My crusty crusts:

She was left with only her husband at meal time:

I only wish I could be this balla’:

Sorry I blew myself up:

Makes me never want to nap again:

I have a habit of eliminating embarrassing stories from my memory. There are so many and they happen so frequently that you’d assume I would be able to remember them and regurgitate them on impulse. But, my friend, this is just not the case. My brain blocks them out until something happens to dislodge the memory. And on that note, I can’t believe I’m actually going to tell this story to the Internet, but here goes nothing…

So, I sun sneeze. When I walk outside on a sunny day, I sneeze. Usually more than once.  I don’t know why I do this, but Wikipedia assures me that I am not alone. I’ll walk out of my office, feel the sun on my face and then suddenly and overwhelmingly be struck by the urge to sneeze. I’m not a quiet sneezer or a delicate sneezer — when I sneeze I just pray that afterward I’m still in one piece. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t…

My senior year of high school I was dating a boy rather seriously, er, as seriously as you can back in high school. My family spent Easter with just my mom and I grabbing brunch at Great Northern (ahem, at the bar because that’s all they had) while my sister sat pouting in the car after the firestorm argument that was regular for us at the time. I’d had enough “quality family time” and decided to take my boyfriend up on his offer to spend Easter with his family. His “quality family time” really qualified as quality… not just yelling and screaming and everyone ending up in their own corners like my family seemed to do. He lived in Conifer, me in Denver. I got in my red Chevy Blazer and set some jams for the 45 minute drive to his parents.

It was a beautiful day and, for once, I didn’t really mind the drive. With the sun shining, music playing – I made it there in no time. There were so many people at his house — my family all lives out-of-state so we’ve never really had anyone around for the holidays. I loved it. We all ate and talked and spent time together. It was what I envisioned a perfect family looked like.

After lunch the kids were getting ancy to start hunting down some Easter eggs. His mom asked if I would help hide the eggs, I agreed and tried to hit the bathroom before heading out. They had several bathrooms, but they were all occupied and those eggs just weren’t going to hide themselves. I made my way outside, against my better judgment. Once outside I stepped off the deck onto the lawn carrying my bag of eggs when it hits me. The overwhelming, paralyzing need to sneeze. And sneeze I do. But, the difference between this sneeze and the many sneezes that had plagued me prior to that day was the little detail that my bladder decided to “sneeze” along with the rest of my body. I peezed if you will. Or, in laymen’s terms, I peed my pants, at my boyfriend’s family gathering, 45 minutes away from my house.

I tossed my sack of eggs at the boyfriend and ran down the hill, around the house, in the back door to the basement. I then quietly scurried to the bathroom outside his room where I proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes “dabbing” the urine from my pants with toilet paper and praying to the lord of pants to miraculously dry them and make it all go away. Needless to say both attempts were futile. After a considerable amount of time he came down to see if I was alright… probably assuming I was having some other explosive bathroom issues, but checking on me nonetheless. I yelled from the bathroom that I needed one of his shirts to wear — it had to be longer than mine and if I was lucky it might just cover the “I wet my pants” wet spot covering my rear end. He forked it over and I changed… it only helped a bit.

He left me to “finish”, whatever that means. I ran out to my car and grabbed a sweatshirt I could tie around my waist. It was so warm, the thought of wearing a sweatshirt was truly ridiculous, but I had no options. NO OTHER OPTIONS, PEOPLE. After tying the ever so attractive knot around my waist I walked back up the hill to join the festivities. I’d missed most of it. The eggs had been hidden and found. The kids were eating candy and there I was.  I found a stone retaining wall that appeared to be absorbing some heat. I lifted up the sweatshirt and proceeded to stick my urine soaked pants on the wall. Hoping and praying to God that it would dry them quicker. It was more than a little awkward to sit there, loner-style.

(Side note… I, to this day, wonder what his family thought. I disappeared for a half hour and reappeared wearing my boyfriends shirt. I sit on a far off retaining wall and keep a safe distance from any of his relatives. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been impressed.)

Eventually I assessed the situation and determined I was cleared for lift off… and re-joined the party as if nothing had ever happened. I said my goodbyes and went home. The moment I walked in the door I couldn’t get those pants off fast enough.

