BANISHMENT 22: Sweat-Loving Muscle Men

Tonight I went to the gym. I got home, took off my running shoes, briefly pretended like I was in a Gatorade commercial, and then typed into Google's search box, "Why are people more attractive when they sweat?"

At the time, and even still, this seems like one of the most poignant questions one should ask at the YMCA. Forget about membership rates and appropriate sulk time in the sauna. What is it about the nasty, smelly, bodily beads that make men into horrific monsters of dating lust?

If I'm going to be honest, I have to say that the gym has always scared me. There are lots of foreign objects that have names beginning with Turbo. It's a place where any size person is allowed to wear spandex. Not to mention all the people with nametags who encourage you to punch them as hard as you can. But the scariest part, the most horrific part, is the men. Most of them are very large. They can bench press grandmothers. They eat 76 protein bars a day and think it's really exciting that their muscles are the size of healthy watermelons.

And while their sheer bulk wouldn't really bother me, it's their fish tank eyes that do. They stand there in the center of the gym, toning their watermelons, and they leer. It's as though I've accidentally walked into a single's party for Hulk Hogan look alikes, and they're free to scan as they choose because I'm running in place rather than running away from them.

Most of the time, as I am trying to hide behind my hoodie and magazine,  I wonder what the point is. They aren't talkers. They don't use really bad lines like, "Come here often?" They just talk hover with their friends, point, and grunt, then awkwardly smile at you as though they know your grandmother's secret ingredient in her hash brown casserole. They are visiting the museum of flexible women and awkwardly abide by the leer, but don't touch policy.

For lent if I could, I would rid the world of nasty, unpopular men who are turned on when I sweat profane body odor through my t-shirts. I would bury them all in a hole, cut out their watermelons to use as footballs, and drown them in an unhealthy gob of Pepsi Max. May they rest in sweaty bliss.

BANISHMENT 21: Fixing People with Baked Goods

Today something very normal happened. I was on the phone and asked my friend how his day was. He took a second, a tiny little blip of a breath, and then said, "It was fine."

"Oh," I said. And then came the long, awkward pause. He didn't say anything because he knew he wasn't actually fine, and I didn't say anything because I knew if I did there was a very high probability that I would break out my Mel Gibson Braveheart voice (yes, I have one of those) and shout LIAR!!!! Perhaps while wearing a kilt and face paint.

When you know people really well, you can tell when they're actually fine as opposed to when they only say they're fine. The second fine, the fake fine, is very short and curt. It's said in the same tone you use when you're at the DMV and have waited 10 hours to pay the government money. That fine is a lie for public consumption only. Inside, you know the person is squawking about like a baby bird that just broke its wing. It's not thinking fine thoughts. It's thinking that being a bird blows.

When I ask the people I love how they're doing and they use the second fine with me, I immediately want to run and buy an excessively large band aid that will patch up their internal bleeding. I say things like 'Are you sure?' and 'What's going on?' I write them very long letters telling them how much I love their smile, their slightly southern accent, and their fierce ability to parallel park. I want them to know, very honestly, that they are loved. And that if I could, I really, really, really would buy them a brand new, supercharged bird wing that could never break even under the most severe weather conditions. I desperately try and play doctor even though I'm not always sure where to stick a thermometer. I want to whip up more baked goods than Rachel Ray and fix all of life's broken wings with apple pies and creme brule.

But the truth is, all my hovering, all my kitchen fuss, all my true-but-sappy-to-the-core 'I love you's,' don't make people feel better. They make them feel claustrophobic. Broken birds don't want healthy birds flying about, hovering over their heads with their super flyable wings. Particularly if they are dressed as Mel Gibson. They want, it seems, to go through the long grueling process of physical therapy alone and fly up to meet you when they no longer think that being a bird blows. When they are, truly, fine.

And so for Lent I put my Braveheart away. I stash it alongside my cookie cutters and writing utensils. I will stop following broken baby birds around constantly trying to mend their unmendables, and I will hibernate until they are ready, once again, to fly happily beside me. And I will be totally fine with all of this.

BANISHMENT 20: Bags Under My Eyes

Sometimes, on very, very rare occasions, I get the pleasure of going to bed early and getting up late. I get to fall asleep in my bed as opposed to on the reading chair where I always wake up with things like pencil lead in my teeth and animal-shaped coffee stains on my Hanes shirts. I get to take out my contacts, brush my teeth, and do the normal person thing - I imagine - of fluffing the pillows. This is all very exciting and makes me want to subscribe to magazines like Real Simple where people get eight hours of simple sleep all the time.

In the mornings, after these very fantastic voyages into Beddy Bye Land, I wake up feeling like I was picked first on the kickball team. I am extremely well rested and I don't even care if I drooled the night before because it's evidence that I was down for the count. The palms of my feet coast over the hardwoods on fresh daisies. My coffee tastes better, the sun is brighter, and I have this terrible problem where the corners of my mouth can't stop pointing up toward my ears.

But then I go out in public. And in public, people are mean. They walk up to you like you're their friend, like they care about your heart terribly, and then they say: "Megan, are you OK? You look like you're tired."

Without hesitation, I want to key their car with a sling blade.

I don't know what kind of world you were raised in, but the kind of world where you tell people they look tired is a mean world full of hellfire, brimstone, and continually rotten milk. Everyone knows tired is just another word for very-ugly-human-being, and to tell someone they look tired is to tell them they will be single, alone, and eating microwave dinners for the rest of their life.

When people ask me if I'm OK, I tell them I'm fine. I tell them I've never been better. In fact, the only person better than me is the guy who invented the snooze button because he's probably in bed. Snoozing.

The only thing wrong with me, apparently, is my genetics. Some people get child-bearing hips. Some people get fat fingers. Some people get rear ends the size of Kansas. As for me, I got bags.  Large, dark bags the size of hammocks that hang under my eyes through all sorts of weather. They are vast and deep and sometimes I imagine they could hold small villages. Perhaps Vancouver is hiding in one of them right now, hosting the Olympics.

For lent, if I could, I would give up the kangaroo patches under my eyes and live in a world where people say: "Megan, you look lovely. Have you done something new with your hair?" And I will say, "Absolutely not. I just wake up, on 3 hours of sleep, this perfect."

But as I cannot morph into Natalie Portman and as I cannot imagine seeing a slice and dice doctor to fix me up nice and restful, I will simply smile and say, "Yeah, a little tired. Thanks for asking. How are you doing? You look lovely with all that extra weight."

BANISHMENT 19: Exotic Food

This weekend my dear friend and I decided to try something new. This was a very large, Fourth of July Fireworks caliber decision because we are old souls who like routine. We are regulars. We drink coffee with two creams and will yell profanity at you if you add three. We have our sides of the bed, our staple authors, and our favorite ways to act passive aggressive. To change these things up would be to find a limb and climb on it. And we are very much fans of tree trunks.

But routines, despite their dependability, aren't always good. They kill things like neurons and relationships. So we decided, against our best instincts, that we ought to break out of our homey hole and mix things up. Hence, our expedition to Suzy Wong's House of Yum.

