And now, the HBO docuseries, McMillions

I just finished the last episode of McMillions—a six-part HBO docuseries about a con man who scammed the McDonald's Monopoly game from 1989-2001—and I've decided that this is the most confusing documentary I have ever seen in my entire life.

- First and foremost, every single person in this documentary is named Jerry. And "Uncle Jerry," the most 🍝👌 name of them all, isn't even the mobster Jerry! That's Jerry Colombo. Then there's Jerry Dan. Jerry Stan. Jerry Tyler Moore. Jerry Delano Roosevelt. All this documentary is is a group of Italian-American men named Jerry sitting around their kitchens talking in vague generalities about things that happened in the '90s while manic G-men pop in and out to explain the math. So much math. Too much math. Not for me.

- I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back up. Because the opening title sequence was also entirely too long. I don't understand; just because Netflix invented the Skip Intro feature, that means every other streaming service has to put their fingers in their ears and—LA-LA-LA WE CAN'T HEAR YOU—pretend that this technology doesn't exist? Do you need me to open-apple page source this for you, HBO? Because Skip Intro is an important part of how I consume streaming media now. All my attention span can handle these days is a hot guitar riff and a single title card, at best. Derry Girls gets it. Fleabag gets it. McBillions does not.

- Per the 14-hour Unwrapped title sequence, it's worth noting that Mark Wahlberg produced this. I want to like Mark Wahlberg because he's handsome and in movies I enjoy, but he also beat a Vietnamese guy so hard his one good eyeball exploded. So, that's always distracting.

- This has nothing to do with the quality of the show, but can anyone confirm or deny if the small dog next to Uncle Jerry's wife throughout the series is dead or alive? She spends most of her interview in a wide-shot nervously rubbing her fingers together on top of what looks like a small terrier in a sweatshirt, but it never moves. Six episodes, and it never twitches an ear, never sighs, never moves a muscle. If this woman has a hyperrealistic adult plush comfort animal, that's fine. She's earned it. But much like the Mark Wahlberg thing, I just think it should plainly acknowledge before the episode.

- It's distractingly weak that the FBI named this mission "Operation: Final Answer" just because McDonald's happened to be running a Who Wants to be a Millionaire? promotion at the time. THAT'S NOT EVERGREEN BRANDING, SIR! They just left so much good hamburger-related material on the table. Operation: Hamburgler. Operation: CONald McDonald. Operation: Well Done. It just really makes you appreciate the subtle genius of "Operation: Varsity Blues."

- Do you or do you not think Special Agent Doug Mathews and McDonald's senior director of global marketing Amy Murray had sex? Because in the movie version I just cast in my head starring a young Matthew McConaughey and Elizabeth Banks...they do!

- Final summation: I am decidedly not smart enough to launder money, and I think that's fine. I can barely do my own taxes and I'm a single human with one W2 and a subscription to TaxAct. I have no business laundering money. I watched this show over the course of a coronaweek with my sister, and we had to pause, without exaggeration, every 15-minutes so she could explain to me what was going on. And it's not like the show doesn't have helpful graphics—it does. Mark thought of everything. There are just too many people involved, and everybody took a different percent of a different percent of a different percent of money, and I still have no clue how they're all connected. Like how in the name of god did Mormon John Goodman and his country-singing friend get involved? And how are they connected to the guy who lives in Florida and did amyl nitrate with best-selling author Harold Robbins? Please comment again. Not for eNgAgeMeNt mArKeTinG reasons, but because I miss the community and as Becca pointed out, you guys are smart and funny. Xplain 2 me thnx.

Vomitting in the Galley

OK, so the original point of this blog post was to tell you that our galley edits for It Seemed Like a Good Idea... are due tomorrow and I haven't started mine yet (HA HA, me), but first I'd like to address a blog comment and tell you about the intense mini stroke I just had.

