Baby Nielsen is a girl!! And I am a terrible psychic. (UPDATED BECAUSE I'M AWFUL)

If you're like me, ultrasound pictures are entirely indecipherable, so let me explain. What you're looking at above is a picture of Baby Nielsen's bum. I think. I'm pretty sure. Anyway, the arrow is pointing between her legs, and the three little white lines indicate lady parts. Oh how embarrassing.

On Friday I was exactly 17 weeks pregnant. Eric and I were getting a little antsy to know whether we had a little miss or mister on our hands, probably mostly because we had a bet that whoever was right would get 50 dollars to spend on whatever they wanted. I was going to use this as a clever way to force Eric to buy me baby clothes with me, but it didn't quite work out because I was positive that Baby was a boy. And now I'm getting no end of "I told you so's" from Eric.

Actually, I'm just wrong in general as far as the whole baby guessing thing goes. Since learning of my pregnancy, my maternal instincts have apparently taken a nosedive off a cliff because I'm about as clairvoyant as a rock. We've had a bunch of friends find out baby genders, and I've been wrong EVERY TIME. I swore up and down that baby


------------
Apparently I hit "publish" instead of "save" on this one before finishing it.

OH GOOD.

I don't even remember where I was going with this. I guess I'll just finish this post now, since it's already been up for an embarrassingly long time. I'm a very reputable writer, take me seriously!

I think my point was that I have a 100 percent failure rate at guessing baby genders. Which, if you think about it, is actually pretty accurate. That's like a perfect succes rate, in a way. So maybe I am kind of psychic. Like, "my gut says you're having a boy, so it must be a girl."

By the way, I was positive Baby Girl was actually Baby Boy. In fact, just last night I had TWO DREAMS in a row that she's a boy. I'm still not 100 percent convinced that this isn't the case.

Welp. That about does it. Let's chalk this up to pregnancy brain and forgive me, kay guys? *Womp womp*

That one time when a particularly voluptuous robot swindled me out of some alligators

Today I was checking my email on Hotmail because I signed up for an email account at the age of 13 and I don't like change so HOTMAIL IT IS. Little did I know that the MSN messenger chat service I also used at the age of 13 was up and functional, and I was totally signed in to it. Then a little chat box popped up on my screen from Jen+Lova. Now, I'm not entirely sure who she is, but I'm positive she's a robot. So I guess I am entirely sure who she is.

Jen+Lova says:

heya

megan prietzel says:

Hello, who is this?

Jen+Lova says:

hello to you too

megan prietzel says:

You don't know who I am.

I mean it's possible, but I doubt it.

Jen+Lova says:

Hey hun, How ru doing today? Wanna chat for a little ?!? Im bored and wanted to meet new people... 

megan prietzel says:

Ooooh I see. This is a spam bot. I GET YOU NOW.

Jen+Lova says:

nah, I am a vegetarian... no spam for me! haha

megan prietzel says:

Oh okay, so you're a spam bot that automatically sends a negative response whenever I type the word "spam."

Jen+Lova says:

a what?

megan prietzel says:

SPAM

SPAMMY SPAM SPAM

Jen+Lova says:

Cool... Well, I am Jenny Im originally from S.Florida... Let me ask you a question?

megan prietzel says:

Okay, but first let me ask you one. Is it fulfilling, being a spam bot? I mean, do you get a sense of accomplishment from your work?

I once considered being a spam bot, however I'm not a robot.

It was a poor career choice.

Jen+Lova says:

bot? like a robot? lol

megan prietzel says:

Yes, like your people, Jenny from South Florida.

Jen+Lova says:

i LOVE florida, my best friend Becky lives in Boca Raton, I visit down there all the time

megan prietzel says:

I've been to Florida twice, but I was quite disappointed by the lack of wild alligators roaming the streets.

Jen+Lova says:

Which kinda women u in to ? r u in to NICE TITS or a NICE APPLE BOTTOM ?

 :)

megan prietzel says:

Well, as a heterosexual female, I'm not really into any women, regardless of their varying physical assets. I AM however, into alligators. Why did I not see more alligators, Jenny?

Jen+Lova says:

yes im real

megan prietzel says:

Ah, well that settles it then. You MUST be real.

