Mail Bag

Wow, hi Meggles!

I started this email a LONNNNNG time ago and got stuck so it has been sitting in my draft box.

Soooo...I figured I should just send it. I had made it originally for you to answer on days you had writers block, because I love when you just answer people's questions.

Sooo...yeah. There ya go.

Hope all is well! Still reading strong!

<3 jen

Let's do this, Sanchez.

1. Marry Fuck Kill:

Dr. Reuben

Larry Hagman

John McCain

Ooo, GOOD ONE. I've been thinking about this all weekend, and here's my final answer: I'd marry Larry Hagman and we'd live a long, happy life together, thank you; fuck Dr. Reuben because I've always wondered what making love to a Jiffy Bag-covered penis would feel like; and I'd kill John McCain because that son of a bitch never hugged me and/or his daughter is society's longest active queef.

2. When do you actually sleep, Meg?

5-11:00am. Ish.

3. Have you tried wiping standing up yet?

Yes. Everyday for the past 23 years.

4. Would you be upset if Tulane Chris began dating Bobby Flay?

I would feel hurt, betrayed, confused, tickled, aroused, livid, and hurt. In that order.

5. What Would Meg Do?

Oh, God. Meg would take a nap and avoid the situation entirely, then regret it later when it's too late. WWMD? is not a lifestyle I recommend.

6. If your life were a movie, who would play you?

I mean, that's really nice and all, but truthfully, it would probably be a cross between Gabourey Sidibe and Charles Grodin.

7. Have you ever been in a threesome? Do you have plans to be?

I was once an active, and some say uncomfortably competitive, participant in a threeway hookup, but I've never taken it to the next level. (<--- Please know I just re-wrote that sentence so it didn't include the word "penetration".) I don't have any threesomes planned at the moment, but if Hunter's Dean of Admissions and Anthony Bourdain are up for it, I wouldn't say no. (<--- Please know, I just took out an "I'd have no reservations!" joke.) (Or "joke", if you will.)

8. What would you do with $1,000,000?

#1: Buy a membership to Sports Club/LA

#2: Pay off my student loans

#3: Pay back my parents all the money I've borrowed from them over the years

#4: Pay back Chris the $57 I owe him

#5: Pay my bills

#6: PAY COMCAST TO PUBLICLY SUCK MY DICK

#7: Buy Chris and I matching red velor track suits with our initials embroidered on the left breast, so we can wear them: a.) all the time and b.) in a picture where we're standing back-to-back with our arms crossed, glass of whiskey in one hand and mischievous grins on our faces, which will from there on out be used as our official headshot. (This has been an actual goal of ours for almost a year now.)

#8: Buy a new laptop because this one is almost dead and the S, L, F8, and Control buttons are broken. It's exhausting.

#9: Adopt a pug

#10: Buy a couch

#11: Buy an office chair

#12: Bribe the recruiters at my temp agency to actually find me some work

#13: Buy equipment for the podcast Chris and I want to do

#14: Get a tattoo of Homer's bifocals on my ass

#15: Buy a night of hot, passionate lovemaking with Nick Hawk from Showtime's Gigolos (whose rates are surprisingly reasonable, by the way...)

#16: Buy myself a bike, because Lord knows that infuriating situation hasn't been resolved yet

#17: Visit my friends on the west coast and in the middle east

#18: Buy a really, really nice knife set

#19: Buy Evie a...Nope. That cat has literally anything she could ever want and/or need. And I'm jealous of her.

#20: Donate the rest to Howard University, so Becca and I can finally go to Howard homecoming

9. Would you ever go on Fear Factor?

Absolutely not, because if there's anything I hate more than confronting my fears, it's Joe Rogen.

10. Diane invites you over for dinner. When you walk in the house, Jeremy Piven is sitting at the table, helping himself to some potatoes. Describe what happens next.

First, I'd take a moment to pause and let it all just wash over me. Then, like a horny C-level magician, I'd haphazardly yank the table cloth off the table, sending plates, artisan bread, and salad forks flying everywhere. Then, I'd hop up on the table, make the international "suck it" motion across my crotch, rip open my shirt, and crawl towards The Piv while whipping my hair around and eating the odd biscuit, like a hungry hungry Tawny Kitaen. Now in front of Piven, I'd choke him with his own necktie, slap him in the face, slap myself in the face, and lick gravy off his receding hairline until neither of us can take it anymore, and I climb into his lap and make dirty, forceful love to him, right there in front of God, my parents, and everyone.

That's the short answer. The long one involves a few erotic venn diagrams and a lot more swears.

11. Good looking or rich?

Neither; personality. HA HA! Just kidding. Rich. I really want a membership to Sports Club/LA. Do you know how happy access to a lap pool would make me? Also, sometimes I pleasure myself to their group exercise schedule. Like most of my porn, it's sad and extremely effective.

12. Would you rather have invisibility powers or read minds?

Invisibility. That way I could work out at Sports Club/LA without a membership and NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW!

13. Did Sophie make the right choice?

You mean the choice to whore out herself and her blog for a membership to Sports Club/LA? Yes. Yes, I do. And speaking of whoring myself out (which, again, I would absolutely do), the following is an exchange I had with my mom last night while discussing my current financial situation:

Me: You know what? Fuck it. I'm just going to whore myself out in the streets for top dollar.

Mom, in the most heartfelt tone I have ever heard her speak in: Oh, sweetheart. Nickles and pennies aren't going to help us now.

...You know what? Well played, Diane Rowland. Well played.

