Saturday, August 17, 2019

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a MONEY MAKER...

I’ve been working since I was a kid. Growing up my weekly allowance was a meager $5.
The Schaab family household chores ranged from making my bed, cleaning the sibling
shared bathroom, emptying the dishwasher, and my all time least favorite straightening up
the basement. For my Midwest basement owning folk reading this book, you will
understand my pain. Cleaning our basement consisted of emptying the water out of our
old fashioned dehumidifiers which were located in dark damp corners of scary basement
hell. As a child I assumed serial killers, poltergeists, and the every bad guy from
Scooby Doo resided in these spooky spots. The basement is also known as the R.H.O.D.L.L.
The Real Housewives of Daddy Long Legs spider. Albeit totally harmless, they are the
super model of long legged insects and still make me gag to this day. Why are their creepy
legs so long and frail?!

Now don’t get me wrong I know PLENTY of kids who never received an allowance. My own
mom tried to avoid due pay by rolling out a gold sticker reward system. Every week she’d post
our chore list on the fridge and as tasks were completed she’d place a shiny gold star next to the
chore. When you’re under the age of 10 a parent can get away with free household labor, but I
was smarter than the average hustling bear. The jig was up once I discovered where she was
hiding the gold stars and gave myself (in my opinion) a well deserved break by adding a sticker
next to every chore for the entire week. To be honest my moms hiding spot (her desk drawer)
was terrible so she had it coming. I don’t work for stickers. Cash is King.

My Dad however believed in the value of hard work and earning your wages so he offered
up some weekly dough. However, I knew even back then I was underpaid for my talented
Midwest labor skills. The cost vs inflation struggle was real. GAP Dream Eau de Toilette
perfume (in the silver bottle) cost a whopping $9.99 not including tax. That’s almost 3 whole
weeks of allowance. How could my Dad not see I had BILLS TO PAY?! I attempted but failed
multiple times to negotiate a salary increase. I was too young to operate the lawn mower and
that was the next open position at Schaab INC.. Damn this height and age of mine! The child
labor ploy had to go so I hopped on my rad pink and teal 10 speed and peddled around town
asking anyone and everyone for a job. Finally I gained employment at a local pottery painting
spot called Pottery Palace*. You’ve seen these types of businesses; bachelorette style parties
or moms night out sipping wine and painting cheaply made ceramic figurines like a bear or a
single plate which most likely will end up in a junk drawer or a white elephant. Now you may be
saying “Wow Meg! Sexists much? I bet there are MEN who enjoying painting pottery.” I’m sure
there are best friend/reader, but this is MY book and in Westlake, Ohio during the 90’s the only
men who painted pottery were painting against their free will because their wives, girlfriends,
kids, etc wanted to flex their Frida Kahlo skills. #Facts

My job at Pottery Palace was pretty easy. I cleaned paint brushes, rang up ceramic figurines, and swept
the floor. Since I was 14 (and probably breaking multiple child labor laws) my shifts were only a few
hours and my paychecks averaged $35-$50 a week. I could not have been happier and took immense
pride in my little after school job. I organized pieces from easiest to hardest, recommended paint
colors, set up a cute window display of plates I painted* during slow (or not so slow) hours, and sold
tchotchkes based on the crowded. No way a 6 year old could handle a ballerina figurine. You get a
coffee mug kid. Paint away! I was earning money and adults looked to me for ceramic decor buying
advice. I was LIVING!

