On 'Dallas', on Cupid, on Donder, on Blitzen!

All of my emotions about the new Dallas can be summed up in one single noise: it's a mixture of a long, disappointed sigh; the grunt of a pregnant woman in the throes of her final push; and the Bill Lumbergh "Yyyyyyyyyyyeahhh....", all made with a facial expression that screams, "Oh, shit—I just locked my keys in my car, didn't I?" That is how I feel about the remake of Dallas.

I understand that if anyone should be happy about the new Dallas, it should be me. The original Dallas is one of my all-time favorite shows, Larry Hagman is my personal Lord and savior, and if anyone loves trashy night time TV more than me, I'd like to meet them. (So I can destroy and sex them.) (NOT IN THAT ORDER.) However, I would like to take this time to officially state that I am not on board with Dallas 2.0. I actually got drunk and wrote a really long post about why not when Larry Hagman agreed to join the cast, but it was uncomfortably serious and kind of embarrassing for us all, so I ended up scrapping it and going outside to breathe this "fresh air" that everyone speaks so highly of. Here is what I will say, briefly:

1.) So much of why I love 70's/80's soap operas is because of the fashion: big hair; nude pumps; spangly, spangly gowns; my beloved gold lamé; tight, high-waisted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans; pantyhose!; nylon and lycra and pearls—oh my! It's borderline pornographic. But squeeze a meh-list actress fresh off a run on Desperate Housewives into a Herver Leger bandage dress, give her a spray tan and I'm sorry, but I'm not poppin' wood. You feelin' me?

2.) I want to remember JR Ewing as a s-s-sex machine, not a s-s-stroke victim, thank you.

Nip/Tuck. You assholes.

3.) My concern is and always will be for Larry Hagman's health. I'm actually CEO of a non-profit called "Focus on the Hagman". We sponsor T.G.I. Hagman's across the country, run uncomfortable Super Bowl ads and make it rain with pairs of TOMS. It's all very exciting. But we, as an organization, are not comfortable with the attention Larry Hagman is inevitably going to get from Dallas 2.0. Because on some small level, I truly believe that the Grim Reaper got distracted the day he was supposed to collect LH because he had to pick up more mulch at Home Depot or some shit and oops—it's 2011 and Larry Hagman's still alive! I'm nervous he's going to curl up on the couch one night with a bowl of kettle corn and a Zima, turn on TNT and be like, "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK..." and that will be the end of that. I didn't invent the rainy day; I just own a Hagman-shaped umbrella.

4.) My biggest argument is this: remember that scene in Practical Magic when Sandra Bullock freaks out and demands that Stockard Channing and Dianne Wiest bring back her dead husband, but they won't do it because "even if we did bring him back, it wouldn't be Michael. It would be something else. Something dark and unnatural,"? Well, that's exactly what this new Dallas is going to be—something dark and unnatural that just shouldn't be. Don't believe me? Knock, knock. Who's there? Melrose. Melrose who? MELROSE PLACE WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR ASHLEE SIMPSON. That's fucking who. And 90210! I mean, why don't we just dig up the body of George Washington, throw him on a vibrating bed with Brittany Snow, smear a used menstrual pad down your TV screen and call it the new Love, American Style while we're at it? Christ.

Which is why up until now, I decided to adopt the same strategy my dad used when he got his draft lottery number and ignore the entire situation until it just kind of goes away on its own. It worked for him, so why shouldn't it work for me, right? (And yes, this is my 'Nam.) But then TNT gave the show the green light and now it's happening for realz for realz and I can't ignore it anymore. My inbox, Twitter, and Facebook were all bombarded last week with people linking me to the TNT story and asking if I was psyched. This made me start to doubt myself. Maybe I'm overreacting and should embrace the show? Gah, but it feels so wrong! I need answers. I need someone to guide me. I need the one who turned me into the Hagmanite I am today. My sire—Original Co-Blogger Eddie. Oh, wise one! Show me the ways of the Old World! (Or, this is some shit, right?)

"MY FEELINGS ON DALLAS", by Original Co-Blogger Eddie

1.) Holy shit. When I picked the Dallas as the topic for my senior history thesis I did it because I wanted to watch lots of TV. Like Pigman in PCU. I found out that watching TV is hard, and I ended up with lots of useless knowledge about a TV show very few people under the age of 27 knew about. Our age group knew that some dude named JR got shot and all the adults wanted to know WHO SHOT JR. BUT NOW I FEEL LIKE I WAS RELEVANT, I was saying and observing important things about America and pop culture. I want to thank the remake for allowing me to feel like the history degree I earned has some value. (Aside from talking to people's moms/the older ladies at work. People's moms and older ladies at work LOVE talking about Dallas.)

