Fun with Technology!

"During my birthday celebration, Meg bribed the guy at the piano bar to play “Colors of the Wind” just for me. A woman near us immediately closed her eyes and began to sway and feel it, which pissed me off because it was MY SONG."

Oh, that totally happened. Here's a picture of Chris, the second drunkest I've ever seen him, belting "Colors of the Wind" into the extra microphone at the piano bar. I apologize it's so blurry. The bar was crowded and I was obviously a-cackling as I took this. Although, you could argue that the motion blur is also a visual representation of the struggle between The White Man and Chris' people for land and freedom. (That's the second time in my life my art history minor has come in handy. The first time was in December 2008 when I overheard someone at a house party trying to remember the name of the artist who did "those paintings with the people and the squiggles," and I completely abandoned the conversation I was in, ran in from the other room, pushing people out of my way to be like, "KEITH HARING, UNTITLED, ACRYLIC AND DAY-GLO ON METAL, 1982. DIED OF AIDS-RELATED COMPLICATIONS IN 1990. IT WAS A LOSS. FOR US ALL." Nobody was impressed and I felt like an asshole. So, in many ways, it was like most of house parties I go to.)

X

OH, GODDAMNIT. So, my plan for today was to blog about my two most recent obsessions, but I'm going to have to scrap that idea because I'm now completely distracted by how my iPhone is making a sizzling noise. Per my most recent tweet, like an honest-to-god, fajitas being delivered to your table, sizzling noise. Aaaaaaand now it won't turn on, despite being fully charged. Shit. This might be the end of the line for my phone. Which makes sense because it's been dying forever. I lovingly nicknamed it Beth, after Beth March from Little Women because much like Beth March, my phone just lays around all day with a quilt over its fragile little legs playing the piano and waiting for Father to return from the war, making everyone incredibly anxious and sad because it's obviously going to die any day now. That's my phone. My poor, poor phone. Although, to be fair, I've put it through so much in its short little life:

1.) It's over two years old. Which isn't really anyone's fault, but it needed to be said nonetheless.

2.) I drop it. Constantly. As I blogged in '09, I blame this partially on its old school slippery little frame, but also on myself. Because sometimes I just hand to god forget I'm holding it and drop it. Like, I'll be standing there, hear it bang on the floor, look down and be like, "Oh shit, was I holding you, guy? I'm sorry about that." Like it's news to me that I was even holding it in the first place. It's incredibly unnerving. It's like when you drive home from work and all of a sudden you're at your house and have no recollection of getting there and you weird yourself out to the point where you don't tell anyone because you're either having a small stroke or are just incredibly bored with life.

3.) This is technically an extension of dropping it, but I also accidentally fling it across the room a lot. Both my iPhone and my sheets are black, so sometimes I won't realize that my phone is somewhere in my sheets and then I'll pull them up quickly or throw them back and it sends my phone flying across the room. I also lose bottles of Coke Zero, black underwear, and scissors incredibly easily in my bed. But when I take my sheets off to wash them and find all of these things at once, it feels juuuuuust a little bit like my birthday.

4.) Laura accidentally kicked it into the pool a few summers ago. I'm hesitant to even bring this up because she felt so badly about it. She sent me an apology card and a blank check a few days later, which was completely unnecessary because despite being submerged in five feet of chlorine water for thirty seconds, it was fine. It may have even performed better than before it had fallen into the pool. But this was back in my phone's younger, healthier days. Because...

5.) Last April it had another run-in with being submerged in water and it did not fair well. To be fair, I had had "one too many Chardonnays," if you will, came home and ever the diligent Acne sufferer, immediately went into the bathroom to wash my face before passing out. I put my phone on the edge of the sink, turned on the faucet, obviously knocked it in, couldn't wrap my head around how to solve this problem and continued to wash my face with my phone bobbing up and down in the Clearasil micro-scrubber filled waters. As a result, it still worked (shockingly), but for months I couldn't control the ringer or headphone volume, and it insisted on going back and forth between vibrate and ringer mode for no reason. Which was sometimes irritating and sometimes delightful.

6.) One night a few months later, I got drunk again, got mad about something and threw my phone at the wall, and I swear to god, it fixed both of those problems. It was one of the coolest things I had ever seen. It was like witnessing a self-sustaining economy.

(I swear I'm not just saying this because I mentioned it earlier, but I'm writing this in bed and I just patted around my sheets trying to find my tweezers and instead found a black sweatband I had been looking for forever. Black sheets: as it turns out, tacky and impractical.)

7.) I'm fairly certain I know what tipped my phone over from "rickety" to "barely functioning" status. As you may or may not remember, I house/Evie-sat for my parents while they were in Napa a few months ago. In a desperate attempt to lose some weight before our book release party (HAHA!), I made use of the treadmill and bike in their basement a lot. Now, normally when I go to the gym, I rest my iPhone on the tiny, tiny ledge the front of the elliptical machine provides you with and spend the entire workout being incredibly anxious that I'm going to whap the headphone cord with my hand and send my phone flying. And as we've established, I don't necessarily care about sending my phone flying, but I do care about having to stop, get off my machine, and retrieve my phone from under someone's treadmill like a jackass.

