Category Archives: weirdness

A Rumination on Hot Guys

So, I was going through one of my social media sites, and looking at the pictures of hot guys.

A hot guy, with no shirt on, frolicking in the surf. Wearing jeans with his pants undone.

Another hot guy, leading a horse, wearing a leather jacket. He, too, has no shirt on, is wearing jeans with the buttons undone. He has a fine sheen of sweat going, as well.

A firefighter, in his turn outs. He’s wearing his helmet, carrying an ax, has the sweat thing going, and… he’s not wearing a shirt. As to whether he has pants on under his turn outs is unclear, but if he does, I am sure they are undone.

The pictures range from firefighters, to cops (Hubs is a cop–I’ve never seen him in his pants and gun belt but with no shirt on. I think that’s a dress code violation), to lumberjacks, to lonely dudes on the beach.

It’s all nice to look at, but does it make sense?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy firefighters, I do. But one does not see them washing their trucks–or whatever the boys call it these days–in their skivvies. Or in their turn outs. Particularly without shirts on.

On the point of the man frolicking in the surf in jeans and no shirt… Dude, wet jeans are totally uncomfortable. There is surely a chafing issue involved in that, right? And, with the pants undone, it’s likely he’ll get a little sand in there. Sand, inside tight, wet jeans, when one is quite obviously going commando? Ouch. I suppose it could be the ultimate exfoliation. Don’t know if it’s either necessary or wanted, but hey.

And the horse, the leather jacket, and the pants undone? If it’s so cold you have to wear a jacket and a hat, why, pray tell, is there no shirt involved? But if it’s so cold that a jacket must be worn, then why is he sweating? Or, more to the point, why is he sweating oil?

And why, oh why, can none of them button their pants?

Do they have fine motor deficits and need OT? I mean, it’s one thing if my five-year-old can’t keep his pants zipped up, but I would assume by 30-something, one should have mastered that.

Do they have some funk in the junk that needs airing out? Because if it’s that bad, maybe he needs a doctor.

Is he a pervert? (This one actually seems the most likely. I’d be scared if I saw a hot guy with his pants undone carrying an ax, even if he looked nice without a shirt on. After all, I doubt he has any fun lumberjack games in mind.)

But then, I’ve never frolicked in the desert wearing nothing but a bra and my Guess jeans, either. I guess I’ll leave that to Claudia Schiffer.




My Cat Plays Quarters!

So yeah, I should totally be writing about steampunk, building my brand and all that.

Instead, I’m watching my cat play her version of quarters.

See, I think my cat is weird. She likes coins. If you leave some coins out on a table, chances are you’ll find them in her food dish. If you don’t leave out coins, she’ll bite you and take them anyway.

Call it kitty shake down.


Fun With Search Engines

Some days, when I look at what drives traffic to this blog (hi, Mom!), I am pleasantly surprised. For instance, yesterday my top search terms were Meggan Connors and Meggan Connors author.

Hey, I resemble those search terms! Yay!

Then today: el mariachi hair.

Um, beg pardon?

It’s kind of like the search term: Do I look good in leather pants?

Oh honey, if you’ve come to this blog looking for an answer to that, I’m afraid the answer is probably no. (Also, unless your name is Kate Beckinsale or [a much younger] Antonio Banderas, no one looks good in leather pants. No, no. Seriously. No one.)

Happy New Year, everyone. May you be blessed with health and happiness in the new year. And no, you still probably can’t wear leather pants.

Real Me and Fake Me

This isn’t much of a shock to anyone who follows this blog, not really, because I’m sure you’ve guessed.

Meggan is not my real name.

See, I have a day job, where it’s not always approved of if you write romance novels. Writing? YES! Romance novels (particularly with open door sex scenes)? Not so much.

Again, this is not much of a surprise, but in real life, I’m a speech pathologist. It pays the bills. Also, I like it. I really, really like it. I have no intention of quitting, even if I could. In fact, I have an idea for a nonfiction book that I’ll write once I get that PhD I’ve been yammering on about (super excited about that, btw).

I am, to put it mildly, a crazy, overworked, probably overly ambitious personality.

In any case, I’ll go ahead and admit what most of you have probably already figured out: I work with preschoolers with a range of developmental delays, including 14 with autism. The reason Meggan Connors even exists is because of this.

Not because I am ashamed of my romance novels, nor is my hubster, the only person whose opinion really matters. I’m not. Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I regularly announce, “I write romance novels!” The reason I have the alter ego is because there are parents who don’t approve of the romance novel genre. See, I’m a sweet little preschool speech pathologist. I am as pure as the driven snow.

When people first find out I’m writing, I’m almost always asked, “Oh, children’s books?”

