Adventures in Cella-Sitting

First and foremost, I'm terribly sorry that I mistakenly said Journey sang Livin' On a Prayer in Tuesday's blog post instead of Bon Jovi. I actually meant to reference Journey's Don't Stop Believin' in the first place, so my mistake all around. I went back and changed it, so please stop emailing me. Seriously. I mean, I love hearing from you guys, but I've never experienced such an influx of angry emails in all of my days of blogging. And it was because I mixed up my frat boy songs with -in' in it. Telling...

So, I'm dog-sitting Cella Hurst again for a total of 10 days and between me, you and the Pooper-Scooper—I'm shitting bricks. (BAHAHA! See what did there?!) Cella's the best; don't get me wrong. It's just that...well...how do I put this delicately? She's kind of got "one paw in the grave," if you know what I mean. She's part pit bull, part grim reaper, if you catch my drift. She's a fafillion fuckin' years old and is about to drop dead at any given second, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. Wiiiiink! Nuuuudge!

I started dog-sitting for Cella last summer and I'd be a whore and a liar if I said I wasn't worried that she'd up and die on me, even back then. I decided to keep my concerns to myself though because I didn't want to disrespect or upset Becky. I told myself that I was just being paranoid and pushed the idea of her dying on my watch out of my mind completely. But then Becca found out that I was going to be Cella-sitting for a 10 day period and blatantly sent me an email being like, "PSHHHH, that dog is going to die on you. You should probably be prepared for that now. Just sayin'." (And just to clarify, Becca is not the same person as Becky. I get that question a lot. There are two Rebecca's: Becca is my sister and Becky is our friend. Kind of like how there's Co-Blogger Chris and Tulane Chris. Except Tulane Chris is now the Co-Blogger and Co-Blogger Chris is now Ex Co-Blogger Chris, not to be confused with Ex Co-Blogger Eddie. That's easy enough, right? And people say this blog is confusing...)

Although Becca was just echoing my own fears, I made the executive decision not to listen to her and assume she was just fucking with me because quite frankly, if the roles were reversed I'd do the exact same thing to her. We're sisters, not saints. (Please tell me why I just wrote that, immediately realized it was the catchphrase for Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami and wanted to punch myself in the face.) (I'm in Miami, trick.)

...And then I got an email from Becky last week with a few last minute reminders about staying in her apartment. They were all pretty typical things you'd expect to hear from someone leaving their apartment to you before they're unreachable in Europe for a while, like who to call if I lock myself out, where to find the trash room, how to turn the AC on, the name and number of the building manager—oh, and an entire section on what to do in case Cella dies. And oh. my. squaw. I am freaking out.

I know this is absolutely nothing to complain about, but I haven't really had a lot of experience with death in my life, nevertheless dead bodies. (KNOCK ON ALL SORTS OF MOTHERFUCKING WOOD. IF I WAKE UP WITH A HORSE HEAD IN MY BED, I'M GONNA BE PISSED.) Sure I've had grandparents die, but one set was cremated and the other was Jewish so there was no reason to have a viewing. Plus I didn't even go to any of their funerals, so I feel like that separated me from the reality of death even more. (I'm not an asshole, I swear. My grandma Catherine died before I was born; my grandpa Bern's ashes are still kickin' it in a closet in my parent's house alongside the ashes of three dead cats and a poodle; I couldn't go to my grandpa Walter's funeral because it was in Long Island and I had school and I couldn't go to my grandma Betty's because, again, it was in Long Island and I was heinously sick with mono. I swear I'm not a terrible person. Well, I might be, but I certainly didn't skip all of those funerals out of choice.)

I've never even seen a dead pet's body. None of our cats died in the house; we had them all put to sleep in the end and Christ knows I wasn't emotionally strong enough to be there for that. (Actually, that's a lie. My cat Nellie died unexpectedly from Corona Disease—THE SILENT KITTY KILLER—and, ironically, it happened when we were on a family vacation and Rachel was taking care of her and my parent's house. I don't want to say "I always blamed her"...and yet, I just did. But I'm sorry, Rachel. I totally get it now. I get it.)

Come to think of it, I've never even seen a pet fish's dead body. I had a fish named Firecracker for an unprecedented six years and one day I came home from school (the first day of fifth grade, to be exact) and my dad was like, "HEY SPORT! [yes my dad is Marshall Darling in this flashback] Did you have a good day at school?" and I was all, "Yeah! I like really like my teacher and the class!" and he was like, "Well, at least you have that. Because your fish is dead. WAMP, WAMP!" I demanded to see Firecracker so I could take him out to the backyard and give him a proper burial, but my dad was like, "Ooooo...really? You're still into that scene? I kind of thought you had outgrown wanting to do that so I chucked him before I put the trash out." This plagues me to this day. Firecracker deserved better than that. He deserved better...

My point here is that I've never seen anything larger than a squirrel dead and I think I would completely lose my shit if I had to see or handle Cella's dead body. I mean, she's a grown-ass dog. She's large. Precious large. I can't imagine seeing something that large dead. It's just so fucking spooky to think about. I realize that this is probably unhealthy and I've honestly tried to take action to get over this. My dad frequently goes to Tennessee on business, so after I got fired and suddenly had a lot of free time on my hands, I proposed I go with him on his next trip and we swing by the UT Body Farm on our way home so I could see a dead body. I genuinely thought he was going to be all about this idea. If there's anything my dad loves more than me (and Becca) it's kooky adventures! Alas, he gave me a courtesy laugh and walked away. When I pressed the point, he flat-out said no and walked away again. I'm still reeling from the disappointment.