2.) I'm scared Larry Hagman will die now because this cursed him in some way. JOCK died during the show's run; who's to say that will not also happen to JR?

3.) Rumor has it Victoria Principal isn't coming back as Pam because she CHANGED HER FACE SO DRASTICALLY to look young that she now looks like a monster pretending to be Victoria Principal. So no Pam on the new show, which is sad because she made moments like this in a disco so awesome.

HELLO A WHITE TURTLENECK, WHITE PAINTS AND A FUR TO A DISCO, that will not happen in the new show. She is sexy and yet very covered up...

This leads me to my next feeling:

4.) I also worry that the world of the Ewing family on Southfork belongs at a time and place. Maybe, just maybe, those characters need to stay in 1978-1991. You can't go back to the past, but thanks to DVD's and books, you can revisit at your leisure. A TV show like Dallas is intimately bound to the time frame it was created and consumed. Sure, it was an over the top prime time soap, but it still was an important piece of TV trash. I'm scared that this remake will tarnish the memory of one of the most influential pieces of television ever created and exported outside of the United States. Dallas changed the look of the 1980's, and changed television, but it was also influenced by that era. Giving JR a computer, information about GREEN JOBS and putting him on Facebook will alter the TV show. I like that TV shows don't change, that I can re-watch them and they stay the same even if the time period is different. Like little time capsules where someone playing Miss Texas could have HORRID teeth and drink when she is knocked up and it's only "maybe bad for the child." This remake will not be the Dallas I love, it will be something very different with the same actors playing semi familiar parts. This remake has the possibility of being a hallow memory of what Dallas was and never will be again, and that makes me very sad.

Chances are I have many more feelings and thoughts and lucky for me I have a whole year to process them. It's been sometime since I watched Dallas, I needed a big break (for obvious reasons) and I have no doubt re-watching the DVD's will stir up emotions I didn't even know I had.

OK, so it's some shit. Good to know we're on the same page.

Well, here we are. I finally shared my Dallas emotions. I feel naked. I feel vulnerable. I feel exposed. I also feel like it goes without saying that none of this is going to stop me from watching it and recapping it for the blog. BUT I'M NOT GONNA LIKE IT.

What I Learned From 43 Episodes of Nip/Tuck

So I've been sick recently. So I've been sicker than normal recently. I wasn't going to get into it because I'm pretty sure if I discuss one more health issue on this blog, the Make-A-Wish Foundation is going to step in and send me to Disney World, and frankly the only reason I'd go to Florida is to learn how to bake with Kevin Yang or force Helena to watch a shuttle blast-off because she's scared of space and we have a sadistic friendship. But, I mention it now because recently I haven't really felt up to venturing into the outside word, so I've been spending a lot of time inside watching TV on Netflix instead. (NETFLIX: YOU SICK ADDICTIVE BEAUTIFUL BITCH, YOU.) I got into Nip/Tuck late in the game, so I decided it would be a really "good" idea to go back and start from the beginning, especially since I've always wanted to see the episodes about the illusive and grim serial killer, "The Carver." And I did this at 12:30 in the morning. By myself. To help me go to sleep.

Things I've also deemed a really "good" idea in the moment: buying, and subsequently wearing, a John Deer baby-tee at the age of 20; going blonde; not wearing sunscreen in Arizona while laying out for 8 hours because "I don't tan"; deciding that Apple Care is for hippies and billionaires; getting an eyebrow piercing at 24 because I had feelings; topping off the large meal I ate at Anna's goodbye BBQ last month with a sausage link and a bloody mary (and not in that order, by the way; simultaneously.) And what do all of these things have in common? They all seemed like a good idea at the time, but were horrible, horrible, horrible decisions in the end. My little Nip/Tuck marathon was no exception.

Not only did it scare the shit out of me because the majority of episodes in seasons 2 and 3 are about a serial killer who viciously rapes and disfigures his victims, it's also addictive as crack and I could not stop watching. And the thing is (and no offense, Mr. Murphy. You gave the world Mr. Schuester and the tale of an effeminate, football playing twink who Mike O'Malley finally learned to accept. You pretty much get a free pass at this point.), you wouldn't think I'd be so addicted to Nip/Tuck. I mean, it's a great show, don't get me wrong, but every time I watch it, I'm distracted by the fact that Julia's always crying and Matt a.) has a vagina or my name isn't Meghan C. McBlogger (....oh) and b.) is the most irritating character in FX programming history. But despite this, I was addicted. I couldn't stop watching. I ended up watching 3 seasons in 2 days and have burn marks on my thighs from my charging laptop sitting in my lap for so many hours. (And when it got too hot, I'd take a break and move it to my stomach. So good day to you, chances of conceiving.)