When I was at my parent's house, however, I was in a judgment-free zone and had the incredible luxury of being able to shove my phone in my sports bra and work out anxiety-free. I didn't think this was a big deal because my phone is no stranger to being stored in my cleavage. Rare is the time that I don't have either my phone, a pen, or both shoved in there. When you have boobs as big as mine, it almost makes less sense not to use them for storage considering how much goddamn space they take up. (Sidenote: one time in high school, Teresa and I tried to see how many things in my parent's basement we could shove into my cleavage. We fit 32 things, including a power strip and a VHS copy of Turner and Hooch. You'd think I'd be embarrassed, but it's very much a point of pride.)

What I didn't factor in, however, was that because I was working out, I was sweating. "Profusely", some might say. And I found out the hard way that although my phone can handle falling into a pool and a sink full of soapy water, it can not handle boob sweat. Yes, I believe boob sweat broke my phone. Because ever since then, the home button barely works, it's always putting itself on airplane mode, and every three minutes a window pops up being like, "WOAHHH WHAT'S HAPPENING?! THIS DEVICE WASN'T MADE TO WORK WITH THIS THIS PHONE!!!" and I'm like, you're not doing anything. You're just quietly sitting next to me while we watch an episode of Wings. Stop telling me that.

Update: OK, so it stopped sizzling and I somehow got it to turn back on, but now the home button doesn't work at all. And it's stuck on that goddamn picture of Chris singing "Colors of the Effing Wind" that won't email itself to me for some reason. Fuck. This is so unbelievably annoying. I know the obvious answer is go get a new phone, because I'm clearly eligible for an upgrade, but eh. It's still $99. And I know I'm going to get shit in the comments section for saying that because I'm always frivolously spending my money on things like yogurt and drugs and eyebrow threading (each one slightly more important than the last), whereas this is an actual necessary expense, but again, eh. $99 just feels like a lot of money to spend at once. When I'm buying pot and yogurt, it's like 15 bucks here, $4 there. This is throwing down $99 once and getting one thing in return. So I guess what I'm saying is I'd rather get high and have meticulously groomed eyebrows than communicate with friends and family. I mean, I suppose I don't have to get an iPhone. They're just incredibly useful. I could always get a "burner" until Hanukkah/Christmas and hope my parents help a sister out. This blog post has now completely unraveled into me essentially live-blogging my decision making process about what phone to get, so I'm going to stop now before this gets any worse.

R.I.P. Beth March. 2009-2011. "And it seemed to me you lived your life like an iPhone in my cleave..."

POOR LOL DGF!

Haha! I had an unexpected Conversation About Money earlier today, and what do you know? It’s time to play…


The Suddenly I’m In Financial Trouble Drinking Game!

Drink for every one of these phrases you say or think:

- “No, this is good. So, I’ll just eat lentils and canned pears and walk everywhere. So in what, five weeks? I should be in pretty good shape and can start picking up johns.”

- “It’s good not to be able to afford to go out. I’ll stay home and work on creative projects. I’ll learn to do origami, that’s it. I’ll just buy a book and DAMMIT I CAN’T AFFORD AN
ORIGAMI BOOK.”

- “Mom? How much is in your retirement account? Oh, just wondering. Uh-huh. Yeah. How do you feel?”

- “Does anyone know if that thing in American Beauty about there being a market for drug-free urine was true or just for giggles? Bueller?”

- “I’m doing this wrong. I’ll just become a Buddhist. They’re not supposed to want things.”

- “Sand irritates oysters and the oysters make beautiful pearls. All these people on the metro are irritating me and I’m producing acid reflux, which no sane woman would pay to wear.”

- “Hi, I just had a question about my coverage. It says that if I’m seriously injured, I’m covered to go to a rehab facility… right. So I was wondering, how badly would I have to be injured, and are meals included? Hello?”

Also drink when you:

- Claim the electric bill just hasn’t shown up the last few months. What are the odds?

- Look for change in the sofa cushions. Not under them; in them.

- Try to exploit a “loophole” in your lease by paying your rent in Singapore dollars, 13.426741 to the American.

- Make a mustard sandwich.

- Make mustard sandwiches for guests.

- Take a date to the Target snack bar.

See you Monday!

Kicking off the year right with some sweet, hot FAQ-ing

Q: Well, well, well...look what the cat dragged in.

A: Sigh. I guess I deserved that. Hello again to you.

Q: Where have you been?

A: It was the holidays! We were on vacation!

Q: Do you think you really do enough around here to warrant a "vacation"?

A: I have my productive moments here and there, thank you.

Q: I'm going to move on because it's the New Year and I'm feeling forgiving.

A: And I thank you for it.

Q: So how was your little vacation?

A: Not bad, thanks.

Q: What did you and Chris do?

A: Chris did a lot of jet-setting, I got heinously sick, almost died, slowly bounced back, and watched a lot of House Hunters International on my parent's couch.

Q: Sounds about right. You ever going to get your tonsils out?

A: You ever going to start your own blog like you're always talking about?

Q: ..............Touché. Speaking of your parents, how are Rich and Di?

A: Uh, incredibly sick of me, I'm sure.

Q: Why?