First up:

I've gotten a few emails asking me essentially the same thing, so I'm going to answer you all at once out of sheer laziness: yes, I obviously think it's worth it. Which level you sign up for is between you and your God, I think it's more than worth it to be able to listen to their entire backlog. As far as my favorite episode, that's like picking a favorite child. Which I absolutely believe I could do, so my favorite episode is 483: Guns & Roonies. I'm listening to it right now to confirm that it's the episode I'm thinking of, and it still makes me hysterically laugh out loud. Oddly enough, this episode aired on my birthday in 2008, which was also the day of the April 16th Virginia Tech shootings. (I was about to say, "that was a really hard day for me," but then I realized that I didn't get shot in the face on the way to Gender Studies, so...never mind.) I listened to this episode on the subway on my way home from work and spent the majority of the ride trying not to burst into laughter. Like, I had to physically hold my lips together to keep that shit under wraps. I eventually lost it and started unabashedly laughing, thereby making myself look like a completely crazy person. And again, I know that sounds weird because it's the VA Tech shooting episode, but Keith, Chemda, and their guest/friend, Matt Bray, spend the last 45-minutes of the show doing a table read of two of the VA Tech shooter's original plays and it just gets me every single time. Other than that, any episode with Patrice is hilarious. I mean, everything hilarious. Just dive in; you can't go wrong.

OK, so now onto my mini stroke. Tonight was completely lovely. My sister came over and I made us dinner, as cooking is a major part of my plan to start functioning like a normal human being. And, oh, I'm sorry, but I knocked that shit out of the fucking park. Chicken piccata with parmesan-roasted broccolini:

God dammit that's sexy. Plus, I only set off the smoke detector once, which is a personal best!

After my sister left, I felt great. I was proud of the dinner I'd made, I was proud of all the positive changes I've been making recently (true story: when Becca walked in, she actually said, "Hey, one of your blinds is open—making progress!", which makes me sound either like I'm a self-loathing vampire or just incredibly Autistic), and I just felt extremely positive about life in general. Plus I had just smoked a giant bowl and achieved the perfect level of being high, so that didn't hurt anything. Riding said high, I made myself a cup of tea, cut up some apple slices, sat down at my computer and was just like—this is awesome. I'm going to sit here being perfectly high, drinking this delicious tea, eating these delicious apple slices, and copy edit. This is the best night of my life. And it was, until I got this text from my sister:

And I LOST. MY. SHIT. My stomach dropped into my asshole and I actually said, out loud, "FEDERAL AGENTS MAD 'CUZ I'M FLAGRANT!" as I dumped the illegal contents on my coffee table into a Trader Joe's bag and paced back and forth for a good 10-minutes, obsessively re-arranging my ponytail and nervously touching my own breasts while I waited for DEA agents to bust in the door. When that didn't happen, I decided to clarify the situation:

I mean, for the sick love of God. Because now guess who gets to buy me a new pair of yoga pants? You, Rebecca Rowland. Because this soiled pair certainly isn't doing me any favors, thank you. So, that's where I am right now, emotionally. My perfect high is ruined, I'm paranoid, I have a long night of editing ahead of me, and my scalp hurts from tightening my pony tail too many times. That being said, my entire apartment smells like capers and it is delightful.

Alright, work time. Take us out, Keith and the Girl!


A Few Goat Men from Erik Skov on Vimeo.

I know today is officially Chris' day to have custody, but...

RE: This blog post:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm currently rolling around my bed laughing-out-loud. But like deep belly laughs. Because:

1.) Mom and Dad really did tell you to keep the clay model the class made because it was "almost just as good". I was three-years-old when this happened, yet I can still see you standing in the kitchen, jabbing pieces of grass at its clay mouth until you eventually gave up and hung your little head in disappointment all, "...........Damnit."

2.) I really was the living Samantha doll in an American Girl Doll & Me fashion show at Tyson's Corner. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I P-P-P-P-P-P-P-Peaked young.

3.) Speaking of Chicago, the tables have turned, my friend. You just spent the entire weekend with Mark Stein, aka author of How The States Got Their Shapes, aka my favorite television show in the entire world, aka the thing I introduced to you. Would I trade my time with Abu if it meant I could hang out in Chi-town eating deep-dish pizza with Mark Stein, rappin' about border rivers, acts of Congress, pioneers, Mormons and the coulda-woulda-shoulda state of Deseret?..................................................................................................................................Maybe. It's a Sophie's Choice if there ever was one.