Mail Bag

Dear Meg,

I am a huge fan of yours, [Oh, stop!] and many a time have found myself giggling hysterically in my cubicle, the classroom, my room by myself, on the phone as I attempt to read your blog posts aloud to my friends, family, and whoever else will listen. My all time favorite: My New Pink Button. Funniest thing I've ever read. My second favorite: Sorr bout the bag. This has been incorporated into my everyday speech, and I have as much as possible to tried to infiltrate everyone else's speech with this phrase as well, including my new boyfriend (we'll call him DJ)

SO, last night, my boyfriend and I decided to attempt to use a female condom. I don't know if you've ever used one, but they're REALLY REALLY AWKWARD. (you should do a 2b1b investigates, and maybe you can get pot-smoking fish tranquilizer guy to participate). Basically, once you insert it, the end hangs out like a floppy vacuum attachment, which, we decided, should have INSERT HERE written on it in (flashing) letters. Having recently converted DJ into a 2b1b fan, he took one look, goes "sorr bout the bag!!" and starts giggling hysterically. At which point i also started giggling hysterically, he lost his erection, and we ended up just laying there and quoting you and NOT having sex.

So, thanks for ruining our sex life!
-GJ

You, my new friend, are more than welcome. Because if I'm not gettin' any, nobody's gettin' any. Except the exact opposite of that is true. Meaning everyone's gettin' some and I'm not. Which I suppose isn't the "exact opposite" as much as it's just depressing.

I've never used a female condom before, but that's only because I didn't know they existed until about, oh, an hour ago. Now that I do know, I will never look at a Ziploc bag or my vagina the same way again. Which is unfortunate because I make a lot of to-go sandwiches and bathe with my eyes open. So, thank you.

As far as taking one out for a test spin (vomit), the last time I saw 'ole Fish Dick was when I was running away from his parent's house/numbed phallus, so that's out. I used to have an "eff buddy", but things got complicated at Ren Fest, which is a Statement with a capital S. Chris would probably have sex with me, but he'd probably also spend the entire time making obscure historical references and talking about how much he loves my mom, which is exhausting when he's next to me, nevertheless inside of me. If you're reading this and think you're up for having sex with me while I wear a female condom—that sounds extremely uncomfortable. So, let's not do that.

OK, time out. I obviously just googled "How to insert a female condom" because in my mind the answer was: WITCHCRAFT!, but instead found this highly educational and entertaining student video from Binghamton University. 

I love it for the following reasons:

1.) DOROTHY. You sassy, salty old broad, you.

2.) Dorothy's extremely soothing voice and/or the fact that I genuinely can't tell if she's foreign or just has extremely poor diction

3.) Dorothy's no-nonsense belted sweater

4.) The comical cricket noises at 00:50

5.) "Soft tubular sheath"

6.) Dorothy's makeshift female condom made out of an empty water bottle and coffee stirrers

7.) Every time they mention "the lips", I gag and want to die a little. That's not really a reason why I love this, but I thought it was worth noting.

8.) The quick cut to Dorothy at 3:10 where she talks about the benefits of female condoms while tossing condoms into a basket like she just don't give a fuck

9.) Heather's vajayjay caught on fire from using both a male and female condom

10.) Dorothy's deadpanned salty nut joke at 4:00

11.) It has a pre-planned blooper, and it involves a stunt!

12.) Special Guest Matt is pretty goddamn attractive

Christ. I just typed "Binghamton University Matt R.E.A.C.H." into Google because I'm insanely creepy like that AND/OR I'M A ROMANTIC, and everything that comes up is about Matthew Potel, a Binghamton senior who fell to his death last October while reaching to help fellow students cross a dangerous ravine in the Adirondacks. 'Eh.............. Soooooo, to recap, in the span of one blog post I've managed to: ruin a happy couple's sex life, overinform you about the goings-on (or lack of goings-on) of my vagina, offend Chris (probably), fall in love with a college student, bring you all down with a tragedy, and use the phrase "'ole Fish Dick". 

I believe my work is here is done.

My Hagman's Keeper

EFF! Eff for two solid reasons:

1.) Tonight is the release party. Which is a good thing. But still, eff. Here are the answers to some frequently asked release party-related questions!

Q: Where is the party?

A: The Big Hunt. 1345 Connecticut Avenue, NW. It's next to Cafe Citron and...something else that I can't remember. Which is odd, considering how much I'm there. Is it next to something else? I feel like it's next to that random non-profit that's always playing a PSA outside the building and never doesn't scare the shit out of me when I walk by it late at night. Seriously, I don't know who you people are or what you do, but get a Twitter account. It does the exact same thing but doesn't make me think I'm about to get raped.

Q: So I just walk in the bar and you'll be right there?

A: No, I will be in the bathroom snorting a line of Xanax off of Chris's tittays. Slash our party isn't in the main bar area. Go in through the main door, walk past the bar, and take an immediate left. If you hit the kitchen, you've gone too far. If you're upstairs, you've gone too vertical. If you're on the roof deck, you're not listening to me at all, so maybe you deserve to stay up there and think about what you did.

Q: Will you be selling books at the party?

A: No.

Q: Why not?

A: Because we'd have to front the money to buy them from the warehouse and that's not an option right now. I'm currently drinking seltzer for dinner and not because I'm watching my girlish figure, if you know what I mean.

Q: Tell me more about the free shit you've promised.

A: Our publisher, Adams Media, was kind enough to send like, 15ish awesome books to give away to the first 15ish people who show up. I'd give you a concrete number, but the books are on the table across from my bed and I'd have to do a slight crunch to see over my chair and count them.

Q: Meg...I want to be on your side, but it's just genuinely difficult when you say things like that.