I tried again when I stayed with Eileen for my mini-cation in NYC a few weeks ago and it also failed spectacularly. Eileen is a nurse at New York Presbyterian Hospital and lives next door in the residences, so when we woke up Saturday morning and she asked what I wanted to do, I immediately answered: "MORGUE! LET'S GO NEXT DOOR TO THE MORGUE SO I CAN SEE A DEAD BODY I WANT TO SEE A DEAD BODY SO LET'S DO IT! MORGUE!" Eileen calmly tried to explain to me that you can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body, but I (rightfully) called shenanigans. She's a nurse; of course she can go to the morgue anytime she wants. She then refined her argument to I can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body because I'm not a nurse. Dedicated to the morbid cause and up for the challenge, I concocted a wacky Saved By The Bell-style scheme where I borrow a pair of her scrubs, put on a surgical mask, clip my SmartTrip to my shirt to serve as a makeshift hospital ID and follow her lead, but she seemed oddly pre-occupied with not wanting to loser her job. Pshh. Pussy. Losing your job is not the end of the world. You just get a retail job and babysit half-dead dogs all day, duh. Grow a pair.

So now I'm stuck here with the ticking time bomb that is poor little Cella until next Wednesday and every day that she doesn't die is a bigger surprise than the last. What freaks me out more than the thought of being in the same room as something dead is the conundrum of what I'm actually supposed to do with her body. Becky left me instructions in case of the worst, yes, but all she specified was what to throw out, what to keep and that what I do with the body is up to me; I can bury it, cremate it, give it to science—whatevs. While I love Cella dearly, I barely had enough money to cover the 5-dollar footlong I had for lunch, nevertheless cremation charges. This leaves burial, of course, but where the fuck am I supposed to bury a dog in Washington, D.C.? The idea of me scampering around the greater Dupont area lugging a dead pit-lab and a shovel behind me looking for a peaceful grassy knoll is slightly absurd, so I decided that GOD FORBID the worst happen, I need a game plan. And I think I've concocted one that's pretty damn air-tight.

It's a 4-man job and I think each party involved is about 52% on board with it. Considering that's over half, I think we're off to a good start. I like those figures.

Step 1 is Cella dying. And again, I honestly stress GOD FORBID. She's a sweet baby angel and it would break Becky's heart, so I seriously hope it doesn't happen. But let's just say that it does, Step 2 is to call Ex Co-Blogger Chris and ask him to come over. I really see myself in more of a directorial role throughout this entire process, so Step 3 is to direct Chris to physically pick Cella up and wrap her body in something—in my mind it's an oriental rug because if I'm being honest, I find that visual highly comical, but in reality it would probably be a blanket. Step 4 is to call Alex and ask him to drive his SUV over. Step 5 is to direct Chris and Alex to pick Cella up and put her in the back of Alex's car. Step 6 is drive to the hardware store in Eastern Market and purchase a sturdy shovel. Step 7 is to drive over to the house of the only person I know in the city who has a backyard—Helena. Step 8 is to knock on Helena's door and motion towards the oriental rug and/or blanket. Step 9 is for Helena to open the door and direct us to the backyard, before making a nice pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. I had originally planned for Step 10 to be a round-robin rock/paper/scissor tournament to see who has to dig the grave, but upon hearing Step 9, Chris said he'd, quote, "do anything for free lemonade," so Step 10 is for Chris to dig a ditch deep enough so Cella won't resurface when it rains, while the rest of us sip lemonade and watch his muscles glisten and gleam in the sun. Step 11 is to direct Chris and Alex to gently lower Cella into the grave. Step 12 is to direct Chris to pile the dirt on, bless Cella's heart. Step 13 is for us to go around in a circle and say a few kind words about the life and times of Cella Hurst before I play Danny Boy on the fife I got sophomore year when I went to Colonial Williamsburg with my parents for Fall Break while the sun sets. Step 14? Heal.

I feel slightly better knowing that I have such a well-thought-out and foolproof plan, but I'm still anxious. But, only 7 more days to go...7 more days.

Stay strong, little friend!

Reflections while watching a DVD: A Tulane Chris Production

First of all, why I hate Memphis. EVERYTHING, except granted good ribs.

- You have to drive through SO MUCH MISSISSIPPI to get there from New Orleans.

- I have never been so lost in my entire life. We went to the airport twice trying to get back to the hotel.

- Black people at Kroger. I didn’t mind them at all. What I minded was Giant Camel giggling like a loon, poking me in the ribs every thirty seconds, and saying, “Chris. You’re the only white person here. Chris. Look. Look at your arm. Now look at anyone else in the store. You’re the only white person here.” HE TELLS THIS STORY. As an anecdote. As though it had a plotline.

- Graceland, oh my God. I was told you could just go in and look at the grounds and the grave, without taking the mansion tour. WRONG. You have to wait in a line of about 200 people to pay $40 to take a bus across the street, and you must stay with the group. I hate staying with the Goddamn group. Graceland was the point of going through Memphis instead of Atlanta and was just a total wash.

- The worst men’s room ever. On our way out, we stopped at a gas station for a standard road trip drink-and-pee. There was a metal plate protecting the lock ON THE GATE, and it took about three minutes to contort everything to open the GATE to get to the men’s room. It was so filthy. The water in the urinal was black, and the less said about the commode, the better. I used the drain in the floor.

Second, I had no idea I had so many feelings about DVDs/movies/Netflix until I started planning this post.

