I’ve spent 20 minutes thinking about how to broach this subject… I could start off talking about my love of snacks (many of which I have shoved down my pie hole these past few days), but that didn’t feel right. I could talk about spit in general, but that undermines the awkwardness… so here it goes. No fancy intro.

Breathing is suppose to be a natural thing. Like walking. Just something you learn to do and continue to do until you die. Because then, well, you’re not breathing among many other things. Let’s be honest, you’re worm food.  (However, did you know that your hair and nails continue to grow after death? Tasty!) So, like you, I breathe. Except on the occasion when I choke on my own spit. Do you do that? Is that considered forgetting to breathe? I’m probably the sexiest woman on the planet right now. Admitting to frequent choking fits because I can’t swallow my own spit. Wow.

I once asked someone “You know when you choke on your own spit and end up with a terrible coughing fit?”. And you know what they did, they looked at me like I’d been labotomized, like they could never conceive doing such a horrendously disgusting thing. Is it bizarre that I choke on my own spit? Maybe it goes hand in hand with the fact I can’t walk out of my office without clipping at least one half of my body on the door frame. Coordination in both walking and swallowing don’t appear to be my strong points in life.

I’ve tried to stop, tried to swallow or work whatever reflex that causes me to do this, all to no avail. I generally blame my clumsiness on being tall and having a weird center of gravity (I may have made that up…). But, I don’t think choking on myself can be blamed on my center of gravity. So what gives?

About to burst.

So… I have so much to write about, so many things just dying to get out. But, I’ve eaten myself into a food induced coma and can barely function. It could have to do with the sundae I had here:


The bread I ate all day long:


Or Fred, the crab we had for dinner.


Had to say which exactly did me in, but did me in they did. Hope you’re jealous… I’m going to go sleep this one off. Oy.

San Fran: Memories and Pit Stops

The first time I ever visited, well the only other time I’ve ever visited San Francisco I was about 14… a freshman in high school and still bordering on that awkward phase that lasted from birth to about 15. I was one of the lucky ones.

I remember wearing jeans that were much too short, a lack of makeup and some styling white tennis shoes. Hard to resist, right? I went with my Mom and sister (probably around 12 at the time) and left knowing that it would forever be one of my favorite cities. The strongest memories from that trip, though, revolve around food (shocker, I know) and the pay to use public restrooms. One specific story stands out. And here is goes:

We were in line for the trolley (the real San Francisco treat) and the line was wrapped around one block and making it’s way, very quickly, up the next. It was going to be a LONG haul. We probably could have walked, but we were bound and determined to make our way through the city on that specific tram. Well if you have never visited San Fran or seen one of the corner “pay to pee’s”, then you’ll know what I’m talking about, but if you haven’t… then try to envision an oblong structure standing on the corner. It’s green and covered in billboards, but rather clean. Once you insert your money, the electric door opens and produces a toilet and sink set up. All very normal.

Well, here’s where the story gets good. We’ve been in line for what seems next to for-e-ver. Sarah (my independent and pig-headed little sister) decided that paying to use the potty was over-rated. She’d just sneak in after someone, pee, and come back out. No prob bob. We went along with it because, well, what could go wrong? It’s a port-o-potty right?

She slyly snuck in behind the last toilet customer, the door slid shut and things seemed to be just in order. Then, thirty seconds later, the door slams open and water comes gushing out. We and our 100 new San Fran friends turn and gawk. Out comes Sarah covered in cleaning/toilet water. Please imagine this. Take a minute because it may take that long to fully absorb the pain, anguish, and embarrassment of the moment. Then please imagine what it feels like to be 12, wet, and in line for another hour with those close 100 friends that witnessed you one, being and idiot and two, being what we would call thrifty. Other’s may call it cheap, but whose keeping track.

So, we’re back in this great city, eating and cavorting (more on that later) when we stumble across one of those wondrous pit stops. Couldn’t resist taking a picture and wetting our pants laughing at the memory. So here you go. My sister all grown up, and a little happier and drier that the last time around.



