The Naked Days

When I was little, I really liked being naked.  

Not the normal naked-to-clothing ratio that a child has which is already pretty high, but the causing-actual-problems-for-my-mom kind of naked.

I imagine it was cute and endearing at first.

But eventually, things escalated.

Obviously at home it was not a big deal, just probably annoying to spend time putting clothes on me only to immediately find them on the floor with no Morgan in them.

I soon began to embarrass her when we would go into public.

I also began to embarrass other people.

It went on this way for a while, always frustrating my parents (mostly, my mom).  For the most part she just rolled her eyes and put my clothes back on, chalking it up to my being a child.

...Until the day that she decided to bring me to her annual company party.

This was incredibly foolish and she should have known better.

Everyone gathered at the beach that day to celebrate their work as a company.  I, of course, remember zero of this, but have been told the story many times.

Things started out fine.  

My mom introduced me to everyone and everyone told her I was sooo cute and blah blah blah other stuff that people say about babies.

She had managed to keep my clothes on through the majority of the party, so she thought it would be OK to have a quick conversation with her coworker.

She was wrong.

Because a few minutes later, I was naked and peeing in the sand in front of her entire company.

                                                        

The Cheesecake - Factory of Stress

Have you ever been to a restaurant or a fast food establishment that just stressed you the FUCK out?

Well I have.  And I love food.  Like, A LOT.  ...Like, too much.  And I will keep going to these places BECAUSE I love food, but it doesn't help the fact that after I eat there I feel like I need a glass of wine and a cigarette.

I don't even smoke.

Like Chipotle.  

I LOVE Chipotle.  A giant burrito that you get to build yourself for under $7?  YES PLEASE, I'll take 3.  ...No not to go, I'm going to eat them all right now.

I do NOT love feeling like I'm part of a fucking wartime rifle assembly line.  They move you through that line like they're trying to beat some sort of burrito making record.  You're all, "I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF THAT'S WHAT I WANTED," but they're all, "tough shit, here's what you're eating."

Or Del Taco.  

I mean, Del Taco is just stressful because you shouldn't be eating there.  

...Like, YOU SHOULD NEVER BE EATING THERE.  I know you're drunk, and it sounds awesome, but even the fucking receipt says "seriously, you shouldn't be eating this."  The workers all look at you with disappointment in their eyes as they hand you your bag of shame, judging you as they hand it off...we all know it's true.

But the place that stresses me out the most is definitely THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY.

Have you SEEN that fucking menu?  It's like 45 pages.  It's got footnotes.  There's an appendix.  There's a works cited page.  There should be an FAQ section.  It's RIDICULOUS.

I'm sorry, I thought I was coming to your establishment to eat, not to READ A NOVEL.

If I wanted to do that much reading I would go back and get my fucking Masters Degree.

Anyway, here is pretty much what happens to me every time I go to eat there.

The Cheesecake - Factory of Stress

^  See what I did there?  ^

It's Friday evening and a friend and I have made the fatal decision to dine at The Cheesecake Factory.  I've been here before and I know what I'm getting myself into, but something in me says, "maybe this time it'll be different" like a hopeful woman taking back a shitty boyfriend who will always be shitty.

We sit down.

The waiter walks menacingly towards us...

...and I see it.

The menu.  

That spiral ring-bound, pretentious, dissertation of a menu containing every possible food combination known to man...mocking me through its pages.

The waiter hands me the menu and I need both hands to support the weight of all offered food options and my impending failure.

I'm not ready for this...I think to myself, but it's too late.  I'm here.  I've committed.  There's no going back.

A chill runs down my spine as I open the menu to the first page, knowing what lies ahead, but still not ready....

Drinks.  Beverages.  Alcoholic Drinks.  Alcoholic Beverages.  Half Alcoholic Drinks With A Twist Of  Half Non Alcoholic Beverages.  First Appetizers.  Second Appetizers.  Small Plates Larger Than Any Large Plate and Large Plates That Will Make A Grown Man Cry.