A: I divided my time at their house evenly between following my mom around and asking her for "hugsies", shouting colorful racial slurs at Evie, and making fun of my dad's Panamanian Relaxation Room.

Q: Well you just sound like a little treat, don't you? No wonder you're single.

A: IT'S A LIFESTYLE CHOICE.

Q: Well I just don't have the physical or emotional strength to touch that comment with a 30-foot pole, so let's just get down to brass tacks, shall we? Three fiscal quarters ago you said you guys had some big news. What gives?

A: We do have big news! And we can finally tell you! Chris and I are writing a book!

Q: What, like just for funsies?

A: No, like for realzies. Like someone is paying us.

Q: In Confederate dollars?

A: NOPE, get this—in American dollars. Like, legal tender.

Q: STFU!

A: I know, right?!

Q: I can't believe you didn't tell us sooner, a-hole!

A: I know! I wanted to, but we couldn't for legal reasons. But if it makes you feel any better, I swear I was thinking about you the entire time, baby.

Q: Were you really?

A: No. Well, some of the time. Mostly I was just thinking about which utilities usually get shut off first so I know in what order to pay my bills.

Q: What came out on top?

A: Cable and Internet.

Q: You really struggle with that one, don't you?

A: I really do.

Q: How much do you pay a month, if you don't mind me asking?

A: I refuse to tell you because I'm fully aware of how astronomically high it is and I don't want another lecture.

Q: You know, if you call Comcast and ask them what they can do to lower your bill, they're usually pretty helpful.

A: So I've been told.

Q: So why don't you just do it?

A: Honestly? Because it sounds like a giant pain in the ass and a huge hassle and like a conversation I don't want to have and I just...can't. There it is. I just can't.

Q: So, it's easier to wait for a book deal to come along than to have a 20-minute phone conversation with—

A: Please just get back to questions about the book. I'm begging you.

Q: So will this be another literary treat from the fine people at Olney Elementary School Press?

A: No! We were approached by a legit publisher, if you can believe that.

Q: Well, frankly I can't, so let's name names.

A: We're very excited to be working with Adams Media.

Q: What else have they published?

A: UHHH, just a little slice of the American Literary Pie called Why Men Love Bitches. No big deal.


Q: So what's your book? Why Men Love Lazy, Apathetic Bloggers?

A: No. Mostly because I've discovered that they do not, but we are writing a tong-in-cheek guide to life for misanthropes.

Q: What's a misanthrope?

A: Well, you'll just have to wait and buy our book to find out. And/or Google it.

Q: Per Wikipedia: Misanthropy is generalized dislike, distrust, disgust, contempt or hatred of the human species, human nature, or society. A misanthrope is someone who holds such views or feelings.

Well, they certainly came to the right people.

A: That's what I said!

Q: I don't mean to rain on your little parade here, but do you think it's flattering that when they needed an author for a book about misanthropes, they came to you?

A: Here's the thing, I'm honestly not an anti-social person. In fact, I think I'm incredibly social! I'm just social with people I deem worthy of being social with. It's everyone else who can go to hell.

Q: Yeah...I think you just defined "misanthrope" right there.

A: Well, either way, I'm excited and it's been fun to write.

Q: How much progress have you guys made thus far?

A: We've written a chapter and some other stuffs.

Q: You've written a chapter and "some other stuffs", she says. Watch out David Sedaris.

A: Alright, alright...pipe down.

Q: So you've joined the ranks of blogs-turned-books, 'eh?

A: Well, not really. The book is going to be 100% new material and has nothing to do with the blog, except that we're writing it.

Q: If I liked the blog, will I like the book?

A: Well, I stress again that we only have a chapter and some other...works, but yes, from what we have so far, I think you will. I wrote a pretty solid Olive Garden joke last night that I was particularly proud of.

Q: If I hate your blog, will I like the book?

A: Ah, sure.

Q: How's the collaboration with Chris going?

A: For two people who "don't work well with others", absurdly well!

Q: O0o0ooo00ooo! Think there's any chance that this project will rekindle some old romantic flames?

A: Probably not.

Q: Why?

A: Because he's a homosexual and I'm still stalking John Larroquette.

Q: And how's that going for you?

A: Not...well.

Q: While I applaud you for getting a book deal, I'm scared that you're going to go the way of so many blogs-turned-books and stop posting all together.

A: What do you care, I thought you didn't like us?

Q: I don't, but that doesn't mean I don't read you everyday.

A: Wait...are you Mike?

Q: No, I'm your subconscious.

A: ARE THEY ONE IN THE SAME?! Is "Mike" the manifestation of my innermost fears and anxieties about my writing?

Q: No, I'm pretty sure he's a real person with a large amount of time on his hands and decent Internet access.

A: Great, you just opened the flood gates for an obnoxious comment re: that statement.

Q: Well, someones got to keep him from jerking off in the bathroom. Now answer the question.

A: We won't stop posting. Girl Scout's honor. 2b1b isn't going anywhere.

Q: That doesn't inspire much confidence; we all know you were a piss-poor Girl Scout.

A: I swear on Friar Tuck's Key of Technology that we'll keep posting.

Q: And I'll take it! Are you putting the book out in your pen name or real name?

A: Real name.

Q: Oh shit, so you're outing yourself?

A: Yep.

