About me

I figured if I was going to be writing a blog that people were going to be reading, I should give you some juicy background story. Here it is! 

Megan Henrich (maiden name, Rowe) 

This is yours truly, the blushing bride (not really, more on that later) walking down the aisle with my father, the J-Dawg, who you will meet later on.

 

Here I am on my wedding day (Oct 17, 2009) walking down the aisle with my father (we’ll get to him later). But Megan, you all scream in protest, you have a 6 month old son, and it’s August! This math does not compute! You might as well get over that right now. If my mother (Double D, she’ll come up later) is over it, the rest of the world can surely follow. So how did I find myself waddling down the aisle almost a year ago? Good question. Before I even go into all of that, I should say that I get myself into trouble quite a bit, and I always seem to get myself out of it. In this particular case, I did not get out of it, but that was because I did not want to. Other than that, I hope you enjoy my story of how I am suspected of attempted murder, attempted assault, and some other pretty wild stuff. 

It really all started in high school. I was really good friends with this girl named M.K. (all to protect the innocent and guilty, ladies and gents) and we were on the high school newspaper together. We both ran for editor in chief, along with another girl who we’ll call L.S. L.S. had only been with the paper for half a year (M.K. and I had participated since our freshman year) but she received the position because that’s the way life goes. Well, M.K. decided to take matters into her own hands and spike a drink that she brings for L.S. with hard drugs (how did she get them? I don’t know, we were rocking the suburbs, man. Oh wait, right, that’s how she got them) knowing that L.S. was donating blood to the Red Cross that day (she was a do-gooder, kind of in a nauseating way) and the drugs would show up in the tox screen and some sort of action would be taken. 

Well, luckily for L.S., M.K. told several people her plan (including moi), and it never was carried out. Yet still, I was suspected for conspiracy. Was Megan in on this plot?? After all, M.K. had planned on tainting a drink from that coffee shop on every corner, MobyDicks (nice, huh? get it?) and that was Ms. Rowe’s employer….AHA! No AHA, sorry to disappoint you all, but I was not, in fact in on it. Didn’t matter, everyone thought I had been, including my journalism teacher, who up to this point, had been my role model. The school wanted to do something about me (but what?), however my dad (the J-Dawg, remember?) threatened to sue and they backed down. 

My mom (DD) says buck up kid, no use moping. She sends me off to journalism summer camp (yes it exists and I know I’m a dork) at the University of Missouri, Columbia. My teacher at the camp, Jack Topchik, was a copy editor for the NYT, and huzzah! I have someone new to idolize. He tells me I’m talented (because Hel-lo) and I go back to school with confidence to go back to that newspaper with my head held high, knowing that I was going to attend University of Missouri in Fall for my Freshman year of college. I have an awesome senior year of high school because I no longer care about what anyone thinks, give a commencement address telling them all that I don’t care what they think, and get the hell out of dodge. 

I knew when I decided to go to Mizzou for school that Jack wasn’t going to be my teacher(he’s only a special teacher for summer session), but I thought my teachers would be like him. You know, nurturing, encouraging womb-like teachers. Turns out MU’s journalism program is a boot camp of sorts. They bring you down so that they can build you back up. Problem is, by my junior year of college, I had lost patience waiting for the “build you back up” part. I changed my major too many times to count and landed on Religious Studies, just because I liked the classes. I went back to my job at MobyDicks and met the man who I married, Robert. He was my customer. Of course, I met other men before that, but that could be a whole different blog if I wanted to drag that all up. I quit MobyDicks eventually because there was this motorcycle mama who worked there who I really couldn’t handle because she really could not take a joke. I can’t stand people who can’t take a joke, really. So, I started working for this Italian place called Sicily (also not the name) as a server (all while still attending classes), and that went pretty well for a while. My boss was a total drunk, but in a fun way, and I was a college kid which is pretty much the same thing, so I partied with him a bit. Except he started partying way too much and his business partner kicked his butt to the curb. Things got a lot more strict from then on. Somewhere between this I graduated, but Robert and I didn’t have any “real people” job offers yet, so we figured we would stay in Columbia until we did. It wasn’t the busiest restaurant (it was new in town) so a server had to do the job of hostess and server during the day, which is pretty typical in Columbia, MO (let’s call it CoMO from now on, okay?). However, I was in back cutting the bread so I didn’t see the street kid (also typical in CoMO) wander into our restrooms. Well, this isn’t allowed because of the fact that they’ve done it before and puked all over the place. Besides the fact that their smell would upset the patrons. You shouldn’t feel too sorry for these streetkids, they have permanent addresses: their parent’s houses (more on how I know this later). They can go home, get food, take a shower, whenever they want. They choose not to, instead they spange (beg for spare change). Anyway, my boss makes a bit of a stink about them being in there, which puts me in a sour mood because we were having a slow day anyway. 

