Meganastout.com

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.

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.

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.

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.

I’m a big fan of comfort. I could live in sweatpants, shorts, pajamas, running skirts amongst a few other things. So soft, flowy, amazing. Now imagine my delight when I discovered that Christmas 2009 was going to involve a tacky sweater party. Because who doesn’t love a party that is based solely on comfort and tackiness? I have been elated and probably overly excited for the past month and a half. Part of this joy came from knowing my tacky sweater was going to put many others to shame. Shame I tell you. Not only was it tacky (because tacky it was), but it also played an array of Christmas tunes. I made everyone listen… which apparently looked like I was making them smell my sweater. Not awkward at all.

I decided that if you’re going to a tacky sweater party you have to do it right. No half-assing it for me. I decided to let Christmas throw up on me for a night and call it sexy. I’ve personally never been so attracted to myself. Amidst the madness and mayhem I forgot to get a full body shot… so you’ll have to do with the top half. In addition to the upper body amazingness I also had on knee high red/green striped socks with pom poms hanging down the side and fuzzy Christmas slippers. I realize that my description may cause some to feel intense feelings of attraction, but please try to restrain yourself. Check me out:

Ashlyn, Me and Jacqui (Schmacqui) getting tackified!

There was also a white elephant  and a plethora of wine to be had. At one point “Mr. Wee Wee” or whatever he is really called made an appearance. I surprised more than a few people and entertained comments about face peeing for the next several hours…

It was one amazing night all the way around.

I’ve been a little sleepy and/or out of it the past few days. So much going on… I’m just trying to not fall down the rabbit hole. I realize it’s probably not so good to start a story off with excuses, but I have to give you an idea of what we’re working with here. I’ve been so out of it I drank coffee EVERY day this week. I don’t even like coffee, but if I didn’t have it, I wasn’t going to make to the shower in the morning… let alone work.

So, today I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to get ready to go snowboarding in Keystone. No big deal. Pulled everything together, applied layer after layer of socks, pants, shirts etc. and stumbled out the door. Stopped for some coffee and was on my way. I made it to the meeting spot, switched my board, boots, bag and belongings to another car and settled in for the ride up. Right before we left I quick (well nothing was very quick this morning) ran meandered back to my car to grab the new CD I’d made. Can’t go on without it. Turned the car on, hit eject and ran back to deliver the goods. And deliver I did.

About, oh, 7 hours pass. We head back down the mountain and I realize I don’t have my keys. Can’t find them ANYWHERE. Not in my bag, not in my coat, not in my pants. NO WHERE. You want to know where they were? Take a guess. Really, do it. They were in the ignition. In a parking lot. For 7 hours. Now, before you tell me what an idiot I am (I know, I know), you have to know that I also left the car on. Battery is now dead and I’m out of gas.

*Insert laughter and head shaking here*

I’m an idiot. Example one.

We were no where near this coordinated.

Yeah, so I went to “step” class tonight with my friend Lindsey. She’s the one that was in the special looking photo with me from Race for the Cure, in case you’re keeping track. We decided to give it whirl, maybe get our arses kicked and go home sweaty. Instead we were surrounded by Cougars. 50 year old women with bodies harder than stone. They kicked our butts so far into last week I’m not sure I can show my face at that 24 hour fitness again.

They stepped, hopped, spun, tangoed and maneuvered themselves in ways that I thought only Shakira could handle.  While Lindsey and I, one row behind, gawked, hopped, laughed, stared and stood around lost for the better part of an hour. There were a few times we tripped, didn’t get our feet “fully” planted on the platform and definitely missed a few Mambo/Cha-cha steps on each round. If you’re ever looking for a good laugh, pay us to go again. The 55+ year old teacher didn’t know what to do with us, and clearly neither will you. If you’re stupid enough to video tape it… you might be lucky and find Nair in your shampoo. We learned our lessons: 1.) Scope out the class before you take it and 2.) We’ll never beat the Cougars, ever.

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.

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.

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.

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.