I asked the boyfriend if he had noticed or knew what was going on a year and half later and was happy to know he was completely clueless.

Now, in an effort of pant and ego preservation I cross my legs when I sneeze. So far so good.

Most likely you don’t really want to hear about the mushy stuff? Maybe you do, I don’t know. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing or what I want, so how am I suppose to know what you want. With that said, here is how our first date went.

We’d emailed back and forth for a few weeks trying to plan a time to get together and play some volleyball. We finally figured out a time at the local rec center. November 1. I was in Vail the night before for Halloween and high-tailed it down to Denver to meet up with Christian. He picked me up at my house and we headed to the rec center. Turns out they only say they have open volleyball, but since no one ever shows up it doesn’t actually happen. Cue awkward moment with both of us staring at each other blankly in silence because the WHOLE REASON we got together was to play volleyball. Now we’re all alone, no plan and awkwardness so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Because I am a genius, I suggested we play some basketball (well horse, but same thing in my book). He showed me how to improve my shot and cheered me on when I made one out of every 12 shots I took (a real gentleman). I was a rock star. He was much better.

After our impromptu game of horse — which I barely terribly lost, we headed to Jamba Juice. He paid. Now cue awkward moment #2. Maybe we’re on a date and I didn’t know it?

After slurping down some frozen fruit he suggested we watch a movie at his place, dun dun dun. So we picked out Just Married and headed over to his house. I left my coat on, and sat on the section of the couch without a back. Not touching him, not anywhere near him, bolt upright, wondering what the hell was going on. Most guys I knew used the ‘ol “watch a movie” line as a cue to eat your face. I stayed a safe distance just to be safe.

He drove me home, walked me to the garage and watched me punch in the numbers. I can remember the horrifying feeling in my stomach as the garage lifted to reveal all the crap I had stored in there. Then he left. The end. I sound like a great date don’t I?

Something must have gone right because since then it’s been nothing but rainbows and butterflies. Here are a few of my favorite moments:

I love you Christian!

(cue the end of violins and sappy music)

I love food. Almost all of my posts make some reference to food, my love for it, going to get it, not being able to move because I ate so much my pants won’t zip and I have to be in a horizontal position so I can suffer less than if I were standing.

Sometimes I spend time thinking about Anorexia — and how there is no way in hell, even if the only thing available for eating was mushrooms, would I be able to not eat. Maybe for about an hour and then my hunger would take over and I’d devour the mushrooms, gagging them down the whole way. Barf, makes me want to barf thinking about it. Mushrooms… and raw tomatoes happen to be two of the things I don’t want in my mouth. Ever.

Back to eating. I think about it. I remember being in high school, in Hawaii on vacation, and right after eating breakfast I wanted to know where we were eating lunch and dinner. Why you ask? Oh, because I wanted something to look forward to. As if HAWAII wasn’t enough.

I get to work in the morning and begin planning out my snacking schedule in my head — right up there with my to do list and checking all my emails.

9:17 – WALNUTS AND A TOOTSIE POP!

10:46 – APPLE WITH PEANUT BUTTER AND HONEY!

12:32 – LUNCH, It’s time for LUNCH!!

2:13 – COOKIE TIME!!

I really am that excited, but only in my head. So, when it comes time to diet or eat “healthy”, my whole being suffers. It’s hard for me to dream about celery or fantasize about dried peas. So instead I dwell on everything I can’t eat, like that cinnamon roll with the cream cheese frosting or a good ‘ol box of mac ‘n cheese.

Knowing all of this, I have to tell you that I’ve gain a bit of weight. I haven’t gained 50 lbs. or anything, but I’ve gained more than I would have liked. Damn all that delicious pizza and birthday cake I consumed over the month of August.

I weighed the most I’ve ever weighed mid-way through my senior year in college. I spent the next 5-6 months working out, eating little and building some unhealthy habits. But, I lost about 20 lbs and kept most of it off until this summer when I threw caution into the wind and ate like crazy. I’m blaming part of it on having a roommate and a boyfriend that throughly enjoy delicious food. Cheesecake anyone? The answer is almost always a resounding yes.