Jen+Lova says:

good question, huh? lol.. I have a lot of both!! :) would u like to see? I have some free time now... 

megan prietzel says:

A lot of alligators? Or a lot of physical assets? I'd be very interested in seeing the alligators. Could you please email me some photos of said alligators? And could you please name one Pixie McGillus for me? And could you tell her she's the prettiest alligator of them all?

Jen+Lova says:

pics are old skool hehe, i like to do cam 2 cam :) i'm online right now http://www.reddit.com/tb/y90pm/im the main girl u see there, type to me on the right hand side of my video

megan prietzel says:

Oh, I don't mind if the photos are old school. Alligators do well in all types of photography genres, I think. Very timeless, alligators. 

Jen+Lova says:

pics are old skool hehe, i like to do cam 2 cam :) i'm online right now http://www.reddit.com/tb/y90pm/im the main girl u see there, type to me on the right hand side of my video

megan prietzel says:

Oh, I think you resent that, robot.

I MEAN DEFINITELY REAL GIRL.

Jen+Lova says:

i dont think so

megan prietzel says:

...I think you did. In fact I can see that you did.

You definitely did, Jenna.

Jen+Lova says:

Yay... let me set up my cam n u can watch me shake my booty!! LOL.. brb 

megan prietzel says:

I'm starting to suspect that you're not from South Florida AT ALL.

Jen+Lova says:

Ok! Click here http://www.reddit.com/tb/y90pm/and we'll have a PRIVATE 1on1 chat..There's plenty pix of me in there, if you like click the "join free" on top, then register and it'll take you straight to my webcam, I'll be there in a minute.. :)

megan prietzel says:

Is Booty the name of one of your alligators?

Jen+Lova says:

jennifer is my real name but all my friends call me jenny

megan prietzel says:

Hey Jennifer, I'm totally online on your website thing. SHOW ME THE GATORS.

Jen+Lova says:

hey whats up sweetie?

megan prietzel says:

You know, I'm trying to have a conversation with you, but you're so disjointed that I'm starting to think you don't really know what's going on.

Like you're distracted, or something.

Jen+Lova says:

It might say that im offline, just start signing up.. im getting on now.. 

megan prietzel says:

Oh, oh so you're NOT online?

Wait, I thought you were DEFINITELY online.

I thought we were going to do this alligator thing. Am I being had, Jenny?

Jen+Lova says:

There is no charge to sign up, but its gonna ask you for your credit card. Im wearing almost nothing and I dont want any kids watching me!! lol.. 

megan prietzel says:

All I have to do to verify my age is give you all my credit card information? Sounds legit.

Jen+Lova says:

Once you've completed that, it'll automatically redirect you to my webcam page.. u better give me some "gold" when you're on the site lol..it's like a flirt and I'd love some from you ..k? :)

megan prietzel says:

Okay I'm a little stuck. Should I also include my social security number, just to make ABSOLUTELY sure that I'm not under 18?

Jen+Lova says:

24/f/Houston

megan prietzel says:

I THOUGHT YOU WERE FROM FLORIDA.

I don't know what to believe anymore. 

Jen+Lova says: 

k u in?

megan prietzel says:

...Well I guess so. I must admit, my faith in you is a little shaken, but as you now have my credit card information and my social security number, who can I trust if not you, right? LOL.

Jen+Lova says:

my cell is 206-222-1648, please dont give that out! lol

megan prietzel says:

I'm totally posting this to my blog, you know.

JESSICA, WHERE DID YOU GO?

I mean, Jennifer.

Jenny.

Whatever.

...There are no alligators, are there?

I never did get to see Pixie McGillus. But I am now fighting the irrational urge to call that number and continue on our conversation about alligators. I could be like, "Oh yeah, no really, I TOTALLY want to see your apple bottom, but first answer me this: do alligators really live in sewers, or is that just an urban legend?"

Anything stronger than baby aspirin is a problem for me because I start personifying my inuries and they're never nice

The night before Thanksgiving I was feeling charitable so I gave the dogs a bath which was fine until I had a terrible reaction to work.  About twenty minutes after the dogs were dry, I was minding my own business, googling pictures of clothes I will never be able to afford, when all of the sudden my leg was like, "HEY I ITCH BAD."  I scratched my leg absent-mindedly for a while when, would you look at that, I noticed skin underneath my fingernails.  Doesn't that sound totally not disgusting?

