Are You There God? It's Me, Meggles.

I've been 26 for a little over a month now and I still find it upsetting. I know every year when my birthday rolls around, I'm all, "OMG HAHA I FEEL SO OLD, LOLOL!!", but this is the first year that I actually mean it. Because I am waaaaay too immature to be as old as 26 feels. My peers are getting married and it's not because they're white trash or in the military—because it's age appropriate. I think about where I am now at 26 versus where my friends are, and I feel like I should be living in my parent's basement playing World of Warcraft all day, still trying to touch my first boob. I'm just so fuckin' behind.

My dad once told me that getting older is weird because in his mind, he's been the 18-year-old version of himself for the past 45 years. I get that, on an obviously much smaller scale. In my mind, I've been the 22-year-old version of myself for the past four years. I look at recently tagged photos of myself on Facebook and can't believe that's what I look like. In my mind and in the mirror, I'm always 2007 Meg. And aesthetically speaking, 2007 was a good year for me. I was always either in class or working in the design lab, so I only ate like a meager piece of turkey and a hand full of Bugles everyday, plus 20 cups of coffee a Klonopin or two before class to shift me back to neutral. I was so fucking thin. So fucking unhealthy, and so fucking thin. Also, New York hadn't happened and my entire life hadn't fallen apart yet, so my body chemistry still had a few more years before it would be raped and pillaged by antidepressants. Now I look at pictures of myself and think I just look like a tired and puffy version of the old me. It's depressing. Which is ironic. But mostly depressing.

While I can always get more sleep and wean myself off my meds (which I've started doing! 360mg to 27.5! Sure, the Prince of Darkness occasionally tells me to burn things and cut myself, but guess who can fit into those skinny jeans again, GIRLFRIEND???), I can't change how I feel. And despite having the maturity of a HOOF ARTED? t-shirt, I find myself feeling old more and more these days. Here are some recent examples:

- I saw that Lara was on gchat the other night and I knew she had just come back from her big end of year...grad school...art...instillation...thing, so I checked her status to see how it went. Upon reading something to the effect of, "I think I just kicked ass!", my 100% honest to God reaction was to say, out loud, to no one in particular, as I was alone: "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC!!!" in full Austin Powers voice. The absurdity of what I had just done startled me. It was like a bat had flown in the window. I jumped, my eyes went wide in horror, I made a little "meep!" noise—I couldn't believe what had just happened. I was, and frankly still am, so confused where that came from and why my body's natural reaction upon learning good news was to bust out a 14-year-old pop culture reference. The only way it could have been better is if I had said, "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC-A-ZIGGA-ZIG-AHHH I DON'T KNOW IF YOU HEARD BUT THEY CLONED A SHEEP AND THE ENGLISH PATIENT JUST WON BEST PICTURE AT THE OSCARS THESE THINGS ARE INCREDIBLY RELEVANT HALE-BOPP!!!!"

- At 2:56 this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from tweeting the following: "WHAT?? Was anyone else not aware that Vincent Prince hosted "Mystery!" before Diana Rigg?!"

And you know how I knew that? Because I was watching old episodes of "Mystery!" at 2:56 this morning.

- I had dinner with my family this past Tuesday night and it somehow came up that I had just written and abandoned a blog post about how I spent an entire night looking at a map of the United States on googlemaps, being continually blown away by the discrepancies between where I thought everything was and where it actually is. At the end of my little schpiel (which included the observation, "The Mississippi River? It's long. It's like, fucking long, you guys. It goes from Minnesota to the gulf of Mexico. How do you even begin to wrap your mind around something that?"), my mom looked at me, made a little joint-to-mouth-I'm-smoking-a-doobie hand motion and laughed. And the thing is, I wish. I wish I could chalk spending an entire evening alone in my apartment being mind-boggled by a map of the United States up to drug use, but I can't. Because truthfully, I can't think of anything more in character than to be home alone, on what is quite possibly a Saturday night, laying in bed, drinking back-to-back bottles of soda water from my beloved Soda Stream, watching "Twin Peaks" reruns on Netflix, and musing to myself that Bermuda is quote, "way the fuck out there". That, my friends, is the Meghan Rowland experience. Once upon a time it involved Jägermeister and questionable decisions, now it involves hydration and a geography lesson. Obama's president. Bin Laden's dead. Progress.

- As you may or may not know, my sister owns my apartment and used to live here before she moved in with her now husband. In our building, the sweetest little old Ethiopian woman works the front desk on Saturday mornings, and every time I see her, we have an extremely uncomfortable conversation about my sister. Every. Saturday. Morning. When I moved in after Becca moved out, it was always, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister engaged yet?" After she got engaged it became, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister married yet?" And now that she's married, it's, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?" Ooof. Rebeccca is not pregnant. Nor does she want to be for at least a few more years, which means that I have at least a few more years of enduring this conversation.

"Nope, ha ha, Becca's not pregnant yet."

"Why not?"

"Ha ha, I'm not sure? Definitely one day though." [JAB, JAB, JABs the up button for the elevator]

"What does her husband say?"

"He mostly just talks about football and artisan beers." [JAB, JAB, JAB]

This past Saturday, however, things got personal.

"Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?"

"Nope, not yet."

"Well, I guess they did just get married. Are you getting married anytime soon?"

"Ha ha, no, I'm five years younger than Becca, so I've got some time. I'm not even dating someone right now. I'll probably get married when she gets pregnant, off in the distant future, ha ha."