Reflections while watching a DVD: A Tulane Chris Production

• Netflix knows I’m gay. I had a conversation about this months ago with Ex-Co-Bloggeuse Eddie, and it’s only gotten worse. Netflix is cannier than a thrice-divorced aunt, and they can peg you for a homo from fifty yards. They start out casual and low-pressure. “Chris, based on your taste preferences, we think you’d enjoy The Golden Girls: Season 5.” Well, DUH. Add The Golden Girls, and then “Chris, based on your preferences, we think you’d like Ellen: Season 4.” Okay, great. And then “Based on your apparent homoseuxality, we think you’d like Brazilian Boy-Toys Number 6: A Lot Of Hispanic Guys Going At Each Other.” And… granted, but I don’t like Netflix being that perceptive. And for all their sneakiness, they have the sensitivity and aesthetics of a mai tai-drunk fag hag on the prowl. Their recommendations quickly take on the same shrill tone as “Do you want to go shopping? It’ll be FABULOUS!” Netflix has recommended to me about seventeen hundred “light-hearted” gay romantic “comedies” with this plot: Nice guy wants more than just sex. BUT HOW DO YOU FIND THAT in the WACKY GAY SUBCULTURE of [New York or Los Angeles]? Gym rats playing out Protestant morality plays in the Western world’s two least livable cities sounds like a pitch for a satire, but isn’t.

• Since Netflix knows all and sees all, who do I think I’m kidding? I have a short attention span and an infantile sense of humor. I like to watch goofball sitcoms and movies that follow this rubric: (Zombies/giant insects/an unseen evil) attack (townsfolk/villagers) while creating a terrible mess. As intelligent and urbane as I like to pretend I am, I don’t have the attention span for examinations of the human spirit. Viscera, sure; spirit takes too long. Yet I still add all these Herzegovinan historical epics to my queue so I’ll seem “worldly,” and then one of two things happens: I either keep bumping up Designing Women to avoid them, or I forget and actually get Mishtenka, billed as “a Communist Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” I proceed to put it on while I wash dishes, send it back, and claim to have seen it.

• Widescreen? Really? Widescreen itself doesn’t bother me, but people who insist on it do. Granted, I’m a bigger Philistine than Goliath, but I refuse to believe it makes any difference. I lump these people in with other people I believe are lying: people who claim to like Jackson Pollock, people who claim not to like pornography, and people who claim that they like to drive stick shifts.

• Das Boot, my most recent “Oops I meant to get Ghostbusters,” is three and a half hours long. Fuck me. No movie needs to be that long. If someone tried to tell you a story that lasted three hours, you’d call the police and start reading the news on your phone, but if some German auteur with dots in his name does it, he gets called “subversive.” I also hate when cultural artifacts like TV shows or movies are called “subversive.” They never are. Cannibalism is subversive. Arson is subversive. Mass entertainment is the opposite of subversive. I don’t care how many jokes about Republicans are in it, if Disney, Viacom, or Exxon gets a penny from it, it’s not fucking subversive.

• The remote is the same color as the carpet, and the frustration this has caused has probably shaved a measurable amount of time off my life.

• DVD extras have gotten as out of hand as the Gosselins. Why does Soccer Dog need a Romanian language track? Cast bios for Night of the Living Dead? Who cares if “featured corpse” bought a Honda dealership? And, my favorite to hate, commentaries. I don’t care, I don’t care, and I don’t care. They never have the extra I want, which is a bloopers reel. Vivien Leigh calling Clark Gable a motherfucker. Adrien Brody just a little too drunk to make it through the scene. Robert Downey Jr. way too drunk to get through the scene. Bea Arthur punching a boom mike operator in the mouth. Jane Fonda falling into the mud. That’s an extra. Woody Allen trying to explain why his impotence led him to make boring movies? PASS.

• I think one of the clearest indicators that the world is in decline is the shift in the meaning of “piracy.” Circle the situation that is badass: Gold-hungry marauders in the pay of a queen blasting away the defenses of a Spanish settlement and looting it – OR – downloading Three Men and a Baby from BitTorrent. This makes me wonder what petty crime will be called “terrorism” in three hundred years. My money’s on prank calls.

In closing, this week’s “Sorr about the bag":

“When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, ‘What will I be?’

‘Will I be pretty, or will I be rich?’

Here’s what she said to me:

‘Sorr about the bag.’”

I love you, Beth Cooper. But I hate you, Paul Simon.

I am super-duper sorry about the No Post Monday yesterday. I worked the longest and most draining shift ever Sunday and overslept Monday morning as a result. I woke up 45 minutes before I had to be at work again and had to choose between writing a blog post or being on time and wearing pants. I made my choice. Was it the right one? Only time will tell. Although I'm tempted to think it wasn't as I went with the option that involved pants, but either way, I'm sorr about the bag.

I'm not going to lie, guys, I'm kind of psyched to be part of the workforce again. I'm sure this will prove to be a temporary feeling, but I really feel less like a dirt bag and waste of space now that I'm working. Normally at the end of the day I'm like, "Welp! Today I watched two back-to-back episodes of Who's The Boss, stared out the window, did some light Wikipedia work and wrote a blog post about hookworms—you're welcome, society." Now I just feel productive and tired. Yeah, I work retail which isn't exactly what I always wanted to be when I grew up, but I like the people I work with, I'm back in a creative environment and I don't feel the need to pack a cyanide pill in my lunchbox every morning anymore—what more could a girl ask for? (Side note: I love em dashes. If I weren't married to Talia on Facebook, Em Dash and I would be in a relationship slightly more serious than anyone should ever be in with something the width of a capital M. That being said, reader @a_trout replied to something I said on Twitter the other day with the following:

@2birds1blog I applaud the usage of an em dash in that tweet, even if they are ugly as sin.

