Ball So Hard

Among the many things in this country beyond my comprehension...

Donald Trump, the Mid-West, cats on youtube, the stock market, ESPN, ESPN2, ESPNU, ESPNNews... is Football. The moment I knew my learning curve was significant was when my Fantasy Football projections included Tom Brady and Tim Riggins. I'd always considered myself an athlete and a sports fan but my father's excessive fanaticism and ability to transform the television room into a war zone on Sunday and Monday evenings made football a bit off putting to say the least.  

Last weekend I attended my first College football game. Texas vs Notre Dame, apparently the two most popular programs in the league. The scene reminded me of the time I was coerced into Country Fest at Gillette Stadium where I barely made it past the tailgate. Tailgating should be considered a sport within itself - the preparation and sheer enthusiasm alone I find almost inspiring. And to think that a majority of these people don't even go to the actual game? That is dedication. 

Entering the stadium felt like a glorified weight room - potent testosterone and unnecessary grunting. The dramatic entrance of each team complete with smoke machines, cheerleaders, mascots, and a 50 person band had me outraged at every guy that ever complained about the length of my lacrosse games. Football takes 45 minutes just to get everyone on the field. Nonetheless, I did my best to follow but somewhere between the millionth down and the nonsensical explanation of scoring I found myself in the only place that seemed familiar - the concession stand purchasing a mystery meat sandwich and a bucket sized beverage.

So maybe I haven't given football a fair shot, I suppose it's still early in the season. But for what its worth.. first impression, this all seems a little overhyped for a sport that boasts world champions and world class athletes when all of its competitors are limited to one country. If you ask me Id say all of American football could benefit from a little less air in the balls. 

Packing List - Revised

Whoever coined the term "Funemployment" was either a retired, leathery old balding man living in Boca or an ass hole trustafarian hipster in Williamsburg. The angst and perpetual feeling of being lost has not been an enjoyable one since leaving my job. "What do you want to do?" has become a question I welcome as openly as what I imagine it might be like to endure a colonoscopy. What makes this question so infuriating is that it is something only I can answer and the answer can never be wrong... WTF. It's like discovering the cereal aisle in the grocery store only to realize you've been eating Cheerios every god damn day for the last ten years when you could have had Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Frosted Flakes or fucking oatmeal! ...I digress. 

When I look around, at the ever exciting social media crazed culture we live in, it's hard not to feel like we're all just a bunch of attention seeking, achievement oriented ass holes competing for the most likes. I have come to the either extremely liberating or completely discouraging conclusion (I have yet to decide) that everyone else is just as lost I am. 

As a result of this current unrest I have found myself back home in Maine reassessing life. The longer I stay here the more acutely aware I have become of how much I am turning into my father. For example, on two separate occasions I have found myself at Best Buy making purchases that I will discuss ad nauseam. I have also developed an obsessive compulsion with knowing the weather in every location other than my own along with following local news stories with a ferocious enthusiasm. It was at this point my brother made it clear - it is time for me to make a move.

After doing the math, over the last 28 years I have moved a total of 26 times. I have come to define "Moving" as relocating all of my possessions for a time frame ranging as little as 4 days to as long as a year. This vagabond lifestyle has forced me to narrow down the important things in my life into a single suitcase. You know, the things that matter, the things that if I died tomorrow and all that was left of me was this suitcase, it would really tell people about who Meddy Hurd was... 

Suitcase Contents:

- Miscellaneous unworn Brooks Brothers shirts accumulated over 10 Christmases.

- A picnic sized cheese board set complete with two silver serving platters gifted by my grandmother for all of my... "entertaining".

- 13 "How to" books each one serving as a reminder of my eclectic array of fleeting interests... UFO spotting: New England, Australian Walkabouts in the Bush, and Jillian Michaels - Ripped (this was a seriously awkward time for me). 

- A pair of blue leather pants with a busted zipper I said I'd take to the tailor... 2 years ago.

- An embarrassingly expensive leather jacket that I purchased under the delusional "treat yoself" influence only to be rudely awakened by the Sallie Mae reality train. 

Clearly, I have been like a hoarder, carrying around an assortment of shit that I have no use for. As I eliminate many of the "things" in my life that I have either outgrown or just never needed I get confused as to whether it was all of this stuff that has made me who I am or kept me from it, I suppose it's a bit of both.  Nonetheless, as I prepare for the next chapter of my life and what will be my 27th move Im taking a more critical inventory of my packing list and embracing the less is usually more. 

150 Degree Nightmare

Anyone that knows me knows that I hate and I mean HATE blood, seeing people in pain is just something I cannot do (I am including this in my next pageant speech along with solving world hunger). It is something that makes me violently angry. So Saturday morning I was in for quite the treat when I went to my local YMCA.

It is interesting to observe the small upgrades in a neighborhood trafficked by baby strollers. Overpopulated by three foot tall stumblers, this new community offers enough baby extracurricular activities to start a Univiersity for tots. My casual F bombs are suddenly met by scolding mothers who's ginormous bellies lead me to believe that pregnancy may in fact be contagious. So when my local YMCA said they had a sauna, steam room, swimming pool, Pilates and even offered towels! TOWELS! (whether these are sanitary really doesn't matter, the fact that they are offered and offered in such abundance just.. well, it warms my heart) I knew that not all Y's were created equal in New York City and that children were possibly the key to these upgrades.

While exploring this new YMCA's lavish ammentiies, I came upon the sauna, a very very very strange place. It is a tiny room where total strangers sit together naked or nearly naked to sit and sweat. It's disgusting and therapeutic all at once. I remember the first time I was introduced to this insanity. I was 12 years old on an exchange trip to Japan. We got off the plane, met our host families and then went to a hot spring where we were to sit in pools... naked. I was 12!! Anyway...

So, on this particular Saturday morning I sat and listened to the usual banter about which daycare is best, where you can find the best gluten free, vegan, organic, free range, paleo friendly baby food. The girl sitting next to me walked out. Through the steamed doors I saw her sort of stumble and then SLAM her head onto the ground. I jumped up, "Oh my god! I think that girl just fainted!" I ran out and yes sure enough the girl was incoherent on the ground, head streaming blood. Oh my god... I had no idea what to do, I sort of picked up her limp body and started dragging her out of the doorway into the locker room. All I could say over and over was "Im reaalllllly not the best person for this, Im reaalllly not the best person for this" probably the WORST thing someone can hear when they're at risk.

So in between my gagging from the blood and not knowing what the hell I am supposed to do, and feeling awful leaving an unconscious body alone while I try and find someone to help me. I find the receptionist towel woman and do my best to calmly tell her the situation. After realizing she is just giving me a strange concerned stare and shaking her head, she starts saying something in Spanish and I quickly realize we aren't speaking the same language. So I just start saying the words "MANAGER" and "HELP" interchangeably and pointing at the door. I run back to see if the girl is okay and hoping that maybe someone has stepped in to help her too. When I return the girl has finally come to so I told her what happened, that she was in the sauna and she fainted. She insisted on getting up, that this happens "all the time" and no need to get anyone. I was totally confused she stood up and walked over to the mirror, I said she may just want to sit a few minutes longer. She waved me off saying she was sorry and she was totally fine. So I stood there, I mean what are you supposed to do in these situations?!

Next thing I know the girl slams her head on the mirror falls to the ground AGAIN. Blood... more blood everywhere.. Jesus Christ!! I run over and keep saying "I am realllllllly not good at this" wondering where the fuck is Maria the towel woman receptionist! FINALLY after what feels like an eternity and after asking some women to go and check whether help is coming. Maria returns! THANK GOD! But when I see that Maria is 1. Strolling in with ZERO pep in her step, no urgency! and 2. has in hand no first aid, NO emergency phone, no help!! I. am. PISSED.

What does Maria have? Maria is carrying a stool and a fucking BRIGHT orange cone.... what in god's name are either of those two items going to do in this situation? I sit there staring at her praying this is some sort of eagle scout trick where you give a boy a toothpick and floss and they build a fire and bring a baby bird back to life. Maria sort of pushes me out of the way and starts trying to maneuver a totally incapacitated body onto a thimble of a stool then puts the cone down in the middle of the room! WHAT in gods name is going on here?! I grab Maria's face with my hands, "GO GET YOUR MANAGER!!!" I think we understood each other at this point.

