Meg and Mom Mull Over Your...Questions (Damnit)

Hi Mom.

Hi Meg.

So the first item on today's agenda is actually from me, and it's not so much a "question" as something I want to show you because it's going to blow your mind.

OK.

So, I watched Valley of the Dolls last night and was completely distracted the entire time by how much Barbara Parkins, aka Anne Welles, looks like Becca. But exactly like her. Like in a sick, disturbing freak show kind of a way. Look:

Yeah. She does in that picture.

..........That wasn't the reaction I was going for at all.

Well. She does.

'Eh. Put Dad on the phone. I want to hear his reaction.

[Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle; pleasantries, pleasantries, pleasantries]

Dad: Oh! SHE DOES look like Becca! That's crazy! That's crazy talk right there!

THANK YOU! That's what I'm saying! It's insane, right??

Dad: It's the eyes. And the nose and the mouth. And the chin. Basically it's everything. Wow. You'll have to show her. Ooo, Evie's tail just got closed in the computer! She just said, "Damn technology." She's sad we're not looking at pictures anymore. I think she was hoping one of them would be of her. Ah! Now she's scampered back into the family room to finish watching Interview With the Vampire.

OK, just put Mom back on. None of this worked out how I thought it would.

Question #1!

Dear Mrs. McBloger,

My friends and I have been in a debate about this since we've graduated from college last year.  Is it better to be in a job that you love, but a location (geographically) that sucks, or to be in a location you prefer with a job that pays the bills/is at least tolerable?  From my personal standpoint, I am currently in a job that I love, but I live in the middle of nowhere, Midwest USA.  However, I don't mind because I know this location isn't permanent, and the job I love will be a great resume-builder for when I want to move on to a "better" location.  What are your thoughts?

Sincerely,

Hope to be Movin' on Up

My first instinct is to say that the longer you work, the more important it is to be happy with and enjoy what you do. I think when you're just entering the work force, it's easy to say, "I have to love where I am and be surrounded by all sorts of amazing social opportunities," but remember, the majority of your time is spent at your job and it's been my experience that if you're not happy there, nothing else really works out.

Based on New York, I completely agree. [I've always wanted to live in New York City. After I graduated college, I finally moved there and got what was supposed to be my dream job in magazine design, but it turned out to be the job from hell and one by one, everything else fell apart until my dad had to come up and physically remove me by the scruff of my neck because I had turned into a giant, self-destructing, hot-ass mess. It was a time. One day* it's going to make a really entertaining memoir.]

[*Probably not, but it's so cute that I still have dreams.]

I think it's something of a personality difference too.

What do you mean?

It's like the old saying, "some people eat to live, others live to eat". If your job is just how you pay the bills and your social life and where you live are more important to you, then go for it. But having observed people who have been in jobs that they're miserable in, it's my opinion that your job affects everything else in your life. When you hate your job, you rarely stop to say, "But God damn I love this neighborhood!" What about you and New York? Would you have put up with anything to stay there? Well, obviously not; you left.

Yeah. ["Yeah." Christ. I'm sorry I wasn't very vocal on this one. It hit too close to home. And by "home" I mean an incredibly disturbing part of my life. This took me to a place and all I wanted was a Xanax, but I only had pizza. So here we are: three slices to the wind and feeling emotional. Thanks, guy.]

I think this guy has a good long term attitude. He's saying this isn't where he wants to live forever, but this is a job that he could do forever and he can eventually do it someplace else. And when you're just out of school, you need experience. Not too many people have the luxury of being able to say, "That's a great job and it's exactly what I want to do, but no thanks—the location isn't to my liking." Because you don't have to stay there. You'll eventually have a great job and live somewhere you love, but you have to make compromises along the way. And personally, I'd rather make compromises to have a job I like, than live somewhere exciting. I'm sure there are people who do odd jobs just to live somewhere really beautiful on the west coast or something, and that's fine, but over time, that'll get old. Your job is eight hours or more of your day. I just know when I had a job that I didn't like, I was living someplace beautiful, I was happily married, and I was completely miserable.

What job?

Bank teller. It wasn't so much the job—I had worked at banks before—it was my boss and the entire situation.

Asshole?

Uh, real asshole.

Where was this?

New Canaan [Connecticut], which I love, but that didn't mean I didn't get a stomach ache every Sunday night. And we all know the Sunday night stomach ache.

