Follow-Up FAQs

1.) How is Evie?
Evie is great, thanks so much for asking. If you're new here, Evie is my parents' prized Tonkinese show cat who replaced me when I went away to college 9 billion years ago. We infamously didn't get along at first, then fell in love when I moved back home and got mono in 2008. The weekend my mono officially got really bad, I remember lying on the cool tile floor of my parents' kitchen—ALONE, mind you, because Rich and Di went away to the Eastern Shore for a jaunty weekend with Becca and Geoff — Also worth noting they brought me back madras booty shorts to make up for it, and it worked like a goddamn charm—and Evie put our differences aside, sauntered over, and stuck by me all weekend. We've been best friends ever since, and she's had a bit of a cult-following-within-a-cult-following on this here blog.

Here's a one-act I wrote about cat-sitting her that got me into grad school

Here's a picture of a porn star with little Evie heads covering her NSFW bits

Here's a picture of Evie with little porn star heads covering her NSFW cat bits

2.) Is Chris coming back to blog, too?
Man, who knows what that homo is up to. I mean, I do, because we're still actively best friends. So, yeah, I think he is! I asked if he wanted to and he said yes. But he said it (texted it) with the same vague enthusiasm he reserves for when I'm a pound of gummy edibles deep at 2 o'clock in the morning and text him 14-inch long iMessage pitches for various spins on the same ghost-hunting reality show idea. (It's called Low-Key Ghost Hunters. Sometimes he doesn't reply at all.)

For new people, Christopher Turner-Neal is a William Faulkner/Joe Exotic hybrid I've loved ever since I jerked him off on Abigail Breslin's older brother's couch in college. He was visiting a mutual friend and went back to Tulane to immediately come out of the closet, but we stayed friends. Then best friends. Then unhealthily co-dependent parasitic life partners, which is where we currently reside. He co-wrote a large chunk of the blog back in the day, and we wrote poopie-poopie fart joke books together. You'll like him. He's funnier and a better writer than me, but then again, I'm better at social-distancing, SooOooOO...*

*(This is a reference to the fact that I recently publicly shamed Chris on Instagram for trying TO GO TO THE NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA DMV DURING SELF-ISOLATION, and he was super bitchy about it, and now he's going above and beyond by delivering meals to elderly people, possibly to make up for it.)

3.) Are you still the sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere?
No. I am very much not the sardonic voice of 20-somethings anywhere, and I shouldn't be the voice of anyone at any age. I dicked around on Blogger for a solid hour last night trying to take that off the blog title, then lost interest and fell asleep watching Dairy Week on The Great British Bake Off. 

I don't know anything about 20-somethings. Maybe late 20-somethings, but certainly not early 20-somethings. I watched Euphoria and it shocked me to my core. I literally sat down, put my readers on, and googled, "Is Euphoria really what high school is like?" It also took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that Jules is trans. The establishing shot of her injecting herself with hormones within the first 15-seconds of the show wasn't heavy-handed enough for me. I honestly thought she was diabetic. I was fully prepared for a Steel Magnolias-style irresponsible Diabetes decision-making plot-line and was shocked when it never came. It also didn't seem weird to me at all that she met what's-his-name's dad on Grindr, because you really do have to cast a wide net.

4.) What is the bag and why are you sorr for it?
The bag is the bag, and I will always be sorr for it.

5.) How can I contact you?
Ignore my blog email because I only ever check that account every few years and then want to flush myself down the toilet because I've missed an important email and have to respond three years later like a jackass. I will eventually update the header, sidebars, etc.

Email me directly at meghan.c.rowland@gmail.com or DM me on Instagram - @meg4lyfe. I'm here. I'm in a way, too. We'll get through this.

See you tomorrow.

Meg

2 Birds Investigates: An Evening of the Occult

So, I’m looking for a job. We’ve had this conversation. It’s miserable, I’m miserable, we’re all miserable. I’ve tried being myself, a la ex-co-blogger Eddie (“I wore a see-through camisole and talked about Kreayshawn! They’re giving me a raise!”), I tried not being myself, I’ve tried long resumes, I’ve tried short resumes, I’ve tried bursting into tears in a temp agency – zip.

So, I tried magic.