Huh! I thought to myself.  Where did all that skin come from? And then I looked at my leg and was like OH.  Because my thigh was covered in some particularly attractive red welts.  Like, the mothership of all welts.  Wherever a welt exists in the world, my welts birthed them.  THOSE KINDS OF WELTS.

It took me a minute to figure out that I ought to blame the dogs, but I got to that soon enough.  Then I kicked them both and yelled "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE" directly into their little, innocent faces.  This being before I mixed rat poison into their dinners, of course.  And by kicking, yelling, and poisoning, I mean snuggles and baby talk, but I don't really know which is worse from their perspective.

Anyway, I quickly put my brain to the task and deduced that I had two options: first, I could put some lotion on my legs and go to sleep.  Second, I could wake up my mom at 1:00 in the morning and ask her to cure me.  See, I occasionally wake my mom up in the middle of the night when I want to inform her that I'm dying of some awful allergic reaction.  I do this partly because my body really does itch, but mostly because I just like the attention.  This time, however, she just sort of tossed me some Benadryl and went back to bed, and now I think I may have overdone it a little bit because no one even feels bad for me anymore when I itch.

The point of this story is that on the night before Thanksgiving day I took Benadryl at 1:00 am.  I think a normal person would probably be fine and just go to bed once the drowsiness kicked in, but since I'm an idiot, I chose instead to fight the power of modern medicine until the last possible moment.  Basically I was completely out of it, and while some might be like "MEGAN YOU FOOL, YOU CAN'T GET HIGH FROM BENADRYL" I maintain that these people clearly do not know me and anything stronger than Advil will turn me into a bumbling idiot.  This is further proven by the fact that I am a clumsy fool with a weak immune system, so I always get sick or injured and require heavy duty cough medicine or some sort of pain killing narcotic for something or other.  I try not to take those prescriptions because I can't ever really remember anything that has ever happened to me while on them.  I have low tolerance for every single chemical, is what I'm saying.  You should see me on Red Bull.

So picture, if you will, me.  I'm sitting on my floor in the middle of the night insisting to myself that I am NOT tired.  (I totally am tired.)  I send a few mispelled texts (phone becomes "poo hone" when autocorrect hates me) and eventually settle into a sort of drug-induced haze of fatigue.  I cry a little bit, because that's what I do.  That's when I notice a freaking HUGE bruise running up my thigh.  How did it get there?  I don't know.  I still don't know.  Did I run into a table?  Did a midget beat me with a crowbar?  Did I punch myself repeatedly and then forget about it?  Anything is possible.  And that's when The Bruise and I started to have a conversation.


Me: Hey.  Whatcha doin?
Bruise: OMG, mind your own business.
Me: I would, it's just that you hurt and stuff.
Bruise: And your point?
Me: Well, you're huge and green.  Bruise, why are you green?
Bruise: Kool-aid.  Now go away.
Me: They make green flavored Kool-aid?
Bruise: Green isn't a flavor, idiot. It's apple.
Me: Oh.  You should just drink apple juice then.  It makes more health sense.
Bruise: Could you, like, shut up?  I'm trying to bleed into your soft tissues.
Me: Sorry.  I'm just confused.  I don't remember running into anything lately.
Bruise: Are you kidding? You've fallen over 17 times since I've been here.  You just bought a pack of glitter band-aids two days ago.
Me: Oh yeah.  I guess I did do that.  Do you think you would go away if I stuck a glitter bandaid on your face?
Bruise:...No.
Me: Why not
Bruise: I'm an internal pool of blood caused by ruptured capillaries.
Me: Sounds like a job for glitter bandaids.
Bruise: No, nitwit, bandaids only work to protect external abrasions, such as minor scrapes and--WHAT ARE YOU DOING, STOP IT, GET THAT OFF OF ME.
Me: Shh, bruise, sleep now.  Everything is going to be okay.
Bruise: NO IT ISN'T, YOU ARE THE DUMBEST GIRL IN THE HISTORY OF THE EARTH.
Megan: Hey, so I just googled you and the internet says you could solidify under my skin and become permanent.  Are you going to do that?
Bruise: No.
Me: Oh.  Well...you could, if you wanted.
Bruise: No.
Me:...Will you be my friend?
Bruise: No.
Me: Okay.
[awkward silence]
Bruise: Stop poking me.
Me: But you hurt.
Bruise: Stop.  Seriously.
Me: Owww, why do you hurt?  The harder I poke, the more you huuuuurt.  Oh my gosh, this is so paiiiinful.
Bruise: I hate you.
Me: OWWWWW.


