No Pooping.

Apparently Charlie didn't get the memo.

I’m embarrassed — which granted, for me, is easy to be. But — I’m really embarrassed. Why you ask? Because my dog pooped all over someone’s floor. ALL OVER. And I missed it. You want to know how I found out? The smell. Then I looked up and saw poop EVERYWHERE. All I could think to do was hide my head and say “Charlie pooped, don’t look, don’t look!”. Which of course means they looked and I wanted to curl up into a tight little ball and crawl into a dark hole to hide. I know that it’s ridiculous, but I feel terrible on top of being embarrassed. Dog poop is freaking gross, not to mention that it was ALL OVER THE PLACE.

I might as well have pooped on the floor… at least then this level of embarrassment would be understandable. Now that would have been a story… but I would probably keep that one to myself because even though I know you’re judging me over my dog’s poop I can only imagine the amount of judgment I would get if I had pooped on the floor.

Poor Charles.  I mean I was rageful, but he was so pathetic. He knew he was screwed as soon as I stood up. He cowered, little tail tucked between his legs and hair drooping in his eyes. I took him out hoping to avoid an accident of the urine variety and he ran away. He knew his ass was grass so he booked it as far away from me as possible. And peed. Outside. Like he’s suppose to. Oh joy. I tossed him in the back of the car and didn’t talk to him the whole ride home. When we pulled it to the garage, he hid under the neighbors car. He would rather hide in a cold, dark garage than come in the house with me. What does that say about my level of anger? Eh? Well it’s now 2 days later and we are just starting to make up. Idiot.

But I’m not feeling any less embarrassed. It would be easy for me to walk away right now. Just not talk about this for the next week. But, instead I’m facing my embarrassment and letting it out, at least to the Internet.

P.S. Can I mention that I find that my dog resembles a kangaroo when he poops. How he contorts like that is beyond me.

Where you live.

I’m working on taking out the sensor.  I read at Life Without Pants that we blog because we have shit to say and it is so true. Whether it’s here or at Learning The Hard Way. If you don’t like it, disagree or don’t care that’s fine by me. But here I am and I’m really going to work on telling it how it is.

Let me tell you about a conversation and/or thought process that I’m fighting at this very second. Say I’ve been chatting it up with someone new, you know, being real wonderful and nice as you are when you first meet someone.  Now, you’re about to stumble upon us and be extremely rude by eavesdropping… something you should never, ever do… unless the opportunity plants itself firmly in your lap. Then, no one can blame you.

Me: Oh, so you’re just visiting Colorado? Gotcha, then where are you from?

Stranger: Kansas, well Salina… it’s a small town on the way to…

Me: Yeah I’ve driven through there. Oooh, that’s a rough one. I’m sorry. [take a lesson in my sensitivity and politeness, this type of talk is good at parties involving potential career advancements and meeting the in-laws].

What I’m really thinking:

They live in Salina, KS. Why? Do they farm… do people even farm in Salina Kansas? Kansas is a terrible state… straight up terrible. I don’t get why people live there. If you’re born there, why don’t you leave? Family, maybe? Alright, family has it’s merits, but at least in your “young” years get some living in there. Hit up South America, spend a few years in New York… get to know the world… the world outside of Salina, KS.

I think rude things. I know, I look nice, but lurking beneath this pleasant exterior is a wealth of condescension regarding your lack of international or even national passion.

I judge people based on where they live (or why they live there), if they’ve left, if they don’t have a desire to leave etc. It’s so ridiculous… but as I get older and realize that I live in a state that requires statements along the lines of:

People from Colorado vacation in Colorado, and people outside of Colorado vacation in Colorado…

Making me wonder if Colorado is so great why have I spent the past 6 years trying to escape? I’ve always wanted to leave. My parents left. Let’s see:

Mom: Born in Iowa, escaped to Missouri (not much of a move Mom), spent a few years with bronze skin in AZ then moved to Colorado for good.

Dad: Hmmm… Born in Arkansas, spent a bit in California, Missouri, then all over the place in the military (including Japan), back to Missouri, Arizona, then to Colorado to be with my Mom and well the rest is history.