Q: So what's your real last name?

A: Well I'm not going to tell you now!

Q: Why not? Gotta do it some time.

A: I don't know...this just seems so...anti-climactic.

Q: We're outing your last name, not finding Osama.

A: I don't know. It feels weird.

Q: Well, when's the book coming out?

A: I'm not entirely sure, but we'll obviously keep you posted.

Q: Can you come to my town for a book signing slash hang-out session??

A: We'd love to! But I'm not sure how that works yet. You can always shoot us an email and we'll forward it to our editor so he knows what's up.

Q: It's going to be embarrassing when no one does that.

A: MIKE!

Q: So now that you finally got a book deal, is this the end of the old Meggles as we know it? Are you up there on your high-horse, all too good for your shit-show of a life now?

A: Well, considering since getting said book deal I've had not one, but two credit cards denied at a walk-in clinic and recently paid for a tall Earl Grey tea at Starbucks with, I shit you not, a Ziploc bag full of nickels and dimes so I could mooch off their wi-fi, I'd say no, I don't think much has really changed. I'm pretty sure I'm still not even on a horse, nevertheless a particularly high one.

Q: Good. Because I like you down there in the mud.

A: Well, here I shall be if you need me.

Q: So I'll see you here tomorrow?

A: I w...ouldn't have it any other way.

Q: ...You were going to say, "I wish I could quit you," weren't you?

A: Is that "over"? That's over, right?

Q: Yeah. It's a little 2005.

A: So what's the 2011 equivalent?

Q: I don't know. You're the one people pay to be funny.

A: I will........see....you..tomorrow.

Q: Can't wait for the book, Meg.

Oh, and FYI:

It's T.G.I. Hagman—TELL 'EM WHAT THEY WANT, SON!

As of 1:16am on November, 19, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And holding out on TNT's Dallas 2.0 remake for more money, apparently. You know, on top of the $11.1 million dollar Citigroup lawsuit he won last month. I can only assume Hagman's been stockpiling all this money recently because he's got a secret plan to repay a certain "self-financed", "terrace-dwelling" blogger for keeping his name relevant among the hip and happenin' young kids all these years, asking for nothing in return except for him to, you know, not die. Right? RIGHT?! Larry Hagman: keep living if that's your big, secret plan.


As of 1:27am on November 19, 2010, Larry Hagman is...still alive! YES! I knew it! I'm going to buy two solid gold pugs and name them J.R. and Sue Ellen. And together, the three of us shall: buy a ranch; name it "Southfart"; move in; throw glamorous, yet slightly country parties; drink Maker's Mark out of porcelain dog bowels; and sexually harass our secretaries all day until we pass out or die trying. Not necessarily in that order.


And with that, I wish you a good weekend.
xo.

SHIT'S. ABOUT TO GET. REAL. (& a recap.)

Well Christ, now that you've all thrown some pity money my way, I suppose I'm obligated to write regularly again and let you know what's up with me, right? Well played, reader. Well played indeed.

Well, to simplify the situation greatly, I've had to face some hard realities in the past few weeks and those realities caused all of these emotions and Lord (and a slew of state-certified therapists) knows that I have no god-given idea how to deal with emotions in a healthy way. I didn't want to get into all this shit here because this is a comedy blog after all and if you wanted to hear me bitch and moan about how hard life is, you probably would have just been my friend in middle school. But I didn't have any friends in middle school. So I interpret that as a pretty good indicator that nobody wants to hear me bitch and moan. Plus, it's hard to write something from the heart when you know some schmo is going to shit all over it in the comments section. I'm going to be honest with you right now: that is a mind fuck. Bloggers aren't supposed to acknowledge that part of the job because if you do, you're giving power to the people trying to fuck you and the only way to fight back is to deny that they have power over you in the first place. You know who else has to deal with that kind of mental battle every day? Prison inmates. Prison inmates and bloggers. I would not be surprised if I go into my kitchen tomorrow morning to get a bowl of Kashi Go-Lean and a Latin King jumps out and either shanks me or makes me his life bitch. I think we both know I'm rooting for the latter, but still. I'm just saying it's a bizarre occupational hazard.

So, yes, light-hearted end of the week ass rape jokes aside, I wasn't going to talk about it. But as we've experienced in the last two weeks, when I don't talk about it, I don't talk at all. Which I expected a lot of animosity about, and while I certainly got it, mostly I just got a lot of support. By complete strangers! It's crazy. And flattering and touching and slightly overwhelming because you know, emotions and such and such. But eff the commenters! Eff them in the A. And the B. And up the U with electrical wire. And throw a CD in there to boot. (That's a coke douche, by the way, not a compact disc. Although fuck it—throw that in there too. Everything's in mp3 these days anyway and shit is wide.) I'm going to tell you what's up. Although I will let you know that a large quantity of red wine was recently spilled on my keyboard and the S and control keys are fucked up, so it there might be some pelling errors. <--- I didn't plan that. That was organic. But I'm keeping it to prove a point. And if you have a problem with it, shoot me an email me and I will personally come to your place of residence and felate you, because you need to chill the fuck out. And because I'm aware I give a half-assed BJ, I will also bring a few cans of Coors with me to compensate—Christ knows I got extra from camping and Christ double knows I got the time.