4.) Dude, it sounds like there's an all-out fucking frat party going on outside my window on 20th street and it's ungodly obnoxious. I realize it's Thursday night, Kids Will Be Kids, and I could simply close my window, but it's unseasonably warm out and you know I can't fall asleep without the gentle reassurance of a light breeze. You're my landlord, so please consider this my official complaint. And yes, I realize you have virtually no control over this situation and at this moment I'm watching illegally downloaded episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras and laughing about your childhood and in no way actively trying to fall asleep, but I expected some sort of dozing off to eventually happen. 

In the time it took me to write that last paragraph, the party seems to have dispersed. So thank you for solving that problem.

Oh! I have another complaint for you! (Sorry guys. This has pretty much just turned into an email to my sister and if you skip ahead to today's Chris post, I would totally understand.) OK, so I came home from running errands yesterday morning and Ruta buzzed me in, right? So I stop, say hi, ask how she is and ask if I have any packages, and she says in a completely judgmental tone: "Oh. Hi Meg. There are no packages for you today, but you certainly had a ton yesterday," and rolls her eyes like, "Oh that fucking baller Meg Rowland. She just sits in her apartment and Internet shops all day and stuffs more money into her mattress made of cash and diamond-encrusted lobsters. Must be nice." And it's like, dude, it's the fucking middle of December. Obviously those were Christmas presents and not for me. And I didn't know if I should say something like "Ha ha, 'tis the season!" to drive that point home, but then it's like, why should I have to justify my purchases to you, asshole? But at the same time, I know mom's present and my Hanukkah present from Chris are coming tomorrow and I'm completely anxious about it. My plan is obviously to go down later in the day when Henry's working because the only conversation he ever engages in is his soothing little Helllloooooooo!, but I'll still know in my heart of hearts that Ruta checked them in and it's going to affect me all weekend. 

So what I'm really asking is: What Would Mark Stein Do?

7 Things You Didn't Know About Me: 6-7

6.) I had a pet chameleon when I was in eight. His name was Abu and he was so noble and adorable that I want to vomit everywhere just thinking about him. 

My family had mixed emotions about old Abu. Becca was a straight-up hater (speaking of our shitty relationship growing up) because I had adopted him from Olney Elementary's third grade this-is-how-you-take-care-of-a-lizard unit...that apparently happened. Five years prior to this adoption, Becca asked if she could adopt her class' lizard and our parents wouldn't even entertain the thought. Five years later I asked and our family gained a new beloved pet. Similarly, Becca wasn't allowed to have an American Girl doll because our parents thought that they were laughably expensive and frankly, you've got some stones for even asking, missy. But me? Proud owner of both Samantha and Kirsten. Is this evidence that our parents love me more? One could certainly make that argument.

My father, on the other hand, was a big Abu fan. I might even go as far as to say that he was Abu's best friend...? In the whole world...? When I first got Abu, it was very much a FINE, BUT HE'S YOUR RESPONSIBILITY, YOUNG LADY situation, but somewhere down the line he stole Richard's heart and my dad spoiled that damn lizard rotten. Every Friday he'd go into the pet store he passed on his way home from work and buy Abu some new top of the line lizard accessory or gourmet bag of crickets the store clerk promised you couldn't find anywhere else. To give you an idea, Abu came to us in a small plastic fish aquarium and left in a giant glass habitat with mahogany detail, deluxe electric heat rock, and his choice of five high-res images of the Grand Canyon to serve as a backdrop, depending on his mood. (Although he didn't have an American Girl doll, so: Abu: 1, Meg: 1, Becca:...it's questionable.)

As far as pet's deaths go, Abu's was pretty traumatic. (Not as bad as the time Rachel killed my cat when we were in Hawaii and I missed the luau because I couldn't stop crying, but hey—we all make mistakes.) Like any other morning, I woke up, spritzed some water onto the side of his habitat and waited for him to scamper over and PFFFT! PFFT! PFFFT! it up with his little missile tongue. Instead, Abu, who was noticeably struggling to breathe, could only manage to turn his little lizard head towards the water and stick out a tiny portion of his pink little tongue before he collapsed completely. This image is scorched into my memory. This happened 18 years ago and I can still remember what pajamas I was wearing and what was on that bookshelf. It was almost as bad as the Christmas morning my family sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast and our neighborhood fox walked up to the deck and dropped dead. Almost. 

