The Tale of the Tit Shaming.

So, I've not done a lot of things in life. One of those is getting my tits measured to see what actual bra size I wear. Usually, I pick between C and a D cup, with an estimate in inches, try them on, and whichever one keeps the "nipslips" to a minimum is the one I get. Also, I figure a handful will fit a certain size, but I also realize that since I have midget hands, maybe that's not the greatest way to estimate measurement. For the most part, though, it works and the bra fits how I want it to.  But, today I went in to Macy's as a guinea pig and left tit shamed by the lady in the bra department. 

Tit measuring: a conversation. 

Lady: Can I help you?

Me: Uh, sure. I'm just curious, I've never been measured before. My bra---

Lady: It appears you need a bra that fits.

Me: Silence. 

Lady: So, let's measure you. Go in there and we'll measure under your top, over your bra. 

Me: Okay. (Goes into dressing room, lifts tank top, lady begins measuring)

Lady: Takes forever measuring. 

Me: Also, my bra fits fine. I'm just doing this as an experimental thing. Cross it off my bucket list. 

Lady: Doesn't laugh.

Lady: Well, your bra doesn't fit "fine."

Me: Silence. 

Lady: You're lumped in the back. 

Me: By lumped you mean my fat is squished together?

Lady: Yes. 

Me: Silence. 

Lady: Okay. I think you'd look fabulous in this Bali full figure. It's comfortable  and we have a Wacoal full figure that comes in a strapless. Showing bra straps is unbecoming for such a pretty young lady. It gives the wrong impression. So, let's try a 38C. We could even tr----

Me: Came in with a tank top, and bra straps showing. 

Also me: Wait... Full fig--Gives the wrong impr-...wait did you just call me tacky....? 

Lady: Surprised look.  

Me: Okay. First, you said I had back fat, THEN you called me tacky, and NOW you're looking at me like I've just done meth in your dressing room. 

Lady: Silence.

Me: Silence. 

Me: You're like the worst tit saleswoman ever.

Lady: Silence. 

Me: I bet you drive around the trailer park in whatever car your husband let you keep in the divorce, guffawing at all the fashion fauxpaws.

Lady: Opens mouth and starts to say something. 

Me: Puts hand up.

Also me: NOPE. 

(Pulls down tacky tank top over tacky bra covering the tacky backfat, gives evil side eye, walks out of dressing room.)

Me: GOOD DAY.

Lady: Good luck wit---

Me: I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR!

My tits are just fine with a $5.99 bra from Ross Dress For Less. Also, the size I was wearing WAS a 38C, I think bitch needs to go back to tit measuring school. She just wanted to sell me a $40 piece of cloth cones that will just get wrapped around some socks in the dryer. Now you know how big my boobs are.  Let's see how we placed. 

Tacky back fat-Second place in lump division. 

Tacky bra straps-Honorable Mention.

Megan-Participation trophy. 

Boobs-First place in small division. 

You're welcome. Hope you learned something. 

The Tale of the Goodbye

Death is so weird. If you think about it just by itself, without the pain. But, when you add what makes it so ugly, it's beautiful, too. 

One day, your world gets a little smaller and the sand in the hour glass takes up more space on the bottom than it does on the top. People get a little older, and so do you. Things and people turn into photos floating in brain fluids, that get stuck in smells and love letters, favorite songs and places. And when you gather them all up to flip through them, it's like watching a movie of all the things that made you who you are; and all the people you wouldn't trade anything for.

Your brain is sticky with times like the one where your kindergarten teacher taught you to be kind, how she gave you a long hug when your grandpa died; but, now doesn't teach anymore, and doesn't remember. The one where anytime you visited grandma, she always asked you 80 times before bed if you were hungry; but, now she isn't there and you're not even hungry, and you just miss her; the one with your favorite dog giving you all the kisses in the universe, being with you when you were sad or sick, or going to the lake, and following you like a shadow; but now he's in your arms on the exam table, and you're telling him not to be scared, and you love him, even though you had to make the hardest decision; having to say the things you never thought you would ever have to say, not knowing how to say goodbye because you're not ready, and how could you ever be ready; and goddamnit, it isn't fair. 