A: FINE. Nineteen. Nineteen books for the first nineteen people who show up and are not related to me and/or in my immediate circle of friends. Also, there are four copies of our book in that count, so if you didn't have time to buy a copy, come early and you might get one for ~fReE~! I'll throw in another one from my personal collection to make it five. Alex will be waiting for you when you walk in with a few Trader Joe's bags full of books. First-come, first-serve. 

Q: Can I take one of the bags when you run out of books?

A: No. I use them to do my grocery shopping.

Q: You don't buy groceries.

A: Well, I use them to buy wine and hummus when I'm feeling sassy.

Q: Can I take Alex?

A: As long as I get my bags back...

Q: So the party starts at 7:30?

A: Yes.

Q: When does the reading start?

A: The hilarious Tim Miller is going to "get the party started" (<--- God I hate myself) at 8:15, and then we'll hop on the mic, say thank you, do a quick reading, and then sign books.

Q: What will you be reading?

A: BONUS MATERIAL!!!1! We'll be reading a scenario from the original manuscript that got cut because it was too risqué.

Q: Risqué?

A: Well, less risqué and more flat-out offensive, but risqué sounds sexier.

Q: What's the dress code?

A: Super casual.

Q: What will you be wearing?

A: Fuck if I know.

Q: How's your unibrow zit?

A: HORRIBLE, obviously. And I went to Sephora yesterday to buy like, burn victim grade cover-up and got it one shade too light, which is un-fucking-fathomable.

Q: Is the book available on Kindle yet?

A: No, but it will be.

Q: When?

A: I'm not sure. I keep emailing our editor about it, but he doesn't know either and I get the impression that he's irritated by the entire situation too. So I'm sure me emailing him five times a day to be like "MATT!!! WHEN'S THE KINDLE COMING OUT?! MATT!!! CAN I HAVE MORE MONEY?! MATT!!! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME USE THIS ABORTION JOKE?!" isn't helping. But, you know, that's just my way of saying "I like you".

Q: So who's coming to the party?

A: EVERYONE.

Q: Really?

A: Well, everyone I know.

Q: So I should go?

A: Totally. Take Friday off. Get blackout drunk. Make out with one of my friends. Say hi to me and watch me ramble at you for fifteen minutes because when I get nervous I ramble.

Q: I'm excited!

A: I'm a cunt hair away from a bleeding ulcer, but I'm also excited.

Q: Welp, see you tonight.

A: Yay!

2.) I would like to apologize to everyone for being too far up my own asshole buying cover-up and researching today's weather forecast to realize that yesterday was Larry Hagman's birthday, a.k.a. the holy holiday of HAGMAS. I'm mortified. Just mortified. Thanks to readers Charles and John for reminding me. God. I'm seriously pissed at myself because I could have done a really good birthday post Tuesday night. Instead, I wrote this:

OK, OK, OK, wait a minute...Instagram shares your photos? With random people?? Is the world aware of this?! Because I sure as shit wasn't. Thank God I didn't take a bunch of MySpace photos of myself from extremely flattering angles with my breasts tumbling out of my blouse because Lord knows it was tempting. REAL tempting.

Then fell asleep, woke up at 3:45am having a panic attack, watched season one of Breaking Bad to calm down, subsequently convinced myself I had lung cancer, fell back asleep at 8, woke up at 1 and was late to meet Alex for lunch. So, at least I achieved that. I'm sorry, Larry. I'm sorry I let you down, I'm sorry I let my readers down, I'm sorry I let Patrick Duffy down, but most of all, I'm sorry I let myself down. I hope you had an excellent 80th birthday. (80!!!!!!!!! Please just let me hold you in my arms...)

In conclusion: Merry Hagmas to all, and to all a good night!

Let's Get This Over With...

Ugh, I have so many housekeeping issues to discuss with you and none of them are all that funny or interesting, but we can't move on and talk about the shenanigans Chris and I got up to this past weekend if we don't address them, so let's just get this over with:

1.) That was horrible sentence structure.

2.) As I'm sure you've noticed by now, we're trying out a new way to visually differentiate my posts from Chris'. From now on, both of our blog posts will be in gray text and the little bird icon at the beginning of each post will correspond with the author. (<--- I could not mathematically figure out how to word that so it made sense for a solid five minutes. That felt like taking a test for Autism.) We can always go back to the old format if you decide you really don't like it, but as with anal sex or a friendship with your dad's new girlfriend, I urge you to give it a chance.

3.) In updating the first page of the blog with the new formatting last night, I accidentally deleted the version of Chris' post from last Friday with all the comments. I 100% apologize and assure you that it was a complete accident and I wasn't trying to censor any negative opinions to protect Chris' fragile little ego or anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. I say bring 'em on! The more the merrier! I like watching him get riled up because it makes me feel slightly less crazy about that time I called him curled up in the self-help section of Barnes and Noble having a full-blown panic attack because someone left an aggressive comment saying that I was the most self-involved blogger they'd ever read. In retrospect, I may have overreacted slightly. Oh, me. Let's talk about my reaction to that comment some more. And then a lot more.

4.) Speaking of comments, I'd like to address this old one:

I mean, I get it. Times are lean. You're here to read about our awkwardness and flatulence and gentle love affair with Megan's Law jokes; not get harassed for money while taking a much deserved break from your day. I get it. (Specifically because I was BOMBARDED by kids trying to get me to donate to the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Washington the other day when I was on the metro taking my laundry to my parent's house to do it for free. I mean, don't get me wrong—the Boys & Girls Club is a very worthy cause. Let's not pretend like I've never had to use an ill-strung badminton racket or like I wasn't the laughing-stock of field hockey camp because I always had to use my sister's hand-me-down CranBerry stick when everyone knew it was all about STX® that year—I speak your jive, kids. I get it. But I got hassled by kid after kid after kid when we offloaded at Brentwood Ave, and it's like, look Junior—what part of me standing on this metro platform in 100-degree weather holding an Ikea bag stuffed with my dirty underwear makes you think I've reached a point in my life where I have disposable income? Was it the Chipotle-stained Hall and Oates t-shirt that just tumbled out and onto your shoe? Because that was a gift.)

