Welcome to My Brain, Please Take a Seat...or a Number...or an Egg-Free Noodle.

Have you ever had the inkling to create but you didn't have a damn clue what you would be capable of creating in the first place?  Story of my life.  I know for a fact that I was a creative-creator with a vast array of capabilities and talents in one of my previous lives.  I can FEEL this in muh bones.  The only problem is, the current me, the real me, the me in this present dimension doesn't have a damn clue what she is capable of creating.  I am an amalgam of randomness with a side of  passion and adventure.  I want to explore painting, and singing, and writing, and drawing but I'm not so sure I rock at anything except for maybe writing.  And even that's more of a slow roll than an actual fist-in-the-air jolty and confident "rock." 

I don't think I will ever grow into my own skin.  I have realized as I get older I am more confident in the understanding of my own self and my own limitations in this world.  But I do not believe that I will ever fully blossom out of my limitations.  I feel that I am many different 'me's" in a sea of standard and self aware personalities.  How can you limit your mind down to one creation and visualize that from the beginning and see it through to the end with no interruption or sudden, "SQUIRREL" moments?  I long for that.  Start me on a task to sew a hat and we'll finish by booking a hiking trip in Europe.  Random, randomness. 

This is the main reason why, when I am told, "Hey, has anyone ever told you, 'you should write a book?'"  I feel my innards roll up inside of an imaginary snail shell and shut the entrance door.  Seeing a process from conception, visualizing the entire process, and successfully ending it in the way that it was meant to end from the beginning is as foreign to me as a Siamese cat-meat cheese ball being served at a kid's Birthday Party.  What?? 

There is no thinking through in this brainacle of mine.  There is only impulse and reaction, and hilarity, and seizing of le moments.  At times I wonder if my friends and husband have ever conspired to tranquilize me.  I am notorious for getting in over my head and jumping in before realizing there are THINGS TO PLAN BEFORE JUMPING.  And then I freak.  And I properly blame everyone else for this horrible experience and bad planning.  Ah, it is me, I say.  I am my own worst....limmitator?  It's like being a laminator, but instead of laminating things, you are...wait for it...LIMMITING THINGS.  New word, BOOM.

Plus I like to yell when I get excited, I don't think that would read well in books.

Maybe that is why I love my current job so much.  There are no set expectations for the day.  I have an overall goal, but my Thursday could very realistically start super mundane and end in a resident forgetting to put their clothes on before venturing out for a walk, or getting a call that someone ran themselves over while checking their mail, or having someone in my office cussing about their hatred for rabbits in the community that eat their expensive flowers.  Really, this person said they saw one staring at them in the street last week and while holding their cane, they told their daughter to kill "that fucker" with a golf club. 

Run little dude, run.

Certain things are routine and expected with my job, but the meaningful life stuff in between, the meat of my stories I'll tell on my death bed, those are all serendipitously random, unexpected, and all the more hilarious.   

And that's why I don't think I'll ever be capable of writing a book.  Because, how in the actual fuck would I limit my mind down in order to write about 1 SINGLE STORY??  *faints*

Thank you though, it means a lot that you think this about me.

Murderous Eff Heads and Bigoggledness

It's October 3rd and I'm surrounded by death already.  The trees are still full and the bushes are in full bloom here, however...it seems the media is just thirsty for our blood.  Your blood.  My blood.  I'm up to my eyeballs in other people's blood.  OY!  Ebola, for one.  I'm not even going there...that's a whole wine bottle, conspiracy theory with Meg night, and and a seperate blog rant.  So the death I am focusing on right now is the evil kind.  The unfathomable.  I live with it, so I get to think about it often.  I hear the stories that my husband comes home with as a Police Officer.  But there is one story I wish to never hear.  I just can't wrap my head around cases which involve the whole chopping up business of a friend/loved one....or just any person period.  I'll be honest, I couldn't even get through Dexter's first season.  I'm total weak sauce.  So to think that there are actual people out there who do that.  Who have done it.  Because 'of' these shows or 'for' these shows to be possible...I just don't understand.  I like my arms and legs friends.  Don't cut me up, yo.  