I was very skeptical about the House of Yum. It sounded like a brothel, not a restaurant. And trying to consume anything at the potential grooming grounds of prostitutes is a little unsettling. You have to wonder where the plates have been and if you order a Bowl of O La La, what are you really going to get? But despite the little voices in my head saying 'You will not make friends with foreign objects,' I took the plunge and ordered a peculiar drink concoction featuring ginger and pineapple in addition to the the so-called famous bowl of yum.

I have always wanted to be the kind of person who eats exotic, ethnic food on a daily basis. Those people are so high on the cool chain. They can use words like gyoza, tempura, and shu mai and not be trying to imitate the Avatar language. They can order entire meals that look like art projects and use chopsticks in more productive ways than as tools to poke your dinner guest underneath the table.

But I am not a cool ethnic food eater. I am not good with spices. They leave my stomach in a very irritated state and it lashes out like Nancy Grace on late night television. While my yum bowl bore no evidence of a discreet downtown prostitute ring, and while it entirely lived up to its Yum surname, by the end of the night I was doubled over, sharing the yummy goodness with another kind of porcelain bowl than the meal had started out in. May God rest the little fishies.

BANISHMENT 18: The Marital Status of Unsignificant Others

It was bound to happen. Awkward situations like this always do. One day I was minding my own business, frolicking through the field of Life-is-Fair-and-Simple and then the next day I woke up and he was engaged. The boy I used to date and take pictures with at Mexican bull fights, but stopped dating because we thought our offspring might resemble the exorcist. The boy who was supposed to always be single until I was fully wifeyed up, likely with cantaloupe-sized offspring in tow, went and got himself a misses without asking.

I have officially lost. He has beat me in the game of Surname Shuffle.

I am at the age now where everyone is starting to do this popular thing called marriage. A particularly high commodity in the south with men who wear Dockers and women who want to practice hiring a maid to make the bed. And while most people think marriage is about love and family and finally getting rid of your horrible maiden name, it's really just a grand excuse to buy excessively large jewelry and have a worldwide competition about who can sucker who into liking them sooner. This competition is particularly important in the land of Unsignificant Others - people we dated once upon time, no longer like with an ounce of our being, but still feel compelled to beat to a pulp in all categories including Most Successful, Most Intelligent, Most Attractive, and, of course, Most Popular.

I would say, for the most part, I'm not like most girls. I have never purchased a bridal magazine. I find taffeta scary. I can't understand why spending $4,000 on one-day flowers will ever seem like an intelligent idea. And yet despite my lack of obsession with weddings, I do understand they are the pinnacle of winning and I hate to not win. Nothing can trump engagement.  It's the triple letter score in Scrabble when you have an X and can remember, for the first time in your life, how to spell xylophone.

For Lent, I give up caring about the marital status of unsignificant others. I give up saying, "You got a ring? Fantastic. Well, today I got a vacuum. Retractable cord. Bright red. Now I have suction power. I don't care that you have a diamond the size of an antelope's eyeball. I will dust buster your accomplishments into oblivion and dump you out of my bagless contraption and into the trash compacted landfill of people who say 'I do.'

Instead, I will say, "Peace be with you and blessings on your coming union... P.S. I would like a rematch."

BANISHMENT 17: Masked Men Hiding in my Closet

I have always been a little skittish of the night. When I was a kid, it never had anything to do with Boogie Men or extraterrestrial creatures hovering down from space and carrying me out through the window. All that stuff was silly. "Child's play." What scared me was real people. The men who offered you lollipops before you stepped into their 1987 sedan with black leather interior. They would be so nice to begin with, their voices as soft and deceiving as cotton candy, and then they'd pluck you from the public view and take you back to a dark place where they'd cut you open using at least 47 knives. Those were the ones to be frightened of. And those certainly were the ones who were hiding in my closet. Boogie Man, Schmoogie Man. 



When I was young, maybe seven or eight, my dad was out of town and my sister and I were huddled up in my parents' bedroom reading a book with my mom before we went to bed that night. All of a sudden we heard, with absolute clarity, the sound of the refrigerator door opening. Panic started a marathon in my veins. And then, when I thought it could get no worse, we heard another sound. I hoped I was just hearing things, but I looked at my mom, who I expected to reassure me and kiss my troubled temple, but she was snow white. She had closed the book and was leaning forward, waiting for just one more thump.

She dialed 9-1-1. I didn't hear the person on the other line, but I assumed she was telling my mother that we were all going to die. That the policemen were far, far away eating donuts at the precinct and there was no way they could get to our house in time. I sulked further and further into the sheets, trying to dissolve into them as though I were washing detergent. Undetectable and tiny. 

But my mother did not begin crying. She kept her hand on the phone, kept nodding her head, looked at my sister and I, told us to close the door and stay put, and that she'd be back shortly. Apparently, the police officer was almost there and my mother needed to walk down the long, windy steps all the way to the front door and let him in. I wanted to cry. My mother was going to be murdered by the man who had opened our refrigerator.

Much to my surprise, however, my mother made it to the front door alive and welcomed in a large brunette man with a gun. I had never been so close to a police officer in my entire life. He told my mom to go stay with us while he checked things out, and then he prowled through our den and our kitchen, our dining room and our guest room with his weapon extended. 

The official verdict: no trespasser.

I couldn't believe it. 

After that night, I began a ritual. I compulsively checked that our doors were locked . I looked under my bed  in my closet. I slept with my door closed so I could hear an intruder turn the doorknob, which, I supposed, would give me enough time mentally prepare to obliterate them with my mad people hunting skills. 

This ritual of protection against men with lollipops who drive 1987 sedans continued all the way through college. And then two years ago I moved to Germantown, an area of Nashville that schizophrenically splits its time between being the projects and the new home of affluence. I had just moved into an amazing apartment on the top level of an old, beautiful victorian house. My neighbor, I would come to find out, was an electric wheelchair driving drug dealer who had no idea how to take showers. About a week into new residence, it was 3 AM and I was fast asleep when I heard blaring sirens fly down my street. They stopped directly in front of my window and flashed their lights . I got out of bed, expecting, I suppose, to see someone pulled over, but instead I found three police officers barricading themselves behind their car, guns drawn, pointed at my neighbor's house. They were yelling intensely. "Get the f*** down" Get the f*** down!"

I tried to peer at my neighbor's house and see who needed to get the f*** down, but the window blocked my view. Immediately I broke into a sheer panic. What if the person who needed to get the f*** down escaped behind the house and decided to climb my stairs and seek refuge in my apartment? What if I was going to become a hostage, forever known as the girl who got between the police and the drugs? What if tonight was the night I was going to die? There were so many things I hadn't yet accomplished. I knew I had to do something. I had to stop the electric wheelchair driving drug dealer from breaking in. My move?  I pushed my 100-year-old cherry dresser in front of my door and barricaded myself in the bedroom.

The police rushed the house guns drawn and five minutes later came out, quite nonchalantly, no electric wheelchair driving drug dealer in tow, got in their cars, and drove off as though they were headed to a picnic to eat coleslaw. 



What about me?!? I thought. Where is my memo? Shouldn't you tell me what the bloody hell is happening on my street at three in the morning? Am I still in danger of becoming a newly minted hostage? How am I supposed to go back to bed at a time like this? But they didn't answer because they had long since driven away to eat their pimento cheese on rye and I was left to spend the next 3 hours till sunrise reorganizing things like my underwear drawer and my photo collections.