I’m only four days late in talking about it. You think I would have been able to pull out a semi-easy post on the fact that I have to tie myself to his here MacBook and post at least once a day this month. Daunting task, and trust me I know… I’ve already struggled through 3 days of random ramblings. Considering my past posting history of about one per week, it’s fairly obvious that every day will be a much-needed improvement. It’s not for lack of ideas that I don’t post more often, but of needing time to let things marinate – which isn’t always feasible. Ok, ok maybe that’s a lie. Sometimes it’s marinating and other times I would rather sit on a 4 hour plane ride with a teething baby than attempt to write something just bursting with witty charm. So there you have it. My first official Nablopomo. A month of self-torture.

I hope you know that I’ll be buying myself an extra large glass of wine if I make it through all 30 days. Maybe two, and a cupcake. Because I’ll deserve it, that I’m sure of. So here’s to a month of random ramblings, a tour through San Fran, and a plethora of awkward and embarrassing moments. Nablopomo 2010.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

You know what I hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate? It’s when people say:

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

I’m sure the look of death crosses my face and I respond with only the most serious expression:

Well, when the clock hits 7:00 and I turn into a wild swamp monster it tends to send men packing. Does that answer your question?”

And once again I’ve managed to dissuade any further conversation on the topic. Mission accomplished.

A Lovely Find.

A little under two years ago someone gave me a gift card to Pier 1. I’m sure they were thinking it would be great. I could get a something spicy for my house or maybe just pick up a quirky little item to change things around. Which I suppose is what other people do with Pier 1 cards. But as I may have mentioned before, I have a bit of a commitment problem. I couldn’t choose something for my house because I didn’t know if it would be changing in the next few years and I didn’t want a perfectly good home decor item to go to waste. Wow, that’s not neurotic at all.

Anyways I’ve wandered like a transient in and out of Pier one stores for the past year and a half. So many things that I wanted, but nothing I could commit to. A sad story, possibly to be made into a major motion picture in 2013. Anyways, back to the point of this story because everyone loves a happy ending. I mean after all if Disney stories didn’t have unrealistic happy endings how would we have developed unrealistic ideas of our own happy endings?

Again with a diversion from my actual topic. I found this serving bowl and serving platter on the clearance rack. Just the perfect amount of girly, rustic charm. We bonded, then I bought them and used them at a party.

The end.

Took me away.

It’s not all that often that I find a song that makes me spend 20 minutes searching Google for the artist. One of those where you hear it in the background of a movie and HAVE to know it word by word. Well, I found one.

“I and Love and You” by the Avett Brothers.

Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell the ones that need to know
We are headed north

One foot in and one foot back
But it don’t pay, to live like that
So i cut the ties and i jumped the tracks
For never to return

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I’m in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

When at first I learned to speak
I used all my words to fight
With him and her and you and me
Oh but its just a waste of time
Yeah its such a waste of time

That woman shes got eyes that shine
Like a pair of stolen polished dimes
She asked to dance I said it’s fine
I’ll see you in the morning time

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape im in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
What you were then, I am today
Look at the things I do

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I’m in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
Your dreams to catch the world, the cage
The highway sets the travelers stage
All exits look the same


Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
I and love and you
I and love and you

My Mom’s on Facebook.

For me, Facebook started my freshman year of college. It was just the basic Facebook. No status updates, no crazy quizzes, no highly specific news stream. Ahh, the good ‘ol days. At this time, Facebook was also only for students, you had to join your school’s network and connect with friends that way. Boy oh boy how things have changed. For instance, my Mom is now on Facebook (Hi Mom!). I love my Mom, in fact at first the idea of her being on Facebook didn’t phase me one bit. She’s seen my pictures, she knows my friends and their bizarre antics, so what’s the big freaking deal, right? Not right.

For one, my Mom has more incriminating and horrifying photos of me than any of my friends could even fathom gathering in a life time. Take this for instance. Nothing screams awkward years like braces and a Furby.

Just another Furby Christmas.

