Let’s not be shy now.

So… I don’t know about you, but traveling does a number on my digestive track. It really doesn’t matter what I eat or where I am, I’m inevitably followed by a serious string of stomach issues. A few weeks back I was out of town and woke up feeling less than 100%. I hopped in the car and proceeded to drive around until I found a grocery store because the only thing (at the point) that could help was some Immodium. I pull into the only grocery store I can see. Turns out it’s a local Hispanic store, which is great, unless you need to track down some Immodium, stat. I’m meandering, half panicked through the isles looking for something to aid my pain and it’s NO WHERE to be found. Seriously… I could not find a thing. I end up walking to the front of the store and realize they keep all of their drugs and “over the counter” items behind the front counter of the store. I stumble up to the front, right as a manager approaches me and mutters in a heavy Hispanic accent “Can I help you find anything?”… I glance around and realize there is a check out girl and at least 3-4 other men just staring at me, waiting for my response. Awkward moment.

I can feel the red splotches making their way up my chest to my face, and my cheeks are getting hotter as my anxiety builds. I glance around one last time before whispering “Well, I was looking for some Immodium”. He gives me this quizzical look like I’ve just asked for dragon eggs and proceeds to yell up to the front counter “DO WE HAVE ANY IMMODIUM?”. Now, as if having to explain to a group of men that I needed Immodium, then direct them that it may be near the Pepto Bismol/Tums… he shouts it so the entire store can enjoy this pathetic show that is generally my life. I step up to the counter just in time to be handed a large bottle of sea-foam green Immodium AD. I then hand it back insisting that the small bottle will work just fine.

With my face burning some un-before seen shade of red, I turn and as quickly as possible ask the amused check out lady to hand me a bag. I don’t believe I’ve ever scurried out of a store so quickly in my life. Oh, and by the way… nastiest stuff I’ve ever had to drink. But, it sure did the trick.

Lesson learned: I will always make sure to carry on a small bottle of Immodium for just such an occasion.

Charles with a healthy helping of pie.

My dog, the precious little jerk that he is… hasn’t been feeling so hot lately. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this before, but if I have you get to hear it all over again. And you’re going to like it. Lucky you.


About a year after I got this wonderful, urine filled darling he starting acting very lethargic, not eating and there for a while he gave up moving at all. I took him to the CSU vet hospital (one of my least favorite places seeing as after only an hour they brutally begin to remove your soul from your body). After extensive blood testing, about $1,000 and 3 conversations referencing “putting him down” we were told that he has a “Portacaval Liver Shunt”. I’m not a doctor (or vet), and since I can’t stand the site of blood or dealing with other’s/dogs bodies/functions I don’t think I ever will be. BUT, hearing the terms, “put him down”, “liver shunt”, “medication” etc. were more than enough to instill the fears of horrendous vet bills and extensive dog barf into my psyche.

To sustain his current physical condition he is currently on medication 3 times a day and presciption dog food. Protein free of course because with this little diagnosis and medical regimen comes the “No Protein EVER Rule”. What kind of life is that for a dog? No protein? No bologna, american cheese, chicken livers, or turkey gibblets? Not sure I’d want to stick around long either!

Now, knowing all of this, please try to picture me explaining this to my 74 year old father. It went a little something like this:

Me: Dad… Charlie, your beloved grand-dog has an un-curable liver shut and can NEVER, may I repeat NEVER have any protein or he will flop down, seize up and die in front of your very eyes. Got it?

Dad: What? What!!?? How can this be? No protein? He’s a dog. Do you get that? HE. IS. A. DOG. Dog’s need protein to live. What will he eat?!? This is no life for a dog. Poor dog. Poor, poor dog.

Me: Are we clear then? No protein… today, tomorrow, EVER!

Dad: Yeah, yeah I got it.

So after that joy of a conversation I assumed the issue had been put to bed. Good night protein issue. But I was wrong. Boy oh boy was I wrong. Did you know that beans don’t have protein? Oh and neither does pie. Pie is especially good for dogs with liver problems. “Helps them grow hair on their chests”… according to my father. I swear.

So between dosings of pie, beans, and protein laden dog food… Charles has been on the out-and-out these past few days. Lots of sleep, no energy… oh and that big tumble ALL the way down the stairs. It sounded something like “thud, thud, thud, clunk, thud, thud, thud, thud, bam, thud, whimper, thud, boom”. Yes, Charles fell all the way down the stairs. Apparently when he gets protein all the toxins go straight to his brain. If/when he dies, I swear I’m going to put “Death by pie” on his tombstone.

Off to the land of corn and soy beans.

I’m taking a little trip. To Iowa. Have I peaked your interest yet? No? There is something wrong with you.

Iowa seems to be a forgotten state. There aren’t any MAJOR U.S. landmarks (unless you count the toothpick museum in Gladbrook as a national¬† treasure), there aren’t an un-godly amount of 5-star restaurants (in fact I’m not sure that there is even one), there aren’t any mountains, and clearly there isn’t a beach. All of these reasons have to play a part in why no one goes to Iowa of their own volition. Everyone just writes Iowa off, ignores it and decides to burrow the nugget of knowledge telling them that Iowa exists right into the back of their brain, next to the book report they did in 3rd grade on Betsy Ross.