And that's when the sweet smile on her face disappeared completely and she—hand to God—crossed her arms and slowly shook her head at me in disapproval. Right. Because damn those harpy Rowland sisters! Sitting up there in 401, flinging their fertile eggs off of tiny little spoons and onto the streets, defiant in the face of certain spinsterdom, despite one blatantly being married and the other being...choosy. When will they learn? WHEN WILL THEY LEARN?!

- Speaking of my apartment, I love it, but I despise my couch. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, it's six-years-old, I left a straightening iron on one of the arms once in 2008 and melted the shit out of it, it's pilling, slip covers never fit on it properly, blah blah blah—it's a piece of shit and I want a new one. That being said, are you aware of how expensive couches are?! It's absurd! Even if I go down to Sticks 'n Stuff and get a shitty sofa that some Persian guy just came all over, it'll still cost me like 300-bucks. I can't get over it. So now, I'm obsessed with couches. Things like, "Well, that's a handsome couch!" fly out of my mouth when I go to friends of friends' house parties. I want to talk "couch shop" wherever I go. "Where'd you get your couch?" "How much did it cost?" "Is she a convertible or a British two-seater?" "Mind if I take 'er for a test sit?"

A few weeks ago, I found myself watching an episode of "The Price is Right" at the gym on mute. When it came time for the showcase showdown, per usual, one option was the "flashy" showcase with a motorboat and a jet ski and a week in Tampa or some shit, while the other was a modest living room set. In this particular episode, the first showcase presented was the living room. As the contestant stood there trying to decide if she was going to bid or pass, I put myself in her shoes and thought, "Are you fucking kidding me?? It's not even an option—take the living room! The couch is huge, you get free carpeting, and you can always just sell the hutch on ebay or something. God, I would kill for that couch. What idiot would actually pick the speedboat? It's so impractical. I can't even imagine how much money it would cost to store or dock at a marina, not to mention tax and insurance." And I can honestly say that that moment is the oldest I have ever felt in my entire life. Because when I was a little Meglet staying home from school, eatin' Kix and watching "The Price is Right", I lived for seeing those doors fly open and hearing Rod Roddy shout, "—and a NEW CAAAAAAAAAR!!!" Nothing was as exciting as that. Nothing. I always wondered who those suckers were that wanted a living room set over twin Harley Davidson motorcycles and a trip to Baltimore. And now, at 26-years-old, I am that sucker.

...I'm going back to staring at a map of the U.S. now, because Michigan's mind-boggling little top hat that in no way touches Michigan is easier to digest than my life at this point. Good day to you and go Wolverines.

Tonight's opening act: Meghan Rowland & The I Told You So's

Wall Street Journal, "Long Arm of the Law Penalizes Texans [Like Chris' Redneck Relatives Who Are in No Way Better Than Meg Because Being All About Shoving Your Fist Down the Throat of a Catfish is in No Way an Accurate Measurement of How Well You'd Survive the Great Depression, You Horse's Ass] Who Nab Catfish by Hand"

Worming my way back into your hearts with a little help from CJ Fam

Well, we're done writing the manuscript for book #2 and we're back from hiatus! Or at least I'm back from hiatus. Chris is vacationing with his dad in Maryland this week to celebrate finishing grad school. I'd like to say they should have aimed higher and picked a more exotic travel destination, but then again, my stance on Maryland is and always will be: Maryland—DON'T MIND IF I DO, AND DON'T MIND IF I DO!

So how did writing the book go? Um. Not "well", per se. Chris and I apparently wrote this manuscript on an ancient Indian burial ground because everything that could have gone wrong did. My laptop broke, Chris got strep throat, we had to get three extensions, Chris' apartment exploded in mice, I developed a really painful style on the inside of my upper-right eyelid. I know, A STYE!!! How the hell did that happen?? I really can't stress enough how irritating it was. Blinking was excruciatingly painful. I tried writing with my right eye closed for a while, but it threw off my depth perception and I just ended up getting car sick. It was a weird couple of days. But we're done (thank Christ) and I'm so, so happy to be back. We love writing for Adams because: 1.) they give us money and 2.) our editor is delightful, but writing for someone else really makes you miss writing without restrictions. Adams doesn't even restrict us that much, they just asked that we not write jokes about two subjects: abortion and suicide. Which is problematic because if there's anything funnier than abortion and suicide, it's child molestation. Now we have an entire binder's worth of aborted abortion and suicide jokes that just sits on a shelf marked "irony" in my apartment and collects dust. Therefore this needs to happen:

SUICIDE! SUICIDE! SUICIDE!

ABORTION! ABORTION! ABORTION!

SUICIDE! ABORTION! ABORTIONY SUICIDE! SUICIDAL ABORTIONS! ABORTICIDE! ABORTION! ABORTION! ABORTION!

KNOCK, KNOCK.

WHO'S THERE?

ABORTION.

ABORTION, WHO?

SUICIDE!

God, that felt good. Glad to be back here at the old 2b1b where the bar is set low. Really, really, embarrassingly low.

So remember when you were a kid and your dad would go away on long business trips and bring you back something nice to make it up to you? Or in my case, both of your parents would go to Monte Carlo on your birthday and then come back and give your bike to your sister to abandon in Malcolm X park, not replace it, and after years of not letting them live it down, you delude yourself into thinking that maybe they've learned a lesson, but then your dad gives his car to your sister, sells your car, and uses the profits to help buy himself a Porsche, and when you ask what you get out of that deal, he hands you a jar of baby gherkins and everybody laughs really hard?............Goddammit, I have no idea what my original point was. Oh, yes. Dad/business trip metaphor. So I know Daddy had to go away on business and now you're all mad at me, but I brought you back a little prezzie to make it better. (For the record: I feel like I just molested each and every one of you and I apologize profusely.) It's a privilege and an honor to start the 2b1b engine back up with our interview with C-C-C-C-CJ FAM!