My bruise is still there but it isn't talking to me.  I don't know if it's just mad or if it was inanimate all along, but I will cherish the memory forever.

Entries from my journal part deux

I've posted some of my journal on this blog before.  I wonder why I did that.  However I clearly do not learn from past experience, because here is some more.


June 2, 2010 (At least I think that's the date, but I wrote that last night was May 31st, so I really have no idea.  Obviously)

-I have a theory about people who actively seek me out.  People are really looking for the other Megan Prietzel.  There must be another one.  She's reasonable and normal and knows how to do laundry.  She also is part of a super team that fights crime and can shoot fireballs from her eyebrows.  (I like to think my alter ego has skills.)  Anyway, they think they are going to get an awesome super person but instead they're all, "Oh dang.  CRAZY." and I'm all, "Let's go roll down a hill in a cardboard tube."  That's probably why I both do and do not have friends.


June 22, 2010

-I went to Lake Powell for my senior trip.  I felt just like Indiana Jones, only less masculine.  And coordinated.


June 23, 2010 [Hi, it's present day Megan.  I don't know what the following is about.  I think I was thinking about how to tell if someone is a zombie.  Just...I don't know.]

-I'm not saying you're a zombie.  I'm implying it.  There's a difference.

-You could be a zombie.  Let me check your pulse.  If you try to eat my brain, you're probably a zombie.

-Or you just like brains.  That's cool.  I don't judge.

-But I'd like to point out that I would judge if I were paid to.  I'd be like Simon Cowell only without an accent and a black shirt.  So, in other words, lame.

-But still cooler than a zombie.

-Who am I kidding.  Not cooler at all.


June 24, 2010

-I try not to be rude but then I'm all drunk and stuff.

-I meant to write "blunt" and accidentally wrote "drunk."  That tells you a little bit about me.


July 2, 2010

-Jordan just told me that my status updates me seem weird.  If status updates are the only things making me seem weird, I think I'm doing pretty well.

-You know, I find that mispronunciation is really the only way to go.

-I would like to inform the authorities about you but then the police would arrest you and I couldn't so openly stare.


July 4, 2010

-The housing market is pretty bad, so I think I should live in a house made out of legos and rubber cement.


July 30, 2010

-99% of what I write is junk. 1% is actually probably useful.  Not that I've ever written about anything useful exactly, but I'm sure that something, somewhere could be misconstrued as helpful.  It would probably be disguised as a unicorn or something though.

-I think the world would be a better place if I were in charge of it.  Or at least parts of it.  I hear Switzerland is doing pretty well without me.

-I just don't want to live in a world that requires I wear pants in public.


October 22, 2010

-Some mail came for you today.  It looked fairly important, so I threw it away.


March 15, 2011

-There just isn't much dialogue written out for real life.  And the stuff there is sucks.

-I think that if you're enough of a nerd, people will just love you.


Hello!  It's Megan again.  To answer some questions that haven't been asked but that I can guess will come in emails after this post, there IS a reason why I write and why I write like this.  These little thoughts and snippets of internal conversations lead to things.  Bigger things.  A lot of my journal has just been skipped in this post because so many of the entries turned into full posts or articles and since you've already read those, why write them here again?  So I guess this is a behind-the-scenes look for you.  I'm sorry that there is nothing more exciting to report.  I know that a lot of you are writers and I suggest that you guys get yourself a cute and whimsical journal (mine is made up of a bunch of different illustrated pages) and jot down every weird thought that comes to your head.  Because we all have them and anyone who says they don't is a liar. 

So there are some glimpses into my crazy brain.  If you're still confused and don't understand any of it, then I'll just leave you with my last entry, which is just this: It just feels so good to write for no specific reason.

This is part two and it would probably be better for all of you if I just didn't post it but I'm not that considerate.

I'm not exactly sure about the chronological order of events after the juggling clown man, but there are some key points that need to be mentioned.  So in the places where I have forgotten the order of things, I will just...mumble.  Or something.  Or blame Tavia.  Or devolve into rambling about that one time that I spilled my Coke in the airport.  Just don't yell at me.  And now that my premature and inexplicable defense has been put forth, let's continue, SHALL WE?