I don’t not believe in voodoo. I have a little grisgris bag or mojo I always have with me that I got from an actual voodoo lady in Louisiana. I lost the first one, so I had to send a check with $35, a note of apology, and some hair and nails for a replacement – and THE DAY it got here Meg and I found out the sample for Misanthrope’s got accepted. Frankly, I’ve believed in weirder things with less reason (chupacabra, etc.), so I’m willing to throw in for voodoo. And if I’m going to ask the supernatural for help, it’s either voodoo or the Episcopal Church, and going to an ornate, mostly empty sanctuary and politely asking God for help if he’s not terribly busy makes a weak blog.

Originally, Meg and I had a bigger idea. We were going to try to break our bad luck with a self-designed voodoo ritual, but after a short heart-to-heart about Meg’s condo board (“I’m on thin ice after Evie as it is, and if they find all that blood in the drain…”) we decided to lowball it and order a prefab spell from the internet.

St. Expedite is the patron of doing things quickly, which explains why we’ve never met. He likes red things and, apparently, candles with herbs sprinkled in the wax.

Before performing a spell, it’s considered wise to “cast a circle” of protection around yourself. According to wiccanonline.com (or similar), this is done by:

-       Giving the room a good cleansing smudge with sage. We did this by lighting sage incense and walking around the room chanting “Smudging… smudging…smudging…”

-       Getting in the north corner of the room, facing north, bowing, and saying “I cast this circle in the name of love and light, and ask that it protect me from all malevolent and unwanted spirits.”

-       Repeating the bow and love-and-light bit while facing east, south, and west.

-       Pointing at the earth and turning around three times, counterclockwise (if you do it backward the dead will absolutely rise)

-       Adding any other words you feel appropriate. I elected to add the spell Angela Lansbury used in Bedknobs and Broomsticks to make suits of armor fight the Nazis: “Treguna mekoides tricorum satis dee!”

Either from Hocus Pocus or an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? I have the idea that you’re also supposed to also make an actual circle of actual salt. Meg offered me my choice of garlic salt or sea salt in a grinder. I chose the grinder because I like the sound it makes.

Now that we were protected, we were ready to do the spell. It had an odd, Oprah vibe: we had to visualize what we wanted and then write it down in detail, including desired starting salary. Essentially, it was a cover letter to the beyond. I don’t actually know what rules govern this situation, so in case it falls under the birthday-wish rules, I won’t say exactly what I wrote. I bet you can guess – I relied heavily on the phrase “shit, anything at this point.”

Well, we visualized and we wrote, then lit the candle and put it on top of our papers. The spell goes like this:

"St. Expedite, I call upon you,

I ask for your powerful support.

You know what is necesary and what is urgently needed.

Please help me remedy economic problems.

That I may obtain ufficient money for necessities.

Please help me find gainful employment very soon,

so that this heavy burden of concern

will be lifted from my heart

and I will soon be able to provide

for those whom God has entrusted to my care.

By your grace, Blesed Saint"

(NOW STATE YOUR OWN PETITION)

When you're done Say:

"Expedite now what I ask of you.

Expedite now what I want of you.

Do this for me, Saint Expedite,

And when it is accomplished,

I will as rapidly reply for my part

With an offering to you.

So Mote It Be! Blesed Be!"

Afterward, I banged my fist on the table to make it official, then poured some of the melted wax on my paper. It seemed like the magic thing to do. The paper with the spell on it has a very strict warning at the bottom – apparently St. Expedite is touchy, and if he does you a favor and you don’t give a thanksgiving offering, he’ll pull the whole thing down around your ears. So be warned.

We already had candles lit and the circle laid, so we decided to have a séance. That previous sentence says more about my life than I wish it did.

The internet was less helpful than usual on séances. It seems like the kind of thing that would have a specific, involved ritual around it, but no: you just light a candle, hold hands, and wait for the ghosts. You’re supposed to give them an easy way to contact you: set out a glass of water to jiggle a la Jurassic Park, or just ask them to tap. (With what?) We had a hard time choosing someone to contact. I wanted to try to contact my recently deceased grandfather, but somehow waking him up so I could blog about it seemed disrespectful, so we settled on Nancy Mitford, the not-incredibly-famous British humorist I wrote my graduate thesis on. She wasn’t home, or whatever, so we moved on to Gerald Ford – I thought it might help to try someone with a tie to the Washington area. Well, Gerald apparently only contacts registered Republicans, despite our argument that after the Reagan realignment it’s really a different party than he remembers, and Betty wasn’t communicative either. So we did what you’d expect us to do and went after Bea Arthur. So much for not being predictable.