When I started this whole mishegoss, I just wanted to see The Carver episodes and for some reason thought they would be spread out over like, 4 episodes, tops. So, I got emotionally invested and and vowed to ride it out to the end. But I didn't know the end would be two seasons later. And by that time, I just couldn't stop watching until I knew who The Carver was. And Christ! I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually sick of TV. I kind of want to eat a celery stalk and toss a ball around. Outside.

Now, I know you're thinking that I could have just stopped and looked up who The Carver turned out to be on The Google, but don't you get it?—That would have been cheating. I got myself into this mess and it was up to me to get myself out. Honorably. And I did. By watching 43 episodes of Nip/Tuck back-to-back until The Carver's big reveal. And let me tell you, watching 43 episodes of anything is enough to drive you insane.

Speaking which, I would like to apologize to those of you who follow me on Twitter for accidentally live-tweeting the end of season 3 tonight. I realize my thoughts on those episodes probably would have been slightly more interesting in 2006, but in 2006 I was watching a lot of 1980's Degrassi Junior High and Clone High DVDs. And frankly, I have no regrets. I'd also like to thank Alan Zilberman, the movie reviewer at Brightest Young Things, who I don't actually know, but did briefly serve as a helpful sounding board for my Carver theories. And to Teresa's boyfriend, Dave, who stepped in at the last minute and told me which episode the big reveal was so I knew when I'd be getting my life back. Aaaaaand to everyone who didn't unfollow me for manically tweeting about 4-year-old episodes of Nip/Tuck. Because that did happen.

But this little Nip/Tuck-a-thon gave as well as it took. True, I lost some followers because of a spike in my usual Twitter obnoxiousness, but I learned some very important lessons as well. Lessons, which I will gladly share with you now:

What I Learned From 43 Episodes of Nip/Tuck:

1.) Dame Helen Mirren really has the market on hot-older-distinguished-Lady cornered, but in my opinion, Vanessa Redgrave deserves an amen. Because, I said god damn:

2.) VANESSA REDGRAVE IS NATASHA RICHARDSON (R.I.P.)'S MOTHER AND JULIA'S REAL MOM!

Actually, I think my mom repeatedly told me that when Natasha Richardson died last year as a little, "Oh did you know...?" fun fact, but it went in one ear and out the other because I couldn't visualize who Vanessa Redgrave was and kept picturing Robert Redford, which then made me think of Katharine Hepburn and I was like, didn't Katharine Hepburn die six years ago? I don't know. Writing this blog has taught me a lot about myself; specifically that I'm not that smart.

3.) I am never getting surgery. Ever. According to popular medical opinion, I currently need three procedures: a tonsillectomy, wisdom teeth extraction and a breast reduction. And to those three surgeries, I have three words: No. Fucking. Way. Why? Because there's an episode in Season 3 where The Carver screws with the anesthesia so the patient seems under, but can feel the entire procedure! And when I expressed concern about this to Tulane Chris tonight, he calmly said, "Oh. Well, that happens." WHAT?!?! Dropping your popcorn at the movies happens. Bad cell reception happens. Spotting during pregnancy happens. Being paralyzed while you feel the agonizing pain of surgery can't just happen. Christ. So big tonsils, big teeth and big booths, ahoy! I'm like a walking cubist painting.

4.) Similarly, I'm never flying again. Ever. Thanks to an incredibly graphic episode about the aftermath of a plane crash in which Mac's mom from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia gets burnt like a pop-tart and Julia has to slice her dead back flesh off to wrap around other burnt survivors who have a chance of making it and I. SAID. GOOD. DAY.

5.) Oh holy mother of god—I will lock my apartment door from now on. OH MY GOD, I KNOW, I KNOW. IT'S HORRIBLE! I LIVE ALONE IN THE ONCE MURDER CAPITAL OF THE UNITED STATES AND I DON'T LOCK MY DOOR! I'M SORRY! It's my dirty little secret. In fact, I think Andrew was recently like, "Did you know that X% of people in this city don't lock their doors?" and I judged them just like everybody else did, when secretly that X% is 100% ME! My mother is reading this and having a small heart attack right now somewhere. I'm sorry. It all started in college when I developed an intense phobia of locking myself out of my dorm room when I went to take a shower. You have to understand! I didn't want to prance around the dorm in my robe looking like a wet cat. THERE WERE MEN FROM TEXAS THERE. MEN FROM TEXAS.