Back in 1993, I freeeeeeaked the fuck out, burst into tears, ran to get my mom and made her call pretty much every veterinarian in the state of Maryland until she found one who'd be like, "A one-year-old shitty little class chameleon? THAT'S AN EASY FIX! Bring 'em on in!!!" But she never found one. SHE NEVER. FOUND ONE. Instead, my mom sat me down on the living room couch and very sweetly explained to me that all the vets she talked to agreed that one year is an impressive amount of time for a chameleon like Abu to live and maybe this was just his time to go. Holy shit. It was horrible.

I blamed myself for Abu's death for months afterward because I was also babysitting Teresa's chameleon at the time, and instead of putting hers in a separate room, I put him on the table across from Abu so they could see each other. I thought he died of jealousy. How tragic is that??

Oh my God. Why did I choose to tell this to you this story? I feel like I'm about to cry and all I want to do is call my mom, but it's 5 o'clock in the morning and I feel like she'd disinvite me to Hanukkah dinner and Lord knows she only makes those sweet, sweet latkes once a year. I am completely miserable, San Diego.

7.) This last one isn't so much a piece of trivia as an anecdote Dan's been trying to get me to tell on the blog for a year now but I've been resisting because it makes me seem...well, racist.

Growing up, I lived a few streets over from an African American girl named Amber who's father was a police officer. A few years ago I somehow found myself having a conversation with a co-worker about how cops are assholes. My co-worker made the point that although yes, most police officers are assholes, it's also a really mentally and emotionally draining job that in the long run can have damaging effects. 

"So many of these cops," she said, "are put in a position where they have to shoot someone on the scene because it's a matter of public safety, but afterwards, it really fucks with their head and they're never the same. Nobody really thinks about that."

"Oh my God, I know exactly what you're talking about," I told her, "My friend Amber's dad was a cop and he had to pull a gun on someone one day and it totally fucked with him. He came home and got his hand stuck in a pickle jar and I remember he lashed out at Amber's mom and she was like, 'It's not about the pickles, is it? You had to pull a gun on the job again today, didn't you?' It really does affects family's lives."

After I said that my co-worker continued on with our conversation, but in my head I stopped and was like, "Huh...I wasn't really that good of friends with Amber. How do I know all of that? Specifically the pickle jar thing. Why can I see that happening so vividly...?" And that's when I realized that that in no way happened to my friend Amber's dad—I was thinking of a plot line from Family Matters. I had just confused the black family in our neighborhood with a cop for a dad with THE WINSLOWS.

I immediately turned beet red and all I wanted to do was acknowledge what had just happened, but I didn't really know this girl well enough to be like LOL RACE LOL!, so I had to just stand there like an asshole and finish having this conversation about my "friend" who's "dad" got his "hand stuck in a pickle jar" and then he and his neighbor got in the "Sexy Urkel Machine" and "Laura" was suddenly "interested" and it was an important "life lesson" about how it's what's on the "inside" that counts.

A year has passed since I told this story to Dan, who has since moved halfway around the world, but I still regularly get text messages from him being like, "I just thought about how you told someone your friend Carl Winslow got his hand stuck in a pickle jar and laughed-out-loud in a meeting," and all I want to do is melt into a puddle and slither out of the room Alex Mack style because it's so fucking mortifying.

So, 7.) I am a racist asshole.

7 Things You Didn't Know About Me: #5

5.) I only became friends with my sister a few years ago. Which sounds weird because now she’s one of my best friends and I was just her maid of honor, but it’s true. I think five years is a hard age gap between siblings. You get stuck in these roles where one of you is the obnoxious little sister who desperately wants to hang all the time, and the other is the bitchy older sister who doesn’t want to hang because you’re nine and hi, I’m in high school. It’s hard to shake that mindset.