Now, fast forward two years later, and I live alone. No man. No dog. No newly acquired kung fu skills. Just creaky hardwood floors, highly ineffective blinds and a neighbor with a very unfortunate black sedan. A veritable playground for men who liked to hide in closets. So when I came home last night and saw a glass jar of acorns smashed on my porch, I knew something terrible was afoot. Who would want to put chipmunk food in a mason jar and smash it on my property unless they intended to cause me bodily harm? Acorn smashing must be the new trademark of serial killers and I must be the new target.

Needless to say, I checked the locks on my doors 32 times before I went to bed. I sent intense stay-away-from-here vibes to anyone that might be lurking in the trees or trash cans. And then I got into the covers to wait for the man with the lollipop who drove a black sedan and smashed acorns on my porch to make his grand appearance.

I have to tell you, I am not very good at waiting for death. I do a lot of high-pitched breathing and quick glances of my eyes from left to right. Then I proceed to turn on any sound possible to obstruct my hearing of the forthcoming killer. Bathroom fan goes on full blast. iTunes streaming on the computer. If it were feasible, I'd hire a marching band to play the national anthem in the kitchen all night long.

Inevitably, despite my best efforts to go into early cardiac arrest, I fell asleep. Glasses on. Phone in hand. Band of Horses in the background. I can only presume the Acorn Man broke in, took one look, and left because the take was too damn easy. Next time, though, I'll give him a run for his money. I'll buy a taser.

BANISHMENT 16: Winter

This morning I woke up and felt like I had a Winnebago parked in my nose. My throat is scratchy. My eyes are a bit red. And my head is throbbing. Pulsating like the Krispy Kreme ‘Hot Now’ sign, only with no yummy doughnuts as a result. I have bottles of medicine single file on my kitchen table.  Lineup of “healers” in liquid gel, day/night, or caplet form. My wastebasket is a Kleenex convention, white snotty puffs congregating with other white snotty puffs. This can only mean one thing: I am slowly dying. Keeling over in my apartment-of-one to be found by the FedEx man who creepily peers through my highly ineffective blinds.

I’m not any good at this. I’m good at a number of things - including people watching, boarding airplanes, and drinking java – but I am not good at being sick. It requires such an intense degree of ughness. You’re supposed to lie in bed all day and drink liquids. You’re supposed to overdose on vitamins, watch reruns of Mary Tyler Moore and become a child of four, once again gulping down chicken noodle soup, saltine crackers, and a Lake Eerie of Sprite. This can be fun when you have someone to love on you, bringing you hot washcloths and a movie stockpile from the Red Box. But when you’re alone and sick, it’s the pits. You are the tree in the woods that falls down and no one hears. You have to drive your snotty self to the grocery store, pick up your own cans of chicken noodle soup and pray you don’t spread influenza throughout the greater Kroger area.

This is entirely winter’s fault. It has overstayed its welcome. It’s March. In the south. We’re supposed to be breaking out our allergies to dandelions, not our fire logs. But yesterday it snowed. And today if feels like the innards of an ice cream sundae.

Typically, winter and I are pretty good friends. I love curling up in sweaters and being told to light fires. I like candles and fuzzy blankets and that feeling of stepping into a warm house after being felt up by the cold air’s frigid fingers.  But after about a month and a half, the whole charade gets a little old. Nashville has horrid drivers who become even more severely handicapped when Father Winter sprinkles his dandruff on our streets. I live in an old house that has less insulation than an anorexic girl, and I am so over the gas bill. And now, on top of all of its expensive, dangerous grandeur, the season puts me on my death bed to cough myself into a miserable and lonely demise.

For lent, I give up winter. I adopt spring and sandals and a slightly darker olive twinge to my skin so I no longer look like the ghost of Christmas Pallor. The cold and its flurry friends can consider themselves evicted. Parting gift: my snotty box of Kleenex.

BANISHMENT 15: Long Distance Relationships

It's been a little over a year since I started dating Handsome Thunder. This is monumental news for me. I have problems deciding between mexican or chinese, refried or baked, so one could seriously wonder if I have such extensive commitment issues with takeout, how could I ever settle on a man - something that is far more tenuous and has potential repercussions infinitely worse than diarrhea.

The commitment to Handsome Thunder, however, is even more applause-worthy thanks to a thing called "state borders." Ever since day one of full-on-courtship, Handsome Thunder and I have resided in different parts of the union. I in the State of Music. He in the the State of Corn. Separated by the state of Really Appalling Rednecks.

At the beginning, the distance was fine. It was the I'm-getting-to-know-you-and-am-not-sure-if-we-should-be-in-the-I'm-in-a-relationship-on-Facebook-state-yet, so the miles were a little healthy. It gave us breathing room to figure things out. And just enough space for me to not hyperventilate of claustraphobia. But a year later and a deep dive into Oh Dear, I Think I Love You Lake,  the 561.44 miles, 9 hours and 4 minutes of roundtrip travel (not that I'm counting), are stinky cheese. Over the course of the past few months, I have developed a seriously unhealthy relationship with my car. I could write reports for the Department of Transportation, giving insight into Indiana's highway system. I know which gas stations have the cleanest bathrooms and what exits you can find Starbuckses on. I know where the cops hide, I know what times of day are traffic pits, and I know if I stop once for gas and once for bladder relief, I can likely clock the trip in 4 hours and 6 minutes.

But the worst thing about long distance relationships isn't just the driving. It's the part where you actually miss having a human being in front of you. One who can see all of your You-Definitely-Shouldn't-Have-Said-That Looks and can feel all your I-Love-You-Now-More-Than-Ever squeezes of the hand. Not to mention having to go to awkward professional functions stag because your plus-one is four plus-hours away, or having to call taxis from the airport because your ride is in another state. When normal people are getting off work and going to meet their significant other to make some dinner, watch the game, or do other socially-acceptable couply things, I sit down on the couch and think, "Hmm. Maybe I should read this catalog again. And then perhaps categorize my books by degree of depressive content. And then maybe do laundry one more time because I'm not very sure I got the color load clean the first time around."

For Lent if I could, I would give up long distance relationships. I would compress the state of Indiana to the size of a peanut and force all inhabitants to relocate to the Greater Nashville area. I would rid the world of Kentucky's potholes and not be allowed to operate vehicles for more than fifteen minute intervals. But as this is the real world and not the Truman Show, as Handsome Thunder lives in Indi-bloody-ana rather than You're-The-Only-Ten-I-See, I will continue to pack weekend bags for weekend trips to the Hoosier state and tell you, no fingers crossed, that the 561 miles is worth the 56 hours with my plus-one that lives plus-four hours away. And don't worry. As of yet, no repercussions worse than diarrhea.

BANISHMENT 14: Wearing Pants to Meetings

I recently started a new thing called working from home. This is the new fad. The capris of professional fashion. It cuts down on costs, improves employee morale, and saves you from ever having to talk to a "co-worker" at a "water-cooler" before going to sit at your "cubicle" ever again. It's a better deal than those knives that cut through steel you see on the Shopping Channel at three in the morning.