My Airport Adventure: A Tale of Loss, Achieving my Dreams, and Strange Men Dressed as Clowns in Terminal A (Part Two)

You'll recall that when we left off, I was sitting in Terminal A wondering how I ought to have responded to a strange clown man flirting with me while juggling.  And wearing bright red overalls.  It is a situation that still haunts me to this day. 

Tavia and I sat and waited for our plane.  And as we waited, a man sat by us with his 14-ish year old daughter.  Tavia and I both had our laptops out and were discussing something that was no doubt incredibly intelligent and sophisticated and important.  On facebook chat.  While sitting next to each other.  We do this a lot.  The man started talking to us, presumably because we were both wearing BYU jerseys.  He talked about BYU, he talked about Jimmer, and then he talked about his son who had just returned from a mission.  It was pleasant, and Tavia and I returned to our conversation about the particulars of astrophysics.  I soon noticed a quiet power struggle taking place:

Man: Do you think they'll want to see Andrew's picture?
Daughter: OH MY GOSH.  No, Dad. 
Man: I think they will.  They're about the right age. *Reaches for his wallet.*
Daughter: Dad, please.  Please no.  Please, stop.  (She sounded absolutely mortified.)
Man: I'm going to show them.  He's going to go to BYU!  This could be perfect!
Daughter:  I WILL KILL MYSELF IF YOU SHOW THEM.  I WILL LITERALLY STAB MY OWN FACE OUT OF EMBARRASSMENT.

Okay, that last part was paraphrased a bit, but I could tell that his daughter was thinking JUST EXACTLY THAT.  I almost leaned over and asked to see the picture, just to put her out of her misery.  Fortunately for us all, the plane boarded at that precise moment.

The flight itself was uneventful and only two things are worth mentioning: first, my inexplicable inability to perform menial tasks with any sort of efficiency kicked in as I attempted to stow my carry-on luggage in the overhead.  Also, we happened to be in the first few rows of seats (I think) so everyone had to wait for me to be an idiot and my brain was all, "I AM GOING TO KILL YOU RIGHT NOW, IS THAT COOL?" And I just responded with, "Yes.  Please.  Now is a good time for that."

Second, there was minor turbulence in the plane.  This terrified me more than I can possibly explain.  I have this thing with planes, this thing where I'm not sure if I'm SO SO EXCITED or so terrified that oh!  Look!  Is that me peeing myself? Planes are awesome and I am so thoroughly intrigued and astonished at the idea of zooming through the sky while sitting in a chair, reading a book and eating pretzels.  Then again, planes seem very fragile to me.  Like gravity could just be like, "Eh, I don't think I'm cool with this many tons of metal being airborne after all."  And then we would all plummet to the ocean and die in a fiery explosion underwater.  Which makes no sense for a few reasons, the main one being that there is no ocean between Utah and Colorado.  BUT I DIGRESS.

As I said, there was minor turbulence on the plane that night because it was raining when we arrived at the airport.  When the plane started to shake, this primitive part of my brain punched the rational, normal part of my brain right in it's brain-face, and then proceeded to take over.  It didn't help that Tavia was seated in the row in front of me, and we both had window seats.  The guy next to me was a mouth-breather with an iPad.  He was watching Salt on his iPad.  The combined stress of watching Angelina Jolie being tortured in her underwear along with a near-constant jostling in my seat caused me to lean forward to Tavia and predict our death.  WE ARE GOING TO DIE, TAVIA, AND DO YOU KNOW WHY?  IT'S BECAUSE ANGELINA JOLIE IS A RUSSIAN SPY AND ALSO THIS PLANE IS SCREWING WITH GRAVITY, AND WHEN YOU SCREW WITH GRAVITY, YOU ALWAYS LOSE.

Needless to say, Tavia just rolled her eyes a lot and took it like a champ.  And told me to shut up a lot.  And laughed because I was sitting next to a large mouth-breather who didn't like it that I kept frantically checking whether or not Angelina was dead yet.

Eventually the plane landed and I kept wondering whether or not I would die horribly up until the moment we were walking out of the plane.  Because you just never know.  Anyway, nothing too terribly exciting happened next.  I had a wonderful time in Colorado, but this story is about the airport, and I still have to tell you all about the epic return trip.  So, in summary, this is what happened in Colorado:

-BYU basketball games that were awesome.
-Stalking the team around downtown Denver.  Also, meeting Brandon Davies.  He loves me.
-Driving home from the airport at 4 in the morning because Tavia and I had to take her family there so they could go to Hawaii without us.  Also, that was when we made up a version of "Friday" that was all about communist Russia.  It was very socially aware and at the time it seemed pretty profound.
-Mean Girls 2.  It's a crappy movie.
-Tavia punched herself in the face while jumping onto a bean bag.  It is the only time I have ever seen Tavia show any sign of weakness.  I didn't know she could bleed until that moment.
-Other stuff that I forgot about.