The point I'm trying to make here is that I find the business side of the blog just as boring and irritating as you do. So much so, that I tend to just ignore it completely and cling to the hope that Scrooge McDuck will one day waddle into my apartment, quack, leave two sacks of gold coins on my bed, shine his monocle on my blouse, and waddle his way back out. That being said, I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that that might not happen, and every now and then we have to remind you how much it helps us when you follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page, forward the blog to a friend, and "like" and buy our book(s) on Amazon. It makes me uncomfortable, but then again so does debt and having to snort fresh cracked pepper for $5 a line as my father's post-dinner entertainment. (True story.) (Sadly.)

We're also eager to schill our book because, well, we're proud of it. Writing it with Chris was probably one of the most fun things I've ever done in my life and as cheesy as it sounds, we're just really excited to share it with you. Because (and I know I'm biased here) it's a really fucking funny book. The following is from an email one of our editors sent us after her first read-through of the manuscript:

"Without sounding like a gushing dork, I have to say that I haven't read a manuscript that I've enjoyed this much in EONS. You guys pulled together one helluva book. You should be really proud. It was hilarious! [...] Again, loved the manuscript! I was laughing out loud and I think my landlords (who live upstairs) are probably wondering what kinds of drugs I've been doing...."

It's exciting! I also feel like it's a good sign that despite having analyzed, torn apart, re-written and slaved over pretty much every line in the book, Chris and I still found ourselves laughing-out-loud every read-through during the editing process. There's an excerpt available online on our publisher's website, should you feel so moved. It's the introduction and the first half of the first chapter, which we wrote first, so we were still in a relatively healthy mindset. I wish you could read the shit we wrote when it was three o'clock in the morning and we hadn't slept for a few days and suddenly helper monkeys, Cincinnati Bowties, and Rod Roddy's ghost were in the mix, as well as The Most Racist Joke We've Ever Written And Are Still Shocked (And Appalled, Quite Frankly) It Got To Stay In, and more thinly veiled Jessica Walter shot-outs than you can shake a stick at. I mean, you can read them. You just have to buy the book. Which I promise I won't nag you about every day, but try to keep in mind that this is our career and we need to buy pants 'n shit. (So much pants...)

SO IN CONCLUSION:

5.) I think I caught the flu from Chris when he was here this past weekend because I feel completely God-awful right now. That's what I get for splitting a hummus platter with a homosexual.

6.) Also, if you buy the book for an e-reader, you get bonus material.

OK! We're all caught up to speed. Thank you for sitting through that. And if you have already made moves to support us, I would just want to say: thank you, thank you, thank you! We truly appreciate it. (I was going to say, "And so does Evie!" and post an adorable picture of her, but, frankly, she doesn't, and she really wasn't cooperating during the photoshoot:

But thank God her hinders are clean. Christ. Oh well, new 2 Birds Investigations tomorrow! ZIG-A-ZIG-HA!)

On 'Dallas', on Cupid, on Donder, on Blitzen!

All of my emotions about the new Dallas can be summed up in one single noise: it's a mixture of a long, disappointed sigh; the grunt of a pregnant woman in the throes of her final push; and the Bill Lumbergh "Yyyyyyyyyyyeahhh....", all made with a facial expression that screams, "Oh, shit—I just locked my keys in my car, didn't I?" That is how I feel about the remake of Dallas.

I understand that if anyone should be happy about the new Dallas, it should be me. The original Dallas is one of my all-time favorite shows, Larry Hagman is my personal Lord and savior, and if anyone loves trashy night time TV more than me, I'd like to meet them. (So I can destroy and sex them.) (NOT IN THAT ORDER.) However, I would like to take this time to officially state that I am not on board with Dallas 2.0. I actually got drunk and wrote a really long post about why not when Larry Hagman agreed to join the cast, but it was uncomfortably serious and kind of embarrassing for us all, so I ended up scrapping it and going outside to breathe this "fresh air" that everyone speaks so highly of. Here is what I will say, briefly:

1.) So much of why I love 70's/80's soap operas is because of the fashion: big hair; nude pumps; spangly, spangly gowns; my beloved gold lamé; tight, high-waisted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans; pantyhose!; nylon and lycra and pearls—oh my! It's borderline pornographic. But squeeze a meh-list actress fresh off a run on Desperate Housewives into a Herver Leger bandage dress, give her a spray tan and I'm sorry, but I'm not poppin' wood. You feelin' me?

2.) I want to remember JR Ewing as a s-s-sex machine, not a s-s-stroke victim, thank you.

Nip/Tuck. You assholes.

3.) My concern is and always will be for Larry Hagman's health. I'm actually CEO of a non-profit called "Focus on the Hagman". We sponsor T.G.I. Hagman's across the country, run uncomfortable Super Bowl ads and make it rain with pairs of TOMS. It's all very exciting. But we, as an organization, are not comfortable with the attention Larry Hagman is inevitably going to get from Dallas 2.0. Because on some small level, I truly believe that the Grim Reaper got distracted the day he was supposed to collect LH because he had to pick up more mulch at Home Depot or some shit and oops—it's 2011 and Larry Hagman's still alive! I'm nervous he's going to curl up on the couch one night with a bowl of kettle corn and a Zima, turn on TNT and be like, "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK..." and that will be the end of that. I didn't invent the rainy day; I just own a Hagman-shaped umbrella.

