I Can't Make This S*#t Up - The Second Installment

welcome to the second installment of "i can't make this s*#t up".  you first met this series here and, i'm certain, have been eagerly awaiting it's follow up.  i know i have (heavy sarcasm, like super heavy).

picture this:

girl goes to the beach.  she's standing in perfect 90 degree weather.  the kind of 90 degree weather where there is just the right amount of breeze.  a giant yellow sun is hanging directly overhead in the sky against a bold blue backdrop.  calm waves are rocking her back and forth and she stands in the waist high water, letting her toes sink in to the buttery white sand beneath.  there are children laughing off in the distance.  the girl is thanking her lucky stars for a day so amazing and wondering if she can capture the moment's perfectness (it's a word if i want it to be one) in a voice memo, sell it to apple, have it become the world's best selling sound machine app, make millions, retire to this very same spot and live in this perfectness (see how well that works there?) forever.
sounds pretty nice, right?

it was.

was.

it came from out of nowhere (this is also what i told my parents in regards to the other cars involved in a series of fender benders that i caused in high school).  all i really remember of the giant kelly slater worthy wave that is to blame for this story is how hard it hit me upside the head.  it slapped me.  ike turner style.  as i regained my balance, composure, and grip on the sunglasses that were nearly knocked off of my face i couldn't help but notice that something felt different.  i was in the presence of a freedom that wasn't there before that wave and i met.  and then, there it was.  the startling realization that my right... ahem... chest biscuit had popped out of it's home in my single strap bathing suit top and decided, without my permission, to introduce itself to watercolor beach.  yep.  let that sink in for a second.  right chest biscuit.  open air.  public and nude un-friendly beach.  for about 4 and half minutes (megan time, real time was more like 3 seconds).   it is not necessarily of importance to note that after a couple of days in the sun my newly formed tan lines really emphasized my glowing white and free flying chest biscuit, but it really does add nice detail to the story... don't you think?  oh yeah.  so hot.

"so, did everyone on the beach see????" you ask, mortified for me yet again.  nope.  better.  well, better for the story anyway.  my sole spectator was a roughly 12 year old boy who is going to have to get his jaw wired shut after how hard it hit the sand.  his mouth was open so wide that i'm pretty sure i saw his tonsils.  i rapidly reassembled myself, gave him a little 'i'm sorry but you're kind of welcome' wave and high tailed it outta there before he could point out to his parents who it was that just showed him his first mammary gland in the wild.

anyone have a contact in J.Crew's swimsuit customer support... er, lack of support?  holla at a girl.

i can't make this s*#t up.

i can't make this s*#t up - the first installment

"man losing his mcdonalds in ur gyno room"

sometime in 2010

this story, as you will find most of these do, starts off completely normal.  well, as normal as anything involving me can be.  

girl goes to annual doctor appointment, checks in, waits in waiting room probably playing a few games of words with friends while wondering how it is possible for an office to be running 30 minutes late at 9 o'clock in the morning, finally gets her name called and blood pressure taken, is forced to stand on the scale, looks at the number and starts doing the math to answer the question "if i keep gaining 3 pounds a year how much will i weigh in the year 2036?", gets herded into a room left alone to put a gown on (opening in the back - do people still need to be reminded that this is how to wear them???), then sits on the  edge of the table and waits some more.

see? totally innocent.

and then...

without the usual warning knock the door handle turns and in walks a man.  it is of importance to note that this man is neither my doctor or anyone's doctor.  he is clearly some pregnant woman's husband who has been sent to mcdonalds to pick up food because they have been waiting as long as i have, and hungry pregnant women get what they want.  he walks into the room looking down at the balancing act of drinks, food, and coats going on in his arms and immediately starts talking about something... i couldn't even begin to guess what because the soundtrack going on in my head was "WHAT THE FUUUU?!?!?!?" (ok, there are some missing consonants on the end of that word.  fill them in yourself.)  after a solid half an hour (megan time, real time was probably more like 7 seconds) of him setting down fountain drinks on the desk, refolding the coats draped over his arm, and opening the giant bag of food he carried in... he looked up.

slow motion replay:

man looks up, instantly realizing that i am not his wife/baby mama.

his face turns from normal accountant-esque business to complete mortification.  a look i am convinced i will never see recreated in the wild.

his arms go up and french fries go flying.  and i mean FLYING.  and not just a few french fries.  i'm talking two super size containers full of those hot, greasy bad boys.  FLYING.

man falls to floor with stop, drop and roll type urgency.

the next 10 minutes (megan time, real time: 5 seconds) were spent with him on his knees, body parallel to the floor scraping french fries around with an extended right arm and shoveling them into the hallway behind him.  his left arm was frantically reaching for and continuing to miss the door handle in an attempt to escape and close himself into the safety of the hallway as quickly as possible.  

the best part about this whole event was the communication, or lack there of, that was going on between us.  mr. stranger danger was babbling and stumbling over phrases like "oh shit", "so sorry", "wife you're not mine", "no no no", "fries everywhere", and, my favorite, "oh dear".  this poor man was in such a state of humiliated distress and i was, for the first and last time in my life, totally speechless.  i just sat there with my jaw on the floor.  i didn't gasp.  i didn't yell.  i didn't say "honest mistake, no worries" and ease some of his embarrassment.  i didn't point and laugh, though in hind sight this is really the best response to this type of situation.  i just sat there until he finally backed himself up on his hands and knees into the hallway and got the door shut, not without a handful of french fries getting flattened into the carpet in the process.

then i started laughing.  and i mean cackling.  like tears streaming down my face laughing.  couldn't catch my breath laughing.

icing on the cake?  i heard him go into the room next door and a woman's voice said, "where are the fries?"

I CAN'T MAKE THIS S*#T UP.

I can't make this s*#t up - sneak peek.

meet mary susan.  she is one of my favorite people on earth.  well, at least she was yesterday.  after her influence on my life today people's perception of me is about to drastically change. today she posted this to her blog and followed it up with the following texts:

the list goes on and on.

 "what does 'faked' pictures at walgreens mean?", you ask?  faked is my bennifer (ben+jennifer, as in affleck and lopez - you're welcome for that blast from the past) for "fake naked".  FAKE+NAKED = FAKED.  "ohhhh, i get it...", you think... "wait a minute.... this crazy b!$*h took fake naked pictures and brought them to walgreens to print?!?!?!?!"  

yes.  yes i did.

in my defense, i took the pictures with 4 other friends in the home of 2 different friends who were on vacation in europe for 10 days.  the situation was begging for a practical joke.  you can't leave us alone for 10 days with a spare key to your house and expect us to behave.  or to not take fake naked pictures in your house, bring them to a walgreens located 30 minutes away from where we live in order to protect our identity when printing them, proudly display them in a red pleather photo album, and place them on your coffee table for you to find as a gift upon your return.  you just can't.

i digress.

i told mary susan that in place of any future birthday/baby/christmas/anniversary/canadian boxing day gifts i would start blogging a series entitled "i can't make this s*#t up".  although i'm sure once this series is compiled into a book it will be called, "no one will ever love me because..."

i don't know how i attract this crap but i do.  and, starting tomorrow when i have gathered the courage to share these ridiculous stories, it will be to your benefit.

i think i'll start with, "man losing his mcdonalds in ur gyno room".  it's a gem.

xo, m