To see what the hell I am squawking on about, please click the link below and read about the Dexter impersonator:

http://www.eonline.com/news/585384/dexter-obsessed-teen-jailed-for-murdering-and-dismembering-girlfriend

I have to side with the ASD community on this one, the media is certainly throwing those in the spectrum under the murderous, machete wielding, bastard child of a bus here.  No two places in the spectrum are the same.  And the last time I checked, I was not jumping through green sewer pipes, kicking mushrooms, and hanging out with an Italian guy named Luigi just because I played a certain game a lot growing up.  It takes a certain type of "special crazy sauce" to sit down in your little dungeon of a couch area, study an entire series, and decide to make a teenage girl your project.  This also applies to the Stephen McDaniel Case in Macon, GA.

If you are unfamiliar with that ass shack, He's just like the Dexter impersonator; however, he is not autistic and he looks like Sideshow Bob.  After a long trial and court deliberations, which you can track and find on Macon.com, he finally plead guilty to killing and dismembering Lauren Giddings' body.  Whom happened to live in the same apartment complex as him at Mercer University Law School. He stalked her online, used a master key to enter her apartment, attacked her, dismembered her in her own bath tub, and disposed of her torso in the trash can outside of their apartment building.  The next morning, when they found her remains, he was devastated in front of the news crews.  You can watch his crazy ass here: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIroLgiCyP8

To kill a person defies all logic, to dismember them is purely evil and unhuman.  My mind is just bigoggled!  Yup.  Big.Og.Gled.  What?

For the Girls

Today, I had an epiphany.  And usually when I have epiphanies, they are controversial.  I get it.  I am opinionated.  Or is it just because I live in the south?  Honestly, I feel like I would be a major softy if I moved back up north.  Major difference in lifestyles.  Anyway, that is neither here nor there.  My epiphany came from a series of events this past week which involves being a woman.  There are multiple struggles females in this country endure deep within their souls.  No two females are molded or compacted the same.  We are all beautiful, intelligent, wide eyed, and energetic forces with dreams and ambitions until we reach a certain point in our lives and we make some sort of sacrifice.  The career.  The family.  The family and the career.  Travel first and then marriage.  Travel together after marriage.  Your clock stops somewhere.  You have a moment when you question whether you fit it all in.  Did you do it all right?  Was it the way it was meant to be?  Am I the me I wanted to be?

I don't think I am.  This post could go all dark and depressive in 2.5 riiiiiight here if I let it, but I wont.  GAHD, how boring would that be for YOU.  Awful.  You're welcome.  So, my epiphany turned into a promise.  For Logan, I will forever place her first, before myself.  For as long as I am alive, Logan will have my full attention and understanding because once she is a mom, she will become last.  The last one to shower (sometimes it's days.)  The last one to fall asleep.  The last one to take care of herself.  The last one to feed herself.  The last one to worry about herself.  To be a young female in America is a remarkable privilege.  I hope she soars.  I hope she spins fast with her arms stretched wide and dances in the sun.  I hope she schools the boys and scores her goals.  I hope she dreams big dreams and wont sweat the small things.  

And most of all, when she calls an auto body shop...I hope to God by then, we have more women working with men who can fix cars.  Com'mon ladies, pick up some wrenches!  We got this.