I feel dizzy.  I need to sit down, but I'm already sitting down.

It's confusing.

I feel like I'm 16 again and taking the fucking SAT's when the waiter comes around asking for my drink order.

"I....uh...uhhh...WATER JUST WATER I'LL FIGURE THE REST OUT LATER!!" I manage to blurt out with my nose deep in the "menu," if you can even call it that.

I look over at my friend across the table and she also appears worried.

There is absolute silence at the table.  We have previously agreed that any conversation will have to wait until after we have ordered.

The waiter walks away to get our drinks and as soon as he is out of sight I'm in full on panic mode, flipping through 400 fucking pages of food to find something, ANYTHING that looks good.

Fuck, I'll even settle for OK food at this point.  JUST BRING ME SOMETHING THAT'S OK.

The waiter comes back with my water and asks if I'm ready to order and I order a fucking appetizer just to stall to get a few more minutes of precious, precious time....I need more time.  I NEED MORE TIME.  I WON'T BE ABLE TO PAY MY RENT THIS MONTH, BUT GIVE ME 10 MORE FUCKING MINUTES PLEASE.

My heart is pounding.  A bead of sweat rolls down my face and I finally hit the half way point in the menu.  I feel like I'm running in circles and have made no progress, though page 239 says otherwise.

I order two shots of tequila to calm my nerves and give me strength through this daunting task that has been placed before me.

...They do nothing.  I have been drinking a lot this week.

An attractive gentleman at the table next to me smiles and me and I scream "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO FLIRT RIGHT NOW CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO ORDER?!?!?!" He looks hurt, but I am not shaken - if he can't understand how important ordering this meal is to me, we would never work out anyway.

Time passes.  Who can say how much?

Not me.  My mind is spiraling through what I can only describe as one of M.C. Escher's never-ending staircases.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally find something that looks good and I feel like I've won the fucking lottery.  It's as if invisible angels are singing and flying all around me while my item choice practically glows through the pages of the menu novel.

The waiter comes back with high expectations and I do not let him down.  I proudly order my food and finally feel like I can relax a little bit.  I smile back at the guy at the next table, but he pretends not to see me, perhaps due to envy as I have clearly ordered before him, perhaps afraid for his life.  I don't even care.  I'm busy riding on my cloud of decisiveness.

The food comes and per usual, it's delicious and way more food than any normal person is capable of consuming in a week's time.  I slump back into the booth with a large grin on my face in a mixed coma of food and pride.

...And then, it happens.

The waiter comes out of nowhere.  I am not prepared.

"Would you like to order dessert?" he asks, with an air of importance that insinuates he knows all about my most intimate shortcomings.

The test is not over.

FUCK, I FORGOT ABOUT EXTRA CREDIT.

I frantically search through the menu for the desserts (because you can't go to the CHEESECAKE factory and not order dessert, you just CAN'T).

The waiter is annoyed and I still haven't even found the damn dessert page.

"It's on page 415" he says will a roll of his condescending eyes.

"OH THANK GOD!" I cry with delight - I feel like I just cheated off the kid next to me in high school during a math test.  Much to my chagrin, I finally locate said page of desserts.

To my horror, there are 843 different types of cheesecake.  I start crying.  The waiter looks disappointed.  I ask for more time and he says no.  More crying.  I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS I think to myself.  But I know that's not true.  I knew what I was getting into.  I knew and I STILL walked through those doors.

Parallels between my current situation and some of my past relationships flash before my eyes as the never-fading regret washes over me.

"BRING ME ALL OF THEM."  I yell, puffing out my chest.

"Seriously lady?  There's literally like 800 cheesec-"

"I SAID ALL OF THEM" I challenge him with an all-too-familiar-and-judgmental smirk.

He brings out all 800 cheesecakes at one time and I don't make it through the first 4 before running to the bathroom to vomit.  The cute guy at the next table asks to be moved to another.  I don't care.  I showed him.  I showed BOTH of them.  I made a decision.