One evening I was working at the store while a group of women of a certain age hosted a ladies only
paint night out. They were nice gals and one happened to know the owner of the shop. As they painted,
drank, and gossiped the night grew toward closing time. Our owner of Pottery Palace, I’ll call her Sue
because honestly I was 14 and don’t remember her name, stopped by with a bottle of tequila and cheap
margarita mix. From what I gathered one of the ladies was a newly divorcee’ which meant tequila
therapy was just what the doctor ordered. Just like that with a “Cheers to no Man!” Pottery Palace
quickly morphed into Club Piiizoottery!! The ladies grew more trashed as I continued my closing
duties when Sue slurred in my direction “Megan! Can you make us a round of margaritas?” Um,
quick reminder I’M 14. What’s in a margarita? Never one to shy from a challenge and having about a
45 minutes to kill before my Dad picked me up, I grabbed the bottle margarita mix and read the
directions. 2oz of Tequila per drink. 4oz of mix per serving. There are 6 women. If Train A leaves the
station at the same time as Train B… how quickly can I whip up their tequila therapy? Math has never
been my strong suit so I took a guesstimate how much liquor to toss into the old blender, tossed in
some mix, a couple of ice cubes, hit frappe’ and soon poured out some thick cold frozen margs. The
gals LOVED my drinks and one of them even tipped me $20! They wanted to know all about their new
favorite bartender! I told them a few stories about trying out for the middle school basketball team and
my crush on the social studies hunk who looked just like Devon Sawa, Adam Szytec*. They drank and
laughed and drank... and drank. When my shift was over I walked out to my Dad's minivan proud of
my hard earned wages. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mom how I made enough money to go
to the movies on Friday AND purchase GAP Dream Eau de Toilette perfume.

My mom however was not so eager. She was angry that I was exposed to alcohol and called Sue and
her gal pals irresponsible for allowing a 14 year old girl to play the LIVE version of Sam from
CHEERS. My parents made me quit Pottery Palace the next day but the tone was set. I was a great
entertainer and not too shabby of a bartender. Looking back this was basically the suburban version of
Goodfellas. I’m Spider minus the whole getting shot to death in the end by a disgruntled Joe Pesci.
There was money to be made in the world and I was ready to earn (and spend) it.

In High School my Dad gave my sister and I his old car so we could share it and stop calling them
collect for rides home from the school payphones.* Fortunately being the youngest has major perks!
Soon after the deed was transferred my sister was off to college and with killer license pic plus a
new ride, your girl was hell on wheels! The only downfall of owning your ride is now I was the solo
gas provider. My parents were not about to fork over cash and give me extra reason to
scoot-scoot-scoot like Beyonce around town. Once again, I was in need of employment. A found
out there was an assisted living home at the edge of Westlake which hired high school kids to serve
the old folks* breakfast and dinner. After dropping my resume and interviewing that very moment I
was on my way to employment city! The morning shifts were BRUTAL! I’d wake up at 6am and
head into work by 7am. Our uniforms where anything but cute which always bummed me out because
there were boys from my rival high school who also worked at the home. Side note, assisted living
homes are the boujee older sister to nursing homes. We had a Cook in the back named Margie. I loved
her! She was a tattoo’d up fast talking mom figure to us wannabe hooligans. Margie was no nonsense
and if she suspected you came in to work a 7am brunch shift hungover from the night before house
party where you drank garbage alcohol like Mike's Hard Lemonade she’d make you honorary
dishwasher for the entire day. Hungover and scrapping half eaten eggs of an old folks plates should
be placed on the FBI torture tactics on how to break criminals. The job was low pay and I was
constantly trying to pick up extra shifts to satisfy my gas guzzling and perfume obsession needs.

One day the activities coordinator Helen asked me if I’d like to start calling Bingo one day a week.
I jumped at the chance for an extra $30 in my paycheck. Yup. Minimum wage is lame. Helen said
calling Bingo required two employees so I convinced my co worker and high school classmate Mark
to get in on the ground floor of this sweet Bingo gig. We showed up the day of our shift and the
activities room was packed. Dang, who would have thought the Bingo circuit was so hot? Mark
wanted to handle the ball and fill in the letters which left me announcing the numbers over the
microphone and checking Bingo cards of winners because old folks can be stingy cheaters. We started
off great! Mark was owning behind the scenes and I called numbers and told some jokes like a boss.
When working a room as a comic, it's important to understand the vibe of your audience. Are they
conservative? Do they seem drunk and ready to laugh till they pee themselves? Can they even
understand me because most wear hearing aids and the batteries haven’t been changed in 6 months?
The joke portion of my act ended quickly when our favorite old folk Bob yelled out “Forget the damn
jokes and call the numbers!” That was my first time bombing as a stand up comic.
I was 16. #ClevelandComic.

