So when I first read that, I was like, "BAHA, amazing pop culture reference. You are my new best friend," and replied saying as much. But then as the day went on, I started worrying, "Wait, maybe Jocelyn wasn't excited that my life shares a common thread with Troop Beverly Hills and really was accusing me of trying to pass off a TP storyline as my own...?" And let me tell you something: nothing gets my goat more than people accusing me of shenanigans. Because why would I lie to you? Why would I make shit up? Do you know how much effort it takes to make shit up? Too much. That's why this isn't Meg McBlogger's well-researched, Regency Era murder-mystery blog; it's Meg McBlogger's "today I choked on cantaloupe and played with my Aspie's Clip. It was a day," blog. One of these things is easier than the other.
(Side note: Speaking of accusations of shenanigans, about a year ago I got an email from a guy asking if I was actually "a real person," and it was the biggest mindfuck I'd ever experienced. My reply derailed at an almost impressive rate: "Dear [Said Guy]: I'm pretty sure I'm a real person. Or as a real as anyone can be sure they are. Because I suppose there's always a chance that none of this is actually happening and this is a simulated reality created by machines like in the Matrix, or we exist only in the complex fantasies of a kid with Down's Syndrome like in St. Elsewhere, in which case, no, I don't exist, but that means that that you don't exist either, so why would you be questioning my existence in the first place?" And that's when I had a panic attack and ran away from my computer like a small child because someone who has as many anxiety problems as I do should never think about that much about their own existence. But for the record: I am a real person. I am a real person, who just took a real Klonopin. While doing real breathing exercises. In a real hot shower.)
So, yes, I was pissed, but I was willing to let it go because I'm working on this new thing where I don't let blog comments and/or emails control my life to the point where I'm calling Tulane Chris on a semi-regular basis with bad acid reflux in the Self-Help section of Barnes & Noble asking him to bring me Zantac and hold me. But then I went out to dinner with my parents tonight and my mom was like, "CAN YOU BELEIVE SOMEONE ACCUSED YOU OF MAKING UP THE MONTE CARLO STORY?!?!" and it opened up that can of worms all over again. But thankfully for all of us, I recieved this email about an hour ago:
Subject: monte carlo
you know that i don't like to invade your professional life, but i feel that i have to set the record straight for your readers. here goes.
i realize that much of the time meg lives in her own world, a world inhabited by helper monkeys and fox dogs, and we love her for it. however, her tale of woe regarding a certain trip to monte carlo is absolutely factual. come on, readers, did you really think that things like that only happen in movies? i do take exception to the term "vacation". it was a business trip. a really nice business trip, but business none the less. despite all of the trials and tribulations, real or merely perceived, you survived. do you even remember that i went to england by myself when you were two years old, leaving you with...of all people... your father?! mothers do go away, meg, but most of the time, we do come back. i love you like a peacock loves rice krispies.
(Hehehe...she threw in an inside joke. Peacocks.)
OK, look: I know my mom was trying to have my back there—and bless her heart for doing so—however, there are a few points I'd like to address:
1.) Diane: you are a lambchop for referring to this little goat 'n pony show as my "professional life". I know we've had our differences (specifically that you abandoned me on my sixth birthday to stretch out on a yacht like a cat in the sun for two weeks while I went on a hunger strike and contemplated the meaning of life,) but you're the best.
2.) Maybe I wouldn't have to live in my own world if this one didn't suck so much. (HAHAHAHA! I legitamtely just laughed-out-loud at my own emo-ness. That felt like something Dawn would say on Buffy.) (← Fag.)
3.) A BUSINESS TRIP. A "BUSINESS" TRIP. Are you kidding me? a.) What business is Dad in that he just has to jet set off to Monte Carlo for weeks on end or else he'll lose his job? MI6? Formula-1? High-stakes poker? Last time I checked he was in HR. b.) OK, let's just say hypothetically I'm willing to accept that Dad did have a business trip in Monte Carlo because it was the late 80's and everyone was going on lavish business trips and doing rails off their DeLoreans, it still doesn't make a lick of difference! You were gone for two weeks: one week was supposedly for "business" and one week was for funzies. My birthday fell on funzies. FUNZIES, MOM—FUNZIES.
4.) Your trip to England in no way compares to Monte Carlo. (God, how obnoxious do we sound right now? I'm 10 seconds away from deleting this entire post, throwing Turtle Rapes Shoe up for tomorrow and working this out in an emergency therapy session where they already think I'm a middle-class piece of shit just by virtue of being there.) First of all, as you yourself pointed out, you went to England. Not you and Dad, just you. And while I agree that Dad demonstrates a "unique" level of responsibility with his children (i.e. the time he paid me $5 to snort a line of fresh cracked pepper, I did, and subsequently burst into tears, ran upstairs and shoved a Q-tip so far up my nose I thought I was going to give myself a labotomy,) at least AN parent was there! If I couldn't have been with both of my parents on my sixth birthday, one would have been acceptable. Because you know what wasn't acceptable? Spending my birthday with some Bible-thumping Army wife who was all, "HEY, HALF-BREED JEW HEATHEN! GUESS WHAT I GOT YOU FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? HORN POLISH AND A NOSE JOB! SEE YOU IN HEL!" Six. Years. Young.
5.) I don't actually have a fifth point, I just prefer to go out on odd numbers.
So. Yeah. Thank you for having my back slash I still don't forgive you slash you never apologized slash if you did, I wouldn't forgive you. So, you know, food for thought.
At least we'll always have that Girl Scouts orienteering trip when you got overzealous and took me and my troop on a short cut through the canyon, only to discover that the bridge was out, so I—cocky from my gymnastics lessons—decided to walk across a fallen tree to get to the other side and fix it, which was a good plan until I twisted my ankle and got stuck halfway across (classic Meg), but ever the loving mother and fearless troop leader, you conquered your fear of heights to get across the tree, save me, and ultimately SAVE THE DAY.
And attracted by your newfound confidence, Craig T. Nelson decided he wanted to hit that again.