So, I’m trying to get healthy, again. Trying  get back down to where I was and then some, but do it in a healthier way. I’m nervous. Losing weight sucks because not eating french fries sucks. But, that’s not why I’m nervous.  I’m nervous because I’m telling you, and you, and you. And now I have to be accountable. I have a fear of failure… so be nice. K?

*Photo Credit: B Tal

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.

On that note, Charles is a crazy sleeper. He sleeps with me most nights, so I would know. Occasionally he’ll curl up at the end of the bed and stay that way the entire night — rare but it does happen. Most nights he’s up and wiggling about. He’ll toss, turn and scratch until he’s happy. If it’s a really rough night he’ll get up, move around and then throw his 8 lb. body against my back. Just thrash and toss to make sure that I know he’s not a happy camper. He’s really precious. I swear.

Amongst his crazy sleeping habits are his crazy sleeping positions. With his liver problem he is often exhausted to the point of being floppy. You can contort him about like a rag doll and he will barely open his eyes. He will let you do as you will. This being the case, he falls asleep and happily remains in some of the most bizarre places and positions. Because I love my dog and want to share his joy with the world, I (the ever generous picture sharer) am here to document his greatest moments. Tada:

Told you they were good.

Can't quite pull his last leg into the bed.

Between a pillow and a soft spot.

Half-n-half. Can't quite pick a position, so he just combines them.

Wedged between the side of the couch and the cushion...

Feeling floppy.

Taking cover for his nap. Under a magazine that is.

Isn’t he precious? I thought so too.

I printed out my ticket for the trip. My United account knows me as “Ms Megan A Stout”, but when they insert that name on my boarding pass I become Megan Stoutams. I don’t have one thing against the last name “Stoutams”; I find it rather unique and surprisingly appealing. Judge my taste, as you will. I made sure to get to the airport early because with my luck the TSA might mistake MEGAN STOUTAMS for a drug toting terrorist or some other heathen. But, alas I was just fine and the “Stoutams” mistake was easily explainable. I had extra time to sample some fine Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavors and take a mini food tour of DIA’s B terminal. Not a bad start to a weekend jam-packed with eating.

I board the plane and have an actual assigned seat. Seeing as most of the time I fly Southwest, the economical option, I’m not used to knowing where I’ll sit. I sort of miss the cattle herd seat picking, but made the best of it. I was against a window and went between hoping someone exciting would sit next to me and hoping that it would be someone who would pass out and leave me alone. Always such a tough call when you’re about to embark on a 3-hour sardine can adventure. To end the suspense, I ended up next to a man from China. I know he was from China because China was the only word he knew in the English language. China, china, china… was all he could say. Lots of nodding, pointing and looks but China was all I ever got out of him. I figured due to the language barrier it would be a fairly uneventful flight, it wasn’t exactly eventful but we did have a few encounters.

Encounter #1: The Drink Cart. Seeing as my new pal’s only word was China, the “What would you like to drink sir” question can pose quite a problem. He shifted his gaze quickly between me and our flight attendant, clearly unsure how to ask for what he wanted. I kept making a motion for drinking and pointing. I’m also embarrassed to say that I probably raised my voice, like those ignorant people who assume “Don’t speak English” also means deaf. I’m embarrassed to even admit that. Eventually the flight attendant held up a can of orange juice (p.s. orange juice in a can is NEVER good, NEVER) and he nods, takes it and sets it on the tray in front of him.

Encounter #2: Magical Pockets. To fully explain this mishap you have to understand that the man I was sitting next to was very slight. A tiny, thing. He was probably in his 50’s, wearing black jeans a button down shirt and a suit-ish jacket. All fitting quite well. Throughout the flight I would look over and my new-found friend would be eating cookies, or candy, or other things that I have no idea about because they looked weird and the boxes were written in, I’m assuming, Chinese. But, the kicker is they just appeared. He didn’t dig in a bag; he pulled them out of pockets, the back of his pants… and who knows where else. The man was magical. When he finished his food he would stick it back in and you’d never detect that he had a thing on him.

Encounter #3: The Disappearing Canned Orange Juice. So… he never drank his orange juice. It sat on his tray for some time and then disappeared. I fell asleep for a bit and noticed it was gone when I woke up. Tray still down. I assumed, like any normal person, that he probably threw it away. But no, he pulled it out from behind him a few minutes later and stuck it back on the tray. Whenever the flight attendants would pass by he would quickly stuff the un-opened can behind him. Not sure why. Maybe he thought they would take it away? Eh? So now his magical pockets are hoarding all kinds of goodies and a can of fake orange juice.

