week, I'll think of him.

Mind you, I didn't know Mr. C all that well--I only had him for one class, after all--but what Poof said last night rang true: It just proves that any given day is not an ordinary day.

The day off

Usually on days off, people lie around, use it as part of a trip, and/or sleep in. Right? Well, here's how my day off so far has gone:

7:30 am: the cats are meowing. Get up grudgingly, stumble into roommate who promises to feed them. Go back to bed.

9 am: think one has slept so late, luxuriously late. Slept so much that head is foggy and body is exhausted. Look at clock and it's only 9am. Shake it off and get up anyway.

10am: Super arrives as promised to drop off boxes of books from work and fix our bathroom ceiling. Try to understand what he says in broken english and basically assume everything is fine.

11am: Super leaves while I'm listening to the Dreamgirls soundtrack. Proceed to clean everything in the house while dodging sleeping cats.

11:30 am: call former roommate to see when she's coming up to pick up the rest of her stuff, which she was supposed to get at XMAS, on Tuesday, and Wednesday. Leave her a voicemail.

11:45 am: begin to suspect that former roommate will not show.

Noon: realize that I am subsiding only on coffee. eat yogurt and smoke while blogging and checking work email.

And my plans for the rest of the day? Wait for a half hour to workout, and then workout. Eat something of substance. Go downtown to get frames for posters for the living room, and then hang them. Proceed to get more and more suspicious that former roomie won't show and then will have to have argument about stuff yet again. Former roomie will show up at worst time possible and try to emoitionally manipulate, and possibly intimidate new roomie. Then go downtown to host karaoke party. Get drunk while bitching about former roomie and sing "Jackson" with Pough's India Indian roommate. Get really wasted and wake up hungover tomorrow.

A good plan, no?

The L Word

I'm a big believer in that you never know how bad---or how good---a situation or a time in your life was until you've come out on the other side. I was going to blog about a breakthrough I had with Pough, and then I got into an instant message conversation with my old roommate.

Instantly, my chest got tight and I got nervous. Then I realized how much more relaxed I am when I'm not in communication with her, and how GLAD I am that we're not living together anymore. It's so funny, because I made excuses for her the last six months we lived together, saying "Oh she's not so bad". I can't do that anymore--she's THAT bad. I've never really forgiven her for not allowing ME to move out when I wanted to, and now her behavior is to the point where I don't even want to be friends with her. So much drama, and too little time on my hands to deal with it. Part of me wants to throw her stuff on the street tonight and change the locks, but I won't. I'm a better person than that. But when it's time to renew the lease, I'm going to wash my hands of her.

What actually got me thinking about not knowing what you're going through is a conversation with my best friend Lori on Thursday. Lately, our conversations have been about her wedding and problems with her fiancee. But on Thursday, it turned to me. My relationship with Pough nearly ended last Tuesday night because I fucked up. I did something that I knew he would be pissed about, and told him, essentially just fucked up really bad.

But Pough forgave me. I had a pivotal moment Tuesday night, where I mimicked the exact same gesture I made on Todd's back the night he broke up with me. I sat there in the dark, thinking "will i ever have this man back again?" with one of my palms flat on his back, below his shoulder blades. But this time, things were different. The next morning, Pough held me tight. I don't actually remember feeling more emotional when a guy held me, or having a guy hold me that way. We didn't want to go to work because we didn't want to let go. The sheer capacity of this man to forgive amazed me. And because of a conversation with Lori, I realized that for the past couple of months, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop with Pough, essentially waiting for us to break up.

I've been too scared to imagine a relationship without end. What's even worse is that I was constantly telling myself, "this can't be love because it doesn't feel like what I felt with Todd". But what Lori told me is that the second love of your life is nothing like your first. She should know, she's marrying hers. And I'm with mine.

After discussing our feelings at a bar in the West Village, saying that we didn't think we loved each other, Pough said something perfect while waiting for the F train at the West 4th Street stop. The next thing I knew, the L word which I accidentally blurted out at New Years Eve and has been on the tip of my tongue ever since, fell out. He said it back, kissed me, and held me tight until the train arrived and the doors opened.

Now, Pough is definitely not what I expected for Meg's Great Love #2. But a guy that loves the Mets and beer, wants to meet my parents, thinks I'm the greatest thing in the world, and treats my friends with kindness deserves my love alot more than the first guy did.

The moral of the story is that life is good right now. And I've finally come to realize JUST how good it is. So good that I don't have time to blog... but I'll try to be better.

And now, an update on the Cat in the Cage:
Jasper's accustomed to his new living. He whines when he doesn't get fed, but otherwise he's pretty quiet. He's on his new diet, so he may emerge on Tuesday a sleeker version of himself, although I doubt it. I'm guessing he'll pee outside of the catbox within 2 hours of release. And then it's back to Pennsylvania for him!

