Life list number #26: Chizeck!

I know many of you might find this difficult to believe, but anytime I ask my mother (Why do I ask? Why do I KEEP ASKING?) what she would have done differently in raising me, she always tells me that she wishes she would have insisted on my having learned more “life skills” (her term, not mine). How my mom even thinks I accomplish simple tasks like toasting bread is beyond me. She truly beats herself up over this. I’m not sure what made her come to this conclusion. Was it the fact that I called her from the grocery store every other day in college, asking her things like “What does BROIL mean? It sounds some sort of skin condition.” Maybe. Hard to say.

Either way, I think every female on the planet has an innate need to impress their mother. I’m not sure life list #26 was brewed up as a result of this need or not, but for some reason I felt like I had to prove it to my mom myself that I could cook (er, bake) cookies, and I could bake so damn many of them that I’d have to give them away as gifts or even freeze them! So I put it on the ole’ life list, and ladies and gentleman, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Please note exhibit number #1:

That’s puppy chow we’re holding up, by the way. Anyone this side of the Mississippi knows what that is, I think.

Sure, maybe I lost my will to live shopping for the ingredients. Maybe it took just a shade longer than I had expected (WHO BAKES FOR 8 HOURS IN A DAY?), maybe the three of us who decided to tackle this job weren’t on speaking terms by the end of the process (just kidding), but we baked the SHIT out of those goods, and we’re better for it, dammit.

When it was all over and done with, I called my mom. I was feeling good. I mean, I was feeling like a Domestic Goddess, I’m not gonna lie. My mom seemed impressed as I relayed the afternoon activities, she really did. What was most intriguing to her was the fact that that her daughter, who had never baked in her life, actually baked fudge (now I’m confused…I feel like I didn’t really BAKE the fudge. This is hard.). I was relaying the skill I exerted in the fudge baking, err, cooking - MAKING process, and she seemed very, very impressed (surprised).

“Oh YES!” I said. “It was EASY! You’ve struggled to make fudge in the past, mother?” I quipped. “I really just had no problem at all! Bubbling? No! What’s that?”

I allowed her to explain. Then she asked, “Now, honey, did you make the fudge with the marshmallow cream?”

“Why YES!” I answered. At this point confident I was really giving her something to tell Aunt Arlene about next time they spoke.

“Well that’s a little easier, but STILL, so proud of you, honey.”

Now, I was willing to shake off that last little comment. After all, we’d really busted some cookies out over the course of the day.

Anyway, I was not about to let that comment get me down. I was ready to teach a pastry class or something. I was ready to pass some knowledge on to the grandkids. I’m not even kidding.

So when Amy (who’d done a FABULOUS job on the scotcheroos [sp?], by the way) gently noted that I had something on the back of my thigh, I brought my hand down just below the bum to wipe what I was sure was simply DUST, A HAIR, a CHERRIO. What I found was a frosted cookie.

No shit. It was like someone had actually taken one of the cookies we’d JUST frosted and pressed it in to the back of my thigh like, I DON’T KNOW, a STAMP? HOW DID THAT GET THERE? That’s what I want to know.

Then I tried to cut the fudge. Things were going downhill quickly.

Let me say that I had every intention of taking a picture of the “plates” I’d made to give to friends as gifts. For the record, I did make those plates. Friends did receive them. However, by that point, I’d decided to get back to what I knew best, which was not BAKING, but wine.

So, I don’t have a picture of the plates.

But they were amazing. They really were.



Word to your Mother.

My Mom called me tonight SUPER excited to contribute a blog post idea, which is the video below. (I TOLD her that I had one "brewing" already, but I'm not sure the fart blog was what she had in mind.) She actually discovered this from my friend Whitney's facebook status update. And, as a former Alaska teacher myself, I had to share!

Plus it kicks ass. That too. AK in da HOUSE!!!! Represent. And Merry Christmas. (And Whit, see you soon!)


Let's just get this out of the way right now...

Farts are funny. They. Just. Are. My husband is horrified by the fact that I CANNOT GET IT TOGETHER when someone starts in with the potty humor. He begrudgingly accepted this about me when he married me, but he likely didn't think I'd attempt to share my humor with, umm, THE INTERNET. (Hi, honey!) But I can't help it. I keep thinking I'll outgrow it while simultaneously hoping that our children will inherit my potty humor gene, because when they discover how much cooler their father is than their bat S@#* crazy mother, at least WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE THAT.

Quick side note: In an attempt to humor me, Paul often chimes in with the only potty joke he knows. When something smells good (cologne, food, you name it) and some unknowing, innocent friend verbalizes this to the group, Paul immediately jumps at the opportunity by offering this:

"I farted." (He "exclaims").

(Those of you who know my husband know why I put "exclaims" in quotation marks.) If potty humor had it's own version of slapstick, this would be it, minus both the voice inflection and comedic timing it takes to warrant a laugh. But what can I say? Some people are born with athleticism, some with potty humor. I like to call our union a joint survival of the fittest.

I love Dooce.com, for example, in part because she embraces potty humor on a regular basis. (Hahaha...I said regular.) Sure, there are other things that keep me coming back, but she had me at the gas.