But working from home, like Hot Yoga, isn't really for everyone. It should only be reserved for people who are extremely self-disciplined and 100 percent OK with feeling more lonely than the Unabomber. There are a lot of hours where the only person to talk to is yourself. Or perhaps those bizarre carved statues everyone seems to put on their mantle. You immediately become the kind of person who stands by the coffee pot, tapping your fingers on the counter, and saying out loud, "So what are we going to do today?" as though you're going to make a plan of attack with the kitchen utensils.

Once you start working from home you will, most assuredly,  start making obscene amounts of lists on post-it notes and leave them scattered around the house. A breadcrumb trail of your day's work progression. You will invest in office supplies and learn all sorts of things you never cared to know about printer cartridges and FedEx shipping practices. You will become attached to your stapler. You will buy a ludicrously expensive business chair for your desk that has leather and levers and a compression air chamber and you will show it off to your friends (if you have any anymore) as though it were your child's first soccer trophy. The days of the week will start to blend together and the only way to distinguish between the seasons will be when you take the time to peek through the blinds and check out the day's weather.

You will also, and perhaps most importantly, forget where the dry-cleaner is located. All of a sudden, you will have no interest in freshly ironed pants. Or, for that matter, hot morning showers. You will buy pajamas in bulk and get the nice silky kind that feels good on your bum. You will hold meetings with important people while wearing dried toothpaste smears on your t-shirt. You will sign contracts in slippers, read files on a porch swing, and conduct conference calls pantless.

I certainly hope that if you're the kind of person who begins working from home that you've already acquired the important things in life like a wife or a husband. If not, your chances of becoming the Cat Person have severely increased and your only true chance of matrimonial bliss will come if the mailman fancies how you look sans shower. I wish you and your silky PJs good luck.

BANISHMENT 13: Self Pity

Do you know what The Worst is? The Worst is spending long stretches of time listening to someone talk about how bad their life is. How their lawn mower doesn't cut their grass at perfect ninety degree angles and how they, poor dear things, have a broken food disposal and a dinner party on Friday night. Self-pity is the redneck step cousin of venting - the normal human release of anger. Venting is letting the steam out so it can frolic in the air and go play with other pieces of oxygen, leaving room for you to do healthy things like bake cookies and alphabetize your DVD collection. But self pity is a whole other breed of human ugly. It's letting the steam out only momentarily until you scramble ferociously to catch it in a plastic bag, haul it back down to reality, and then let it out again. It is the pimple-faced, Venting YoYo.

My friend, who is neither subtle or simple minded, says indulging in self pity is no less than climbing into a pile of your own doo doo, clumping it in your hands, rubbing it all over your face and hair, then sitting there all day waiting for people to walk by so you can dramatically hunch your shoulders and say, 'Look at everything I have to go through!" When, let's just be honest, you could have left the poo on the ground where it belongs, gotten out of Toilet Valley, and taken a long hot shower called Moving Forward. 

For Lent if I could, I would 100 percent buy a remote and press a prolonged Mute command on anyone who began telling me how angry they were that their JCrew sweater frayed after three weeks or how their manicure chipped while they were cutting into a steak at Ruths Chris. Self pity is 1) highly unattractive, 2) pretty uncourageous, and 3) the first thing I would club in the face with a nail-covered baseball bat.

BANISHMENT 12: Standing in Close Proximity to Strangers

Tonight, thanks to Handsome Thunder’s Valentine’s genius, I had the very special experience of going to see the Avett Brothers at the Murat Egyptian Room in Indianapolis. If you are the kind of person who drinks obscene amounts of coffee, loves mandolins, pipes, and very skilled whistling, you are probably sitting in front of your computer right now seething with jealousy. The Avett Brothers are better than being an eight-year-old and getting a snow day due to potential onslaught of seriously cold flurries. In other words, the Avett Brothers are wonderful. They are classy. They are the kind of men who wear bowties and look like they should have been born in an English library. Their beards are fantastically well groomed and could beat a King Charles Cavalier at Westminster.

And while the Avett Brothers are the bees knees, the Murat Egyptian Room is not. Rather, it’s kegger land for Indie kids who grew up eating unhealthy amounts of corn. There are no seats, five bars, and at least 12,000 good reasons to continually be applying hand sanitizer.  Handsome Thunder and our group of really fantastic looking friends showed up decently early. We got a spot in the mass of humanity, roughly fifteen rows back, and were pretty pleased with our body-to-Avett-Brother-distance. The only problem was the conglomerate of Intoxicated Indianites to our left. They were egregiously tall men, hobbit like women, and continually full hands of beer. I immediately wanted to decapitate them.

Unfortunately, as my father and mother did pass some morals on through the genetic line, I didn’t decapitate the Intoxicated Indianites but rather stood beside them and looked at them as one might a peculiar monkey that has started growing bright fuchsia hair on its bum. While I’ve seen numerous people act in numerous fashions, I am somehow still always shocked to see what some people consider to be socially acceptable. Appalling, my dear Watson. 

The Avett Brothers finally appeared and in this drunken swaying mob of mandolin loving hipsters, we were standing by the most severely indiscrete assholes that had ever entered the Egyptian Room. Whenever songs began, they transformed immediately into bobblehead dolls that pumped their fists in the air as though this weren’t a folk concert but a UFC fight. They sent their hobbit sized girlfriends on beer runs who always came back, squeezing their way indelicately through the mass, and always leaving their smell on my corduroy jacket. They sang obnoxiously loud, requested songs that didn’t even exist, and blocked everyone’s vision within a 10 mile radius.

While I love the Avett Brothers and Handsome Thunder for getting me tickets, for lent I entirely give up standing in close proximity to strangers. In particular, Intoxicated Indianites. They smell rank, dance weird, and are unpopularly tall.

BANISHMENT 11: Grocery Shopping at 3 PM

Today I opened the refrigerator. This is always an interesting experience because I can never remember exactly what I left there. Every morning it turns into “Let’s Make a Deal” in my kitchen. What’s behind door number two? Perhaps a treasure chest of lamb chops and indecently tasty tangerines? Or will it be curdling milk and thoroughly rotted tomatoes?

This morning, however, The Deal was very boring. The ketchup was sitting with the eggs making fun of the orange juice that was all but empty. The rest of the shelves were pretty naked, save a package of tortellini and some sweet and sour sauce I got from the Chinese Dragon about 3 months ago. It was certainly time for some food remodeling. So this afternoon when I was out running errands, going to UPS and doing all sorts of other popular business things, I decided heck, why not, let’s go ahead and swing by that ole grocery store and stock up.

I don’t know if you are at all like me in your grocery shopping habits, but I find I rarely enter the land of carts and produce unless its post-5 or official weekend. Going during the day just feels peculiar. Like I’m on vacation at the beach and must remember to swing by Aisle 3 to pick up more sunscreen.

When I walked into the grocery store today, something automatically felt off. As though I was walking into the wrong-gender bathroom. It took a second for the peculiarity to register, and then, upon realization, I became thoroughly embarrassed and wanted to crawl into the tiles for dear life. Unbeknownst to me, I had entered the land of the elderly.