Cat in a Cage, Day One

I've spent over $300 this week on my cat, Jasper, who is currently lying, uber pissed off, in a dog kennel/cage right now in our living room.

Why? Because he peed. A total of three times on my bed, four times on the couch, once on my new roomie E's bed and then, the kicker: on a comforter on my bedroom floor while Pough & I were trying to sleep.

I brought him to the vet first ($289) who didn't believe me and E when we said that he doesn't eat very much (Jasper is 20 pounds, which for a cat is obese) and then critiqued my theory that all these problems could medical. So he suggested a diet for Jas, switching him from dry to wet cat food (wet food apparently has half the calories of dry. Who knew?).

"We'll do the Xrays and the tests," said the vet, "But it's probably an emotional problem. We can prescribe him Valium..."

Umm, excuse me? Valium? FOR A CAT? I can think of many reasons this is a super bad idea, starting with the fact that I could theoretically take all the Valium (I am, after all, 6 times Jasper's weight exactly). When we walked out, E offered up this info that her mom's cat is on Xanax...

Jesus. So faced with the Valium prescription and a stern lecture on Jasper's dental health (very, very bad) I went home. Jasper was sweet the rest of the day, but promptly peed the next morning on my bed. Can you imagine? It's Monday morning, and I have to haul all three of my comforters to the laundromat (including one I just got back from the laundry last week) all because my cat is angry???

After I went to work, I emailed the lady I got Jasper from, who is part of a nonprofit pet adoption agency in Pennsylvania. She suggested the cage idea. Get a dog kennel, put his food and a small litter box in there, and leave him locked up for a week. (Target: $60).

The theory is that he'll learn that he HAS to pee in his cat box, else he sits in his own excrement all day. I'm the perfect jailer, and am determined not to change the towel on the bottom of our little Guantanamo Bay. I don't even speak to him when I put more food and water in.

If this punishment doesn't work, the lady I adopted him from said we could do a kitty exchange for one that would be more appropriate living here. I'm happy to do that, but sad to lose my big, fat, angry cat.

Pictures to come tomorrow... does anyone else find this situation completely ridiculous?

Before I went to Boston on Thursday, I was concerned with the four-hour trip on the Chinatown bus with Pough (both ways!) and upsetting his friend Nick (who recently broke up with someone) with our coupley ways.

Well, I shouldn't have been concerned. The Fung Wa bus was AWESOME. Pough and I were perfect co-travelers, holding hands while listening to separate Ipods. We enjoyed each other's company all the way there by making random Fung Wa jokes and counting the miles to a rest stop in Connecticut to avoid the bus bathroom.

Boston, I suspect mostly because of our host, sucked. We went to Nick's in Cambridge (home of Harvard and more schools than you could shake a stick at) on Thursday night, and everything seemed fine. Then Friday, Pough & I hung out by ourselves all day while our host was at work, getting lost and then spending the afternoon in a local watering hole which, to our dismay, did not have "Born to Run" on its jukebox.

But Friday night? Dud, except for fantastic thai that Pough & I were too drunk to appreciate. Saturday night? Pough and I got in one set of music I really dug (old folk/bluegrass tunes) at a cool bar while watching Nick and his new girlfriend Amanda pass esoteric notes to each other. Sunday? I whispered, "let's get the hell out of here" at 10 am when Nick kindly reminded us it was getting late.

On the Fung Wa back, Pough and I discussed the trip and the weird vibe we were getting from Nick. We didn't necessarily feel unwelcome, but he wasn't rushing to show us the things that we wanted to see either, or do the things we wanted to do (go out for big breakfasts and be lushes with the locals, hearing thick accents along the way).

We barely went in to Boston, which is a problem for me. When I visit a major city, I want to see the things I know and the elements/neighborhoods/sights that make it unique. We barely went to Boston Common, and I would have loved to spend more time in its funky neighborhoods rather than walk for hours around Cambridge back and forth between Nick's apartment and the bars because he likes to walk (and I suspect is too broke for a car).

That being said, when Pough & I got back to New York we were happy even though our subway train was stopped forever because someone had a medical emergency and we ended up hailing a cab. When we sat down to watch movies on Sunday night, it was my favorite part of the weekend.

I still have my doubts about Pough (will I ever love him, or will I just break his heart?) but I'm keeping on the straight track with him, because maybe this could be it. Waking up in his arms for four straight days didn't bother me at all. This trip just makes me look forward to spending 10 days with him in June when we trek out to Wisconsin.

MLK in MA

Add one more state to my repetoire: Massachusetts.

