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

Overwhelmed and full of the “I’ll be happy when…” syndrome. I’d think about everything I didn’t have, what was going wrong, what I could be doing, who I was letting down and there wasn’t a way to escape the doldrums of my everyday life. I’d think “If I didn’t have to commute an hour each way I’d be happy”, “If I lose 10 lbs, I’ll be happy”, “If I get Charles his surgery I’ll be happy”, “If I didn’t have so much to do I’d be happy”. But, you know what, the moment I get those things, I find something else to base my happiness on. Which is a never-ending and, ahem, unhealthy cycle. Life slows down and I have time to be bored, I feel lazy and lonely. I lose 10 lbs. and realize I won’t be happy until another 10 lbs. is gone. Get the picture?

I read a quote somewhere, please forgive the paraphrasing, about how you put things off with the “someday” tag and hope you’ll get back to them, you’ll go to Italy someday, you’ll buy a house someday, you’ll go to the gym someday. But, someday is today. I need to stop putting off my life, and, most likely, so do you.

There are so many things I’m blessed to have and experience. I want to focus on that, I want to focus on the family that I love, my wonderful friends, my amazing boyfriend, my sweet puppy, living in beautiful Colorado, all the traveling I get to do, being financially stable, being healthy, etc.

So here it is. I’m on a quest to …

I was a little shocked when I picked him up that 1.) his incision was GINORMOUS and 2.) that he was so out of it. Each call from the dr. and his student made it seem as if Charles was up and running around, eating and making friends with everyone. Not so. He was acting like a tiny sickling that needed constant care.

Fast forward about a week and the little man is living in onesies, so that he doesn’t lick/chew out his stitches. This wardrobe choice has also lead to a few wonderful potty problems from wetting his onesie to having some poo trouble in the onesie. He’s in desperate need of a bath. Desperate.

I took him to get his stitches out on Saturday and he decided the night before to help the dr.’s out a bit. He took out the top 1/3 by himself. The only reason I let him out of his onsie was because my mom kept saying, ALL WEEK, “He’s just licking, he leaves them alone except for some licking. He won’t tear them out”. Well she was wrong.

Nonetheless, he seems to be doing well. I’m jamming his Amoxicillin pills down twice a day in addition to his normal medication and prescription kibble routine. I’ll keep you posted, but so far so good.

P.S. I forgot to mention that I caught him eating his own poop. I can barely look at him. Maybe the antibiotics give it some extra spice? Here’s to hoping it was a one time thing. (crossing fingers now)

I took Charles up to the CSU vet hospital for some puppy surgery today. I believe I’ve mentioned his liver ailment here before, but I haven’t been doing many updates because it’s a bit of a downer. I took Chuck in for his annual appointment at the end of June only to learn that his blood work was extremely off — giving him a time line of about 6 months. I cried a lot. I found out at work, spent the rest of the day in and out of tears with my door shut. I figured that was better than having my co-workers question why I had disappeared and an ogre had moved into the room I usually work in.

Crying isn’t a pretty endeavor for me.

All I knew was that I couldn’t watch my sweet Charles suffer through seizures and other neurological symptoms while there was something I could be doing about it. So after a month and a half of “thinking about it”,  I finally took him get all fixed up. The funny thing is, I’m scared I made the wrong decision.

The doctor was nice (or vet dr?), he seemed like he knew what he was talking about… and they let me leave Charles with his little stuffed frog. I have the overwhelming fear that he won’t make it out of surgery, that I won’t see him again. In reality the bigger worry is that he’ll come out of surgery and begin having violent seizures that won’t go away. That’s the 1/10 result. Scares the shit out of me.

I snuggled him last night, played frog with him this morning and told him I loved him and to be trooper tomorrow. I know I’m going to be an anxious mess until I get the after surgery report… but here’s to Charles getting better. To real dog food, swimming in his dog pool, long walks, fetch in the park and snuggles in the winter. I sure do love that little guy.

P.S. Have I mentioned that Charles is passionate about corn on the cob? Oh, that and he’s also a pro at getting every last kernel off!

I turn 24 today.

It’s weird, I feel like there is no way I’m already 24. When I was a little kid, 24 seemed so old, so mature. An age where things had fallen into place. An age where you had a great job, you had your own house, where you were dating the Ken doll. Where everything was glamorous. Not to say my life isn’t those things, but it’s weird to feel nothing like I dreamed I would.

This past year has literally flown by. I know things speed up as we age, but holy freaking cow. I  just remember being in elementary school praying for Christmas and all my presents to come faster, in contrast to now when I wish we could skip it all together because I don’t have time to shop. That’s been my life this year.

