Things to do with a plaster hand

I bought some alginate this weekend with the intent of using it to create a mold of my hand that I could fill with Jell-O and then use to scare small children. The Jell-O didn't set, so, in order to get my money's worth, I filled the mold with plaster. The problem with a plaster mold of ones' hand is that there is not a whole lot to do with it. After my mom passed on mounting it on the wall to use as a candle holder and also declined to use it as the first piece of memorabilia in a shrine dedicated to me, I was at a loss as to how to make use of my hand. In the end, I decided to grab the hand and my camera and see what kind of photos I could come up with.

Please note that the bumps on the hand are due to air bubbles in the alginate and not disfiguring warts/moles. Also, I broke off my plaster hand's pinkie while extracting it from the mold. If you pay close attention, you will be able to see a seam where I used more plaster to re-attach it. That is all.

Use it to hold flowers

Feed the fish

Pretend to climb ropes

Rake the leaves (trust me, that blurry blue thing is a rake)

Take funny pictures with liquor bottles.. That crazy hand loves its tequila!

Ever wonder what to do with those boxes of tiny cocktail umbrellas you bought? Use the hand to hold them!!!!

Scare the cat by using the hand to pet it

Play rock, paper, scissors. The hand is surprisingly hard to beat.

Make your father arm wrestle the hand

In spite of having no arm muscles, the hand wins!

Use it as a place to put your phone (so that you can finally stop losing it)

Use the hand to make it look like you are not hogging the remote

Pretend that the hand knows how to use the computer

It is highly probable that more pictures of the hand will appear on this site in the future. And when I say "highly probably," I really mean that more pictures of the hand without a doubt will appear on this site just as soon as I can think of some more things to do with it. Of course, this is assuming that my family members do not hide the hand on me.


Janet Jackson would go on to flash her nipple approximately 45 minutes later

In my first year of University, one of my roommates had a hanging lamp, which she purchased from Ikea, displayed proudly in her room. It is important at this point in time, for the sake of the story, that I mention that the hanging lamp was made out of blue rice paper. Needless to say, it was a delicate lamp and it had been made clear to me on more than one occasion that I was never to touch it.
You all know where this story is going, of course I ended up breaking the hanging lamp. That hanging lamp was doomed the minute my roommate packed it up and brought it with her to University. Ultimately it was the finale of Super Bowl XXXVIII's pre-game show that would do it in.
Aerosmith was in the midst of playing their hearts out, and dancers were running around the field with beautiful dancing ribbons streaming after them. Moved by what was happening on screen, I picked up a plastic tape measure that was sitting on my roommate's side table and began to wave it in the air, imitating (with far less sophistication) the movements of the dancers on the TV.
"Wave that ribbon!" My roommate exclaimed, "you were born to do this!" And, for a minute, I believed her. I believed her right up until I heard the metal end of that plastic tape measure puncture the paper body of her hanging lamp.
I stopped abruptly, the tape measure falling to my side, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the painful death that I was sure would follow. When death did no immediately find me, I slowly opened up one eye and glanced cautiously towards where my roommate was sitting.
As I had expected, tears were streaming down her face - however, much to my surprise, they seemed to be the result of laughter rather than sadness/a burning desire to kill me. I was even more surprised at what she said next: "Don't you stop, Megan." She cried, "don't you ever stop waving that ribbon."
"But I just ruined your lamp," I said, in disbelief.
"Forget that," she shouted, "just wave. You wave that ribbon, Megan."
And so, deciding not to question her, I once more waved that plastic tape measure high above my head. I waved that plastic tape measure with everything I was and everything I had in me, all the while making fervent promises to replace the hanging lamp that had fallen victim to my new career.
In spite of numerous man hours spent in Ikea, diligently searching for a replacement, I have only very recently been able to locate another hanging lamp. While relating the entire story over the Internet may not be the best way to keep it a surprise, I am now finally able to make good on my promise to replace the lamp that I/Aerosmith broke.


So, do you come here often?...

The answer to that question, for many of you, is yes. Sitemeter tells me so.
Some of you I know in real life, but most of you I have no clue about and am interested to find out a little bit about - primarily because I am just nosy.
What is your name? Where are you from? Was your daddy a baker? Because you've got a nice pair of buns. I also considered going with, 'Do you have a map? Because I just got lost in your eyes.'
But seriously tell me a little bit about yourself and in return I will post pictures of my dog looking like a douche bag. Actually, truth be told I would post the pictures of my dog anyway, and I'm not entirely sure what a douche bag looks like (which is something that I'm okay with) so it is unfair of me to say that he looks like one in the aforementioned pictures.


On Marijuana and Disney Classics

One of the troubles I have had since moving back home is that now there is once again a need to hide my pot. Don't get me wrong, I've always hidden my pot to some degree. Sometimes I've hidden pot so well that, once I'd finally rediscovered it, I had no idea how it had ended up in that particular location in the first place.
Currently my marijuana is hidden in a ridiculously fluffy pink pair of socks that can be found in the second drawer from the top in my dresser. My sister is under strict instructions that, if I should perish unexpectedly, she is to immediately seek out the fluffy pink socks and dispose of their contents. Ideally she would dispose of said contents using one of my two bongs, which she would then also dispose of.
The thing about marijuana's effects on me are that they completely obliterate the carefully constructed facade I have erected to convince people that I am not a complete and utter doofus (which I am, by the way, and have always been).
I'm not going to lie, Internet, I've recently spent more than my fair share of time listening to various Disney songs while smoking a bowl. The things I say to myself during these times are both ridiculous and incredibly nerdy. "Did 'Can you feel the love tonight' ever win an Oscar?" I ask out loud, "because it's fucking brilliant."
A few years ago, for Valentines day, I went out to Casey's with one of my roommates. For some reason the management at Casey's thought it would be a wonderful idea to bring a choir in to serenade their patrons. Much to my delight, the choir began to sing the aforementioned Disney classic, and, to the horror of my dining companion, I began to join them both loudly and with enthusiasm.
"Megan," she scolded, "they already think we're lesbians, we don't need to draw anymore attention to ourselves." But I just kept right on singing.


All of my socks have pictures of animals frolicking on them.
No, wait, that's not entirely true. Some of them display a single animal looking bored, and others show multiple animals at various stages of rest.
I am not sure if you know this, but it is somewhat difficult to convince yourself you are in fact an adult when there are woven pictures of kittens playing with balls of yarn prominently displayed on your feet.