I’m classy in my mind

I shall miss you, little one.

Accidentally exposing myself never gets any easier.

You’d think after I’d flashed all of southern Spain, or been photographed semi-topless by a stranger next to MLK, or groped myself sitting in an Indian restauran, or exposed myself to an entire wedding I would have come to grips with my clothes propensity to showcase my body to all around.

You’d be wrong.

(And the length of those examples is concerning to myself as well.)

For yesterday, I went out at lunch.

Not to eat lunch, mind you, but to frantically drive to see Molly (pictured above) and stand outside in the biting wind yelling at her to pee.

She never did pee, which makes the futility of my lunchtime escapade all the sadder.

I’d left my office and already traversed the upstairs hallway and the stairs and the atrium and was halfway down the driveway to the parking lot when I heard the front door of the building open.

I turned to see our receptionist running out behind me and he stuttered to a stop and said “Megan, uhhh.”

Though he hadn’t come up with a way to phrase his news, I somehow instinctively deduced his meaning and reached behind me to pull my dress out of my underwear.

As I tried to process the embarrassment of having just flashed my entire office, I managed to force out “thank you so much.”

“You were going out, so…” he replied.

Which is sweet, though raises the worrisome question of whether, if I’d been having lunch in the break room, he’d have let my dress in underwear fashion statement go un-referenced.

Either way, none of this would have happened had I not given into my mom’s constant requests that I wear underwear, so it’s hard not to blame Haines for my newly acquired need to enter and leave my office through the side door.

Return tomorro

For the regularly scheduled

Embarrassing story from South Africa,

Megan

I Flashed My Work and It’s Underwear’s Fault

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I just made 4 unsuccessful attempts to upload the next Poirot book. This Instagram? Easily went through on the first try. WHY MUST YOU HAUNT ME, GHOST MURDERER/SCIENTIST?

When I was little, 3rd or 4th grade, I can remember having hours long debates with my dad. He was always one for financial savings and was trying to convince me of the need of a savings account.

Not that I disagreed with the basic idea, but I just couldn’t accept his statement that my money would be safe there.

What if the bank collapsed?

The FDIC?

Um, what if the government collapsed?

What if we woke up tomorrow and money meant nothing?

I can’t accurately convey the tone of voice he used in response, but it was similar to the one he still uses today when I warn him about closing the garage door to stop killers from knowing when he’s home.

(This is just basic safety precautions, people.)

(One day he’ll be murdered and I’ll be too sad to feel vindicated and he’ll have escaped from having to hear I told you so by being dead and even if he hung around as a ghost I know he’d still blow me off my ’cause he’s an incredibly annoying non-believer in completely rational arguments and how unfair is that?)

I’m not recanting my fear of complete governmental collapse or of killers watching me from the bushes.

But for 2013 I’ve decided to choose a word.

You know, like people do throughout the Internet and maybe in real life though that’s not really how I know people so I’ll stick to screen-based hearings.

A word they’ll focus on and try and incorporate into their daily life and maybe meditate to, I’m not sure, I haven’t really researched this thing that much.

I’ve also decided to participate in Ali Edward’s One Little Word class because the idea of choosing a word and then living it seemed non-lazy, so I figured it’d be best to have some guidance.

As I pondered some good word choices – breathe, eat-more-cheese, moxie – I realized that maybe my life would be a teensy bit better if I was a tad more fearless.

So wish me luck.

Or send balloons.

‘Cause there’s nothing more comforting in the face of failure than balloons.

If you didn’t get the fearless reference in the above photo

It’s pie we took into an ice cream shop for Lindsey’s birthday

Like the rebels we are,

Megan

p.s. I didn’t send my dad an I TOLD YOU IT COULD HAPPEN WE’RE ALL LIVING ON THE EDGE e-mail during Iceland’s economic meltdown.

p.p.s. But I really, really wanted to.

If I Start Fighting Crime We Can Officially Call This Plan A Success

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Robby's Christmas Party 2012

Robby’s Christmas Party is perhaps my most annual of traditions.

Years come and go, people move away and come back, pink santa hats are exchanged for antler ears – and yet the party goes on.

A couple of years ago, we started taking a group picture at the end of the night.

Usually Heather is in charge of such an important task, but somehow this year she hesitated long enough that I was able to insert myself into the process.

(Success!)

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

But it turns out there might be a reason I’ve never been given charge of the group photo.

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

Maybe because I don’t own a camera remote.

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

Or because I happen to fall down a lot while trying to move quickly.

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

Or maybe it’s just antler discrimination.

(If you haven’t experienced it, maybe you’re the problem.)

(Think about it.)

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

In short, I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to take the group photos next year.

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

So we should enjoy these gems while they’re with us.

Robby's Christmas Party 2012

There is a single photo in which I am not moving.

And despite what it looks like, I didn’t photoshop myself in.

(I don’t have nearly the skill for such a thing.)

(Which you might have already guessed.)

There were a few other group photos

But they were all blurry

‘Cause I don’t believe

In limiting my crappiness at something

To only one area,

Megan

p.s. I’ve decided to follow Elsie’s lead and take/post a photo a day of home for 2013. Since I just moved, I figured this would be a really good way to document my daily life. However, I figured most of you probably don’t care to see my orange balloon animal book end, so I’m posting said photos on Best of Fates’ Facebook page. But if you’re dying to know if my kitchen cabinets have doors (twist: they don’t), you can head on over and see photographic evidence for yourself.

The Awkwardest of Annual Christmas Party Photos

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