Biiiiiicycle, biiiiiicycle…

I’m thinking about getting a bike. I don’t want to spend more than $200-$300 on it. Closer to $150 would probably be best.

But what kind do I need??

Do you only need a mountain bike if you’re going to be riding on a mountain trail? I’ll probably do most of my biking on pavement, in the parks around here that are bike-friendly. I don’t plan on doing any riding on the street (unless maybe I have to cross one to get somewhere) because I don’t have a death wish.

So what would you outdoors-types recommend? Mountain? Road? Trail? Are these even the correct categories?? I have no clue what I’m talking about, and the Internet searches are overwhelming.

Tags: ,

You Must Not Know About Me

Some people have beer or whiskey. Others have heroin or cocaine. Many have food stuffs.

Unhealthy modes of escapism. Ways to lull themselves.

I have pop music.

Shitty pop music.

This is a new thing for me. But lately, especially when I’m sitting in kill-me-now traffic on the interstate or sometimes when I’m at the office working on a project that requires something upbeat in the background—music I can ignore but still hear—I’ve turned to mindless pop music.

(I can’t believe I’m admitting this.)

If they were dead, my respectable iTunes artists would be rolling over in their graves to see who they were sharing space with.

Music masterpieces by artists such as Tori Amos, K’s Choice, Ani Difranco, Cake, Fiona Apple, Barenaked Ladies, Tool, The Cure, Interpol, Portishead, Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Beatles are now residing in the same virtual space as random four minute piles of catchy, lilting shit by the likes of Avril Lavigne, Beyonce, Kelly Clarkson, Kanye West, Justin Timberlake and (dare I say it, the worst of them all…) John “Fucking Douchebag” Mayer.

What have I become?

Why can’t I just deal with my need for periods of mental-background-escapism with drugs or alcohol like a normal person??

At least I am not looking for meaning in the songs. At least I am not so much “listening” as I am just “hearing.” It’s just background music. Keep saying it. It’s just background music. It’s just blending in to the background, creating a monotony melodious enough for me to proceed through to the other side of the task at hand, whatever or wherever that may be.

I don’t turn to these manufactured sugarfused soulsuckers for inspiration. When I have trouble writing or being otherwise creative, I still turn to Tori or Ani or The Mars Volta. (Actually, a lot to The Mars Volta lately, surprisingly.)

But when I need my mind numbed a bit to take the edge off, just enough for me to forget about everything—ignore my environment—and focus only on what I am doing (working on something, sitting in rage-inspiring traffic, trying to fight my way to work through the assholes who think it’s funny to go 65 in the HOV lane just because you’re two 80-year-olds and you CAN hold up those of us who still have some life in us and need to actually get to WORK TODAY), I find myself turning to one or two little poppy-ass gems.

And the worst part is, after a couple months of giving in to this vice, I’m starting to not feel so bad.

Does that mean part of me has died?

Tags: ,

Heart first

“It’s not the laws, it’s the heart of people… Times are changing.”

I’m watching a documentary on Rutherford County, and those are the words Mary Scales said when speaking to the desegregation time in the county.

I think those words also apply today.

Gays may not be able to marry today in all states, but times are changing. In their hearts, people are beginning to realize it’s ok. One day we’ll all be able to love and marry who we want.

In my heart, I know times are changing. I just hope it’s in the right direction.

Hear me out, please

The talk around the Nashville blogosphere lately has been about the trouble the Mothership BBQ is in. He needs monetary help or he’ll have to close down is what I’ve been hearing.

But when I first heard that, I have to honestly say that my first thought was, “I’m not surprised.”

Ok, don’t all flame me at once; don’t start your voodoo chants on me. Don’t hate me. (At least not for this post.) Listen to my story. I hate to see any business—especially a food business—fail. And I’m sure the owner is as great of a guy as everyone says.

But hear me out.

Back in the fall, all I had been hearing for weeks was just how great Mothership BBQ was. I heard from several people who know the guy that owns it just how great of a guy he is, and how awesome his barbecue is. Well, Ian and I eat a lot of barbecue. I mean, I’ve gone weeks before where I’ve eaten it probably five out of seven days for at least one meal a day. I tend to eat it at least once a week, if not more often. Every year for the last seven years I’ve gone to the Jack Daniel’s World Championship Invitational Barbecue festival and eaten barbecue from all over the place. I freaking LOVE barbecue.

So after hearing how great the Mothership was, I convinced Ian one Saturday that we should drive up there to eat lunch.

From Murfreesboro.

We drove 45 minutes to eat there. And 45 minutes back.

And the food was bad. And so was the owner’s attitude.

When we walked in (it was about 2:30, 3:00) there were two people seated and eating. We perused the menu for a second, and decided on some pork plates. We went to order, and were greeted by who I’m assuming is the owner. He looked like he does on his blog photo, so unless he’s got a twin, that’s who I’m going to assume was running the place that day.