I grew up listening to “when we live in Arizona”, “when I spent a few years in Florida”, “when I flew into Japan”… granted nothing MAJOR like spending the first six year of my life in a remote village in Russia trying to build up their sadly lacking infrastructure, but enough to make me want to go, go, go and judge (granted unfairly so) people who don’t.

Maybe it isn’t in my best interest to leave. When not seeing the mountains everyday makes me feel trapped and as if life is pointless I’m sure that I’m doing the right thing. But then what kind of hypocrite am I? Here I am judging family, friends, strangers for staying in a place I would find undesirable (yeah, yeah I know the argument… to each their own, blah, blah, blah).

I’m sure there are tons of good reasons to live in Salina, KS. Family, um you like the plains, wheat (??), that small town feel, you can actually afford a house, you want a safe place to raise your children. These all make sense to me. If you spelled it out I would logically understand… I would nod my head and “get” why you live there. But, on some innate level I will still be judging you (and trying oh so hard not to) for being in that tiny little town that would cause me to end up in a mental institution.


Pulling The Wool Over Our Eyes.

*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.


Last night I took my first step as a downtown dweller and went to the local King Soopers. Generally speaking I tend to be more of a Safeway fan, but King Soopers works when it’s the most convenient option. I pull into the parking garage full of ONE WAY ONLY signs (because that’s how you do it in the city) and find a 5-star parking space right up front. I cruise into the store to be confronted with the most eclectic mix of shoppers that has ever been crammed into one urban shopping mart. Let me just tell you that there was no lack of cultural diversity for my viewing pleasure. Holy smokes!

I proceed to grab a cart and begin my shopping. I have a compulsion to always start to the right of a grocery store… and if I ever start to the left it is because and only because the produce is on the left. So I cruise to the right to scope out the meat department. I, like any red-blooded American, can appreciate a good meat department. Because, by George, the options are pretty much endless. I’m standing there debating between flank steak and sirloin for my fajitas when I feel someone watching me. You know the feeling I’m talking about? You’re not sure whether to be creeped out or flattered and then there’s the whole do you pretend not to notice or turn around and stare back at them with glaring eyes that say “get your eyes off my business perv”. So I decide to be discreet and just catch a glimpse as I leave the aisle.

My new BFF was probably 6′ 5″, around 60, African-American and missing a large portion of his teeth. His hair was grown a bit long and stuck out hither-tither from beneath his baseball cap. And, his eyes never left my face. I again revisit the pretend not to notice argument when all the sudden TRAFFIC JAM due to a geriatric lady that could not walk trying to push a cart (on a side note: more power to her for getting out there, but seriously?!?!) leaving me side-by-side with Leonard (let’s just call him Leonard shall we). Leonard is still staring, more like boring holes in my head with his eyes and giving me the benefit of his toothless grin. I glance over, accidently making eye contact when he says:

“You have the most beautiful smile.”

I don’t think I had smiled or been anywhere near smiling the entire time I’d been in the store. Maybe a grimace of pain at having had the luck to get stuck behind Gertrude my geriatric leader, but definitely not a smile.

I politely respond, “Thank you.” and presume that this conversation is over. It wasn’t.

He squints his eyes, tilting his head back in thought before asking me, “Is that a married smile?”

What the hell is a married smile? The thought of sharing laundry and a bed with someone will automatically cause me to radiate joy and smile at all times in the grocery store? What planet has he been living on?

I respond, “No, not a married smile.” and give him a polite smirk.

I have to give the guy a little credit because he was just not going to let it go.

Again with the squint and the head tilt… then you can see the enlightenment beam from his eyes before saying “Oh, a boyfriend smile.”

Just as I prepare to answer Gertrude gets on her merry way and I respond… Yes… and hurry down the produce section to hunt me up a few jalepenos. He followed me around the rest of my trip, gleaming at me from the end of every row. Oh sweet Leonard.

I have a feeling that we are going to become fast friends… if I ever decide to take my chances and shop there again.