I'm totally not making this up. Chris and I sat down on Easter Sunday and interviewed my new BFF #1, CJ Fam. It turns out after I wrote "In Defense of CJ Fam", CJ's mom (Brenda, she's a doll) found it and reached out to us because she and CJ thought it was funny. Which is awesome, because whenever I write about someone not in my immediate circle, I'm aware that it's going to go one way or the other, and it always tends to go the other. Like the time I wrote that really flattering piece about my ninth grade crush and within an hour of it being up, his cousin emailed me to tell me to take it down and his best friend called my best friend to be like, "Meg wrote some gay shit about Steve on her blog or whatever and Steve's like, really weirded out now." God, that was disappointing. It was like watching a magician empty his sleeves, or Santa take off his beard. Except once Santa's beard is off, it's not upsetting because he's just some random guy—it's upsetting because he has the sense of humor of a foghorn. Sigh. Anyway! CJ Fam is promoting her new single "Show Off" and we had the pleasure of chatting with her about it. (Side note: we did the interview over Facebook chat because it was just easier for transcribing purposes, however, because my Facebook photo is of Carl Winslow, the entire interview felt more like watching a fantasy version of "Inside the Actor's Studio" starring Carl Winslow instead of James Lipton and CJ Fam instead of James Franco. So, basically, a 5,000% better show.)

2birds1blog:
Hey CJ, Thanks again for taking time out of your Easter to chat with us.


CJ Fam:
Sure, anytime.


2b1b:
First and foremost: Ark Records: what was behind that decision? It seems like an unusual decision for a girl of your talent.



Fam:
Well, I wrote a song and they offered to produce it because every one has to start somewhere.


2b1b:
So did they find you, or did you already know about them?

Fam:
They were trying to launch a girl band and we submitted a video of me singing and they wanted to launch me as a solo artist.

2b1b:
That must have been flattering! I was hoping they were going to do that with our book deal. And yet. Here Chris is.

So are Patrice “Bizarro Usher” Wilson and Clarence Jay as creepy as the world collectively decided they are?

Fam:
Absolutely not, Clarenece was so down to earth and supported me and he is very spiritual.

2b1b:
Sounds about right. Are you still working with them at all?

Fam:
No, I moved on from Ark but still keep in touch with them.

2b1b:
Who are you with now? And what made you want to move on?

Fam:
I am with Famous Teen Traxx. Ark had suddenly broke down after the whole Rebecca Black situation. I moved on I could prove that I could sing because I have been under attack. I just recorded a new song called "Show Off" and made a video behind it so the song should be out soon. The producer's name is Ramone and we were in LA for a week.

2b1b:
Well, as Chris just said, judging from "Show Off", there's no doubt you can sing.

Fam:
I still have a long way to go.

2b1b:
Going back to Ark briefly, I know that you read my blog post about how I VERY MUCH thought “Ordinary Popstar” deserved to go viral over Rebecca Black’s “Friday”. Let’s rap about that. Are you as peeved as I was (/am)?

Fam:
I'm not angry because she has to deal with all the negativity and I would rather have less hits but they are mostly good then going viral in a negative way.

2b1b:
That's an incredibly good and mature point. It’s crazy that you’re only 11-years-old. When I was 11 I failed Earth Science and wore a fair amount of baby-doll tee/boardshort combos. Are you having fun or is this work?

Fam:
I think of it as fun and not work because you can express yourself in a different way.

2b1b:
So what can you tell us about "Show Off"?

Fam:
It is a jazz type song from the 1940's, they were looking for a singer for over a year, and they knew nothing about my song "Ordinary Popstar".

2b1b:
Does this mean you have a contract with Famous Teen Traxx?

Fam:
No they want to take me to different labels to get signed but my parents don't want me to grow up too fast. And I love going to school and having friends.

2b1b:
I know what you mean. [That comment was followed by an awkward 30 seconds of silence. I really expected a fair amount of HAHAHA's because I thought it was obvious that I was referencing the line in "Ordinary Popstar", "I want to have a regular life again, like going to school and having good friends. You know what I mean?" And when you've out CJ Fam-ed CJ Fam, it's time to get out of your fucking apartment.]

I’m going to be real honest with you: I went to a very performance arts heavy high school with lots of girls pursuing pop stardom and I usually describe them with words that I’m not going to use in front of an 11-year-old girl. Please tell me that you’re nice. As your #1 blog supporter, this is oddly important to me.

Fam:
I feel that I am very humble and I don't like talking about my popstar life at school so my friends can think of me as just a good friend. I enter these contests for myself to improve. My dad says that being a good person is the meat and potatoes and having good grades and being able to sing is just gravy. We all like gravy but we don't need it.

2b1b:
Ooo...my dad pushed grades. But in the end I'm just a blogger, so I guess I showed him. I have a question on behalf of my friend Andrew (who introduced me to your music, by the way). In all of the Ark videos, including yours, are those your real friends or extras that Ark hires?

Fam:
They hired extras, but I took one friend and she was in the video too.

2b1b:
How fun!

Fam:
And I wonder sometimes who are my true friends and who aren't.

2b1b:
I feel like that's normal for middle school (or at least in my experience) but I imagine it's even harder if you're a public figure.

Fam:
Well, being in Elementary School is even harder.

2b1b:
Oh, just kidding then. Middle school is a breeeeze!

Fam:
Good, can't wait.

2b1b:
Well, look. As I've written about on our blog, elementary and middle school sucked for me, but every day I came home and ate a box of cookies and watched "Mama's Family". At least you have this amazing project.

