Are Velveteen Blazers Still In?

When I visited Katie at Brown sophomore year, I noted that it looked like Duke: New England. Same idea, but more brick, more snow, and more juniors dressed like grad students--oversized sweaters and ugly glasses.

I reported this to my mother, who didn't believe me, and told me for the 9827342376th time that Joan Hamberg's son went to Brown and therefore it is full of New York private school kids with famous last names (except for Katie, of course) who just like, needed an Ivy.

It's been a sticking point between us for a few years (after all, about 5% of each class at Duke is composed of "development" admits), but last night... last night...

As I stood on the patio of a rather spacious 3-bedroom home in West Hollywood, I surveyed a crowd of well-dressed aspiring industry insiders chatting about vacation homes, Modest Mouse, and that last time they all got drunk in Providence. Girls with carefully chosen accessories clutched glasses of wine, and guys with extremely carefully tousled bed-head looked them up and down.

Walter commented that although everyone was a rather quirky "individual," they all kind of looked the same.

A lot of the guys were wearing velveteen blazers. Possibly 12%.

"Yeah," Walter said. "Everyone's wealthy and alternative."

Er...

Katie calculated today that with my expenses, I have to start making $675 per week, starting next week, to live a reasonably comfortable life in LA.

You know what? LA is the land of dreams. You never know when someone will offer you a plum role or a 12-room apartment, just for being nice.

Um... fuck.

OH. Speaking of plum roles. Nothing like turning on the telly for your trashy primetime soap binge and see your college co-star from the awful student show you did two years ago as a guest star on Desperate Housewives.

Santa Monica: Land of Bums

I'm taking a big plunge next week, moving from Katie's living room to a sweet 3-bedroom condo in Santa Monica.

It bears notice that my original reason for checking Santa Monica out was because Ben McKenzie, aka Ryan from The OC, lives there. TV stars + beach = absolute goodness, yes?

This is true, here. But I have seen nary a TV star on that esteemed Third Street Promenade--I have, however, seen a lot of bums. Turns out Santa Monica has low crime and a lax police force, plus warm weather, and therefore is the bum haven of LA.

It's kind of comforting, really, that if I lose all my money, I won't have to change municipalities.

It's Valentine's Day... Great...

Were T. and I still together, today would be our 3-year anniversary.

Since T. and I are broken up but don't really act like we're broken up, it feels like our 3-year anniversary with the sticky condition that we must both ignore it.

I can look at the bright side--that he is still one of my best friends and will likely remain so, and that without that romantic 2002 encounter, I would still think of him as that kid with the weird ears from Indiana.

But fuck that--it's Cupid time and I am getting *nothing*! I want a Hallmark card and even Russell Stover chocolates will do. I'm not picky. A six-pack of Hooch (it's happened). An ass grab. Come on!

In case you don't know our get-together tale, it's truly the stuff of Oprah moments. It was Valentine's Day, we had just recently really met each other and had had a few nice conversations, and that night he had consumed an entire mini-keg of Grolsch Lager, while I completed a power hour that had run into century club. Ren started following me around as Head Detective Benjamin Franklin and reported my every move back to T., although everyone was distracted by Ben G.'s putting an empty Busch case over his head, proclaiming "You can't see me because I'm a robot!"

No one thought we would keep up with it, including us. Shows what people know, right? Though I guess Head Detective Benjamin Franklin had an inkling.

Thanks, Grolsch. Without you, would I even be thinking such thoughts today?

Let's Like, Go To Melrose

Saw Salma Hayek in Fred Segal today, holding incredibly expensive and spangly dresses against her teeny-tiny body. Her assistant held the leash to her kind of big dog. It was cute, though (it licked me). (Would be cooler if I could say Salma Hayek licked me, but she didn't).

Who brings Labradors into fancy department stores? The assistant can't wait with it outside?

Like walking around Melrose, because it reminds me of exactly what I would buy were I incredibly rich.

I'm in LA!!

12 days and 3227 miles later, I am in Katie's tasteful and well-appointed loft of Hermosa Beach, California.

I have been to Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Long Beach, Manhattan Beach, and Miracle Mile.

I have eaten an In-n-Out cheeseburger. For breakfast. And I loved it.

I was really drunk last night and lost my $80 Juicy hoodie.

Fuck.

Vegas Really Sucks for Girls Travelling Alone.

See title.

(Except for the fountain in front of the Bellagio, which is way cooler than it seemed in Ocean's 11. It danced a burlesque number, and it danced it convincingly).

Moab + Sin City = ???