I’m the bees knees.

Over the past year a lot of things have changed with my job. (Now, now I know you aren’t suppose to blog about your job because, well, that’s how you lose it. But, keep your pants on it’s going to be OK). I’ve taken on some new responsibility and let me tell how I have just knocked it out of the park. One of these new responsibilities involves being on the [drum roll please…] “party planning committee”. I know you’re green with jealousy and you wish I would just shut up and stop bragging about my job and all my great responsibilities already. Sorry, I won’t, and can’t.

This “party planning committee” consists of a few office ladies that like eating. We did a little something at Thanksgiving, then again at Christmas and don’t worry if you have a birthday that falls within the 12 month calendar year you will be having an office party (more for us than you, but let’s keep up the charade mmmmk?). Card, cake and embarrassing stories will be included. Now it just so happens that the majority of our office birthdays fall in the July – December range, which leaves us high, dry and treat free for almost the entire spring. I try to keep the menu to the local cupcake store and a few Frosty coupons nearby for when things get a really desperate and I have to actually pay for the treats myself.

Ok, so now that you know the back story and how terribly in need of treats we all are (not just me), you’ll only be able to imagine the joy I felt when I discovered one of my interns has a February birthday. You know what that means? TREATS… that I don’t have to bake or buy!!! So we started the planning, we decided on the treat, got the card going and set the time/date. I also, luckily, have the important task of rounding up the card and storing it until the big day. I know, not many could handle the stress and pressure of this extra responsibility like I do. Some days you just have to take one for the team.

The card, magically, appeared on my desk having been signed by EVERYONE. Not just a few folks, but everyone. This is a rare feat and I basked in the glory of the break I was catching for a few hours. The card sat there in the middle of my desk simply for admiration’s sake. Our intern walked it to my office (her birthday card smack dab in the middle of my desk) and I quickly grab it up and carefully balance it on the edge of the trash can under my desk to avoid detection. Sneaky, eh? I was pretty proud of myself, but then again who wouldn’t be.

That was a few weeks ago. So today rolls around and J (also on the “party planning committee”) stops by to check and make sure that things are under control with the card. I assure her that it was the easiest card round-up I’ve managed yet and that we are all set to go for tomorrow’s festivities. I then decide it would be best to pull the card out and make sure that everything was just so. I dig through my drawers calmly at first to no avail. After a few minutes of digging I begin furiously thrashing spreadsheets about in search of the card. Again, no luck.

It appears that my ever so brilliant self forgot to remove the card from the edge of the “never to be seen again” abyss known as my trash can. That’s right. I threw away our intern’s birthday card. I suppose I no longer have a soul.

As my punishment we have to send around another card that will need corralling, though this time there is a joke about my idiocy hand written on the front. Oh joy.

Sarah’s Boyfriend & No Shame.

My sister has a boyfriend… has had one for about 2 years now (or is it 3, who’s keeping track??). He’s pretty nice, helps me with making my tacky sweater sing, glues my sunglasses back together, puts up with my sister’s craft obsessions, drags my furniture all around Denver and doesn’t judge me based on my lack of singing ability. So, I’m thinking that we’ll keep him around for a while.

It has recently been brought to my attention (via my sister’s Facebook update),

That maybe I am a touch too comfortable with Kyle being around all the time. He’s more or less like a roommate at this point and, well, if you’re around me long enough the “don’t do that” sensor just shuts down. When I see you at all hours of the day, expected and unexpected I no longer actively think about what I’m saying or doing in front of you. It was this way in college with my friend’s boyfriends and it is now this way with my sister’s boyfriend. Whether this includes bringing up highly inappropriate topics at the dinner table or “handling” an emergency wedgie situation when required… not a second thought.

I don’t think it’s all that weird. I walk around the house in my  floral pajamas, hair Medusa style without any makeup and complain about that weird smell coming from the pantry in front of him so why not just let it roll?