This is going to make both of us sound like raging alcoholics, but I think the catalyst for us becoming friends was my turning 21. Being able to go out to bars and drink together changed things because suddenly we weren’t being forced to interact with each other in a family setting anymore—we were electing to hang out in a bar. With our friends. Like normal people. It was kind of the push we needed to realize that “HEY, IDIOTS—you guys aren’t five and 10 anymore. You’re grown-ass adults. Get to know each other.” And we did. Specifically on our family vacation to Napa Valley the summer after my Junior year. There was this extremely important moment between us in a hot tub (emotions were involved—where else?) one night when I was like, “You know what, guy? I like you,” and she was like, “Shit—I like you right back!” and we’ve been friends ever since. Mind you this was also the vacation when we shared “The Most Naked Experience of Our Lives.” That may have had something to do with our bonding. Allow me to explain…

So, a few days into our vacation in Napa, my sister found a write-up for the Calistoga Day Spa in my dad’s travel book. Intrigued by the spa’s hot springs and mud bath treatment, she suggested we take a drive up and treat ourselves to a little spa day. Considering the last time we had a spa day together it ended up being the Gift of the Magi explosive diarrhea/sun poisoning spa treatment swap debacle that was Scottsdale, Arizona, I was in. This spa had large, farcical shoes to fill…and fill them they did.

Now, I don’t think of either Becca or myself as prudes. Because nudity? Fine by me. I, personally, hate to wear clothes. Pants and I specifically have had a long, tumultuous history together. As I’ve mentioned, at any given moment I’m typically wearing a white wife beater with no bra and booty shorts and accidentally flashing my bits to whoever happens to be in the room. And am I embarrassed? No. It’s your fault for being in the room. But as we drove up to Calistoga that day, I started to get a little nervous about just how naked I would have to be in front of my sister. Because remember, we weren’t really friends at this point. She was my big sister whom I both adored and feared. God forbid see my big ‘ole hooters.

“So…I get the concept of a mud bath,” I said to her, “But how exactly is this going to work? Like, will we be in separate rooms? Are you completely naked in the bath? Should I wear my bathing suite?”

“I’m sure it’s up to you. Just do whatever you feel more comfortable with. And we may be in the same room, but I’m sure there’s a little divider or a sheet or something.” OK. I could handle that.

We got to the spa, checked in and were told to go to the locker room and change into the sheets waiting for us. Once we saw how big the sheets were, we decided to skip the bathing suites figuring this would be like any other spa treatment where the masseuse/technician (?) works with you to discreetly move the sheet to continually cover what needs to be covered. We wrapped up and headed for the door marked “Spa Room”.

As I pushed open the door, I expected to walk into another dimly lit, zen room with private little alcoves where we’d individually receive our treatments. Instead, I opened the door to reveal what was essentially a large, sterile garage with two mud-filled tubs manned by what can only be described as a pair of sturdy-looking Eastern European women. Moreover, the tubs were situated directly next to each other. And when I say directly next to each other, I do mean directly next to each other:

In fact, as I looked around the room, it occurred to me that everything was set up in two's and located just a romantic handhold away from each other. And spoiler alert: that is because we had accidentally scheduled the romantic “Golden Haven Baths for Couples” treatment, which according to the spa’s website allows you to “share this wonderful Napa Valley spa experience in privacy with your companion only a few inches away.” We had no idea that’s what had happened, mind you. At this point, all I could think was, “This feels oddly………….intimate.” Suddenly, one of the spa technicians barreled towards us.

“TAKE SHEETS OFF,” she barked at us. We, in turn, stood frozen.

Seconds passed.

“Wait…………like off off?”

“OFF!”

It took me a few seconds, but I finally realized that this woman wasn’t going to discreetly move our sheets around anything; she was going to take them and discard them. Like, for the rest of the day. I was going to spend the rest of the day naked, getting in and out of a series of tubs in a small room missing a fourth wall with my sister and two large, and to the best of my knowledge, Hungarian women who very thought we were lesbian lovers.