4.) My biggest argument is this: remember that scene in Practical Magic when Sandra Bullock freaks out and demands that Stockard Channing and Dianne Wiest bring back her dead husband, but they won't do it because "even if we did bring him back, it wouldn't be Michael. It would be something else. Something dark and unnatural,"? Well, that's exactly what this new Dallas is going to be—something dark and unnatural that just shouldn't be. Don't believe me? Knock, knock. Who's there? Melrose. Melrose who? MELROSE PLACE WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR ASHLEE SIMPSON. That's fucking who. And 90210! I mean, why don't we just dig up the body of George Washington, throw him on a vibrating bed with Brittany Snow, smear a used menstrual pad down your TV screen and call it the new Love, American Style while we're at it? Christ.

Which is why up until now, I decided to adopt the same strategy my dad used when he got his draft lottery number and ignore the entire situation until it just kind of goes away on its own. It worked for him, so why shouldn't it work for me, right? (And yes, this is my 'Nam.) But then TNT gave the show the green light and now it's happening for realz for realz and I can't ignore it anymore. My inbox, Twitter, and Facebook were all bombarded last week with people linking me to the TNT story and asking if I was psyched. This made me start to doubt myself. Maybe I'm overreacting and should embrace the show? Gah, but it feels so wrong! I need answers. I need someone to guide me. I need the one who turned me into the Hagmanite I am today. My sire—Original Co-Blogger Eddie. Oh, wise one! Show me the ways of the Old World! (Or, this is some shit, right?)

"MY FEELINGS ON DALLAS", by Original Co-Blogger Eddie

1.) Holy shit. When I picked the Dallas as the topic for my senior history thesis I did it because I wanted to watch lots of TV. Like Pigman in PCU. I found out that watching TV is hard, and I ended up with lots of useless knowledge about a TV show very few people under the age of 27 knew about. Our age group knew that some dude named JR got shot and all the adults wanted to know WHO SHOT JR. BUT NOW I FEEL LIKE I WAS RELEVANT, I was saying and observing important things about America and pop culture. I want to thank the remake for allowing me to feel like the history degree I earned has some value. (Aside from talking to people's moms/the older ladies at work. People's moms and older ladies at work LOVE talking about Dallas.)

2.) I'm scared Larry Hagman will die now because this cursed him in some way. JOCK died during the show's run; who's to say that will not also happen to JR?

3.) Rumor has it Victoria Principal isn't coming back as Pam because she CHANGED HER FACE SO DRASTICALLY to look young that she now looks like a monster pretending to be Victoria Principal. So no Pam on the new show, which is sad because she made moments like this in a disco so awesome.

HELLO A WHITE TURTLENECK, WHITE PAINTS AND A FUR TO A DISCO, that will not happen in the new show. She is sexy and yet very covered up...

This leads me to my next feeling:

4.) I also worry that the world of the Ewing family on Southfork belongs at a time and place. Maybe, just maybe, those characters need to stay in 1978-1991. You can't go back to the past, but thanks to DVD's and books, you can revisit at your leisure. A TV show like Dallas is intimately bound to the time frame it was created and consumed. Sure, it was an over the top prime time soap, but it still was an important piece of TV trash. I'm scared that this remake will tarnish the memory of one of the most influential pieces of television ever created and exported outside of the United States. Dallas changed the look of the 1980's, and changed television, but it was also influenced by that era. Giving JR a computer, information about GREEN JOBS and putting him on Facebook will alter the TV show. I like that TV shows don't change, that I can re-watch them and they stay the same even if the time period is different. Like little time capsules where someone playing Miss Texas could have HORRID teeth and drink when she is knocked up and it's only "maybe bad for the child." This remake will not be the Dallas I love, it will be something very different with the same actors playing semi familiar parts. This remake has the possibility of being a hallow memory of what Dallas was and never will be again, and that makes me very sad.

Chances are I have many more feelings and thoughts and lucky for me I have a whole year to process them. It's been sometime since I watched Dallas, I needed a big break (for obvious reasons) and I have no doubt re-watching the DVD's will stir up emotions I didn't even know I had.

OK, so it's some shit. Good to know we're on the same page.

Well, here we are. I finally shared my Dallas emotions. I feel naked. I feel vulnerable. I feel exposed. I also feel like it goes without saying that none of this is going to stop me from watching it and recapping it for the blog. BUT I'M NOT GONNA LIKE IT.

Three Exciting Pieces of News:

- Piggybacking off of Chris' bucket list post from yesterday, I'm happy to report that I got to cross something off of my own bucket list the other day. I didn't stand in a cranberry bog or have sex in a hot tub (which I've seriously reconsidered since you guys pointed out the "Vagina on Fire" factor that I in no way took into account. I was going to amend it to sex in a bath tub, but then I saw the bath tub rape scene in The Moderns and decided that it looks too uncomfortable. And not just because of the whole forced entry thing, but also because it's like, ACK, small spaces. Nermal! So I guess my goal now is to discuss fiscal responsibility in a warm body of water with a member of the opposite sex while respecting each other's opinions, emotional boundaries, and personal space. Which, frankly, feels excitingly attainable!), but I did see Hall and Oates on Monday night. LIVE. In concert. I KNOW.

How was it? Oh, I don't know. How's breathing? How's walking into the Sistine Chapel and looking up? How's knowing the power of true love? Trying to put it into words won't do it any justice—you just have to experience it. That being said, I will say the following:

1.) I know my parents were the ones who actually purchased the tickets, but I'm going to take full credit for the majesty of this Rowland family excursion. When I saw Hall and Oates on Wolftrap's summer schedule, I immediately changed the homepage on both of my parents' laptops to the ticket order site and tiled their desktop with the following to remind them of old priority one:

This was especially funny to me because my mom had no idea how how to change any of it back to her defaults, so we were playing for keeps for a while there. Was it obnoxious? Yes. Was it effective? Yes. So, you're welcome, rest of the family.

