I've been 26 for a little over a month now and I still find it upsetting. I know every year when my birthday rolls around, I'm all, "OMG HAHA I FEEL SO OLD, LOLOL!!", but this is the first year that I actually mean it. Because I am waaaaay too immature to be as old as 26 feels. My peers are getting married and it's not because they're white trash or in the military—because it's age appropriate. I think about where I am now at 26 versus where my friends are, and I feel like I should be living in my parent's basement playing World of Warcraft all day, still trying to touch my first boob. I'm just so fuckin' behind.
My dad once told me that getting older is weird because in his mind, he's been the 18-year-old version of himself for the past 45 years. I get that, on an obviously much smaller scale. In my mind, I've been the 22-year-old version of myself for the past four years. I look at recently tagged photos of myself on Facebook and can't believe that's what I look like. In my mind and in the mirror, I'm always 2007 Meg. And aesthetically speaking, 2007 was a good year for me. I was always either in class or working in the design lab, so I only ate like a meager piece of turkey and a hand full of Bugles everyday, plus 20 cups of coffee a Klonopin or two before class to shift me back to neutral. I was so fucking thin. So fucking unhealthy, and so fucking thin. Also, New York hadn't happened and my entire life hadn't fallen apart yet, so my body chemistry still had a few more years before it would be raped and pillaged by antidepressants. Now I look at pictures of myself and think I just look like a tired and puffy version of the old me. It's depressing. Which is ironic. But mostly depressing.
While I can always get more sleep and wean myself off my meds (which I've started doing! 360mg to 27.5! Sure, the Prince of Darkness occasionally tells me to burn things and cut myself, but guess who can fit into those skinny jeans again, GIRLFRIEND???), I can't change how I feel. And despite having the maturity of a HOOF ARTED? t-shirt, I find myself feeling old more and more these days. Here are some recent examples:
- I saw that Lara was on gchat the other night and I knew she had just come back from her big end of year...grad school...art...instillation...thing, so I checked her status to see how it went. Upon reading something to the effect of, "I think I just kicked ass!", my 100% honest to God reaction was to say, out loud, to no one in particular, as I was alone: "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC!!!" in full Austin Powers voice. The absurdity of what I had just done startled me. It was like a bat had flown in the window. I jumped, my eyes went wide in horror, I made a little "meep!" noise—I couldn't believe what had just happened. I was, and frankly still am, so confused where that came from and why my body's natural reaction upon learning good news was to bust out a 14-year-old pop culture reference. The only way it could have been better is if I had said, "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC-A-ZIGGA-ZIG-AHHH I DON'T KNOW IF YOU HEARD BUT THEY CLONED A SHEEP AND THEENGLISH PATIENT JUST WON BEST PICTURE AT THE OSCARS THESE THINGS ARE INCREDIBLY RELEVANT HALE-BOPP!!!!"
- At 2:56 this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from tweeting the following: "WHAT?? Was anyone else not aware that Vincent Prince hosted "Mystery!" before Diana Rigg?!"
And you know how I knew that? Because I was watching old episodes of "Mystery!" at 2:56 this morning.
- I had dinner with my family this past Tuesday night and it somehow came up that I had just written and abandoned a blog post about how I spent an entire night looking at a map of the United States on googlemaps, being continually blown away by the discrepancies between where I thought everything was and where it actually is. At the end of my little schpiel (which included the observation, "The Mississippi River? It's long. It's like, fucking long, you guys. It goes from Minnesota to the gulf of Mexico. How do you even begin to wrap your mind around something that?"), my mom looked at me, made a little joint-to-mouth-I'm-smoking-a-doobie hand motion and laughed. And the thing is, I wish. I wish I could chalk spending an entire evening alone in my apartment being mind-boggled by a map of the United States up to drug use, but I can't. Because truthfully, I can't think of anything more in character than to be home alone, on what is quite possibly a Saturday night, laying in bed, drinking back-to-back bottles of soda water from my beloved Soda Stream, watching "Twin Peaks" reruns on Netflix, and musing to myself that Bermuda is quote, "way the fuck out there". That, my friends, is the Meghan Rowland experience. Once upon a time it involved Jägermeister and questionable decisions, now it involves hydration and a geography lesson. Obama's president. Bin Laden's dead. Progress. - As youmay or may not know, my sister owns my apartment and used to live here before she moved in with her now husband. In our building, the sweetest little old Ethiopian woman works the front desk on Saturday mornings, and every time I see her, we have an extremely uncomfortable conversation about my sister. Every. Saturday. Morning. When I moved in after Becca moved out, it was always, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister engaged yet?" After she got engaged it became, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister married yet?" And now that she's married, it's, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?" Ooof. Rebeccca is not pregnant. Nor does she want to be for at least a few more years, which means that I have at least a few more years of enduring this conversation.
"Nope, ha ha, Becca's not pregnant yet."
"Why not?"
"Ha ha, I'm not sure? Definitely one day though." [JAB, JAB, JABs the up button for the elevator]
"What does her husband say?"