My sister and I then turned to each other and exchanged this look that so beautifully conveyed, “SHIT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL NAKED—LET’S GO WITH IT,” without either of us having to say anything. And thank god for that because just then the spa technician, sensing our hesitation, reached out, grabbed both of our sheets and yanked them off for us. Again, up until that point I hadn’t really considered myself to be that big of a prude, but there I was clutching my pearls all, “WELL, I NEVER!”  My hands briefly floundered north and south in a desperate attempt to give myself some coverage, but I ultimately decided to fuck it, suck in, stand up straight and walk over to the damn mud.

The hot mud treatment was actually pretty cool. You basically just float in hot, heavy mud up to your neck while the Hungarian women apply a steady flow of fresh, cold washcloths to your forehead. It was incredibly relaxing and probably would have been sensual had I not been a pubic hair away from an equally naked relative at the time.

As the bath went on, however, my relaxation slowly turned into anxiety as I became increasingly more concerned about how we were going to get the mud off of ourselves. Or out of us, frankly. Because the mud was heavy. And the mud was hot. And the mud was settling. Everywhere.

My concerns were quickly addressed when the Hungarian women reached into our tubs and pulled us out. After they got done removing some of the excess mud by giving us one helluva standing rubdown (which, again, probably would have been sensual had it been done by anyone other than a well-rooted Hungarian woman convinced I was gayer than a chestnut), they motioned towards the wall behind us and said, “SHOWER.”

The so-called “shower” area in question was actually just a tiled wall with two hoses dangling from the ceiling and nary a piece of nylon to separate as far as the eye could see. And let me tell you people something: you haven’t experienced pure embarrassment until you’ve stood an elbow jab away from your sister and shot hose water up your ass while the Lucy and Ethel of the Eastern Bloc leer on disapprovingly. That is embarrassment. That is something that can never be undone. That is something that can one-up any story about tripping up a few stairs at the bank, thank you.

After The Traumatic Showering it was time for our mineral water baths, so Tweedle Dee and Tweedle OOF led us to a pair of old timey Victorian bathtubs separated by the distance of a sweet whispered secret. It was at this point that Becca finally acknowledged the elephant in the room and was like, “Dude. Your boobs are really big.” “Yeah, I know. But your boobs are really nice. Big, but not unmanageable. I think if I ever got a breast reduction, I’d want to make ‘em your size.” I mention this conversation because I love imagining what the spa technicians must have been thinking about the state of our relationship if that was our romantic tub conversation. Talking about each other’s breast size in the most clinical way possible and referring to each other as dude.

Finally, it was time for our last treatment: a schvitz in the steam room. I hate steam rooms. Primarily because I hate heat, sweating, and small spaces. So, pretty much everything about a steam room. This steam room, however, was like a steam room on crack. First of all, they handed us each a meager washcloth when we walked in which was laughably unhelpful. I sat down and held mine up in front of me for a long time trying to decide which direction I should go in until Becca finally said, “Dude. Lower.” Even worse, the steam came in from the sulfur springs so it smelled overwhelmingly like rotten eggs, and it was hot in a way that would make Hades ask for a Dasani. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and I have never been so uncomfortable in my entire life. After a few minutes I couldn’t take it anymore, so I stuck my head out the little porthole in the glass door, turned my head to the left, and started gasping for air. Which is exactly when I locked eyes with the incredibly nude woman standing across the room, waiting to start her spa treatment.  “SHIT!” I ducked my head back into the steam room. “BECCA, I JUST LOCKED EYES WITH A NAKED WOMAN ACROSS THE ROOM WHILE I WAS GASPING FOR AIR AND I THINK SHE THINKS I’M A PERVERT SO WE CAN’T LEAVE UNTIL SHE’S IN THE MUD BUT I THINK I’M GOING TO DIE IF I HAVE TO STAY IN HERE ANY LONGER AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

“…Want my washcloth?”

After we got back into the car, we drove in silence for a bit as we both tried to process the sheer absurdity of what just happened. Becca finally broke the silence with one of the most astute observations I think I’ve ever heard: “That……………was the most naked experience of my entire life.” Because it was. It was the most naked experience of my entire life. It made getting a full-body mole check at the dermatologist’s feel like standing in an empty cornfield in a three-piece suit and a chastity belt. I’ve had sex with strangers and felt more modest than that. It was just really, really…naked. But also really bonding, in a weird way. I think all great friendships should start out with a wacky misadventure. I just don’t think they should all be so…naked.