I spend the next year paying off my $5000 credit card balance from my last visit to The Cheesecake Factory.

Worth it.

A Super Awesome Single Girl's Guide To Dying Alone

As a single girl with a PhD in this field, I KNOW that many of you envy my talents and really want to know how YOU can more effectively meet your demise without any glimmer of hope of a romantic relationship.  Look no further!  I am here to save the day [and you from meeting the man of your dreams]!  Just follow my advice and in no time, YOU TOO can join me in dying alone.  

Maybe someday we can grab a drink and talk about it, but probably not.  

Because I'll be busy. 

With nothing.

Which leads me to my first point:

STAY IN

I know it's Friday night, and you think you should probably go to your friend Jessica's birthday party at that really fun and crowded bar where lots of guys are usually there just to pay for your drinks and tell you you're pretty, but not you!  

You will be staying in tonight.  And all the other nights.  

Why, you ask?  

Because.  You just don't feel like going through the hassle of getting all dolled up to meet some loser who lives in his parents' basement, a frat house, or a double wide.  It's not worth it.  Besides, chances are he either already has a girlfriend, he's not looking for anything serious or isn't capable of any real intimacy anyway. 

He probably can't even drink hard liquor.  

You hate him already.

So STAY IN!  Maybe throw on some Battlestar Galactica, pour yourself a glass or seven[teen] of wine, and really focus on your loneliness.  

...I mean REALLY focus.  Maybe go through some old photos of you and your ex, look at your ever-shrinking bank account and listen to that really sad Adele song a few hundred times.  

Whew.  That was close.  Let's get back on track.

GET SOME CATS

***Please note I did not say ONE cat*** 

Get SOME cats.  

This could mean 2, but hey, why stop there!  Feel free to get up to 4 cats (if you live in an apartment), 6 if you live in a house.  Why?  Cats are cute!  And they will suffice for an emotionally unavailable and inattentive boyfriend until your friends find your dead body one day and eat all your soft parts so they don't starve.

You also now have another excuse not to go to Jessica's party.

"You have to feed your cats."

HYGIENE IS OPTIONAL

You know what?  You've had a hard day.  Maybe don't shower tomorrow.  And brushing your teeth??  Please.  Looks like YOU'RE about to gain 1 to 2 minutes a day!

You're single!  And if you're lucky enough to live alone like me, NO ONE WILL EVEN BE THERE TO JUDGE [or marry] YOU.  EVER.

Why spend so much time in the shower when you could be doing other things like not going to Jessica's party, drinking, and working on your Adele karaoke cover?

For you newbies, this might take some getting used to.  Don't worry, I'm here to provide you with tips!

1.  Invest in perfume.

This way, if you start to smell OH WAIT NOW YOU SMELL AWESOME.

Here are some of my current favorites:

• Omnia Crystalline by Bvlgari
• 
  
• J'Adore by Christian Dior
• 
  
• L'Eau D'Issey by Issey Miyake

2.   Baby powder your shit.

Ok, not your actual shit, WHAT ARE YOU CRAZY?!?! Mostly just your head.  Because you didn't shower today.  (Bonus points if you can actually still SEE some of the baby powder because you were going to be late for work.)

3.  Stop painting your nails.

In order to give guys that true "I don't give a fuck" vibe, maybe just leave your nails the way they are.  It's preferred that you were wearing a dark color that will slowly peel away [like your dreams of finding your soulmate] leaving an unattractive mess that won't quite disappear [...like your dreams of finding your soulmate].  

(*If it does, repaint, but ONLY once it's completely gone.  Probably do a shitty job, too.)

4.  Get a "fat sweater."

Yep.  This is exactly what it sounds like. 

Get a sweater that will cover up the fact that maybe you haven't been to the gym in the past 28 years.  Those boys will never even see you coming (because they're confused and a little concerned about your ambiguous body shape).

MARRIED FRIENDS ONLY

Why would you want to put yourself in the position of being with another single person?  So you can go out and try to meet OTHER single people?!

