> 140

I just walked six city blocks, in the rain, at 8:30 in the morning to spend the last of my money on a venti gingerbread latte because I decided it looked "cozy" outside, only to come home and accidentally knock my lamp over, thereby not only breaking my lamp, but dumping virtually all 20 ounces of scalding hot gingerbread latte onto my person.

I can say without exaggeration that this is the closest I have ever come to killing myself. Including the time I tried to kill myself.

"My mother, that's who I need"

I'd like to address the following comment from last Tuesday's post about my parents abandoning me on my sixth birthday to go to Monte Carlo:

So when I first read that, I was like, "BAHA, amazing pop culture reference. You are my new best friend," and replied saying as much. But then as the day went on, I started worrying, "Wait, maybe Jocelyn wasn't excited that my life shares a common thread with Troop Beverly Hills and really was accusing me of trying to pass off a TP storyline as my own...?" And let me tell you something: nothing gets my goat more than people accusing me of shenanigans. Because why would I lie to you? Why would I make shit up? Do you know how much effort it takes to make shit up? Too much. That's why this isn't Meg McBlogger's well-researched, Regency Era murder-mystery blog; it's Meg McBlogger's "today I choked on cantaloupe and played with my Aspie's Clip. It was a day," blog. One of these things is easier than the other.

(Side note: Speaking of accusations of shenanigans, about a year ago I got an email from a guy asking if I was actually "a real person," and it was the biggest mindfuck I'd ever experienced. My reply derailed at an almost impressive rate: "Dear [Said Guy]: I'm pretty sure I'm a real person. Or as a real as anyone can be sure they are. Because I suppose there's always a chance that none of this is actually happening and this is a simulated reality created by machines like in the Matrix, or we exist only in the complex fantasies of a kid with Down's Syndrome like in St. Elsewhere, in which case, no, I don't exist, but that means that that you don't exist either, so why would you be questioning my existence in the first place?" And that's when I had a panic attack and ran away from my computer like a small child because someone who has as many anxiety problems as I do should never think about that much about their own existence. But for the record: I am a real person. I am a real person, who just took a real Klonopin. While doing real breathing exercises. In a real hot shower.)

So, yes, I was pissed, but I was willing to let it go because I'm working on this new thing where I don't let blog comments and/or emails control my life to the point where I'm calling Tulane Chris on a semi-regular basis with bad acid reflux in the Self-Help section of Barnes & Noble asking him to bring me Zantac and hold me. But then I went out to dinner with my parents tonight and my mom was like, "CAN YOU BELEIVE SOMEONE ACCUSED YOU OF MAKING UP THE MONTE CARLO STORY?!?!" and it opened up that can of worms all over again. But thankfully for all of us, I recieved this email about an hour ago:

From: mom  

Subject: monte carlo

hi meg, 

you know that i don't like to invade your professional life, but i feel that i have to set the record straight for your readers. here goes.  

i realize that much of the time meg lives in her own world, a world inhabited by helper monkeys and fox dogs, and we love her for it. however, her tale of woe regarding a certain trip to monte carlo is absolutely factual. come on, readers, did you really think that things like that only happen in movies? i do take exception to the term "vacation". it was a business trip. a really nice business trip, but business none the less. despite all of the trials and tribulations, real or merely perceived, you survived. do you even remember that i went to england by myself when you were two years old, leaving you with...of all people... your father?! mothers do go away, meg, but most of the time, we do come back. i love you like a peacock loves rice krispies. 

mom mcb

(Hehehe...she threw in an inside joke. Peacocks.)

OK, look: I know my mom was trying to have my back there—and bless her heart for doing so—however, there are a few points I'd like to address:

1.) Diane: you are a lambchop for referring to this little goat 'n pony show as my "professional life". I know we've had our differences (specifically that you abandoned me on my sixth birthday to stretch out on a yacht like a cat in the sun for two weeks while I went on a hunger strike and contemplated the meaning of life,) but you're the best.

2.) Maybe I wouldn't have to live in my own world if this one didn't suck so much. (HAHAHAHA! I legitamtely just laughed-out-loud at my own emo-ness. That felt like something Dawn would say on Buffy.) (← Fag.)

3.) A BUSINESS TRIP. A "BUSINESS" TRIP. Are you kidding me? a.) What business is Dad in that he just has to jet set off to Monte Carlo for weeks on end or else he'll lose his job? MI6? Formula-1? High-stakes poker? Last time I checked he was in HR. b.) OK, let's just say hypothetically I'm willing to accept that Dad did have a business trip in Monte Carlo because it was the late 80's and everyone was going on lavish business trips and doing rails off their DeLoreans, it still doesn't make a lick of difference! You were gone for two weeks: one week was supposedly for "business" and one week was for funzies. My birthday fell on funzies. FUNZIES, MOM—FUNZIES.