Anyway, one day sophomore year, I went out to meet my parents for dinner and actually did remember to lock the door behind me. When I got back from dinner, the entire floor was a-buzz that somebody had broken into my room and stolen a bunch of shit. BUT GET THIS! The robber stole my roommate's laptop, TI-83 calculator and phone but didn't touch anything of mine (despite totally having shit worth stealing, thank you very much.) I was like, YES, HORNBERGER!!! And from then on, I took that as a sign that I'm invincible to break-ins; doors locked or otherwise.

So now sometimes if I'm lying in bed and see that my front door is unlocked, I'll be like, "Meh. I live in an apartment building. We have front desk security. I live on the 4th floor. Someone will hear me scream. I took kick-boxing for a semester in college. Five feet is so far. NIGHT!" roll over and go to bed.

BUT NOT ANY MORE! Because I'm like a juicy Thanksgiving turkey just sitting on the dining room table, begging to be carved. So from now on, I promise to lock my door at all times. (Oh my god, I never locked the door when I lived in Brooklyn either. Diane, I am so, so sorry.) (And I never used conditioner until I got to college and realized it was weird that I didn't. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!)

6.) I owe Anna and apology. Anna's a huge Nip/Tuck fan and she was the one always telling me how good The Carver episodes were. Well, one time we were staying in this random hostel in Bruges (because we're both white, upper middle-class and east coast college educated, so of course that sentence just happened,) and I walked past the hall bathroom and saw Anna bent over washing her face in the sink. As a goof, I snuck up, stood in the doorway behind her and stared at her in the mirror, so when she looked back up she'd see me and have a little...scare. BECAUSE THAT'S FUNNY! We were in Bruges. Well, apparently it was not funny. She looked up, saw me, literally froze in fear and said, "GAH." But like, G-A-H. GAH! It's the only noise that she could produce. It was so perfect; it was like a cartoon. I thought an anvil was going to fall on her next. I never understood why she was so pissed at me for doing that UNTIL I saw the episode where Sean is washing his face and when he looks back up in the mirror, THE CARVER is staring back at him. Jesus. I've been cleaning my face like a cat for two nights now. So Anna, I humbly apologize. But if it's any consolation, my paws hurt.

7.) I thoroughly enjoy the sound of someone putting latex gloves on and snapping them off. I realize I'm standing backwards on the slippery slope that is, "Meg has a latex fetish!", but it's just honestly an incredibly satisfying sound. There's nothing sexual about it. It's like tires driving over gravel or sassy black women snapping their gum at the post office—it just sounds good. And yes, those of you personally know me know that there's a blatant latex cat mask hanging up in my closet, but it was an ironic prop for a photo shoot. BUT NOT THAT KIND OF A PHOTO SHOOT. It was for Washingtonian magazine. But we didn't end up going with those pictures. But the photo shoot really happened, I swear. 'Ehh...It's times like these I allow myself to remember that my parent's friends read this blog and just cringe ever-so slightly.

8.) The name "Kimber" drives me up the wall. Because not to get all Andy Rooney on you, but where's the —ly? Kimber. It's just such an unsatisfying name. If I had a friend named Kimber, I'd spend our entire friendship being like, "OH, HEY KIMBER!.......ly." Kimber just feels so...unfinished. Like when you feel like you have to sneeze and then you don't. Or when you have a sex dream but can't come for the life of you, so you wake up and try to finish but you're like, well great, I'm actually not horny at all, I'm too tired to even try and it's 6:45 on a Saturday morning. That's Kimber.

9.) I should probably get out of the house?....Yeah. I should get out of the house.

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: The Oddly Specific Edition

This may come as a surprise but I actually sympathize with The Gay's struggle for equal marriage. Not so much because I want to marry someone of the same gender, but more-so because I too am in a relationship that Johnny Law refuses to recognize. You see I want to marry a television show. And that television show is MTV's "True Life."

If you've never heard of MTV's "True Life", you might as well just kill yourself because your life has been a sick, sick joke up until now. According to imdb.com, "'True Life' follows three unique persons in their everyday situations, and documents the problems and goals they face." According to Meg McBlogger, "'True Life' is an ocular orgasm that is, and continues to be the only reason I wake up in the morning."

