oh that meredith

all the mer that's fit to print.

Tag: oh em eff gee

In which I melt into a puddle of internet love.

Confession: I wrote this months ago but never published it. In my pain + lortab + wine – pants equation, however, it really fits the bill tonight. Enjoy.

It’s a strange place to be, where I am right now. In my head, of course. This chair is quite nice and quite familiar.

It’s as though my funny and irreverent self is sitting on the couch, watching beloved NCIS reruns and stuffing her face with delicious salty goodness.

I’m sitting here watching her, giggling a bit in my heart, but I don’t join in, because this mood – this sweet, sentimental, sappily alliterative mood – is simply too delightful to leave.

I have too much to do today: work and obligations I needed to do yesterday and the day before but was unable to do for frustratingly mundane reasons. I anticipated a panic attack, a hormonal freakout, a desperate desire for sedatives.

Don’t worry; there’s always time for that later.

But I can’t bear to let this go just yet.

Goodness, it’s silly. This warmth I feel from tips of my paint-chipped toenails to the muscles in my cheeks that I just now realize are achy from smiles. I awoke with a smile in my eyebrows, on my lips, in the hollow of my neck, far more easily than my usual bout of grumbles and stumbles and crusty eyelashes.

I could blame one of my very favorite writers for sucking me in with her words this morning and then encouraging me to wallow, responsibility-free.

I take direction well.

I could also blame the very decorative man I dreamt about last night in wonderfully graphic detail.

It was a good dream.

Or the four-legged beasts who all wanted to love on me at the same time first thing this morning, all 150 pounds of combined snuggin’.

I do love a good snugg.

But really, I think it’s your fault. Yes, you.

Yeah, I know, I’m writing again for me; it’s what I’ve always loved; I’m finally back here; and every other touchy-feely phrase that fits. And many fit.

But you know, I’m writing to be read, to be heard, to create this wonderful community I’m madly in love with. Grammar be damned.

And you read. And you hear. And I’m reduced to this sloppy, gooey mess of OMFG INTERNET LOVE.

Even if I haven’t published this yet. You will. YOU WILL, DAMN IT.

And that? Is grand.

In which I rail against technology, (kind of) break my only promise & threaten to move North.

Today, my loves, magic happened. The ULTA fairy arrives on wings dusted in the latest fall colors, full of shimmer, shine and fruity lip gloss.

oh em eff gee package must open now squeeeee

oh em eff gee package must open now squeeeee

We all know how I feel about lip gloss.

Despite my whiny, sick afternoon, I knew I wasn’t too seriously ill, as my desire to open the package immediately was stronger than the desire to curl back up into a feverish ball in bed.

Magically (read: by way of purchasing online & waiting for delivery), in that beautiful box were two fabulously new hair tools, both of which, oddly enough, look like scary sex toys.

AND THAT’S WHERE MY STORY FUCKING ENDS.

Because the camera — the brand new camera — has decided to be an asshole. It has not yet presented me with its demands for ransom, but that’s all in good time, because I know — I KNOW — it has taken my photos hostage.

The hours I spent! Slaving over my hair! Playing with these new toys! Photographing myself with awkward faces! Achieving ridiculocurly somewhat scary hair! Annoying my mother! Ok, that one was a perk. But still! I BURNED MY FINGER FOR THIS.

LOST. ALL LOST.

Ok, maybe not all lost? but lost for now. Because the camera is a douchecanoe.

All this boils down to a new desire: wanting to write a post lambasting technology, which will lead invariably to a Kids-These-Days! rant, followed closely by a recounting of my childhood, in which walking up hill both ways barefoot to and from work at age 7 in the snow will feature prominently.

But I’ll spare you that one. This time. You’re welcome.

So then I think, you know what I need? OBVIOUSLY I need to move nearer to @HexingThoughts, my resident geek. (Y’all, she works for baked goods. It’s the best arrangement ever. Kisses, Hex!)

But the prospect of moving TO THE NORTH is, itself, FUCKING RIDICULOUS. Because it is the North. Where it is cold. Often.

I’m not sure I can adequately explain my inability to deal with the cold for any period of time over, say, three days.

Shut up. I don’t always have too much to say. I so don’t.

Let’s just move along, assuming you understand just exactly how much I hate the cold, pretending I’ve explained it in any way that makes sense.

And now that we’re here? I’m officially copping out. Breaking the only promise I’ve made to myself here, which is to post every day. Ok, maybe this is a post. I suppose. And I’m wearing lip gloss.

Ok, ok, it counts. Yeesh, settle down.

That said, I will not let the terrorists win here, and I will get those damn photos. Tomorrow is a brand new day, Asshole Camera, and I will win this war.

you win *this* round, camera.

::ANGRY WARRIOR YELL::

Ahem. Goodnight.

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