Fam:
Do have any words of wisdom for a girl like me?

2b1b:
GIRL, I could write you a novel.

Fam:
Well, I'm up for reading it! Do you think I should stop what I am doing?

2b1b:
I'm genuinely rooting for you, so any time you need advice, you come straight to me, missy. I guess my overarching advice is that grades 5-7/8ish can be rough, but it gets considerably better. And if not, just start a blog!

You totally should not stop what you're doing. You're a genuinely good singer! I think bowing out of the reality show was a good call though. [Fam was cast in a reality show about assembling the next tween pop group, but left when she was allegedly encouraged to be more competitive and start dramz with other other members of the group].

Fam:
I'll take that, good advice. I didn't want to target anyone out of the group, you know? I would never stomp on anyone's dreams.

2b1b:
I think that was a good move. It would have painted you as this fame-hungry tween and clearly that's not who you are. Well, I'm pretty sure we just became best friends, but I have one last question for you...I see that one of your biggest supporters is Sean “Barney Rubble” of Death Row Players fame. Can you, or can you not help me attain my personal life goal of meeting Dr. Dre? I am not too big to beg an 11-year-old girl.

Fam:
Well if you could write a blog on Famous Teen Traxx, maybe we can make some arrangement...

2b1b:
Muhaha...consider it DONE. Well thank you so much for your time, Ms. Fam! We can't wait for the release of "Show Off"!

Fam:
And we are rooting for you. Thanks!

2b1b:
PSHHH, stop. If you need any more advice from my anthology of middle school meltdowns, just holler.

Carl Winslow + CJ Fam = BFF4LYFE, OBVS

A Humble Apology

For all of my faults—and there are about a baker's dozen of them in total—I'm not the kind of person who's afraid to admit when they're wrong or apologize if need be. Which is why, today, I'd like to do both. Because allergies: fuck. me. in. the ASS. They're horrible! For the first time in my life, I understand the plight of the allergy sufferer and I am drunk on guilt for spending the past 25 26 years thinking that you people are the biggest pussies on the planet.

To me, "allergies" have always been synonymous with "a nasty wittle case of the sniffles". Because in my experience, that's all allergies have ever been. Sometimes in the spring my eyes get a little dry and scratchy. Occasionally I'll cough. One time my right eye got puffy and I had to wear sunglasses to class and felt like a giant asshole. But that was really the worst of it. Washington, DC is a notoriously god awful place for allergies and it's all anyone ever wants to talk about. And if there's anything I hate more than small talk, it's small talk that involves a pollen count. Your nose is stuffed up, good for you. My skin is slightly dry. I over-tweezed my left eyebrow last night. Despite just switching to a 36-dollar conditioner, I have a few split ends. If you'd like to have a conversation about minor body irritations, two can play at this game.

But really allergies are so much more than that. I feel sick all the time. I'm stuffed up, my nose is constantly running, my eyes feel like I'm wearing sandpaper contacts, my throat hurts, I'm tired all the time, I catch myself audibly wheezing in public, and the sneezing—MY GOD, the sneezing! I've sneezed before (obviously, as I am a human being) and it feels good, but this kind of sneezing is on a whole other level. It feels so fucking good and I really can not stress that enough. My body isn't just sneezing for sneezing's sake; it's getting a job done. And it's such a process: there's this huge 30-second build up filled with wave after wave of —OH, I'M GONNA SNEEZE, —AH, HERE IT COMES, —HERE IT, —OH GOD, —I, and then BAM! I sneeze. And it lasts so long and feels so good and snot goes flying everywhere and it's dirty and it's wrong and it's amazing. It's essentially a nose orgasm and frankly when it comes to orgasms, beggars can't be choosers. I get legitimately excited when I know it's about to happen. I feel a sneeze coming on and I get down on all fours, shove a carrot in my mouth, whip my hair around like I'm in a Whitesnake video, sneeze, and fuck yes—afterglow.

On the less glamorous side, I woke myself up last week scratching the hell out of the hives that magically popped up all over my arms. Now I'm left covered in these bruises that makes me look like I straight-up have the Bubonic plague. Seriously. This is a gentleman suffering from the plague:

And this is my left arm:

Don't want to have sex with me? PFFFF, fine! There's a "House Hunters International" marathon on and Lisa LaPorta just started following me on Twitter; my dance card is FULL.

The worst part about having allergies is that nothing helps. Nothing. Somehow the scientific community has figured out a way to make seedless watermelon and boner bills, yet there's not a single thing in CVS that can help me breath again. Also, when you're sick with a cold or something, it sucks, yes, but at least you know it's going to go away in a week or so. When is this shit going to go away? WINTER. It's fucking mid-April! That's insanity! Like, if I got pregnant today, by the time my allergies are feeling better, I could deliver my baby and it would be premature and the size of a Snickers bar probably, but odds are it would live. I don't know. That comparison actually wasn't as strong as it was when I made it in my head. My point is: shit's nuts. And I know the obvious answer is "go see an allergist, Meg!" but need I remind you that I don't have health insurance and my job is cracking fart jokes for PayPal donations. Remember when Carrie Bradshaw got her book advance and went on a shopping spree at Dior? Well, when I got mine, I splurged on name-brand toilet paper and I am in no way saying that just to be funny. (I got Cottonelle. And it was worth every extra penny.) Alex swears by his neti pot but...it scares the hell out of me. Nothing in the world would surprise me less than if I panicked right when the water started going into my sinuses and I choked and drown on my bathroom floor. I'm tempted to ask Alex to be my "spotter". He's already coming over tomorrow for autoerotic asphyxiation night, so I guess two birds, one belt.

