Where I should be.

Posted on November 12, 2010 by Megan

Not five minutes ago, I was in bed slowly drifting off to sleep. Thinking about how maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so many mashed potatoes for dinner, but also knowing it was totally worth it. Then it hits me. It’s 11:10 pm and I haven’t written a blog post. Nope, no post. I drag myself out of bed and pull the laptop out. I’m now standing in the middle of the living room typing with my lap top propped up on an ironing board, running on 9 minutes left of batter. I’m too lazy to find the cord. Glamorous, no?

What I planned on writing about today was the Nuggets vs. Lakers game and how they won 118-112 and ruined the Lakers 7-0 winning streak… but alas I have no motivation since the game didn’t get over until after 11, I didn’t actually get to bed until almost one, and it is now 11:15 the following night. I’m tired. So, if by chance there are any good pictures from the game or details my foggy brain has forgotten I’ll post them tomorrow. For now, au revoir!

And, no, I did not proof this.

Halloween.

Posted on November 3, 2010 by Megan

I’m a couple days late on a Halloween post. Woops.

First of all, we carved some wicked cool pumpkins. And by “we” I mean Christian and our friend Griffin. Kaitlyn and I were far too busy picking pumpkin seeds out of pumpkin goo to be bothered with such a task. Here’s how I truly feel about pumpkin carving:

1.) The smell of pumpkin goo makes me queasy.

2.) Touching pumpkin goo makes me queasy.

3.) Carving pumpkins sure is a lot of work. Christian had to put in a lot of effort.

4.) It’s easy to burn pumpkin seeds.

5.) If you don’t burn the pumpkin seeds they’re delightful with a touch of garlic salt.

6.) I love pumpkin bars, who cares if the pumpkin I used came in a can and not from the pumpkins we carved.

7.) Glowing pumpkins make it all seem worthwhile.

Also, I’m pissed. I’m pissed at the creepy pedophiles that give poison candy out or kidnap kids or take pictures of kids for their creepy pedophile urges. They are ruining Halloween. All I wanted was to hand out some candy. Even just 1 piece and let me tell you, not one little kid came to ring the door. Not a one. I was heartbroken and due to my misery would like to stage a beat down on all the fruit cakes that ruined Halloween and the fun of handing out candy.

I mean it’s just peachy that churches have created “safe” Halloween activities and trick or treat opportunities, but really, isn’t the joy in Halloween going door-to-door for hours collecting candy just to get home and have your parents peruse it for “unsafe” candy also known as the candy they want to eat? What fun is it to go through a mini-town of fake doors getting the same candy from each? Boring. Plus, who doesn’t like the adventure in trying to find the candy that’s already been opened? Mwahaha.

On another note, it has been brought to my attention that in Des Moines, IA the kids have to tell a joke to get a piece of candy. Please read here. So, after we beat down the creep-o’s and reinstate a good ‘ol Halloween with trick or treating, let’s make the kids tell jokes, ok? Preferably with them ending in “Your mom” or “My butt”. Yes, I’m actually a 10-year-old trapped in a 24 year old’s body.

In other news, I’ve completely resisted going to target to buy their discounted Halloween crap. Please pat me on the back.

The month of August.

Posted on September 6, 2010 by Megan

Ok, people. Let’s pull it together now. Stop having all your baby-making sex in November. Why? Because if there is one more August birthday, I might just keel over and die.

I know that during the start of November it’s starting to get cold and that snuggling naked under the covers appears to make more sense than putting on a sweatshirt, but please, for the love of my waistline and my wallet, constrain yourselves.

Pleaseandthankyou.

P.S. And, yes, I know that having said that I’ve just cursed myself with a house full of babies born in August when the time is right. Damn it.

*Photo Credit: ex animø

Refuse recepticles.

Posted on August 2, 2010 by Megan

Our trash gets picked up once a week. On Tuesdays.

I leave my trash cans neatly parked to the side of the garage, in the upright position, like this:

There are lots of weeds and random crap back there because it’s an alley and, well, people do weird things in alleys. Not me. But people. They also do weird things outside of alleys. For instance, I found two water bottles and an energy drink can on my front porch this morning. How they got there? People probably had a party up there while I was sleeping. Sure makes me feel safe.

Back to the trash cans. Every Tuesday night I come home, turn into the alley and hit the garage door opener button. Glad to be done with my commute for the day. I turn the corner and what do I see? My trash cans in disarray in front of the garage door. Like this:

I know I’m about to sound as lazy as they come with this next statement, but it really irks me to get out of the car and move them back to where they are suppose to be. (Please note this level of frustration can and will be aggravated if rain happens to be falling.)