I know you're sad and you are doing your best right now just to get through the milliseconds. I know you're tired. But, when you're ready, scoop up your photographs, and find a way to bring life back to them. Save your dad's last message on your voicemail and listen to it when you miss him; keep your sister's favorite shirt, make it into a winter hat, because winter was her favorite season; make your favorite midnight snack grandma insisted on making you, and take it to somebody hungry, who just wants to be loved; make your dog's collar into a keychain, and leave the tags on it so it jingles in your pocket; he'll follow you on every adventure you'll have without him, just like a shadow. What a thing it is that we to get to love as big as we do, for as long as we do. 

In the words of Winnie the Pooh, how lucky we are to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

The Tale of the cop, the asshat, and the fleshlight

The neighborhood Mary Kravitz has called not once but TWICE to complain to the cops about our car parked in the street, which isn't on fire, or on cement blocks, or housing a homeless person. 

This assbag drives past at least 3 times a week, honking in a very belligerent, murdery way, using the speed bump as a fucking launchpad. I know who he is, and where he lives. 

So, the last call he made sent out a very nice female police officer that explained "all you have to do is move it every couple of days, even if it is an inch forward or backward. If they call to complain, as long as you're moving it, we can't do anything." She motioned with a hand gesture horizontally forward or backward, and she had this profound look of "fuck my life" and "you gotta be fucking kidding me, but it's protocol" written all over her face. I giggled for like a good, solid 10 minutes because I didn't know that was a thing. There are murders to be solved, but our car somehow ended up in the lottery for shit that needed attention by law enforcement. 

I have decided that I'm gonna buy a fleshlight just for him, and fill it with catshit since that's the only penetration that thing will ever know. My cat is 17, his shit doesn't work all that great, so he has some runny, awful poop, and it smells like the inside of a baby's coffin. And when I catch him out in the front yard, I'm going to chunk it at his shitty, maroon Mustang GT and tell him the next time he speeds past the house like a fucktard, I'll take a giant hard-boiled egg and chili induced shit on the hood of his Barbie car so it runs underneath and gets into his ventilation. I have killer IBS, so I know it'll be a doozy. While this is happening I want to also make eye contact with him, because I want him to know who's in charge. 

Keeping it classy since never. 

The Tale of the Angry Eye Butter

So, I have had four days of the most awful, dreadful pink eye probably ever recorded in the history of eye diseases. Okay, maybe I am over exaggerating.

But, now I'm actually sick and I'm angry about that. My eye disease has caused a throat disease and that combined with my eye cheese is enough to put on an entire sleeve of butter crackers. So, in order to relieve this anger in the midst of my inconvenient flight, I've composed a list of things I am angry about. Right now. Here goes.

Top 5 Pieces of Shit Megan Is Really Angry About rn.