Anyway, we walked up to order, and were basically treated like we were bothering him that we were there. No smiling, no greeting. Basically an air of “Oh great, I have to talk to these people.” There was no, “What can I get you,” “How are you,” “What would you like,” etc. We were just glared at.

Maybe our kind (people from Murfreesboro) aren’t welcome there? Is it that obvious?! :)

After ordering and giving him our money and our name, there was no “thank you.” No “have a seat, I’ll call your name when it’s ready.” No, “just a few minutes.” There was grumbling under his breath, a slamming of the cash register drawer, and more of us feeling like we were pissing him off just by being there.

We weren’t really sure if we should sit down or wait off to the side, and honestly were afraid we’d get our asses beat if we asked, so we kind of moved to the side for a minute. We realized by the actions of two people that came in and ordered after us that we should sit down and our name would be called when our order was ready.

After waiting about 20 minutes for our food, our name indeed was called.

And honestly, folks, it was not good. The barbecue was watery and tasteless, and the beans and mac & cheese were the same, except they were covered in pepper. A lot of pepper. I would have tried to save the barbecue with some sauce, except the only sauce we saw was a vinegar-like sauce. Ian tried it, but said it didn’t do much to make it better.

I understand that everyone has bad days. I’m no chef, but I’m guessing sometimes things don’t turn out like you want them to.

And since I work in Nashville, and everyone in the Nashville blogging circle seems to love this place, I normally would give it a second chance.

Except that I don’t want to drive another 45 minutes, 90 minutes round trip, to be treated like I am bugging the shit out of someone by attempting to purchase what they are selling.

I don’t expect to be treated like a damn princess, but I’d at least like to be made to feel welcome. Or to not be made to feel like I’m wasting someone’s time. I always thought when you want people to come in and buy what you are selling, you should try not to act like they are pissing you off, unless they actually are. But we are not fussy. We are not rude. We are—and were—polite. We always say please and thank you, especially at a restaurant because Ian is a good southern boy and I, dammit, know what pissed off restaurant people will do to your food if you’re not nice.

Attitude really makes a difference. At least to me. Maybe I’m too sensitive. But a bad meal coupled with a bad attitude doesn’t make me want to eat there again. And while I hate to see someone’s dream in trouble, it appears that I’m not the only one to have the same experience at Mothership.

Tags: ,

Acid face

acid face

Originally uploaded by Megan_G.

“Excuse me, I’d like to pay you $65 to put acid on my face and burn off a couple layers of my skin, please.”

Sounds crazy, but women do it every day. I did it last night. I had a salicylic acid peel.

I’ve had facials before, but none this intensive. I tried to get an appointment on a Friday night, but my esthestician didn’t have any openings, so I opted for a Thursday, aware of the possibility that the next day I might look like someone set my face on fire.

This morning I looked ok, a little more red than usual, but nothing shocking. I went to work, but as the day progressed my face heated up and started to tighten. I got a headache. The pain intensified, and I headed home to soothe my skin and finish out the rest of my work day from the privacy of my own home where I could put washcloths on my burning face whenever necessary.

I called my friend, who’s a nurse in a dermatologist’s office, and she confirmed that all of this is normal, and cold compresses would be good, as would some Motrin. Tomorrow’s supposed to be the worst day for peeling, and then it should get better.

It freaking better.

Why I blog

There has been a meme going around lately where people have been explaining why they blog.

I’m probably on the tail end of giving my answer, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about.

I think the main reason I blog is so that in X years, I will be able to look back on this blog and remember what I was thinking, feeling, wanting, hoping, cursing, crying about, etc. at the time.

This August it will be 10 years that I have lived in Murfreesboro. I have been thinking about my time here a lot for the past several months, and one thing that bothers me is that I have never been good at keeping a journal or diary.

Until I started blogging. And until people started reading.

I don’t really care who reads, or how many people read (obviously), but it makes actually sitting down and typing out my thoughts (which can be an arduous process) easier if I imagine someone somewhere—anywhere—reading it and reflecting just a little bit. Even if it’s just, “Bitch is CRAZY!”

It’s helped being part of the Nashville Is Talking community, too, because I’ve been able to “meet” so many other local bloggers and get a feel for why and how they blog.

I’ve realized that you don’t really need an agenda. It’s ok that I blog about my weekend plans, my friends and family, my boyfriend, my cats, or just random-ass thoughts I have on my long ride home from work.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m doing it for me, and it’s just an added bonus that people read it.

The downside, though, is that I am often misunderstood. I know as a writer I should be able to make myself more clear, but when I am writing for myself I am often writing to myself, and leave a lot of things unexplained because I know what I am talking about.