4.) Your trip to England in no way compares to Monte Carlo. (God, how obnoxious do we sound right now? I'm 10 seconds away from deleting this entire post, throwing Turtle Rapes Shoe up for tomorrow and working this out in an emergency therapy session where they already think I'm a middle-class piece of shit just by virtue of being there.) First of all, as you yourself pointed out, you went to England. Not you and Dad, just you. And while I agree that Dad demonstrates a "unique" level of responsibility with his children (i.e. the time he paid me $5 to snort a line of fresh cracked pepper, I did, and subsequently burst into tears, ran upstairs and shoved a Q-tip so far up my nose I thought I was going to give myself a labotomy,) at least AN parent was there! If I couldn't have been with both of my parents on my sixth birthday, one would have been acceptable. Because you know what wasn't acceptable? Spending my birthday with some Bible-thumping Army wife who was all, "HEY, HALF-BREED JEW HEATHEN! GUESS WHAT I GOT YOU FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? HORN POLISH AND A NOSE JOB! SEE YOU IN HEL!" Six. Years. Young.

5.) I don't actually have a fifth point, I just prefer to go out on odd numbers.

So. Yeah. Thank you for having my back slash I still don't forgive you slash you never apologized slash if you did, I wouldn't forgive you. So, you know, food for thought.

At least we'll always have that Girl Scouts orienteering trip when you got overzealous and took me and my troop on a short cut through the canyon, only to discover that the bridge was out, so I—cocky from my gymnastics lessons—decided to walk across a fallen tree to get to the other side and fix it, which was a good plan until I twisted my ankle and got stuck halfway across (classic Meg), but ever the loving mother and fearless troop leader, you conquered your fear of heights to get across the tree, save me, and ultimately SAVE THE DAY.

And attracted by your newfound confidence, Craig T. Nelson decided he wanted to hit that again.

THE AND.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And Merry Tulane CHRIStmas! We love you guys and are incredibly thankful that you continue to read our blog and support us in everything that we do. [Or most of what we do, at least. Lord knows the beginning of this week was a little rough. And The Human Centipede review was troubling, at best. Ohhhhhhhh, us!] xo

11.24.09

- And speaking of Thanksgiving and rap music! I have an embarrassing story for you. You know how I feel about Dre? Well, that's how my sister feels about Ludacris. The very first time I ever heard the Ludacris song, "MoneyMaker," the line, "Just be thankful that Pharrell gave you something to bump to," got my gears a-turnin'. I decided that that year at Thanksgiving dinner, when my family was going around the table saying what we were all thankful for, I was going to say that I was "thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" and it would be the funniest thing anyone had ever heard in their entire lives and my sister would have a newfound respect for me and I'd be the hero of Thanksgiving from thereon after.

Now, I hatched this plan in July of 2006 which means that by the time Thanksgiving actually rolled around, I had been sitting on it for an embarrassing four months. But finally those excruciating four months passed, Thanksgiving was upon us, and I was anxiously seated at the dinner table ready to grace my family with the Greatest Joke Ever Told. Unfortunately, what I didn't factor in is that my family doesn't actually have a tradition where we go around the table and say what we're thankful for. But you bet your sweet ass that was about to change.

"Hey! I got an idea!" I said. "Let's go around the table and say what we're thankful for!!!!" I was met with a few raised eyebrows. My family isn't really the touchy-feely kind. We spend most of Thanksgiving drinking, watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and napping. (Christ I love Thanksgiving.) But that year, I insisted we go around the table, open our sardonic little hearts and say what we were thankful for. Eventually, my family agreed. I was so excited. My turn couldn't come fast enough.

Mom: "Well I'm thankful for having such a wonderful fam—" YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, NEXT!

Aunt: "I guess I'm thankful for having people in my life who—" OK GREAT, WONDERFUL, BECCA GO!

"Uhhh...I'm thankful for—" GREAT, TOUCHING, LOVED IT. MY TURN!!!!

My heart was racing and I could barely contain my own excitement. I took a breath and composed myself.

"Well everyone," I said, barely able to keep a straight face, "This year—I am thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!"

Nothing. Nobody spoke.

"O...k...," my dad said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence, "I guess it's my turn. I'm thankfu—"

"NO, NO, NO!" I interrupted, "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said, I'm thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" [Crickets and blank stares] "Like...like in the 'MoneyMaker' song? Ludacris, Becca? Ludacris?" I searched my sister's stony face for a sign that she not only knew what I was talking about, but thought it was the greatest thing since sliced Jesus.

"Yeah. I got it," she said instead, "It's just trying a little too hard. Gotta ask though, how long were you sitting on that one for, buddy?"

".....................................Four months."