The girl finally comes to AGAIN, blood still gushing from her forehead. I am trying to figure out what the hell to do in these situations?! Thank god for House, Grey's Anatomy, The Babysitter's Club... ANYTHING that I have possibly seen to cue my medicinal instincts. For some reason it takes more than common sense to put a towel on a head wound. Finally, Maria returns once again, and I ask where the manager is, awaiting some caped superhero that can magically bring this girl to life. The manager appears sans cape. I tell her the situation and that the girl is really bleeding and she fainted twice, she may need to go to the hospital? The Manager says "Yeah, we've got it under control, Iv got a Capri Sun here and we've got some string cheese coming so she will be alright"....

What? You have a Capri Sun and string cheese?! I am furious! Isn't there some protocol here? Capri Sun, string cheese, a stool and an orange cone?! Isn't this a health and wellness establishment?! Shouldn't there be some sort of first aid everyone is beyond well versed in?! And where was any help from the women walking by? Aren't most of you mothers?!

Professionally Unprofessional

Oh review week. Time to evaluate my less-familiar professional self. While evaluating year one at my current employer, it got me thinking about my extremely, ah hem, valuable experience thus far. Way back when, I graduated college and put together my resumé. I was trying to milk absolutely *EVERYTHING.

*Babysitter turned into “Professional care taker”, a mere honorable mention to Deans List turned into full blown “Athletic Scholar candidate”, A sabbatical around the world turned into “World Traveler with mission to broaden a unique perspective through cultural immersion”.

It was safe to say that upon graduating I had a lot of catching up to do. After four year’s of fumbling through the work force, each said experience has taught me some significant and crucial life lessons.

Meredith Hurd
Brooklyn, NY

Bartender, Bob’s Bar & Grill, Kailua Bay, Hawaii
Experience: My regulars took excellent care of me, tipping me with Poke lunches, Bonnie Rait albums, $10 bills rolled around joints, even home garden grown veggies and flowers. One of my favorites was Uncle Alvin (NOTE: any male of middle age not related to you is considered an ‘Uncle’ in Hawaii). He was a 93 year-old leathery native with blue eyes. Uncle Alvin arrived every morning at 10am and stayed for the entirety of my shift, everyday, without fail, whilst perpetually drinking, wearing a hat that read “My two favorite Buds” with a picture of a Bud bottle and pot leaf. He said that the key to health was “red wine, ketchup, mustard and mac salad”. Uncle Alvin was a wise man.
Lesson: The day shift at a local dive is not pretty - not even in paradise.

Cleaning Lady, Beach Rental Cleaning, Lanikai, Hawaii
Experience: The cleanliness of my own room served no relevance as to whether or not I was qualified for this job. However, I was pretty desperate when Bob’s Bar was beginning to take its toll and my regulars either decided to get sober or go bi-polar on me. I mean I guess you have to be happy when someone doesn’t feel like a Jaeger bomb every morning. Anyway, my friend Jaclyn and I took up cleaning beach rentals. Looking back I wish I had been the one lounging in Kimora Lee Simmon’s beach bungalow rather than scrubbing her floor, dancing with a mop and huffing Murphy’s oil and bleach.
Lesson: It is better to be famous than a cleaning lady when you are 22.

Babysitter, Kailua Nursery, Kailua Bay, Hawaii
Experience & Lesson: 10 dirty diapers + 10 crying babies = An important form of birth control.

Nanny, The Cash Residence, Melbourne, Australia
Experience: When presenting myself to the Cash family as a responsible guardian for their son Lochie, I experienced flashbacks of me (mere months prior) in my senior year at Sportsway Café singing “Don’t Stop Believing” and dancing so aggressively I had to be dragged home by my friends and thrown into bed fully clothed. However, on the outside I was convincing them that I am not only responsible and caring but above all - I love children, this is only a half truth. Love children? I mean yes, children? Adorable! Children? The future of our world (cue Michael Jackson’s music video “Heal the World”) but actually wanting to be around them 24/7?! Me? Good god no, I might kill one. But there I found myself, reassuring this mother that I was the best fit to care for her only child. So she yelled for Lochie to come meet his new Nanny and in came five year old Lochie stark naked singing “If you want my body and you think im sexy”… oh. My. GOD. . The next day Mrs. Cash asked me to go for a test drive in their car as I would be driving Lochie and doing errands. She said to pretend like she wasn’t even there. I was more nervous than the day I took my drivers license. But I tried my best to calm myself that it didn’t matter that I barely knew my rights and lefts let alone under pressure and it was just a simple adjustment that they drove on the opposite side of the road in Australia. So I got into the car put on my seatbelt, checked the mirrors, adjusted the seat and took a deep breath. Mrs Cash tapped on the window from outside and pointed at Lochie sitting in the grass OUTside of the car as I completely forgot to even put him in the car.
Lesson: Never lie about loving children.

Toaster Girl, Toby’s Estate Coffee, Sydney, Australia
Experience: I wish I could say that I gallivanted off to Australia, became a “barrista”, learned all about sophisticated coffee and used terms like flat white and long black because I’m just really that cultured. But no, instead I was the toaster girl… also I should probably add here that this was not even really a shop per se, this was a… kiosk… in an office building (I’m literally cringing right now). And yes, again, I was the toaster girl. I should also note that it is unclear whether I was fired or that I quit. I am not sure which came first. It happened somewhere in between my gremlin boss (who resembled Shrek quite closely and referred to every customer as “boss, chief or champ”) one day decided to call me fat and retarded because I completely fucked up cutting the baguette and gave a woman peanut butter and jelly rather than “jahhm with buttah” (it’s Jelly, NOT Jam, Ass hole).
Lesson: Again, it was unclear whether I was fired first or quit, but the lesson learned is never to be a toaster girl. Ever, ever again...

Sales Associate, Sunglass Hut, Williamsburg, Virginia
Experience: I hate retail. But you know what I hate even more? Oakley customers and their absurd product knowledge. What do I look like to you? A sales associate that actually knows any information about the actual product being sold? No, you don’t impress me with your photochromic, hydrophobic, plutonite M frame supercalifragalisticachespealedoscious language!
Lesson: I will never associate with anyone that wears Oakley’s. It will just never happen.

Sales Associate, Yumi Kim, New York, NY
Experience: Did I mention I hate retail? Working for an Asian designer (otherwise known as tiny people) when you’re 5’10, you wind up with 100 bazillion dollars worth of silk dresses that barely cover your ass.
Lesson: My ass looks better covered than not. Invest in clothes by Swedish designers.

Waitress, Papacito’s, Brooklyn, NY
Experience: Please reference http://meddymade.blogspot.com/2010/09/el-toro-to-couture-part-ii.html for a recap.
Lesson: Don’t work at really bad taco restaurants.

Waitress, Carino, Brooklyn, NY
Experience: Pretending like I actually know what I'm doing and slaughtering the Spanish language.
Lesson: Don’t work at ridiculously good taco restaurants. It’s doing your thighs no favors. Also – and this is important - learn Spanish.

Intern, Marek & Associates Photography, New York, NY
Experience: So I took an unpaid internship with a photography agency which found me on the UWS frequently delivering the weather report and doing grocery shopping for one of the photographers. Glamorous.
Lesson: Trying to claw into the fashion world with a History degree, and a resume of waitressing, retailing, toastering and nannying is really not very impressive and even far less so when you’re battling with Pratt and FIT students who popped out of the womb rocking McQueen and stilettos and willing to work for nothing.

Casting Assistant, Ernest Represents, New York, NY
Experience: My internship with the photography agency landed me an opportunity with a casting director who needed an assistant for a couture bridal runway show that was being featured on Women’s Entertainment. It’s funny how critical these people are of these young total knock out youthful models. The 10 chosen girls were…well..girls. It’s funny - I thought bridal wear should worn by someone who could legally be wed? Most of these girls walking the runway were…16?
Lesson: I’m 25 now and probably missed my window of looking slamming in a wedding gown. DAMMIT.

*Edits by Jaclyn Little

Zen and the Art of Meddy's Life

I’d been sleeping on my brother’s couch wondering how long it would take for me to blend in just enough to disappear. It’s funny how you can hold yourself hostage to feelings, camp out until you have talked yourself into an oblivion of self pity. Until one day you realize it’s not serving anyone, not even yourself.

Iv taken up reading books, anything I can get my hands on. Books have a funny way of diverting your attention while at the same time drawing many parallels to your life. It’s kind of therapeutic.

I am currently reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It’s an interesting book, one I thought might have a more abstract or spiritual tone but so far it’s quite literally describing a man’s journey across the country on his motorcycle, identifying all the issues with the actual engine. It’s funny how the author allows you to draw your own conclusions about what he is trying to convey.