...Dude. You have no idea how much that tweet fucked up my game. Because now every time I use an em dash, I get all paranoid that I'm using the "ugly as sin" dash and offending all of my readers. Ultimately I don't really give a shit, bless your hearts, but I resent having to take that extra millisecond out of my day to internally debate whether they're ugly or not. It throws my game off completely and stresses me out. I don't know much about you, @a_trout, but I do know the following:

1.) You're from Rochester, NY
2.) You evidently enjoy triple-decker sandwiches
3.) You just broke up a very happy home with me and the em dash.

I hope you're happy with yourself, sir.)

Although I actually like my job for once, it's still not a perfect situation. I promised myself I wouldn't really get into the specifics because I actually like my manager and co-workers and don't want to get fired (NEW EMOTIONS!), but I will admit that there's one person at work who I can't fucking stand. He ruins every single shift I work and frankly, I don't care if he knows it. I'm naming names. His name is Paul—Paul Simon.

The same eight Paul Simon songs. Over and over again. All day long.

I hate you, Paul Simon. I hate you and I hate your "music" and it feels so unbelievably liberating to say it here and now. I hate your whiny voice; I hate your hair cut; I hate your beady little eyes; I hate your glasses; I hate that you let Chevy Chase boss you around in the "You Can Call Me Al" video, I hate Edie Brickell and I really hate the song "What I Am", so it only makes sense that you married her; I hate that people judge me and assume I have horrible taste in music when I tell them how much I hate you; I DESPISE the song "Scarborough Fair" (side note: this really doesn't have anything to do with Paul Simon, but during the first few weeks of college freshman year, I was in Ashleigh's room hanging out and getting to know her, etc. when "Scarborough Fair" came on her iTunes. I freaked out and was like, "Oh my god, I hate this song. It's so unbelievably depressing and there's kind of a story behind it for me and just—gah, can you turn it off and never play it around me again?" She turned it off, no questions asked, and later told me she assumed it was a dead relative's favorite song or something and every time I hear it it reminds me of them.

I was hanging out in her room with a few people a month or so later and it came on her iTunes again. Without me even asking, she apologized and turned it off right away. Someone else in the room asked why it's such a painful song for me, so I told them the story behind it—it's the song that plays in the 2000 Jason Biggs/Mena Suvari movie Loser when Jason Biggs is sitting in Washington Square Park all depressed because he doesn't have any friends. Every time I saw that scene (it was on HBO for a while; don't judge me.) I'd be like, "ahhh! He goes to NYU and doesn't have any friends! That's going to be me!" and get ultra depressed. After hearing that, Ashleigh was like, "...SERIOUSLY? THAT'S THE REASON YOU CAN'T LISTEN TO THAT SONG?!" Honestly, that was probably a pretty good introduction to the kind of illogical reasoning you have to deal with on a daily basis when you're friends with me. But she stuck with, so it can't be that annoying, right?...RIGHT?!

In short: I hate Paul Simon. And I should mention this hatred isn't a result of hearing his music on repeat all day at work. We play the same Michael Bublé CD over and over again and guess what? I physically can't get enough of it. That man can croon. It's just Paul Simon's music that makes me want to claw my own ears off mid-transaction.

I should also clarify that I hated Paul Simon way before I ever got this job. His Graceland album was a staple in the McBlogger family car growing up and after years of being forced to listen to it anytime we went anywhere, it mysteriously vanished. It was this big to-do because my parents thought Becca lost it, but she maintained that it must have fallen out of the CD player when the car was getting serviced at the dealership and we never got a new one because nobody would step up to the plate and take the blame. Little did they know that I took that CD, broke it into 5,000 little pieces and buried it in an unmarked grave down by the river. And when I was done, I pissed on that grave, flicked my cigarette onto the freshly disturbed soil and laughed and laughed. Just kidding. I didn't do any of that. I think it fell out at the dealership, but! I was fuckin' psyched when it's reign of terror was over.

There was a lull in business on Sunday and I decided to take that time to make a comprehensive list of everything I would rather listen to than Paul Simon. I leave you now with that list.

Things I Would Rather Listen to Than Paul Simon:

- Pan flute music

- A baby cry

- Car breaks screech

- A lonely fog horn

- A pregnant woman in labor

- Jill Zarin and Bethenny Frenkel work out their differences

- A slain dragon take it's last, dying breath

- Russell The Homophobic Co-Worker suck air through his teeth

- The waiter at T.G.I. Friday's tell me today's specials. Again.

- A disco whistle

- A college a capella group sing Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. But not like the best a capella group on campus, the group that when you don't get into the best group you're roommate comforts you by saying, "Aww, it's OK! You could always try out for ________ !" That group singing Journey's Don't Stop Believin'.

- My neighbor having slappy sex

- Someone trying to convince me that global warming is a myth, as evidenced by The Snowpocalypse

- A good pussy story

- Amateur slam poetry

- Two hours of Bob Saget stand-up comedy

- My mom lecture me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym right after my mom lectures me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym right after my mom lectures me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic during my birthday dinner

- An Evening with Kevin Smith

- A passive-aggressive sigh

- Vern "Mini-Me" Troyer talk about Heath Ledger's death on Access Hollywood

- Someone practice their cockney accent for a local production of Oliver!