(Sidenote: Every time I write that it was just so…naked, I can’t not automatically say it in my head in the “I THINK THEY WERE…ASIAN” voice from Cable Guy.

So goddamn underrated.)

The Troubles

I just want to thank everyone for the incredible flood of support I got via blog comments, emails, and tweets after last Friday's post. And by last Friday's post, I'm of course referring to the news of Larry Hagman's cancer diagnosis. How do I feel? It's odd. At first I didn't feel anything. A wave of calm washed over me and it was like I was seeing clearly for the first time in years. There I was: actually staring face to face with my worst nightmare. I took its hand and we danced. It wrapped its massive hands around my waist and I pressed my chest against his and was confused by how I could hate something so much, yet yearn for it to hold me closer. To take me in its arms. To press its cheek against mine. To breathe in my scent and whisper, "It's going to be okay. I won't take him. I can't take him," before kissing me hard and deep.

Plus, I really wanted to tweet my support to Larry Hagman but he's not on Twitter, so that's some shit.

The sad truth of the matter is that I feel completely responsible for Mr. Hagman's diagnosis. I wrote last Friday's post early Thursday afternoon and sent it to my sister to get her feedback, but instead of writing "And this is where T.G.I. Hagman will go"...I actually wrote it. I wrote the T.G.I. Hagman. I filled out the date and said that he was alive. From Becca's feedback:

[...] Also, isn’t bad luck to assume that Larry Hagman is alive on Oct. 14? It’s still the 13th, anything could happen.

My response:

[...] And it was TOTALLY presumptuous of me to assume LH would be alive tomorrow and now I'm going to go vomit. I'm not posting it until tomorrow, so that's not jinxing it, right?!!?

I don’t know man, he is 90 or something old like that …

STOP TALKING THAT WAY ABOUT LARRY HAGMAN!!!!! HE'S 80, NOT 90!!!!

Sorry sorry, 80. He’ll be fine.

BUT HE'S NOT!!! He has cancer of the Hagman and it's all my fault because I wrote the 14th's T.G.I. Hagman on the 13th and said that we was fine!!! I don't know how I can live with myself. At least I have Towel to comfort me. OH, WAIT MINUTE—I DON'T.

If you don't know the back-story of Towel, you can find it here. I'll pause and give you a moment to catch up.

Are we all on the same page? Good. So, yes, Towel. Towel has been living with me for almost exactly one year and it's been magical. And then Saturday happened—this year's Meg's Fall Fun Day. Meg's Fall Fun Day is a yearly autumnal tradition dating back to 2006 where everyone gathers at my apartment, we go get breakfast, and then I drive us all out to the orchard in Woodbine, Maryland where my family went when I was a kid. We pick apples, eat hot dogs and fritters, and buy pumpkins and cider. Then we go back to my apartment, bake a pie, eat delicious foods, drink cider and wine, and watch scary movies. It is, without a doubt, the best day of the year. This year's MFFD, however, was raped. RAPED by my supposed "best friend" Alex, who stole Towel from me. ON MEG'S FALL FUN DAY, of all days. Blasphemy! 

After everyone left on Saturday night, I did a few dishes and then went to the bathroom. As I stood at the sink washing my hands, the towel rack on the back of the door caught my eye in the reflection of the mirror and I suddenly realized what had happened. I ran to my phone and saw that I had a text waiting for me:

What transpired next was the most intense, two-day text message conversation I have ever had with anyone. I present that conversation to you now, unedited and in its fully glory.

Alex: Almost one year later, I declare victory

Meg: I am literally speechless.

Alex: I play a long game

Meg: If you think I won't release your email on the blog and bombard you with reader harassment, you are DEAD wrong.

I expect Towel to be on the back of my bathroom door by 5pm tomorrow, or you've got a WORLD of hurt coming your way.

I dunno, I have a lot of hot yoga to do tomorrow...

If you touch a single hair on Towel's head with even ONE of your balls, I will make you pay.