So, I was trying to pinpoint today the source of this whole existential life crisis that I'm currently going through. Was it the change of seasons? My sister's upcoming wedding? The fact that all of my friends seem to be fleeing this city like it's the second outbreak of the bubonic plague? No. Well, maybe. But specifically, it was because I looked at my bank account. And the balance was $12.30. So then I looked in my back-up bank account. And the balance there was -$55.30. So then I looked at my emergency savings account. And the balance there was $14.95. Which puts my finances at a grand total of -$28.05, before bills and cost of living and blah blah pants and sandwiches blah. Final summation: bitch has gotta go back to work.

But the thing is, (and I realize this is going to sound obnoxious at first, but stick with) I have to go back to work-work. Like, I have to get a real person job again. I refuse to go back to retail because not only do you work all the time and not make any money, my last experience left me totally jaded. Because you know what's an ironic moment? When you can't make payments on the loans you took out to get a fancy BA in art, because you're not qualified for a promotion at the arts and crafts store you work at. That moment is a real fucking kick in the pants. And then right after you find out you got passed, one of your best friends comes into the store to say goodbye on her way to move to New York and per chance, The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" starts playing on the store soundtrack and suddenly you're looking around for fucking James Van Der Beek because life is feeling a little too "Dawson's Creeky" for your liking, so you deal with it by calling your parents on M street and just yell a bunch of swears, get sick, and never go back. Christ.

I'm aware that everyone, including me, has to work. I'm aware that I'm not special and I'm not exempt from any of the shittier aspects of life. However, the fact that I have to go back and get a 9-5 again, to me, feels like a failure. The fact that I couldn't make this blog my bread and butter after trying very, very hard to, makes me feel like a failure. I know because I don't have Google Ads it must seem like I'm not trying to monetize or like I don't take my writing seriously, but behind the scenes I hustle. Chris and I both hustle hard. And I personally have come so close, so many times to getting a break, but fall just short every single time. So I keep trying. I tell myself it's the kick in the ass I need to make this my number one priority and work harder. But when I realized a few weeks ago that I was officially out of "post-firing" money with absolutely nothing to show for it, I just felt like a big fat fucking failure.

Intellectually, I can sit myself down and say that going back to a 9-5 will by no means end my dream and it doesn't actually mean I've failed, but for me, right now, it does. And as I told my mom (or more accurately, as I screamed at my mom), I am allowed to take a moment and be upset about it. I'm not quitting. The blog is not dead. I just needed some time to fucking sit down, eat a bowl of Xanax, come to terms with what's up, look for jobs, and cry at everything on TV, including, but not limited to, that god damn Hallmark card commercial with the daughters going through their dad's drawers and finding every card they've ever given him and they're all, "He kept them all...I didn't even know he read them," and then they all start crying and suddenly Dad pokes his head in all, "What you hens cluckin' about? I'm only moving downtown." You know what? THAT COMMERCIAL IS FUCKING FUCKED UP. They totally lead you into thinking Dad is dead and let's not pretend like we haven't all cleaned out a dead loved one's room and you find their old like, "#1 Grandpa!" shit and think you're going to vomit your insides out and your parents are crying and that's ass-backwards and confusing because you're only 12-fucking-years old and what the shit can you say to make any of it better? FUCK HALLMARK FOR CAPITALIZING ON THAT MOMENT. That is some voodoo shit right there and and I am not amused. It's like the "Golden Girls" episode when you think Blanche's husband is alive again and then right at the end you find out it was all a dream. If someone is alive, just say they're alive. If someone is dead, just say they're dead. Hallmark Dad is alive, George Devereaux is dead. How hard was that??

Anyway, I needed a moment to sit in my apartment, scream at the television like a senile old person and just fucking be sad. The weird thing about writing a comedy blog about the unfortunateness of your life is that after a while, you sort of get psyched when shit happens because it means you have new material. But this little life realization totally snuck up on me. All of a sudden it was like, "this is isn't funny. This isn't funny at all. All of my friends are in love and settling down and getting married and having babies and going back to school and moving on, and I'm single, living in the town I've always lived in or near, in my sister's apartment and I write a free comedy blog primarily about my body fluids and bad luck. What the fuck am I doing?" And the answer is: I don't know. I mean, I guess nobody really knows what they're doing, but I don't even have the comfort of getting to pretend like I do. I can't slap a bunch of smiling pictures of myself on Facebook, add a fancy job title at an impressive company and feel validated. Why? Because everyone knows that I got fired six months ago and went to the hospital because I couldn't stop shitting myself. I mean...really.

That being said, I totally understand that it's my choice to share all of this with you. And I am 100% dedicated to making this little horse and pony show (and my writing in general) a success. However, I don't know if that's actually ever going to happen. I don't know if I'll ever monetize, I don't know if I'm ever going to get an agent, I don't know if I'll ever get a book deal, I don't know if turning down that awesome design job a year and a half ago to stay in a shitty receptionist job to dedicate myself to writing this blog was a good idea and if I didn't do this anymore, I really, really don't know what I'd do. And as long as we're being honest; that scares the ever-living shit out of me. Because everyone knows about it. If I fail, everyone is going to know, so part of me is nervous to even try. But that's where your supportive emails and tweets and PayPal donations really helped. It's very powerful to just have random fucking people tell you not to give up. Because of course my family and friends are supportive and have been telling me not to give up, but they're my family and friends. They're pretty much contractually obligated to believe in me. But you're not. And you seem to be into it. So blokay. I won't go anywhere. I even wrote two blog posts today to make sure that we're back on schedule for next week. hey HEY hey.