- Evie scrow

- Someone talk about how their college really emphasized community service

- Any given Nickelback song

- Someone talk about how good it feels to go to the gym early in the morning before work

- The pros and cons of NuvaRing

- A vacuum cleaner going over broken glass

- A single mother talking about how it's just so hard

- The benefits of veganism

- John Mayer performing a never-ending mic check

- The soft whimpers of a grown man crying himself to sleep

- Ke$ha's "Tik-Tok". (I know, strong words.)

- Angry mid-90's Riot Grrrl music

- Dane Cook discuss the craft of acting

- The meanest anonymous comments ever left on the blog read aloud by Fran Drescher

FIN!

(8 minutes in. Get tissues.)

Sorr about the bag. And by bag, I mean lack of posting.

As of 10:47am on April 16th, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! BEST. BIRTHDAY PRESENT. EVER.

That's right, today is my 25th birthday. Bitch be old. I mention this less to get attention and more so to explain why there won't be a post today. Sorr about that. I still have strong feelings for you that border on love. It's just that I switched shifts with someone at work today specifically so I could sleep in and spend all day pantsless in bed doing fuck all. I feel like of all people, you'd understand.

Hope you guys have a great weekend and we'll see you right back here bright and early Monday morning! Buh-bye!

Closing a can of worms...

Alright, Miss Helena. You wanted the 2b1b communities' opinion? WELP! You certainly got it, didn't you, blue eyes?! As of 2:30am on April 15th, the total worm tally is as follows: 118 votes for Team Meg and 30 votes for Team "Hookworm Helena," as they're calling you now. Mr. Rogers, Ira Glass and "sorr about the bag" each got a few votes as well, but I'm not counting them for our purposes. God bless all three though.

Out of all 30 meager votes for Helena, none surprised me more than Alex's. I actually woke up Tuesday morning (it was obviously Tuesday afternoon, I don't why I'm putting on airs here) to the sound of the voicemail alert on my phone and saw that Alex had called twice and left a voicemail asking to call him back immediately. Everytime Alex calls from work and asks me to call him back in a rushed voice, I have a small heart attack and think someone we know has died. I think it's because I know that Alex is legitimately busy all day at a demanding job, so it makes me nervous to see that he's taking time out of it to call me when he can just as easily text, email or gchat. So I always call back expecting to hear that Andrew's been hit by a bus or something equally traumatizing and instead he just wants to know what the lyrics mean in the High School Musical song "Get Your Head in the Game" when Zac Effron says, "Don't be afraid to shoot the outside J." True story...

And I'll never learn my lesson. My heart was seriously pounding as I called him back Tuesday morning afternoon and he casually picked up the phone all, "Hi! What's up?"

"UH, YOU'VE BEEN ASKING ME TO CALL YOU BACK ALL MORNING! WHAT'S GOING ON?!

"Oh! Yeah! I just thought I should let you know—you're wrong," Alex said.

"Wrong about what?"

"The hookworm thing. You're wrong." he said, in an obnoxiously matter-of-fact tone.

"I'm not wrong."

"No, you really are. Helena's right. If I could end all of this by swallowing a few worms, I'd do it in a heart beat."

"WHAT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'ALL OF THIS'?! WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT GENOCIDE IN DARFUR, ALEX, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT ALLERGIES!"

"Yeah. Well. You're still wrong and I thought I should let you know. Ooo, someone just walked in, gotta go!" Click.

It was like my entire world caved in upon itself. Something that I was so sure of was being refuted by both Helena and Alex. Two of the people I respect most in this crazy, mixed up world. I felt alone and I felt confused. I sat there in my bed hugging my knees and gently rocking back and forth as the morning sunlight early evening twilight streamed through the windows.

Then I went out to dinner with Becca and her fiance—both of whom are extreme allergy sufferers and can't even look at Evie without their throats closing up (a curse I can't even begin to fathom)—who both adamantly agreed that I'm right and Alex and Helena are crazy wrong. I felt considerably better, but still slightly shook up.

Thus, I was extremely comforted by the results of Tuesday's tally and am glad that the greater 2b1b community agrees that I'm right and Helena can suck the proverbial it. Lord love her.

I would, however, like to address the following comment:

- From Amanda,


Fair enough, Amanda. Fair enough. Here you are—my amended rebuttal:

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.


Check and mate, dear reader. Check and mate.

Also, a few friends and readers on the comment board brought up that if hookworms make you lose weight in addition to getting rid of allergies, then they'd totally consider doing it. Some were even a little surprised I hadn't thought of that. UM, SERIOUSLY? OK, look, I'm not trying to front—let's not pretend like I haven't contemplated swallowing a Livestrong bracelet or two in my life to give myself a DIY gastric lap-band surgery. I'd like to drop a few pounds before my sister's wedding and Lord knows I love the easy way out. That being said, I WOULD NEVER SWALLOW WORMS! I'm curvy, not k-k-crazy, thank you. Christ.

Finally, one of Alex's main arguments when we talked later on gchat was that the hookworms are so small you can't feel them, so who cares? Well, sir, I'd like to direct you to the following video Dave sent me today. (AND WHEN YOU WATCH THIS AND INEVITABLY FEEL THE NEED TO PLUCK YOUR EYEBALLS OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN 'EM THROUGH THE DISHWASHER SEVERAL TIMES, DON'T COME CRYING TO ME. IT'S ALLLLLL DAVE'S FAULT. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.)