Absolutely not.

Fortunately, I have the solution:  

Befriend ONLY married people.  Couples that are in a serious, committed relationship will do in a pinch, but are not ideal because hey what if that dude breaks up with his girlfriend one day? 

Spending all your free time with married couples ensures there is absolutely no possibility that you will be around single men who are interested in getting in the way of your dying alone.

Which leads me to my next point:

DON'T DATE

We all know that going somewhere outside of your normal routine might lead to meeting someone new, or meeting someone who knows someone that they think you would really like.  We also all know that this is in direct violation of the Dying Alone Mission, or D.A.M., as I call it.

I don't call it that.  Sometimes I lie.

...To avoid that horribly awkward thing where you meet a boy you're interested in, start talking and eventually are forced to go out on a date that might lead to a serious relationship and eventually marriage, don't go anywhere different.  Don't try new things.  And DEFINITELY, do NOT date.

I mean hellooo, dating leads to marriage.  And marriage leads to dying WITH someone (again, in direct violation of the D.A.M.).

SO, pick a local bar or two and just keep going there because it's convenient, possibly in walking distance, and you've already established that you have no romantic interest in any of the people that go there.  

***SIDE NOTE:  Avoid bars where attractive, single men your age that might share common interests hang out.***

If someone asks you out?  Immediately look for reasons to say no.  

Can't think of one?  

HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING SO FAR!?  

START READING THIS ALL OVER AGAIN.

IN CASE, AFTER ALL THIS YOU STILL GET HIT ON

There are really two schools of thought on how to deal with this, so thank God I've double majored in both of them!

1.  DON'T PAY ATTENTION....EVER.

Because whatever you are doing with your girlfriends or on your phone is way more important than the 6'2" tall dark and handsome doctor that is giving you the eye.  Or trying to buy you a drink.  Or trying to buy you another drink.  Or waving a few times.  Or - ok he gave up.

2.  BE MEAN

You know what?  You WERE in the middle of a conversation with your friends at a public bar where it's socially acceptable to talk to new people when that guy interrupted and tried to get your phone number.  Doesn't he know you're TRYING to die alone???  You should probably tell him.  Maybe a little bit rudely because you've had a lot of vodka.  

And tequila.  

...And probably a shot of whiskey.

Well, I hope you've all learned a lot.  I know I have.  I feel confident that if you follow the steps and advice that I've laid out for you here, you can't fail in your aspirations to die alone.  And remember, if you ever find yourself in a bar alone, make sure to keep pen and paper on you so you can write this blog.

Cats Rule, Dogs Drool...A Lot.

Hi again!  I lag, I know.  I haven't given up on this I've just been super busy with things like work and dying alone.

I'll start by saying that I love animals.  For those of you who don't know, I have two cats and live alone.  Throughout my life, I have had pretty much every kind of animal you can think of, including the 8 desert tortoises that live in my parents' backyard.  I've had both cats and dogs - at the same time - my entire life, and here's the deal:  I'm sick and tired of cats getting such a bad rap.  

Why does being a "cat lady" have such a negative connotation behind it while being a "dog lover" is completely socially acceptable?  I know PLENTY of people who are way more obsessed with their dogs than I have ever been with any animal.  I am also proud to say that I have never toted a cat around in a designer bag.

In any event, I don't think there should be any more negative stigma attached to liking cats than there is to liking dogs.

Cats are awesome.

This is bullshit.  

Here's why:

DOGS ARE NEEDY AS FUCK.

Dog are like permanent children.  I'm pretty sure if children never grew up, the population would be in danger of extinction, because very few people would want to take care of a child for the rest of their lives.  I'm not sure I even want kids, so I definitely don't want to commit to 7-12 years of taking care of a toddler.  

In fact the last time I checked, most 20-something guys are not all that pumped on having kids right away either; Guys don't want a need girlfriend, so why do they want a needy pet? 