2.) Becca and I got drunk and took a sloppy picture with "Wolfy" the Wolftrap mascot, which is now on their Facebook page. I've done a lot of things in my life, but I think that's what I'm most proud of. 

3.) H&O sound just as tight, if not tighter now than they did then. And normally I'd be horrified by seeing "tight" that many times in a sentence, but in this case I'm just aroused.

4.) Daryl Hall looks a whole hell of a lot like Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star these days, and again—aroused.

5.) Being part of a 4,000 person amphitheater clapping along to "Private Eyes" kind of makes me understand the draw of megachurches.

6.) I bought a H&O t-shirt and I would just like to say that American Apparel's ladies tee sizing is wildly inaccurate. I got a large, walked all the way back to my seat, held it up, saw that it covered approximately one-tenth of my left shoulder and was then faced with the conundrum of do I waste 30 of my precious dollars or do I physically get up again? And oh, what a Sophie's Choice it was. I asked my dad to go back and do it for me because that feels like something a dad should do and he said no, which was as surprising as it was upsetting. (He also said no when I offered to wash his car for $10 the other day because apparently he doesn't trust me with it. I can't decide what's more depressing: the fact that my dad doesn't trust me to properly wash his car despite the fact that I'm a 26-year-old woman and not a 12-year-old neighborhood hooligan, or the fact that I genuinely needed that $10.) In the end I walked all the way back to the merch table and was like, "UM, EXCUSE ME MA'AM—MY TITTIES DON'T FIT INTO THIS SHIRT" and got a more reasonably sized unisex one. In retrospect, I think I made the right choice.

5.) H&O's sax player. I mean, my God. We were in the balcony and I just had my iphone so I couldn't zoom in and get a good picture, but I wish you could have seen him. He was a "sturdy" gentleman in a blueberry blue three-piece suit with long, luxurious blond locks that ended just above his asshole. If I ever have to get really, really bad news, I want him to deliver it to me and then dive directly into a sax rendition of Jefferson Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now". I feel like I could handle literally anything after that, including but not limited to the world running out of lovers. And corporation games.

6.) I'm 99% sure I met my soulmate. I didn't so much "meet" him as gawk at him from afar, but either way, I'm glad he's in my life now. I don't really know how to say this gracefully, so I'm just going to say it: he was an incredibly large black gentleman with a gangbangery blue bandanna tied around his head who really aggressively wanted to hear "Sara Smile". He was standing in the back of the balcony one section over from mine and let me tell you something: that man likes him some Hall and Oates. And I get it. Oh how do I get it. He was rocking the fuck out the entire time. Just gettin' down with it. At one point I looked back and he was doing the like, lean back, I'm-pretending-to-turn-my-steering-wheel-back-and-forth dance move normally reserved for The Rap Videos and the like. But you know what? Paired with "I Can't Go For That", it just made sense. I liked his innovation. I also liked that he wasn't afraid to let Daryl Hall and John Oates know exactly what he wanted to hear at any given moment from half a football field away. Overall I've just never been so close to walking up to a total stranger in public and offering to have intercourse with them in a courtesy tent. And I've been to Preakness.

7.) There is no human being I am more jealous of than H&O's tambourine player. He wore a jaunty little vest and stood directly behind Hall with a tambourine in each hand and his only task of the night was to jam. And jam he did! I had this moment of clarity somewhere in the middle of the concert when I realized that the happiest I think I could ever humanly be is the following: on stage at a Hall and Oates concert wearing a big 'ole pair of espadrilles, cut-off daisy duke shorts, Confederate flag bikini top, aviator sunglasses, lighted incense sticking out of my high pony tail, a tambourine in each hand, just fucking feeling it for an hour and a half every night 'til death do us part. That is my heaven. I'm not saying it for LOLZ, I'm not saying it to be ironic; it's just truly the happiest I can imagine myself. Do I find it upsetting that the happiest I can imagine myself involves semi-racist swimwear, Hall and Oates, and a thick cloud of sandalwood? No. No, I do not. Frankly, I think it's pretty par for the course. My name is Meghan Rowland and I approve this fantasy.

- The next exciting piece of news is that we're having our first out-of-state District reader meetup this Thursday night in Omaha, Nebraska! Because I'm going to Omaha, Nebraska! In a few hours! My sister is going for business and she emailed me a few weeks ago being like, "Wanna go to Nebraska with me? We can go to the American Legion and get tacos and drink $5 pitchers of margaritas with grizzled Midwestern veterans and you can make it a solo 2b1b Investigates." And I said madam, you had me at American Legion and tacos. So, if you're in the greater Omaha, Nebraska area this Thursday night, my sister and I will be at Mr. Toad's in the Old Market at 10pm. And I know 10 is kind of late for a "school night", but we're going to see a College World Series game beforehand and I'm psyched. Not just because I like baseball, mind you, but also because I'm excited to see a collegiate sporting event when school isn't in session. My dad's company has a box at the Naval Academy stadium, so our family goes to a lot of Navy lacrosse and football games and I can't enjoy a single one because I'm too stressed out by the concept of handling a full course load and playing a sport. I drive my sister crazy because I spend the entire game leaning over and being like, "...So do you think they do their work before the game or after?" I'm sure it's just the result of having an incredibly time consuming major, but it seriously stresses me the fuck out. I thought I was going to shit my pants at my first home Navy football game because the entire school has to march out onto the field and stay to watch the game. I was like, "WHAT—THEY HAVE TO?! LIKE HAVE HAVE TO? IT'S SUNDAY! WHAT IF THEY HAVE TO WRITE A PAPER? WHAT IF THEY HAVE TOO MUCH SCHOOL WORK AND JUST CAN'T DO IT? THIS IS TWO SOLID HOURS THEY COULD BE WORKING!!!1" (Speaking of Navy lacrosse games, we were at a game a few months ago and my dad's colleague brought his daughter and her teammates who play lacrosse for American. I was like, "Oh, cool, I went to American." And they were like, "Oh, what year?" "2007. What about you guys?" "2014." WHAT??? 2014?!!?!?!? That is a class of flying cars and robot butlers and beach houses on the moon and it took everything in my power not to be like, "PSHH 2014? What's the use of getting a college degree at that point—we'll all be dead by then anyway.") 