Meg: Bea? Calling Bea Arthur. Paging Beatrice Arthur.

Me: Bernice? Bernice Frankel? We know your birth name! We’re true fans!

Meg: Bea, if you’re listening, we want to thank you for being a friend.

Me: “Lady Godiva was a freedom rider, she didn’t care if…”

Meg: Shut up, or we won’t hear if she taps.

Me: Bernice?

Meg: We’d appreciate a quick hello, we know you’re probably busy with Estelle and Rue…

Tap.

Me: RUE?!

Meg: Did you see that we dedicated our third book to you?

Rue: Tap.

Me: Were you pleased:

[Long pause]

Rue (playfully): Tap.

Meg: We weren’t kidding! We cherished you!

Me: We still do!

Meg: Feel free to drop back in anytime.

Me: We’ll make cheesecake! Presumably you can enjoy the smell, or something!

This is a dramatization, but I. Swear. To. God. We heard three distinct taps in answer to our questions. Either we contacted Rue McClanahan from beyond the grave or the air conditioner was on. I know what I’ve chosen to believe.

Also: Rue McClanahan can back from the grave to acknowledge that we dedicated a book to her before the book was released. Garry Shandling has had since November to acknowledge that Brainwashing was dedicated to him, and I mailed him a free copy. AND HE’S ALIVE.

All this happened Friday night. Today, Monday:

-       Got an ACTUAL JOB INTERVIEW for an ACTUAL JOB in ACTUAL NEW ORLEANS. 99% sure it’s not a prank.

-       Got called about working a polling station during the primaries, which will allow me to fulfill my lifelong dream of looking a first-time voter dead in the eye and saying “there is a wrong answer – you know that, right?” AND is a day’s work

-       Got the author copies of It Seemed Like A Good Idea…, which means Amazon will be shipping soon. It has an attractive cover and is filled to the BRIM with laughs. You should buy two copies and keep one in your panic room, just in case.

-       Got a free banana from the corner bodega, just because it was going bad!

St. Expedite and Rue McClanahan – fixing my terrible life for over three days.

State of the Meg—April 2012

- A lot of truly God-awful things have happened over the last few months and I don’t want to talk about it. Which is obnoxious, I realize, because then why did I bring it up in the first place? I don’t know. I’m like that asshole who casually drops it into conversation that they were molested but that's where the story stops, so you spend the rest of your friendship not knowing which family member to resent on their behalf. Not that I’m saying people who have been molested are assholes. People who are withholding are assholes. It just so happens that some of them have been molested. Really, what I’m trying to say here is that I’m an asshole who—TO MY KNOWLEDGE—has never been sexually molested. Good. I’m glad we're off to a good start.

- In other good, non-molestery news, I got into grad schools! Yay for me. YAY FOR SCHOOL! I got a creative writing scholarship to The New School, so that’s where I’ll be going. For a while I was bummed out because this means I have to turn down my spot at Columbia. I couldn’t figure out why that prospect upset me so much until I realized that in my mind, I’ve always equated Columbia with Hogwarts. I don’t really know why, considering I’ve physically been to Columbia and seen firsthand that it is in no way a school of witchcraft and wizardry. Yet on some subconscious level, I think I’ve been imagining myself spending the next two years flying around the Upper West Side with Evie on my broomstick—just writin’, playin’ Quidditch, havin’ the occasional gab session with Professor McGonagall. That said, I did the math and worked out that a round trip ticket to Orlando, two nights at the Econo Lodge, and a day pass to the The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios is $100,583 less than getting a creative writing MFA from Columbia. Soooo, that is the route I will be taking.

- HA HA! I’m just kidding, I can’t afford a trip to Orlando. If I could, I’d already be knee-deep in Kevin Yang and Gatorland by now.

- So, yes, I’m moving back to New York in July, probably. I feel the following about it: excited, scared, nervous, anxious, hopeful, loose bowels, scared. If you live in New York and would like to be my friend, that would be awesome. I sleep a lot and have a generally poor outlook on life, but I also love road trips and give good hugs. I feel like it balances out in the end.