More than anything though, I want to apologize to Helena. Devotees will remember that almost exactly a year ago, I gave Helena a lot of shit on the blog because she said she would consume a parasite if it meant never having to suffer from allergies again. While I'm not conceding completely and saying that I'd eat a parasite for allergy relief, I am saying that I can now see where she's coming from. I re-read that post and yeah, I had some good points, it was funny, I had a good laugh, I'm clearly a charming person, I'm stacked like a game of Jenga, good for me, blah blah blah, but I was wrong to judge her that harshly. So Helena, old friend and trusted confidant: I'm sorry. I hope you forgive me. Because I love you. And because we have plans to go to the DMV tomorrow and my license has been expired for three days now. And I hope that you want to go to the one in Georgetown and not Brentwood or South Capitol because I live in Dupont one of these things is closer than the other, WINK! I don't know how this apology turned into me being a giant selfish whore, and yet, here we are.

If it's any consolation, I think I know why I've always been so harsh to judge allergy sufferers. Growing up, whenever my sister or I complained to our mom about not feeling well, she always told us it was just allergies. Always. Like, if I had a nickel for every time my mom has told me, "It's probably just allergies" and then walked away, I would have enough money to...afford...allergy shots. Well, this is ironic. It was always just so frustrating though because allergies weren't a legitimate excuse to stay home from school. And to my mom's credit, I'm sure nine times out of ten I really was just trying to stay home for funsies, but it sucked that one time when I was legitimately sick. Because she wouldn't even consider that it wasn't allergies.

"Mom, a moderate-sized demon just clawed its way out of my lower intestine, told me he was the son of God, and went cackling off into the darkness."

"It's just allergies. Gargle with saltwater and go set the table."

And it's not like I could prove that I didn't have allergies because really the only difference between allergies and the flu is a fever and who outside of the Oregon Trail gets a fever? So, I think it was ingrained in me at a young age to equate allergies with "HA HA, you!" So really, this humble apology has turned into I BLAME MY MOTHER! And I urge you to as well. Blame her! Or ask her for advice (AskYoMama@2birds1blog.com). Either way, I've sneezed at least six times since I started writing this and I've never needed a cigarette and a nap so badly in my entire life. Enjoy your Monday.

I wanna FAQ you like an animal

Q: WELL, WELL, WELL...

A: I know.

Q: WELLITY, WELLITY, WELLITY...

A: I know.

Q: SIR WELLINGSTEIN, WELLINGSTEIN, WELLINGSTEIN...

A: That's bold of you to give a Jew a courtesy title.

Q: Oh-ho no you don't. You're not getting out of this one with a little lighthearted anti-Semitism. Where the hell have you been?

A: I've—

Q: NOPE. Don't care. Bigger fish to fry. First things first: is Larry Hagman alive?

A:

As of 3:45am on April 15, 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive!

Q: Good, because if he was dead, you'd have a ten-gallon hat full of eco-friendly blood on your hands, madam.

A: I know.

Q: Now you you may explain yourself. Where have you been?

A: On hiatus.

Q: Well, thanks so much for letting us know!

A: I know. It's complicated. I was nervous to—

Q: Don't care. So why the hiatus? Abortion? Alien abduction? Mental breakdown? Each explanation is slightly more likely than the last.

A: No, Adams Media hired us to write another book.

Q: Wait, really?

A: Yeah!

Q: When's it due?

A: May 3rd.

Q: But aren't you still working on the first book?

A: Oooof, yes. Hence the hiatus.

Q: Well, again, you could have told us.

A: Yeah, but again, I was worried that—

Q: And again, I don't really care. So how's the second book coming?

A: ..................................................................................

Q: Oh, you simple country ham.

A: I have nothing but faith that it's going to be great when we're done, but getting there has been exponentially harder than last time. Like, if writing a book is like giving birth to a baby, we delivered the first one when we bent over to pick up a dinner mint and sneezed at the same time and it slid right out of us. This second book, however, has been hard labor and delivery. And we keep getting our room changed, and it's been 14 hours and we're only dilated to three, and the doctor wants to do a C-section but that wasn't part of our birth plan and we're really adamant about delivering it naturally and our husband is in the hall fighting with the doctor and we can hear everything and it's like, this isn't the environment we wanted to welcome our baby into the world in, you know? But I mean, either way we get a healthy baby in the end, so it's not a big deal.

Q: Bent over...and sneezed.

A: Right.

Q: And it "slid" right out of you.

A: Accurate.

Q: Well, I'm very sorry you have to work hard.

A: I'm not complaining, I'm just explaining.

Q: Oh yeah? Are you also straining? While doing some weight training? Careful, it looks like you're waning!

A: So you saw Happy Gilmore on ABC Family the other night too?

Q: ...Yes. Alright, so you're writing a second book and you'll be done in a few weeks, good for you.

A: Thank you.

Q: I still think you're just horrible.

A: Well, I thought you might.

Q: Just to keep you in your place, here's an alphabetized list of reasons why you and your blog suck:

A: Alienates readers

B: Blogs are lame

C: Complains too much

D: Depression isn't interesting

E: Embarrassing to our country when abroad

F: Font is irritatingly small

G: Grammatically retarded

H: Hard to get through

I: Inconvenient to my schedule

J: Just get a fucking job already

K: Keep trying to get sponsors, it looks like that's really working for you

L: Links don't open in a new window

M: Misuses idioms

N: Never posts anymore

O: Over (as in, this blog is)

P: PayPal button? Really?