Word spread that the new hot ticket in old folks town was Bingo Bonanza.* Mark and I held onto our
time slot for a few weeks until one day opportunity came a knocking as it always does for a hustler.
After wrapping up Bingo Bonaza Helen approached us in a panic. Happy Hour was starting and they
were short staffed. Could Mark and I stay a little longer and help out? Mark and I looked slyly at her
but answered with the classic innocent and perplexed tone of two underage youths. “Um… what
do you mean help out with Happy Hour?” Helen responded with an exasperated “Can you make the drinks?!” And just like that I got my
second credit as a bartender on the ol’ resume.

Let me break down a Happy Hour in an assisted living community. The old folks may have had their
freedom within their confined grounds of the community but they were not allowed to keep alcohol in
their super expensive apartments. Basically they worked their entire lives to be transported back to
freshman year dorm life. Many of them were on meds so as a precaution for their safety each person
could keep their favorite alcohol locked safely away in the activities room closet and partake everyday
at 3pm at happy hour. Since my resume as bartender consisted of 1 job and Marks 0, I was upgraded
from Bingo entertainer extraordinaire to bartender. Mark took the drink orders and served*. Now if
you thought Bingo was popping you would not have believed how full the room was for Happy Hour. It was THE who’s who of assisted living. Bob and his crew which consisted of old guys who
smoked cigars and complained about the weather, Queen Bee’s were the widows whose kids rarely
visited unless they wanted money, and a few “Cuties Couples,” that held hands and talk of the old
days. For legal purposes, I feel I should tell you that two sixteen year old High School kids are not
allowed to make or serve alcoholic beverages especially on the clock and acquiring a paycheck. Hey!
Law-schmaw, Mark and I were already drunk with power from Bingo Bonanza some lame legal term
like “underage” wasn’t going to stop us from building our assisted living entertainment empire!
Thankfully many of the old folks weren’t allowed liquor since it clashed with their medications.
Beer it was! I began popping bottles and working the room telling jokes and gossiping with the
Queen Bee table about who was dating who and their ever favorite (yet morbid) topic, guessing who
will die next. Not to brag but it was THE most talked about Happy Hour of the week. Sadly, over the
next few weeks end of the school year projects and tests amped up so the Bingo Bonanza duo was
forced to turn over our empire to the front desk attendant “Ron the rule follower.” Ron was mayo
meets white bread and could have lived in the community as he was that old. I heard rumors later on
that bingo was never the same again. Sigh, all good and illegal things must come to an end…

Would I consider these gigs “Survival Jobs?” Not really. I had a roof over my head and the money
wasn’t going to help anything other than my GAP scent obsession. But beginning work in the real
world at 14 is something I’ve never regretted and genuinely think is important for all kids. Working
in middle school and high school as much as I sound like an article from Parent Magazine, builds character. While other kids were begging their parents for money I was earning and it felt great.
The independence and self responsibility to get my butt up every morning for those 7am shifts was
hard but gave me a sense of accomplishment. I learned how to budget my time, save my paychecks,
and honor my commitments. I worked with kids my age, single moms, high school dropouts, bored
retirees, ex cons, addicts, and also some pretty lousy people all before I could even cast my vote in
a presidential election. I learned how to work with people from these experiences. I have seen great
work ethics and extreme laziness. I grew in empathy as well. Working alongside people from of all
ages, personalities, financial, and educational backgrounds at such a young age opened my eyes to
how lucky and blessed I was. We weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination but my parents
worked their butts off so we didn’t want for anything. Seeing how the world really operates is something a mostly all white privileged high school in the suburbs can’t and will never teach you.
All of these experiences as a teen not only helped toughen my skin for the road to becoming an
entertainer and entrepreneur but laid the foundation of inner strength and discipline to keep on pushing
through even the worst survival jobs (and their managers) with my head up until my Hollywood
dreams came true..

