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.

TOWEL UPDATE:

Good news! Dan negotiated the return of Towel from all the way from Dubai!

Apparently his opening line to Alex during negotiations was, "You do not want to go toe-to-toe in an insanity contest with Meg Rowland." I'm not entirely sure how to take that. It reminds me of the time the "right" way to slit your wrists came up at a dinner party and I was like, "Oh, I'm pretty sure you do it vertically." My friend Sarah then said, and I quote, "Yeah, I trust you—YOU SEEM LIKE THE KIND OF GIRL WHO'D KNOW HOW TO KILL HERSELF." I gave her a single raise of the eyebrow and she was immediately like, "Wait...that didn't sound right. I didn't mean it like that!" But again, I don't really know how else I'm supposed to take that. At all. So in summary: my friends think I'm batshit crazy and a Venus Intuition away from suicide, but I'm glad Dan finally managed to talk some sense into Alex. Here's the deal: Friday afternoon, Alex and I will meet at Target in Columbia Heights where I will buy him a new, affordable towel. After that, we will go back to Alex's apartment—or his Fritzl cellar, as I call it—and we'll make the trade.

Nobody specified who gets final say on which towel I have to buy him, so I've decided to give Alex ten options. (Which, frankly, I think is more than generous considering I'm the victim in all of this.) He may chose from the following:

1.) The "Lanai" leopard print towel:

2.) This lovely and festive Hanukkah dishtowel:

3.) The "Peace Out" bath towel:

Of which Target.com customer "azhippiechick" says, "I purchased this for my granddaughter and she says it is far-out and groovy. The envy of all her cool friends." I mean, I'm obviously somewhat hesitant to buy him something that I'll only end up being jealous of, but hey—a deal's a deal.

4.) This moose wastebasket:

Which isn't a towel, but is nonetheless quite handsome.

5.) This Nazi towel I found on the Internet for the completely reasonable price of two-dollars:

6.) This genuinely adorable Buzz Lightyear hoodie towel:

7.) A specially embroidered Baptism towel:

(You may have to wait 2-3 weeks for that one, though...)

8.) This "Witch Parking—All others will be TOAD" towel:

 

I personally would go for this one, but you know me. I'm a sick pup. I've got that dark sense of humor.

9.) This uncomfortable tea towel I just found on etsy:

Because, you know, pussy hair.

10.) Or this Yoda bath towel that's perfect for the dyslexic Star Wars lover in you:

(And I know he's in there!)

So there you go, Alex! Pretty maids all in a row. Ten perfectly good, affordable towels that I'd be more than happy to buy for you. So which one's it gonna be, bud???

An Early Morning Email From Dan

To: Meg
From: Dan
Subject: OMG

"So I hacked into my Mom’s facebook (I know…) to see what she could see on mine (apparently everything!). BUT! Since I was logging in from the UAE – it made me answer the security questions and identify a few of her friends. And, well, you’re one of her friends. So… this page came up!"

 

To clarify, that's:

1.) Me. Wearing an airbrushed trucker hat boasting the phrase "Moustache Ride".

2.) Me. At a party. In the corner. Taking a MySpace photo of myself. Giving the shocker.

3.) Me. High, riding around on a tiny novelty tricycle and looking incredibly pleased with myself and my life choices.

...I think perhaps at this point the less I say, the more.

I'll be taking a long, hard look at myself in the mirror if you need me.*

(*Actually I'll be downing a DayQuil/Mucinex cocktail and taking care of post-surgery Diane. Poor mom! My poor little lamb! Am I the best daughter in the family? Some say yes. And some say I'm just the least employed. Specifically Chris. What an asshole.)

Where Is My Mind?

(You know a blog post is going to be awesome when it begins with this gchat conversation:


Sent at 5:44 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  sigh

 Sent at 5:58 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  how's the post coming?

 me:  sorry, i was reading this really intense ghost story

so...not well, i guess.

Jesus Christ...Let's try to move past it.) 

 

- So that's happening. That's a very real problem in my life right now. It feels like fucking Barbados in my apartment and I'm sweltering despite the fact that it's physically impossible to be any more nude than I am right now. I don't know what to do about it. I mean, buy a fan, I guess, but the thought of getting up, putting layers of clothing on my person, walking to CVS, interacting with human beings, and walking all the way back to my apartment is exhausting. I had to walk to the bathroom to get my phone earlier and by the time I got back to my bed, I might as well have just been doing jazzercise in Dubai for all the sweating and wheezing that was going on. Because it's not just hot in here; it's humid. The air is heavy and wet and dank and horrible. I feel like I'm living in a terrarium. So I just lay here all day trying really, really hard not to move. And wait for someone to feed me crickets. Again: it's a problem.