I think for the first time something really clicked for me about the difference between a car ride and a motorcycle trip. A car ride is all about the destination, even in the car you are a passenger watching everything sort of like a movie, everything is passive. It’s about taking the freeways and highways – the fastest route. Whereas, a motorcycle is all about being part of the scenery, taking the quieter scenic roads, it’s less about where your destination actually is but rather the journey of getting there.

I am finding that by trying to rush through some really critical parts of my growth I’ve been somehow missing the point. I am beginning to see why it’s important to find serenity rather than judgment in my shortcomings. That it can be easier to perceive strength as weakness, and that certain situations in life continually arise not merely out of coincidence but because of some larger lesson at hand. That until they can be faced with a fearless honesty it will continually repeat itself. And ultimately, somewhere down the line do me a large disservice.

I know that it’s something about trust, following my conscience and being ok with being misunderstood, disliked or doubted.

Life lessons are really hard to learn. Sometimes I wish they weren't so difficult but then again I think it's only a reminder that life isn't something to be taken so lightly all the time. It's a really precious thing, something to be shared with special people.

Summertime in aisle 4

In an effort to beat the Winter blues and off set the pasty skin that has so enveloped my body, I decided to "Ombré" my hair. A hairstyle that mimics what the sun does to your soul in the summertime.

This can be achieved only in the months of June, July and August or by taking a relaxing vacation to any island where the sun bakes the negativity right out of you, or by eating barbecue and corn on the cob in July while playing bocce ball at the beach and somehow your face looks so dewy you could put a three month old baby to shame.
YES people, contrary to popular belief summertime CAN be bottled and you can find it in aisle 4 at Duane Reade; Feria's Ash blonde dye for $10.99.

Please follow steps 1-4 repeating step 4 frequently, Enjoy.

Step 1: Purchase a box of very cheap and very ill marketed hair coloring kit.

Step 2: Purchase a very large bottle of very cheap and very ill marketed wine.

Step 3: Watch multiple Youtube instructional videos of girls talking about their hair in an extremely obnoxious and far too passionate way.

Step 4: Sit for consecutive hours holding a hairdryer to foul smelling foil wrapped hair whilst comsuming numerous glasses of wine.

Result: Blonded ends. It's cool... I swear.

New Year

It's January.

Secretly, I'm wishing it was June. However, that completely goes against my New Year's resolution of living in the moment so I will spare you my Top 10 reasons for loving summer and hating winter.

1. So instead I decided to "ombre" my hair. (Well, technically my friend Jackie dyed it.. please see "Summertime in aisle 4" post for instructions).

2. I moved into a new apartment with my boyfriend Brandon! Yes! SO, this month has been about interior decorating... something I am so well versed in as it has only been recently that I have removed the magazine cut outs from my walls and upgraded from a floor bed. However, my bear and blanket will stay. That is non-negotiable.
So we drove up to Maine to find some inspiration. Most was found in Brandon's mom's basement and on Popham Beach; shells, driftwood, an old stump and a lobster trap.
We also managed to find some KEY pieces from Ed's Stuff "Recycled Goods: Buy'N-Sell'N-Trade'N" an antique shop on Route 1 in Woolwich. Everyone should go here mainly for the sign on the door which reads "If you see something you like take it and leave the money in the drop box or call me 207-443-2732, I live 10 minutes down the road . - Ed" Where else can you find an antique shop (I'll use the term "antique" loosely) and leave money for your purchase in a box? Only in Maine.

3. Something that I am EXTREMELY excited about in this new year is the BEST Christmas gift I recieved from my grandmother, Mimi (a true Mainer and an even truer sweethahht). Now, I have to apologize in advance for what you are about to see is not available to purchase anymore because an item this HOT is understandably sold out....

LL Bean's Cozy Ruffled Nightgown (I know most of you will try to order this rush delivery but I am sorry to say it is sold out.)



So there you have it, some serious excitement for the New Year!

Dough Face Dating

What is the deal with dudes and ‘day-of’ texts? If you dont know me, or even if you DO know me, you will not make a good impression by trying to arrange a first date via text message. Let’s take that one step further – the Friday night day-of text is the most insulting. It translates.."hey, look. You don’t have anything going on on your Friday night". The night that every 9-5er has been awaiting all week. The night that most people have shit going on. Really - . Im attractive – Im funny – Im [therefore] popular*. What the hell makes you think that I don’t have the next ten Fridays lined up with dates?

*Are all of these things true? Probably not. Do I tell myself they are? Well, certainly.

Im not saying last minute plans aren't ok. They’re ok. Spontaneity? Awesome. But things come up.. yada yada. I get it. Alls im sayin is dont treat me like I dont have shit going on. I do. I have a lot of shit going on. Iv got work. and Steve Carrell left the office and Will Ferrel added an entirely new dynamic. My nails look like shit. Julie Taylor from Friday Night Light's is sleeping with her TA and getting slapped by his fiance. Tasti D Lite is changing their Summer flavors (fucking finally!). Like I said Iv got shit going on. So, please give me at least a four day warning so I can set my non-existant Tivo, re-schedule my manicure and tell Palo at Tasti-D’s that I wont be seeing him this Friday. Is that so much to ask??

And why all the texting anyway? Calling is classy. Call. Its a power move. It says "hey Im not just a living breathing thing that only uses their hands to communicate" as if you were Helen Keller by choice. It radiates with self-confidence and ease. It makes me think you do this all the time, and are therefore popular, which means you are funny and attractive (see above). Really, just call.

Lately I have been plagued by boys who well, Im just not into. I have a hard time trying to define what these boys are - its not that they're ugly. They're attractive in theory. Tall, nice features, one may even call "pretty". I was trying to determine what it is thats turns me off. I decided on a term that encompasses all that annoys me about this rising male epidemic. And my best friend Jackie so bluntly defined it.

Dough Face: One who has a face and/or body that is pale, tender and tinged pink. Often accompanied by early on-set rosacea and muscle tone that looks as though one could kneed the body easily. Puffy lips are often a symptom of being a dough face as is a soft double chin or "waggle" and effeminate hand motions.

Because of the passion I feel about all of the, err, suggestions noted above, I would like to introduce to you my newest blog addition, Meddy Made's Drake Break. Something I like to do (when I am bored, riding the subway, see freestylers on the street, have nothing in particular to write about, want to use a word from the English "ghetto" jargon, feel like embracing my alter ego [that could rival Lil Ma or Nikki Minaj] or envision myself being Lil Wayne's ghost writer dropping it like it is hot) is good old free-style rapping. Please do enjoy my skills as demonstrated below.

Meddy Made's Drake Break
Title: Last Minute Lady

Listen mother fucker I aint no last minute lady.
I got shit to do..
that aint sittin around waitin for you to dig ya balls up out ya pubes. shady.
See, Im a hot ticket. You can't kick it. Hollerin at me last minute?

Ya dough face be yeasty.. got me uneasy. sleezy.
Bitch it's Friday night.
Best believe I got a date tonight wit Friday Night Lights and my tasti d.lite.
ya, ya damn right.

So listen up dough face let's try this again.
Next time you wanna ask me on a date ask me what I'm doin?
Boy, do us all a favor and slap yaself. blind.
you mus be outta yo mind.
Cuz by sheer biological design? I gots to decline.
I don't fuck wit dudes who got skin more supple than mine.

Homeboys be callin me conceited?
I'm 325 degrees preheated.

Single Girl Walking

It was Saturday night, and I was having one those nights. The nights when you look at the clock and it's suddenly 10pm and you're still sitting on your couch in the same sick sweaty clothes you worked out in 5 hours ago with hair that's still matted to your head (how this is possible after 5 hours I am uncertain) but the idea of trying to create some sort of socially acceptable ensemble sounds like too arduous a task. So it's looking like a Saturday night ice cream and movie hibernation kind of night.. its the one chick cliché I allow myself...

(that and munching my cuticles

· US weekly magazine

· the elliptical machine

· Bashing Kim Kardashian .. then secretly Googling what mascara she uses

· My over use of the word "cute"

· Youtubing The Warbler's on Glee then downloading Blaine's amazing rendition of Destiny Child's "Bills Bills Bills" and adding it to my gym playlist.

· Vodka soda's because lets face it, tonic really does have "too many calories"

· Late night taco truck because calories you cant remember are calories that don’t matter... riiiight??

· Spending 3 hours each morning mastering the "effortless" look only to sit at my desk for hours on end surrounded by females.

· Disecting a text for eight hours that says "what r u doin?"

· Drafting and re-drafting a response to the above. period? no period? ellipses...

· My obsession with the "Cake Boss" and the way he says the word "Fawndawnt" (what this is, I have no clue).