I love "True Life" because no matter what topic they're exploring or what year it was filmed in, it's always vaguely 2001-ish, everyone is slightly white trash and from Florida, and there's just so much...denim. And emotions. I mean, that's what I call real reality television right there. You can keep your Speidi's and your perfectly coiffed "City" cast and your what have you's. I'll take brassy highlights, a pack of Newports and an outfit from Fashion Bug any day of the week.

The only other person I've met who truly understands my obsession with "True Life" is Ex Co-Blogger Chris. When we lived together, I'd estimate a good 65% of our Saturday nights started out with turning on a "True Life" marathon as background noise when we got ready, and ended with the two of us grossly overdressed, eating DiGiorno pizzas we got at the gas station across the street and spooning on the futon in our fifth straight hour of "True Life: I Hate My Face". And you know what? Those nights were fun, drunk and inexpensive. You show me a problem with that and I will show you Gideon Yago's home phone number.

I wish I could say that I love every episode of "True Life", but it's just not so. While I love most episodes—TL: I'm a Southern Bell; TL: I I Have Embarrassing Parents (1 and 2); TL: I'm Driving While Black; TL: I'm in a Polyamorous Relationship; TL: I'm an Urban Cheerleader...I mean why even attempt to make a list? That could be a post in and of itself—there remains one episode that I can't fucking stand. One episode that not matter how many times I sit down and force myself to watch it (and Lord knows I have), I can not make it through the entire episode. So, you know what ruffles my feathers? MTV's "True Life: I Work In the Sex Industry".

TL:IWITSI follows three young people: Aaron, a straight guy who happens to be a gay pornstar; Shawntelle, a college student who has a campus radio show about her sex life; and Rebekah, the office manager of a porn production company. I don't know if MTV cast this episode on a Friday before a 3-day weekend, but all of these plot lines seem insultingly half-assed to me. I mean, Aaron's legit, I have no problem with him, but Shawntelle and Rebekah? Really, MTV? You couldn't find anyone willing to talk to you who was slightly more established in the sex industry than those two? I mean, when I think about people who work in the Sex Industry, prostitutes, doms, strippers and fetishists come to mind. Not sophomores at Cal State Long Beach who want more attention. Are you seriously trying to tell me that the same production company who found three people willing to shoot up heroin on camera couldn't find one measly grad student with a whip, a Craigslist account and an open-mind? Shit, you could have called me and I'd have given you Ex Co-Blogger Eddie's number and saved us all some time and stress.

I reiterate that I have no problem with Aaron's plot line (his uncle disowns him—compelling!) but whatever film crew followed Shawntelle around with a camera for a month straight deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor. Because we all went to college with Shawntelle. Maybe it wasn't that Shawntelle, but it was a Shawntelle. I took Gender in Society my sophomore year of college (because AU is the gayest institution of higher learning in America so it was obviously a Gen Ed,) and my Shawntelle was in that class. I forget her name, but she was the campus newspaper's sex columnist and she raised her hand at least 10 times a class to share a story from her vast library of personal sexcapades.

Our professor—who I hated: Briana Weadock—was all about sharing, so class participation was an obnoxious 15% of our final grade. (She obviously loved Shawntelle.) I, on the other hand, ended up getting an A- in the class that should have been an A, but was bumped down because I never shared. My not sharing had nothing to do with my academic competence in that class. I wrote a damn good paper applying the theory of Docile Bodies to Hedwig's on and off-stage body language in Hedwig and the Angry Inch and it was was like a bukkake film of gender studies buzzwords and meticulously spun bullshit. She loved it. But I ended up getting an A- in the class because I didn't want to share. Oh, I'm sorry; it's 8:30 in the morning. Sorry if I don't want to raise my hand and tell you about the time I french kissed my best friend at field hockey camp. Christ.

Rebeckah infuriates me on so many levels that I have to break it down into numerical points to keep my thoughts straight. This is what the True Life: I Work in the Sex Industry synopsis has to say about Rebekah:

Rebekah loves her job for a company that produces amateur-style X-rated videos. Unfortunately, she fears that guys don't think of her as relationship material because of her career. Tired of being alone, Rebekah sets out to find a man who will love her for who she is. She tries Speed Dating, but all the guys there have the typical response of assuming she's only interested in sex and nothing more. Next, Rebekah attends a porn convention for work and hopes she might find a boyfriend in the industry. Unfortunately, the only cute guys are the gay porn stars. She is able to find a cute new girl to star in her company's movies, which leads to getting her own office. But even with all her success, Rebekah wishes she had someone to share her joy with.