Well, I for one am pumped to be heading to the great state of corn. Oh did I mention corn? Must not have. Corn has to be the #1 reason to visit Iowa. It’s everywhere… and honestly if you want to enjoy your time there check the local corn forecasts because if it’s not “knee-high by the fourth of July” it could be a rough trip.

Seeing (for me) as all good trips revolve around food…these are the 5 things that will make the entire trip worth while. You’ll need to check these bad boys out if you want to die happy.

1.) Old Dutch dill potato chips. Heaven on a dill chip.

2.) Puffed corn. I told you they loved their corn.

3.) Meat. It just tastes better. I think having grown up in a city left me deprived of fresh meat. Straight from the cow… or pig… or chicken.

4.) Maid-Rites. If you don’t know what a Maid-Rite is then you’re missing one of the 10 wonders of the culinary world. Please get in your car, drive to Marshalltown, IA and check out Taylor’s Maid-Rite before you continue to read on. Thanks.

5.) Zeno’s Pizza. Love it, end of story.

There is more.¬† Much, much more… like mini-doughnuts and homeade noodles, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you. For insight into “Iowa life” check this out! I’ll be meeting Bethany (cornfever.com) for dinner and if my intuition is correct I’ll have some sort of life changing adventure to report back on. Wish me luck.

A woeful me tale…

If you met me you would think I was rather normal… maybe a bit on the tall side (and by tall side I mean borderline amazon porportions), but normal. Well this would be where you are wrong. Very, very wrong. I’m a klutz with a serious deficiency in normal coordination. Walking into walls, falling on my face, tripping… are all things that I was born to do. Not sure what mother nature had in mind when she bestowed this little gift of clumsiness on me, but being the good sport I am, I make the best of it.

Note: You should know that at my house we have dog gates… they are pretty much like baby gates only with a “dog” label, allowing them to be horrendously overpriced. They are about 3.5 ft. tall and span the length of two doorways.

Ok, so here’s the story: I was on the phone chit-chatting away about a very important hike I would be going on the next day. I determined that this vital conversation would be much better if I had it on the front porch, so I attempted to hop (a word I use in replacement of awkwardly maneuver my tall klutzy body over a dog gate) over the gate so I can arrive at my aforementioned destination. During this little adventure, I end up kicking the gate and yelling in to the phone about how I hurt my toe. I’m moaning and sighing about the pain while thinking that the only way I can be feeling this much pain is if the bone is sticking through my skin while simultaneously shattering into hundreds of pieces. My eyes well up and I begin to truly admire the burning sensation that is making its way up my left leg. It burned… not just hurt, but burned. Bad.

From there I hobbled around the house for a bit thinking that I’m clearly a wimp. Who moans and groans about a stubbed toe? Who can’t walk without looking like a bumbling idiot? Me, of course. I then determined after trying on my tennis shoes that I needed new hiking boots. Have you ever tried on hiking boots (multiple pairs of hiking boots) after hurting your toe? No? Well I can attest that it is a very poor idea indeed. After stumbling about and moaning for 20 minutes in our local Sports Authority I bought a pair of B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L Columbia hiking boots. I basically fell in love.

When you buy hiking boots you have to break them in… generally you do this over a few days, maybe a week or two. I decided one night would be enough for me, and my feet would just have to deal with the consequences the next day. I threw on some socks and laced those bad boys up for a few hours of “breaking in”. When I took them off my toe was purple… and so was part of the toe next to it… and so was a large portion of the left side of my foot. I broke it. Go me.

From there I decided that breaking a toe was most likely the lamest excuse a person could have for getting out of hiking a mountain. I decided to hike the 14,400 ft. with a broken toe. Which in turn only made it worse. So now a large portion of my foot is blue. But it was totally worth it. Every single second. You would have done it too (well maybe not) for this view:

The end. Aren’t you glad you stuck around for that one? Maybe I’ll get around to posting the pics of my toe… then again maybe not.

An ode to my future ex-roommate.

So… when I moved in with my current roommate (last summer) I figured only one of us would make it out alive. Clearly if it had come down to it I would have lived simply because I have a sick round-house kick that would kick her lame excuse of an upper cut’s ass. However, that is besides the point…

Everyone said “you two will never make it”, “I bet this only lasts a month”, “You’re going to hate each other”. Well to all of those lame naysayers its been a year and a half and truly we can barely go four hours without talking. Romantic, no? At a BBQ a few months ago people inquired “Are they lesbians?”… we’re that close. But, no, sadly we are not lesbians, but two single girls in this quest to have fun and avoid long term commitments with the opposite sex. So far so good on that front.

So Meghan, these are the things I like about you… oh and I tossed in a few I don’t just to spice it up.