This past year I started commuting an hour each way to work, I met an amazing guy, I moved in with one of my best friends, I live near downtown, I traveled (North Carolina, Iowa, San Francisco, Louisville, Philadelphia, Indiana, Chicago, Los Angeles, and up to the mountains of CO), I climbed a fourteener and I got back to my roots and figured out what I believe. It was busy to say the least.

With that said, here are a 25 things I want to accomplish before I turn 25… before I’m a quarter of a century.

1. Spend a week on a beach. Any beach. Unplugged.
2. Re-work the design of this site.
3. Read 12 books, one per month.
4. Post 100 times… 30 will, hopefully, be cranked out in November.
5. Be healthy. Get back to working out and eating well.
6. Try yoga.
7. Take cooking classes.
8. Schedule time for myself each week.
9. Find a classy purse that suits me. And buy it.
10. Be able to do 10 push ups.
11. Attend Canvas and Cocktails.
12. Smile more often — especially at strangers.
13. Fix Charles. Surgery and all.
14. Be happy. So much of it is in my control.
15. Pick a cookbook and make all the recipes – except the ones with mushrooms or other inedible objects.
16. Tell everyone I love, why I love them.
17. Send more mail. Cards, packages, random gifts.
18. Stay up late drinking wine and talking, even though I have to work the next day.
19. Buy a pair of *perfect* boots for winter.
20. Spend a weekend in the mountains with friends.
21. Buy something from Etsy for someone and for my house.
22. Develop my favorite pictures and hang them up.
23. Be a positive impact. Be aware of what I do, what I listen to and how I behave. You never know who you’re impacting.
24. Eat locally and naturally. Try to buy local and eat out at local restaurants.
25. Stop to smell the flowers. This year flew by and I was constantly caught up in the day-to-day. I want to remember to take it one step at a time and pause to enjoy it!

Here’s to a great year ahead and a great year behind! Pizza, cake and vino tonight. The only way to celebrate!

It took 15 minutes down a dusty, dirt road to find his really long driveway. Once you arrived at the top of the drive, the farm was speckled with all kinds of buildings and corrals and sheds. Each day was a new adventure, we fed the chickens, gave the goats their annual shots, road the horse, fed the dogs, checked in on the chicks, and so on. Farm life. We got dirty every day and I loved each and every second.

In addition to all the crazy buildings and having a river that was 1/4 mile away there was also a cave on the property (freaking cool!)… and my dad had the key. The state had it gated off for preservation reasons.

On one particular day, I was out in Missouri visiting with a friend. The three of us (my dad, the friend and I) drove down the little, rocky dirt driveway and parked the mini-van.

Yes, my dad drove a mini-van, and if you asked him today what car he would want, if he could have any http://meganastout.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=952&action=editcar in the world? He would tell you a mini-van. That’s my dad.

We hauled ourselves out into the humidity and hiked up the hill to said cave. The friend and I slithered and crawled back to the gate where we worked to unlock it — a trickier endeavor than originally planned. Probably a broken lock. The friend then turns to tell me that it is unlocked, to express the joy at having defeated the dilapidated gate. As he’s speaking I start to notice that his gaze has shifted from looking directly at me to looking slightly above me. He says in the calmest voice he can muster, “Megan, don’t look up” … so… what do I do? What would any normal person do? I looked up. There were thousands, maybe millions of AMAZON-sized crickets covering the ceiling of the cave, only a few inches from the top of my head. This, my friends, is at the top of my list titled “Things I Fear”. Saying I was terrified doesn’t even begin to cut it. I screamed an endless, blood curdling, someone stabbed me in the chest scream and got out of that cave faster that I thought was humanly possible.

I didn’t stop at the cave entrance – too close. I RAN down the hill and locked myself in the mini-van and cried. It was hot, I almost died and I was chased down the hill by a swarm of angry, biting horse flies (ouch!). The bugs were out to get me that day. My dad and the friend made their way back to the car, but only after shooting a poisonous snake hanging from one of the tree branches I screeched past on my way down. I wish I could tell you what kind of snake it was but I was so focused on not being eaten alive by insects that I didn’t catch it’s name. You’re surprised. I know.

Sometimes I think about that day and how honestly scared I was. Rationally I know that the crickets weren’t going to all jump on me, crawl through my nose and eat me alive in that cave. I know it. Sort of. Even now, just the thought of them, squirming all over the ceiling is enough to evoke goose bumps on my arms and a lump in my throat. I am 100% terrified of bugs.

About six months later I went back and crawled the cave with a group of burly men. Examined bats. Counted spiders (from a VERY safe distance) and survived. Albeit a bit shredded and muddy. It was crazy both times and I can’t say that I’m keen on getting back into a cave. I can, however say that I’m so glad for the experience. For having gotten dirty and for going back when I didn’t think I could.

