- I ran across this while perusing fuckyeahtattoos the other day:
...Look, I'm not trying to seem insensitive here, but there's just something so hilarious? ironic about paying someone to permanently scar you by dragging an ink-filled needle across your skin to further self injury awareness. It's like going on a hunger strike to battle anorexia. Or organizing a fight club against domestic violence. Or renting out a That's Amore! for a night and turning it into a full-blown Roman vomitorium to end bulimia. It just makes me laugh is an interesting choice.
- Remember the 90210 episode where Steve decides to try out his stand-up chops at comedy night at the After Dark, bombs, panics, and ends up stealing a routine from Richard Belzer and it's this big morality lesson about how you should always tell your girlfriend the truth and never steal from Richard Belzer? .........................................................Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry. There's no punchline here. I just think it's completely absurd that that was actually a plotline on 90210.
- "I still really want to see a Christian foam party"- Andrew, October
14, 2011. It just seemed too funny to waste on Twitter. Sorry.
- Alia Shawkat's overacting in Drew Barrymore's Best Coast music video extravaganza "Crazy For You" is one of the most magical things I've ever seen in my entire life. (4:45)
Sometimes when I come back from the gym out of breath, I throw on my doorknocker earrings and a denim jacket and walk around my bathroom delivering that monologue to myself in the mirror. Kind of like how when I get bored emptying the dishwasher, I make all of my movements really big and dramatically slam dishes down in frustration and pretend I'm the piano player in The Style Council's video for "Shout It to the Top".
It passes the time. Either way, Night Creepers 4 lyfe.
- I listened to the unedited version of "Guilty Conscious" the other day for the first time in a while and it was startling.
- Somebody from Hurricane, West Virginia hacked into my Facebook account last Wednesday at 2:38 in the afternoon. The story here is obviously that there's a Hurricane, West Virginia. And that it was recognized for Outstanding Drinking Water Performance in 2010 and has one of the oldest barbershops in America. Swear to fuckin' God.
- I wrote a tweet last Friday about an incredibly mediocre sandwich I was eating at the time and got this in response:
You know what? I resent that. Because I'm fairly confident that they have sandwiches in the third world and the law of averages tells us that some of them have to be mediocre. So suck it, Angie.
And it really is T.G.I. Hagman. I'm not jumping the gun and dooming a man to months of radiation therapy this time. PROOF:
(That was a very meta experience for me. Check it out:
Let's go one more level.
It's like being trapped in a really mediocre Escher drawing.) As of 1:22am on October 21, 2011 (FOR REALZ, FOR REALZ), Larry Hagman is...alive! And I would sell my soul to the Devil to keep it that way.
Alright, that's going to do it for us this week. Have a great weekend and if you're going to the Maryland Renaissance Festival this Saturday—SEE YOU THERE. (!!!1) Buh bye.
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 ---------------------------------------
[I'd like to preface this post by saying that I wrote it early yesterday afternoon when I was f-f-fired up. I've cooled down considerably since then (I went over to my parent's house and ate a rotisserie chicken. It's not important), but I still feel like there's an important point to be made here and I want to make it. I've been pussyfooting (vomit, I'm so sorry) around the fact that something's been going on recently, and I irritate the crap out of myself when I get all 2003 emo LiveJournal and hint that something's wrong but don't actually say what it is. So, this is what it is.]
This might be a little heavy for a Friday, but I want to break the fourth wall and address a few blog comments.
I swear to God this isn't me be sassy, but I'm absolutely looking for a part-time job and am always looking for freelance design work. I just wrapped up two big jobs, so my schedule is now wide open, design wise. If you have any leads, send 'em my way.
And the bigger issue:
Man. I've gotten this comment over and over again since our book came out, and those comments, along with reviews like this one that only bill Chris as the author, are troubling, at best. This book was a 50/50 effort. All of our books have been. All of our books are also written in the third-person about 101 hypothetical scenarios, some of which are centered around men and some of which are centered around women. It seems absurd to me that anyone would assume that just because I'm a woman, I only wrote the scenarios about women, but that's actually what's happening. And not to get all GeNdeR LOLZ! on you, but, frankly, this shit is going to hurt my career. Our writing style, and my writing style in general, is aggressive, dark, and vulgar, which in turn is interpreted as being "masculine". I always thought that my ability to write from both a male and female perspective was a credit to my writing and would make me marketable to television's male-dominated writing staffs, but how are they supposed to acknowledge my skill as a writer if they think I only wrote the 15% of the book that's about periods and hair dye and GIRL STUFFS? This obviously begs the question: why was our book written mostly from the male perspective? Well, I don't know. It wasn't a conscious choice. Maybe it's because I like lampooning frat boys and frat boy culture. Maybe it's because women are taught to be "nice girls" and aren't typically Misanthropes. Maybe it's because I have an aggressive personality and Chris is a man. I don't know. (But it's a damn good question for an intro to gender studies class at Mount Holyoke, I can tell you that much.)