1.) You are on office manager. If "working in the sex industry" is wreaking so much havoc on your personal life, maybe you should stop defining your job as "in the sex industry". Perhaps instead tell a gentleman friend that you're an "office assistant" or an "administrator". Because you "are". The "Did you know I work in the Sex Industry??" card might be more of a third date kind of thing.

2.) You don't even technically work in the sex industry! When I worked for Soap Opera Digest and people asked me what I did, I didn't tell them that I was "in soaps" or "in the entertainment industry." Why? Because they would obviously assume that I was an actress and then we'd have to have an uncomfortable conversation about how I wasn't an actress, I was just a low-level layout artist at the nation's foremost soap opera publication. And that's embarrassing. So instead I'd say, "Oh, I'm a graphic designer." "Oh really, where?" "Ack. It's kind of embarrassing, but Soap Opera Digest." "Ha ha, really? That's so kitschy." "I know, right?" "Yes. We should have sex." "Agreed. "

See? See how that went? And when you're taking pick-up advice from Meg McBlogger, you know you're in trouble.

3.) Do you know what reader @cortmccoy tweeted me today? This image:

A lot of IT departments block this blog because of its "Adult Content." If the blog is written by me and about my life, that means that I am the creator and source of the offensive Adult Content in question. I don't work supporting the Adult Content, I am the Adult Content. Thus I conclude that this means I am more qualified to tell people that I work in the sex industry than you are. (And not that I write a blog about fart jokes and emotions.) Just. Say. Office. Administrator.

4.) The speed-dating scene is so infuriating, I want to stab myself in the eye with freshly sharpened pencils every time I try to watch it. This is an actual conversation that transpires between her and one of her dates:

Date: So what do you do?

Rebekah: I work in porn.

Date: Oh! So you're like...a porn star?

Rebekah: No I'm an office assistant. I don't like, fuck on camera for money or anything.

Date: Oh. [And I swear to god he says this] Normally when I meet people for the first time I try to, like, make a good first impression.

Rebekah: Oh.

Sir, I have no desire to live in the greater Los Angeles area, but I will absolutely date you for more than 10 minutes.

5.) When speed-dating fails, Rebekah decides to throw a party in her apartment and asks her friends to bring single guys to set her up with. Unfortunately, her friends (who all look like they've been dipped by the heels into a Hot Topic...) don't know any single guys, so she ends up getting wasted, locking herself in the bathroom with two guys (who judging by their awkward body language are only casual acquaintances,) cries and refers to herself as "totally doable." I mean, this episode would have made way more sense if it was called, True Life: I'm That Girl.

6.) I hate to be cruel, but don't you think part of the reason why guys don't think you're good relationship material isn't because you "work in the sex industry," but because you look like this:

I know I'm single, but it's my understanding that guys don't want to wake up in the morning and roll over to see a candy-coated rave explosion on the pillow next to them. Unless I've been doing it wrong, which is highly possible.

I'm going to tell you a story. When I was in college, I decided that I wanted to have pink streaks in my hair. I went to the salon where my mom goes in Bethesda and asked them to do it, but they judged the shit out of me instead and refused. Dedicated to the cause, I found a sprite gay man in the city who'd do it for me and once a month for the next six months, we'd get high and experiment with my hair color until one day he disappeared and moved to Barcelona. Now, this story not only accounts for why I had pink streaks in my hair for about a month or so in college, it also explains why I look like a raging meth addict in my passport picture with a glassy eyes and cheap platinum blonde hair.

My point is: look at your life. Look at your choices. Ask yourself if any of it sounds slightly out of place.

Now, I'll be filling merchandise orders at 2 o'clock in the morning for my Adult Content-based blog before I go to my minimum wage retail job in the morning, should you need me.

This used to be my playground.

EMOTIONS, YOU GUYS. Emotions. I got a lot of them. Which is a completely new and foreign concept to me. Normally I'm so hopped up on anti-depressants and mood stabilizers you could break up with me on the JumboTron at Madison Square Garden and I'd be like "Meh, that's fair" and go back my crossword puzzle without batting an eye, but this week everything is making me emotional. For so many reasons:

1.) Oh, you know, I got the fear of Christ put in me when I thought I was getting fired. My bosses never had that TALK with me yesterday, by the way. It was so anti-climactic. They were in meetings all day and every time they'd come out, I'd tense up and prepare for the Dynasty-style cat fight that never came. (And this has nothing to do with anything, but remember last August when I said I wanted to bring back Dynasty inspired nude pumps? Well according to Piperlime they're the hottest thing since sliced J-Woww. And WTF? This is like the time in 10th grade when I wore a long, powder blue sweater coat to the homecoming football game and everyone shamelessly made fun of me because it "looked like I was wearing a bath robe" and then six months later you couldn't swing a dead cat without hittin' a bitch wearing one. Looking back, they might have been making fun of me because it was powder blue, but still! If stick pins and narwhals blow up, Imma be rull pissed. But in the mean time, sexy can I?:

August's mission: accomplished. Crystal Carrington would be proud. Those puppies are just neutral and bland enough to match any flashy pattered shirt dress appropriate for lunch at the St. Dennis club.)

Anyways, what was I talking about before that obnoxiously cocky little fashion rant? Oh, yes my obnoxiously dramatic little emotions. (God you want to have sex with me.) So I'm not fired, but this entire ordeal has sent me into this huge tailspin about the direction of my life and what I should be doing with it right now. Which I completely don't appreciate. I feel like last summer (when I wasn't busy predicting Spring '10 shoe trends) I was having the same freak out but managed to cool my jets for a while. Now after this week, I'm feeling all Antwerpy again and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing and I just want to run away, learn Dutch and not have to make a decision ever again ever. But not in that order. Logistically speaking, it would probably make more sense to learn Dutch first. Unless it's hard. Which I hear it is. In which case I plan on getting by with my big boobs and American Canadian sass.

2.) The Jersey Shore ended last night. And it was the WORST. EPISODE. EVER. I honestly don't even know if it's worth recapping. It felt like one of those Golden Girls midnight clip shows where the girls pour into the kitchen one by one (—"Sophia! You can't sleep either?"—), break out the cheesecake and reminisce about all of the shitty men they've dated. Except last night's episode was 90% less interesting and 100% more redundant. I expected more from you, Jersey Shore, I really did. I'm not mad at you, I'm just dissapointed. Now go to your room without dinner or a recap and think about what you did. (Lolz. Just kidding. I'll half ass a recap later.)

3.) I am slightly weirded out by my own emotions regarding tonight being Conan O'Brien's last Tonight Show. I'm just taking the situation entirely too hard for someone not related to Conan or one of his staff. I don't really know what else to say besides I just really love him. He's a bit of a hero of mine and I've been watching his show since the (somewhat turbulent) beginning of Late Night. Teresa and I used to have sleepovers every Friday night and get hopped up on Pepsi and pixie sticks so we could stay up until 12:30 and watch. Because even at the somewhat innapropriate age of eight years old, we still knew that man was the tits. I have also spent many a restless and anxious night in middle and high school falling asleep to Late Night and I took extreme comfort knowing that Conan, my little self-deprecating electric blanket, was always there to comfort me. In 2003, the Late Night tickets we requested finally arrived and Teresa and I were fully prepared to skip the first day of our senior year of high school to drive to New York and see a taping. We even had the bright idea of making t-shirts that said "Bonin' 4 Conan" to wear in the audience. Unfortunately, not only were our tickets for the first day of school, they also overlapped with some Republican convention that had recieved numerous bomb threats, and in a very post 9/11 New York, this hadn't become old hat yet. In the end we (and by we, I mean our parents) decided that two 17 year-old girls probably shouldn't drive into New York City alone with t-shirts ensinuating we hooked our way there when terrorists and Republicans are running around wild. Looking back, I just have this to say: pussies. We should have gone. T-shirts and all. Because now we'll never get the chance again and it fucking breaks my heart. Seriously, everytime I think about tonight being the last show my throat closes and my eyes well up with tears; a fact so disturbingly embarassing, I'm not quite sure what to do about it. My plan for tonight is this: meet Helena and Alex at Little Miss Whiskey's after work -> drink to the point of being good and emotionally drunk, but not sloppy. "Wedding Toast Drunk," if you will. -> Go to Andrew's apartment with eye makeup remover and a box of tissues -> Watch the show and cry. And cry and cry. Overall, pretty par for the course for a Friday night in the world of Meghan McBlogger.

But even on sad, sad days like this, there's always something to be grateful for. And today, I'm grateful for our last Jersey Shore recap. But, of course, mostly...I'm grateful it's T.G.I. Hagman.


As of 1:38pm on January 22, Larry Hagman is...alive! Thank god for small favors.