So there. That's mostly what's been going on with me. I'm sorry if it inconvenienced you and I'm sorry if my explanation made you feel uncomfortable (as it would me), but I don't know. The minute money is involved, I feel oddly obligated to be honest. Which is weird because I'm Jewish. HI-OHHHHHHHHHH! She's back! And now that we've established I'm not swinging from nerd rope on my shower rod, let's check in on another loose cannon, shall we?

As of 6:18am on October 8, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And $12 million dollars richer. Which is an interesting turn of events. But apparently he's giving away $10 million of it to charity. Soooooo, Mr. Hagman, I will kindly direct you to my personal PayPal button at your right and bid you a good weekend.

So, this was a boring week in the "Jersey Shore" world, but meh, what else is new? Everyone is psyched that Angelina is gone and to celebrate that fact, the boys go and throw her bed out. This scene enrages me for two reasons: 1.) Upon lifting up her mattress, they discover that the supporting planks are broken and are obviously like, "Heyoo0o0oo, she's such a slut she broke her bed!" I'm sorry but Ikea furniture doesn't hold up for shit and if you'd like to argue that, I have a two broken end tables looking me square in the eye that would love to speak with you; and 2.) The production crew usually gets to take shit from the house for themselves at the end of a reality show and how pissed would you be if you had shotgunned Angelina's bed and then Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and "DJ Pauly D" decided to physically throw it in a dumpster to further prove that the girl who has left the show, has indeed left the show? How bored and full of forbidden homosexual thoughts are you when that suddenly gets thrown on the agenda?

To further further celebrate the fact that Angelina's gone, the house gets together and cooks a big lobster feast and prays and mumbles about family and Sammi feels weird because now that Angelina's gone, she doesn't have any girlfriends in the house blah blah blah I'm so bored I could puke. But why talk about that when we can talk about how J-WOWW and Snooki attempt to "rescue" a lobster by putting him in a salad bowl of water, feeding him worms and keeping him as a pet? Because again, I'm relating to the "Jersey Shore" a little more than I'd like to. It's time you all know about M'Lady.

M'Lady was a crab. Some say the best crab. One day the summer before freshman year of college, me, Teresa and our friend Franky went crabbing because we're from Maryland and stereotypes are fun and usually based on fact. We were probably out crabbing for like, six hours, and all we caught was one lone crab. Unfortunately, we caught her kind of early on in the day (looking back, if it was a lady crab, why did we keep her? Teresa, email me about this immediately because that seems out of character for us) and therefore become oddly attached to her. We named her M'Lady and we were her #1 fans. When we finally decided to call it a day, we threw M'Lady and like, a lone Pepsi can to clank around together in an igloo cooler lined with part of a folded up Sugarcult poster or something equally ridiculous and as we sped off, it became apparent rather quickly that M'Lady was dying because we forgot to put any fresh water in there. So, I swear to god, Teresa pulled like a hard J-turn off the highway, threw it in reverse, backed into the jetty and we at the last possible second filled M'Lady's cooler with bay water and she lived.

But then we got home (after we did a quick photoshoot with her...) and were faced with the dilemma of, "we have this delicious blue crab on our hands. We befriended her. What the fuck are we supposed to do with her now?" There was only one humane thing we could think of: make a dip out of her. Because every now and then, humane = delicious. But we had bonded with M'Lady so hardcore by that point though that none of us wanted to be the one to actually put M'Lady in her boiling grave of death. In the end Franky did it because he's a boy and boys kill things and girls run into Teresa's dad's den and google artichoke crab dip recipes. Feminism Schmeminism. Then it came time to pick M'Lady apart and again, none of us wanted to do it. So then we had the issue of having a delicious fully-cooked blue crab on our hands and what to do with it. I think I've blocked out how we solved that problem though, because in my mind we went from taking the lid off the pot and discovering one lone crab claw sticking out of the water and straight into the air like the hand at the end of Carrie to happily enjoying a zesty artichoke crab dip. And then when I "used the facility" later that night, I texted Teresa and Franky and told them I had just given M'Lady a "royal burial at sea," which in retrospect is equal parts digusting and hilarious. And then a year later I named my Acura Legend after her to memorialize the M'Lady name forever. Until my sophomore year roommate totaled it and it was like losing her all over again. The moral of the story is: do not befriend crustaceans. Also, don't duct tape a picture of yourself, your male friend and your crab friend to your door the first day of college or everyone will repeatedly come up to you and tell you that your boyfriend is really cute and you'll have to be repeatedly correct them all, "dat dem der ain't mah boyfriend. That's mah crabbin' buddy, Franky, and our delicious catch o' the day, M'Lady!" and everyone think you're a weirdo. And they will be right, but that's not the point.