Maybe you think this is a little strange, but more than that I think it may be a dead fire sign that I need to move the heck out. 6 months with the fam has clearly had its effect on me. Au Revoir, Ciao, See Ya! I’m moving out (tomorrow!!) and moving on. And with this I hope to regain my dignity and sense of boundaries. No guarantees, but I promise to try my hardest.

Oily Explosion.

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.

<Pulls jar out of lazy susan>

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

<peruses label for information and finds “refrigerate after opening”>

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.

<Glances at jar of shady looking almond butter>

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.


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.


It’s 2010, technically January 4, 2010, in case you missed the memo. I’ve been working on 2010 literature and planning (workwise) for 2010 since last spring — I should be prepared for this, but oddly I still feel a bit shocked that 2009 has ended. Where did the last decade go. It couldn’t have been 10 years ago that we were all convinced the world was ending and I sported a “Tommy Hilfiger Y2K” shirt. People storing canned goods and water believing that the end was near. I believe my mom used to fill old milk jugs with water. Milky, stale water. Gag. Now we have 2012 to look forward to… maybe that’s the scare of this decade?

So much happened in these past ten years it’s hard to wrap my head around it. 10 years. I feel like I should make some profound New Years resolution, but sadly haven’t found anything that really sets my sail. Here are few mediocre “thoughts” as I’m not quite ready to commit them to goals, but here we go:

  1. Climb 3 fourteeners this season. And try not to succumb to death in the last hour before the summit.
  2. Let go… I hold on to things a little too tight. Airline miles, drawings from when I was 6, and things from my past.
  3. Become more graceful. I’m going to take a stab at reducing my tripping, falling, spilling, and overall klutziness as well as try to live gracefully. Wouldn’t you agree I could use a little grace? Shut up.
  4. Work on my sensor. Some things that come out of my mouth (I believe there was something about Vaseline on my pants) don’t need to. I need to do a better job keeping those bad boys on lock down.
  5. Run the Bolder Boulder this spring… and try not to run like a duck because after the first, oh, four miles any sense of semblance will be lost.
  6. Make a conscious effort to be happy. Half the time it’s a choice. I’m choosing to smile and let it cause irreversible wrinkles.
  7. Botox savings plan for said wrinkles.

Ok… one can aspire to accomplish more, correct? Correct. Well, here’s to 2010, I hope yours (and mine) is better than 2009!


So you when you first meet someone there’s always that awkward period. Feeling them out. What can they handle, how long do you have to wait before you can talk about _______, what sense of humor do they have, how open can you get them to be etc. It’s a part of starting any friendship, relationship, partnership or whatever else you may be creating. So I’m in the car the other day, getting directions from someone in the passenger seat. Because I had not a clue where the heck I was going. I randomly got in the left turn lane before I, again, realized I had no freaking idea where I was going and was at that point just making up my own directions.

So I asked, “Um, looks like we’re going left… is this right because I’m just making things up”.

They reply, “Yes, that works, we do need to go left”.

So, me, being the witty person that I am… and also the person who finds their own jokes borderline hilarious decides to reference Mean Girls and say, “Wow, I must have ESPN or something”. Then it dawns on me that there’s a chance that not everyone in the world has seen Mean Girls and that I might have just made myself sound like the biggest idiot in the world. Intelligence is key. So I try to back track and things just got awkward. It went a little something like this:

Me (in my head): That was a good one Megan, good work. Haha. <Insert moment of pride>. Wait. Do you think they’ve seen Mean Girls? What are the chances that they haven’t seen Mean Girls. Probably pretty low. Crap, you’re an idiot. Ok, ok how do you make yourself not sound like a moron?

Me (outloud): “Uh, you know I meant ESP right? That ESPN line was from Mean Girls, I’m not that stupid. I just didn’t know if you’d seen it and didn’t want you to think I was a complete idiot, because, of course, I know it’s ESP and not ESPN… I mean it’s obvious right?

And their reply: “Oh yeah, I’ve seen that”.

The End.

Should have just left it alone… but no I had to go and make things more awkward and sound like an even bigger idiot than if I had just left it at ESPN. Go me.