Encounter #4: We were about to land and he whips out the in-flight magazine, hurriedly turns to the page with the United States mapped out and arrows showing exactly where United flies. He frantically starts pointing to Washington D.C. (where we were about to land) and looks at me confused. I nod a lot which apparently suffices as he then puts the magazine in the seat back pocket and turns back to facing forward.

Encounter #5: The Standing. When my seat buddy got on the plane I was already sitting down. I think, by looking at me, it’s easy to tell I’m not a “petite” person. But, you know I’ve been wrong before. After the plane finally landed and I got up I watched my friend size me up slowly as I stood and ever so slightly stare at how I stood over a foot taller than him. Mouth open, gapping. I’m an Amazon. He told me. He followed me off the plane and was meandering behind me looking lost; probably assuming he’d just follow me to the baggage area. Well, I’d been sitting next to a window for 3 hours and if I didn’t get myself to a bathroom stat I’d have quite a different story to tell. So I lost him at the bathroom.

Au Revoir my new-found, non-English speaking, mini friend.

Wow, this post is getting out of control. The last leg of my adventure was only semi-interesting. I got to walk on the TARMAC. When I think of people walking out to their special little planes I feel a little twinge of jealousy, so I was feeling extra special that I got to walk down the tarmac. That is, until I actually climbed the stairs and stood a full 6 inches taller that the aircraft. 6 inches. Which means I was probably 7 or 8 inches taller than the actual interior of the plane. Special feeling gone. And, the plane was small, so I not only didn’t feel special, but I was convinced, for all 20 minutes we were in the air, that I might fall and die. I didn’t, which is good. Here’s a picture of my fabulous flying trash can:

And here’s how I felt about being a passenger on it:

Then I made it to Philly… The End. Well sort of, more Philly adventures to come.

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.

1. Pants. Try buying some when you have a 36″ inseam. Not only is it intensely frustrating, but expensive. That’s just jeans and dress pants. If I want pj pants its going to be special order. Jealous? Or I could just buy the size 18 and have them taken in because according to the apparel industry, wide also equals tall.

2. Heels. I love them, but when I’m a good 6″ taller than everyone around me I don’t feel attractive, I don’t feel girly, I just feel like a BEAST. And, nothing you say will change that. When you wear heels and reach a towering 5′ 9″ it is not the same thing. Just doesn’t compare.

3. Awkwardness. It just comes with territory, or at least for me. You’ve got all these extra inches of limbs just waiting to flail, bang into something, throw your center of gravity off and steer you into the wall in front of large groups of people. Also quite prone to falling, tripping, stumbling, and tumbling down stairs.

4. Beds. They just aren’t long enough. Ever been to Europe? You’d swear it was a continent of midgets. My legs hung off from mid calf down in just about every bed I slept in. Talk about comfort, I’ve never been so comfortable in my whole life. Not.

5. Basketball. “Did you play basketball?”. For the 100th time. No. Stop asking.

6. Planes… well transportation really. Leg room is abysmal in most every form of transportation.I had a friend mention that she loves car trips because there’s room to move around. I had to pause… is there room in cars? I feel squished, cramped and uncomfortable. But, then again if your 5′ 4″ you’ve got all the space in the world. In my car, the seat is all the way back and my knees still hit the steering wheel. It’s a great time. Really, you should try it.

7. Dancing. Back to awkward… limbs flailing, awkward movements… When people suggest a dance competition I counter with how about a “sway” competition. I’ve got swaying down, pat.

8. Being Asked. When someone finds out how tall I am, their jaw seriously drops and they are like, “REALLY!?!”. Saying the actual numbers adds to the overall effect. It’s not a freak show, move along people.

9. Stares. I once wore heels out and received stare after stare after stare. The only comment I received all night was, “Wow, you must be one confident woman”. Um… in comparison to you smerf, yes I am. Thankyouverymuch.

10. Photos. I’m either in the back or bent into some contorted position. Attractive? Yes.

So, for the 100th time. Being tall is great but it also has its moments… Enough already.

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?