I don't give a shit if I can't feel it; just knowing that's going on inside me is enough to make me want to slice open my stomach with a moderately sharp object and remove my intestines completely. And I know everyone's going to say, "Oh but Meg, you're so simple and country! You naturally have all sorts of parasites and worms living inside of you right now!" And that is fine and dandy. God put those worms there and there they shall stay and I'll never think about them again. But having to go throughout life knowing that I elected to put extra worms in my stomach brings way more attention to their existence than I ever needed and I can totally foresee it consuming my thoughts until I live a Howard Hughes-like existence where I never leave the house, have creepily long finger nails and fear "The Bacteria."

So you guys can handle it? Good on ya. I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry, it's my cross to bear—I don't want hookworms. I'm a weirdo, I know.

Sigh.

Well, this feels like a rather aggressive note to end the blog on. Sorry Helena. Sorry Alex. I'll raise you a video clip and one Q&A with Doctor Reuben to cleanse the pallet, how's that?

First, kudos to Ex-Co Blogger Eddie for finding an entire page of Clone High themed thongs on Cafe Press! She also found a band from Canada called "Captain Lavender" on MySpace. Captain Lavender: a band name based on a Clone High reference so obscure, I'd have sex with each and every member. Twice.

I can't decide which thong I want the most. I'm pretty sure it's the ...WESLEY one. I don't even know what I'd do if I was hooking up with someone and discovered they were wearing Clone High underwear. Probably eff them all the way to town hall and promise to be the Joan of Arc to their Abe Lincoln 'til death do us part. I guess. And if I owned said Clone High themed underwear? Well, I'd probably just sit at home and masturbate all day. So there's that.


And just for shits and gigs, here's a super quick Doc Reuben Q&A I came across today:

But how long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to reach from his body to the ground." From a realistic point of view, the normal size for a penis is long enough to reach from a man's body into the vagina. As long as the sperm can be delivered without spilling, reproduction is facilitated. Since penile size is a hereditary characteristic, transmitted genetically, any man whose penis is too short to reach the vagina will have difficultly reproducing; truly a short-penised race would have died out half a million years ago.

--------------

I am in no way kidding when I say that the first time I read this, I, for the hottest of hot seconds, completely thought this is where it was going:

How long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to fuck a woman." And the same principle applies to the penis.

Abe Lincoln was this close to replacing Franklin Peirce as my favorite U.S. President. This close.

Fat Kids

First: I’m so thrilled to be contributing to this blog. Meg is the funniest person I know, and I’m excited to get to work with her. I’ve also had really positive experiences with the few readers I’ve interacted with, which is a step up from the blog I used to co-write, which got death threats. (From one French-Canadian Orthodox Jew, so not like ACTUAL KILLING but still.) Co-Blogger Chris will be a hard act to follow, so if I fuck up I’ll start blogging in green and we can alllll pretend…

Second: Meg and I totally hooked up once. On Oscar nominee Abigail Breslin’s brother’s sofa. She’s good.

Third: I’m so pleased that my “sorr about the bag” thing worked. I think about “sorr about the bag” most days. My faves:

Meg pity-fucks a butter-face guy, but takes the usual butter-face precaution. She is sorr about the bag.

Meg gets a job tending a mountain hotel for the winter. As madness sets in, Co-Blogger Chris inspects her manuscript, only to find that it reads:

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

Meg vomits in a friend’s purse. “Uh… sorr about the bag?”

It even got the point where when I’d play video games and the characters would say their little pre-recorded taunts, I would respond “sorr about the bag” – aloud, to myself.

“If you seek to destroy the power of Apocalypse, X-Men, you must first defeat the Scarlet Witch!”

“SORR ABOUT THE BAG, WANDA”

The telegram was surprisingly expensive but totally worth it. Let’s make “sorr about the bag” the new “SIKE!” (“Psych?” I’ve never been sure…)

Fourth: Fat kids. I wanted to have this big amazing well-done “Ready or not… here comes Tulane Chris” post, so I half-wrote one about my funeral and one about what I would do if I were a TV executive. Neither of them quite worked, and I was worried I’d lost my touch, when I realized something,

I never told you about the fat kids.

Now, for me, fat kid is a state of mind. It is possible – just – to be fat, and a child, without being a fat kid. It is also possible – easily – to be an adult fat kid. (Full disclosure: in high school, I had junior year third period “Theatrical Design,” also called “dick around on the stage and paint AN prop.” We started bringing food to class – not like “oh here are some Ritz” but like RIBS – and I started calling it “fat class” and it became a tradition. I will, however, point out that I was the slenderest person in the class at the time.) Wherever broken dreams and empty Sno-Ball wrappers lay thick on the ground… there are fat kids. Wherever the smell of desperate sweat mixes with the heady tang of Cheez Curls, there are fat kids. Wherever a homosexual vegetarian in the tenth grade wearing short-shorts leaves a pint of ice cream on the counter for an hours and then drinks it before putting together THE most elaborate Christmas decorations in our entire town… there they are. (I absolutely went to high school with this kid.)

Anyway. Last summer, my boyfriend, hereafter known as Giant Camel, and I drove from central Texas to Philadelphia. It was a wonderful trip, blah blah, I love New Orleans and my boyfriend and seeing new places, whatever. The funny parts happened in Tennessee. Memphis was a nightmare, so we r-r-r-raced across long lean Tennessee to get to the highlight of the trip.

Dollywood.