Okay, well I planned to write about the TSA lady who thought I was a tiny, deadly terrorist, but I can't because this post is already too long.  So there will be a part three.  In which I get to the part where the authorities start taking me way more seriously than they ought to.

I don't remember if I've told this story already but I had a lot of caffeine so here you go, internet.

I think I may have tweeted about this while it was happening but it's a story that deserves documentation and probably a few pictures but I lost my camera in Colorado while it was happening and so now I don't have a picture of the clown man to prove anything.  I actually think the TSA stole my camera as evidence and then when they figured out that I'm not actually a terrorist, they were too embarrassed to give it back.  TSA, I forgive you, but I really need my camera back because I spent forever hours becoming a photography wizard and by "wizard" I mean "person who is able to turn her camera on and off without causing irreparable damage" so YEAH, TSA.  If you send it back, we'll call it good and I won't sue you.  I probably won't sue you anyway, though.  This post is not going to get any more coherent than this, guys.

My Airport Adventure: A Tale of Loss, Achieving my Dreams, and Strange Men Dressed as Clowns in Terminal A (Part One)
By Megan Prietzel

"I wish I could go to Colorado and see BYU in the NCAA tournament," I said.
"We should just go," replied Tavia.
"Okay."

Shortly thereafter, Tavia called her father.  I called my mother.  After a series of phone calls involving massive amounts of whining and promises to be responsible and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE's, Tavia and I headed off to Colorado to support and cheer on our beloved BYU men's basketball team.

We left after our classes and headed to the airport.  I was tingling with excitement and also inexplicable terror because airplanes are incredible.  So incredible that I still refuse to believe that they are real.  How can that much metal fly through the air like that?  IT CAN'T, I TELL YOU.  Except it does.  THUS THE TERROR.  Anyway, we arrived at the airport parking lot.  Rain poured outside the car.  Neither one of us wanted to leave the warm, enveloping comfort of the car's butt warmers, but we had a higher calling that day.  We HAD to get to Colorado.  And I vowed to be an adult that day!  It would be my first airplane ride ever without my mommy.  EVER.  Tavia doubted that I had the capability to act like a functioning member of society for an entire airport visit, but I was going to prove her wrong.  OH BOY, WAS I.

We left the car and lugged our two carry-on bags through puddles and into a little shack to await the airport shuttle.  A very athletic looking woman joined us.  At the time I was not ashamed because I visited the gym regularly.  I am now ashamed.  Anyway.  The shuttle arrived and Tavia and I boarded, ready for our adventure.  I sat on that crowded, damp bus with a grin on my face and I suppressed every urge to start singing "WE WE WE SO EXCITED!  WE SO EXCITED!" because I was a freaking adult, everybody, complete with a real suitcase and a living person who was not my mom.  It was to be the dawn of a new age.

We entered the airport.  I could feel the magic of modern transportation at work around me, a magic that I was about to take part in.  Unfortunately, I have this problem. 

I am not the kind of person who copes well with new and unusual situations.  Especially situations where something is expected of me, say like in a long line of rushing people in which I am expected to take off my shoes and fill a tub with all of my things as quickly as possible.  Tavia is one of those capable people.  She orders pizza on the phone because she doesn't mind talking to a person and telling him or her that she wants pepperoni.  Her face doesn't burn bright red and her palms don't sweat and she doesn't start mumbling awkward sentences that sounded better in her head.  That is why I desperately needed her.

We got in the airport security line thing.  Tavia calmly removed her shoes and placed them in a plastic tub, along with her jacket and belt.  She took a second tub and put her phone and laptop inside.  Then she set them both on a conveyor belt with ease, followed by her suitcase.  Meanwhile, my brain was going insane for no particular reason.