So after I get off work I meet up with Robert and his best friend Shpend for drinks. I drink a little bit more than I should have and we encounter a spanger, in fact, the spanger who I had kicked out of the restaurant earlier that day (not physically, of course, I just told her to get out and she said no and I said I would call the cops and then she left). She (yes, she) asked me for spare change. Being that it was a terrible day AND she got me in trouble AND I had a bit too much too drink, I said something to the effect of, “Are you freaking kidding me? You almost caused me to lose my job you bad woman you!” only plug in harsher language. Well that’s when I realized that she had like 6 other street kids behind her and one of them flashed out a switchblade. So she starts screaming about whether I want a fight or not and we say we do not want a fight and then she spits (I kid you not) into my eye. So of course I become enraged and start talking like I am bigger than I am and like there are about 10 more of me. Robert calms me down and Shpend warns them that if they do not leave, we will telephone the police. After they walk away I decide I just want to go back home because I am so freaked out by the whole incident. Robert and I start walking home, and we’re about halfway there when Robert realizes that he left his keys back at the bar. At this point, I don’t want to walk all the way back there, so I tell him I will wait outside of Shakespeare’s (a pizza/bar place, and yes, that is the actual name). So I’m waiting and who approaches but the street kids. So I scream, out of fear, and by miracle Robert hears me. He comes running and they are already pummeling me, and the guys have gotten him down on the sidewalk, and the girls have gotten me in the same place, and they just start kicking both of us in our sides over and over. Well, luckily, Robert did wrestling in high school, so he manages to get out of it and free me. We scream at them that we are going to call the police and head into the nearest establishment to do so. While we are waiting outside, bicycle cops pull up and get both of our accounts of what happened. We tell them, and then we explain that we need to go back to the bar from earlier because we still didn’t have our keys. In addition, we had left our cell phones there and so we explained to them that if they wanted to get in contact with us, it was going to have to be in a bit. So we start walking towards the bar and the bicycle cops come up to us again and they say that they found the street kids and need us to identify them. So they put them in front of a parking garage and we’re across the street and they blast the headlights from the cop car on them and we make the ID. Once again, we go towards the bar to find Shpend and hopefully get all of our stuff back. We get to the bar and he isn’t there, so we start walking around looking for him. Finally, he’s driving by in his car and he spots us (he had been looking for us because we left our stuff). We get into the car and explain what happened, and he is enraged. He demands that we go to the police station so he can make a statement about the earlier exchange we had with the street kids. We go to the station to do just that. Robert and I sit in their waiting room and little do we know, the police is telling our friend Shpend that they are going to have to arrest us. That the street kids are saying we beat them up (even though there wasn’t a scratch on them!) and that it was a “he said, she said” situation and that they had to arrest all of us. So we’re put in a holding cell and had to post $500 bail each which really sucked, luckily we had just graduated college and had some money laying around for occasions such as these. So eventually we got a copy of the police report, which is how we found out that the street kids lived in some of the richer areas of CoMO, go figure. Of course, we got a lawyer and got out of the charges (rightfully so!), but some of their crew did some real time because when they picked them up they found drugs on them. So anyway, after that I started having these bad side cramps and nausea and a fun array of other symptoms. I thought that they had damaged my kidney because I used to have some problems with it back in high school. I didn’t dream I was pregnant because I was on the shot. But then I started acting all hormonal and crazy, and turns out I was pregnant. And in a way, it’s a good thing Robert didn’t know that I was pregnant when those street kids attacked, because he probably would have killed them. Then again, if we had known I was pregnant, we wouldn’t have gone out drinking. Or, if you want to go even further with it, I wouldn’t have worked at Sicily because I couldn’t lift anything over 20 pounds. So there you go, I’m sure there are things that I’m missing that I will put in here later, but hey, not bad.