Q: Queer Abby was good/horrible, why did you get rid of it?/I don't read humor blogs for advice

R: "Retarded" offends me

S: Self-involved

T: Trust Fund Kid

U: Ungrateful

V: Vocally supports CJ Fam

W: Wordy

X: XXX posts without the NSFW warning; thanks

Y: Because I hate you

Z: ZOOTECHNICS!

A: You kind of lost it at the end there, huh?

Q: Well, I couldn't think of anything else that started with a Z.

A: What about, "Zero talent"?

Q: 'Eh. It doesn't really pack the same punch as "Zootechnics", does it?

A: Yeah, but at least it's relevant.

Q: Look, are you aware that you suck?

A: Yes.

Q: Than my job is done here.

A: What does "Zootechnics" even mean?

Q: It's the art of managing domestic or captive animals.

A: Is it really?

Q: Swear to God.

A: Huh. Well. That's good to know.

Q: So will you go back to blogging regularly after you turn in the manuscript?

A: Of course.

Q: What about between now and then?

A: I'll try to be better about getting some stuff up, but you have to understand that Adams's got our balls in a vice (God bless them). (Adams Media, that is. Not our balls.) (Although bless them too.)

Q: Speaking of us, where's Tulane Chris in all of this?

A: He's finishing his last few weeks of grad school and has a part-time job and is writing the book with me.

Q: Is he going to come back after the manuscript is done?

A: Yes. After May 3rd, everything goes back to normal.

Q: I miss him. What's new with him?

A: WELL, he's really excited about writing the second book and texts me a lot to say as much. Which is awkward because my texts to him are primarily about how I keep waking up having panic attacks.

Q: God, you must be fun to work with.

A: Well, I also text him about my bowel movements.

Q: Speaking of working with you, I applied to be your intern and haven't heard back. What gives?

A: Yeah, we're getting back to people this weekend. I'm sorry about that.

Q: SPEAKING OF THIS WEEKEND, what's tomorrow little missy?!?!!??!!

A: Sigh. My birthday.

Q: And how old are you turning?

A: Sigh. 26.

Q: Why can't that be a good thing? Why does everything have to be so sad and hard and horrible for you, Meghan?

A: I don't know. 26 sounds so old. And not like "ahhh, my eggs have been in the back of the refrigerator for two months and now we can't make french toast!" old, but like, mature old. Like I should have my shit together by now but I don't. I mean, don't you think it's kind of pathetic that I'm a 26-year-old single blogger who sucks dick to pay her cable bill?

Q: Of course I think that's pathetic. That is pathetic. Everything you do is pathetic. That's why I read this blog.

A: Well, at least I have that. I guess.

Q: So what are you doing for your birthday?

A: Hopefully my granddaughter will take me to Stein Mart and I can get a new pair of slacks.

Q: Is she driving already??

A: Can you believe it? She also just got the lead in her school play.

Q: You don't say! What production is it?

A: Damn Yankees!

Q: Ohhhhh, so she's Lola? How fun!

A: No, actually she's The Devil.

Q: Isn't that a boy's part?

A: Well she's aggressive for her age.

Q: Do you think people will know that that last joke was a page from your real life?

A: Uh, I hope so. I was proud of that performance. Besides, Lola's overrated and if The Devil was good enough for Jerry Lewis, it's good enough for me.

Q: Yes, who needs the role of a sexy temptress when you can be Jerry Lewis for a night in a tweed suit and a pair of children's Spanx.

A: Look, I could have done Lola. I could done the hell out of Lola. But Monica Stein was a year older than me and had drama camp seniority, so she got to be Lola and I got the next lead which was The Devil. Besides, The Devil is a heavily nuanced character and requires the comedic timing and improv skills of someone like myself.

Q: Oh, really?? Well tell you what, why don't I just get on the horn with SNL and let them know that there's a soon-to-be published comedy writer who did a mean nuanced gender-neutral Devil at drama camp when she was 13, so they should probably get on that before "The Daily Show" snags her first.

A: I don't think that's the worst idea you've ever had.

Q: Oh, didn't you have some hippie announcement to make?

A: Yes! Freshman Roommate Rachel, who is one of my favorite human beings on the planet (and gave me a mood ring last night, so you know she's legit), needs your help. Rachel volunteers as a volunteer coordinator (META!) for Hands on DC. Hands on DC is an all volunteer non-profit that beautifies shitty, run-down DC schools so kids are motivated to actually go to school and get an education. (My words, not theirs.) HODC is holding their 17th annual Work-a-Thon Sunday Saturday April 30th, and they're in desperate need of volunteers and general donations. If you're looking for some good karma this Spring, you can join an existing team, register your own team, or make a general contribution on their website. For more information you can go to Hands on DC's website, Facebook page, or email me and I'll get you in touch with Rachel. I wish I could make a 2b1b team, but Chris and I will be hopped up on Adderall and meth at my parent's house trying to finish the manuscript on April 30th, and there's just no two ways about it. But just because I'm a horrible human being doesn't mean you have to be! Empower DC's youth! Make love not war! Kumbaya and such and such!

Q: Rachel is such a good person.

A: Oh my God, I know.

Q: It seems kind of odd that she likes you so much...

A: Alright, alright. Any more questions?

Q: Uh....none that I can think of. Oh! What do you want for your birthday?

A: Electrolysis.

Q: Electrolysis? That's...oddly specific. And...odd. Didn't your mom get you that Bliss at-home strip-free waxing kit from The Q a couple weeks ago?

A: Yes.

Q: Did you try it?

A: Yes.

Q: How'd it go?

A: HORRIBLY. It was so horribly horrible. I wrote an entire post about it but realized as I re-read it at 4 o'clock in the morning that people probably don't give a shit about my personal waxing debacle.