I wish, at that point in time, I had a large pad of paper, a pen, and at least 30 spare minutes. I would have bolted the doors shut and walked to every grocery-store inhabitant, polling their age. Kroger Census 3:00 PM. I would have determined, blindfolded, that the median lifespan of coupon-clipping, cart-pushing, milk-guzzling shoppers was 97 and three quarters. It was grocery store “rest period” and no one under the age of 80 was allowed in the aisles. 

My grocery store excursion, which was so small that it only required a hand-held basket, was elongated thanks to Wrinkle Invasion 2010. Gray haired grannies were apparently never taught the standard grocery store etiquette. I don’t care if you are eighty-seven and a relative of Betsy Ross. You cannot turn your cart horizontal, press your buttocks up against the Raisin Bran and spend five minutes trying to decide between original and brown sugar oatmeal. You are blocking the path and that is an automatic foodie foul. Additionally, it seems as though legislation must be passed that does not allow the elderly to operate the self checkout lane. Precious though they be, entire centuries pass as they attempt to locate the bar code on their Vaseline.

While I love old people with all of my heart, I’d rather play Poker with them than but heads over heads of lettuce. I will never ever dare to grocery shop during the day again. It is the horrendously scary territory of slow motion and those who enter will likely come out as gray chain smokers who never heard that cigarettes cause cancer. And death.

BANISHMENT 10: People Who Use Their Cell Phones Whilst on Public Toilets

I was in Panera today working. This happens a lot because they have free wifi and bagels that involve asiago cheese. After a couple of hours and far too much coffee, I found myself in need of the ladies room and left my editing to hang out with the soups and sandwiches while I went to squat above the glory that is and will always be public toilets.

I was minding my own business in Tinkle Town, somewhere between the squat and expert foot flush, when all of a sudden, from the other side of the metal door, I heard a very unexpected phrase: "Thank you."

This puzzled me immediately. Why was this peeing stranger thanking me? I hadn't so much as passed toilet tissue underneath our adjoining stalls.

But my confusion was quickly rectified when the conversation continued without me.

"Well, you know Fran (and yes, she actually said Fran), you just have to put your foot down. You have to tell them this was the deal from the beginning and they have to uphold their end of the bargain."

And then there was a lot of mmm hmmming.
Hmm. Yes, yes. Hmmm. I understand.

I was appalled. My name was not Fran. She was not telling me to put my foot down. Peeing Stranger had to be participating in the cardinal sin of public bathrooms: she was talking on the phone.

I don't know about you, but the thought of having a nice little chat on the tele while I'm doing my business is a little grotesque. There is all that flushing and swirling and release of bodily fluids. I don't want my friends or colleagues to know what it sounds like when my lunch comes out my opposite end. And I most certainly don't want Peeing Strangers' friends to know whether or not I was going #1 or #2.

With all expediency I did the foot flush, washed my hands, and exited the bathroom. I was afraid, should I linger any longer, that I'd be tempted to send her cellular device down the commode with her whiz, pulling a Jackie Chan kick in of the stall door. Next time I doubt I'll be so kind.

BANISHMENT 9: The Belief that Sexy Men Don't Go #2

I have always had an issue with pretty boys. Sexy men. Ridiculously good-looking members of the opposite sex. They have this uncanny perfection that makes me believe they dry clean their socks and began flossing as early as their second trimester in the womb. I imagine they only grocery shop at Whole Foods and possess breath, regardless of pepper or onion intake, that tastes continually of wintermint gum. They always frighten me with their stud-like composition and I whimper back into my corner to brush my teeth, three times daily, like all normal human beings who suffer from bad breath syndrome.

Harry Connick Jr. is the ultimate of pretty boys. He has the kind of hair you see women swinging about in Pantene Pro-V commercials. He wears Gucci and Armani and can tell you the virtues of two-button, three-button, and four-button suits. And then he sings Ray Charles in a way that immediately makes you want to take said suits off him. He is suave. He is debonair. But then he does a remarkable thing: he talks.

I don’t know if you’ve ever carried on a conversation with Harry Connick Jr., but I am certain only one phrase could describe him after: cataclysmic goofball. When I saw him last night at the Ryman, he did seal jumps in the air. He spent most of the night perfecting his gay voice, while dancing awkwardly to grandfather tunes. It was fantastic, it was wonderful, and it made me realize something shocking: sexy men are humans, too.

At no point after the show did I wonder whether or not Harry’s breath tasted like mint. I was certain walking in front of it would be akin to walking by a Mexican Grille. And underneath that nicely ironed designer shirt was probably a beer gut in hibernation, waiting for couch and WHO DAT time to break out the bulge. Not to mention the mismatched socks that were likely incased in his shined leather loafers.

Despite popular rumor, ridiculously good looking members of the opposite sex are only a slightly evolved brand of the traditional male. They, too, belch, run red lights, leave gum wrappers in inappropriate public places and, most importantly, go #2 in the toilet. Thanks to Harry, I’m no longer scared of the sexy man breed. I mean, seriously. Who be scared of anyone who has purchased Febreeze in bulk?

BANISHMENT 8: Christmas Lights in February

This has been a big year for me in a number of ways, but personal fireworks have largely shot off in grand gesture because this is the first year I have lived alone. All years leading up to now I have been stowed away with a handful of roommates who do things like take all the hot water and eat my Cheerios. But this time around, I chalked up the nerve and said, “Room for one please,” and then put down a fat wad of cash to rent half of a house. At the time, I thought this was a superb idea. I thought I was moving up in the world. But when you rent half of a house, don’t kid yourself. You’re not renting freedom; you’re renting a new set of parents.

The thing about renting in general is that you will always have a landlord. And that landlord will always have a personality that makes you want to grate their heart into small shreds of cheese. The last landlord I had was a repressed gay in his mid forties who buried his mother’s hair underneath our impeccably bricked driveway. My current landlords, though terribly sweet at heart, are parental folk who treat me as though I’m a five-year-old who just stole five million dollars from their khaki pockets. I get emails from them most every day. Or knocks on the door. And while I smile and nod and pretend like we will soon bake a keish together, what I really want to do is scream at them and tell them I’m a book editor, not a drug lord. I trade tips on grammar, not sexual favors. If they think I’m loud and unruly, they should probably either soundproof the walls or rent the portioned off third of their house to the Vanderbilt coma ward.

And while this personal interaction of any landlord-tenant relationship is often trying, it’s the unspoken land of common territory that really fingernails the chalkboard for me. Shared space is where both parties stake equal claim in representation, but more often than not, one party bowls the other over. It’s like being a divorced parent trying to raise a lovely child, only to leave for the weekend and come back to find five piercings, a facial tattoo, and an indisputable enrollment in the U.S. army. How do you explain that at parent-teacher conferences? Yes, I’m sorry. But that half of my child is my ex-husband’s fault.

I feel pretty much that exact way about my front lawn. While most of the time I think my house is pretty adorable and picket fence like – it’s white with nice little columns, a porch swing, and a green front door – I do take issue with the small matter of my landlord’s “holiday syndrome” which appears to all onlookers as my “holiday syndrome.” There is not a day of the year where our lawn does not celebrate the slaughter of a turkey, the kiss of cupid, or the dashing speed of Donner.  Our Bermuda no longer thinks its grass, but rather the landing spot for overly priced figurines. 