I’m so thankful she left out the “beds” and “homes” we made for them… Um, er, I mean boxes I stuffed it in because it was so lame. I was clearly much too old to be playing with such a ridiculous toy. She also has quite a collection of all the fashion mistakes she made for me as a child. Just check out the bunny stitched on the front of this blue jumper, oh and the ruffly sleeves (I’m on the right). I have to say I don’t know if I’ve seen a more styling Easter outfit in all my years. Ever. Not to say that my sisters stripped overalls are much of an improvement, but they do have just a touch more tact.

Bunny Jumper

So after a year of so of these little gems showing up on my profile, I gave up. You know what Mom, you want to post embarassing things I’ll take it. Everyone was awkward once… or at least that’s what I tell myself.

BUT, there’s a new development in my Mothers Facebook life. She has set up text message alerts for my status updates. Everytime I change my status, comment on the weather or mention the most intimate details of my clearly mudane life, she gets a text message. Let me paint this picture a little clearer. If I’m in the same house, building or even just a phone call away when I update my status, it sounds something like this:

ME: Type, type, type. Submit Status Update. Go about my business.

MOM: Phone Beeps, “Beep, Beep, Buzz, Buzz”. Mom picks up the phone and says “So you’re having a love affair with a kiwi??”

ME: Shocked by the randomness. “Yeah,um, what? Um, I like kiwi’s. What do you want from me?” Eye roll.

Something along those lines every single time. I’m trying to get used to it, but honestly it’s like being in a high school knowing that your mom is reading your diary. And, I know that the moment I get over this, the moment I let it go she’ll figure out a way to video stalk every moment I spend on Facebook, or the Internet for that matter. At least I have something to look forward to.

Saving the Ta-ta’s…

This past Sunday was Denver’s Race for the cure. I would love nothing more than to tell you that it was great, easy, and wonderful… wait, what am I saying? It was wonderful.

There were a few mishaps right from the start that caused my adrenaline to reach to unhealthy levels. It was probably just payback for all those mornings I made my dog sleep in rather than taking him out to pee. Oh well, that’s one action I’m willing to accept.

We ran the 5K, which in and of itself is no major accomplishment, unless you are my friend Stacey who ran the entire race with a pink wig on. I would have ripped it off screaming and itching my scalp about ten minutes in, so kuddos to Stacey. In case you’re wondering what that looks like:

Stacey and Megan

Now try to imagine if a family of rats and guinea pigs spent a month digging around and nesting in her hair. That’s what it looked like the moment she took it off. I almost wet my pants laughing as she tried to smooth it down.

After racing we (the girls) spent the next hour collecting shwag from all the vendors supporting the race. Whether it was band aid packs, cheese, carpet cleaner spray or frisbees we left no freeby unattended. I think that the boys were about to mutiny and stab us with their key rings originally designed to help you examine your breasts. Sounds pleasant doesn’t it? In case your wondering who these jokers were that threatened us with their dull key rings, here’s a shot of the whole group:

Group 1

Oh, and since Charlie couldn’t come he wanted to show his support by sporting a pink feather for the day.


P.S. A picture of me and my other friend Lindsey (yes I have more than one) appeared in the Denver Post… not the most flattering angle. Let’s just say I look “special”. But, hey, not everyone made it in the paper. So there’s a big pat on the back for me.

It’s time for the “change”.

It’s fall. Well, here in Colorado it goes from winter at 7:00 am, to summer around noon, then skips up to fall right around dinner time. Talk about really experiencing the seasons. It can really put a damper on a girl’s wardrobe. When I pull myself out of bed all I can fathom wearing are long pants, sweaters, closed shoes and some sort of heavy coat. By the time lunch rolls around I’m so hot I could strip to my panties and not give care that my whole office got to see me mostly naked. I refrain, but the thought tempts me daily. I’m so garmently confused by the time I make it home I usually end up in some mis-matched array of tank tops, fleece pajama pants, and striped socks. With my nightly trips to Whole Foods they have to wonder what I actually do during the day to end up looking color blind and temperature challenged.

But, back to the point of this post. Fall, despite its manic temperature mood swings is my favorite season of all! Changing leaves, college football, apple pie, soup being back in season… all reasons I love this crazy time of year.

The leaves beginning to change in Iowa.
The leaves beginning to change in Iowa.