You have 17 hours. Enjoy them.

We made it home safely.

16.5 hours.

Why don't I keep Towel until next MFFD, then we'll switch?

I don't negotiate with fiber terrorists.

If anyone is the fiber terrorist in this situation, it's you

16.5 and I leak your email.

Bring it on

Those are bold words, sir.

(slash don't actually do that)

—October 16, 2011 7:48 PM—

It's past 5 o'lock and Towel hasn't been returned. Interesting decision on your part.

Oh sorry. I've just been showering all day.

Over, and over again.

alex*******@gmail.com

Please don't. You may admonish me on twitter but I don't want my email out there since it's my full name.

Well, return Towel and that will be a non-issue.

People do crazy things when they lose the one they love. Craaaazy things.

You do understand that you do not own and have no legal right to Towel, right?

There is a power greater than your law—ANGER.

You know what's a really great smell early on a Sunday morning? Fresh laundry

You've made your choice. Time to suffer the consequences.

You had good times with Towel. Time to move on. I'll give him back next MFFD.

Fuck that noise! This isn't the Parent Trap! Towel and I have an emotional connection that you two never had and you don't deserve him!

He's mine!

Not anymore!

Since when? Since you took him unlawfully last year?

You know who you are? You're the biological mother who had him when you were 16 and gave him up because you were addicted to meth and couldn't raise him and I'm the adopted mother who gave him a good home and raised him like he was one of my own and put him through college and walked him down the aisle, and now that you've kicked your habit and found Jesus, you suddenly want a relationship with him. Well fuck that, hillbilly.

You'll still get to see him on holidays.

He doesn't even know who you are anymore! He's scared and alone and I won't let this happen.

Would it make you feel better that all the way home last night I kept looking behind me, half expecting to see you charging down 19th street with a pick axe?

No! That makes me feel like a failure because I didn't notice immediately and don't have a pick axe!

Don't sweat it. I actually did need another towel

OK, what if we do a trade: that pool towel you left here eons ago for Towel towel.

Do you not have any towels of your own?

(Speaking of the pool towel, I didn't even bring up that you have a history of reckless towel abandonment...)

Jesus...

Yeah, but none that I love like Towel! We have a history! We're both F-list internet celebrities! We understand each other!

You're putting up a remarkable fight for something that isn't yours.

Wow, that's what Hitler said to the Jews...

Re: the right to exist.

I'm not going to kill Towel. I'm just going to have him dry me off after showers.

I know Towel. That WILL kill him.

He was doing it long before you knew him.

We don't talk about those days.

Look, you left your gallon of cider here and bag of mini pumpkins. If I don't get him back, I'll drink the entire gallon and do Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred with the pumpkins down my pants.

(Not in that order)

So you're going to steal more from me if you don't get the first thing back you stole from me?

I didn't steal, I fulfilled my destiny.

And yes.

So you'd say you're holding those things hostage?

No. I'm just saying I'm thirsty and like to work out with gourds down my pants. So act fast.

Holding hostages and making demands. Now who's the terrorist?

Semantics.

Don't be dramatic.

Don't make me be dramatic.

I'm not doing anything to you!

I'm eating salty, salty chips and feeling kind of fat...I can't think of a few ways to fix this...

Simmer down

That's suggestive.

I know. Especially when you think about doing it with a bag of pumpkins down your pants and a belly full of free cider.

If you would like to have a rational, adult conversation about whether or not you'll ever see this towel again, you'll remove my pumpkins from your pants and keep the cap on that gallon of cider.

The time for talk is over. It's time for action.

Fuck that feels good...

You can perform the action of taking pumpkins out of your pants and not drinking cider.

And I will. If, and only if, Towel is returned to me.

We'll see

Think fast. You're down a pumpkin.

I'm pretty sure you can get it back if I jump up and down and cough, though...

This is by far the most absurd conversation I've ever had.

Well, you know how to end it
---------------------------------------

And that was our last communiqué. You know the worst part of it all? Hat's batteries are dead. Sigh.

1 Bird Investigates: The Impossible Task of Writing About My Trip to Omaha

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