You have any good stories? Bugs? Going back?

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.

1.) Making something delicious for dinner.

2.) Going to the pool this weekend.

3.) Going to the beach in a couple of weeks.

4.) Disneyland.

5.) More summer BBQ’s.

6.) The leaves changing.

7.) The annual library book sale this fall. In which I get hundreds of books for next to nothing.

And just for fun a few things I’m not looking forward to:

1.) Buying Charles some dog surgery.

3,) The end of summer.

4.) Stepping in more barf. Or poop. Or other dog business.

What are you looking forward to?

*Photo Credits: Let Ideas Compete, Martin Cathrae, Visual Panic

So it’s been almost two months. I had originally intended on covering each day of my Philly tour, but I know, at this point I won’t be able to give each day the glory it deserves so… instead I’ll just cram it all into one post for your viewing pleasure. Better late than never I always say. Especially when it comes to the food porn I could post.

On a side note… have you ever visited Food Gawker? Talk about food porn, I have could spend hours on there collecting recipes and salivating over things I never knew existed. But I digress, as usual…

After a wonderful and lengthy plane ride in which my butt fell asleep within the first 20 minutes and I was forced to spend the next several hours moving my legs to prevent blood clots and sudden death, I arrived in the city of brotherly love. Which, by the way, what the hell?

It was late. I looked like some version of a haggard and dying Medusa so we went to bed… to make sure we’d be aptly ready for the days of adventure to come

Before we start day number 1, you should meet Liz. This is Liz — with me. She happens to be one cool lady and the reason I make annual trips to Philly. I love her face.

Day 1:

Breakfast at Sabrina’s, which is a BYOB. And was delicious to boot! Can I please just say that if Denver had BYOB’s I’d truly go broke. Delicious.

After breakfast we headed over to Eastern State Penitentiary. I have a thing for prisons and this was my second prison tour in 6 months. I have to say that Eastern State did not satisfy my morbid curiosity for prisons. I’m glad that there weren’t more human rights violations or cruelties recorded… but come on, it’s a freaking prison. We want horror stories not solitary confinement stories. Nonetheless, it was a beautiful and eery place located *right* in the middle of the city:

After a trip to the prison we hit up El Vez for some blood orange margaritas and guac before heading out with some amaza-town people for the night. I believe there was some sort of mixed drink concoction, gyros and some mini bottles of beer involved.

Day Two:

The heat — oh the heat. I left Denver in a blustering cold front only to arrive in Philly with 90 degree temperatures in the beginning of May. Holy hell the sweat and humidity. We had brunch at a place that will only be remembered for its lack of air conditioning. Then proceeded to shop around for things to add to our “random food + homemade bang bang shrimp + wine dinner”. And shop we did. Oh how I wish we had a Trader Joes and Italian neighborhoods here in CO. We also went to Tria for Sunday School (go, you won’t regret it) for some wine and cheese. And, a little more wine and cheese.

Day Three:

OMG with the food. OMG. That’s all I can say. This day is forever burned into my memory as one of the best things that ever happened to my mouth. We started the day out at Reading Terminal Market with a Philly cheese steak and a reuben. The cheese steak looks disgusting, but I inhaled it’s melty goodness  and Liz inhaled the reuben. And now I’m hungry.

After a few hours of shopping and a much needed trip to H&M (another thing Denver is missing…) we headed to Tinto for their delicious Sangria. Another restaurant that will be burned into my memory as amazing!

Later that day we went to Mercato. I could write an entire post on this place. It’s amazing — both times I’ve been there I’ve been utterly floored by what I was presented. So, to replay the food sex I had that night, here we go:

We started with wine, that we brought. Of course. Then some grilled artichokes with a citrus aioli. Holy tender heaven.

I had the pasta with broccoli rabe, homemade meatballs and Italian sausage in a tomato gravy. Yum.

Liz, the ordering genius, had the petite filet which came covered in truffle butter with asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes. If there was a second tier to heaven — this is what they serve. Honestly the best piece of meat, ever. And the truffle butter, if they’d given it to me I would have eaten the stick whole. Words can’t convey the amazingness of that meal.

We finished it off with some tiramisu and sorbet. They were alright — nothing in comparison to their predecessors.

We spent the rest of the night admiring Liz and Bailey’s mini-turtle and talking. My second trip to Philly was equally as great as the first and worth the little problem of buttoning my pants to get on the return flight. I can’t wait to go back — maybe for restaurant week? Hint, hint — nudge, nudge.

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.