What I do know is that this has been a major blow to me personally and to my partnership with Chris. Every time I have to explain to someone that, no, we both wrote the book and believe it or not, Chris wrote the scenarios about being pregnant and I'm responsible for most of the "Tits! Bros! Booze!" jokes because I'm just that kind of modern 90's gal-on-the-go, it kills me. Just the fact that I have to clarify this right now on my own blog makes me physically nauseous. It's just so much work to not get credit for. And I'm talking about the books and the four years of blogging I did to lead up to the point of even being asked to write a book.
Intellectually, I know that none of this is Chris' fault, but I still resent him for it and as a result, our relationship has become extremely strained. (I cAn HaZ PeRioD???!~) This situation is also hurting the blog because for the past month or so, every time I sit down at my laptop to write a blog post, I get so mad. Because it's like, what's the fucking point? We write blog posts so we can write books that will end up launching Chris' career?? Fuck that noise. I'd rather just watch old episodes of Maude on youtube and cat nap. Life's too short.
So, this leads us back to the question I posed as the title of this post: where do we go from here? Do I suck it up and risk someone big reading one of our books and only taking Chris to the next level because they think he wrote the majority of it? Do I go around the country slapping a sticker on the cover of every copy that says, "Meghan Rowland: tits like a lady, LOLs like a man!"? Do I save myself the time and give up? I don't know what the right answer is. I've been talking this over with my friends and family and Chris for a few weeks now, and none of us know what to do about this.
So, here's what I am going to do: I'm going to keep blogging. I'm going to write my crass little fart jokes in this stupid little blog everyday, Monday through Friday, like I set out to do four years ago. Because next to playing slightly sharp versions of Hall and Oates songs on the bass, it's the only thing I know how to do, and I am goddamn good at it. I don't know if I'll ever make it as a comedy writer, or if Chris will, or if we will as a team, but I do know that I'd rather keep trying and fail than look back twenty years from now and wonder what would have happened if I hadn't quit. So, I will see you Monday morning because I've got a whole notebook full of post ideas, no job, and $9 in my bank account, and if you have a problem with any of that, you can just suck my dick. Brah.
I just spent an embarrassingly long amount of time trying to write a Hagman-specific cover of Gary Puckett and the Union Gap's "Young Girl", but couldn't make it past: "Young Hagman, get out of my mind, My love for you is way out of line, Better run Hag, You're much too drunk fag." Which I'd like to think is proof positive I'm still in the throes of Tulane Chris Fever (not entirely unlike March Madness) and I need to go back to bed. I apologize for having to move our investigation to Monday. But in the mean time—T.G.I. Hagman!
As of 8:25am on July 22 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! And beneath his perfume and makeup—he's just a baby in disguise. Sigh. Alright, I'm going to go with God. See you Monday.
1.) I've missed it, you've missed it, Lord knows he's missed it—it's T.G.I. Hagman! As of 6:42am on May 20, 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! Unless he dies tomorrow in the Rapture, that is. But at least we can all go to sleep tonight comforted by the fact that he'd go to Hagman Heaven, where the bourbon never runs dry and the women are as loose as the meat sandwiches they happily serve. (That went to a questionably Roseanne-esque place, but I'm tired and can't think of anything else that's loose. Barrel curls? Like loose barrel curls you get for a wedding or formal event updo? I'll stop.)
I'm not hot, but I also don't have to wear a bag over my head when I run to CVS to get light bulbs. Pretty standard. Although according to my mom, re: that photo, I'm "so much prettier than that" and according to Chris, I look "laughably Jewish". So try to keep in mind I normally look better when those wacky Jew horns aren't pokin' out all over the place. It's so hard to tame them in the DC humidity... All in all, this feels incredibly anti-climactic and I apologize. Chris' "real life" online presence is considerably more interesting than mine. Mostly because it involves the 1997-1998 Texas State Mathematics League and a seriously impressiveseventh grade season.
3.) I totally forgot to mention one of the most integral examples of why I feel old in yesterday's blog post! DAMN YOU MEG ROWLAND, BLOGGER AND AUTHOR, GO AHEAD AND GOOGLE THAT SHIT. DAMN YOU GOOD. I'll make it quick.