I am going to have to take off my shoes.  What if I forget how to do that?  What if I accidentally take off my pants instead?  I WILL LOOK LIKE SUCH AN IDIOT.  Oh my gosh.  The people behind me are probably wondering why I don't have a plastic tub.  Okay, so I um, grab this tub thing and um...put my shoes in it?  Is that right?  PANTS?  TAVIA SHOULD I PUT MY PANTS IN IT?  NO! No, Megan, get it together.  Okay now set the tub on the movey-belty thing.  WTFFF I need a SECOND TUB??  Oh dear heaven above.  Okay uh...for my laptop?  But my laptop is in my backpack...no no it's cool.  I can do this.  Man, this zipper is really difficult to open when my palms are this sweaty.  IS EVERYONE LOOKING AT ME?  Everyone is looking at me. I can't handle this pressure.  IF I DO NOT GET THIS BACKPACK OPEN EVERYONE WILL DIE.  Oh, I am truly blessed, it opened and I didn't drop my laptop.  Okay, well now I just want everyone to stop looking at me.  I can tell they're looking at me, even though they appear to be paying no attention at all. I'm gonna go ahead and toss the rest of my stuff in there as quickly as possible.  And now it's all falling out of the tub.  Um.  I'll just put my backpack on top...Yeah that works.  OH MY now I have to lift my suitcase and put it on the conveyor thing??  IS MY FOREHEAD SWEATING THAT MUCH, OR AM I IMAGINING THIS??  I bet the security guy thinks I'm a terrorist because I'm sweating so much.  I'm not, security guy.  I'm just incapable of performing simple tasks with an audience.  Oh no.  I can't lift this suitcase.  I CAN'T DO IT I CAN'T DO IT I CA-oh hey, I did it.  Kind of crooked...oh now it's stuck inside the scanning machine.  I AM SUCH AN EMBARRASSMENT TO MY RACE.

Needless to say, my inner monologue did not help my awkward fear when, after successfully passing through the metal detector like a champ, the security man stopped me because he found something suspicious in his magical x-ray machine. 

I knew it.  He thinks I'm a terrorist.  Or a drug dealer!  I'm not though!  ...Right?  AM I?  DID I BECOME A DRUG DEALER AND FORGET ABOUT IT?  Just arrest me now, security man, I'll admit to anything.  YES, IT'S MY COCAINE.  AND MY GUN.  ALSO MY PANTS, I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO REMOVE THEM.

As it turned out I was not a drug dealer and actually the woman behind me had too much lotion in her carry on but the security man thought it was my bag and so I suffered a small heart attack.  

After my face faded from bright red to its usual pasty white, Tavia and I decided to get something to eat.  I felt as though Burger King was the only food I could want, mainly because we passed it on the way to the airport and I was starving and unable to actually consider my dining options.  So Tavia and I sat at a table and waited for our food after ordering.  Because I was convinced that my hunger was insatiable, I ordered the largest sized combo, which meant a beverage the approximate size and shape of my head.  I filled it with Coke and headed over to sit with Tavia.  I then promptly dropped the bucket of Coke right next to my chair and also kind of on my chair.  Tavia stared at me for a moment before sighing and admitting that she should have known this would happen, and yeah, she sort of should have because she lived with me and THIS WAS A NORMAL OCCURRENCE. 

I walked over to a nice little old lady who was mopping the floor and asked her to please clean up my mess.  Just then my food was ready.  Tavia and I sat and ate our fries and chicken nuggets as a sweet, elderly woman quietly mopped the floor around my feet.  It was easily one of the most terrible moments of my life.  I'll give you a moment to picture this.  Keep in mind that all the surrounding tables were occupied by people who were staring and felt just as awkward as I did.  Also keep in mind that I had tried to mop up the Coke with three forests' worth of napkins which did almost nothing but make a soggy brown mess that dripped all the way to the trash can and covered me in sticky soda.  Ready?  Got the horrible mental image?  Good.  Now hold it there for ten minutes and try to enjoy your chicken nuggets.  YOU CAN'T.

After that disaster, Tavia decided it would be best just to go sit in our terminal and wait for the plane to board.  As we sat in the terminal we saw a strange man.  He had gone through airport security near us and we were mildly amused to see him n our terminal.  He wore bright red overalls.  His hair was a huge tangle of orange-brown curls.  His shoes were distinctly clown-like.  He carried an assortment of entertainments: bowling pins, rubber balls, batons, and the like.  While we watched, he practiced juggling his bowling pins and unfortunately, he was not very good at it.  He also got very angry with himself every time he dropped a bowling pin and I couldn't help but sympathize.  I watched the clown man for half an hour before the effect of my bucket of Coke kicked in and I left to use the bathroom.  As I walked back, I passed clown man.