Single girls that own cats are like an automatic joke to guys.  Well, to a lot of people actually.  But why such a negative stereotype?  You don't hear people cringe when a woman says she has 2 dogs.  And why not?  If she does, you can automatically assume:

• She can't stay out late (she has to get back to her dogs)
• She's probably never going to sleep over at your place (she has to get back to her dogs)
• She won't be able to take a spontaneous vacation with you (she has to take care of her dogs)

On the flip side, if a girl has 2 cats you can similarly assume:

• She can stay out late
• She can stay at your house
• She can take spontaneous trips with you
• She's probably independent

Unfortunately, this is not the case and people tend to just assume:

• CRAZY

Cats are independent.  So am I.  It's fantastic.  They do their thing, I do mine.  When we feel like cuddling, we cuddle.  When we don't, we don't.  Wow, that does sound like a terrible, terrible relationship, doesn't it?

I won't even go into the whole intelligence thing because I'm sure there are both intelligent cats and dogs.  But the point is I need and want a pet that can kind of take care of itself.  I don't want my life to revolve around my pet, I want my pet to enhance it.  Which is exactly what my cats do.

DOGS ARE ALL UP IN YOUR SHIT - ALL THE TIME.

Picture this:  You come home from a long day at work.  Maybe all you need is to walk in the door and open a bottle of wine and watch a little Battlestar Galactica...or something.  Which of the following greetings would you prefer?

Dogs: HI! HI! HI! HOW ARE YOU?! OMG YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING I DID TODAY I LAYED ON THE COUCH AND I CHEWED ON YOUR SHOE AND I RAN ALL AROUND THE APARTMENT LIKE 20 TIMES IT WAS LIKE A WAS ON FIRE AND NO ONE WAS HERE BUT I WAS SINGING SONGS THE WHOLE TIME SO IT WAS COOL HOW WAS YOUR DAY DID YOU DO ANYTHING FUN DID YOU BRING ME TREATS I LOVE TREATS CAN WE GO FOR A WALK HI!

Cats:  Sup.

Calm the fuck down, dogs.

DOGS WILL FUCK UP YOUR VACATIONS 

Dogs:  You wanna leave town for the weekend?  Sorry.  Where is your dog going to stay?  Who is going to feed it?  Who is going to walk it because God forbid it entertain itself?  Who is going to let it out to go to the bathroom?  Who is going to read it bedtime stories in that funny voice you always do?  How much money are you going to pay how many people to watch your fucking dog for you?  Where did you go to college?  What is your ATM pin?  How many sexual partners have you had?  What is your favorite shade of blue?

Cats:  You wanna leave town for the weekend?  Go for it!  Just leave your cats a little extra food and water and clean their litter box before you go.

NEXT.

DOGS FUCKING STINK

I'm sorry, but I don't care how often you bathe your dog or how hypoallerigenically bred your dog is; your dog fucking stinks.

AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO.  

Because dogs just stink.  If you can't smell it, you're either in denial or very lucky.  Cats are smart enough to clean themselves and do not stink.  What's even more awesome is that they are born knowing how to use the litter box!  No training.  Just, here's a box, do your thing.

Now I'm not saying I'll never own a dog.  Despite what I have said here, I actually do love dogs and I probably will. 

...When I'm married, and actually have a house with a yard that is suitable for taking care of a dog, not a tiny fucking apartment that you keep your dog locked up in all the time.  Or, when I actually have time to give the dog the attention it demands.  But I'm not there yet.  I live alone, still want pets around, and don't think it's that crazy of me to make the decision to have cats instead of dogs at this point in my life.

So you know what?  Fine.  I'm a cat lady.  I'll own the title.  But in no way do I own up to the negative stigma attached to it.  So while you all have to get home to let your dogs out,  I'll still be drinking at the bar.

I Shouldn't Draw Comics While Drunk.

Once upon a time I fell in love with a zombie.

But then all of a sudden, he shed his zombie clothes and it turned out he was a manatee.  

I was heartbroken.  

And this is my story.

And then we got married.

...

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Eat Cupcakes