This weekend, Pough & I are headed up to Cambridge (home of Harvard) to visit his friend Nick. I'm scared as hell to not only spend 4 hours in a bus with Pough but also stay at his friend's house for three days. His friend Nick was nice enough when I met him (he's actually the most similar to me: he works in a foreign-language bookstore) but still, three days with the guy? I'm bringing a couple manuscripts in case I get sick of the boys.

Although I'm nervous, I'm really excited. I've heard so much about Boston from Mishy. I'm looking forward to walking on Boston Common, and drinking in a variety of pubs. Seeing the famed Ivy Leagues for the first time won't be too bad either.

Here goes a test run of a committed relationship with Pough, where we visit each other's friends in faraway places (gulp). At least I can get him back by taking him to Wisconsin in June. I'm starting to think that there's absolutely no reason why he won't last that long.

In the past week I've been very busy. On Thursday, I walked in to my bosses' boss and asked her to give me a promotion, a raise, and editorial control over 2 books. On Friday, she did. The decision on whether or not to follow my boss to Hudson Street finally happened and I chose to stay.

But beyond that, I called my mom last night to discuss what had happened (and to be honest, why she didn't sound too thrilled about it). She prefaced this story about my dad and uncles with, "we didn't want to bother you since you were making such a big decision..." and I'm going to preface it with that my uncle David is one of my favorite relatives, my favorite uncle by far (considering I have 10 biological uncles, that's saying alot!).

On the day I left Wisconsin, my dad, uncle Dave and uncle Dan were all ice fishing. My dad and Dave both have ice shanties on Lake Alice, which is between the two towns (merrill and tomahawk) where my mom and my dad, respectively, grew up. Lake Alice is ringed with houses, both summer and year-round, so they didn't suspect too much when a dog came over without an owner in sight and started playing with them. My uncle Dave threw a stick for the dog, but stopped when the owner, a woman, came into view and started to call for the dog. She had to get really close to them and the dog in order to get the dog to come with her (actually grab its collar). My dad and his brothers laughed at a joke Dave probably made, and the woman shouted back something along the lines of "you think this is funny? I have a two year old in the car, fuck you!"

Well the guys were taken aback, but they didn't do anything wrong, so they went on with their fishing (and drinking beer). When the sun began to set, they went back to my dad's ice shanty and started playing cards. Two games in, someone pounded on the door. They thought it was my uncle Matt messing with them, so they laughed and laughed harder when they wouldn't open the door.

I was in that ice shanty a few days before, and it's small. There's a wood stove in one corner, and some wood along that wall. You can fit up to five people sitting but its only about 6 feet tall in the middle. Because the wood stove gets truly hot in that small of a space, my dad constructed a door out the back that is on hinges at the bottom (picture the way a dollhouse opens up).

Next thing my family knew, the window was broken and a guy yelled, "You've been screwing with my wife?" (or something like that). Then the husband and his friend came in and literally beat up my dad and my uncles.

The lantern was thrown to the floor and went out--the guy punched my dad, then threw Dave out the previously closed back door. Dave landed on the ice and was stunned while Dan was thrown up against the wall (and Dan is no small guy!). My dad couldn't really return the punches because the husband's friend was wearing a snowmobile helmet (which, in case you don't know, is about the size and hardness of a motorcycle helmet) and started kicking him while he was down.

When it was all said and done, they called the cops and went to their respective doctors. My dad was the worst off--he has a bruised liver, cracked ribs, and a shiner that stretched from one eye across the bridge of his nose to nearly the other one. Dave, who just had his teeth fixed, has to have over $3,000 of dental work to fix what they did to his nose and mouth. My uncle Dan had a huge bump on his head that gave him a headache for four straight days.

My dad and uncles identified the family by the dog in their yard (they weren't home when the cops brought them over there) and by looking the address up in these plat books we have out in the boondocks that show who owns what land in the county. But then my mom said, "if we can find them that easily why can't they?" and for the first time since we've lived in the country, my dad locked every deadbolt in our house. The cops still haven't arrested the guy, but given the holidays my mom understands the delay.

My brother, who is a big 21 year old guy, wanted vengeance with my uncle Dave, but the rest of the fam talked them down. Meanwhile, halfway across the country, I can't get over it.

Not only does this call into question my general view of humanity (where there's always going to be assholes) but also the mortality of my family. My dad will be 52 on Thursday, and he could have been hurt a lot worse. What if those men had been crazy enough to have guns? What if they get madder after one of them is arrested?

Not to mention the emotional impact. Back in the day, my dad and his brothers were a tough crew. Everyone knows about how the boys got beat up--my uncle Mark, who is my mom's brother, works for the city of Merrill and heard about it within 2 days. None of them slept the first night. I wonder how my dad is going to take his own immortality and this, a physical fall from grace if nothing else.

It certainly scared the shit out of me. And I live in New York.