But, I do it. Every single week.

I can imagine that being a trash man or garbage collector would get old. Quick. And I am *certain* that I could not survive in this particular role. For starters they’d have to change the title. Stat. Because I won’t be going anywhere near a job that says “trash woman” in the posting. I’m more prone to like “Refuse Rescuer”. Sounds like I may be doing something noble with my time rather than dumping leftovers and tampon wrappers into my trash truck. I’m rescuing the refuse, people!

If they changed the title, I bet they’d double their application numbers. Just saying.

So, I know that I wouldn’t, couldn’t and shouldn’t be a “refuse rescuer” in this lifetime. Germs, dirty things, lifting heavy objects and being outside in extreme heat and cold would for sure do me in. I try my hardest not to take them for granted and appreciate that they do something I couldn’t.

If they have rage and want to throw my cans. Throw ‘em. I would. Chuck them at the cement. They’re plastic, they’ll recover. But, if I may ask ever so nicely… “Please THROW THEM in the proper direction. Into the weed pile. Not in front of my garage. Please and thank you.”

The End.

Splat.

Posted on July 2, 2010 by Megan

I’m going to leave the explanation out on this one. Let’s just say that this is pretty representative of how this week has gone.

A bit bleery eyed.

Posted on March 12, 2010 by Megan

Please note: Last October (or was it November) when Day Light Savings occurred I decided that turning my clock back with the rest of the world was a waste of my precious time. Who needs that sort of ridiculousness. I’m intelligent enough to understand that I have to subtract an hour each time. Fast forward to today, we are now approximately 1.5 days from pushing our clocks forward (or for me, continuing to leave it alone, only now it will be correct) without a mishap…

I have this thing — paranoia – about getting up really early. If I have to get up before my regularly scheduled time I don’t sleep well, waking every hour or so to make sure I haven’t overslept. Which, of course, is what happened last night. I woke up every so often to see that I had plenty of time to sleep. What a glorious feeling — in the middle of the night, waking up to know you have 6 more hours — heavenly.

Here is the story (the long version) of my morning:

Anyhoo, I wake with a jolt at one point and look at my clock which glares back with a 5:00 am image. I register the fact that it is now time to pull my grumbling self out of bed and get ready for the day. So… I get up, brush my teeth, shower, get dressed, dry my hair, put on my makeup and walk down stairs. I let Charlie out and poor myself some OJ because at 5:30 in the morning, who doesn’t deserve a little Vitamin C? Charlie is stoked and I jam some orange medicine down his throat followed by a “face bath” because not even 1/2 of it actually made it down while the rest proceeded to mangle his whiskers and turn them a bright shade of pumpkin. Once the “face bath” was complete and he was thoroughly pissed at me I decided it was time to hit the road for my hour-long commute to work.

I’m not usually up this early, so I decided that it is awfully dark outside at 5:30 in the morning. And, being the lucky girl that I am, I live right outside of downtown Denver where lots of homeless folk frequent the alleys behind my house. And, my garage (which is not attached to my house) backs out into the ally. Alleys at 5:30 in the morning symbolize only one thing to me. Murder.

So I’m standing in my laundry room, futily trying to muster up the courage to walk through the BLAZING DARKNESS to my garage. I open the door (leaving all lights on in the house), turn to lock it (hair raised because at any moment a stranger is going to leap out of the darkness and beat me with a pipe), and run like hell to the garage door. I peek in the garage (which mind you is NOT locked) and turn on the light. I then run, again, like an idiot, jump in my car and lock the doors.

Starting to feel a little safer I hit the garage door button and get the engine going. Normally when I leave, I open the door before getting in the car (you know, normal sequence of events)… but since I waited (due purely to safety reasons) to open it until I was in the car, I backed out a *little* too soon and managed to scrape the entire top of my car on the garage door. Go me — who values their possessions? That is so 1996. I reverse and get on the road to work. I’m driving along, jamming out and thinking how no matter how much getting up sucks that “TODAY IS GOING TO BE A GOOD DAY!!!” I then look down at the clock in my car. It miraculously reads 4:45 am. 4:45 are you freaking kidding me?? How the hell is it only 4:45 and why am I up, showered and driving at this God forsaken hour? Being that it is so early it takes a few seconds for the “Aha” moment to really kick in. That clock at the end of my bed… It’s an hour fast — right. Damn it.