Breaking the Fart Barrier One Christmas at a Time

Ok, I have some catching up to do.  I have been running around with the kiddos and my husband...honestly...I don't know if it's the meds or just life, but I feel like I am in a time warp.  Where the hell does time go when you have kids?  And the whole, "I can't even remember the last time I went to the bathroom thing let alone what I did last Tuesday."  Insanity.  But I love it.  So we shall carry on.  Have I told you about my best friend?  My BFF?  My biffle?  My sister from a different Mister?  She shall be known only as "I-E" here.  Because in an alternate universe, which most likely involves mountains and a lot of aliens, that would be her name.  She would be a top-of-the-line alien BFF model that only 1% of the alien population got to have.  Because in that alien universe, wealth would be measured by relationships and the quality they hold.  So what I'm saying here is...I'm a rich mother frackin' alien.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of completely spoiling my best friend for her Christmas gift.  Much to my surprise, she obliged and let me carry out the night's events.  It was splendid.  And much needed.  She has gone above and beyond in her friendship duties this past year for my entire family.  I am not too sure what I would have done with out her in our lives.  She stepped in and assumed any role we needed her to fill, with out our asking.  I wont bore you with specifics, she knows, I know, that's all that really matters.  What IS important here though, is that you take something away from this.  Something everybody needs to be reminded of.  Something you sometimes need a rude awakening about.  And this is something she has frivolously taught me in the 4 years of our very meant-to-be friendship: "In order to heave friends, you must BE a friend." 

We all get bombarded with life's expectations and responsibilities.  What a demanding Bitch that "life" can be.  But; speaking from personal experiences, when life puts you on hold and you find yourself in solitary confinement from such life due to health issues...alone...in a hospital bed...maybe repeatedly...the only thing you really have left are your relationships.  Everything else is truly secondary.  I recently read an article by a retired Hospice nurse.  It was one of those weird articles floating around my FB wall and I happened to click on it.  In this article, she went on to explain that the #1 thing every Hospice patient (she has ever consoled) regretted was; undeniably, lost friendships.  We have a tendency to place family above all else.  Which I believe is healthy to a certain extent, but please, let people in a little.  You are bound to get hurt, BOUND TO.  But in my experience, the few who laugh with you, move furniture for beer with you, and step into family roles FOR you are some of my most important people.  So, with out further adieu, here is how I made one of my important people feeeeeel important. 

The night started out like any other, it was a cool Georgia night in December.  Most of the heat and immediate humidity only bouncing off of nearby Christmas lights for once.  So, in our excitement to make things warm, we blared Joe Nichols' "Sunny and 75" song.  It was girl's night...so the windows had to be let down, if only for a brief chilly moment so that our lungs could properly expand while belting out the lyrics.  Our excitement for the night shows:

I'm special, ya'll.

Next, we managed to snag the most annoyed, hormonal, angry nail technicians we have ever had at the local Nail place.  We're lucky gals.  They only made us laugh more however, especially when we caught ourselves counting to 3 and telling our toes and fingers to "smiiiiiiile."  We've been around 2-year-olds far too long apparently...

We bid adieu to the angry nail women and headed over to Outback Steakhouse.  The food Gods were not on I-E's side however because they seemed to be out of everything she wanted to order.  But that's ok...she had a ginormous present hindering her view from food anyway.  The starvation diet with perks...that's what we are going with here...keepin' it positive.  Oh and hi, that's me being lovely and not at all embarrassing.  *wink* 

Once our bellies were full and we were absolutely sure we needed to bring sage back to Outback and the Nail place in order to rid the buildings of evil horrible service spirits - we went to get lotto tickets.  They were drawing for the Mega Millions last night...and I'm calling foul because we should have won.  In fact, I want a redraw.  Lets do that...

 God bless that girl, she means the world to me. 

She also means the world to her boyfriend "B-Y" apparently.  She excitedly advised me last night that they exchanged their first "I love you's."  Which is absolutely adorable.  I mean, at 29 - gasp - years old, most of my friends are married with children or established in long relationships.  So to experience the excitement of someone you love telling you about saying "I love you" for the first time to a special guy, is awesome!  It made me feel young and giddy again and the only reasonable response that could possibly come out of my mouth hole was, "YAY!  It's like you broke the fart barrier!"  That instant sense of relief to know, that he knows, that you know, that it's ok for each of you to know, that you are in love - or - err - farted.  And if you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about here:

1. you should question the validity of your current relationship. 