1. I like that you go to the bathroom in my bathroom so we can continue a conversation… regardless of the business you have to do or how serious its about to get.

2. I like that we can wash our underwear together.

3. I like that you eat everything I make and at least pretend to like it. Especially when its so spicy we have heartburn and other digestive issues for days.

4. I don’t like that your perpetually late because you “HAD” to talk to someone for 2 hours before exiting Miramont. No one EVER needs to talk that long. Shut up already.

5. I like that I can shoot you with a Nerf gun and you like it.

6. I don’t like that you don’t know how to make my dog pee on command.

7. I like that you think all my jokes regarding “your mom” and bodily functions are hilarious and worthy of tears.

8. I like that we each drink a bottle of wine on Mondays and then hate ourselves for the next week — because we both get hangovers that last a week.

9. I like it that we can drink again the next Monday, but only after a $45 trip to Panda Express.

10. I don’t like that you had to go get a freaking job and ruin my ability to eat Chef Boyardee out of the can, AT HOME for lunch.

11. I like that you have midget feet. Because they are freakishly small and I can make fun of them.

12. I like that we took a Christmas card picture and sent out Christmas cards like we’re a real family. You, me, and Charles. I still can’t figure out why people thought we were lesbians.

13. I like that you convince me that wine and french fries will have the same effect as an hour of working out… its a wonder I’m not a stick by now.

14. I don’t like that you eat mushrooms… in front of me.

15. And finally, I like that there is NEVER a dull moment is the house of Megan and Meghan. Between goodwill hunts, permanently scaring the neighbors and convincing ourselves that we could win both “American Idol” and “So you think you can dance” simultaneously there is clearly not a spare moment for boredom or a lack of entertainment causing us to roll on the floor due to spasms.

So… now that we are officially in each others hypothetical weddings (which of course will never happen because that’s how we roll)… we say goodbye. And then plan to hang out Monday because 1 day apart is far too long. I mean who will I pee with?


Moving Season

Moving Season
Moving Season

Once again, it’s moving season here in the Megan and Meghan household. You ask “What is this talk of moving season?”. Well I am here to fill you in on the wonders and joys of moving season.

Moving season is like being pregnant with out the morning sickness and birth of a jam handed, sticky child nine months later. You can eat what you want, when you want because after all god forbid we waste food. At the same time eating out everyday is equally acceptable as you don’t want to dirty the dishes you already packed or exert any additional energy planning a meal.

In our house moving season also consists of burning a new CD featuring the likes of Kelly Pickler, Miley Cyrus, Madonna and other artists that allow us to sing out our frustration at the fact that the hand blender just *won’t* fit into that box. We also take advantage of the ability to drink. Wine, blended beverages, bloody mary’s, mojitos etc. Similar to food we just can’t let good alcohol go to waste… we would have to do some serious repentance if we did that. Maybe I could hit up the confessional for that one… then again maybe not.

So if you’re having a dull day or are in need of some strategically placed frustration head on over. We’ll feed you creamed corn, Lima beans, and a half a trout (that’s really all we have left), while making you a mojito with brandy (well after all we drank the rum already, geez you have high expectations).

I don’t like to cuddle… And?

So in general people like to cuddle. Snuggle up on the couch during a movie, lay by a fireplace being all romantic, just canoodle in bed a bit before falling asleep… personally I don’t like to be touched for extended periods of time. I can’t for the life of me figure out how the hell you fall asleep with someone touching you. I can actually produce REAL anxiety over the thought of having to share a bed with someone later in life. I sweat bullets, obsess over it and honestly figure that the fact I can’t lie next to my future boyfriend/husband/whomever will be the end of that relationship.

Maybe I should invest in a King bed, though I think that’s a bit of overkill considering the only people in my bed at this time are me and my 8 lb. dog with an attitude. Not to mention the $1,000 price tag associated with my over zealous attempt to crush my cuddle anxiety.

Now that I have discouraged any guy from ever wanting to date me… I’ll continue in my queen bed anxiety free. Phew, solved that one.

Busy, busy busy.

The next few weeks are probably going to kill me, just kill me dead. Ok, ok I’m exaggerating, but nonetheless they are going to be one crazy, hectic mess. I’m getting ready to move (see Housing Gods) to Denver, trying to prepare for family and friends to come into town for my sister’s graduation party, plan to make about 6 million cupcakes and dinner at least one night. I’m about 98.45% sure that I’ll end up at the party in desperate need of a shower with CRAZY hair and a frosting mustache, but I mean I’ll need a snack for later right?

So I’ll stop going on and on about the details of my week… though let me just tell you today started with a painful bang. It was one of those bad days for the books. Good thing I’ve got my newest discovery on hand to cheer me right up… Portable Applesauce

I found this little wonder in our new Whole Foods (there’s a whole different post for that one). Portable applesauce? Why didn’t I think of that? You can drop this little guy in your back pocket, your purse, stick it in the glove box or under you pillow at night for a snack. We all know I love a good snack, so why not?