PREACH. I still get the Sunday night stomach ache and I don't even have a job, technically.

Well, that's probably just your IBS acting up.

OK! OK! OK!...Moving on. Question #2:

OK, I need dating help. I think I am coming off as prissy or sheltered and I don't know how to fix it.

I keepdating men who won't swear in front of me. Like, none of them, not even "damn." It's starting to freak me out. GODDAMNIT, I AM NOT THAT  KIND OF GIRL.

I'm doing online dating, so I'm pretty much running the gamut of neverending rando dudes, and it's starting to get a little weird. EXAMPLE: Last night I went out with this burly construction worker who was all, "And then I told that motherfucker to - oh, wait, I should watch my language. Sorry." It was charmingly polite at first, but now I'm starting to get paranoid. I mean, fifteen out of fifteen guys all do it. I actually confronted one guy about it, and he said I gave off a "professional vibe" so he was on good behavior. I'm a lawyer. I assume he means that kind of professional, not, like, professional streetwalker...  I hope. Anyway, since it hasn't worked out with any of these men, who all become disinterested with time, I am wondering if I am unknowingly giving off some kind of stern librarian vibe? No one stays interested in the stern librarian! The burly construction worker actually shook my hand at the end of our date, but confusingly enough has since asked me out again.

SO. Is this is a symptom of an overarching problem with my image, or should I just take this as guys trying to impress their date with their politeness? Should I just start swearing immediately upon meeting these guys? Maybe do something really badass, like rip the head off of a small bird with my teeth as I open the door to say hello? (I would use a fake bird and stage blood. Obviously.)

Can you help me, Mom McBlogger?

-Don't Ask Me Nothin' (DAMN)

Well, I think she should start by looking at things like how she's dressing. Making sure she's casual enough, you know? A business suit isn't exactly date appropriate.

I like imagining her as a high-power female executive in 1986. Big shoulder pads, plucky attitude, pantyhose that aren't quite her natural skin tone, modest pumps. Basically this woman:

Do you think she's leading with the information that she's a lawyer?

If she's doing online dating, I'm sure it's in her little "about me" thing.

Well, maybe she should check her profile and make sure that isn't giving off a prim and proper impression.

It's weird because her writing is really funny and gives me the impression that she'd be laid back. I don't think her profile is the problem. I think that some people just naturally give off an extremely professional vibe and truthfully, it can be a little off-putting. Maybe this girl is just one of those people.

If she has some good friends who will be honest with her, I'd ask them.

So let's say she asks her friends and they're like, "Oh yeah, totes, you've got a great big stick up your ass," what does she do then? Call the waiter a cunt and challenge him to an arm wrestling competition?

I don't think she should do anything she normally wouldn't, because obviously the way she acts, dresses and talks is a big part of who she is. But if she wants to seem more approachable, she's going to have to make small changes.

What kind of changes?

Well, like the way she dresses.

So, what, she has to go out on dates with a pair of big 'ole tiddays swingin' every which way?

No, but she also shouldn't show up dressed like the female Perry Mason. Just dress down a little and let her sense of humor show. Why, do you think she should let a "damn" or two slip?

I think it can't hurt. Chris and I were on this really tense conference call last week and somewhere along the line, I made a little joke and dropped a casual F-bomb and it totally lightened the mood. Everyone's tone noticeably shifted and it became more like a conversation and less like, BEEP-BOP-BOP-BOOP—WE ARE ON A BUSINESS CALL. SYNERGY. BOT-TOM LINE.

Well. I guess she could pretend to drop her knife or something and be like, "Oh, damn!", but I don't think she should come flying out of the gate with, "SO ANYWAY, THIS FUCKING JOB..."

No, that's not what I'm saying. I just think that peppering in a little profanity here and there reminds people that you're human. And as I said, that can't hurt.

What did she say this guy was? A truck driver?

A construction worker.

How realistic does she think a lawyer having a ton in common with a construction worker is? Not saying that she's above him, but they live in two different worlds. If she's dating guys with less education and a lower income, maybe they're thinking, "Oh shit, I have to act like I'm on her level" the entire time.