- What does this news mean for the blog? Nothing. If anything I hope it’s going to get the blog back on track because now I totally feel motivated to write more. Chris is actually here right now to help me pick the blog up off its face and make it a part of your life again. He’s currently lying on my couch, just a tippy-tappying away. He just looked off into the distance thoughtfully, ruffled his hair, looked like he got an idea, and went back to typing. You know what? Good for him. I’m glad he worked through that. Oh, nope, he’s back to looking in the air worriedly. Now he’s fixing his sleeves and staring at my bookshelf. Back to typing. He’s got it. What a pro. I mean, I could live-blog Chris writing a blog post indefinitely, so I’m going to stop myself now before this gets any worse. (Although it’s worth noting that the only thing I can make out on his word document is “A Very Special Episode of Roseanne”. I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, but I am excited.)

- You know what’s a really big part of my life right now? Being livid that this exists/was recently featured on Gizmodo:

What you’re looking at is Grand Trunk’s hammock compatible sleeping bag, or as you may know it better, a SLAMMOCK, the invention I came up with in the summer of 2005 when I boldly asked myself, “Meg, what is the most comfortable sleeping scenario you can think of?” and stared back at my truth: a sleeping back in a hammock. You may also remember that everyone (including my parents) mocked me when I tried to make it a reality in my sophomore year dorm, and the inventor of The Tinge further mocked me via email because I made the extremely legitimate point that most ladies don't want to rub their junk on razor blades. And now my invention—NAY, dream!—is being sold for $180 by someone who is not me.  Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssucks.

- Yesterday was my birthday. I’m 27. Helena got me a bag of weed and Laura got me a subscription to the large-print version of Reader’s Digest, and every time I think about it I want to burst into tears because when you find two people who just get you like that, you probably shouldn’t move 230 miles away from them.

- I have two camping trips planned for the near future and I’m so excited. Slash I need to get new batteries for Hat.

- Speaking of Hat! I forgot to tell you about my new phone cover. Check it out:

I know what you’re thinking: “Is that a Real Tree phone cover?” No. It’s one step better: it’s a knock-off Real Tree phone cover. I got it for $6.99 on Amazon and it’s a major part of why I’m alive right now. I like it because it makes me feel American. I changed my ringtone to Toby Keith's “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue (Angry American)” and renamed my phone Rickywayne after my favorite contestant on Heavy. Every time I plug it into iTunes it says, “Rickywayne_LEAVE ME ALONE! is synching”, and I just laugh and laugh and laugh…

- Speaking of the depressing ways I choose to entertain myself, my newest hobby is teaching myself bass lines to 311 songs, playing them, and then laughing out loud. The end.

- Chris update: Now he’s sitting upright on the couch, slumped down slightly, playing with his facial, and looking concerned.

- Chris update II: Ah, it’s because he’s hungry and wants to know if I’m cooking dinner tonight. No. No, I’m not.

- Chris update III: Chris is making a frozen burrito.

- My allergies are killing me. WHICH REMINDS ME! The Blogologues are performing my blog post A Humble Apology in the run of their current show, Blogologues: Younger Than Springtime! I’m so honored, I can’t even tell you. The show runs Thursdays-Saturdays, April 13-May 5^th at The Players Theater in the West Village. Tickets are available for purchase here, so if you’re in New York, go see it! Becca and I are going this weekend and I can’t wait! Slash, I can wait because the reason I’m going to New York this weekend is to attend an accepted student’s reception at The New School, which sounds like a lot of forced mingling/networking. ‘Ehhhhhhhh… It’s on 4/20 (~!LOL!~), so I can’t decide if I should get high before to make said mingling easier, or wait and get high after as a reward for being able to interact with people like a normal fucking human being. Or both…? 

- I got an upper endoscopy done a few weeks ago (more on that in a later blog post), and one of the questions the nurse asked before the procedure was if there’s any possible chance that I could be pregnant. I answered no, because obviously the closest I’ve come to having sex recently was sleeping through a rerun of Silk Stalkings on the TV Guide Network last month, and I swear to God, the nurse stopped writing, looked up from her clipboard, raised a suspicious eyebrow and asked, “Are you sure?” I can’t tell if she asked that because I look fat and pregnant, or because I look so slutty that I obviously lost the Trapper Keeper detailing all the dicks I've fucked lately and a baby??!!—YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE!!!!!1! Either way, I’m offended. Just slightly less by the chorus of dicks/your guess, my guess option.

- Did you know you have to take a drug test to work at the Ford’s Theater gift shop? HA HA! Neither did I!

- I don’t understand the appeal of LMFAO. Their songs just sound like technology and foolishness

- Also, I don’t care for DayGlo.