I then proceeded to have an internal debate about actually just going to work and going home. In the end going home won. I turn the car around and park in front of my house (much safer than the ally behind my house where the murders and men with pipes hang out). I get out and RUN with abandon to the front door. *If anyone was watching they would have questioned my sanity, and with good reason.* Our front door is tricky. Well more than tricky, it’s a rude little bastard when it comes right down to it. It never unlocks. I’ve got the key in there, jiggling it around, shoving, twisting the knob, and nothing is happening. I’m beginning to panic when it finally opens. I walk inside to find Charlie more than ecstatic to see me.

Clearly the only course of action was to go lay down for another 30 minutes or so before it was time to leave. So I do. I then get BACK up (btw, it was quite a bit brighter outside and quite a bit harder to pull my bedraggled self from the sheets) and head to work. As a reward for my suffering I permitted myself a stop at Starbucks, never mind the insane line, I deserved it.

A few hours later I run the bathroom in the office and catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look 1.) Like I slept in my clothes 2. Completely disheveled (hair all kinky, makeup 1/2 on etc.) and 3.) Exhausted.

So hot damn, what a start to a Friday.

Pulling The Wool Over Our Eyes.

Posted on February 11, 2010 by Megan

*Warning, this post contains some thoughts on birth that may be hard to swallow. Read at your own risk.

You know the mark of a good friend? A truly good friend? A friend you can tell anything to and have them understand, empathize and commiserate with your life issues? The ability to talk about episiotomies and vaginal tearing. Drop those two phrases in a conversation and you’ll be able to weed people out from the very start. “Hi, my name is Megan and I have a fear of vaginal tearing.” The ones that stick around will be the ones you want to keep around. And if you can’t talk about these woman fears with your closest friends, then really you ought to consider yourself alone in this world.

I’m not married and if you just met me you would probably believe that I’m not a fan of children. I like kids, just not any that would be coming out of my body in the next few years. And, the more I hear about child rearing, pregnancy, and birth the more convinced I become that this whole “wondrous bringing of life” is a big sham.

See this picture, the one right below this line? The one of the sweet, adorable baby. Yeah, that one.

It’s precious, darling and reeks of that “baby smell” that causes grandparents and strangers alike to flock and glue their noses to the top of the baby’s head. You can picture it, because that’s exactly how it happens. There truly is something about babies. BUT, what I feel many conveniently forget to mention is that having babies is anything but cute, darling or precious. I think that people omit all the gory details, because if we as women (if you’re anything like me) fully understood what it took, we’d never have kids. Therefore leaving grandparents lost and confused without any children to smell and spoil and leaving strangers without any large, pregnant bellies to grab.

Pregnancy is rough, or so I hear. There’s a little human encroaching on your lung capacity, your body swells and stretches in ways you never thought possible and your feet have the potential to grow out of all the wonderful shoes you’ve collected up to that point. Sigh. And, you know what really scares me? Stretch marks. I’ve seen the devastation and truly I don’t want an abdomen that resembles a bagel 2 years after I’m done with the whole ordeal. Oh, and a horror story frequenting my house has people growing third nipples… dude, I don’t want a third nipple. Two is more than enough for this gal.

Ok, ok, I know I being highly insensitive and terrible. But it doesn’t stop here.

The thought of birth makes me shiver and feel the urge to vomit all at the same time (gag reflex). And who decided on the word birth. It just sounds gross. There is something about “snip”, “tear”, “spinal tap”, “mucus plug” and “catheter” that really just has me running in the opposite direction. I don’t understand how people refer to this whole disgusting process as “beautiful”. Yeah, yeah the bringing of life is pretty amazing, but let’s not over glamorize how that life gets out exactly.

I’ve had a couple friends that have had children, they’re the type of friends that shared ALL the gory details. Every single one and then more. I know more about their pregnancies and births than I’ll probably know about my own. EVER. Because now I’m going to have to adopt, or be on Valium for 9 months (except really isn’t it more like 10 months?). One of the two.

Oily Explosion.

Posted on January 13, 2010 by Megan

You know, there comes a time in everyone’s life where all they want to eat is a peanut butter sandwich. This peanut butter sandwich may include jelly or honey or bacon. But regardless it’s a peanut butter sandwich. Variations can be made using almond butter, but personally I’d stay away from the cocoa butter if you have a choice.