And 

2. You need to click on this link.

So Merry Christmas "I-E"...you are the best alien friend from an alternate universe in which I am rich that I could ever ask for.  I can't wait to see what 2014 has in store for you.  

Now go out there my little chickens, frolic, don't let life hold you back, no matter your age...and BE a friend.  <3

A Lady Was Glued To A Toilet Seat and I Could Pretty Much Relate

Dear Holidays, I love you n'all but we need to break up.  

You see...I have been stress eating since I got home from the Hospital.  And if you know anything about health, then you know I am what I eat...and lately that's been a substantial amount of crap.  I realize that takes on a whole new meaning post gallbladder surgery as well...but really...crap is not cute...in food form and in bodily form.  Yup.

Sincerely,

"Mega" the Stressed Out Eater.  

p.s.  Eff you gingerbread man!

Did I mention to you that I am post gallbladder surgery?  I'm pretty much post all surgeries at this point, did you see my last post?  Holy 80 year old problemz Batman.  I have cracked jokes like this before, but honestly, I feel I have earned the right at 29 to yell at people from my front door already.  My life came full circle with my Pulmonary Embolisms, but I truly do not think the gravity of my predicament hit me until I was in my primary care physician's office weeks later.  There I was, young, freshly postpartum, wide eyed, terrified, and laughing inside at the conversations I was witnessing amongst the elderly patients.  Blood thinner jokes.  They had JOKES ya'll.  And at 29 (one day I'll lie about my age, so please forget this fact after you read my blog, thanks) I could actually relate and LAUGH at their jokes.  Ohmygawd, what horrible surgery lovin' gene did I wind up with??  My dead ancestors not only have great humors, but they seriously give me way more credit than I deserve for what I am physically able to handle.  I do not, however, back down from the notion that I am a tough broad at this point.  Just ask me.

There is a point here, and it somewhat involves part of ^^ that rant.  You see, after my gallbladder surgery last year...well...lets just get this out of the way...I got to know my bathroom very well.  Since I no longer had a gallbladder to filter the good fats from the bad, everything suddenly got filtered straight through my liver, yay liver!  I am convinced, after rooming with me through college, my liver is made of GOLD.  Pure gold.  *kiss, kiss*  After doing some research, I walked away from the computer with the knowledge that I am guaranteed to lose a couple pounds due to an organ being gone and the quick filtering of fats that the liver would now be doing.  I severely underestimated how much of a bad ass my liver actually was.  So long story short, I started eating low fat.  This is the ideal way to eat post gallbladder surgery, and really; in my opinion, for everyone.  For almost a year I made recipes from skinnytaste and started walking.  Before I knew it, I was walking 5 miles, eating less than 10-12 grams of fat per meal, and had lost 23lbs.  I felt AMAZING.  For the first time in my entire life, I felt amazing.  Which is saying something because I played soccer for 15+ years.  I have never felt better than I did while eating low fat.  After all of my knee surgeries I was convinced that I would never run again, but thanks to my new eating habits and weight loss, I was running!  I couldn't believe it.  It was amazing to feel healthy and confident in my own skin.  So what happened next you ask?  What else would happen with a renewed sense of confidence and weight loss?  BABIES!  

I managed to eat well (cough) somewhat...and really did not gain much weight during my pregnancy.  But it seems to be slowly seeping back onto my body like a tick on a dog.  I've GOT to do better folks.  I've had enough happen to me to know how truly precious life is and how substantially invaluable good health really is.  It doesn't matter that Christmas is right around the corner, I will not make excuses for eating custard pies and cheesy casseroles.  I have to stop lying to myself.  Writing off one holiday cookie as a treat is a lie.  It's easy to forget that sucker snuck into your daily routine when you are chasing around a toddler and juggling a 2 month old.  Easy.  I refuse to be tempted by sexy sprinkles and luscious layers.  It's time to get real folks.  Life is worth more than 2 tablespoons of Olive Garden salad dressing...which is, by the way...8 whole grams of oily fatness.  8 GRAMS.  In 2 tablespoons.  And we DROWN our salads in that crap.  Drown them.  