Let's start with the elephant in the room. Shall we.
1. Starbucks happy hour. Listen. I don't go to Starbucks very often. We have our own coffee space machine at home. I don't know how you hipsters and top knots sleep at night, when they're charging six damn dollars for a milkshake. Because, let's be honest. It's a milkshake. Also, I'm tired of having to pronounce your shitty Italian verbiage. Listen, this is Tulsa, Oklahoma. We don't understand words like Venti. We know Small, Medium, Large, and would you like fries with that.
So, Susan. Pick an Italian word and move to the left, okay. The rest of us have turkeys or some shit to kill.
2. Faded Glory. Okay, when you go to Walmart, you see the clothes that are for sale, and you have several different brands to choose from. Most of them are rejects from department stores that USED to sell them, but can't anymore because the quality has gotten so terrible. Faded Glory sells shirts and pants and leggings, just like any other brand, but there's is specifically unique in the fact that you wash it once and your toddler can wear it. It's appropriate, because the vast majority of those who buy their groceries at Walmart AND buy Faded Glory....are gonna need it.
3. Babies with cheeto stains. Okay, listen. I've done and said and thought a LOT of fucked up things. Babies with cheeto stains, ANYWHERE, is probably the worst thing to ever happen to this world, right under The Holocaust and the coffee at Jiffy Lube. It's like a giant sign to the rest of humanity that should say, "please, somebody give my mom birth control. She's got me all hopped up on Mountain Dew and the pitbull won't stop humping my teddy bear." It's not cute. It's staining everything. Shit has got to stop. Walmart sells three packs of great value baby wipes. They're $2.69.
4. Blue tooth headsets. Ah. There is nothing worse than listening to somebody have a conversation like they're yelling at a Walkie Talkie during world war 2. I really didn't know you had such a terrible relationship with ya moms, and Uncle Steve isn't allowed over at Christmas. I get it, we alllll have an Uncle Steve. But, your blue tooth headset is kinda freaking me out because I keep thinking you're trying to talk to me and I need to be really focused because I can't decide which pop tarts I want. This is a struggle and your electronical schizophrenia is not making that any easier, Roberta.
5. Ah, this is my favorite. Quirky, clever bumper stickers. By quirky I mean awful and my clever I mean fucking stupid. "My other car is Jesus Christ" and various other references to Dr. Who and the phone booth. Or whatever. You've got your coexist stickers with all the different religions and whatnot and your "I'm with her" and "Let's make America great again", and then there is my car with Bill Murray on the back windshield to the right, and the left in black it reads, "because shut up, that's why." Listen, I love that you put the rebel flag and don't tread on me on your Chevy pick ups, and your Jesus fishes on the back of your HHR, along with a shout out to your Cult. Hold on. Clan? No, that's not right....CHURCH. There it is.... OH, and the runners with their stickers with their running times. The average person doesn't know what the fuck that means. Just like most of Dave Matthews Band's car decals. If you don't know, you don't get it. Keep your car decals neutral. That way, nobody can knife your tires or take a massive chili induced shit on the hood of your car, because of who you voted for. Or because your other car is a spaceship.

The Tale of the Bible Launcher

My dad is in Denver on a job, he's a CNC engineer, which means he fixes giant machines that make other giant shit that I can neither describe nor comprehend. Just understand that it is probably awesome.

So, since dad was out of town, he booked my mother and I a room in Oklahoma City for last night, really just to get tf out of dodge, you know. We met one of my favorite people, Amy, for lunch yesterday at a fancy EYE-talian (that's how it's pronounced in Oklahoma) restaurant, I bought too much shit at the mall, and then ate again at this really cool lumberjack meets hipster meets weird mustaches worn by 25 year olds- restaurant named after its amazing dessert: "whiskey cake." It's delicious and about 9 kinds of naughty. I had a little bit to drink, but my mother did not, as neither of us would do well in County.
We ended up back at the hotel around 9:30pm, we got ready for bed, and as I am doing so I am also looking for a charger for my space phone. I'm looking through drawers and there's a bible in one of them. Also, don't understand why I'm looking through drawers, maybe because I'm an idiot? Anyhow, I, at one point, threw the Bible out the window, yelled "so long JESUS," shut the window, and crawled into bed as if nothing had happened.
I am neither proud nor unproud of that. The only thing I am not proud of is the fact I thought the lamp connected to the side of the wall, too far up for me to reach, was a clap on/clap off and kept clapping, while saying "clap on/clap off" in sing-song, until my poor mother pointed out to me there was a light switch on the wall specifically FOR that light.

Well. They can't all be winners, now can they?

We are home now. I'm glad to be home, because I hate leaving my dog. HATE. IT. He gives me the third degree, and it's awfu. My grandmother used to bring me back prizes when she was gone a long time, so now when I'm gone away from Frankenstein, I've started bringing him back a toy or a treat of some kinda so he hates me less. I thought I'd continue the tradition of replacing toys with love. So far, it's working.

Click your heels, bitch, because there really is just no place like home.

The Tale of the Mighty

International Women's Day should not be to focus on oppression, or whatever, but liking who we are, telling your girlfriends, hey you're a queen and don't let anybody tell you any different. When your bestie has had her heart broken, you hold her hair when she gets sick after she's had too much to drink. Striking up a conversation with the young cashier lady at Kohl's, who says she's feeling good after you ask her how she's doing; and she says she's doing her best to eat right, trying to be a good example for her little sister who's a prediabetic. You ask her what she had for lunch, and you make a new friend because you listened.