So, what, just because she's a successful woman, she can only date successful, yuppie douchebags? That's bullcorn. Take me for example: you know there's nothing I love more in this world than a good old-fashioned redneck. I mean, I live slightly below the poverty line and I'm not that successful, so maybe that wasn't the best example, but still. She shouldn't be restricted as to who she can date just because she's a successful woman. STOP GENDERING THE SPACE, MOM. Gawd. Go back and learn your Herstory.

I'm not saying she has to date on her income level, but I am saying that she should understand that her success could be intimidating to some men, and that intimidation might be what's affecting their behavior.

I can buy that for maybe like the first 10 minutes of a date, but this sounds like she's going on dates plural with each of these guys.

Well, when a date swears in front of her and excuses himself, does she say, "Oh please, that doesn't bother me," or something? But then again, if this is happening over the course of more than one date, it's got to be something that's built into her, you know? Otherwise they'd just get to know her and become more and more comfortable. You'd hope someone who feels comfortable around you can at least swear around you after a few dates. I think either she's just got that professional vibe or she's not being herself.

That's a good point. Maybe she's not comfortable, so she's not being herself, which in turn is making them uncomfortable. I can see people interpreting her nervousness as being uptight.

Oh, absolutely. That always happens. Shy people are easily perceived as snobs.

So what are your tips to loosen up on a date?

Get drunk before.

HAHA, right?

I was kidding.

Oh, I wasn't. If I had a nickel for every time I had a cocktail in the shower, I'd have enough money to...buy more alcohol...to drink in the shower?

Maybe she's nervous because of how she perceives a date.

What do you mean?

Well, maybe she's looking at every date as a potential long term boyfriend. That certainly won't make her comfortable. It's like, if you look at every single man you meet as a potential husband, you'll never find one.

Yeah, but to be honest, I do that to a certain extent. I'm not saying I meet a nice guy and run out to get the towels monogrammed and have my eggs thawed, but when I'm on a date, I absolutely think to myelf, "Could this go somewhere? Can I see myself being with this person long term?" Because if not, then what are we doing here? I could be at home watching "Modern Marvels" or some shit and not talking to you about your adult kickball league. It's like a job interview.

You can't do that.

Why?

It just won't work. 

Why?

Because you're forcing it. You need to think of a date as exactly what it is—you're having a meal with somebody and getting to know them. Not, "OooOoo, where could this go?!"

I guess. But I also think people get nervous on first dates because there's always the possibility of rejection.

Right. But if you think about it again as a job interview, people who go into job interviews thinking it's not the end of the world if they don't get it typically do better.

Let's go back to the scenario where she asks her friends if she's a Prudence Primrose and they say yes; how can she loosen that shit up?

I do think that humor works wonders.

And her email was so funny! The subject was "99 problems and a stern bitch is me?" That's funny!

See? Humor works. As long as people get it. And you got it.

So you're saying we should date?

There you have it! Both of your problems are solved! But really, she should: ask her friends how she's perceived; make sure she's not overdressing, especially if she's coming straight from the office; if her date does swear, make sure he knows that she wasn't offended; drop a "damn" or a "hell" here and there, nothing heavy duty; and she's obviously a funny person, so use that! People are comfortable around funny people. I'm not saying do 15 minutes of your best stand up, but when you make someone laugh, they're instantly more comfortable around you. Also, maybe there's a bit of "I'm on a first date, I should be on my best behavior, I need to be a gentleman," going on with these guys.

PFFF, not the guys I date. Or go on dates with. If I get a compliment and a free Yuengling, that's like the win of the year right there.

Well, I think that has something to do with the age difference.

WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!?!

The age difference between me and you, not you and her. Jesus.

I'm sorry. You know I've been feeling Old Man River-ish these days. I gets weary and sick of tryin', Mom, you know that!

.....And then that sort of disintegrated into a conversation about the state of my life and how I need to borrow my dad's car for the weekend, which probably isn't of interest to you. So. Here's a video of Paul Robeson singing "Old Man River" from the 1936 version of Showboat instead. Enjoy your Monday!

Four Things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To: Dad

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

To: Dad

From: Meg

Subject: RE: Dad...

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

To: Meg

From: Dad

Subject: RE: RE: Dad...

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

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

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

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

Love,

Dad

To: Dad

From: Meg

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

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

To: Meg

From: Dad

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

G-y-r-o …. Yum.

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

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

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

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

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