- I have to pee, but I don’t want to get up.

- Here’s a picture of Evie disrespecting my dad’s dry cleaning:

- OK. I feel like I can’t think of anything else going on in my life right now that isn’t part of a future blog post and/or horribly depressing, so this is going to have to suffice for now.

State of the Meg: Like a polyamorous relationship or trying to go blond: it’s complicated.

Good morning. Three things:

My mom. But please don't. Because she's married to my dad. In fact, let's take blowing out of the equation all together and just call and ask her:

[...]

Me: So, one of my readers left a comment on the blog asking who they have to blow to get an Evie update.

My mom: HA HA HA! Aww, that's sweet.

Me: Riiiiight... So, can I get an Evie update?

Mom: Well let's see. Um. She's glad Dad is home from his business trip. She's gotten into the habit of not doing what I want and then snorting her little nasal congestion snort to make me feel sorry for her. We took her to the vet in her carrying case and left it on the kitchen floor when we got back, so she still goes in it from time to time as her little cozy space. That's kind of it. She's just being Evie.

Me: Well, what's she doing right this very second?

Mom: Right this second she's upstairs putting your father to bed. Oh! I know what you'll like! You know how she sleeps in our bed, under the covers, down by our legs at night?

Me: Yes. God bless her.

Mom: Well, your father said he woke up to her having a little sneezing fit the other night and he had kitty snot running down his legs. Oh, and we have to take her back to the vet to get her teeth cleaned!

Yvette Mimew Fieldmouse Rowland—All-American/Tonkinese gold.

(Oh my God, those paws! Look at her: just sittin' around the table, drinking hazelnut-flavored coffee, gabbin' with the girls, talkin' shit about Pam...)

- I wish you could hear the sound of pure orgasmic release I just made when I realized that I do have Prilosec.

- Here are the three most recent things in my Google search history:

1.) What's the difference between a wolf and a wolverine?

2.) What nationality is the Geico Gecko?

3.) Fuck yeah Khloe Kardashian

So, if you're wondering what kind of crazy, hi-octane weekend I had—no. No, is your answer. Although RE: #1, it's worth noting that the hardest I've ever seen my dad laugh in my entire life was when I told him that I thought a wolverine was just a "lady wolf", like Smurfette. And this isn't an adorable Meglet story, mind you; this absolutely happened like, three years ago. Max. When I was walking home from Laura's tonight, I realized that I know there's a difference between a wolf and a wolverine (besides gender and eyelash batting, of course), but I still don't know what it is. After some light googling and a trip to whatsthedifference.net (how badly do I wish that the answer to everything is "About five bank accounts, three ounces, and two vehicles"??), here are the official differences:

1. Wolves are canines, while wolverines are weasels.

2. Wolves are easier to find, living mainly in forested areas, while wolverines are rare, and live mainly in arctic places in the northern hemisphere.

3. Wolves live in groups called packs, and will not attack each other, whereas wolverines live segregated, and will attack other wolverines to protect their space.

4. Wolverines have rounded heads, short rounded ears and shorter legs, and will seldom hunt for their prey; wolves have longer legs and pricked ears, and will hunt for their prey.

5.) Wolverines talk a good one, but they don't do what they supposed to do.

6.) Wolves act on what they feel and never deal wit emotions, which is probably due to the fact that they are used to livin' big dog style and straight coastin'.

So, there you go. Should you want to know more about the difference between wolves and wolverines, I urge you to go to your local library or ask a trusted adult. But not me. Clearly.

State of the Meg — October, 2011

- Shit went down, I decided to give up on writing, I watched an inspiring video on Facebook, I changed my mind, I'm back. GUNS BLAZING. I was actually supposed to be back Monday with guns blazing, but then I realized it was Columbus Day and no one would be in the office, and Tuesday my Internet was shut off for the majority of the day because I hadn't paid my bill in a month of Sundays. Specifically three months of Sundays, which Comcast has become increasingly less cool about. But! I paid my bill and now I have $9 left in my bank account to get me to next Tuesday. If you'd like to put a tip in the tip jar, that would be awesome. If not, I've got some yogurt in the fridge and a salmon fillet in the freezer leftover from the one time I held book club in 2010, so something tells me I'll be fine.

- AHH, WAIT! BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE HAPPENS AND/OR I FORGET TO TELL YOU FOR THE 6,000TH TIME...our book, The Misanthrope's Guide to Life, is now available for The Kindle. So go download it, or upload it, or interface with it, or however that witchcraft and wizardry works.