- Ughhhhhh, the battle of Meg vs. Antidepressants has taken an obnoxious turn. As mentioned, I've been on 360mg of Effexor for a little over three and a half years and am currently attempting to wean myself off it. (Fun fact!: 360mg is 10mg over the maximum dosage. I found this out via the Google shortly after my doctor in New York prescribed it to me in 2007, but I never brought it up with him. Wanna know why? Because his office was down the hall from Flyleaf's record label. I swear to God. I didn't ask about my questionable dosage of medication because I was impressed that my doctor's office was down the hall from the record label that represents Flyleaf. And I'm sorry, self, but WHAT KIND OF FLAWED FUCKING LOGIC IS THAT?! I don't even like Flyleaf! And yet I distinctly remember being like, "Oh, shit. Flyleaf. And there's a Dean and Deluca directly next door. Meh—he clearly knows what he's doing. DOO-BE DOO-BE DOO! POPPITY-POPPITY-POP! WHO NEEDS A LIVER?! LA LA LA!" I realize I have an anthropomorphized camo hat and a soft spot in my heart for confederate flags, but it's still shocking how country I am when you get right down to it.) I managed to work my way down to 37.5mg over the last several months without any problems, but I started 25mg last week and it's not going well. I'm withdrawing hardcore, and let me tell you guys something—Effexor withdrawal is no fun.

One of the many Christ-awful withdrawal symptoms of Effexor (you know, besides brain shivers) is rage. I swear to god: straight-up rage. I sit here in my little humidor and I rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light! Except yesterday, the dying of the light = a brochure I got in the mail for a technical college in Philadelphia. The brochure is for CHI Institute (Franklin Mils campus) and it came addressed to the informal Meg Rowland in a handwritten envelope and had a business card stapled inside with the recruiter's name and phone number highlighted. I was so confused. To my knowledge I hadn't consumed a box of wine and decided to pursue a career in insurance processing (although, to be fair, that wouldn't be completely out of character), so I assumed someone must have put my name on an info request list as a joke. And if mail shenanigans are in play, there's really only one suspect—Tulane Chris.

Now, under normal circumstances, I probably would have thought to myself, "Ha ha. Oh, Chris! That delightful little scamp," and gone on with my day. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Instead, I grabbed the brochure, raised it heavenwards with a shaking fist and thought to myself, "That son of a bitch! HE DOESN'T THINK I CAN BE A WRITER?! HE THINKS I SHOULD PURSUE THE FINE ART OF PRIVATE INVESTIGATION OR RESIDENTIAL/COMMERCIAL/INDUSTRIAL WIRING?! Well, I'll show him. Oh, I'LL show him. Baha. Ha. HAHAHA. HAAAAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!" and kind of continued to cackle like that for a few minutes until I thought I was going to pass out from heat stroke and had to take a cold soak in my bathtub with a grape-flavored Freezepop until I calmed down. BUT THEN...I retaliated. 

About an hour later when I was feeling somewhat less, you know, crazy, I thought I'd confront Chris and see if he was indeed the culprit. Aaaaaaaand as it turns out, he was not. In retrospect, I probably should have been an adult about the whole thing and confirmed that fact before I retaliated. Which is another way of saying: Chris, I'm very sorry that I gave all of your private information to the Church of Scientology and told them on your behalf that you've quote, "got more questions than Catholicism will ever have answers." **~~~~Love you, biffles!!!1!~~~~** ;) ;) ;)

- I made this image of the DC flag with NBC news 4 anchorman Jim Vance heads instead of stars for no reason other than I just genuinely feel more comfortable living in a world where it exists:

I'm a hardcore Vance-head. My sister and I like to play a game called, "What Do You Think Jim Vance is Doing Right Now?" It's fairly self-explanatory. We get together and occasionally turn to the other and pose the question, "What do you think Jim Vance is doing right now?" More times than not he's playing golf or doing sudoku. If you catch me when I'm in an especially good mood, he's listening to Waka Flocka and writing in his dream journal about what a bitch Doreen Gentzler is.

- We've officially reached the point in the summer where I give up on trying to look attractive when I leave my apartment! I've retired my blow dryer, flat iron, and genitals until October. We're all excited.