Currently, we find ourselves in February. Somewhere between hearts and leprechauns. And while this should mean that our house should only boast things like shutters and door knobs, we have instead adopted the redneck display of a continued Christmas. Lights strung like popcorn all around our columned porch. As a result, and quite without my permission, I have become The Girl with Christmas Lights in February. I’m sure this would be fine and all if I were the kind of person who thought stringing snowflake-shaped lights at any time of year was socially acceptable. But I am not into lights shaped like anything but bulbs. And I certainly don’t think people should illuminate their homes like theme parks unless it’s strictly the time of year post-turkey, pre-Santa.

This year for lent if I could, I would put to rest our dabbling in holiday décor and stick to more sensible arrangements like well cut grass and freshly painted walls.  But joint custody being what it is, I fear for the next 6 months I’m doomed to break bread with lawn ornaments while watching drivers by stop, point, and whisper.

BANISHMENT 7: The 'I'm Fine' Complex

So today I was talking on the phone to Handsome Thunder. We have this tradition where he calls me on his way home from work and we talk about things like the value of corndogs to the American spirit, how Olympic-like we are at Nerf basketball, and, of course, the importance of the protestant reformation.

We were having a lovely conversation sans awkward pauses when all of a sudden something rubbed me the wrong way. Straight away, my voice got very distant, as though I was whispering all the way from Serbia, and instead of laughing and/or arguing voluptuously as I had throughout the entire conversation, I began answering his questions in short stubs. Lincoln logs of sentences that were not particularly sturdy or sincere.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately sensing that I had departed the Land of Jolly for the Island of Crappy Mood.

And while this question gave me plenty of time and room to say what I actually thought, I instead thought it would be wiser to commit the cardinal sin of femaledom:

“Nothing,” I replied. “I’m fine.”

For some reason, pretty much every woman I know has the same genetic defect. We have unreasonably high, peculiar expectations, and we believe that everyone who surrounds us, particularly our significant others, should be mind readers. We expect them to understand without us ever having to talk. I suppose we think our neurotic minds are very simple and that our body language and tone says it all. But the truth is, the female mind is often more windy than a game of Shoots and Ladders. And men, bless their hearts, don’t work in pastels. They just want the primary colors.

Let me put it this way. Men/women relationships are pretty much like Christopher Columbus on his first exploration. He didn’t have a map. No one really told him where he was going. So when his ship hit ground, he claimed he was exactly where he was supposed to be: India. Had someone simply told him that India was the total opposite direction, he could have remedied the fault. As it were, he was merely thousands and thousands of miles off. 

Men, poor dear things, are found all too often in similar situations. Take, for instance, Ted. He was on a grand, courageous expedition to make a woman happy and so he tried to do something sweet for her by buying her flowers.  This would have of course been a romantic, winsome gesture if it weren’t for the fact that her former fiancé had died of a peculiar allergy to roses. How quickly the “good guy” becomes the “insensitive bastard.” 

I don’t really say this as a quip on my own sex without completely hurling myself into the pot of evil femaledom. Handsome Thunder will vouch that there is not a single person in this world who is better at passive aggressive behavior and unrealistic expectations than yours truly. It’s really almost Guinness World Record worthy how long I can be mad at someone for breaking a promise they never even knew about.   

However, as I sat on the phone this time huffing and puffing and casting my grudge in gold, I realized he wasn’t being the ridiculous one – I was. How in the world was he supposed to know what had ruffled my feathers?

I immediately, if not slightly begrudgingly, apologized, said I was not fine, and then told him what had made me momentarily visit Serbia in my conversational tone.

And do you know what Handsome Thunder said in return to my confession? Females, you will probably need to sit down for this one. And perhaps rent an oxygen tank.

"Thank you for telling me."

(Insert large, joyous ringing of bells here.)

I realize, very much, that I am still female. And that the “No, I’m fine” button will always be more accessible than the Staples’ Easy Button. But when one can get “Thank you for telling me’s,” rather than sleepless nights of anger about absolutely nothing, I cannot help but wonder who the fairer of the sexes is after all.

BANISHMENT 6: My Youthful Indiscretion

There are some people I know who are exceptionally good at being adults. They’ve pretty much been advanced human beings since they were seven or eight when they started asking their parents for 401K investments rather than Beanie Babies.  They own houses by now. They own children. They own mustaches and family portraits from Olan Mills. The only truly adult thing I’ve owned so far is an ulcer from drinking too much coffee. 

Right now, I’m twenty-four years old. I will be twenty-five next month which means I’ve hit the tier where I can get discounted rates on car rentals and can check the 25-40 box on questionnaires, the second tier up (!). I will go to the DMV and get a new license. I will stop using the phrase, “That is so money.” I will also probably have to stop putting my name on Christmas presents my parents buy relatives.

Up until now, I have worried very little about what it means to be an adult. I have been self-employed or a workhorse at nonprofits, which means I probably could have saved more money if I spent the past five years working at McDonalds. When I’ve been upset, I’ve bought plane tickets rather than ice cream. I thought 401k referred to batting averages.

But this is the year everything changed. It started small. First, I began a gift-wrap storage box where I house things like bows and wrapping paper. This is the quintessential domestic move that all women must make. It means: Yes, from here on out I will ribbon and tassel all of my gifts and will not call my mother or Macys to do it for me. After the gift wrap box, I bought a coffee pot. And after the coffee pot, I bought silverware. And we’re not talking silverware from Target that you can throw in the lake at a picnic and laugh about later while purchasing more disposable silverware. It is the nice kind of silverware you can use at dinner parties and family reunions, if you’re into that sort of thing. It all matches. And is clean. And doesn’t look like you inherited it from your Uncle Barney’s fishing chest.

After the silverware came the dentist. I relinquished my childhood tooth man and found one of my own, an essential move in taking off the medical training wheels. Then after the dentist came the lasagna – the ability to cook a meal that does not go directly from box to microwave to mouth. It proved that I too, despite my taste buds limited experience, could hodgepodge a bunch of random edible items together and make them warm and tasty and better than physical contact with the opposite sex.

After the lasagna, came the furniture. The chair and couch that I did not buy off a dying relative or a shady man on Craiglist. I bought it from a store. A nice store that has floors as bright as Crest Whitening Strips. The furniture is classy and friendly and smells like new, expensive, investment fabric. But all of that is child’s play compared to what I did today.

This morning I Googled the letters “IRA” and I wasn’t searching for news on Ira Glass or the Irish Republican Army. I was looking up retirement funds.  I was trying to figure out the difference between Roth IRAs and Traditional IRAs since I didn’t learn this in college when I was reading about the drinking habits of fantastically emotional British writers. After serious investigation, I took a fancy to Roths and signed myself for a future on the British Isles by handing over a little green to ING. And small amount though it was, I sort of feel like baking myself a celebration cake that reads, in funfetti icing, Welcome to Adulthood!

I realize most of you reading this (if anyone actually does read this) are probably far ahead of me by now. You are the 401k over Beanie Baby conglomerate that makes my accomplishments of silverware and gift-wrap storage boxes nearly obsolete.