· Lifetime original movies.

· Bitching about NYC's unfair ratio of hot girls to guys.

· Twilight

· Obsessing about that one time, you left your number for a bartender who asked you out to a casual drink on a Tuesday night where you proceeded to drink three "casual" tequila gimlets on an empty stomach and somewhere between the bill and the door the offer of grabbing another drink was retracted and you never heard from him again... yiiiiiikes.

· Watching so many episodes of Hulu that a screen pops up and tells you just how many minutes you have been watching and if you would like a "break". oh god.

· Wonder why more guys don't approach you then put on sunglasses, headphones and open your book to read on the subway.

· Bake a batch of brownies for your room mate, realize you hate your room mate then eat them all yourself, Google weight watchers and wonder how many points you just consumed and how many days of fasting that equates.

· Get embarrassed when people invite you places and start assuming your plus one is always your brother.

· Question yourself and your friendship when your un-single best friend tells you on multiple occasions about how she's heard about a lot of people going on match.com. What are you trying to say?

· Guilty. Spending 30 dollars on a hair product that's description reads: "Brilliantine; is unique and hard to define. It gives hair polish and a sort of languid, slept in, sexy look". Who writes this shit? And why am I spending 30 dollars to roll out of bed. Damn you Bumble and Bumble with your oh so awesome packaging.

· Guilty. Spending 30 more dollars on another hair product. Description reads: "Hair (Un)Dressing Cream; It gives hair that elusive, un-done-yet-done quality, with a hint of grit, hold and tousled, shine free finish." Fuck you Bumble and Bumble. Really, fuck you. How do you do this to me?? Why am I spending my money on shit that makes my hair look like it always does; like shit. Fuck you.)

So I set out on my mission, Scouring every bodega on my block in search of the only two males that would find my completely heinous demeanor remotely acceptable; Ben and Jerry. Freezer after freezer I dug through; Cookie Dough, Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, Dublin Mudslide, Mud Pie, Chocolate Fudge Brownie... I was like the gluttonous Goldie Locks in search of the perfect flavor. This one had too many flavors, that one had too much chocolate, the other not enough.. It was exhausting. Finally, I found the perfect one. It encompassed my entire demeanor in the label: Clusterfluff. It was Peanut butter ice cream, with caramel cluster pieces and peanut butter and marshmallow swirls. Dear Christ.

As I walked home annihilating this big bucket of goodness I heard someone say "Meddy?". I pretended like I didn't just hear someone call my name. They must have said Betty or Neddy or Teddy or something. Please dear god do not be someone I know and have to engage in conversation and pretend like I do not have crusted marshmallow and peanut butter all over my face. FML. Sure enough I heard it again "Hey! Meddy". When I turned around of course it was my brother's friends. Why god? Why?
I quickly tried to cover my disgustingly sweaty head and wipe any remnants off my face from my molested pint of ice cream.

Me: Ohhhhh Heyyyy (awkwardly pulling at my Mexican poncho and stretch pants.. bc maybe if I do this they won't still resemble what they are; a poncho and stretch pants)
Friend: Hey, what are you doing?
Me: Ohhhh not much.. just having an ice cream and movie night. (I awkwardly hold up my pint of ice cream)
Friend: Hahahah on a Saturday night? So, you're single?

In that moment I realized it was time. Time to break up with Ben and Jerry, peel off the stretch pants and go on a Hulu sabbatical.

Audio Dharma

My brother gave me these podcasts that I listen to on my way to work. They're a series of lectures called "Audio Dharma". Sometimes I wonder what someone's thinking when they see my ipod screen scrolling "Seeing Suffering and Letting Go" or "Acceptance and Self Love". The speaker usually has a strangely comforting monotone nasally voice. Apparently these retreats take place in California where I envision them serving vegan cous cous cake and have a special happy hour on two for one wheatgrass shots. My favorite speaker is this woman with a thick New York accent, which is both comforting and discouraging as she now seems to be an avid Californian. She somehow manages to use the words "shit" and "shavasna" seamlessly in the same sentence.

What I like about these lectures is their concept of self acceptance and its complicated simplicity. They're about living in the moment, living in the now. Letting go of everything out of your control. It sounds so easy and when I finish listening I always feel such a sense of calm.

Then I take out my head phones and walk into my new office where I recently took a job in fashion, I open my inbox and receive an email flagged "URGENT" from my boss:

"Meredith, All of those samples MUST get to the style out down at 550 IMMEDIATELY. Email Frank to confirm IMMEDIATELY."

My mind starts to race; what samples is she talking about? Where the hell is 550? And who the fuck is Frank?! All that zen goes right out the fucking window.

This new job is like a foreign land with its own language that I am barely elementary in. I'd consider myself interesting, socially aware, sociable, but somehow here I am none of the above. My interests aren't interesting. I live in Brooklyn and when they say "Brooklyn" it almost sounds like a sexually transmitted disease. I create a series of questions to which I receive one word responses, groups of girls stand in the hall talking to one another and as I walk by it all goes silent.

This feeling of inadequacy reminds me of moments growing up as the perpetual new girl, attending five different schools in eight years. I can remember my first day of school in Woodstock, Connecticut. It was the fourth time my parents had given us the "we're moving" talk. This time I didn't have Zach or Georgia with me, they were now enrolled in my family's boarding school campus in Maine that I began to resent for traumatically transplanting me every two years. The bell rang and it was every new kids dreaded hour... lunch time. My grandmother Mimi had sent me this amazing lunchbox that I had eyed that summer in Virginia. It was rectangular covered in exotic animals, and it had this amazing thermos that had a button and when you pushed it the cap snapped back and a straw popped up.. it. was. amazing.

I found a seat by myself at the only vacant table available, the one next to the lunch monitor who stood at the door that every cool kid that bought hot lunch walked out of. I took out the only highlight of my day, my lunch box. It was packed with every Little Debbie snack imaginable, star crunch bars, nutty buddies, oatmeal cream pies, these were the joys of growing up in my household, my mom hadn't packed my lunch since kindergarten. I unpacked every snack we bought, and then I took out my classic salami and mayonnaise on the whitest hoagie imaginable, then my prized thermos which I had filled with a special concoction of cranberry juice and seltzer water. I laid everything out meticulously, as if Little Debbie herself had come to life, comforting me through with her moist goodness and sugary artery clogging love. So there I was, sitting alone as every cool kid that bought their lunch walked past my table snickering at the new girl wiping peanut butter and mayonnaise off her face with a sleeve... sick. I went to open my cool new thermos, hoping someone would look over and marvel at its absolute radicalness, that somehow this thermos, this elephant and giraffe covered thermos would be my one way ticket out of the lunchtime loser zone. And as I pushed the button it felt as if a choir should start singing to welcome the amazing straw contraption. However, as I pushed the button it was not a choir that I heard but more of a humming... a strange noise like a teapot bubbling and wheezing and just as the straw shot up so did my bright red bubbling carbonated mixture. The drink literally shot straight to the ceiling staining it in cranberry. My face looked up horrified, I was covered.

I can still catch myself in these moments of somehow feeling victimized by humanity. That life can be so hard and everyone else should be held responsible for my own comfort and positivity. That if everyone else would adjust or change in such a way so that I can be comfortable then everything would be right and good. But this just isn't so. My dad put it best when I was in high school and we got into one of the most epic confrontations of my life. He was my teacher my junior and senior year. He was running an accelerated learning program called "Scholars". I had government with him for a double period that felt like it lasted an eternity. Everyone in these classes were my friends but somehow when I walked through the door I felt as though we were all rivals competing for some intangible status.

We were reading Aristotle's** "Allegory of the Cave" and I can remember my dad calling on me for an answer, my stomach tied in knots, my mind went blank and when I looked around the room I only saw expressions on faces that to me read, "IDIOT, you don't belong here, the only reason you are here is because you're dad is the teacher". Every day I walked into the classroom and marked myself a loser before I even tried. It was a building insecurity, a barrier that grew exponentially, until it all came to a head after a lacrosse game. I had come home and I was pissed off at my coach for benching me, telling me that I wasn't working hard enough. My dad saw my game and I could hear him from the sidelines cheering me on, doing what every supportive father would do, yet somehow I took these cheers of encouragement, "come on" or "lets go", so negatively and each one just fueled my fire of rage even more. When I went home and my dad asked what happened out there, I said the refs were giving me a hard time, my coach lit into me about some bullshit about not trying hard enough. My dad started in on all the reasons why my coach was right, that I was in fact playing like I didn't care. I was enraged, the one thing I actually was good at, the one thing I put my all into and I still yet again was a loser. I felt misunderstood, defeated. So I responded in the only rational and completely justified way a teenager would, "Fuck you dad, Fuck you" and as I walked away I heard my dad yell "Get back here Meredith, Don't you walk away from me". I turned and stared at him "What dad? You're gonna spank me? Send me to my room?" He just stood there.

