This stuff happens so often I should be used to it

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,


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


Making videos, to one day come to a blog near you.

  • I’ve decided to do a short series of videos. I shot a few this past weekend with Lindsey. There was much awkwardness to be had. I’m sharing this with you so I don’t chicken out and hide them on my external hard drive and then block out the memory. (You know it’s embarrassing when I’m hesitant to share it with the world.)


  • A few weeks ago I sat down two of my friends and suggested they throw me an intervention. Mainly because I love banners and surprise, not-very-fun parties, but also because I’ve started constantly eating which may or may not be related to my really-rather-well-thought-out habit of repressing my emotions. Anyway, no intervention has since happened and now I’m in the position of probably having to throw my friends an Too-Lazy-To-Throw-Interventions intervention. We’re circling the rabbit hole over here, is all I’m saying.


  • Speaking of laziness, last night I had a dream in which I murdered Skye. Which I almost completely forgot, but then Allison gchatted me this morning to say she’d had a dream Skye dumped her boyfriend. Which was both completely fortuitous and maybe also a sign we both spend too much time subconsciously thinking of Skye. Anyway, since I’m now in a habit of sharing my personal, not-terribly-interesting Allison conversations with the world, enjoy.

Allison: I had a terrible dream last night
Skye and Justin broke up before this summer
and so we couldn’t set him up w Mike!

me: OMG
but I had a dream last night
in which I murdered Skye

Allison: hahahahahaha
bad night for her
I mean, mine wasn’t actually so bad for her, more for Justin’s soul mate
how’d you do it?

me: poison
the reason?
was I didn’t want to go out that night
we had theatre tickets
and I was like
don’t feel like it
but right after
I felt really, really bad
and then someone went into her room to wake her up
and she totally got up
and I was like, woah, Skye’s immune to poison
though i figured
maybe it was still working
but she used her inhailer and I was like, poison antedote!
it was really strange

Allison: hahahaha
good to know you’ll kill someone for laziness

me: I know, right?
worst reason to kill someone ever
it was crazy

Allison: lol
eh, I mean, you were tired
and didn’t want to go out
and obviously a fight would have been lot of work
poison you dont have to listen to her complain about it
how was Costco?

me: hahaha
as if you don’t know the answer to that
I didn’t go
you know
the murderous laziness

  • The other night I brought my dad over to my new place. I can’t remember why, I was probably forcing him into some manual labor, but I was driving and he said it’d be great to see how I got there – give him a good idea of the best route to take. Long story short, I took the wrong road, then took about ten minutes to realize it, then drove around lost for a while. I’m blaming the Canadians.

In case it wasn’t clear during the Allison conversation

Mike is an 0ut-of-town friend

Who would be an ideal BFF for Justin

At least

According to us

They seem less than interested

In our friendship machinations

Though I can’t imagine why,


I Murdered Skye & Then Got Lost (Awkward Glimpses of Now)


angry face

Technology is out to get me.

Not in a paranoid, crazy way.

In that totally normal way a non-sentient being can hold a grudge and use it to torture you.

(And in this case, you is me.)

I started sensing this was the case after the Dear Crappy Writer emails started.

(In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m positive I’ve checked Feedburner’s Please Don’t Send Me Dear Crappy Writer Emails box.)

(I still get at least a few a week.)

But apparently my arch-enemy wasn’t satisfied and decided to infiltrate Instagram to cause me yet more pain.

You may remember that I’m attempting to read all of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot novels.

I’m memorializing each reading with an Instagrammed photo of the book cover.

So on Tuesday, after finishing Hercule Poirot’s Christmas and aching to share a comment on bloody snow footprints with the world, I opened Instagram and selected my photo and chose my filter and then… nothing.

The app closed.

So I tried a few more times, taking a different photo and closing the app and restarting.

And nothing, absolutely nothing, would make my photo post.

So, in my infinite laziness, I moved on and attempted other things.

Then, Wednesday morning, I tried again.

And again I was thwarted.

Birthday ice cream with Lindsey!

Until Wednesday night, when I was quite simply able to post this photo of Lindsey & I & ice cream.

(Happy Birthday Lindsey!)

After ice cream we all adjourned to my place where we sat around the dining room table, talking and laughing.

About what, I don’t know, as I was distracted, trying yet again to Instagram Hercule Poirot’s Christmas and once more being denied with a black screen and a closing of the app.


Skye thought to perform a quick Google search to see if, perhaps, the problem was not mine alone.

(The problem is mine alone.)

Instagram won't let @bestoffates post a photo of this book. Now worried I'm going to get murdered over it. If I am, please call Poirot. #PoirotNumber18 #irrationalfears

This was doubly verified when Skye was allowed to post her own Instagram photo of Hercule Poirot’s Christmas.

The only solution is clear.

I must track down and murder my arch enemy.

And then make sure to wipe my feet before walking over snow.

People named Carl have always had it out for me

So he’s probably named Carl

Or Jessica,


I’m Being Stalked By A Ghost Murderer/Scientist