Hey dickhead–yeah, you, the skinny dweeb sporting the iron-decal t-shirt of a cat looking sweet. Yeah, I know you think you’re all kinds of hipster chic, but I’m here to tell you you’re not. In fact, as previously mentioned, I think you’re a dickhead. And not a particularly innovative one, either.

Guess what? It’s not ironic, or clever, or coy to wear that shirt with your skinny little jeans, nerd glasses and scuffed-up sneakers. You just look like you were hip like ten years ago, and dude, you’re not now. So go home, take that too tight t-shirt off your scrawny torso and bring it back to the Goodwill you bought it from.

‘kay?

*Saw this guy last night, clearly it’s been bothering me all day. And it’s not this exact t-shirt, but something similarly sappy.

All right, so my intolerance has been well-documented.

But there’s this woman who I see most mornings (and sometimes at the gym) who drives me bananas, like way worse than I normally am: She is younger than me, maybe mid- to early-30s, and she is relatively attractive. She has a son younger than mine, so I usually see her on the walk to school. She’s not setting the world on fire or anything, but okay. But she does a few things that make her totally ugly to me:

She ALWAYS wears clothes way a) too young* b) too tight c) inappropriate. Her winter jacket of choice? This Mandee’s white suede thing that cuts in at the hips and is trimmed with long white wispy faux fur. Gak. She wears hot HOT pinks, tight jeans, too short skirts, fugly shoes–basically, if it’s in the Whore Store at the mall, she’s got it on. And don’t get me started about what she wears to the gym! Honestly, I never want to see that much of anyone who isn’t British, male and an actor. ‘Kay?

But the worst thing is that whenever–EACH AND EVERY TIME–I see her with her son (and without, but I don’t care about without, ’cause she’s on her own), she’s on her cell phone. Not talking to her son, not paying attention to him, ALWAYS on her phone. WTF?

What is so damn important that you must be talking all the time? I have to clamp my hands in my pockets not to reach out and grab the thing and smash it on the ground. Just because she dresses likes a teenager doesn’t mean she has to act like one. She’s a parent, for goodness’ sake.

That makes me absolutely crazy.

*She is the epitome of Mutton Dressed As Lamb. So, so muttony.

This weekend, I am heading to New Jersey for the New Jersey Romance Writers’ Conference. Yay! The P-I-C and I are sharing a room, and I bet many laughs will be had. I also bet that, at some point, I will be needlessly snarky. The Spouse will have the care and feeding of the Nine Year-Old; look for the attendance of Knicks games (go Nate!), Wii-playing and some grousing about how Mommy didn’t leave enough a) food b) laundry or c) anything else that is difficult to locate in five seconds.

In New Jersey, I will get to see Samhain’s Angela James, who is so cool and self-assured she intimidates me (true dat!), Abby Godwin (blog to the right) and other friends from the NYC chapter.

Still working fairly diligently on the new ms., although yesterday I hit a creative wall. Bam. Today I hope to be more inspired.

*New Jersey, Megan Frampton and Not Much Else.

So this morning I’m at the relatives’ house, making a little tea, when somebody shows up to check out the furnace or whatever. Friendly guy, I was told, and I tell him who I am, and he asks where I’m from.

“Brooklyn,” I answer.

“Well, I guess everyone has their cross to bear,” he responds so quickly I bet it’s not the first time he’s said it.

WTF?!? Dude, do I go to your town and comment on how I wouldn’t want to live there, or you can’t buy beer after 8:00pm at night (trust me, last night my cousin and I tried), or how you have to drive everywhere, or I’m the darkest-haired person here, let alone anyone of color, or that your mosquitoes make it impossible to be outside for longer than five minutes or that I just happen to live in Brooklyn, a perfectly nice place you don’t have to insult?

No. I don’t.

So shut the f*** up.

Making fun of tourists in New York City is like shooting fish in a barrel. Hardly a challenge. But yesterday, while taking the subway, I saw a group of three girls, plus a mom, all of whom were clearly Not From Here.

One of the girls (all of whom, btw, had bangs, long hair they kept touching–hands off, you’re driving me crazy–and muffin tops) was wearing a t-shirt that read:

Country + Rap = Crap

First of all, only people who have no freaking idea what “rap” is call it rap. It’s hip-hop. Second, why are you wearing such an ‘F-You’ t-shirt here when you’re clearly outmatched in terms of cool? You’re a GUEST in this town, and GUESTS shouldn’t be so rude.

And then the mom asked me for directions, probably because I look approachable and friendly and stuff. And I felt really bad for being mean inside my head about the girl’s t-shirt. For a minute.

Megan

*Prince, “Housequake.” For Kwana.

To the woman who spent twenty minutes on the abductor machine at my gym Sunday:

I appreciate that you were enjoying the latest issue of Harper’s Bazaar, even though I stopped reading it myself when they brought in the new Editor-in-Chief, Katherine Betts, I think? (hey! I was right!), and never got back to it even when they replaced Betts with Glenda Bailey (even though I loved Marie Claire under Bailey’s stewardship. Go figure, I’m fickle).

What I don‘t appreciate is that you were sitting on the machine, not working out, which meant no-one else could get on the machine and actually use it for more than just sitting.

I hope your thighs turn into mush. I hate you.

Sincerely,

Megan

*Not the Foxy song; that’s “Gett Off,” anyway.

. . . doesn’t mean you get to wear black shoes with your entirely brown outfit

(with navy blue ankle socks. *shudder*).

The worst part about the upcoming construction process is that my contractor–despite my repeating my name every time I call him–calls me “Megan,” with a short e.

It’s Meeeeeegan.

Good thing I’m not sensitive about it, huh?

What is the deal with hormones?!? I mean, c’mon, aren’t I screwed up enough?

I want a cookie.

Megan

*From the woman who has a b-a.

If this were a romance novel, it would go something like this:

Young, single, totally gorgeous but equally unaware she’s so damn hot woman goes into kitchen to fetch something. A diet Coke, or a pretzel, say. She looks out the kitchen window into the apartment across the shaftway (hee, hee, shaftway), and spies a completely naked, totally hot, muscular guy going about whatever business he has in the kitchen. Embarrassed, she runs out of the kitchen, but not before noticing what time he’s there naked. Later, she runs into him in a neighborhood bar, recognizes him, and does something she would never do–picks him up.

After several bouts of mad, passionate nookie, they declare their love for each other, and she confesses she first saw him naked in the apartment across the way (somehow sliding over the fact they live opposite each other, and the doofus should’ve been able to figure out he’d seen her somewhere before). He thinks she wanted him only for his manly physique, tries to dump her, but can’t live without her. Meanwhile, she does something to prove she likes his mind, too, and they live Happily Ever After.

The reality:
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