It was the first time I ever told my dad to Fuck off. And I could feel the heat in my face and the tears streaming. He looked at me not with anger but with compassion and said, "Med, the longer you keep living your life as if everyone owes you something the harder your life's gonna be".

It was so honest, so cutting. I slammed the door. He was right.

**I sent this to my Dad to read. He said "Honey, this is really great. Really great. By the way, it was Plato, not Aristotle. Love, Dad"

Clearly, I paid attention to the important things.

Blind Date.

It's Tuesday morning 3am. There's a pothole in the street outside my apartment window which insists on making the loudest thump every time a car drives over it. In Brooklyn.. that's quite a few times. I thought I'd adjusted to it by now but for some reason on this particular morning I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I checked my email on my new phone that actually has internet since my computer is about to die and my last phone not only didn’t have internet (once a luxury of the age now a small necessity) wound up in the back of either a. a cab b. matchless bar's bathroom c. enid's bar's bathroom (apparently I have to pee a lot?) d. the bodega across the street fittingly named "God Bless Deli" where I supposedly made my pilgrimage to purchase a bag of chips with no money (they enlightened me to this fact the following morning when I returned to ask if I owed them money/ left behind my phone). So I ended up begrudgingly buying a new phone ... with internet.. and a bunch of other shit that is completely unnecessary.

Sidenote, a lovely friend of mine knew of my plight so when the nice little Verizon man was showing me how to operate this new phone he decided to show me how to check my texts.. thank you to the friend of mine who thought it would be hilarious to text "I don’t think we can hang out anymore, you're violent masturbation at night really freaks me out"... GAH! That really gave that man a scare.. After 5 minutes I decided to quit trying to explain why my friend thought it was funny to whomever it might be that actually had found my lost phone. Verizon man... not amused. Mildly terrified (or perhaps turned on?) at the potential nympho he was "helping out". eek.

Back to middle of the night. 3am. cant sleep. potholes. internet.. ok . so. checking my email... Facebook msg received 2am from Ben Morris.. Ben Morris. Ben Morris.. Ben Morris. I ran through my mental rolodex trying to figure out where had I heard this name? I knew only a few Ben's and the only Morris I knew was a Josh Morris; a middle school heartthrob and I was pretty sure the last time I spoke to him was when I was maybe eight years old, he was best friends with my cousin Jesse, we were all playing softball.. baseball? What the hell's the difference? (i was catcher) and someone was batting and when they HUCKED the bat back I got slammed in the face. Thank god no permanent damage was done.

No, this was Ben Morris, a guy I met briefly at my friend Hunter’s wedding in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I decided to make friends with Maker’s Mark on the rocks who in turn introduced me to a slew of dance partners. My friend Sarah (the groom’s sister) came up to me and said she told every one of her cousins (in the South, I believe this is a lot) to ask me to dance. After my 7th pity dance I remembered a particularly attractive guy asking me to dance and then mentioning he was Sarah’s cousin which I then launched into a “if Sarah put you up to this…” tirade as he stood there staring at me completely confused (I should really know when to put my foot in my mouth). So I think we may have danced, not sure I even introduced myself and that was it, never even caught his name.

One month later it’s 3am and I read this message:

Ben Morris November 8, 2010 at 2:22am
Hey Meddy, This is probably the most random message you've ever gotten, and just like dancing at hunters wedding, no, Sarah did not put me up to it. I leave for Playa De Maderas on the pacific side of Nicaragua with six buddies and three girls this Sunday to surf for a week. Originally it was five dudes, five girls, and due to many different circumstances, (my gf cheated on me for one), we have changed to six guys and three girls. We've got a house on the beach thats paid for, and an empty spot that will go to waste.....unless we can round up a surfer in the next five days. Obviously we don't even know each other and obviously no expectations/obligations, I don't know if you have a BF/significant other that would object, and I'm sure you have to work. But on the off chance you have a flexible schedule, want to go surf for a week, get sunburned, day drink, and throw some adventure into your life.....I'll buy you a ticket and take you on the best blind date of your life. If not, no worries, I hope our paths cross one day in the future. -Ben

…I literally had one of those movie moments when you rub your eyes and blink really hard and wonder if this is some sort of joke? I have two internships and I waitress, I am not even sure how I am going to pay rent next month, this trip is in 4 days, I couldn’t go to Nicaragua for a week… or could I? Why wouldn’t I go? Isn’t crazy shit like this what life is all about? And how many people could I beat in a blind date story telling contest??? (those exist.. and they happen.. all the time..) So I wrote Ben back.


Meddy Hurd November 9, 2010 at 4:37am
Ben, Wow. First of all I am really sorry to hear about your gf. Things like that are really brutal, So I am really sorry that that happened. Secondly this is the most amazing message/offer. And hopefully you aren't regretting (drunk?) in the morning (I am slightly serious slightly joking) so if you decide this morning you would like to pretend you didnt offer I TOTALLY understand. Ha. However, to be honest... I don't know what the expectations or requirements are on the surfing side.. I have surfed before but am still pretty beginner so on that front I don't want to hold any of you back. Not sure how expert this trip might actually all be. I live in New York City and work 2 internships and waitress that I wouldnt mind taking off. I don't have a bf. I am slightly low on cash and I normally hate the idea of someone paying for me for anything let alone a plane ticket and place to stay. So typically I would really insist that you not pay for me, But to be honest a trip to Nicaragua wasnt in my November budget. However, I love the beach, new people, and totally random opportunities so if you are still looking for another person I am pretty down. I can check with my boss' (all of them. ha) tomorrow and give you a more definitive answer on the phone. Again, if you wake up and decide what was I thinking inviting this girl who writes a long ridiculous email at 4 am, sober, whom you dont even know and who actually wants to come haha... honestly NO WORRIES. And I still seriously feel uneasy about you paying.. I dont like that but if you really have sorted things out and just kinda have a spot going to waste I truly appreciate just being offered. So with all of that said (sorry to be long winded) Yeah. Id really like to come. I will give you a call tomorrow.


I decided I would tell my internships and see what they say and if I they said ok, then I would go, and as for my waitressing job… well.. I had to bend the truth on that one. So the next day I asked and they looked at me like I was crazy,

My Boss: So, you don’t even know this guy and you are going into the middle of no where Nicaragua for a week?
Me: Uh. Yah.. so is that going to be ok? Like me leaving for a few days and not being here to work? Because I totally understand this is completely last minute.
My Boss: Last minute? I think that should be the least of your worries. I mean I can’t tell you you can’t go but please just call your mother and think this through again.
Me: Ok.. but so you’re saying its ok for me to take the week off right?
My Boss: Christ Meredith, I mean… How much grey hair have you given your mother?! Just please promise me you will call your mother when you get there. And then email me.

So that was that, I was going. So what exactly did I know about Ben Morris? Well I had concluded from sufficient facebook stalking and a few phone conversations before our departure that Ben Morris was cute, he formerly attended Washington and Lee University where he played lacrosse, he enjoyed duck hunting on the weekends and made his own moon shine, he was currently employed on a “Southern Gentleman’s Farm” (I don’t know what this is really, but anything with the words “southern” and “gentleman” … I am sold.) So I threw as many bathing suits in a backpack and flew from NYC to Miami to meet Ben and his friends.

MeddyMade's Top 12 of 2010*

This time of year should be dubbed Christmas PMS. Holiday's annual cycle and everyone is fertile with fury. I swear generosity and kindness is just a myth around this time of year. Does no one move on the sidewalks in this city?! I literally have bruises from the amount of shoulder jabs Iv recieved from stubborn pedestrians. But I suppose it's not just this time of year. Reflecting on 2010 I have created a "best of" if you will; a reflection on this year's most memorable Meddy moments. A compilation of comments one would never want to hear at a particular time or any time for that matter. Enjoy.

