Vomitting in the Galley

OK, so the original point of this blog post was to tell you that our galley edits for It Seemed Like a Good Idea... are due tomorrow and I haven't started mine yet (HA HA, me), but first I'd like to address a blog comment and tell you about the intense mini stroke I just had.

First up:

I've gotten a few emails asking me essentially the same thing, so I'm going to answer you all at once out of sheer laziness: yes, I obviously think it's worth it. Which level you sign up for is between you and your God, I think it's more than worth it to be able to listen to their entire backlog. As far as my favorite episode, that's like picking a favorite child. Which I absolutely believe I could do, so my favorite episode is 483: Guns & Roonies. I'm listening to it right now to confirm that it's the episode I'm thinking of, and it still makes me hysterically laugh out loud. Oddly enough, this episode aired on my birthday in 2008, which was also the day of the April 16th Virginia Tech shootings. (I was about to say, "that was a really hard day for me," but then I realized that I didn't get shot in the face on the way to Gender Studies, so...never mind.) I listened to this episode on the subway on my way home from work and spent the majority of the ride trying not to burst into laughter. Like, I had to physically hold my lips together to keep that shit under wraps. I eventually lost it and started unabashedly laughing, thereby making myself look like a completely crazy person. And again, I know that sounds weird because it's the VA Tech shooting episode, but Keith, Chemda, and their guest/friend, Matt Bray, spend the last 45-minutes of the show doing a table read of two of the VA Tech shooter's original plays and it just gets me every single time. Other than that, any episode with Patrice is hilarious. I mean, everything hilarious. Just dive in; you can't go wrong.

OK, so now onto my mini stroke. Tonight was completely lovely. My sister came over and I made us dinner, as cooking is a major part of my plan to start functioning like a normal human being. And, oh, I'm sorry, but I knocked that shit out of the fucking park. Chicken piccata with parmesan-roasted broccolini:

God dammit that's sexy. Plus, I only set off the smoke detector once, which is a personal best!

After my sister left, I felt great. I was proud of the dinner I'd made, I was proud of all the positive changes I've been making recently (true story: when Becca walked in, she actually said, "Hey, one of your blinds is open—making progress!", which makes me sound either like I'm a self-loathing vampire or just incredibly Autistic), and I just felt extremely positive about life in general. Plus I had just smoked a giant bowl and achieved the perfect level of being high, so that didn't hurt anything. Riding said high, I made myself a cup of tea, cut up some apple slices, sat down at my computer and was just like—this is awesome. I'm going to sit here being perfectly high, drinking this delicious tea, eating these delicious apple slices, and copy edit. This is the best night of my life. And it was, until I got this text from my sister:

And I LOST. MY. SHIT. My stomach dropped into my asshole and I actually said, out loud, "FEDERAL AGENTS MAD 'CUZ I'M FLAGRANT!" as I dumped the illegal contents on my coffee table into a Trader Joe's bag and paced back and forth for a good 10-minutes, obsessively re-arranging my ponytail and nervously touching my own breasts while I waited for DEA agents to bust in the door. When that didn't happen, I decided to clarify the situation:

I mean, for the sick love of God. Because now guess who gets to buy me a new pair of yoga pants? You, Rebecca Rowland. Because this soiled pair certainly isn't doing me any favors, thank you. So, that's where I am right now, emotionally. My perfect high is ruined, I'm paranoid, I have a long night of editing ahead of me, and my scalp hurts from tightening my pony tail too many times. That being said, my entire apartment smells like capers and it is delightful.

Alright, work time. Take us out, Keith and the Girl!


A Few Goat Men from Erik Skov on Vimeo.

Where's Neve Campbell when you need her?

First and foremost, I'd like to address this comment from yesterday's blog post:

"A white Patrice." I can honestly say that that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire 25 years of life. Like online, in person, or other wise. So thank you for that.

Next on the agenda: WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK?!?!!?!?!? Can I please share with you what is going on right now slash today as a whole? Because today has been the spookiest day of my entire life and shit's only getting spookier by the minute:

1.) I'm still housesitting the haunted old McBlogger place, by myself. (Except for Evie. And the pet/family cemetery across the hall.)