Speaking crabs, that girl who stood Vinnie up finally calls him back and wants a second chance. He's all for it. He plans a romantic little picnic for the two of them on the beach, which she shows up for about three hours late. I mention this mainly because I appreciate the "time wasting" shots of Vinnie clipping his claws, sighing heavily, looking in new and exciting drawers for unfound treasure and the like. Finally after waiting a while, two random girls call him up and are like, "Hi. Can we suck your dick?" and Vinnie's like, "I don't know, give me like, five minutes," and they're like, "OK, our fathers didn't love us." So Vinnie waits out the five minutes convinced that his lost lady friend will show up and all will be right in the world. But then she doesn't, so he calls the ho's back and tells them to come over and get on it. BUT THEN HIS ORIGINAL DATE SHOWS UP!!!!111 So he call the ho's and tells them not to come over. And thus concludes Vinny Guadango and the Case of Too Many Vaginas.

Speaking of vaginas in the house, Snooki's BFF from home, Ryder, is in town visiting! According to J-WOWW, the way Snooki and Ryder communicate is "hysterical." And I agree. If we live in a world where "hysterical" is a synonym for "mind-bogglingly irritating."

OK, basically here's all you need to know about this episode: The Situation is a dick. He's way too rough with girls, they can smell the HIV wafting off him like the Axe body spray I'd bet dollars to donut he douses himself in daily, they want nothing to do with him and thus he's become a blue-balled party-pooper. To cope with this, The Situation has tried everything from slamming random chicks up against the wall and tattooing his tongue on their pubes, attempting to make out with Snooki, smacking Snooki in the mouth when she resists and doesn't want to go home, sulking in the corner of the club with his sunglasses on like a god damn pedophile, and attempting to pull a "robbery" by macking on Vinnie's chick while he's in the shitter. He always wants to go home when they're out at the clerbs and even Sammi and Ronnie are like, "seriously? It's 7:30pm" and The Situation is like, "but I want to go nowwwww-wuh." Everyone thinks he's changed, nobody likes him, he still think he's the shit, and now he's on "Dancing With The Stars" with Bristol Palin and Audrina Patridge. I don't know. I have literally lost the ability to tell whether that's a win or lose in today's cultural landscape. I'm apt to think lose, but then again he has five million dollars and I have emotions. Draw?

As always, have a great weekend and thank you for sticking with. xoxo

A quick thank you (& happy birthday Becca!) (& happy belated birthday Helena!)

Hi. You have a more substantial Tulane Chris post coming your way later this morning, don't worry. I just wanted to hop on and say a quick thank you to Lara.

My finances have been understandably tight since getting fired, but in the past few months, shit's gone from "touch-and-go" to "considering moving back in with my parents". I haven't really discussed how bad things are with anyone (including my parents) because money is awkward, but just to give you an idea of what things are currently like, I'll let you in on two things:

1.) I swear to god, I just applied to be a Ghosts of Georgetown tour guide. A job which requires period costume. (Although for 100 bucks a pop plus tips, I'll gladly segway around Georgetown in a hoop skirt and a sombrero and be honored to do it.)

2.) Earlier tonight I couldn't figure out how to wrap my sister's oddly shaped birthday present and the double-sided tape wouldn't work because it's too humid, so I burst into tears. That's how I dealt with that situation. By crying and crying and crying. And we're not talking like a few errant tears here and there either; I'm talkin' like openly weeping on the floor in a sea of wrapping paper and dirty laundry. There was a surprising amount of rolling around involved too, which in retrospect was probably a poor decision considering I had a pair of scissors floating around...

The unexpected death of my computer a few weeks ago really put me in a horrible position. (It turns out that blogging without a computer is kind of hard. LOLZ! HOW KNEW?!) But that's where Lara swooped in and saved the day. Lara's leaving DC in a few weeks to go to grad school at Parsons (also the reason why I've been saying up late at night listening to The Cure and cutting recently) so she got a new computer and sold me her old one with CS3 tonight for super cheaps. Although I spent literally every single treehouse dollar that the merch store made buying it (must.....not.........explode.............), I know she could have sold it for considerably more on Craigslist or ebay, but didn't because we're homegirls and she wanted to help me out. Also, she came home early from a bar on Friday night to re-format the merch files I lost on my computer. I mean, Christ. Talk about above and beyond. I guess this means I have to officially forgive her for getting drunk and hitting on my dad. Ugh. Fine. I forgive you Lara. You're welcome.

So snaps to Lara for essentially saving the blog. I would have been pretty darn fucked if I had to buy a new computer, you guys, let's not lie. Plus, lord knows Lara is a fellow struggling artist slash grad student (a whole other level of poor I wouldn't dream of exploring) so I appreciate her bowing out of some money just to help a friend out.

In conclusion: I will suck your dick for ten-dollars and Lara is my hero.