Moab, Utah, is the most amazing landscape I have experienced in this country. It rivals New Zealand and reminded me of Western Australia, but it was overall just transfixingly beautiful.

The town is small and touristy but relatively inexpensive with friendly folks and an excellent microbrewery:

Meghan: Can I get a Scorpion Ale?
Server: By sure, and I know you're fine, but livin' in Utah means livin' in fear, can I see some ID?
Meghan: I'm from New Jersey. We don't trust anyone.

Plus I look like I'm twelve.

I also nearly drove my car into the Colorado River (canyon scenery is distracting). If ever going to Moab, the scenic byway is well worth it (thanks, O'Nell).

Travelling alone isn't that great, though. I can see why business travel might be stinky; it's l-o-n-e-l-y.

Left the next day for the anti-Moab: Vegas, baby, Vegas!

You're so money and you don't even know it.

Boulder is For Lovers

I'd forgotten how hippie Boulder is, and it's a little weird because you wouldn't know from looking at it. The bike lanes might tip you off, but would you ever really think such strip malls would be run by Rastafarians? Perhaps the surrealest moment was in the Penny Lane Coffeehouse or whatnot (v. good cappuccino), when O'Nell said hi to this guy Leo and then commented that said Leo, of long stringy hair and chatting about bisexuality, went to Delbarton.

Delbarton is the Delta Sig of North Jersey--the introduction of so many Young Republicans to the art of the popped collar.

Plus that this People's Republic of Boulder (as the Central Coloradans refer to it) is so freakishly, blindingly and ironically Caucasian. I do like Boulder, though. It's very sincere, and comfortable.

Super Bowl today; go Jets!




(Yes, I *know* they're not playing).

In Denver

Arrived in Denver this morning, to spend the weekend with my sister and her husband. I've been out here a few times and feel somewhat comfortable--not that I know the city well (I know it... um, a lot of the streets are named after states...), but I know their house, and their dog, and when I let myself in this morning I could go straight to the guest room and work their TV-of-many-remotes.

Was very sad at first, having dropped T. at the airport. Saw the Sky Chutes on the way--gullys in the mountain that spell out SKY. But cheered up. When it's 65 and sunny in Colorado in February it's hard to stay blue.

I like being here most because I don't have to be Responsible Role Model Meghan but am instead free to play Flaky Little Sister. I don't know where we are, where we're going, I don't make plans, and I have no plans. "I'm driving to LA! Maybe I'll go to Utah on Monday! La la la!"

So tonight we're going for Mexican and margaritas for my cousin's birthday, and I will drink until I'm silly and then loll around in the booth until Andy drives us home, and then I'll play with their dog and be unable to locate my face wash. I'm okay with that.

Though I should probably figure out where to go next. The family has booked plane tickets to LA for February 21st, when I will likely have neither job nor place to live; perhaps I should get cracking.

Pain, You Know Me Well

I will be in severe pain tomorrow; it is starting right now! Poor, poor me had to spend a day on the slopes at Vail. I wish I were in somewhat better shape, as then I might not have wiped out the first time I took a jump, or whizzed by T. (his thought: "Wow, she's a better skier than I thought... oh wait") and landing in a pretzel heap at the bottom of the bowl, but Holy Shit, It's Vail! Good times. Nice mountain.

I even convinced T. to pose with me and the ski trooper statue that looks like an astronaut. He had originally dismissed such a move as "touristy."

Anyway, out to Denver tomorrow for some time with my sister and brother-in-law, various cousins, etc. I'll miss this place, and T., but the family awaits.

Westward ho! Or, since I'm backtracking tomorrow, Eastward Woo!

In Neutral

In two places between Denver and Vail do you see signs for 7% Grade Next 8 Miles and think, ooh wow, I'm in the mountains!

In both places you have the option of switching into neutral and coasting for said 8 miles (or more!) at speeds between 65 and 80, doing your best to ignore the runaway truck ramps, built--out of necessity or precaution? oh, man--for trucks that have burned through their brakes, and doing your best not to brake because who knows, the same might happen to you.

This is all well and fine in theory, and I was kind of looking forward to literally coasting into Vail (plus it saves you gas money--the only savings Vail's likely to get you), but it was snowing when I got out of the Eisenhower Tunnel, and I could see very little except for the 16-wheelers to my side. Radio off, phone ignored, I coasted into Vail white as anything, in a small cold sweat and muttering "oh please please please" every time I had to brake.

But I'm here now.

That story was a lot more interesting while it was happening, I promise.

Got a little bit of a cold, but having fun with T. Vegging today. Snow sports commence tomorrow.

Vail is SO FUCKING EXPENSIVE.