2.) I heard a strange noise coming from the garage this afternoon that sounded like someone dragging trash cans around. How did I choose to deal with this situation? By physically clinging to Evie's hindquarters for dear life and watching five episodes of Bridezillas in a row to distract myself. I don't think she appreciated it, but I sure as shit did.

2.) There was a bad storm this afternoon and the power went out for a substantial amount of time. I mean, for fuck's sake...

3.) Directly after the power went out, an unknown number called my cell phone. I answered thinking it might be my parents, BUT THE PERSON HUNG UP. (...'Eh. That doesn't sound nearly as terrifying as it actually was. Time to editorialize.) AND AFTER THE PERSON HUNG UP, I GOT A TEX MESSAGE SAYING THAT I WAS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT. (That's more like it.)

3.) Tulane Chris and I were chatting tonight about his visit this weekend and he for some reason brought up the urn with my grandfather's ashes in the room across from mine. I corrected Chris that my grandfather's ashes aren't actually in an urn at all—they're still in the FedEx box that the crematorium sent us. 15 years ago. This blew Chris' mind, which in turn blew my mind because I'm aware that this is kind of an unorthodox treatment of human remains, but it's not that weird, is it? I mean, what's the difference between an urn and a FedEx box? They're both perfectly fine containers. "Meg," Chris said sternly, "You know what my childhood was like. And even I think that's weird." Bold statement, sir. Bold statement, from a bold man. But more-so, it got me thinking, what if my grandfather is pissed off that we never scattered his ashes or put them in a proper receptacle and now he's going to haunt the living eff out of me this week and/or seek revenge?!

That's when Chris proposed that during his visit, we scatter my grandfather's ashes quote, "someplace really nice." "Yeah, we're not doing that Chris," I told him, "I don't think my parents would appreciate it if they came home and asked me what we did this weekend and I said, 'Oh nothing special. Went to the blog panel, hung out, saw a movie, scattered grandpa Bern's ashes on I-95, you know, the usual.'" "I didn't say on I-95; I said someplace really nice."

We eventually met eachother halfway and decided that while he's here, we'll haul out the old FedEx box and say a few kind words together. Apparently this will "genuinely make Chris feel better" and put any haunting concerns I have to ease. Too bad Chris doesn't get here until Thursday afternoon, which means I have tonight and tomorrow night to survive alone. Which should be interesting.

4.) Considering this is the current view from my bed:

5.) And you know what doesn't make it any better? The fact that Evie's been sitting next to me in bed, tensely staring at the door for the past half an hour.

I can't decide if she's trying to do me a solid by being on the look-out or if she's getting back at me for all the Bridezillas I made her watch today by making me think her heightened feline senses see a ghost. Knowing her, it's probably the latter. Bitch.

6.) My parents have this spooky-ass painting hanging in the front hall, facing the front door:

Every time I glance towards the front hall at night, I see that guy's reflection in the window and think there's a 200-year-old Flemish man on the porch ready to shove his fife up my ass.

Which is when I simultaneously have a stroke and soil myself. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

7.) As I started this writing this post (with old Quiet Paws McGee sitting next to me, staring at the door like it's on fire, mind you) I heard a loud bang outside that sounded like a straight-up gun shot. "Welp, I'm going to die tonight." I thought. I kissed Evie goodbye, regretted not wearing something more dignified to die in (...my "Big Peckers, Ocean City, MD" t-shirt and that's the ballgame) and prepared to meet my maker. And then I heard the bang again. Followed by a familiar fizzle sound. Which is when it clicked—they were fireworks going off.

Now, here's my question: WHAT SORT OF SICK FUCK SETS OFF FIREWORKS AT 12:47 ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING IN A QUIET SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE YOUNG, BIG-PECKERED GIRLS ARE HOME ALONE WITH THEIR NEMESIS CATS AND CLOSETS FILLED WITH FEDEX BOXES OF LOVED ONES, SCARED SHITLESS?!?!?!?! WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU?!

And now my lips are chapped and the nearest chap stick is in my mom's room. Which I'm scared to walk to. So if I die tonight, I leave you with the following:

1.) I'm scared

2.) Hold me.

3.) I still haven't forgiven Suzy Soro.

4.) I want my gravestone to read, "Meghan Catherine McBlogger. 1985 - 2010. Daughter, Sister, friend, White Patrice."

That is if my parents don't cremate me and throw me in the closet with the rest of the family...