"Hey there, pretty girl!" he said brightly.
"Oh, um, hi," I stammered back, surprised to be addressed.
"You dropped something back there"
I turned and looked at the ground, mentally kicking myself for losing my pants or something.  I didn't see anything.  Confused, I asked, "Um, what did I drop?"
"You dropped," here he paused and smiled coyly, "your smile."
"Ah, my smile.  Yes.  Ah.  I'll just...pick it up..and...wear...it..." My mumbling degenerated quickly.  Clown man appeared to be about 20.  Clown man appeared to be talking to me.  CLOWN MAN APPEARED TO BE WINKING AT ME.  I desperately wished that I had anything, anything at all to say about my dropped smile.  Instead, I shuffled awkwardly away, intensely aware of the fact that he was still looking at me. 

He started juggling rubber balls.  I started wondering what the appropriate reaction to this situation would be.  Rebecca Black would not get out of my head.

The epic tale will continue in PART TWO, in which the TSA decided that my ponytail was a threat to national security.

Scratch that. I am actually dying.

I am growing something.  Inside of me.  No, it is not a fetus.  It's more like a viral plague.  There is a probably unknown strain of some sort of soul-killing virus replicating inside of me and slowly sucking the life out of my body.  I'm not sure what it wants.  It's unclear whether it just intends to obstruct the air flow in my nose forever or whether its primary goal is to make me so woozy that I fall over and knock my head on the ground, possibly killing myself.  If the latter is the case, the virus really could just wait for nature to take its course.  I'm not particularly graceful, virus.  Just trying to help you out here.

Either way, I'm awake because I can't breathe and if I can't breathe I can't sleep and this all is much less serious than I'm making it sound.  Unless I really do die.  If I die, it's much more serious than I'm making it out to be.  Anyway, WANNA HEAR A STORY??

One day there was this really incredibly attractive girl named me.  I had to move all of my THINGS and STUFF and ITEMS from my college dorm to my room back at home because the university I was attending generally frowns upon people leaving piles and piles of junk in random rooms.  When I first moved into my dorm, I had a very reasonable amount of things.

Over time this amount grew.  I would come home from the store with some lotion, goldfish, decorative foam fingers.   Bags of useless stuff soon began piling under my bed.  I started to get slightly uncomfortable.  I was going to have to take this all back home, after all.  But I dismissed these thoughts and went out to buy more things.

In college there are these things called "dining plans" that give you free food.  Free food!  FREE FOOD!  And it's the good kind of food!  From vending machines and snack things and ice cream!  FREE FOOD...that I pay for every month as part of my rent, but STILL IT'S BASICALLY FREE!  I started to come home from class every day laden with food.  When it came time to move, for some reason I decided that the only thing I could possibly do with all of my food was pack it.  Along with all my other stuff.  Buy NEW FOOD?  NO!  IT WAS FREE FOOD!  So I packed my free food.  And my other things.  I began packing.  Things were going...okay.

I realized that I was going to need more boxes.  My roommate, meanwhile, had already packed and busily cleaned her half of the room like a responsible tornado of efficiency.  Oh, how I envied her ability to perform menial tasks without suffering from a total meltdown.  Nevertheless, I was determined to pack up all of my stuff all by myself.

Soon, I was in the zone.  A packing typhoon, I was a force to be reckoned with.  My arms were a blur, tossing items in boxes with reckless abandon.  Where my roommate was a well-oiled machine, stowing objects with precision, I was a flailing toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I flew across the room, cleaning walls and taping boxes and tearing down posters without any rhyme or reason.  I shoved my crap into every corner of every box almost angrily.  Actually, I was angry.  Why did I have so many things???  What was I doing shoving three bags of potato chips into a box of clothes???  WHY COULD I NOT GET "FRIDAY" OUT OF MY HEAD??!!  It wasn't long before the impossible became a glorious reality: all of my stuff was packed.

It was a lot less fulfilling than I thought it would be.

Unpacking was a miracle the likes of which have not been seen since biblical times.

The moral of the story: when you get a Happy Meal at McDonald's, throw away the toy instead of saving it and inexplicably bringing it and every other piece of useless junk that you've accumulated over the months with you when you move.