But today I will pretend like you don’t exist and that my pre-25 accomplishments are worth a Nobel Prize.  After all, I’m thinking Obama, giver that he is, might go halfsies with me.

BANISHMENT 5: Thinking I will save the world through showers

I pretty much have the same routine every morning. This routine involves a noise going off somewhere in my covers. A buzzing, beeping situation that feels like a plane is landing. A complete impossibility, obviously, and yet something that seems incredibly disarming at 5:30 in the morning.

Inevitably – and I’ll admit, some mornings this takes me longer than others – I realize it’s not likely that United Airlines is parking Flight 76 underneath my duvet, but rather it’s probably my Blackberry telling me it’s time to wake up and do things like lather my hair in overly priced shampoo and edit yet another book about our 44th president. As such, upon finding said telephone device, I do what any intelligent American would do: I try to begin my day with procrastination.

In most lives this is where the snooze button would rise from the ashes to become the lazy man’s best friend, the beep-quieting Labrador retriever. But Blackberrys don’t come with a terrible amount of options. They are for business people who are supposed to meet deadlines or get their heads chopped off. They don’t want people to snooze. They don’t want visions of sugarplums to dance in people’s heads. Mother Technology only gives you five minutes before exploding into another temper tantrum that implores sleeping professionals to give up beauty for being a broker. And it’s always at this point, upon the second shrill plane landing, that I spend ten minutes cursing my Blackberry and wishing I did something simpler for a profession. Like play Yahtzee. Or alphabetize episodes of Oprah. Anything that would let me demolish this communication device in a bonfire. But since I don’t, I put on my slippers.

The thing about waking up, for me at least, is there is at least a good fifteen minutes where it’s probably a pretty healthy idea for me not to interact with humans. This period usually stems from the point of discovering the “plane” until I have downed my first dark roast. Until then, I am a mute. A horribly irritable, temperamental mute who wants to write a very long, angry letter to Blackberry about their snooze button.  The only thing that can fix me is my happy place: the coffee pot.

Once upon a time, the coffee pot used to be a very sad part of my day. I had one of those miniature situations people pick up right before college. The training bra of coffee makers that only brewed one and a half cups of horrendous coffee you wouldn’t even offer to your Mother in Law. It was puny. And filterless. But it was free, so I chugged on.

Recently, however, in trying to become less of a fraternity house and more like an issue of West Elm, I upgraded. I got a large, silver pot that makes happy beeps and synchronized filtering sounds. I imagine the grounds swimming inside doing coordinated back flips and swan dives. They are very ecstatic in their new home and work furiously to brew me back to happiness while I trundle forward with the last leg of my Morning Marathon Routine: the shower.

The shower is pretty much the most exquisite affair water will ever have with the human body (that is unless you’re a female you and you give birth in one of those pool situations, in which case you are required by parental law to enjoy giving birth in a baby pool more). It’s a built-in-waterfall in the bathroom. A glorious explosion of cleanliness. If someone ever came up to you and said, “Listen, if you want, I’ll build a waterfall in your house. One where you can control the temperature and have enough room to break dance.” Wouldn’t you say yes? Wouldn’t you squeal like that little girl who just found Fido under her tree with a red bow? Yes you would. Don’t even pretend otherwise. You might even pee your pants.

And this is where the last problem arises. The shower is too ridiculously fantastic. If I could, I might stay in there all day long. I might install an Easy Bake Oven and watch Netflix by projecting movies on the tile. I might use loofas as pillows and strongly consider having Steve Jobs create an iWater. But one can’t stay in a shower all day. If that happened, I would surely wrinkle out to the size of a beached whale and Al Gore would write me a nasty letter telling me I’m responsible for global warming. I have to cap my water pleasure at fifteen minutes for fear of emptying the Atlantic Ocean into my break-danceable shower. That, and at some point I really must start working. After all, synchronized coffee beans, hell-bent Blackberrys, and waterfall showers don’t pay for themselves.

BANISHMENT 4: Believing needles are only found in haystacks

About four weeks ago, I lost one of my favorite gloves – one of those fantastic transvestite breeds that couldn’t quite decide if it was a glove or a mitten. It was buttoned and black and pretty much the coolest apparel item I have ever purchased for less than $10 in my entire life.

Losing it was a very, very sad occasion not only because I was immediately less trendy, but also because A) It was the middle of winter and my fingers were immediately stranded in loneliness and sub-zero degree temperatures, B) I only had one pair of gloves to begin with so no other pair could pinch hit, and C) I am my father’s daughter and do not believe I should get new things when I’ve been irresponsible with my old ones. For the rest of winter, I knew I’d be putting myself in glove timeout, showing my freezing fingers that they could no longer be so lax with their knitted homes.

For weeks after the loss, the other glove was so upset that it sat on my counter without its twin, crying for very long, awkward stretches of time. Every time I walked into the kitchen to do something like eat an apple or boil a crab, I immediately became distracted by the wailing transvestite glove.  I wanted so desperately to find it a replacement. Like those parents who buy substitute goldfish for their children before they notice Flipper has prematurely floated to the surface. But my glove was special. It was a mix breed. Half cashmere, half cotton. And it had been purchased at an outlet – where items go when their species is dwindling. To find a replacement would simply be silly. Impossible even. Only the real thing would do and the real thing was likely, at that point, suffering a slow, severe death on a street corner next to druggies and homeless, grocery-cart pushing men. I knew I had to bury the lone glove in the junk drawer and move on.

Oh me of little faith.

This morning, long after I had stashed all hopes aside in a drawer with receipts, matchboxes and un-retractable measuring tape, something incredible happened. I was walking outside in the drizzly morning, carrying a large, heavy box to set in the front seat of my car, when - klutz that I am - I dropped my keys in the raining street. Bending awkwardly down like a pregnant woman to pick them up, I saw something peculiar. And yet so familiar. There underneath the tire of my car, next to my freshly dropped keys, was a very soggy, very lonely, very frostbitten glove that looked as though it had been in a UFC fight with a tree branch. There was no mistaking it. It was my long lost friend. I felt like screaming with excitement.

Welcome home prodigal son!

I took the glove very carefully inside, being sure not to further upset any internal injuries it suffered during its stay in the elements, and immediately gave it a hot bath to remove it's newly acquired accessories of tree bark and leaves. It took to the bath very kindly and is currently resting, being visited by its long lost twin that is thrilled to see it come home. Whether or not the glove will make a full recovery is yet to be determined. It suffered severe emotional and physical distress and will likely need extensive therapy over the coming months. But I am hopeful that by next winter season, it will once again be fully operational as a transvestite winter apparel item that serves as a knitted home for my hands. Frostbitten fingers crossed.