* Name changed to protect every and all painting pottery spots innocence.
* I knew even at a young age it was all about getting your content out there. More on that later…
* Adam was my first crush and genuinely a nice human. He unfortunately passed away after we
graduated High School. Not to be a bummer but just thought everyone should know his name. 
* Pre cell phone era. “Would you like to accept a collect call from-- SOCCER’S OVER PICK ME UP!” 
* GAP please call me about bringing back GAP Dream Eau de Toilette in the silver container.
* My favorite old folk, Bob, dubbed the assisted living home residents “Old Folks”. We were the
“Young Folks.” I miss him. He was a hoot.
* Everyone refused to call it Bingo Bonanza except Mark and I.
* Mark is now a hospitality broker. FULL CIRCLE?

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Life in the Unemployment Fast Lane...A Love Story!

Picture it, NEW YORK CITY! Bright lights, Broadway plays, comedy (some not so funny) any night of the week, and your RedLipstick Gal ready to take on the world! Well, at least the local comedy clubs.

I've lived in NYC for over a year now. I've sold out shows (#Blessed), bombed shows, started my own non profit, dated 2 terrible men, couldn't find a cab at 4am, and found the perfect slice of pizza, and made friends with my doorman, Steve. Ok, he's actually a homeless guy who sleeps in front of my shady murder looking building, but he makes me feel safe. No one is going to climb over his crazy ass to rob me. (Fingers crossed.)

New York has adventures at every turn. Handsome men in suites. Auditions! It's been so fantastic! So thrilling! So... so HARD! (I just said that in my best Jesse Spano, Save By the Bell voice.)

I've never been fired. Ok I take that back. I was fired from a hosting job in Chicago once because I was bored and went to Starbucks to grab a coffee. I was 20. Give me a break. I couldn't legally drink and you want me to check ID's?

Minus that little blunder, I was super shook that I was fired TWICE in 4 months. Especially for shitty reasons not in my control. The NYC twinkly glasses fell right off and I don't have enough dollars to buy a new pair. Life in NYC is hard when you're broke. Way harder than L.A. Like... way WAY harder...

...And I've learned it well, the hard way.

Welcome to life in the unemployment lane! Just like my favorite chain Charming Charlies (R.I.P. CC!), when you're unemployed in NYC.... EVERYTHING MUST GO!

Netflix, sigh... NO more chill.
Health Insurance. The power of Prayer better be working over time.
Multiple night fun drinks or dinners with friends. Gah. This one hurts the most.

I love NYC but I've quickly learned, it ain't for the poor henny! New York is EXPENSIVE. An avocado costs $4 in NYC. LA $0.99 (Ugh, I miss you Ralph's) I've added Avocado to my Christmas list this year. So fancy or even Happy Hour evenings out with friends, has to go. Oh and "Happy Hour" is like $1 off a $20 cocktail so don't think I'm Frauline Maria (First of MANY Sound of Music references.. BUCKLE UP.) giving up everything for a life of solitude.

Applying for jobs I'm pretty sure I'm over qualified for and realizing I'm 1 of 276 applicants makes me want to see if Monster is hiring high end Platonic Hookers. You know, girls who make up to $2,000 a night just playing Monopoly and eating food from some rich old dudes fridge while he's asleep on the couch cause he's 90. Those jobs exist right?

Sigh. I won't lie to you Beauties. I am seriously almost out of cash. Double sigh... my savings. My home I was going to buy. This is the part in Sound of Music where Maria sits on the acorn at the dinner table and gets accosted by her boss. The boss is every job I am not getting and NYC are those shitty Vonn Trap kids I was trying to get to know. Damn you Gretl.

The good news is I can't sing or dance.. BUT I CAN KAYAK! NYC has some rad free things to do in summer from outdoorsy goods to indoor conversations. Go air condition! So it's about changing my can't-atude to a "kick hateful Nazi ass and run through the hills in positivity-tude."

I'll follow up in 1 month. I'll either be homeless or employed, hopefully not as a governess. Little kids don't like me.