I think we lose sight of everything that is good about us as women, because we're too busy focusing on what we think we aren't or are told we can't become. We are maternal, at least most of us, and we forget that a squeeze of a hand or a smile may keep somebody from jumping off a building. Women are the reason we are all here. Your mama takes care of you when you're sick, writes little notes that say what she likes about you on post-its and sticks them to the wall so you see it when you wake up. She is your friend and your warrior and what you should want to be.

But, she isn't just a mother. She's the woman on the subway, dressed to please corporate, thinking about her presentation that will finally get her that promotion she has worked so hard for. She's the woman on the assembly line, assembling things we use everyday, that we take for granted. She's the doctor who never leaves the office because she has lives that depend on her knowledge and heart to keep them breathing. She's the school teacher who comes in early to grade papers, and stays late for the kids who don't understand. She's the single mom who is just trying to get by, who eats cereal for dinner, just so her kid can have a decent meal, and who cries at night when her kid is asleep because she thinks she isn't a good mom. She's the young girl who wants to be a scientist, and doesn't think she's smart enough, but her mother tells her every night as she tucks her into bed, "you can be whatever you want. Just do your best and never stop." She's the 30 year old who just wants to be a writer, but it doesn't pay the bills and she thinks nobody listens. She's you and she's me.

So, call up your mama or your sister, your aunt, your grandmother, or your best friends and tell her you're glad you have her, how brilliant she is and if it weren't for her, the world would be flat and uninteresting. Fight for yourself and other women. Be the best version of yourself. As Abraham Lincoln once said, whatever you are, be a good one.

The Tale of the Practice Girl

You might turn to her when she's making you coffee early on a Sunday morning, her hair amess, with shadows of unwashed mascara under her eyes from the day before, and you'll say, "you make me want to be a better man." Maybe she will smile, maybe she won't say anything, maybe she'll just stare, waiting for you to get up from the table and leave. The Practice Girl has heard this before, and she knows what it means.

Because a better man doesn't settle, right? A better man looks for what he thinks is the extraordinary, not the suddenly boring creature looking at him from across the table, serving him coffee exactly the way he likes it. Something about her isn't enough, he'll think. Sure, she's pretty. She makes you laugh, and she's witty, and fun, but she's kinda rough and cynical. Life has hardened her, she's tough and has often faced things alone. She's quiet when she's hurting and doesn't want to talk about it. She says stupid things, and calls you out when you're being stupid, too. You look at her, and her messy hair, and her unwashed face, and lines that are beginning to form under them and she isn't perfect, but she knows you like two sugars and a tablespoon of creamer in your coffee. She knows what underwear you like and you want the undershirts without the tag, because the others bother your skin and all you do is bitch. She knows you don't like to sit through the commercials, so she starts The Walking Dead 30 minutes in, so there's enough fast forward. She knows you're a big, dumb baby when you're sick, but she knows you like sprite when your throat is sore. She'll run to Walmart at 3am if you're throwing up to buy you all the different kinds of stomach medicine she can find just so you'll feel better. And THAT is why you're a better man. She taught you your potential. 

But, you're a better man, now. What kind of man? What kind of man do you want to be? Drink your coffee, and put on your clothes she set out for you. Look at her from across the table and tell her again how much better you feel. Tell her you love her, but not enough because she is boring and doesn't like to hike, or go chase fireflies , or lay out on a blanket at night connecting the goddamn stars, or whatever it is you think makes life fucking delightful. Tell her you found someone else. Look at her and tell her she isn't what you want, because that's better than telling her she makes you want to be a better man. But, The Practice Girl hears it enough. She doesn't need you to say it again. She'd have fought for you. She'd have let you have her lungs if you needed them to breathe. 

She is not meant to be the student, she was born to be the teacher. Practice Girl opens up the mediocre, the normal busy, and shows it the world and loves it until it is extraordinary. You're looking at the world with messy hair in pajamas and tired eyes, so if you're better now, stop and make her feel like you were worth it. Stop searching and stare at her and make her food and tell her she is brilliant and buy her chocolate when it feels like a million baby dinosaurs are hatching inside her lady place. Give her forehead kisses before she sleeps and tell her she is extraordinary, because she made you want to be a better man, and then made you into one. The kind that stays. She might be a little rough, but she's tired of practicing. Let her rest. 