And now, our final Jersey Shore recap— Episode 9: That's How The Shore Goes. (Sticking to last week's resolution, Laura and Andrew joined me as my spotters this week and I felt 100% better having them there. Also, per my notes, Andrew looked "amazing" last night and I need to apologize to Laura for physically assaulting her when I got overly emotional at the thought of Snooki and The Situation falling in love. We seriously had to put a pillow on her thigh because I couldn't stop slapping it when I got emotional. Completely normal things that happen in a friendship.)

So! As we recall from last week, Ronnie got arrested for punching some schmo in the face with his mighty crab claw and scuttling away and back into the sea. (How many hits does it take to the get to the center of a Guido Pop? JUST ONE HIT BRO, JUST ONE HIT!) Unfortunately for Ronnie, he can't get bailed out of jail until 6:30 the next morning, which means he has to spend a brutal three hours in Ocean County jail, which I imagine to be something like Beach Blanket Bingo except gayer. Which is neither here nor there. The next morning the Sammi begrudgingly hauls her ass out of bed and goes to pick up Ronnie from the clink. They have an emotional reunion because, you know, this is the first time she's had to sleep alone without Ronnie by her side since getting there. 27 days ago. And Haiti thought they had it rough...Overall I'm impressed with Ronnie's post-jail look. His faux-hawk is still perfectly in place, he looks well-rested and doesn't even need to take a shower. Whereas I come home from sitting on my ass watching Hulu at work all day and look like I've just pulled a truck eight miles with my teeth in the hot sun. So, well played Ronald. Well played.

It being Labor Day weekend, the gang wants to go out with a big bang. Which is a great idea, except they all stink like AIDS and nobody will touch 'em with a 10-foot pole. Sucks. I'd say the only interesting part of this episode was when Snooki has a very B. Spears-esque emotional breakdown after being blown off by Cowboy O'Hoolihan and her ex-boyfriend, whom she's still in love with, in the same day. The ex-boyfriend thing was rough, I'm not going to lie. She sees him on a balcony, blows him a kiss and he flat-out looks down and says, "No." Snookers can not catch a break. At a certain point, you just gotta assume that god must just really hate that girl. (Am I right or am I right??) Snooki then does what I think we'd all do in that situation and freak-dances by herself on the boardwalk, attracting the likes of old men, skeptical grandmas, hobos and drifters. It was like Intervention: The Dance Remix and I was in no way mad. Shockingly, when this doesn't make her feel any better, she goes home to cry on the roof like some kind of emo blogger, where The Situation gives her a nice little pep talk.

That night the boys go to the boardwalk to play arcade games, which I mention only because Andrew, feeling inspired, decided that his new pick up line from now on is going to be "Wanna play with my skee balls?" and I feel like that's worth mentioning. After that, the boys go home and decide to stay in for the night and cheer up old Snooks. (A gesture that is so touching I punch Laura in the face and stab her in the kidney. At this point I also drunkenly shouted, "I LOVE YOU GUYS!" to which Andrew asked, "Are you talking to us or the TV show?" and I genuinely didn't know the answer.)

The gang then reminisces about the past "summer" (read: past 27 days) for the next 30 minutes and it's boring as fuck all because they each just repeat the same thing over and over again in 90 different ways. It was the most bizarre thing. Thank god The Situation and Snooki make out in the hot tub for a few minutes and break up the RemFest. Which can be summarized as:

- I can't believe this is our last night.
- It was a crazy summer.
- I don't regret anything.
- I didn't expect to fall in love at the Jersey Shore.
- I hope we stay friends.
- We are like a family.
- I can't believe we made it.
- We did it.
- We made it through it.
- We did it without not not making it through it.
- Man, I got so much pussy.
- Remember when part of the plot was we had to work at the boardwalk?
- No.
- Me neither.
- I like summer.
- We should do this next year.
- Ok, see you then. And at promo work. And paid appearances. And in the real world.
- Ok, bye.
- Bye.

Our season ends with The Situation standing on the roof, wistfully looking out across the boardwalk as he dramatically raises his arms in the air like a prize fighter and proclaims, "I DID IT!"

...Did what, asshole? You just got paid to party at the beach for a few weeks; you didn't survive 'Nam. Maybe be a little less dramatic next time, [scoff] am I right? Aaaaaaaaand with that, I'm going to go watch Late Night clips on youtube and cry hysterically into an Italian flag because good television as we know it is over and thus life is not worth living. I leave you with one of my favorite Late Night sketches of all time. It's been a pleasure to recap the J.S. for you, thanks for dealing with my drama this week, have a great weekend and we'll see you back here on the blog Monday morning. Buh-bye.