Monday, September 25, 2017


"Don't be so upset when people reject you. Nice things are rejected all the time by people who can't afford them..." -Lady Gaga

The best part of being an artist is putting yourself out there.

The worst part about being an artist is putting yourself out there.

I've always held my head high when it comes to rejection. I mean, I've LITERALLY had a door slammed in my face and I'm still standing. So, take it in strides...

But something lately isn't sitting right. The rejection has become almost engulfing.

Before I was insecure with my work so when I faced rejection it was "Oh, ok, I can do better." And then I would. Another class. Workshop. Script. Film something. Write a ton. Grow, grow, grow...

Now. Now I FINALLY feel comedically (yes, I make up my own words.) myself. I am in my true skin. A comic, a creative ZERO F'S force, a brunette warrior. Men in this business don't intimidate me. I see them looking.

'Oh she's going to tell some dick joke or white girl wasted story.'

I sit back in my short skirt, grin, and run circles around their sexists and mostly racists jokes. I'm nice but I'm still a girl from Cleveland... don't fuck with me.

So after 9 years of it all, rejection has evolved into a place in my heart I didn't see coming, and it's  horribly painful. Physically painful. Emotionally. This is a whole new chapter I've never experienced and I'm in it as I write this blog.

You can never figure rejection out. What do you mean you don't see the warrior? But you LAUGHED at my jokes? You 'LOVED' my writing... What do you mean NEXT and NO and SORRY?

I believe in sharing the good and the bad. Because there is some comic, actress, housewife, teacher, astronaut, dog walker out there saying "I'm giving it my all. Where are my dreams?" You are not alone.

Comedy has been my heart and blood for 9 years. This last year has been the hardest working and also the most destructive on my heart. I don't know exactly where an artists goes from here...

"When God calls, pick up the damn phone." -Lady Gaga


Saturday, August 20, 2016



These last few months have been a shit-storm of violence, bigotry, public safety uncertainty, and an overall F-ING clown filled political circus.... On BOTH sides.

Who else has walked around at one point or another feeling a sense of complete and total helplessness?

Omran Daqneesh (Syrian boy in the ambulance).
San Bernardino
Sudan gang rapes
Orlando PULSE Nightclub shooting
Aylan 'Alan' Kurdi (young refugee boy who drowned seeking a better life)
Boko Haram
Police violence
Anti Muslim Racists
RAPE Case dismissals
Cop murders
Refugee Crisis
Climate meltdown...floods and fires.
Trump.. Hillary... Oh Lord.

Raise your hand.

Well I'm in the game of comedy... So to all the comics who have dealt with the list above and MORE the past few months and STILL managed to be FUNNY....


Sure, I still create. I put one foot in front of the other, write, produce #DriversMeg, network, marathon train, reach out to my agent, audition-eerrr or don't... but I can't lie, I feel unsure about humor lately... about laughing. Some days I think to myself;

"How do I be funny when I feel so helpless? There is so much evil. What can one joke bring?"

Like many humans I am searching for what MORE can I do?

Eleanor Goldberg of The Huffington Post wrote a BRUTALLY honest article about TRAGEDY PORN and being overconsumed with it's graphic and terrible images yet we don't really do anything about it***


Like many, in the heart of all this bewildered violence and confusion, I feel lost. I want to leave this world a better place. But how? Sell my things, join Doctor's Without Borders, and move halfway around the world to a war torn- terrorist sleeper cell country? Or maybe push even harder and use my comedy to bring laughter to those who need it?

We are in this together. I too am still searching. Until I figure out my next step I promise this...

I will do better than the day before. I will honor my path SO much that it will inspire someone else to honor their path....

And maybe, just maybe, it'll cause a ripple...



P.S. Incredible political art by @Khalidalbaih
Still think refugees should be turned away?

....My heart is with you Aylan and Omran.

(***I HIGHLY recommend reading her article. I also 1000% urge you to take at least ONE of her ideas on ways to help and turn it into ACTION.)

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Back to the Future Pep Talk

"If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour... you're gonna see some serious shit."

Oh hey 1955! Oh wait, are we back there?