- Tulane Chris' full name is Chris Turner-Neal, but I said it really fast the other day and it accidentally came out Chris Turtle-Neal. This small mistake has changed my life in ways that another human being never could. I can not express to you how funny the concept of Chris as a cartoon turtle going about his daily business is to me. Chris Turtle-Neal loading the dishwasher. Chris Turtle-Neal going to Wawa to buy an energy drink and scratch-offs. Chris Turtle-Neal avoiding eye contact in the elevator. Chris Turtle-Neal writing an angry letter to the postmaster general about not receiving his phone bill on time. Chris Turtle-Neal making a fresh batch of Crystal Lite. Chris Turtle-Neal all pissed at me because I turned him over to the Scientologists. It's just never not funny to me. Mostly because in my head, it looks like this:

The Asinine and Completely Realistic Adventures of Chris Turtle-Neal—what will he do next?! (Answer: drink port, play Xbox, and somehow work a joke about the Battle of Verdun into casual conversation. God damn I love him.)

Well, this post fucking sucked and I don't have a conclusion (although I did write a song called "Who Needs a Conclusion?" to the tune of the 1981 Men at Work song "Who Can It Be Now?", which I won't subject you to), so I'm going to go punch holes in the wall until I fall asleep. XOXO!

If my door gets egged this weekend, something tells me it won't be related to Halloween...

Uhhhhh, guys. Something a little bit horrifying slash mostly hilarious slash no, really it was more horrifying just happened. But before I tell you, let's first get the old T.G.I. Hagman out of the way:

As of 5:01am on October 29, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Sign, sealed, delivered; he's yours.

OK, so it's currently 2:04 in the morning and about a half an hour ago Dan and I scuttled over to Baja Fresh for a midnight taco run (lies. I got a Diet Coke because I'm still full from my lunchtime fish taco/Percocet make out session and Dan got a burrito.) (Don't judge us and our lifestyle.) and on our way back into the apartment, I checked my mail. Mixed in amongst the usual past-due notices and depressing bank statements was this sketchy-ass envelope:

Dan and I got in the elevator with a middle-aged gentleman who lives in my building and I looked at the envelope and said, "Uhh...who do I know at the Center for Arab and Islamic Studies at Villanova University?"

"Ooo! Maybe someone's trying to kill you!" Dan said, with genuine interest and excitement.

"Well that is serial killer handwriting if I've ever seen it." Dan snatched the envelope out of my hand and I asked him to open it. Mostly because if there was anthrax it in—roses are red, fire is hot, I'm holding my breathe and you, sir, are not. Dan opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

"Oh Jesus God. Dan, it's a single piece of notebook paper in handwritten pen. Someone is going to kill me. Dan, someone is absolutely going to kill me."

As the elevator stopped on my floor, Dan unfolded the paper, squinted at what it said and read aloud:

"Evie...Yang's...na na na na na na shrimp fried rice?"

[As it turns out, that's just a little racially charged, Evie-based inside joke/caricature from Tulane Chris. I always forget that he goes to Villanova and has a penchant for sending me comical mail every now and then, that skamp.]

Now, what I failed to mention up until now is that the middle-aged gentleman in the elevator with us was an Asian gentleman. Which means that Dan pulled out a sketch of my parent's Tonkinese cat wearing a paddy hat, squinting and saying "dericious!" over a plate of shrimp while he deadpanned, "Evie Yang's na na na na na na shrimp fried rice" about six inches away from an Asian man. The second after "—rice?" flew out of his mouth, he realized what had just happened, made a "guhhhh" noise and sprinted out of the elevator before collapsing in front of my door in a little puddle of embarrassment.

So basically what this means is that I have now officially offended all two Asians in my apartment building. Every last one of them now thinks that I'm racist. Or have extremely racist friends. I hassle them in the lobby for my food and get amateur Klan art in the mail from Arab/Islamic scholars in Pennsylvania. But if you need to borrow a cup of sugar as racially pure as fresh morning snow, Lord knows I'm here for you.

Sigh. Moving on. So Halloween weekend, huh? Right on. As I mentioned yesterday, Tulane Chris will be visiting this weekend. We're going to do a 2b1b investigation, write a post together, drink a lot, emote, go to Target, emote some more. I'm pretty excited. The culmination of this weekend, however, will be waking up at an obscenely early hour on Sunday morning to cheer Becca and Geoff on as they tackle the Marine Corps Marathon, or their "long distance jog" as I like to call it because belittling my sister's running career is a Facebook interest of mine. It comes from a place of pure jealousy, of course. She sets goals for herself and has the discipline to train for months to accomplish a physical feat, whereas I opened up my umbrella the other day a sugar packet fell out. (That's not a joke, by the way. That happened. I assume I threw a sugar packet in my bag when I got coffee and it got wedged in my umbrella somehow, but still. She did the Army 10K last weekend for funsies and it's literally raining Type II Diabetes on me.)