- Re: yesterday's post:

IT WAS SO BAD, KYLE. So, so bad. Realistically speaking, I was probably hungover from Friday morning to early Saturday afternoon. I was so hungover I felt homesick. Like, there was that same lump in my throat and waves of sadness kept washing over me and I just wanted a hug from my mom. If I had a gun and a roommate, I would have asked to be taken out back and put out of my misery. On a related note, I'd like to apologize and/or say you're welcome to my Baja Fresh delivery guy, Jose. (I don't know if his name was actually Jose. That's just pure racism right there.) I finally got the energy to go online and order food at about 3:30ish, immediately fell back asleep, and woke up 45-minutes later to angry banging on my door and six missed calls on the phone I had whaled myself on top of. I then proceeded to answer the door in a negligee that in no way housed my breasts, extended a single shaking paw out the door, took my food, mumbled thank you, and shoved pork tacos in my face while watching old episodes of Wings on Netflix. And that's how it was for quite some time. So. Mr. Lethals. Not just a cute name for a drink. More of a lifestyle.

- While I'm issuing apologies, I'd like to apologize again to my Twitter followers for that obnoxious virus I got last week. I normally know better than to click on those virusy links that are like "LOL! I saw a picture of your dick on TMZ last night! Oh my god!!!! Look~!" because I've always got one eye on my dick and one eye on TMZ, but this one was practically tailor made for me:

 

GAHHHH! You got me, you bastards! You got me good. Given how Christ-awful things were going that week, it only made sense that someone was talking shit on some blog somewhere and I completely fell for it. I'm sorry. I lost a crap-ton of followers because of it, if it makes you feel any better. But you know what? That's your loss because you people are missing out on classic Evie/Meg tweets like this little gem:

evie pictures

Yeah, that's me and Evie. BFFs^max. Gettin' ready for bed. Making Blingees. Doin' face masks. I spent the last two weeks house/Evie sitting for my parents while they were in Santa Cruz and Napa (must be nice...) and Evie and I became freakishly close. We were inseparable. And I know you're interpreting me saying we were "inseparable" as like, "Oh, cool, they got a good snuggle session in here and there," but I what I mean is we were inseparable. Like, by the strictest definition of the word. She would not leave my side. I would have to walk her down to the kitchen to eat her meals or else she'd just stay in my bedroom with me all day and not eat. Typically sitting directly on my laptop. Here she is obstructing my view of the classic 1994 film Airheads:

Here is her paw:

Every time I went down into the basement to work out, she'd follow me and jump up on my chest and want to snuggle at inopportune times, like when I was climbing a particularly steep hill on the bike:

(I know I'm not anonymous anymore, but I'm sweating profusely in that picture and the Internet is forever. What do you want?)

So, yeah. No big deal. NBD, if you will. We're just two of the best friends this world has ever seen. Although it did get weird one night when I dreamt that I was back in college and couldn't remember my schedule and was stressing out, so my dream boyfriend and I snuggled on the couch and I was like, "God. This is so nice." Then I woke up and realized I was full-blown spooning Evie. Shit got a little too real, God bless me.

- My dad asked me to do two things while they were away: call Comcast and fix the Internet and set up their wireless printer. Because I already have an established relationship with Comcast (albeit a dysfunctional one), I took care of fixing that problem first. (And because I wanted to watch Airheads.) While I was on the phone with the Comcast tech, I had to go down to the basement, get on my hands and knees, and reach behind the router to unplug it. After unplugging it, I withdrew my hand and realized that I had just inadvertently grabbed a fistful of spiders. Just a whole handful of spiders and spiderwebs. I then managed to do the following without making a single noise or dropping the phone: gag and come dangerously close to vommitting, frantically wipe the contents of my right hand off on a Longaberger basket, jam the receiver between my ear and shoulder, and rip my shirt off with my left hand. I don't know why, but every time I realize there's an insect on me, my natural reaction to rip my shirt off. Even when it's not even on my shirt. This was particularly embarrassing during The Summer of the Cicadas when I was at Best Buy and thought I felt something on my back. "Megan, is there a cicada on my back?" I asked the friend I was with at the time. "Yes Meg, there is," she calmly replied. But then instead of batting the goddamn thing off me, she booked it in the opposite direction, I freaked out, hurled my purse into a rack of candy, and ripped off my shirt in the middle of Best Buy. I swear to God. Then, as I tried to regain composure and get my shirt back on, I heard this little "It's gone!" from halfway across the store in office supplies. Thank you, Megan. Ass.