In completely unrelated news, everything happens for a reason and I swear on all things Holy I just stopped typing because I got distracted by a news story involving a woman who was glued to a toilet seat in a Home Depot public restroom.  That will SO not be my post gallbladder fate...low fat starts again TOMORROW.  Well played ancestors.  Well.  Played.

Baked chicken breasts, steamed fresh artichokes, and quinoa with onion/squash/zucchini/tomato is on the menu for tomorrow night! 

Mom's Not So Imaginary Meatloaf

If you wander on over to my about me section (which is a crazy thing to have on a public journal that involves me talking to myself - in front of other people) you will find that I run an imaginary cooking show in my kitchen.  I would be lying if I said my purchase of Paula Deen's egg blue cookware did not influence any type of immature characterizations in my kitchen...for the entire remainder of last year.  Acutally...if I was anywhere near a kitchen with a utensil in my hand I immediately went to a dark place that involved a ridiculously slow dialect and a lot of "ya'lls."  My family is from Upstate New York by the way.  But we live in Middle GA so I totally get a free pass for turning into Mega (get it) Deen on you.  HA!  I love cooking.  Mostly because I grew up with an Eastern European family and we spent our entire childhoods in the kitchen with family.  It's how we bonded, problem solved, brain stormed, learned how to drink rum and vodka by the time we were 12.  All we had to do was ask Dziadzio (Grandpa for all you non-Polish out there) for a Coke. 

"Do you want a dark Coke or a light Coke?"
"Um..just a Coke, please?"

...

Omg, that was totally more rum than coke.  Every.  Time.

He was also the man who invented his own whiskey sour recipe that involved the use of a raw egg.  It was actually amazing and somehow we lost the recipe before he passed away.  Major fail on our parts.  I keep hoping it will turn up somewhere so that I can frame it for my father.  We are a rum, vodka, wine, cooking, crazy type of family.  And I know we are not the only ones like this.  We are loud...really, it is just hard to hide us in the dainty south.  I honestly don't know how I survived High School here, but I did.  It's kind of amazing.  One of my earliest memories of moving from South Jersey to Middle GA involved me in 9th grade computer class calling out numbers for a typing test.  It was one of those rare moments that the teacher had to leave the room...actually...now that I think about it, those moments were not so rare.  I can imagine them rushing to the break room just to scream, stretch, throw back a shot...hey, I'm not judging.  Ya'll rock....anyway, teacher, gone.  Me, in front of a huge room of 9-12th grade students who undoubtedly had spent their entire lives fixed in Middle GA.  Right here.  So when I got to the letter "S" my northern spunk of an accent made it sound like I said "ass" over and over.  They had me repeat it 5 times until I realized it wasn't a back room fart they were laughing at.  Nope.  Fun times.  Being the new girl ROCKS.  *sigh*

One advantage of being raised by Northern Eastern Europeans and spending a chunk of my life in the South was being able to sample a wide variety of food.  Southerners can definitely hold their own in the kitchen, that's for sure.  There are so many different cooking styles in this country, to move around and try new things is a privilege.  I don't understand picky eaters.  Spit out my food and I'll turn more shades of red in front of you than your childhood crayola box.  Do. Not. Spit. Out. My. Food.  I will insult you for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to this...my Mom's meatloaf.  It is the most amazing meatloaf you will ever taste.  I challenge you to try it.  If you want to make it more healthy, you can do turkey with fresh chopped spinach or 1 lb turkey and 1 lb pork.  This is the original recipe, and yes, "ya'll," it will make you wanna smack ya mama's!  Mmmm...