January: When I first moved to NYC I was pretty desperate for a job. So I contacted everyone I knew. My friend Tyriek, a club promoter who seemed pretty well connected in the city and who took me to the MTV VMA's the year prior (baller, I know), said he knew a woman who ran a catering and cocktail waitressing company for private parties. I said I had never done catering or cocktailing.. he said "ohhh don't worry about it she just wants to know your attractive". I decided I wasnt that desperate yet and wanted to involve myself in things that demanded a little more of- you know, my BRAIN. Five employment rejections later I decided fiiiiine, I was blessed with this face and if I must use it, I shall. So, I called Tyriek. The woman's name was Jaclyn, and Tyriek said all she needed was a picture. I guess I've been told Im pretty.. by people.. ok so they're blood relatives that are forced to love me by association. But still it all feels so vain to think you're attractive enough to be employed solely on looks... I mean what do ugly people do? That day, I received an email response which said "Meredith- We received you’re email and based on your photo we are unable to confirm. If you would like, you can try to submit another picture for further consideration. Otherwise, Good Luck". Sooooo... what do ugly people do again?


February: Ew. This month comprised of horrific heartbreak activities consisting of routine love letter re-readings.. unproductive fb stalking. brutal self criticism. ben and jerrys pints.. "good cries"..bad cries.. cringe worthy cries.. again, ew. .. bridget jones diary viewings..repeatedly (1 and 2). typical breakup playlists on heavy rotation.. my brother walking into my apartment and saying "Meddy I think it's time you took a shower".

March: This month really wasn't memorable.

April: Neither was this one.

May: My friend had curated an art show in a Soho loft apartment. There were some really interesting pieces and some pieces that were pretty difficult to connect to and some pieces that were honestly just.. bad? (can I say that? Sorry JP) As I made my way around I passed a couch with 3 artsy looking hipster boys. I asked who they knew or how they heard about the art show, one of them said it was his cousins apartment. They introduced themselves, Rocko (don’t hold his name against him yet), Everett and Tod (really wish his name was Barney). They all were art students at Cooper Union. They asked me which pieces I really liked. (By the way, talking about art with people who go to an art school where their tuition is already paid is slightly intimidating, especially when I only see colors, not meaning). So I pointed out my favorite piece which happened to be a vampire cake (really.. shit was amazing!).
Rocko was very intriguing and he had a sort of... appeal that was very unassuming- he had the weirdest white-boy hair I have ever seen and he wore one earring with the NY skyline (umm, eww). I sat outside with Rocko while he smoked a cigarette and he told me two hilarious stories, both of which were about being arrested; one was in a canoe in Canada and the other was for "attempting to piss in a parking lot" (charming, I know).

I decided to head back to Brooklyn and they invited me to a warehouse party in Bushwick. We decided to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge and purchase a "bridge beverage" from a certain bodega he and his friends made a huge fuss about finding. I decided on a Diet Coke since I was still recovering from the previous night. I found it highly peculiar that neither Rocko nor his friends got anything, as they had been adamant in finding this particular bodega
Me: Hey, I thought the whole point of coming into this bodega was because you said they had your favorite drink?
Silence...
Me: Do you guys need cash?
Silence.. .
(Strange. We walk outside.)
Me: Guys! Go back in there and buy your drinks! (I say this while waving a $20 bill at him)
Rocko just looked at me with this sheepish expression and opened his coat to reveal 6 PBR's in his pockets...
Me: You stole them?! (I am shocked)
Rocko: God I really feel terrible, you don't even know me and you're offering me money...
Me: Silence. (I’m still shocked- I may be a good time gal, but I do not stand for petty thievery)

The name, strike one, the robbery, strikes two three four five six and seven…for those that can’t do math, that’s one for each stolen Pabst.

June: I was getting tired of my retail job at a boutique in the West Village and I could tell the feeling was mutual- several of the Mean Girl minions I was subjected to wait hand and foot on may have casually asked when my last day was to which I responded coyly, “well I wish it were today”. Bitter on the job is never a good look. So I reached out to every possible contact I could think of in the New York City area and finally I set up a luncheon with a family friend who worked at Polo Ralph Lauren for years. After lunch she had put me in touch with a woman Felicia whom I had been trying to get in touch with for the past five years and was the current beauty editor at Glamour Magazine. The next day on my lunch break, I called Felicia expecting to reach the same voice mail I had become so accustomed to hearing (followed by me leaving the same pathetic-slash-far too eager voicemail). But this time it was a live voice! Holy shit she picked up! She had a classy European accent and she said, “so where are you now Meredith? (Europeans love using full names)” I said, “ohh I live in Brooklyn now”. She said, “No, you misunderstand, I mean where are you right now?” I said, “ oh like right this minute? Midtown!” Annoyed, she said, “yes I know but where exactly where.. give me an address!” I looked up and said, “uhh.. 40th and Madison?” “If you can get to my office in 10 minutes, I’ll meet with you” Shit shit shit!!!.. but my lunch break is over! I said screw it and ran over to the Condé Nast building in Times Square, proceeded to the 16th floor, made it through reception, and plunked down at her desk. She looked at me, asked if I was interested in modeling, and asked me my age. I said I was 23 (which is young, no?) and her face twisted up as if I had just said I was inflicted with some contagious disease.. and she said "ooooohhhh well just wasnt your calling I suppose... moving on."

July: We had a family reunion in Maine this summer as it had been years since my entire family had been together. And it reminded me of summer vacations during high school. Going to boarding school in your home town means
1. the kids you grow up with all go to the public high school
2. when you do actually see them they pretend they don’t know you
3. vacation means all your new boarding school friends go home… far away.

So…. My sister Georgia and I got really creative with our free time. It was the summer Georgia got her license. We would go for little joyrides, make fun playlists, accost innocent pedestrians (and by pedestrians I mean townie hobos.. yes, yes i suppose technically that includes me)…
It started out pretty basic “Hey you!!” then it morphed into creating people, places, events… “Hey Jimmy, ya motha’s callin ya, ya late fa dinna!!” (we also occasionally became old lady New Yorkers?)
One night in particular, we were listening to some great tunes and saw some prime targets. We started repeatedly yelling, “WICKED PAHHHTY ON SOUTH STREET” whilst honking.. we found this hysterical… until police headlights went off and we were pulled over.
Turns out there really was a wicked party on south street and apparently there were about 5 cop cars waiting to bust it.
The cop flashed lights in our eyes and started drilling us with questions about where this “party” was…
Me: “No.. really.. there is no party.. I mean we don’t know about a party..”
Officer: “Rightttt.. you don’t know about any pahhties.” Clearly, he does not believe us- and why should he?.
Me: “Yea. Really, we seriously don’t even know about any parties. I swear… We were just joking around.”
Officer: “Jokin around? You girls drunk? Ya telling me you girls just drive around yellin at boys gettin em to go to some made up pahty?”
Oh god.
Me: “We’re not drunk.. I swear, Really! We don’t even know anyone.. I mean.. we don’t even know them.. I mean we don’t know about any parties..”
Oh god..
He was so confused that these 16 year old girls were actually spending their Saturday night just driving around making up parties with no where to go.. he gave us a warning and told us to go home. I was pitied by a middle-aged balding patrol cop.

Perhaps this is more of a depressing memory and maybe not funny?


August: I had made a contact with a woman named Amanda on Wall Street who had offered to meet with me to offer any connections that might help my job hunt. After our meeting she put me in touch with a publisher. Needless to say, I was thrilled at the prospect. Amanda offered to meet for coffee before the interview. After I had drilled myself on my strengths, weaknesses, passions, vision, future aspirations. I felt nervous but ready. Amanda looked at me and said "Meddy, all you have to do is just be yourself and be confident. You are a pleasure, you look great, but do you mind if I just run a comb through your hair?”

September: It was my birthday and I had sent out an invite to a bunch of people (those of you who did not attend.. you really missed out and you should feel terrible about it. really) So clearly I was pretty excited about myself and my [insert synonym for awesome here] outfit..Afterall, Birthdays are your day to say hey! wow! Im so great! So we decided to continue on with the party somewhere else and pile into cabs. In typical Meddy fashion I sat in front with Amar our driver, so Im chatting it up, he even let me DJ. He then looked at me about to say something and in my vain birthday state I suspected something may come out of his mouth along the lines of a compliment, however as my eyes met Amar's he said... How long have you been out? You really should go to bed. Really. do yourself a favor and go to bed.

There goes your tip, buddy.
Happy Birthday to me.