Seriously. Worrying about restrooms, LGBT rights, guns, equal pay, women's rights. Is it 1955 or 2016? Should we start the separate water fountain thing again?

Rich white males over here. The rest of ya over there...

Someone get Marty McFly on the phone.

As a society, well, we've got to GET. IT. TOGETHER.

Life is pretttyyy, pretttyyyy.... prettyyyyy grand if we all just stop and looked around. Take a moment. Sip your Folgers coffee. Think of 5 things you are grateful for in this moment I'm pretty sure you'll let some shit go.

Also let's call a spade a spade...

HATE is usually a product of something within we don't like about ourselves.


Ever see someone lash out because they are tired, overworked, or have too much on their plate? Yeah- these are the people who are so filled with hate. They look for someone or something else to blame because they are not where they THINK their lives should be.

And the blame-hurricane begins.

My goodness. My Guinness! I need a Guinness just to listen to all the heavy cray cray of the world.

"There's that word again: HEAVY. Why are things so heavy in the future? Is it because of the Earth's gravitational pull?"

Nope. Wrong. Sorry Charlie.

Get it together, fix what you don't like in your life, and the rest will fall into line.

Be strong. Be bold. Get your best life.

Pep talk over.


Thursday, February 18, 2016

The Lion. The Coffee. The Vodka.

Lion. Protector. Grace. Vodka. Coffee. Savage.

I am a woman of faith AND I have my cards read. The Lion is my consistent theme...  I am a Lion..

When you are going through hell, no matter how positive- what mantra you try- prayer- vodka- coffee- smile- forced laughter- ... (Been there. Done that.) Fear begins to creep in. We are all human. We can't hide from it. But lions do not allow fear to last. We continue forward.

A lion fears nothing. Big. Small. Nothing. We are the protectors. We are gatekeepers. Movers and shakers. We also know there is room for all. We are all worth it. This world is ours.

To be a lion you must LIVE a lion heart.

I keep granola bars in my car for the homeless, I love and protect animals, I will adopt children. I am a WORKING actress. I believe in my talent, strength, and soul. TMI? Not for a lion. I don't mind putting my words onto a blog if I know it'll help one person find their strength. Their lion. Makes professional life creative. Personal life a little less fun... Trust me. So many woman worry about speaking their truth, being bold, successful, strong, courageous, trail blazers... because it intimidates potential suitors. IT's true. It does. Been there. Done that. Dimmed my light. Terrible idea. Stopped immediately.

Men (I'm heterosexual so I use the term 'men') are intimidated by strong bold woman. So to this I say...

Listen up, if YOUR MAN isn't YOUR BIGGEST FAN than he is NOT YOURS!

Be bold. Be mighty. Be courageous. Be authentic. GO FOR IT. Whatever that means for you... family, career, health, love, self love...GO FOR IT.

Fear will creep in either way, so will negativity, agitation, hope, faith, love, and finally SUCCESS. So go for it. DEVOUR what anyone else will think. I say this in complete disarray personally and professionally AND with massive hope & faith in my LION heart. GO. FOR. IT.

I am.


PS I write the most when I need inspiration.... so... we are all in this together.

Thursday, December 31, 2015

Crash & Burn eh' Mav?

I jumped off a cliff in 2015.... I didn't fly. I didn't soar. I splat. I crashed. Burned. Broke every bone on the way down. Personally. Professionally. No parachute in site.

And that's ok.

This year literally kicked the shit out of me.

And that's ok... because I learned.

I learned I can take the hits. I learned I can fall off a cliff and crash... Get up, chin up, and jump again.

What else is life if not either mundane & boring or BAM POW WAM (Batman style) in the BEST or WORST ways possible.

And that's ok.

Well. It's almost midnight on New Years Eve and I'm no farther than I was at the beginning of 2015. Many of you may feel the same. I like to joke I could have gotten drunk everyday and slept in ... and would have produced the same results. BUT... I didn't. I took the hits... because I believe.

And that's everything.


You. Your Dreams. Your heart. You are worth it, and I believe in you.

2016 and Beyond