The tale of the ocean and the teacher

Maybe it isn't about what music you listen to, or what you believe in. The clothes you wear or the job you go to. Your past and the people who mark you. Who you go home to at night, and how you share your bed.  The God you worship or the blow you snort that helps you forget it. The family you do or don't have.  Maybe it isn't about the food you don't eat, the scars on your body you did yourself with a razor, or the pills you put in your body that evens you out. How many times you fucked up, or that you keep fucking up. The kids you didn't have, the things you didn't do, the places you didn't go. The house you lost or the people who won't stay.  Mistakes you made. Or even the picture perfect life you built, that doesn't make you happy. The things you think define you.

But, maybe it's about learning you're here to learn, and you don't have a fucking thing figured out and that's okay. Taking chances and not taking for granted the ones given to you. Doing the right thing, being the good for somebody else, and fighting for who you want to be. Whatever you need, you're the only one who can save you. You're here to learn that. It will come in waves. You learn first the way the salty water tastes, and how it shrivels up your fingertips, how it bogs you down and takes away all your air. Then, the waves slow and it throws you to the surface, to the world full of oxygen and transient reprieve. And when you go back under, thats the part where you get strong. You'll have to fight and you'll get tired. You're not here to apologize. You're not here to be perfect. You're not here to be perfect. You're here to be you. Don't quit.

First you learn, and then you cope, and then you keep going. So, keep going.

The tale of the human milkshake

So, it's 10pm. I'm hungry. I've been in bed most of the day. I walk out the door with a sweater on, my long sock warmers with the Down Syndrome animal face with the floppy ears, and my pajama shorts that, evidently since I'm fat, disappear under my tshirt and sweater somewhere into another universe when I sit down. I want a burger, so I roll up to McDonald's, order my shit and pull up to the window, and as I am giving the older gentlemen with a McDonald's themed tie up around his neck so far he probably uses that to strangle himself when he jerks off---he smiles and since where he is standing is much higher than where I am sitting in my Japanese plastic with wheels, he looks down and then flashes an even bigger smile. I'm completely oblivious at this point because I'm hungry and I just want my fucking food. Then, I put my card away after I tell him to have a good night, I hear him say, "oh, it has been," and I, very audibly, over America's "Lonely People" say JESUS CHRIST.

As I rolled up to get my food from the very lovely young lady at the second window, who will in just a moment get to see proof of what tall tales the older gentlemen with the masturbation neck tie from the first register has slipped a second away from his post to tell her, I just smiled and thought, fuck it. Either way, I get my burger. That's probably going in the spank bank for the old man, and maybe give that girl either something to look forward to, up to, or away from. The last thing she heard out of my vehicle was the end of the chorus of "lonely people": "don't give up until you drink from the silver cup, you never know until you try." Accurate. Good luck, sweetheart. Don't let the old man touch ya with his tie.

The tale of vomit, murder, and the spaceship

I woke up this morning with liquids coming outta my North and South America. I tried to go to work, but I shit my pants and puked like a toddler on myself, so I had to come home. Mariah Carey said at her NYE performance it doesn't get any better. She was right.

Once I felt like my stent in the bathroom spewing spring and autumn was kinda done, I watched Apollo 13. I went to see that in the theater when it came out. I was 9. I was miserable because it was like a 12 hour fucking movie (not true) and I had poison ivy on my thighs that had started to leak, and so when I went to the bathroom I couldn't pull my pants down because my elephantgirl skin was stuck to my shorts. Fast forward to today, and it's just like old times. I shouldn't have to spoon feed you that I also shit my pants that day, but I blame it on the stress of Tom Hanks getting lost. I still love Tom Hanks, though.

I slept and then one of the dogs and I played a murder game on my phone called "Criminal Case," where you gotta find  body parts in gardens and shit and solve crimes. She jumped in my lap like she was ready for something so I said, "Let's find some dead people Hazel," so we did. I used her paw to touch the items when we found them in the scavenger hunt, we got points, we watched an autopsy, and we put a cartoon character behind bars for a grisly murder. We were like Cagney and Lacey. Or Rizzoli and Isles.