Dollywood is wonderful. You don’t have to love Dolly to enjoy it, but if you love Dolly it’s the best thing in the world. It was the Tennessee sales-tax holiday so everyone else was at the outlet mall, so the park was thinly populated. Blah blah, one of the most nearly perfect days of my life, happiness isn’t funny.

So.

We get to the head of the rollercoaster line, and we see that the park people are having trouble closing the safety bar on this woman. At one point they actually – yes – lift her fat to try to get the bar to close under it. I could never do something like that. I would honestly rather die than say, “Ma’am? Let me just pick up your fat here, and we’ll try to get this bar down to your pubic bone.” I could lift the fat, but I could never say that. Anyway, she had to get off and wait for her friends to ride.

They made her wait in a little corral.

She couldn’t go back through the line and apparently didn’t want to leave without her party, so they shooed her back to a little area to the side with a chain across it, put her in, and rechained it so she wouldn’t get run over by the rollercoaster. This corral is in FULL VIEW OF ALL RIDERS, and when we finished our ride and got off there were three people in it. Three.

So, more Dollywood, and then we leave. As we go across the parking lot, a car passes in front of us, and in the back seat is literally the largest child I’ve ever seen. He’s slumped in the seat, bulging over the seatbelt, breathing shallowly. It was like watching a python digest a sumo wrestler.I have no idea what they did at the park, because I’m not sure this kid could walk, and I’m absolutely sure he was too big for the rollercoaster. Maybe that was why? A good dose of Corral Time and he’ll stop putting chocolate syrup in his Yoo-Hoo?

It was too hot to eat all day so we stop at the Ryan’s on our way back. Those of you who missed the greasy joys of a Southern upbringing may not know about Ryan’s. It’s basically Golden Corral, but not as fancy. If you’re too tired to dress up enough for Golden Corral, you go to Ryan’s.

Now, I am an eater from way back. I was dipping popcorn shrimp in honey mustard when I saw this, and I was still shocked. A family at a table near us had gotten up to leave, but one little girl was still at the table. I heard a shriek, and I turned to see this girl, red-faced, tears leaking out of her little screwed-up eyes, holding onto the table with both hands for dear life and hissing “I’m. Not. READY! I’m. Still. HUNGRY!” Everyone was staring. Everyone at the all-you-can-eat buffet in the Deep South was staring at this little girl’s gluttony tantrum. We had our choice of three kinds of pork, three gravies, and full access to a dessert bar, there was a bucket of ranch dressing in the room, and this eight-year-old girl was putting all us button-straining Confederate eaters to shame.

Ending posts is clearly my weak spot, as attested by the Terry Cooper “and then he bought a motorcycle” ending, which is true but lacks any and all dramatic tension. If this were a short story, I could make up a future for this girl, full of curly fries and boyfriends with beautiful brown eyes who say things like “I like a soft woman” and get employee discounts at Sonic. If this were CNN, I could end this post with some vague, not particularly helpful “tips” for making children marginally less overweight, i.e. “Take the refrigerator out of your child’s bedroom, or stock it with healthy snacks like chicken stock and raw yams.” And if I were giving a report to Ryan’s stockholders, I could just draw little pigs at a trough throwing cash in the air. As it is, I’ll just ask that, next time you enjoy a delicious meal, take a bite for the little girl at Ryan’s. She’ll thank you for it.

Opening up a can of worms...

I'm going to level with you about something: I'm not always right. BOOM. There it is. It's something I've come to terms with over the years and frankly, I feel like a better person for having done so. Would I say I'm right about most things? Yes. Yes, I would. But! I acknowledge that there's always a chance that I could be wrong.

Here are some things that I've been wrong about recently:

- Thinking that wiping sitting down is weird and wiping standing up is normal. I was wrong. My mistake.

- Thinking that most little boys don't see their dad's junk outside of a molestery arena. Incorrect! After last week's Dr. Reuben post, a few readers pointed out that it's actually pretty common for a dad to pee next to his son while potty-training him to show how it's done. And upon further reflection, that completely makes sense. Point taken.

- Thinking that most men don't compare the size of their junk to their father's. Again, thanks to very kind and open readers, I've come to learn that as a result of the above, it's actually pretty common. And again, it totally makes sense.

- Thinking that Cal Ripken, Jr. is a known wife-beater. Which isn't true, but for years I thought it was and maybe kind of spread it around town like it was a known fact. It turns out that he's not though. I was actually thinking of Garth Brooks. And even that's not true. I was just thinking of the antagonist in his incendiary The Thunder Rolls video. My bad, guys.

My point here is that while I can be stubborn about some things, I'm genuinely not one of those people who always thinks they're right about everything and says good day to anyone who says otherwise. I like to keep an open mind, even when it comes to my own ignorance.

That being said, HELENA IS WRONG ABOUT SOMETHING AND I'M RIGHT AND I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT COULD BE ANY OTHER WAY. HELENA = WRONG. MEG = RIGHT. COULD I BE MISTAKEN? NO. CASE CLOSED.

Let me break it down for you. Helena and Laura came over last night to enjoy some rooftop wine and Chipotle action and somewhere along the line, Helena brought up an interesting This American Life piece she heard on NPR about a guy who got rid of his allergies by traveling to Africa and stomping around barefoot in a pile of scorching hot human poo, thereby picking up hookworms. Because apparently if you have a couple dozen hookworms camping out in your guts, allergies are a thing of the past. But it doesn't stop there! So content with this miracle cure, was he, that he starting selling the hookworms he shat out on the internet to help out other allergy sufferers! You can listen to the entire piece here. (10 minutes in.) (If you dare.)