"He mostly just talks about football and artisan beers." [JAB, JAB, JAB]
This past Saturday, however, things got personal.
"Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?"
"Nope, not yet."
"Well, I guess they did just get married. Are you getting married anytime soon?"
"Ha ha, no, I'm five years younger than Becca, so I've got some time. I'm not even dating someone right now. I'll probably get married when she gets pregnant, off in the distant future, ha ha."
And that's when the sweet smile on her face disappeared completely and she—hand to God—crossed her arms and slowly shook her head at me in disapproval. Right. Because damn those harpy Rowland sisters! Sitting up there in 401, flinging their fertile eggs off of tiny little spoons and onto the streets, defiant in the face of certain spinsterdom, despite one blatantly being married and the other being...choosy. When will they learn? WHEN WILL THEY LEARN?!
- Speaking of my apartment, I love it, but I despise my couch. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, it's six-years-old, I left a straightening iron on one of the arms once in 2008 and melted the shit out of it, it's pilling, slip covers never fit on it properly, blah blah blah—it's a piece of shit and I want a new one. That being said, are you aware of how expensive couches are?! It's absurd! Even if I go down to Sticks 'n Stuff and get a shitty sofa that some Persian guy just came all over, it'll still cost me like 300-bucks. I can't get over it. So now, I'm obsessed with couches. Things like, "Well, that's a handsome couch!" fly out of my mouth when I go to friends of friends' house parties. I want to talk "couch shop" wherever I go. "Where'd you get your couch?" "How much did it cost?" "Is she a convertible or a British two-seater?" "Mind if I take 'er for a test sit?"
A few weeks ago, I found myself watching an episode of "The Price is Right" at the gym on mute. When it came time for the showcase showdown, per usual, one option was the "flashy" showcase with a motorboat and a jet ski and a week in Tampa or some shit, while the other was a modest living room set. In this particular episode, the first showcase presented was the living room. As the contestant stood there trying to decide if she was going to bid or pass, I put myself in her shoes and thought, "Are you fucking kidding me?? It's not even an option—take the living room! The couch is huge, you get free carpeting, and you can always just sell the hutch on ebay or something. God, I would kill for that couch. What idiot would actually pick the speedboat? It's so impractical. I can't even imagine how much money it would cost to store or dock at a marina, not to mention tax and insurance." And I can honestly say that that moment is the oldest I have ever felt in my entire life. Because when I was a little Meglet staying home from school, eatin' Kix and watching "The Price is Right", I lived for seeing those doors fly open and hearing Rod Roddy shout, "—and a NEW CAAAAAAAAAR!!!" Nothing was as exciting as that. Nothing. I always wondered who those suckers were that wanted a living room set over twin Harley Davidson motorcycles and a trip to Baltimore. And now, at 26-years-old, I am that sucker.
...I'm going back to staring at a map of the U.S. now, because Michigan's mind-boggling little top hat that in no way touches Michigan is easier to digest than my life at this point. Good day to you and go Wolverines.
I have to tell you something upsetting—I almost died last Wednesday night. That's right. I stared into Death's cold, soulless eyes and saw no mercy. I choked on his icy grip and gasped for air. More importantly, I fought back like a Babylonian Warrior and I lived to tell the tale. (Specifically, I was really high and choked on a sandwich, but let's not mince words.) So who's to blame for nearly ending my precious little life? A little television channel called TLC. For it was the shock of seeing a commercial for their new documentary My Monkey Baby that lodged a shitake mushroom square into my windpipe and sent my life flashing before my eyes. And there's no way in hell I was going to let the last thing I see in my lifetime be a capuchin monkey in a Victorian parlour dress being spoon fed in a high chair. So I had no choice but to survive.
But really. My Monkey Baby. That really happened. Last night. And it will happen again tonight at midnight EST, so I recommend you set your DVRs to stunned! Because did you know that there are over 15,000 monkeys in the United States who have been adopted by couples looking for an alternative to human adoption? Did you know that these monkeys are called monkids and cost upwards of $5,000? Did you know that the statistics I just shared with you make me want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich until I cease breathing or society becomes less appalling, whichever happens first?
My Monkey Baby follows three couples who have chosen to adopt and raise a monkey as their own child. And I can't stress how literally I mean that statement. These aren't helper monkeys or service animals of any kind. And the people who have adopted them aren't obsessed pet owners either. Mostly because they don't consider their monkeys to be pets—they consider them to be their adopted offspring. Which is apparently a uniquely American "craze." That's what the documentary calls this, by the way. A "craze." To which I say, the fuck?! Because The Twist? That was a craze. Crystal Pepsi? A craze. Nickelodeon's Gak? A craze. Being so disillusioned that you honestly think a pet monkey is your child? That's called being mentally ill. And frankly I don't want to live in a world where people this sick are rewarded with their own light-hearted TLC documentary, comically titled My Monkey Baby.