To back up a bit, my family has been going to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival every year (ish) for the last 13 years. I can say 100% unironically that the Sheep and Wool Festival is the shit. Why? Uh, where do I start? Sheep; llamas; alpaca bunnies; emus; sheep herding contests; more lanolin-based products than you can shake a stick at; fresh Howard County, Maryland air; gyros; scarves! scarves! scarves!; funnel cake. I mean, it's pretty much the best day of the year and if you're judging me you can go straight to a lambless hell.
Now flash forward to about a month ago when I was going through a period of being oddly fascinated by Southern culture and was watching a shit-ton of Southern beauty pageant reality-based television programming on Netflix. I became obsessed with the idea of either being in a beauty pageant or coaching someone in a beauty pageant. (And Becca better thank Christ she doesn't have a kid yet, because I wouldn't just push them into a pageant; I'd water cannon them into it. You're a boy so you can't compete? Tough titties—that's why God invented the 2011 All-American Prince Grand Supreme Overall title. Gets-a-tappin', Junior. ) I toyed with the idea of entering a Southern beauty pageant for 2b1b Investigates purposes, but after doing some research, I found a few snags in my plan: 1.) I don't actually live in the South, 2.) I'm not actually that attractive, 3.) I don't like to smile, 4.) Or talk to people, 5.) Or do community service, 6.) Or really give a shit about anything that's not an old "Thundercats" rerun and a few glasses of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay. A full-blown Southern beauty pageant was out. I had to aim lower. Much, much lower. And that's when I remembered that every year the S&W Festival crowns a MISS MARYLAND SHEEP AND WOOL. Yahtzee!
I immediately went to the Sheep and Wool Festival website and was elated to see that I hadn't missed the registration period. I was going to be Miss Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. I'm not saying that I walked around my apartment practicing sucking in/smiling, but I'm also not not saying that I walked around my apartment practicing sucking in/smiling and maybe looked at some dresses online and thought of a bullshit way that I'm actively involved in the wool industry. (I know AN single crochet stitch and once interviwed to be an associate editor at Vogue Knitting. They thanked me for my time and showed me the door once the AN single stitch part became apparent. And the whole crochet ≠ knitting thing. Again, 2008: mistakes were made.) And then, I saw it—the maximum age to enter the Miss Sheep and Wool Festival Pageant is 18-years-old. 18-fucking-years-old. I'm too old to be Miss Sheep and Wool Festival by eight years! I wish I was kidding when I say this, but this realization had a huge effect on me. I was already feeling kind of old at that point, and I think somewhere in the back of my mind I've secretly always wanted to be Miss Sheep and Wool Festival and then BAM!—I find out that I'm too old to enter by eightyears. EIGHT! A child born between the last year I could have registered and now would be in third grade! They'd intellectually know the difference between there/their/they're!!!! I was freaking out and I knew there was only one thing to do: email my dad.
To: Dad
From: Meg Subject: Dad... I'm too old to compete for Maryland Sheep & Wool Queen and I'm having some serious emotions about it. Can you please talk me off this ledge?
To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: RE: Dad...
There hasn't been a Ms. Sheep & Wool from Montgomery County since 1981. I was going to bring that title back home...
To: Meg
From: Dad
Subject: RE: RE: Dad...
Sometimes we have to let go of our childhood dreams and open our arms to the opportunities of adulthood. In this case, not being Miss Sheep and Wool. However, the adult opportunities do include being the National Senior Wool Ambassador. I saw her picture and she’s not that old, really. You still get to wear a sash and crown (or at least I think you get to wear a crown, although looking again at the picture the crown may actually have been the newel post from the staircase behind her) and get your picture taken with Miss this and Junior Miss this. And you get to be in the middle, sweet! However, you will have to come to grips with the fact that they will be younger than you (but certainly not prettier). But just think about all the disappointments they have coming that they are totally unaware of. That should make you smile wryly.
Miss Sheep and Wool is a young girls dream. A dream before the reality of dung encrusted wool hanging from the sheep’s butt and the juicy wonderfulness of roasted lamb replace the longing for a wet nose. That’s what pugs are for.
Having said all that, I can’t wait to go; May 7 and 8. We get the deliciously ironic experience of looking at the sheep and thinking how cute and cuddly they are while simultaneously eating sheep. Is that wrong?
Come down off of the ledge. Life IS still worth living. I know. I’ve lived it well.
Love,
Dad
To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Dad...
You really know how to cut to the core of things, sir. I feel slightly better. Slightly. I can't figure out how I become the National Senior Wool Ambassador. I just want a sash and crown. And I want to wear both in public. And I want people to be impressed and not weirded out. I feel like that's not too much to ask. And I also want a gyro.