(Also, they asked me if I played a sport at American and I swear to God I responded, "Um, no, I was more involved in the literary magazine and that kind of...scene". They slowly nodded their heads at me and immediately went back to talking to Becca about Bucknell. ALRIGHT LISTEN YOU PRISSY LITTLE SHITS: a.) AmLit was the tits and I make no apologies for it, b.) YES, WE, AS A STUDENT ORGANIZATION, HAD EMOTIONS. And we chose to channel those emotions through poetry, prose, art, photography, and design and yeah, maybe I also listened to a fair bit of The Smiths at the time, but I played sports in high school so back off, butter; and c.) you can't legally drink until like 2045, and I could make a fort in my apartment out of boxes of wine right now if I wanted to and there's nothing Johnny Law could do about it, so what's up?)

Now I don't remember what I was originally talking about. OH! Yes. Reader meetup. You should come. Because obviously from the above story, I'm super fun. Again, Mr. Toad's, 10pm. We'll be the east coasters with the metric ton of free 2b1b stickers. Email me if you have any questions!

- My third and final exciting piece of news is that I recently found out that there's a difference between base jumping and freebasing. And guess what? It's a biggie.

On that note, I will be in Nebraska until Friday night if you need me. GO HUSKERS!

Four Things:

1.) I've missed it, you've missed it, Lord knows he's missed it—it's T.G.I. Hagman!

As of 6:42am on May 20, 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! Unless he dies tomorrow in the Rapture, that is. But at least we can all go to sleep tonight comforted by the fact that he'd go to Hagman Heaven, where the bourbon never runs dry and the women are as loose as the meat sandwiches they happily serve. (That went to a questionably Roseanne-esque place, but I'm tired and can't think of anything else that's loose. Barrel curls? Like loose barrel curls you get for a wedding or formal event updo? I'll stop.)

2.) So, FYI: I'm going by my real name now. No more of this Trixie nonsense for me. When Caitlin Ex Co-Blogger Eddie and I started this blog back in '07, we wrote under the pseudonyms Patsy and Eddie because Caitlin Eddie knew that she was going to be (and is!) a social worker and didn't want her clients reading all about her wild 'n crazy lesbian adventures. I, on the other hand, didn't care. Mostly because I don't have any wild lesbian adventures to speak of and I primarily write about things that irritate me and my bowel movements. Which more often than not are one in the same. When Caitlin Eddie left the blog in '08 and I took it over as my project, I decided to use my real first name, but a fake last name so I couldn't be connected to my writing if someone looked up my name on the old google. But now that I pretty much want the exact opposite of that to happen, it doesn't really make sense to go by McBlogger anymore. Plus, "McBlogger" was just a genuinely stupid pen name. My last name doesn't even have "Mc" in it. I don't know. I made a lot of poor decisions in 2008 and writing under "McBlogger" was probably the least of them. Anyway! Good day to you, my name is Meghan C Rowland. I live in Washington, DC. I enjoy catnaps, Risk, painkillers, gold lamé, historical tours, and geography. I don't care for Facebook and only log into my account when I need to interview CJ Fam, but I am on the Twitter. I'm not the Meghan Rowland associated with @meghanrowland or facebook.com/mcrowland, though given her penchant for pantslessness in user pics, I can see the confusion. If you google "Meghan Rowland", I'm the first and ninth hit. The first is my incredibly outdated design profile and the ninth is yesterday's post. If you google "Meg Rowland", I'm not on the first page at all, but I am the first image. Which is unfortunate because it's the thumbnail version of my now defunct MySpace account's profile picture. It's from 2006. I have some unfortunate two-tone hair action going on because, again, it was 2006. For the sake of seriously just getting it all out there, this is what I look like as of two weeks ago:

I'm not hot, but I also don't have to wear a bag over my head when I run to CVS to get light bulbs. Pretty standard. Although according to my mom, re: that photo, I'm "so much prettier than that" and according to Chris, I look "laughably Jewish". So try to keep in mind I normally look better when those wacky Jew horns aren't pokin' out all over the place. It's so hard to tame them in the DC humidity... All in all, this feels incredibly anti-climactic and I apologize. Chris' "real life" online presence is considerably more interesting than mine. Mostly because it involves the 1997-1998 Texas State Mathematics League and a seriously impressive seventh grade season.

3.) I totally forgot to mention one of the most integral examples of why I feel old in yesterday's blog post! DAMN YOU MEG ROWLAND, BLOGGER AND AUTHOR, GO AHEAD AND GOOGLE THAT SHIT. DAMN YOU GOOD. I'll make it quick. 