I realize I could just take up running too, but, you know, effort. I'd prefer to put all of that energy into good old fashioned projecting! I want to make a sign to cheer Becca on, but I can't decide which motivational slogan to go with:

- JOG SLIGHTLY FASTER!

- THAT DOESN'T LOOK THAT HARD.

- I DID THE ELLIPTICAL FOR 30 MINUTES THIS MORNING!

- NOBODY WOULD JUDGE YOU IF YOU PEED YOURSELF!

- IF YOUR NIPS AREN'T BLEEDING, YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!

- COLLEGE GIRLS WITH POOR BODY IMAGE DO THIS EVERY DAY!

- REMEMBER WHEN YOU GOT EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA IN ARIZONA? HA HA, ME TOO.

I guess I could always just make seven signs? Either way, I'm pumped. If you'll be in town for the rallies this weekend, I hope you enjoy yourself! And if not, I hope you have a great Halloween weekend wherever you are! To kick the weekend off right, here's a quick little recap of last week's "Jersey Shore" finale I owe you from when I was out sick. It's late, but meh. Something tells me we'll all live.

"Jersey Shore", Season 2: THE FINALE!

Yes, it's the finale. It's time for our Zelko soaked heros and heroines to return to the tri-state area from whence they came. But not before they go on a wacky road trip to the Everglades to see, quote Pauly D, "crocodiles and alligators, or whatever you call them." You shockingly had it right the first time, sir. Although Snooki refers to them as "crock-o-dillios" which immediately makes me hope I'll be reincarnated into a rapping crocodile so I can dub myself the "Crock-o-Dillio" and release an album called, "What the Crock-o-Dillio??" But, yes. They go to see the gators. None eat them; world weeps. Afterwards they go to a little country cafe where they eat fried frog legs. Ronnie is deeply disturbed, J-WOWW is nauseated. On the car ride home, The Situation gets car sick and pukes frog legs up. Wakka, wakka.

I'm sure you're all wondering what ever will happen to Pauly D and Vinny and their little Miami wifies, right? Well, nothing. They take 'em out to dinner (Vinny's gal is 45 minutes late. Or on Meg time, if you will,) make out with them in the street, tell them to K.I.T. and call it a night. Sorry, both dates were incredibly uneventful. I wish I had more for you. Although I will say that Pauly D's lady has got a pair of hooters on her. So. They'll always have that.

Ronni and Sammi go out for one last Miami dinner and—shock!—they get in a fight. Here:

Good enough.

On their last night out, the gang heads to BED where two girls (both of whom I would describe as "atrocious about the face") are all over Vinny and offer to have a threeway with him. And by "offer to have a threeway with him," I mean scream, "Are we fucking tonight, baby??" and "You're gonna have the threesome of your life!" to him over the thumping Enrique Iglesias music. But alas, he can't stop thinking about Ramona and turns them down. Which is when The Situation swoops in, takes them to the John and makes them forget all about Stepfathers 1-3. Bless his heart.

On their last night in the house, the gang has one last family dinner and then retires to the living room to hand out superlatives. It starts out all innocent and light-hearted like "Most Likely to Get Skin Cancer" hahaha LOLZ all of us! but takes a serious turn when The Situation says Vinny should get "Most Likely to be a Follower." Then guess what happens? Correct: escalate, escalate, escalate → full-blown fight. This was one of the most confusing fight sequences yet, so let me break it down for you:

The Situation rags a little too hard on Vinny for being a "fake" "follower", so J-WOWW puts an end to it by telling The Situation that he's the fake one and storms out of the room → While she's gone, The Situation says she's the fakest one in the house → Abiding by "Girl Code", Snooki tells J-WOWW that The Situation said she was fake and that Pauly D nodded his head in agreement → J-WOWW confronts The Situation and says, "If I'm fake, then Pauly D is fake because he talks shit about you behind your back," → The Situation confronts Pauly D → Pauly D goes into a roid rage and pops a blood vessel or two → He confronts J-WOWW → J-WOWW says she told The Situation that because she heard that he agreed with The Situation that she was fake → He asks her who told her that → Snooki makes an "eep!" noise, implicating herself → Pauly D yells at Snooki for a while → Snooki gets mad at J-WOWW for making her look like an asshole → Snooki cries → Everyone's like J/K!!! We're such a family: we hate each other but we love each other and I'm going to miss you guys so much even though we have a shit ton of promotional stuff coming up and Season 3 around the corner, omg we're such a family.

FIN!

And yes, it was just as anti-climactic for me as it was for you. Welp! Have a great weekend guys and we'll see you next week! Buy-bye.