To: Meg
From: Dad
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Dad...
G-y-r-o …. Yum.
In the end, I never found out how to become the National Senior Wool Ambassador, although I did look at pricing for a "I put the ASS in National Senior Wool Ambassador!" t-shirt on Zazzle. I also didn't make it to S&WF this year because I was in Philly, coked out the githers trying to get the book done. I got really home sick when my sister texted me this picture with the message, "SHEEPIES!!!":
Sheepies. Sheepies, indeed. But I guess there's something to be said for being responsible and actually following through with something and not having to give back my advance or worrying about the logistics of how you reposess a month's worth of Chipotle and a waxing session. Because I'm old. I'm marginally more responsible. I'm less attractive than you thought. And I want a fucking gryo.
4.) On a more positive note, I randomly got a check in the mail yesterday for $5 from the government of the District of Columbia and I have no Christly idea why or what it's for. Not that that stopped me from putting it directly into my back account no less than five minutes after receiving it. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, happy weekend to you too, District of Columbia!
Welp, thanks for hanging in there with me this week while I got back in the groove of things. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning for our first instillation of Yo! Mama! Yay Diane! Buy-bye.
A: I have nothing but faith that it's going to be great when we're done, but getting there has been exponentially harder than last time. Like, if writing a book is like giving birth to a baby, we delivered the first one when we bent over to pick up a dinner mint and sneezed at the same time and it slid right out of us. This second book, however, has been hard labor and delivery. And we keep getting our room changed, and it's been 14 hours and we're only dilated to three, and the doctor wants to do a C-section but that wasn't part of our birth plan and we're really adamant about delivering it naturally and our husband is in the hall fighting with the doctor and we can hear everything and it's like, this isn't the environment we wanted to welcome our baby into the world in, you know? But I mean, either way we get a healthy baby in the end, so it's not a big deal.
Q: Bent over...and sneezed.
A: Right.
Q: And it "slid" right out of you.
A: Accurate.
Q: Well, I'm very sorry you have to work hard.
A: I'm not complaining, I'm just explaining.
Q: Oh yeah? Are you also straining? While doing some weight training? Careful, it looks like you're waning!
A: So you saw Happy Gilmore on ABC Family the other night too?
Q: ...Yes. Alright, so you're writing a second book and you'll be done in a few weeks, good for you.
A: Thank you.
Q: I still think you're just horrible.
A: Well, I thought you might.
Q: Just to keep you in your place, here's an alphabetized list of reasons why you and your blog suck:
Q: Well, I couldn't think of anything else that started with a Z.
A: What about, "Zero talent"?
Q: 'Eh. It doesn't really pack the same punch as "Zootechnics", does it?
A: Yeah, but at least it's relevant.
Q: Look, are you aware that you suck?
A: Yes.
Q: Than my job is done here.
A: What does "Zootechnics" even mean?
Q: It's the art of managing domestic or captive animals.
A: Is it really?
Q: Swear to God.
A: Huh. Well. That's good to know.
Q: So will you go back to blogging regularly after you turn in the manuscript?
A: Of course.
Q: What about between now and then?
A: I'll try to be better about getting some stuff up, but you have to understand that Adams's got our balls in a vice (God bless them). (Adams Media, that is. Not our balls.) (Although bless them too.)
Q: Speaking of us, where's Tulane Chris in all of this?
A: He's finishing his last few weeks of grad school and has a part-time job and is writing the book with me.
Q: Is he going to come back after the manuscript is done?
A: Yes. After May 3rd, everything goes back to normal.
Q: I miss him. What's new with him?
A: WELL, he's really excited about writing the second book and texts me a lot to say as much. Which is awkward because my texts to him are primarily about how I keep waking up having panic attacks.
Q: God, you must be fun to work with.
A: Well, I also text him about my bowel movements.
Q: Speaking of working with you, I applied to be your intern and haven't heard back. What gives?
A: Yeah, we're getting back to people this weekend. I'm sorry about that.
Q: SPEAKING OF THIS WEEKEND, what's tomorrow little missy?!?!!??!!
A: Sigh. My birthday.
Q: And how old are you turning?
A: Sigh. 26.
Q: Why can't that be a good thing? Why does everything have to be so sad and hard and horrible for you, Meghan?
A: I don't know. 26 sounds so old. And not like "ahhh, my eggs have been in the back of the refrigerator for two months and now we can't make french toast!" old, but like, mature old. Like I should have my shit together by now but I don't. I mean, don't you think it's kind of pathetic that I'm a 26-year-old single blogger who sucks dick to pay her cable bill?