The most recent post on Dooce, for example, talks about dog farts. Because my parents' dog, Tobe, lived to be 1,241 years old, as a family we shared many noteworthy moments at the dinner table. In his early years, Tobe was sly, releasing without a sound. When guests weren't present, we'd take pride in being the first one to warn the rest of the family about what was momentarily about to hit them. Later on (and, conveniently, when guests were present), Tobe took over the warning process, creating a sound that was a cross between a pathetic bugle horn player with emphysema and a whistling wind. When this happened, the adult children would look across the table at one another, smirks on our faces, while Dad chose to simply ignore it, moving the conversation along in the only subtle way he knew how: "MORE WINE?"

It's easier to talk about dog farts than human farts, but this weekend my girlfriends (delicate flowers that we are) explored the subject extensively. Do you fart in front of your significant other? Who was the first to do it? (Something that, to a potty humor specialist, often holds more significance than the first I LOVE YOU.) Whose farts are the loudest? (A unanimous HIS.) The grossest? (HIS. Usually.) If there's one universal truth about females, they can talk a subject to death and throw their significant other under the bus at the DROP OF A HAT when it comes to potty practice. In true fashion, we gave this subject all we had.

I naturally flock to people who share my love for potty humor, but there is always a moment when, in the first stages of friendship, I GO THERE only to discover that my new friend does not, in fact, have the "potty gene." They laugh politely while I dab the tears from my eyes and wait for my abdomen to stop hurting. But when we both suddenly come to the realization we're NOT on the same page when it comes to what we consider funny (IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), we look at each other with disappointment, as if to simultaneously say, "Ohhh, I see."

So be forewarned, anti-potty humor blog readers. Be. Fore. Warned.

P.S. Coming soon! The domestic goddess experience of checking #26 of the Meganithappen Life List. Stay tuned!


My brother could follow this guy like nobody's business.

I just found this earlier today on a blog I was stalking, and to say that it made my Thursday would be a grave understatement. If you can watch this without smiling, then I would feel confident in saying that you have no soul.

Now, let me digress for a moment to introduce this next little gem. Two summers ago Paul and I took a trip up to our family's cabin, and one particular evening we were having a real good time. (A REAL GOOD TIME). So much so, that at one point I walked in to the kitchen to see both my brother and Paul attempting to dance like Beyonce. Now, I married a man with some rhythm. The boy's got some moves. But my brother? Well, that looked more like this, but without the rhythm:

Those who made it to Hawaii for the wedding saw a replay of this. The rest of you will have to use your imagination.


The thing about blogging is...

I've been dabbling with the idea of starting a blog (and committing to it) for some time, but I've had a lot of hesitancy. Blogging takes guts. Having courage enough to self publish and think that what you've got to say is actually interesting enough for other people to want to read it takes a little ego. (Then again, let's be honest, so does the blog name Meganithappen, right? And I have to admit right now that a good friend of mine came up with Meganithappen. And she has every right to utilize it when she runs for president, though she'll have to use her own name.)

But, really, blogging is putting yourself out there. It's like online dating with words. That's intimidating to me. Honestly, who would want to read what I have to say? Who actually reads personal blogs?

Well, I do.

A lot of other people do too, I discovered. Two years ago I began blogging after being inspired by some friends and reading a few blog posts by other folks. Then some crazy stuff happened in my life (like, the death of my father) and I abandoned ship. But I've really been inspired these past two years watching and reading some pretty amazing bloggers from the sidelines. I started reading Heather Armstrong's Dooce (after a recommendation from one of my favorite peeps). From there, I've discovered some other blogs that I check out on a near daily basis (Mighty Girl, APW, QueSeraSera, to name a few). Mighty Girl inspired me to start a life list. APW encouraged me to submit a piece for their website (check it out...should be published on 12/15/10), and Sarah Brown? Well, she just inspired me to go for it...and they all did it without even knowing they did it. What if I could do that?

My goal is to write or post something every week for a year. One year. Try it out. I'm expecting the IN-TER-NET (that's for you, Mom) to hold me accountable. Maybe that only includes my Mom. Maybe that includes you.

Either way, it's something to challenge me to continue to share and connect in the same way others have done with and for me for the past few years. Maybe that means I'm only connecting with my friends and family. Maybe that includes others along that way. Either way, it's gravy.

So, here goes nothing. Starting, like, now.

They tell me she only sings at Christmas parties.

I just discovered THIS website and I can't believe I've lived my whole life waisting time without it. A friend of mine (whose humor I'd trust with my life) posted this little ditty on facebook and now my life is changed forever. (Alright, that's a bit dramatic but it's cute video, okay?) I especially like the commentary towards the end of the video when they tell the man in the "Why is he telling us whom we can't marry t-shirt" that Jewel is actually Karen. The fact that he runs away from the camera immediately after that really takes the humor up a notch, too. (Lauren, I KNEW there was a reason I liked the name Karen for you.)

Undercover Karaoke with Jewel from Jewel, Eric Appel, Antonio Scarlata, FOD Team, and BoTown Sound: "


Oatmeal is Good for You, Don't You Know?

I've recently discovered the website THE OATMEAL. For those of you who have been part of the 21st century for quite some time, this is nothing new. I, on the other hand, am a new member of that club, and this site basically gives me a reason to get up in the morning. THIS is The Oatmeal's most recent post, and it is most delightful. And I don't even like cats.


Things are happening.

I just haven't told anyone about them since August of 2008. My new goal? Post once a week in 2011, with warm-ups to that starting now. I promise. Stay tuned.
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