I don't really know what the point of this was, but I guess the moral of the story is don't feel bad if you're sick and you shit yourself. Also, don't travel with Tom Hanks or you'll end up lost or stuck in a bathroom trying to figure out how to pull down  your jean shorts stuck to your chunky, poison ivy thighs before you shit yourself. Either way, you're probably gonna shit yourself, sometime. They say, "well, it can only go up from here," but I'm here to tell you that isn't true. It can get way worse.

The tale of the 30 year old.

Let me tell you something about being 30.

Okay. Maybe I don't know a whole lot yet, I've only been this age for a few months. But, I'll tell you what nobody told me. 

Your body hurts. All the time. Aleve is like a vitamin, now. You roll your eyes at children  and say words like "racket" and "CPAP mask." Your knees lock up and pop like the last 15 seconds of microwave popcorn, and you get calls from your doctor about blood tests that are a reminder you've got a better chance of getting diabetes than meeting somebody who isn't hiding mall blueprints in his 1995 two-door red Toyota Tercel. The one with the faded paint job. 

You learn about background checks and mugshots and people who think they're smarter than you are, but have been in and out of trouble more times than a Waffle House hooker. Heads up, bitch wears a tiara that says "party like it's 1999." Prince would be proud. 

You learn about medications like lisinopril and mirapex and Prozac. Your doc gives you creams for your dry vagina and pills for your dick that doesn't work. Your boobs sag, every five pounds you gain feels like a 10 pound bag of tears strapped to your ass, thighs, and belly and you start cursing Kirstie Alley and Marie Osmond daily. Your doctor asks you if you want meds for your hairloss, before you noticed you were really losing any. And then you go cry in a corner and listen to The Carpenter's. But, then you take the uppers he gave you and it's all good. 

But, it ain't all bad. If you still have hope, you start to think babies are cute. If you're single, and you have lady parts, you think you could maybe raise one on your own. You look at your job, do you want to go back to school? What do you want to be when you grow up? And if you had a tiny human to look after, would they look up to you and tell you that you're their hero? Is this a part of your plan? Should it, is it supposed to happen? You're only 30, they say. It's never too late. 

But, when you finally pull your head out of the those white, puffy, fucking clouds of hope, you start to think about your standards; and are they too high or too low and maybe losing 15 pounds will help you feel better, but you don't because you don't have the energy to work out, or the money to go buy the clothes, and working out in front of women who are 15 years younger and 60 pounds lighter than you, in heels and makeup isn't exactly the ideal component of a weight loss plan. 

You start reading self help books. You maybe think about going to church. You read about other religions and you wonder about the meaning of life, your purpose, and if God is really a chick or a dude with blonde hair and blue eyes. You look in the mirror and you say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough," and whatever Stuart Smalley said. You adopt more animals because they lay by you when you're sick and they comfort you when you're sad and they make your life complete without doing much more than just existing. And maybe you hope you can be that for somebody else someday. 

You learn positivity is important, and your time is exceedingly valuable. You start to say "Ain't got time fa dat" A LOT, but it isn't a joke, because you really don't. You don't have time for bullshit or games or seasonal people. You deserve to be stood by, but also to be told when you're being an asshole. But, nicely, so you don't have to bury anybody. 

The first month after you turn 30, a lot changes. You get tired, your brain feels different. Literally, you feel different. I'm not kidding. It's like somebody changes your inner clock from a shitty digital Velcro watch from Walmart to a fancy watch with information on it like date and time and the moon cycle because you're probably going to get Alzheimer's soon and that's necessary information. You get sad, your local liquor store dude knows you by name, and your coworkers and Aunt Diane keep asking you when you're getting married. You go on blind dates with guys named Todd and Bryce and have to listen to women talk about their kids with shitty names like Brylynn and Brayklynn and Breesdin. So much with the Br names. Your parents offer to sign you up for Match.com, and you know they're only trying to help. 

If you're 30, and you're alone, you're not. You're probably a good person, you have some friends, and I hope they love you. Adopt an animal or five, give them the best life. Eat ice cream for breakfast and try not to to buy too much shit on Amazon. Read books before you see the movies and always ask the dude you're on a date with what his parents do for a living and what his mom is like. If for nothing else, you know what you're in for over the holidays if shit goes well. 

As Mrs. Doubtfire once said, all my love to you, poppet. You're going to be just fine.