Nearly always, they have that hopeful, sweet, approving look on their faces. Because I’m sweet, remember? And, probably, a virgin. (hehehehe)

And then I laugh. Heartily.

“No,” I answer. “I write trashy romance novels.”

People who know me, who know my sense of humor, aren’t shocked by this revelation. Because while the face I present to the world–at work–is sweet and loving (and it’s true, I love all of the kids on my caseload), in real life, I’m kind of crass. Bawdy. In grad school, during dysphagia class, I was the one with the dirty swallowing jokes. One day, in the distant future, I’ll be that old lady who tells dirty jokes, and the little speech path who comes in to evaluate my cognition will have to try to determine if this dirty sense of humor and outright inappropriateness is pre-existing or if it’s the result of a right hemisphere trauma.

Maybe she’ll read this blog and discover that, indeed, I have always been inappropriate. And that I’m okay with that.

Fake me and real me are cool with one another. I’ve been informed that fake me is dirtier than real me, but these are the same people who ask, “Which one are you right now?” And the answer is, “Both.”

I’m always both. There really is no distinction between fake me and real me. In fact, fake me has announced things on Facebook that real me is keeping quiet, because I’m Facebook friends with my boss. (Yes, the PhD thing)

So, if you see me in real life, no, I probably won’t answer to Meggan unless I’m at a conference. Funny thing is, I won’t answer to my real name, either. I learned, long ago, to ignore that, too.

Do any of you have an alter ego, and why did you choose to have one?

When Did I Get So Old?

So I went up to the university to discuss the possibility of getting a PhD on Tuesday.

And there was something I noticed. Something different about the University.

Not the building, because that’s still the same (although a ton of new buildings have been built, the clinic is still the same). The clinic rooms are largely similar. Shoot, most of the professors are the same.

The main difference? The grad students.

They’re…. They’re babies.

I swear, I’m not an old lady. Right?

My kids are still little, at seven and five. I’m young, right? (Though given my health of late, I’m like an old lady. If I start describing in detail my latest trip to Hof’s Hut, I will dye my hair blue and order you to fetch my teeth, youngster)

Only, when I look at the grad students, they’re so young. Impossibly young. At the lecture I sat in on yesterday (yes, I went back), we watched a video from October of 1993.

Dated, yes. Did I think it was old? Not really. Instead, I started singing Pearl Jam in my head.

Behind me, a girl giggled, “Wow. I was three when this came out.”

What? I was in college.

Okay, so I’ve been out of grad school for 12 years (don’t you judge me! Everyone spends seven years in college, right? Sure, they’re called lawyers, but whatever). I guess I should have anticipated the clinicians would be a little younger than me.

But not THAT young. Not “I taught your preschool class and changed your diapers” young.

Sheesh. When did I get old?

What I’m Up To

Listening to: Lincoln Park. A mix of Hybrid Theory, Living Things and A Thousand Suns.

Reading: The Tower, a history of the Tower of London. Weirdly, nonfiction. Stranger still, I’m loving it.

Watching: The Science Channel, something on Mendeleev. Been watching a lot of The Science Channel lately. Not all of it is Ancient Aliens, either. (Incidentally, I love Ancient Aliens. It makes me want to throw tomatoes at my TV.)

Thinking About: More often than not, getting the Ph.D. I’m really quite obsessed with the idea.

Worrying About: The money for the Ph.D. I think I can make it work if I work half time and get some sort of stipend. It’s not great, but it might be good enough. I want a Ph.D., and I think I’ve got a good idea for a study. It’s figuring out how to pay my bills that’s the trick. Isn’t it always?

Writing: Right now, nothing more than the blog, and that only rarely. But I have something brewing. I can feel it. I’m reading a steampunk that I started last year. I re-read the beginning, and it’s quite good–it struck me as a cross between The Left Hand of Darkness and Pale Rider. If it’s half as good as either of those, I’ve got a bestseller, baby. And then I won’t have to worry about the money I’ll need for the Ph.D.

Talking About: Honestly, I’ve been answering kid questions all day. “What’s a yuppie?” “What does bourgeoise mean?” “Mom, can you explain the periodic table?” “Why does that character do that?” “What can you tell me about General McClellan?” “Mom, do you think monsters live under my bed?” (That was just from one kid. The younger one spent most of the day cracking himself up)

Oh, and with M? I’ve been talking about the Ph.D. I’m so boring.

Aside: Can I explain the periodic table? Uh… yeah, but my answer is probably confusing, and no I can’t explain that away. General McClellan? Well, I know who he was, and that’s about it. She just read the biography, so I’m sure she knows more about him than I do. Again, I read mostly fiction. The Tower is a departure for me.