Q: What went so wrong?

A: Oh, God. It's such a long story.

Q: Well, give us the long and short of it.

A: I tried to multi-task and read the waxing directions, eat a club sandwich, and watch a documentary about the Mothman that Netflix keeps recommending to me at the same time, and ended up missing the directions stressing the importance of using the Pre-Waxing Oil. It was a show. I couldn't get any of the wax off and it was all over my face and left arm pit, so I tried taking a gently-used Chipotle napkin, sticking it on the wax and ripping it off, but that obviously didn't work, so I still had hunks of blue wax stuck on me everywhere, just with bits of guac-soaked napkin in it and finally I had to take a bath and soak it off in hot water and scrub my face but I was too scared to close my eyes from watching the fucking Mothman documentary, so I got acne scrub in my eyes and that made me have to close my eyes even more and I almost had a panic attack and there's still blue wax all over my person and my bathroom.

Q: ..............I mean, what am I supposed to say to that?

A: I don't know.

Q: I think we should end this here.

A: Are you sure? I have some thoughts on Eminem/Dr. Dre's 1999 hit "Guilty Conscious" that I'd like to explore, if I could.

Q: Have a great weekend, everyone.

In Defense of CJ Fam

If I'm not mistaken, Rebecca Black's viral star has officially become a supernova, right? I mean, she hasn't been a trending topic on Twitter for days now and even worse, I'm writing about her, so she must have as much street cred as a six pack of Coke Blak wrapped in an Ed Hardy shirt. For those of you who have no clue who Rebecca Black is: congratulations. You probably have intercourse on a regular basis. What's that like? But for the sake of us all being on the same page, here's a quick rundown:

So there's this production company in LA called Ark Music Factory. Ark is essentially a Barbizon modeling school for tween girls who want to be pop stars but don't have a lick of talent, bless their prepubescent hearts. To compensate, their parents give Ark $2,000 and Ark whips up a song for them in about five minutes while on the terlet, pops them in front of a green screen, Auto-Tunes the shit out of it until they sound like Stephen Hawking delivering a lecture on the nature of space and time at Cornell and puts the entire thing on YouTube so Baby Girl can go to science class the next day and be like, "SEE?? I told you I had a single, Stephanie." Pretty ingenious, right? Right. OK, so Rebecca Black made one of these videos to a song called "Friday" and the Internet shat itself because it was so bad. Like if we're subscribing to Andy Warhol's whole "Don't pay attention to what they write about you, just measure it in inches" theory, we'd have to measure Rebecca Black in miles. "Friday" was uploaded to YouTube a little over two weeks ago and as right now it has over 62 million hits. She's kicked Justin Bieber's ass on all sorts of charts and consistently trended higher on Twitter than the disaster in Japan. Shit. Be. Ridiculous.

But now everyone's kind of over it and we're all moving on and getting our lives back and one day soon we'll realize it's Friday and think, "Oh, half-price apps ends at 7:30; we should probably hustle," instead of, "FRY-EEE-DAYEE! FRY-EEE-DAYEE! GOTTA GET DOWN ON FRY-EEE-DAYEE!" And it will be good.

So now that we're all on the same page, here's the thing: I don't understand why Rebecca Black was Ark Music's viral meme. Don't get me wrong, Ark Music Factory: LOL. I'm not trying to make this a morality contest; 12-year-old girls paying to make fools out of themselves on the Internet is and always will be funny. But out of all of the stars in the Ark galaxy, Rebecca Black?? I mean, yeah, she kind of sounds like a Canadian robot which is weird because she's an American human and sure, her song gives a whole new meaning to the term "simple", but 62 million?! I think the entire world needs to go back to eyeball school and meet CJ Fam:

Now that is what I call a meme. That deserves 62 million hits. That deserves 137,000 "likes" and over a million "dislikes". That could make The Land of the Rising Sun.......................nope. Executive decision—still too soon. Let's move on. Andrew of the Great Juno Debate sat me down a few weeks ago and told me to watch "Friday" because it's his unofficial job to keep me up on the kids and their haps, and afterwards we explored Ark's other videos and discovered my beloved CJ Fam. I was like, "Oh, well obviously other people will look at Ark's other videos, find CJ fam, The Blogs will pick up on it and BOOM, she'll be the new Rebecca Black. Case closed." But (to my knowledge) it never happened. "Ordinary Pop Star" has over 770,00 hits, but that's just a fraction of Rebecca Black's success and Ark's 15 minutes are quickly running out. And I just don't get it. What happened, world? Why aren't we seeing eye to eye on this one? Why didn't you bust a proverbial nut over CJ Fam like I did? I liked the Keyboard Cat. I Numa-Numa-ed with the best of them. But Rebecca Black > CJ Fam? I thought I knew you... 

10 Reasons Why CJ Fam is more meme-worthy than Rebecca Black:

#10: Rebecca Black seems to be in on the joke; CJ Fam does not
Every interview I've seen of Rebecca Black (which admittedly is one) has given me the impression that she's...well...nice. She just seems like a nice girl who accidentally got über YouTube famous and is aware that any second now the clock could strike midnight and she'll be just another pumpkin at the El Rancho Charter School eighth grade sock hop. She knows she's famous for singing a horrible song and is like, "Yeah, that's fair. I'm not the worst, but I'm not the best. This has been fun though," whereas the majority of people in her shoes would take the, "Y'ALL JUST JEALOUS!!! Y'ALL JUST JEALOUS!!!" route. No matter how shitty her singing is, you kind of have to respect that. And can you really respect a meme?