I don’t think that this has caused much conflict, though, or at least not too many people have confronted me about it or asked, “What the fudge are you talking about woman?”

But being the overly analytical person I am, I do often wonder if I am giving a bad impression of myself through my random and not always thought-through posts.

I know that some people I work with read this blog, and I have found myself censoring my writing because I don’t want them to think they’ve hired someone headed for the looney bin when I have one of my “who am I am why am I here” moments (like I did the last two posts, haha). But being the creative types themselves, hopefully they can forgive my thinking out loud. Or at least understand that for some people—especially me—it helps to write things down, no matter how nonsensical they might seem.

I guess I just found my answer. My blog is my therapy. And everyone—no matter how “normal” you think you are—needs some form of therapy. Some form of release. Whether it’s writing, singing, playing golf, exercising or playing video games—everyone needs a venue where they can work out the stuff in their heads.

I guess this is mine.

Welcome to my head shop.

I can be so emo sometimes

Yeah, sorry for the “boo-hoo I don’t know where I belong so I’m gonna sit in the corner and cry” tone of the last post.

I didn’t mean to seem upset at all, but when I went back and read it, I sounded a bit too emo. I suppose that’s the results of me thinking out loud. On a blog. Where it’s hard to get what I mean.

I am misunderstood often, but it’s mostly my own fault.

Ok, that sounded emo too. I promise I’m not cutting myself right now.

I believe it’s healthy to seek truth and knowledge, which is what that last post was born out of.

Anyway, while I am overly analytic and generally cynical, my views on the future of my own life and those who I am in contact with tend to be optimistic. I know that seems contradictory, but welcome to my life.

I own my own home, have a great boyfriend, awesome friends, a brand-new car, a job I absolutely love and a career path I am stoked about, am healthy in ways now I wasn’t a year ago, two loving kitties and one ugly one that still makes me laugh, technology up the yin-yang and the knowledge to utilize it.

All in all, my life pretty much rules.


I found out yesterday that one of my closest friends is pregnant.

My first reaction was joy, but when I got home, I started feeling old. And then I started feeling young.


I am 27 (28 next month), and at the age where some of my friends (and Ian’s friends) have been getting married. Our main core of friends are pretty much like us still: unmarried but in serious relationships. So it’s not like I’m under a lot of pressure to conform. And it’s not like I’m a conformist anyway.

She and I are very alike. We are both independent, not very girly and pretty down to earth. We used to travel together a lot. Well, more than I did with any other friend. Maybe that’s why it’s made me reflect on where I am in my life? Is it because she is one of my closest friends? Is it because we have started to grow apart since we stopped working together about 4 years ago? Is it because I am afraid that now we won’t have a chance to get closer again? Do I really believe that once you have a baby everything in your life changes and we won’t have anything in common at all? Am I prejudiced against people with babies? Probably. But how can I not be?

The thing is, I know a lot of people that when they find out a close friend is getting married or having a baby, they feel like they should be doing that, too. But I don’t, at least not now. Those are both things I see in my own future for sure, but I do not worry about them now.

On most days, I feel like I have all the time in the world. Sometimes I feel like I could die tomorrow. But as far as having babies, I do not feel that sense of urgency yet.

So why do I feel so confused about my place in the world? Why can’t I determine if I feel young or old?

Keep Your Apostrophe Out of This!

Summer and I were just talking the other day about grammar mistakes that really get to us, so when I saw this post by Aunt B. today I got all excited.

My most hated grammar mistake is just that—the unnecessary apostrophe, often referred to as the grocers’ apostrophe. For example:

I have three cat’s at home

instead of the correct

I have three cats at home


I have lots of thing’s to do before I can go out

instead of the correct

I have lots of things to do before I can go out

As a writer, I do a lot of reading. And I can’t help it, but I proofread everything as I read it. Obviously not as closely as I do when I’m working, but I still do it.

And if you’ve been to college, you’ve been to high school, and if you’ve been to high school, you’ve been to middle school and elementary school, where you undoubtedly learned where to appropriately use apostrophes.

If, for some unknown reason, you find that you’ve forgotten when to use them, let this serve as a reminder.

Apostrophes are used to show possession or in the case of a contraction.

My dog’s collar. My mom’s house. Don’t go there. I didn’t see that.

Of course, “its” and “it’s” are a bit harder. “Its” shows possession (“Give the cat its tuna treats”), while the apostrophe in “it’s” is used for a contraction (It’s a good thing the cat already ate tonight”).

There are other instances where it’s a bitch, like in yours, hers, his, 1990s (thank you Aunt B. for reminding people to NOT USE APOSTROPHES IN DATES!), etc… but for now, if you promise not to use an apostrophe to indicate something is plural I will lay off.

This ends your lesson in grammar, as well as my bitching.

Thank you and goodnight.

Tags: ,