Dude, it’s rough being shown up by a second grader. Especially when you think you’re not entirely stupid yourself.

Epiphanies: I have imposter syndrome. More on that later.

Plans: Tomorrow, I have an appointment to get myself made all purdy. I’m excited about that. Today, I put in a call to the university about starting a Ph.D. program, and I did get a call back. Of course, it was as I was sitting in the dentist’s chair, so I couldn’t answer. But I did email back the professor, and hopefully, I’ll have an appointment to talk to them soon. 

Also, I need to work on edits for Jessie’s War, which is due out in January. Like my plug there?

That’s about it on this front. I’m feeling better than I have been, but it still sucks. I’m scared to go just about anywhere. But I did. Today, I took the kids to the park, to lunch, and then went to the dentist.

What about you? What are you up to?



The Gluten Free Experiment

Today, I made vegan, gluten-free corn muffins.

Not out of any higher sense of purpose. I’d happily eat a slab of beef if it didn’t make me outrageously sick. But it does. As much as it pains my ranch-raised husband, who raised and then ate Boo boo, we are a largely meat free household. We do eat fish, and that’s where it ends, for the most part. (As an aside: I used to hate fish. Wouldn’t touch the stuff. Sushi actually made me gag. And then it was the only thing I ate that didn’t make me sick, and I developed an affinity for it. Still not my favorite, but my favorite hurts me, so there you go. It IS possible to change your taste buds after 30!)

Because of Hub’s dietary restrictions, we’ve largely given up potatoes, so my meat and potatoes guy has largely turned into a fish and salad kind of dude. Really, a healthier way to live, even if we were dragged into it kicking and screaming.

Recently, on top of the eggs and beef, I was advised to give up gluten, and I have. In the two weeks of the gluten-free experiment, I’ve taken one Zofran. Incidentally, that’s down from the one Zofran A DAY I was taking just to function and go to work in the morning. For more than 10 of those days, my stomach felt good, which hasn’t happened in four years. Right now it hurts, and I’m a little queasy, but I’ve been fighting a cold for over a week, and cough medicine usually does a number on my stomach, so I’ll take it.

I’m not crying on the floor, so I’ll put it in the win column.

So, I made gluten-free, vegan muffins. Between the allergy to beef and eggs, and now wheat (and boy child’s lactose intolerance), there’s not a lot in the baked goods aisle that we can all eat. So, I attempted to bake, because, well, I kind of can’t buy it.

I think they turned out remarkably good, all things considered.

This is notable for two reasons:

1) I don’t bake.

2) Oh, wait, there’s only one reason. I don’t bake.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I can cook. I love cooking (I hate the clean up, but that’s another blog). The more complicated the recipe, the better. (weekends only. Weekdays it’s crock pot time!) But baking? Not so much.

It’s not that I don’t want to bake.

It’s that I don’t have the talent for it.

So if any of you have any good gluten-free, vegan recipes for baking, I’d sure like to try them!

The Cardiologist Only Rings…

So I managed to land my happy ass in the hospital last night, so I’m posting this from my phone. (Shhh, I’m pretty sure my cell phone usage is breaking hospital policy. They’re cutting me slack because of my child care issues)

Of course this happened while husband is out of town.

I’m relying on two different friends to watch my children/get them to school. I’ve texted/called work and let them know. I honestly have the best friends a girl could hope for. Seriously.

One friend came to get me and took me to the hospital. Another friend came over later and watched the kids, and the one who took me to the hospital came back and sat with me in the ER until after midnight.

I’m lucky to have my friends.

When I came in, I told the ER doc (who was pretty hot, as an aside) I was relatively certain I was having an esophageal spasm, with my usual nausea. Lord knows I have enough GI problems that this would not have shocked me. I even said, “And I’m pretty certain that led to a panic attack. I’m certain it’s not a big deal, but…”

So they ran some tests, and all was well. We agreed I could go home at midnight if all remained well.

Two hours later, I’m chatting it up with my friend and feeling much better, when they came back in to tell me that, in my latest round of tests, all was not well.

Dammit, I had them fully talked into not admitting me, so I could go home to my children. But, given the family history, once those tests came back not entirely normal (me, not entirely normal? Shocking!), they basically told me I didn’t have much of a choice.

Crap on toast.

So here I am post stress test, waiting.

I think my stress test was relatively normal. So that then begs the following questions:

Do I get to go home?

Do I have to stay here?

What’s the dealio, yo?

On the upside, I was offered a speech path job at the hospital by the cute hospitalist. I suppose if the school district drives me over the edge, I’ll have my fall back position. (They pay better, too! Private industry always does)