Also, while you get the impression that Rebecca Black "signed" with Ark to have the best 13th birthday ever, CJ Fam's Ark profile makes it embarrassingly apparent that she's using this as an actual avenue to become a recording artist. And that, like some of the best Shakespearean theater, is both tragic and hilarious. CJ Fam is the personification of Cymbeline. She is Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess but less Jacobean and more...rooted...to the ground. By sturdy legs.

#9: Fam's "Ordinary Pop Star" is exponentially more nonsensical than Black's "Friday"
Look, "Friday" is about as creative as a cat licking it's own ass, I'll give you that, but lyrically it makes sense. The days of the week go: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Valid. When getting into an automobile, you typically have a choice of sitting in the front seat or the back seat. I've been there. Everybody has their own concept of what's "fun" and knows what it is. ("Night Court" marathon and a TIG 'OLE spliff.) "Friday" is laughably stupid and I don't remember a time in my life when it wasn't stuck in my head, but hey, that's pop-music. "Ordinary Pop Star", however, empirically doesn't make sense and people who unapologetically dump dumb shit onto the culture landscape deserve our mockery, not nice girls from Anaheim who can't decide if they want to ride shotgun.

Lyrics: "I want to be an ordinary pop star. I want to be like those normal girls. I want to live a regular life again, like going to school and having good friends. You know, you know what I mean?"

Yes. Yes, I do. You want to be an ordinary girl. What you just described is the life of an ordinary girl. An ordinary pop star is a contradiction, because pop stars, by the very nature of pop stardom, are not ordinary people. They are extraordinary. The entire point of the song makes zero sense. It's like saying you want to be a Zionist anti-Semite. Or a carnivorous vegan. It just doesn't make sense, and nobody stopped to tell you that because your parents paid them $2,000 to shut their mouths and go with God. And even if you accept that there is such a thing as an ordinary pop star, they certainly don't go to school or have good friends. They're taught by tutors on a Disney lot and their best friend is a toss-up between a 45-year-old William Morris agent or that guy from craft services who just gets you. That is an ordinary pop star. P-P-P-Pop star.

#8: You went to school with a CJ Fam
We all did. Lord knows I went to school with more than a few. They're big fish in small ponds. They take voice lessons from some broad in a basement between bible study sessions and lord it over the rest of the Fall musical cast that they're classically trained. They don't go to college because they're going to "move to New York and dive right into auditions," but end up working at Hair Cuttery and teaching Tap I to a whole new generation of CJ Fams. All they talk about in school is how they just recorded a demo and Tommy Mattolla heard it and thinks they're going to be the next Britney Spears and it's like, really? You're wearing Keds and we're both struggling to light the same Bunsen burner. Something tells me Tommy Mattolla doesn't know you from a waxed asshole. They're never good people. They're phonies, pure and simple, and phonies deserve 62 million people reminding them of that.

#7: Because both sketchy Ark producers are in her video, erotically nodding


Does that not make you want to put on another layer? A modest Zbornakian cowel neck sweater perhaps? And the best part is that the guy on the right, Ark CEO Patrice Wilson, serves double duty in this video as CJ Fam's producer and chauffeur:

So let me get this straight, Ark: you could find 35 kids to cross their eyes, pretend they're meeting Miley Cyrus and herniate a disc, but you couldn't find AN other man to play the chauffeur? Not her dad? A janitor? Anything? For $2,000, I'd expend a higher level of attention to details, sirs.

#6: Because Fam's video has a glorious fake TMZ montage



My favorite is the ever-so-slightly Lohan/Ronsen-esque one:

I fully expected the next one to be, CJ FAM DYKES OUT WITH TILA TEQUILA AT SKY BAR!!!! And you know what? I think I was understandably disappointed when it wasn't.

#5: Because this is her headshot:



#4: And this photo exists. Period.

I know this is hypocritical because I've certainly shared more of my life online than the average Jane, but I shudder at the thought of my children ever using the Internet. Why? Because one minute they're researching Kubla Khan for a history project and the next they're ambiguously nude on a floral bedspread that says "I HEART U" in rose petals and it's being downloaded by every inmate in Seven Locks. (Fun fact: Did you know that Seven Locks is a correctional facility in Rockville, Maryland? Did you know that it's also the name of my friend Pete's band? It totally is! So you should check 'em out. Once time Pete's girlfriend, Katie, and I were flying back to DC from Miami and she waited in line with me for a really long time at 7 o'clock in the morning to yell at American Airlines for losing my ticket, and when I finally got up to the counter, it was politely pointed out that I was on a United flight. HA HA HA! Ohhhh...we laughed and laughed and then one of us cried. This message brought to you by: friendship.)

#3: Because she's from Ft. Lauderdale
And nothing—and I mean nothing—is as funny to me as the concept of being from Ft. Lauderdale. (Maybe Tampa.) 

#2: Because when she performs she wears a headset and movement clothes:

But when she's off-stage, she just another girl on a Razor scooter in knockoff Garanimals:
 

#1: Because the world needs a chubby Jewish pop star
I understand that the overall tone of this blog post is slightly cruel, but I mean that honestly. I was a chubby Jewish 12-year-old girl once myself who had no idea how to polish that turd and OOF—shit was rough. Thankfully one day I was like, "Threading. Flat iron. Bathing. WORD," but it would have been nice to have an equally awkward-looking tween idol to look up to in the interim. Rebecca Black might be a shitty singer who got famous from an even shittier song, but Ryan Seacrest has hooked her up with a non-cat-fashion-show music contract and I can't help but think that could have been Fam. My sweet, sweet Fam. But maybe it's not too late...?

TEAM FAM FAM-TASTIC 4 LYFE!!!!!1