Anyway, my whole point being, Chris and I worked off and on again for about a year developing a reality show with a few of dat dem der big time Hollywood producers, but they backed out a few months ago. Which is fine because, my God, the weight we'd have to lose. But every now and then a moment like that happens and I'm kind of sad I can't make a gif out of it. So much of my sadness is gif-related. You have no idea.

- I'm speaking at Hood College later this month about blogging ethics and when I told my mom the topic, she laughed-out-loud for a depressingly long amount of time. When I told my sister, she recoiled.

- Fitness First on L and 19th is on my shit list. Hot and heavy. First and foremost: we have to sign out hand towels now and they're limit one per person? Seriously? Where are we—Communist Russia?? Do you want me to till the fields and share my apartment with six of my closest comrades while I'm at it? Second and secondmost: they closed at four on Columbus Day and I walked all the way down there at 4:30 because I didn't know that and was all emotionally ready to work out and was instead faced with the harsh reality of two locked doors. Seriously? Columbus Day?? What is the point of a gym closing on Columbus Day? Do your employees need to go home to be with their families and eat their Columbus Day turkeys and sing Columbus Day carols and open Columbus Day presents around the Columbus Day tree? Shenanigans. Lazy, gym-related, Columbus Day shenanigans. AND that hot guy who's always there when I am didn't ask me out when I told him the score of the Cardinals/Brewers game the other day. I know that's not your fault because I was the one struggling to breathe and wearing six layers of sports bra at the time, but you certainly didn't help.

- While we're on the topic of policy changes, I have a new policy of my own: if you don't lock the door behind you when you go to the bathroom and I walk in on you, I refuse to be embarrassed. It's your fault, not mine. I am so sick of walking in on people in bathroom stalls and fitting rooms and having them treat me like I'm some kind of pervert trying to sneak a peek. I just have to pee, OK? I went to the bathroom, I saw a door ajar, I naturally pushed it open, and lo and behold—there you are with your pants down all, "UM, EXCUSE ME, DO YOU MIND?!" Yes! Yes I do! I don't want to see your junk anymore more than you want to show it to me! And the thing is, this happens to me more than it should. It happened to me twice this past weekend alone. Why aren't you weirdos locking the door behind you? Are you insane?? There's a lock on every public bathroom door in America—use 'em. And let me just address the obvious comment I know I'm going to get: "Oh, Meg, what barn were you raised in? You obviously knock before you go into a bathroom." Fuck that noise! Why should I knock? I'm not coming over to your apartment with a nice bottle of Merlot for an intimate gathering of friends and colleagues—I'm trying to piss at the bar. I can't hear shit over the Wilco that's inevitably being blasted anyway. Just lock the fucking door. And if you don't and I walk in—I will no longer be embarrassed. Effective immediately. EAT IT.

- Alex, Helena and I were supposed to go camping last weekend but it started pouring as we pulled into the campgrounds and we had to throw in the towel. Speaking of towels, I should have known the trip was destined for failure when I realized that I forgot Hat. (Let that speak loudly. Forgetting Hat, forgetting Larry Hagman's birthday...God. Get your shit together, Rowland.) We got drunk on boxed wine in an Olive Garden parking lot instead, so, I mean, the night wasn't an entire loss. More to the point, en route to camping, I made Helena and Alex try my Clear Eyes Cooling Relief drops and they LOVED it. "I know! It's amazing, right? That's why I blogged about it!" Helena was then essentially like, "No offense, but I thought that post was just some bullshit filler and disregarded it. I stand corrected." So, in summary, that post where I recommended you put Clear Eyes Cooling Relief in your eyes and run really fast down a hallway? It wasn't (entirely) bullshit filler. Try it. You won't regret it.

- Speaking of blog posts that didn't get the appreciation I felt they should have, I'm going to re-post the Vance Vance Revolution graphic I made. Not only do I think it's clever, it took an embarrassingly long amount of time to research and create it, and it only got like one comment that was just someone telling me to go fuck myself. So, JIM VANCE: the revolution will be televised.

- I should go fuck myself.

Current State of the Meg: Hanging on by a thread. Slash incredibly aroused by this crisp Fall weather! Six of one, half a dozen of the other.