Mom's Meatloaf

1 lb ground beef
1 lb ground turkey
1 lb ground pork
3 eggs
Salt and pepper to taste
Garlic powder
1 grated onion
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese
1/4 cup oatmeal
1/2 cup Italian flavored breadcrumbs
1/2 cup wheat germ
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup Country Bob's sauce or Worcestershire sauce
1/4 cup ketchup
3/4 cup ketchop
3 packets Splenda

Grate the onion (yes...GRATE it) and mix with the other wet ingredients. Add the wet and dry ingredients to the meat. Kneed the wet and dry ingredients into the meat until everything is well blended.

Place meat mixture in an ungreased 9 x 13-inch glass baking dish. Shape meat mixture into the shape of a meatloaf.

Bake uncovered in oven at 325 degrees for about an hour.  Mix 3 packets of Splenda with 3/4 cup ketchup and spread it on top of the meatloaf.  Bake uncovered for 15-20 more minutes until caramelized.

(I used turkey and fresh chopped spinach for the meat mixture in the picture below...)

 

A Little Weirdness and A Lot of Thanks

If for some reason you have stumbled upon this blog and you don't know me...or my Facebook...because, let's be real here, our Facebook is its own person.  Complete with made up happiness and "lookey-lookey's!"  Well, hi, I'm Meg and I am using this pedestal to proclaim myself to be a surgery warrior.  I'm not going to lie...I am envisioning myself looking something like this:

 

Although I am more than aware I would actually end up looking like this:

Bless her heart.

Anyway, back to the point.  To say I have had a lot of surgeries would be like saying my toddler likes peanut M&M's.  Um, the kid LOVES peanut M&M's.  So much so that if we even slightly move our jaws up & down, our chewing motives are severely questioned.  For hours.  He will not forget that we were chewing something random (and probably chocolatey) in front of him.  For. Hours. He likes peanut M&M's A LOT.  Apparently, the universe likes the idea of me undergoing surgery as much as my toddler likes peanut M&M's, which makes me want to face slap whoever is responsible for said universe.  Did I just hypothetically slap God?  I'm not sure.  But at this point in life I have to assume the man has a sense of humor and can take me giving him one humanly slap for all of the surgeries and complications I have been through in my short 29 years on earth. 

I'm not sure if I'm thankful for all of that, but I am thankful for those who have stayed with me through it all.  Even if you were with me through some of it and not all of it, I am thankful for you.  My body and I are still trying to live amongst each other as a cohesive unit, really...if you've seen Stefenie Meyer's The Host then you realize the internal struggle I am talking about here.  Yes, I am convinced there is an alien inside of me and my body is resisting it.  That's the only answer I have as to why, at 29, I have had 6 knee surgeries, a shoulder surgery, 2 c-sections, an appendectomy, and gallbladder removal.  And if that wasn't enough, I was super lucky because I won the c-section lottery and wound up with not one but 2 blood clots in my lungs.  Hi.  I'm obviously and alien cat.

The end.

No, this story can't end here.  As epic as ^^ that was, I have a lot to be thankful for.  For those who visited me; drove miles and miles to see me, to help with the kids and keep Dan sane, for those who made us laugh when all we could think about was death, for those who cooked for us when I didn't even have energy to hold my 7 pound baby, for those who brought gifts, and made our story into awareness with The Police Wife Life, for the generous donations of formula and clothing we received when going to the store posed a life threatening chance of getting pneumonia, for those who held me and just let me cry, for those who called and just let me cry, and for this amazing teacher who just can't stop teaching me things in life...thank you for your thoughtful poem.  I am thankful.

"For Meg"
By: H. Ray

We treat lost moments
As if they were really ours:
Treasured things we fumbled
Into gutters as we crossed busy streets.
Coins dropped from pockets
Disappearing into a cosmic sofa
On which we wallow,
Bereft at the losing
But
Lost moments aren't real...
How can you lose a thing you can't hold?
Only the moments you live are true.
And you will know their worth
While you are in them -
Because they are yours.
To laugh about,
Cry over,
Share with the ones who shared them,
Burnishing them
Through the years
Into memories.


Thank you.  Thank you all.