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries, With Only One Mention of Retardation (Two If You Count This One In The Title)

“Retarded”: So apparently “retarded” is the new word that absolutely must not be said. Never let it be said that blogging doesn’t teach you new things. I want to offer this little tale as a partial explanation for my wildly unpopular remarks: My parents were very big on that grey zone between kindness and abuse called “Christian charity.” This often took the form of making me play with the weirdest kids they could find, since these kids usually didn’t have any friends and it was “a kind thing to do.” Now, I got in trouble in pre-school, not once but several times, for claiming to have been abducted by aliens, so the kids that out-weirded me were generally straight-up moon units. And since most of my friendships were parent-mandated ones with weird kids, no one else wanted to be my friend, so it was all a big vicious cycle of having to hang out with the kid who stripped naked and put a surgical mask over his genitals and referred to himself as “Dr. Dick.” Anyway. This pattern reached its most dramatic moment when I was about eight. A very peripheral acquaintance of my mother’s was dying, and her husband asked us to watch “the kids” while he made funeral arrangements. Well, it turned out that the “kids” were twenty-year-old, severely retarded developmentally disabled dwarves. (And before you start with “little people,” these people had a condition called “dwarfism.”) So of course Mom takes us all to Long John Silver’s, where the “kids” proceed to get up, run around, and scream. I was such a shy child that I would literally rather have been struck than involved in a scene, and there I was with a fat lady chasing dwarves around a seafood restaurant. (Tulane Chris: A Life. Written by Groucho Marx, directed by Salvador Dali.) Somehow we got them home, where I was treated to one of the most ringing sentences ever crafted in English: “Chris, I need to you watch him and be sure he doesn’t run into the street while I change her menstrual pad.” “Watch” quickly devolved into “restrain.” Child vs. dwarf: watch for it on ESPN. So before you call me an “ableist” and cry, as one man did, know that as a mere child I sacrificed most of my sanity, all of my dignity, and a good deal of my physical comfort to keep someone with special needs from running out into the street.

King of Vegetables: A restaurant down the street has announced its annual tribute to “the King of Vegetables – White Asparagus.” I’m curious if white asparagus is always king, or if every year the crown is passed to a new vegetable. If for any reason White Asparagus is unable to perform its duties, will a runner-up vegetable – say, squash – be called upon? Also – annual tribute? If we don’t appease white asparagus with a menu featuring it each year, will its rage be unleashed?

Wine talk: I bought a bottle of wine for six dollars, including Pennsylvania sin-tax mark-up. This is what it says on the back: “When a fisherman has an especially good catch, it is said that they have the Fish Eye. They seem to have a sixth sense about where the fish are and what will attract their attention. Hopefully our Shiraz will attract yours. This hearty red makes a huge splash displaying aromas and flavors of ripe berries, spice and a lush finish. Watch out! This wine jumps out of your glass!” Nothing says quality wine like the fish eye, and any wine jumps out of the glass if you drink enough of it. What’s on the cheaper wine labels? “Garbage disposals are a convenient and modern addition to the American kitchen. Dispose-All Pinot Noir grinds up flavors of cherry, tannins, and coffee grounds to create a wine that goes right down the hatch!”

Superpowers: Can you imagine raising children, one of whom has superpowers?

“Bridget, take out the trash.”

“Can’t Jean do it? She’s omnipotent.”

“MOOOOOOM! Sue went invisible during hide and seek again!”

Scat Porn Movie Titles:

Void Where Prohibited Reporting for Doody
Doody Calls

Poops: I Did It Again

Shit Happens

Misty Water-Colored Memories: I could only remember one of the classes I took my last semester of college when Dad asked me last week, but I know the name of every actor on “Gilligan’s Island.” I decided, on some primal level, that a topic I spent months actually studying is less likely to come in handy than knowing that the actress who played the Millionaire’s Wife was named Natalie Schaeffer, and that she once guest-starred on “I Love Lucy” as a charm-school instructress.

No Offense: So, a while ago, someone commented on the blog something to the effect of “I like Tulane Chris now that he’s a regular writer, but – no offense – I hated his guest-writing stints and complained about them to my friends.” Fair enough. I hadn’t written regularly for a year or two when I started doing guest posts, and I was rusty. Also, sometimes posts just don’t come out right, like the time I tried to make Christmas cookies and left out cream of tartar with the reasoning that if I didn’t know what it was, it didn’t matter. (As it turns out, cream of tartar forms on the inside of barrels in which white wine is being aged, and it does something to eggs that makes them bind the cookies, so that – let’s just say for example – they don’t run together and form an inedible quarter-inch-thick sheet cake.) So you know, whatever. I’ve apparently won her over in the interim, which is nice. But… “no offense?” I wouldn’t have been offended if she hadn’t said “no offense,” but that phrase itself offends me. It’s supposed to be a talisman that keeps people from being mad at you, no matter what you do – ‘cause hey, no offense! “No offense, honey, but I slept with your brother.” Gun a man down in the street, provided that with every round, you shout “No offense, but die, motherfucker!” Paint “no offense” on bombs and drop them out of a plane named Sorr About The Bang. It’s cool! No offense.

Meggles: If you have time, please put up one of those maps of Nazi Germany’s expansion – the kind with all the arrows coming out of the swastika – with NO OFFENSE! written across the bottom.

Tulane Chris: I've been googling every combination of "map," "Nazi," "World War II," and "arrows" possible for the past 15 minutes and I have no idea what you're talking about. So here's a picture of Rolf from The Sound of Music instead:


NO OFFFENSE!!!!!!!1

Yang out the Ying-Yang: Every night, I look at the sky and I think about how Kevin Yang is under the same moon.