I think my favorite couple of the night was Indiana's Jesus and Carmen. Gather ye 'round children and let me tell you a tale about Hay-Zeus and Carmen: Hay-Zeus really, really, really doesn't want kids. So much so that when he was 22 years young, he scoured this great Nation to find a doctor ethically questionable enough to give him a vasectomy. Which bless his heart, he did. Now he's left fillin' up Carmen, his girlfriend of one year, with blanks and a burning desire for something more. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Hay-Zeus and Carmen: a.) Get a dog b.) Have a sit-down about the direction of their relationship and consider reversing Hay-Zeus' vasectomy c.) Take up ball room dancing or d.) Drive to Missouri, buy a monkey for $5,000, name it "Butters" and raise it as their child
If you chose D, you are possibly clinically insane, but more importantly correct! For that is exactly what the J-meister and Carmen do. And then they swaddle it in blankets, pop it in a baby carrier and take it to Target where they buy it infant clothes and a pint-size Swiffer Wet Jet at a very reasonable 15% off. God I love this country.
Next up we have Bob and Mary Lynn. Mary Lynn is somewhat recently divorced and desperately misses her ex-step children, whom she no longer sees. Although happily married to her third husband, Bob, Mary Lynn sadly can not bear children of her own. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Mary Lynn and Bob: a.) Get a dog b.) Get a better attitude c.) Adopt a human baby in desperate need of a loving home or d.) Adopt a wild monkey in desperate need of a jungle
If you chose D, you might live in Tennessee, as that is exactly what Bob and Mary Lynn decide to do. Mary Lynn is now a "stay-at-home mom" to her monkey daughter "Silly Willy," who at one point refuses to wear her bloomers, causing Mary Lynn to shriek "DID YOU TAKE OFF YOUR PANTIES?!" an ungodly number of times. Which is when I lit a q-tip on fire and shoved it in my ear to burn the pain away. I'd say the highlight of the entire program for me was when Mary Lynn loses one of her hormone pills and fears Silly Willy ate it. *~BONUS QuIz TiMe!!*~ If you were concerned that the monkey you believe is your honest-to-god child ate one of your hormone pills, would you: a.) Assume she'll be fine and continue on to Dress Barn b.) Tear your car apart until you find the lost pill c.) Take your monkid directly to the vet or d.) Call an animal psychic to read your monkid's thoughts
If you chose D, congratulations—you are now the proud parent of a rabid monkey baby.
And finally, there's old Lori and Jim Johnson from Bumblefuck Nowhere U.S.A. First and foremost, let it be known that I think I'm 78% in love with Jim Johnson and would be more than willing to get married to him on the back of his John Deer mower. Unfortunately for me, Jim is married to Lori. And unfortunately for Jim, Lori is insane. Prior to marrying Jim, Lori had six human children of her own who selfishly grew up and moved away from home to pursue "lives of their own." After her last child moved out, Lori fell into a deep depression and ended up in the hospital. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Lori: a.) Get a dog b.) Continue seeking medical help for her depression c.) Mentor an inner-city child or d.) Leave the hospital and adopt a monkey because a monkey will never leave you to go to college, fall in love, get married or try to have a life of it's own in any way, shape or form
Thankfully for capuchin monkey Jessica Marie, Lori chose D. And then she married Jim Johnson. Bitch. You'll notice in that photo that Jessica "Jessy" Marie has quite the gummy primate smile. That's because Jessy kept "nipping" at her mommy and daddy, so mommy and daddy had all of her teeth ripped out. Which makes it even more pleasurable when her daddy Jim Johnson tongue kisses her. And I'm not making that up for effect. He literally french kisses his monkey daughter.
Which leads me to my problem with this "craze": I can understand being obsessed with your pet (cough—Evie—cough). Likewise, I can understand pets in outfits are adorable. I can even understand that there are people bat-shit crazy enough to consider their pet as their child. However, it is complete and utter bullshit to demand that the rest of the world recognize that a monkey is your child and must be treated as such. Because you don't fucking tongue kiss your children. Nor do you have their teeth removed when they "nip" at you or put them in cages when they lose their "panties." It's just asking far too much of us. If we have to play by your ass-backwards rules then you have to play by a few of ours.
For example, when Lori and Jim are kicked out of a restaurant for bringing Jessy, Lori throws a shit fit at the audacity of the manager to not only kick them out, but also to call Jessy a "monkey" instead of her "daughter." "WELL I'M CERTAINLY NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!" Lori shouts. Madam, your daughter has a tail. A rat-like tail protruding straight out of her ass bone. She also has fur. And starred in the 1995 movie Outbreak. Because your daughter is a fucking monkey and monkeys are not allowed in eating establishments for good reason: they're unsanitary. Just because you put an ironic wedding gown on it does not mean it's been soaked in a vat of Purell for a week.
All I'm trying to say is the day we have to accept monkeys as legitimate forms of children dining next to us at the Cracker Barrel is the day I'm allowed to call Child Protective Services to tell them that you just went to first base with your daughter and put her and her panties in a cage. God bless America.
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