October: A creepy encounter...
Time: 1:30 Am Weekend before Halloween
Location: Manhattan Ave. Walking home from work

(Feel a tap on my shoulder.. turn around and see this long blonde haired weirdo staring at me)
Long blonde haired weirdo: Hi, Im Dean (Yeah, more like Throtmorton, a nickname my grandmother gave to the unfortunates crossing the street too slowly when she was driving. Such a fond memory.)
Me: Hi... (walking more briskly and turn onto a more busy street)
Dean: So.. I saw you walking and I was like wowww you must be like European or something.. you got this like whole European thing going on.
Me: Oh yeah, thats interesting
Dean: So.. where are you from?
Me: Not Europe
Dean: Halloween is coming up.
Me: Yep..
Dean: You gonna be some sort of sexy bunny or a sexy Lady Gaga or a sexy... pickle?
Me: (I can't stop laughing.. which I think makes him think Im interested in him... he will not stop saying the word pickle.. ok im not laughing anymore and now im thoroughly creeped out)
Dean: So can I call you sometime?
Me: I don't give my number out
Dean: But I just gave you all these great costume ideas. You owe me!
Me: No, Im sorry I dont give my number out
Dean: What the F%$^ you stupid Bitch....
Oh my god.. I start running home..

So that was a strange encounter.. well cut to first week of December I get off the L train on Bedford Avenue and I hear a guy come up next to me..
"Hey are you from Europe? You have this whole hot foreign thing going on"
.. before I even look over.. I recognize the voice.. Dean.
Me: "I think we've had this conversation before, and I think that line is really terrible"
Dean: Really? Like we have met before?
Me: Unfortunately
Dean: Well what happened? I mean did we keep in touch?
Me: Clearly not
Dean: Well I have a twin brother.. we're like 6 minutes apart. Look, can I get your number?
Me: No!
Dean: Come on, stop being such a bitch.
Me: Leave me the fuck alone!!!

I thought there were 8 MILLION people in New York and I have the exact same confrontation with the exact same person twice. FML.

November: I've been working two internships during the week and since one has been unpaid I waitress most nights. This makes for a very long week. It was Thursday night at my restaurant in Williamsburg and usually it's pretty busy. So I had a rather large table of guys who were particularly obnoxious; "I'll have the enchilladas with no cheese.." (that's essentially a taco) "What were the specials again?", "Ill have the burrito but can i just have veggies no rice no beans.. and guacomole.. yeah wait. actually with rice and can i get the sour cream on the side?" I almost yelled you sound like a bunch of fucking girls! So about 10 Tecates later they finally asked for their check. As one guy was paying he said "Look, I'd ask for your number if it weren't for your unfortunate nose" Outraged (clearly.. and to think all those years my grandmother Mimi told me I was perfect in every way) I said excuse me?! He said What? I walked away, he then had the audacity to follow me and say "Look I heard that if you harp on a girl's flaw it will make her like you more because she'll want like your approval.. and like.. stuff.."
Harp on her flaw?! You've got a lot to learn buddy... a. lot. to . learn.
Pff…Douchebag.

December: Oh the holidays. They were so great growing up, all five of us crammed into our car. 12 hour drive from Maine to Virginia, it was so fun back then, playing the wave game... this was when my sister Georgia and I put up signs on either side of the windows that said "PLEASE WAVE" and waved at people.. then tallied how many waves we got..sometimes we'd even break it up by state to see what was the friendliest state!! (Zach wanted nothing to do with this, so poor guy had to ride bitch with me and Georgia comfortable in the window seats)... Oh man, it just brings a smile to my face just thinking about how creative we were... sigh.
Sadly this trip is now done on the bus from New York and this year I unfortunately came down with the flu and therefore could not partake in the Hurd holiday festivities. Instead I was bed ridden in Brooklyn doped up on ny-quil. Christmas Eve I decided it would be a good idea to go to the grocery store and stock my empty apartment to at least pretend like I had something to make on Christmas. A few steps out of my apartment I was out of breath and sweating.. ew. When I got to the grocery store the line was out of control and I could already feel my entire body slowing down when the all too familiar taste of acid began to form in the back of my throat. That's right people, I was about to vom. I dropped my basket and walked out the front door and all of the sudden everything went black. I felt something resembling a wall behind me and slid down so that I was sitting. I could not even concentrate.. I dont even know how long i was sitting there. Next thing I knew, a woman was waving a dollar bill in my face and snapped "Mami, ya lips are turnin white." I realized I was sitting on the nasty sidewalk up against the wall of a liquor store, being mistaken for a vagabond homeless person. I managed to stand up and stagger back to my apartment empty handed.
Merry Christmas to Meddy.

*Special Thank you to Jaclyn Little for finding this entertaining enough to edit!

"Google Me"

“Meddy, would you like to be on NYC Housewives and on HBO, Entourage? You would be with me as a guest on the show. xx” Text received 2:30 pm. How might you respond to this? Perhaps we should start from the beginning.

“No meter.. $5 dolla” What began as a harmless end of summer Tuesday evening out with my friend Marina, ended in us bartering with a cab driver to take me back to Brooklyn from midtown Manhattan for 5 dollars… not gonna happen. Instead we settled for a 20 dollar cab ride to the Lower East Side and a trip down Duane Reade’s snack aisle. The next morning I woke up with a pounding headache and a death grip to a bag of peanut butter M&M's. (I have a tendency of doing this - waking up Sunday mornings with some sort of food in hand or crusted on my face... most often consisting of peanut butter in some capacity .. jars.. candy coated shells...chocolate covered...yikes... maybe that’s better than waking up to some other things?) I slowly realized not only was it not the weekend but I also was not going to have enough time to get back to Brooklyn, change and get to Grand Central in time to be at my internship with an executive search firm. Instead I was going to have to try and fit my 5’10’ self into the wardrobe of my 5’1” friend. Dear god. I managed to find a black dress of questionable length and slipped into the office praying I would not have to engage in any conversation.

I took my lunch break trying to walk off my hangover and found myself aimlessly wandering. In mid town Manhattan, you hardly find people doing this; walking at an annoyingly slow pace, head up in the sky, no headphones, no phone conversation just a slow staggering stroll… most people have somewhere to be, something to do. As I passed a parking garage around the corner from my internship a man in a (insert some expensive designer) suit stopped me and asked me my name. It’s funny how someone asking me my name on the street really weirds me out in this city whereas a man pissing on the corner of Calyer and Lorimer every day at 8:10am on my morning commute to work, or the construction workers that whistle and make crude comments about my butt or the 5 foot polish man on Manhattan Avenue who insists on grabbing my hand, kissing it and not letting me move until I tell him I am "his girl"... I have learned not to flinch… strange.

So, I told him my name and we got to talking about what I do in the city, what I want to eventually do in fashion ..yada yada. He then introduced himself and for confidentiality purposes lets call him V. So V tells me he's a VP of a "small hedge fund" (what does this mean?... I really don’t know..) called Merrill Lynch and hosts fashion charity balls, nothing big. Right. He asks what it is that I am trying to do here, I pointed at the building and said I intern for an executive search firm and waitress. I then threw out numerous words…terms that one uses when they have no idea what they are talking about but somehow think that using these big words and being extremely vague may mask this very transparent truth… “Fashion. Journalism. Creative. Travel. Cultured.” I sound like a cave man putting words into some totally non-nonsensical order.

Cars started honking at us and I realized the valet had pulled up V’s shiny black Range Rover and a line has formed inside the garage waiting for us to get the hell out of the way. How do I know? A man stepped out of the car in the long line and said "Get the hell out of the way". V asked where I was headed, I said I was on my lunch break. He said lets get lunch, I held up my brown bag and said I already got it. He said can I drive you somewhere? I said this was my internship's building. He said can I at least drive you around the block so we can finish our conversation. V was a nice guy, confident, generous, and intriguing, I was not romantically interested but since traveling I have developed a keen interest in people; what they do, who they are. So against my better judgment, I did what every mother has told you never to do - I hopped in the shiny black Range Rover .

By the time we had rounded the corner and were parked outside of 275 Madison Avenue we had touched on numerous subjects; family, career, hobbies, his sick grandmother in Long Island, why he had 3 different blackberrys, and his first job with a “small fashion house” which when I asked which one he nonchalantly said “Gucci, do you know Gucci?” I looked at him and responded “Just because I’m from Maine doesn’t mean I wear a damn paper sack and live under a rock.”

I was already pushing it on my lunch break and said I really had to head back. He said if I was really serious about fashion he’d like to take me to the Tom Ford fashion show. I said ok let me know the details. He then asked to take me to dinner; he'd even have his driver pick me up. He sensed my hesitation, and said “look you can Google me, I am who I say I am. I sincerely would like to help you out, take you to dinner and just get to know you.” This seemed fair, after all is this any better/worse than meeting someone in a bar? I figured, dinner? Why not? I said I'd take the subway, he again offered to pick me up. Ok I was not about to give this guy my home address (but I will however get into a total strangers car.. yes I most certainly will do that.. because that is totally safe). He further insisted on picking me up. I insisted I'd take the subway, period. So we agreed to meet at 8pm.