Now, I thought Helena brought this up in a HA, HA CAN YOU BELIEVE THE WORLD WE LIVE IN?! KOOKY! kind of way, but after a few minutes of her defending this guy tooth to nail and snapping at me and Laura for being so grossed-out, it became increasingly clear that she brought this up because she thinks it's a good idea. To which I say no. Just, no. I say no to her, I say no to him, I say no to the hookworms, I say no to procuring hookworms on the internet from a man's asshole, I say no to parasites as an option for allergy relief, I say no to Ira Glass, I just say no to the entire situation. That's my entire argument: no. And I think it's pretty damn good one, if you ask me. And there's absolutely no chance that I could be wrong. I'm right. So there's that. Good day.

This fired Helena up like nothing I've ever seen before and she fought long and hard to persuade us to see her side of the worm. Did we? No. Of course we didn't. Why? Because, no.

"FINE! Then you go on your blog tomorrow and you ask your readers what they think! THEN WE'LL SEE WHO'S WRONG!" she challenged.

Oh, really? You sure you want to open those floodgates? Because we're not talking about the politics of ass-wiping, and I'm not mixing up my rednecks with blue eyes and shorn hair—WE'RE TALKING ABOUT PURPOSELY INGESTING WORMS WITH RAZOR SHARP FANGS TO KEEP THE SNIFFLES AWAY. Something tells me I might be right on this one. Sorry to get all cocky about it.

It blows my fucking mind that Helena, of all people, thinks this is a good idea and given the opportunity, she'd totally do this. Normally that would be enough to make me question myself and think something is wrong with me, but NO! Nothing is wrong with me. I'm right; she's wrong. And if she wants you guys to be the judge and jury on this one, then that's fine with me! I am more than comfortable with that.

Here's what she has to say for herself:

I've suffered from vicious allergies my entire life. The constantly runny nose, the leaking from every facial orifice, and general cranial discomfort. But I've come to accept it. UNTIL NOW.

Picture it: The Bus. 6:30 on a Monday morning en route to work. Listening to This American Life and suddenly I regain consciousness! Because there is a COMPELLING story re: allergies. Apparently there's a cure. HALLELUJAH.

Pros: NO MORE ZYRTEC.
Cons: living with hookworms.

Listen, as the world's biggest neat freak (seriously, I lost a BFF/roommate over this) I can respect the desire to not inject a parasite, but this is 1000% worth the trade-off. And I know that's not a real percentage. I'll take anything Radio Lab's Jad Abumrad says as gospel, but I think this is the most useful story he's done. Slash most upsetting. Essentially, getting comfortable with a few hookworms living inside you means you'll never have an allergy again. All they'll do is sing your immune system gentle lullabies and take a very small percentage of nutrients from your digestive system in return. Parasites are a part of life and in this part of the world, we've done a bit too much suffocation of the good stuff. All we need is a bit more action from our primordial partners.

Listen to the segment. In Ye Olde Western World, we're too clean and we've effed ourselves over. I'm not going to say I'm comfortable with mail ordering Jasper's excrements. BUT as soon as the FDA is on board with lab-approved treatments, I'm IN. Until then, sorry Jad/Jasper, I'm holding off. I really need a clean bill of health. I only hope it happens soon.

My rebuttal:

No.

OK, I'll expand slightly. (Although I don't think I have to.) Reasons why Helena, bless her heart, is bat-bird crazy:

- Let me get this straight, you don't think the word "poon" is civilized, but you're A-OK with a shanty town of hookworms living in you?? Shenanigans.

- I have allergies too. They blow. I've been on a steady IV drip of Mucinex and Claritin D for the past month. It's irritating. However, it is not irritating enough to INGEST WORMS! What's the big deal with taking a pill? Hookworms are like the IUD of allergies; they're invasive and creepy and I don't care how many doctors tell me you can't feel 'em—I'd just rather take a pill everyday. If Mucinex and OrthoTriCyclin teamed up, I'd buy a Costco membership in 15 seconds flat.


- That's how confident I am in my side of the debate. One of my arguments is literally just a picture of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Why? Because it's not of hookworms.


- Because those are hookworms. They're the size of a piece of hair and they wriggle around your lower intestines mooching off your salad. No fucking thank you.


- FANGS!

- I can understand the argument that the First World is too clean and we're actually hurting ourselves in the long run (mainly because I saw an episode of House about it...) but that means I'm willing to go to the extremes of drinking tap water to get more fluoride and don't feel the need to excessively Purell my hands day and night. IT DOES NOT MEAN THAT I WANT TO INGEST WORMS!

- If it was a matter of life or death, I would obviously ingest the damn worms. If I picked up some parasite that could only be killed by another kind of parasite, which could eventually be killed off by medicine; fine. Give me all the worms in your worm farm and then some. However, I'm talking about a life or death situation. I'm not experimenting with parasites in my body to get rid of watery eyes and and the occasional sneeze.

- "But pills have chemicals! Worms are natural!" OH I'M SORRY, HIPPIE! Does that mean I get to take away all of the bleach you so regularly clean your house with? Maybe moonbeams and flower power will get your bathtub to sparkle, huh??

Look, Helena...I love you more than Hagman and Rasta Pug combined, but you're just wrong. The entire situation is wrong. But because I recognize that there's always the (very, very, microscopically small) chance that I'm not right here, I open up the floor to you readers and invite you to weigh in on the matter.

Thank you for your input and I'm sorry to Helena in advance.