To back up a bit, my family has been going to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival every year (ish) for the last 13 years. I can say 100% unironically that the Sheep and Wool Festival is the shit. Why? Uh, where do I start? Sheep; llamas; alpaca bunnies; emus; sheep herding contests; more lanolin-based products than you can shake a stick at; fresh Howard County, Maryland air; gyros; scarves! scarves! scarves!; funnel cake. I mean, it's pretty much the best day of the year and if you're judging me you can go straight to a lambless hell. 

Now flash forward to about a month ago when I was going through a period of being oddly fascinated by Southern culture and was watching a shit-ton of Southern beauty pageant reality-based television programming on Netflix. I became obsessed with the idea of either being in a beauty pageant or coaching someone in a beauty pageant. (And Becca better thank Christ she doesn't have a kid yet, because I wouldn't just push them into a pageant; I'd water cannon them into it. You're a boy so you can't compete? Tough titties—that's why God invented the 2011 All-American Prince Grand Supreme Overall title. Gets-a-tappin', Junior. ) I toyed with the idea of entering a Southern beauty pageant for 2b1b Investigates purposes, but after doing some research, I found a few snags in my plan: 1.) I don't actually live in the South, 2.) I'm not actually that attractive, 3.) I don't like to smile, 4.) Or talk to people, 5.) Or do community service, 6.) Or really give a shit about anything that's not an old "Thundercats" rerun and a few glasses of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay. A full-blown Southern beauty pageant was out. I had to aim lower. Much, much lower. And that's when I remembered that every year the S&W Festival crowns a MISS MARYLAND SHEEP AND WOOL. Yahtzee!

I immediately went to the Sheep and Wool Festival website and was elated to see that I hadn't missed the registration period. I was going to be Miss Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. I'm not saying that I walked around my apartment practicing sucking in/smiling, but I'm also not not saying that I walked around my apartment practicing sucking in/smiling and maybe looked at some dresses online and thought of a bullshit way that I'm actively involved in the wool industry. (I know AN single crochet stitch and once interviwed to be an associate editor at Vogue Knitting. They thanked me for my time and showed me the door once the AN single stitch part became apparent. And the whole crochet ≠ knitting thing. Again, 2008: mistakes were made.) And then, I saw it—the maximum age to enter the Miss Sheep and Wool Festival Pageant is 18-years-old. 18-fucking-years-old. I'm too old to be Miss Sheep and Wool Festival by eight years! I wish I was kidding when I say this, but this realization had a huge effect on me. I was already feeling kind of old at that point, and I think somewhere in the back of my mind I've secretly always wanted to be Miss Sheep and Wool Festival and then BAM!—I find out that I'm too old to enter by eight years. EIGHT! A child born between the last year I could have registered and now would be in third grade! They'd intellectually know the difference between there/their/they're!!!! I was freaking out and I knew there was only one thing to do: email my dad.

To: Dad

From: Meg
Subject: Dad...
I'm too old to compete for Maryland Sheep & Wool Queen and I'm having some serious emotions about it. Can you please talk me off this ledge?

To: Dad

From: Meg

Subject: RE: Dad...

There hasn't been a Ms. Sheep & Wool from Montgomery County since 1981. I was going to bring that title back home...

To: Meg

From: Dad

Subject: RE: RE: Dad...

Sometimes we have to let go of our childhood dreams and open our arms to the opportunities of adulthood. In this case, not being Miss Sheep and Wool. However, the adult opportunities do include being the National Senior Wool Ambassador. I saw her picture and she’s not that old, really. You still get to wear a sash and crown (or at least I think you get to wear a crown, although looking again at the picture the crown may actually have been the newel post from the staircase behind her) and get your picture taken with Miss this and Junior Miss this. And you get to be in the middle, sweet! However, you will have to come to grips with the fact that they will be younger than you (but certainly not prettier). But just think about all the disappointments they have coming that they are totally unaware of. That should make you smile wryly.

Miss Sheep and Wool is a young girls dream. A dream before the reality of dung encrusted wool hanging from the sheep’s butt and the juicy wonderfulness of roasted lamb replace the longing for a wet nose. That’s what pugs are for.

Having said all that, I can’t wait to go; May 7 and 8. We get the deliciously ironic experience of looking at the sheep and thinking how cute and cuddly they are while simultaneously eating sheep. Is that wrong?

Come down off of the ledge. Life IS still worth living. I know. I’ve lived it well.

Love,

Dad

To: Dad

From: Meg

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Dad...

You really know how to cut to the core of things, sir. I feel slightly better. Slightly. I can't figure out how I become the National Senior Wool Ambassador. I just want a sash and crown. And I want to wear both in public. And I want people to be impressed and not weirded out. I feel like that's not too much to ask. And I also want a gyro.

To: Meg

From: Dad

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Dad...

G-y-r-o …. Yum.

In the end, I never found out how to become the National Senior Wool Ambassador, although I did look at pricing for a "I put the ASS in National Senior Wool Ambassador!" t-shirt on Zazzle. I also didn't make it to S&WF this year because I was in Philly, coked out the githers trying to get the book done. I got really home sick when my sister texted me this picture with the message, "SHEEPIES!!!":

Sheepies. Sheepies, indeed. But I guess there's something to be said for being responsible and actually following through with something and not having to give back my advance or worrying about the logistics of how you reposess a month's worth of Chipotle and a waxing session. Because I'm old. I'm marginally more responsible. I'm less attractive than you thought. And I want a fucking gryo.

4.) On a more positive note, I randomly got a check in the mail yesterday for $5 from the government of the District of Columbia and I have no Christly idea why or what it's for. Not that that stopped me from putting it directly into my back account no less than five minutes after receiving it. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, happy weekend to you too, District of Columbia!

Welp, thanks for hanging in there with me this week while I got back in the groove of things. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning for our first instillation of Yo! Mama! Yay Diane! Buy-bye.