BANISHMENT 3: Believing I Won't be an Accidental Arsonist

Yesterday afternoon I made a very important addition to my front room decor. It’s bold and simple and would certainly be the centerpiece of my feng shui should I ever be the kind of person who had such a thing. It was even cheap, which sort of makes me feel like a million dollars. And if not quite a million, at least 73.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You want to know what it is. More importantly, you want to know where to get one. But before you continue down your jealous spiral of having a covetous, sinful breakdown, I should probably tell you that it isn’t anything terribly exciting. Like a La-Z-Boy with cup holders. Or dimly romantic, like recessed lighting. Or even terribly Marry Poppins, like a coat rack. Rather, it’s a highly important and slightly condescending piece of paper, compliments of HP Photosmart Premium #1. It’s my 95 Theses. Only I’m not Martin Luther, it only contains 22 words, and I have considerable doubts that contents of said paper will do anything to spur on a protestant reformation.  But you can judge for yourself:

Dear Megan,

Please remember to turn the oven off when you leave the house.

Sincerely,
Your objects that will surely burn and perish

Now I know what you’re thinking even more: what the bloody hell is wrong with this person. Why would she need a forged note from kitchen appliances unless she has an almost unhealthy obsession with The Brave Little Toaster? – which I do.

But the truth is. I have a terrible problem. Which I will blame entirely on my mother. And that problem is that I believe I can remember everything when I can in fact remember nothing. My car keys have legs. My remotes can teleport. And my oven has the tendency to turn onto a “broil” setting whenever it gets temperamental, which is too terribly often.

Case in point: I came home yesterday afternoon – which is a pretty typical thing that I do – and I put the key in the lock, manhandled the groceries, and butt-shoved open the door (which is a fantastic move by the way) only to find, upon crossing the threshold, that my house felt sort of like New Orleans had just eaten a box of Hot Tamales. Right before jumping into a vat of hot coals and profanity. This was troubling as it was the fourth time this week my house has felt as such.

What does this say about me? Other than that I cook a lot. And that chances are, if I forget to turn the oven off, I probably forget to include crucial ingredients in my recipes. Like baking powder. And vanilla. And cocaine.

I think it mostly says what I have been trying to deny all along: it’s not that I have appliances that come to life (too bad), it’s that my remembering skills are shoddier than the man’s down the street in the nursing home. My memory was held at gunpoint and instead of fighting back, it wet its pants. As such, for lent I can only give up the facade of having an acrobatic mind at the age of 24 and must start posting warnings around the home to save all from destruction. Coming next: Pee here.

BANISHMENT 2: Understanding the Bowling Ball Syndrome

There are a number of things that seem very natural to crave. Things like ice cream, Billy Reid jackets, and David Beckham pantless. But never on that list would I ever have expected the offspring affection - the desire to be sperminated, grow to the size of a reasonably fashionable camel hump, then pop out a screaming, wailing, non-talking, always sobbing creature that takes your money and your milk.

But something happens to women in their mid-twenties to thirties where they see drooling creatures in corduroy and have the innate desire to lavish said creatures with hugs, kisses, and excessively expensive Blues Clues toys. They see other pregnant women who look sweaty with their built-in-bowling balls and mistake perspiration for a healthy glow. They begin, heaven knows why, to want the bowling balls for themselves, along with the pants with elastic waistlines, the shooting back pains, and the doctor's orders to immediately stop with the drinking, smoking, and heroine shooting.

For most of my life I've been able to avoid the offspring craving, attributing its rise to women who are (a) bored, or (b) needing a 'legitimate' excuse to quit working. I once tried babysitting, but only stuck with it as long as I did thanks to the free food and satellite television. But lately I see small, non-screaming children, and I have the desire to steal them. To put them in my pocket, make a break for the door, and then play tea party for about two hours or until said-child wets her pants and must be returned to her mother for cleansing. I see small overalls and suspenders, tiny toboggans, and hipster kids boots and I immediately want to go and clothe the nearsest toddler in today's overly-priced fashions.

The non-shocking truth is I'm currently, in no remote way, equipped to be a mother. That shiznit is on severe lock down because if I were to inherit a squirly-wirly today, he/she (and chances are it'll be a 'he' because God knows there's no way I could survive  all that pink) would grow up drinking coffee and watching too many episodes of Californication. He'd sleep in the bathtub, watch local music in moderately smoky venues, and find his only perk in life to be that he grew up well dressed.

But these feelings of Bowling Ball Syndrome, while entirely fleeting, are an indicator of something shocking: I do have a baby maker and it's ready - albeit not for another 5, 10, 15 years - to be used. But it's there. It's warming up and having awkward wet dreams about the sandbox.

BANISHMENT 1: The Everyday "I Love You"

I sat down at the keyboard this morning with my steaming Good Morning coffee mug, a bowl of Lucky Charms, and the somewhat selfless intention of writing my boyfriend, heretofore referred to as Handsome Thunder, a fantastically sappy email about how much I liked his eyes and his big strapping muscles and all sorts of other body parts one shouldn't mention during the fasting season of Lent.

But as the black roast hit the back of my throat and my fingers hit the keys, I began to realize that this all feels absurdly familiar. Deja vu of Love Letter Writers Anonymous.

You are wonderful! I can't imagine life without you! Can we name our firstborn Apple Suri Gumdrop? And the incredible, but cursed three letter symphony of 'I Love You.'

I reread the start of my email and I'm nearly certain the flowers on my windowsill (for yes, I am the kind of girl who has flowers and a sill) all but burst into a grand chorus of "The Way You Look Tonight." The marshmallows in my bowl looked up in beat, batting their puffy eyes, all eager and drowning in sappy, fake pastel-colored milk. And my coffee, typically so obedient and dapper, foamed up hearts in its froth and tickled my nose with its unheard of sultry steam. I wanted, at once, to vomit. It was all so despicably cliche.

I remember the first time I said 'I love you' to Handsome Thunder. They were very scary words that acted commonly like an abused pup at the shelter, backing up into the corner until they were absolutely prodded, practically forced out. But when I said them, when I finally said them, it was no-bullshit Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I meant serious, intense business. Nothing about the words then foamed, danced or asked to have any sort of towels monogrammed with future initials. Saying 'I love you' was a necessity. Words that absolutely had to come out under threat of a broken esophagus. But the 'I love you' I was using this morning, the 57 billionth 'I love you' of our lifetime, felt so boring. So predictable. So lifeless. Less sincere than OJ Simpson on trial.

I immediately, and without hesitation, pressed a prolonged delete. Letters flew back into cyberspace at warp speed and I was left with a blinking cursor and an unwritten email to Handsome Thunder. I love him. Yes, of course. This is an easy answer. But love is much more valuable as an action item than a phrase one hears on repeat at the end of every phone call or as a precursor to every walk out the door. Saying the-three-little-words with such complacency risked having a very valuable, precious sentiment sound akin to, "Hello, and welcome to Movie Phone." And no one, not even Hugh Hefner, can stand that.

As my marshmallows danced and my coffee seethed, I realized  that the thing I should give up for lent, before I give up my wine, sailor tongue, or addiction to the Sundance Catalog, should be the everyday 'I love you.' Those three-little-words have gotten way too out of hand. They've become Martha Stewart at Christmas. Too many darn garnishes and tinsel. Trees that practically sprout glitter. What I want, what I really, really want, is just the real bare necessities. The 'I love you' akin to axing down your own pine tree in the forest and staking it up in the family room, it's rough, wintery edges exposed for all to see and stare. It might not be pretty or typical, but there will never be a doubt that it's authentic. And it will certainly never lose its magic.