After some thorough Google stalking I came to the conclusion that V was 1. telling the truth about his career 2. had to have been lying about his age 3. may or may not have been previously suffering from a fat phase and why anyone in their right mind would allow such a terrible photo represent them on their company website is beyond me.

As usual I was running very late so I called V to see if we could push the time back an hour. He said he would call and change the reservation. Reservation? The only time I go to dinner at places which require a reservation are with either my grandparents or my parents or… prom! Where are we going? I reassessed my outfit and searched through my closet to find most of my nicer clothes rolled into a ball. It reminded me of my first college party when Amanda Stegman, an upper classman, said she would take me to an invite only party off campus. She said to get changed and meet her in her room. I put on a new J Crew crew neck sweater with cute little buttons down the shoulder ( I even undid one button!) and when I went to Amanda’s room feeling really great and excited for my first college party she looked at me and said “Ooooooohhh no. No No NO No No. Where’s your going out top?!” I looked at her like what the hell is a “going out top” and she proceeded to take my sweater off of me and put on one of her T shirts that seriously could have unbuttoned down to my belly button. She looked at me and said “Well, you don’t have much to show anyway I guess”.

When I arrived at V's building the doorman said to go up to the Pent House suite. (What the hell am I doing here?) I got to the top floor and knocked …

V said the only reason he chose the apartment was because every hour you can see the Empire State building change colors. In my head I was thinking the only reason I chose my apartment was because it was so cheap and I didn't need a deposit. He casually offered me a drink, "Grey Goose?" and insisted on showing me around his new place. The place looked so uninhabited. Everything so clean, he barely knew how to turn on his own tv, he didn't even do his own grocery shopping! Who was this guy? I looked around seeing plaques and certificates in frames on his wall. I read allowed ... "Whar-ton School" I sounded each syllable aloud like a little kid first learning how to read... "What's the Wharton School?" (When I repeated this statement to my mother... she said MEDDY, you don’t know the damn Wharton School!?) he responded to my apparently ignorant inquiry with.. you have never heard of the Wharton School? Well supposedly, the Wharton School… it’s the most prestigious business school in the country maybe even the world.

"oh."

We sat down and chatted about his life, career, how he got to where he is now. He told me about his father and how brilliant he was; former UN member and doctor. V idolized his dad. He tried the medical path at his father’s insistence but found it just wasn't for him. I could identify with these feelings; I had my own father as a teacher for 2 years, spent most of my adolescence surrounded by my family and expectations - uncertain of my career path or what my future may be. This was a vulnerable side of V I could relate to. Maybe he was just trying to connect. Connect with someone who may not just value his material wealth and social status. Oooo the Empire State building just turned green….

V hailed a cab, when we got in he said he was taking me to the restaurant he only takes his "top clients". “And what kind of clients do you mean?” He responded, “Well the ones I take special care of.” Little did I know, this mildly creepy statement was the first of many that would ensue. When we arrived at Megu, a swanky downtown sushi bar the owner and chef came out to greet us and show us to “V's table”. We were seated in the center of the room, next to the Buddha ice sculpture in a rose petal pond. A rose petal pond! We were then awkwardly guided over to this sculpture because it is only "good luck" to scoop water from the rose petal pond and pour it on the Buddha before our meal and make a wish.. I felt like an eight foot tall giant next to this tiny Japanese woman explaining the ritual. I could barely hear her. I kept just sort of nodding and smiling and trying to bend down to hear what the hell she was talking about.

When we sat down V ordered two $100 glasses of sparkling sake.. oh and the Kobe beef ... to start. Well I think we may have just covered my month's rent in our appetizers. V leaned in and said "So, what would you say if I called my friend at Glamour magazine and told her that I had her next issue's cover girl sitting in front of me?" In between a large bite of Kobe beef I glanced around the room and said “Where!?” He said “You! I know a lot of people in this city and I think with the right guidance you could be really big”. Really big? Well yeah if I continue to eat out at places like this I will certainly be really big. Confirming this thought he added, I mean you will need to lose about 20 pounds but don’t worry we will just have them photo shop it. I shook my head Noooo way. Not doing it. He said Meddy everything.. EVERYTHING is photo shopped. Yeah, I get that, I just don’t want to be photo shopped out of existence.

Mid way through our entrée’s V said “This may sound totally crazy but what are you doing next week?” I said working. He said well I have a meeting with a client next week either in LA or Las Vegas will you come with me?” I was so confused how did we just sit down to dinner and now we’re talking about a vacation together? I started laughing thinking it was a joke and asked who his client was, he responded Lebron James. I just kept laughing but when I looked up he was dead serious. What? Trying not to resemble a totally starstruck country bumpkin I casually asked who his other clients were and what that meant. He listed off a slew of names whose financial portfolio’s he manages. Many names I did not know (he made sure to give me a disapproving look for my ignorance and then added “google them”) and those that popped right out… hello Curtis Jackson and Shawn Carter.

He said “Look Baby, (the use of this word actually makes me have a physical reaction to the point I can actually taste the bile) I pretty much got Gisele Bundchen her start. I can help you just by bringing you out with me.. You don’t believe me?” He then pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of him in bed with Adriana Lima and the ugliest fluffiest dog that resembled more of a throw pillow than any sort of animal. Trying to look unimpressed (and shocked of how this man was in a bed with Adriana Lima) I said why are you showing this to me? “Because if fashion’s what you want to do I can introduce you to a lot of people in this city but first I have to know that you’re cool. Parties can be crazy and I just have to know you’re cool if I bring you. I got Gisele her start by just bringing her out.” He reminisced about the “good old days”, parties and one time in particular when he met with Curtis for “business” (they’re on a first name basis so I guess that means I can be too for this story) some club’s VIP room. He brought Gisele out when she was just starting her career. He said Curtis’ entourage was passing around a blunt and when it came to her she looked at him and apparently her English wasn’t great at this time and she motioned to V if it was ok for her to smoke. He said it was absolutely crazy, and that at the end of his “business meeting” Curtis was about to stand up to say goodbye but stopped short and zipped his pants as two girls came out from under the table wiping their mouths.

I felt like I had just been shown the door to some secret society of sin where all the members had pledged impulsivity, disregard and gluttony. It was disgusting and intriguing and ironic. Ironic how all the glitter and glisten of this supposedly “glamorous lifestyle” at a closer glance looked about as appealing as the sheen on V’s bald head.

As if this night couldn’t get more outrageous, as V drove me home (sidenote: ask anyone, I have no sense of direction. Don’t even know my lefts and rights.. this comes from my mother’s side. One time I got lost driving to my own pediatrician at the age of 17 why was I still seeing a pediatrician at this age? Is that normal?) he asked if his GPS was taking us the right way. I just said sure. As we approached the Williamsburg Bridge, which Iv only crossed on foot, surprisingly in the city that never sleeps there was not a single car on the bridge. When we got half way across I started seeing headlights coming toward us… why are they coming toward us? I snapped to attention and realized HOLY SHIT we are driving on the wrong side of the bridge! V threw his car in reverse and I swear it felt like we were going 80mph. It was terrifying.

We arrived at my apartment.. thankfully in one piece. As I started to say thank you, V stopped me and said “ have you made your decision on the Hampton’s for this weekend?” The Hamptons? And then came offers of driving his Porsche, shopping, runway shows and gala’s (whatever those are?). I stumbled out of the car overwhelmed and confused on how this first date turned into so many commitments.

The next day at work I got a text from V saying he had spoken with Marc Jacobs and offered me to be in his February Fashion show, appearances on Entourage and NYC Real Desperate Housewives. He asked if I made up my mind on the Hamptons, and said that Billy Joel had invited us on his yacht on Sunday after the Saturday Operation Smile Charity that will have “so many celebs”. Yes this was really all so intriguing; go on Billy Joel’s yacht, “rub elbows with the stars”, meet designers. But at what cost? And why does this guy have to add "Google it" to everything he says in order to get someone to believe him, or bait someone with parties and name dropping to get them to spend time with him? What would I have to do? Even if I went to all these places, assuming they're true, and met all these people, who would I be? Certainly not myself. It was all so clear…

As I ran back through the day I started to piece together my own perceived naiveté…a wide eyed girl with a short black dress in a great big city. My lunch break on 40^th and Madison resembled more of Julia Roberts’ Hollywood Boulevard in Pretty Woman but somehow Richard Gear had missed his cue.