I’m, currently, at a time in my life where peanut butter sandwiches (well peanut butter and almond butter that is) are a major priority. If I decide I’m having one for dinner… I think about it the ENTIRE day. Just building up excitement for the delicious party that my mouth will be throwing. In fact, I’ll be having one for dinner tonight and, well, I’m already fantasizing about it. Some people fantasize about men with rock hard bodies rubbing them down with oil. I fantasize about peanut butter sandwiches. That explains a lot about me.

So last night (I had again predetermined I would be having a peanut butter sandwich for dinner) I got home from work and sat down to study (for the GMAT, did I mention I’m going to take the GMAT? No? Well let’s hope I am not a complete idiot because we have to share our scores out loud tonight… Um). After about an hour or so I decided it was high time that I reward myself for my hard work with the much-anticipated sandwich delight!

I go rummaging through the cabinets looking for peanut butter, check the pantry and both shelves of the lazy susan and come up empty-handed. I do, however, stumble across a jar of almond butter and my internal dialog goes a little something like this:

Hmmm, well it’s not peanut butter, but I think it will do.

Isn’t almond butter suppose to be refrigerated after it’s opened?

Hmmm, I’m pretty sure this jar has been down here for at least six months. How bad can nuts get? Well, isn’t there something with the oil in nuts going rancid. Man I bet this is rancid. Look at it.

Well, I’m desperate and I’ll just have to suffer if this doesn’t work out because I NEED my peanut butter (well it’s really almond butter) sandwich.

I then set the jar down, pulled the honey out of the pantry and got a couple slices of bread (white bread for the record). Slowly I opened the jar to see 2 inches of oil separated out and sitting on top of the actual almond butter… and I thought to myself “eh, that’s suppose to be there right?” and proceeded to grab a knife. I turned to talk to my sister’s boyfriend and stuck the knife in the jar to stir (or combine) my soon to be dinner when…. IT EXPLODED ALL OVER ME.

I had almond butter oil all over my face, in my hair, covering my clothes from work, smeared on my shoes and now dripping on to the floor. It was oil, people… greasy oil. I was suppose to be heading out 30 minutes later (after some more studious problem solving) and am currently covered in oil with a distinctly nutty smell. There is no way getting around it. You can’t pull the “oh it’s shine serum that went a little awry” line because, unless I’m missing something, shine serum doesn’t have an overpowering nut odor. I stand there stunned for a few second before yelling “Are you freaking kidding me?!?!” and run upstairs to shower. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten ready and had laundry going so fast in my entire life.

Needless to say I’ll be investing in some “non-separating” peanut butter on my next trip to the store. That particular batch of almond butter had “bad seed” written all over it and promptly had a date with the trashcan.

Crying.

Posted on January 7, 2010 by Megan

I have many a friend that can look attractive crying. Tears seamlessly fall down their cheeks and it’s sad, but borderline picturesque. A lovely tragedy. Their faces don’t puff up, no one asks them if they’ve had their lips injected and their eyes fail to swell shut, leaving their eyes peeping out of tiny slits in their faces. Their makeup doesn’t run and their chests don’t break out in itchy, red marks. No one asks them the following day if they look tired because their eyes have yet to re-open — baby hamster style. They simply cry.

I’m sincerely envious of these people. They have something I’ll only aspire to have.

It doesn’t matter if I’m crying out of frustration at a three hour commute, pain at losing someone, joy at a joke that almost made me wet my pants. I cry. And, look like a hot mess within minutes. Sigh.

Amazonian Update.

Posted on December 19, 2009 by Megan

Update! (original here)

Last weekend I attended a “classy” Christmas party… involving a cocktail-ish dress and some big ‘ol heels. I was totally rocking it. Didn’t feel like a half-naked beast one bit. BUT, last night at my friend’s tacky sweater party someone made this comment about my height to my littlest sister. Now he may have been hitting on her, and she does have a boyfriend who was present, but nonetheless:

Random Guy: Your sister is a giant. <pause> Last week she was wearing heels and WHOA she was just staring down a the top of my head. <pause> <pause> Now, you… you’re just the right size.

For starters, what guy in the right mind starts hitting on one sister by insulting the other? Anyone, anyone? And two, I’m a giant? Rude. Maybe next time I’m staring down at the top of his head I’ll conveniently mention his need for a moisturizing scalp shampoo, because whatever he was using surely wasn’t doing the trick.

P.S. Tacky sweater photos coming soon.

Life, Love & Garlic

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