The Troubles

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

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

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

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

My response:

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

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

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

Sorry sorry, 80. He’ll be fine.

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

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

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

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

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

Alex: Almost one year later, I declare victory

Meg: I am literally speechless.

Alex: I play a long game

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

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

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

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

You have 17 hours. Enjoy them.

We made it home safely.

16.5 hours.

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

I don't negotiate with fiber terrorists.

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

16.5 and I leak your email.

Bring it on

Those are bold words, sir.

(slash don't actually do that)

—October 16, 2011 7:48 PM—

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

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

Over, and over again.

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

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

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

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

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

There is a power greater than your law—ANGER.

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

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

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

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

He's mine!

Not anymore!

Since when? Since you took him unlawfully last year?

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

You'll still get to see him on holidays.

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

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

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

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

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

Do you not have any towels of your own?

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

Jesus...

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

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

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

Re: the right to exist.

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

I know Towel. That WILL kill him.

He was doing it long before you knew him.

We don't talk about those days.

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

(Not in that order)

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

I didn't steal, I fulfilled my destiny.

And yes.

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

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

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

Semantics.

Don't be dramatic.

Don't make me be dramatic.

I'm not doing anything to you!

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

Simmer down

That's suggestive.

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

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

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

Fuck that feels good...

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

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

We'll see

Think fast. You're down a pumpkin.

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

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

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

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

An Drinking Game Friday to Remember

Happy Drinking Game Friday gang! This week flew, HUH?! Sorry. Jesus. Why do I always irritate myself on Drinking Game Fridays? Anyway, before we get to this week's drinking game, there's something we need to talk about. My frequent misuse of "An." Yeah. It's on the table. Sit down. Let's talk about it.

If you don't read and/or take part in the comments section (and I don't know why you wouldn't; according to my mom it's the most entertaining part of the entire blog. You know, the part I don't write.) you may not know that I was called out by numerous people for the following grammar mistake in yesterday's post:

"Uggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she sighed as she rolled her eyes and moved her body AN single millimeter so I could pass.

For the record, I am 100% aware of how grammatically incorrect this sentence is and I know I should have used "a" where I used "an". It's an inside joke. We ironically misuse "an" to emphasize how small of an amount something is. For example:

"I asked her for more pickles and she gave me like, AN single pickle."

Some inside jokes translate well on the blog, some do not. This might be the latter. It was born at 4:30 in the morning at a train station in Stuttgart, Germany and involved horse tranquilizers...sooooo maybe I shouldn't have tested it in these waters. But I did. And the overall consensus seems to be that a.) nobody likes it and b.) everyone is relieved to learn that I'm not as grammatically-challenged as I originally seemed. Which I can handle! I decided I would stop using it on the blog but obviously continue to use it in my every day life. And then I got this email from Andrew, of The Great Juno Debate fame:

"[...]I love you and your blog dearly, but twice now in recent entries you've used "an" where you mean "a." Grammar mistakes make me as sad as my train schedule shirt makes you. :("

AND GOD DAMNIT! So, fuck it! I'm officially retiring AN. I'm carefully wrapping it in bubble wrap, putting in a box marked "Memories," taping it up and putting in the basement where it will inevitably get destroyed in a flood or eaten by mice. So there. I hope you're all happy.

AND NOW YOU ALL GET A RECYCLED DRINKING GAME! Not so much because I'm bitter about AN falling flat on it's face (WHICH I AM), but more so because it's the official movie of Meg's Fall Fun Day and this year's MFFD is this Sunday! MFFD might be the most glorious day of the entire year. And by might, I obviously mean is. Every fall since 2005, Helena, Alex, Andrew, Danielle and I pick a day in October, pile into my little Malibu Stacy car and drive up to Lariland Farms in Woodsboro, Maryland where we pick apples, get pumpkins, drink cinder, take inappropriate pictures with phallic-shaped gourds and such and then go back to Helena's house to make pies, carve pumpkins and drink our faces off while we play this week's drinking game—The Sleepy Hollow Drinking Game!


Heaving bosoms, Johnny Depp in tight pants and Christopher Walken. What could be better?

Rules:
Drink When:
- Someone’s head gets chopped off
- Christopher Walken makes a “GAHHHHHHH!!!!” noise
- Someone faints
- You see a burning pumpkin
- Katrina’s bosom heaves
- Bram acts like a jackass (I understand this is subjective…just drink when Casper van Dien is on screen)
- Someone goes in or out of the Tree of the Dead
- Ichabod thinks out loud
- Ichabod uses of dat dem der fancy big city detective methods/tools
- Ichabod has a flashback to his childhood featuring his mother’s inappropriate cleavage pouring out everywhere and anywhere

As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding, emailing, tweeting and the like. We feel strongly about you. I'm not quite sure if it's love...but I think it could grow into love. And now we're making out. In my mind. Blokay! We'll see you next week!