Q: Of course I think that's pathetic. That is pathetic. Everything you do is pathetic. That's why I read this blog.
A: Well, at least I have that. I guess.
Q: So what are you doing for your birthday?
A: Hopefully my granddaughter will take me to Stein Mart and I can get a new pair of slacks.
Q: Is she driving already??
A: Can you believe it? She also just got the lead in her school play.
Q: You don't say! What production is it?
A: Damn Yankees!
Q: Ohhhhh, so she's Lola? How fun!
A: No, actually she's The Devil.
Q: Isn't that a boy's part?
A: Well she's aggressive for her age.
Q: Do you think people will know that that last joke was a page from your real life?
A: Uh, I hope so. I was proud of that performance. Besides, Lola's overrated and if The Devil was good enough for Jerry Lewis, it's good enough for me.
Q: Yes, who needs the role of a sexy temptress when you can be Jerry Lewis for a night in a tweed suit and a pair of children's Spanx.
A: Look, I could have done Lola. I could done the hell out of Lola. But Monica Stein was a year older than me and had drama camp seniority, so she got to be Lola and I got the next lead which was The Devil. Besides, The Devil is a heavily nuanced character and requires the comedic timing and improv skills of someone like myself.
Q: Oh, really?? Well tell you what, why don't I just get on the horn with SNL and let them know that there's a soon-to-be published comedy writer who did a mean nuanced gender-neutral Devil at drama camp when she was 13, so they should probably get on that before "The Daily Show" snags her first.
A: I don't think that's the worst idea you've ever had.
Q: Oh, didn't you have some hippie announcement to make?
A: Yes! Freshman Roommate Rachel, who is one of my favorite human beings on the planet (and gave me a mood ring last night, so you know she's legit), needs your help. Rachel volunteers as a volunteer coordinator (META!) for Hands on DC. Hands on DC is an all volunteer non-profit that beautifies shitty, run-down DC schools so kids are motivated to actually go to school and get an education. (My words, not theirs.) HODC is holding their 17th annual Work-a-Thon Sunday Saturday April 30th, and they're in desperate need of volunteers and general donations. If you're looking for some good karma this Spring, you can join an existing team, register your own team, or make a general contribution on their website. For more information you can go to Hands on DC's website, Facebook page, or email me and I'll get you in touch with Rachel. I wish I could make a 2b1b team, but Chris and I will be hopped up on Adderall and meth at my parent's house trying to finish the manuscript on April 30th, and there's just no two ways about it. But just because I'm a horrible human being doesn't mean you have to be! Empower DC's youth! Make love not war! Kumbaya and such and such!
Q: Rachel is such a good person.
A: Oh my God, I know.
Q: It seems kind of odd that she likes you so much...
A: Alright, alright. Any more questions?
Q: Uh....none that I can think of. Oh! What do you want for your birthday?
A: Electrolysis.
Q: Electrolysis? That's...oddly specific. And...odd. Didn't your mom get you that Bliss at-home strip-free waxing kit from The Q a couple weeks ago?
A: Yes.
Q: Did you try it?
A: Yes.
Q: How'd it go?
A: HORRIBLY. It was so horribly horrible. I wrote an entire post about it but realized as I re-read it at 4 o'clock in the morning that people probably don't give a shit about my personal waxing debacle.
Q: What went so wrong?
A: Oh, God. It's such a long story.
Q: Well, give us the long and short of it.
A: I tried to multi-task and read the waxing directions, eat a club sandwich, and watch a documentary about the Mothman that Netflix keeps recommending to me at the same time, and ended up missing the directions stressing the importance of using the Pre-Waxing Oil. It was a show. I couldn't get any of the wax off and it was all over my face and left arm pit, so I tried taking a gently-used Chipotle napkin, sticking it on the wax and ripping it off, but that obviously didn't work, so I still had hunks of blue wax stuck on me everywhere, just with bits of guac-soaked napkin in it and finally I had to take a bath and soak it off in hot water and scrub my face but I was too scared to close my eyes from watching the fucking Mothman documentary, so I got acne scrub in my eyes and that made me have to close my eyes even more and I almost had a panic attack and there's still blue wax all over my person and my bathroom.
Q: ..............I mean, what am I supposed to say to that?
A: I don't know.
Q: I think we should end this here.
A: Are you sure? I have some thoughts on Eminem/Dr. Dre's 1999 hit "Guilty Conscious" that I'd like to explore, if I could.
Posts