"Nice. Dad, you're next."

And now this is what I'm reminded of every Thanksgiving. Personal failure. Sounds about right.

Tulane Chris' "Home for Thanksgiving" Drinking Game

[Editor's Note: I'd just like it to be known that I briefly considered posting the last scene of American History X today before Chris' drinking game to, you know, keep Monday and Tuesday's spice going. And to be an asshole. Mostly to be an asshole. But I decided not to! So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm thankful for me, too. Proceed, Chris.]

Drink: 

- for every fifteen pounds your high school friends gained, on the aggregate 

- every time the conversation between relatives lags, and is then punctuated by a loud upbeat sigh: “Yeah, the… Chargers… playoff. AAAAaaaah.”

- every time someone ritually pretends to consider refusing more food

- when something’s Not Right, as in “Did you put rosemary in the dressing? I know this is hard for you to understand, because of your learning disability – what’s it called again? Alcoholism? – but in this country…”

- something is Not Right to the max, as in last Thanksgiving when Giant Camel and Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie put the whole berry and the jellied cranberry sauce together in the saucepan and melted it, then looked at me like I was from space when I told them they were a bunch of drugged out Communists and ran to the store so I could have cold tubular jellied cranberry sauce like a human being from America

- something fails disastrously, as in three Thanksgivings ago when my mother and I tried to make organic zesty cranberry-sage weight-smart relish that we found in Prevention magazine (yes) and ultimately had to order pizza

- if there’s a festive centerpiece. Drink twice if it incorporates a cornucopia. Drink thrice if someone puts it on his head in an attempt to be wacky.

- at that awkward moment when half the family starts to tuck in and someone has to start the blessing at a shout to be heard over the crunch of gristle and the sloonk of cranberry sauce

- if you have to set aside a “special” dish for someone with a dietary restriction

- if they bitch anyway

- when your teenage cousin in his idealistic phase tries to get a discussion going about actual native-colonist relations

- for every muffled “Oh, God,” the above provokes

- if the Thanksgiving Piñata makes an appearance

- when you have to go around the table and say what you’re thankful for

- when someone says something WILDLY inappropriate during the previous, as when we did it in my freshman Intro to Theatre Arts class in high school and one kid was “thankful for his multiple personalities.” (He was totally my lab partner in chemistry and we got In Trouble because he lost our strip of magnesium we needed for an experiment.)

- if someone at work asks you “if Jews celebrate Thanksgiving.” Twice if you’re not Jewish. Three times if you have the presence of mind to pretend to be Jewish, make up a holiday, and take the rest of the day off.

- While making a hand turkey

- BECAUSE IT’S TULANE CHRIS’S 23RD BIRTHDAY AGAIN

- Because the Saints will have an easy win over the Cowboys, which they badly need, and I have $25 on them

- When you have this conversation:

“How’s work?”

“Well, I got fired from the ____ and now I sell ____ at intersections.”

“Oh. I guess you meet a lot of interesting people?”

“No, mostly teenagers throwing Mountain Dew cans at my head and people trying to pay me in Chick tracts.”

“Well, are you seeing anybody?”

“Sigurd went back to Iceland. He said he’d rather die of sealpox than spend another fifteen minutes watching my central nervous system lose the fight against a diet of Pop-tarts and Taaka. I think he stole my iPod.”

“…pets?”

“Ate each other.” 

This year, I’m thankful for our readers, especially those of you email me greyhound racing tips and graphic pornography. And as for the man who sends me graphic racing tips and greyhound pornography – I’m grateful for you too, but in a different way. 

My Top 5 Emotionally Scarring Childhood Movies

Yyyyyyyeah...so I kind of opened a Pandora's box of emotions yesterday with that whole Charlotte's Web rant, didn't I? Sorry about that. (Sorr about the bag...of emotions? Nope. Damnit. I'm horrible at this game and will never be as good as Chris, which is infuriating because I'm technically the one responsible for its creation.) Although, you have to admit, it's kind of nice to know we were all traumatized together, right?? Right. So I say we keep picking that emotional scab until we bleed to death or ask the homely co-worker in the cubicle next to us for a hug, shall we?! I present to you now, my Top 5 Emotionally Scarring Childhood Movies!

5.) The Lion King

THE STAMPEDE, YOU GUYS. The Stampede. Johnathan Taylor Thomas killed James Earl Jones. Way to go, asshole. If I were Tim Allen, I'd be shitting hammers right now. Or back in 1994, technically. And looking back, "shitting bricks" probably would have sufficed. If you consider bricks to be tools. Which after a lot of soul searching, I've decided I do. I don't really know why I insist on writing these posts at 3:45 in the morning. ANYWAY, although I was probably around 10 when my parents bought this movie, I to this day have never watched it on VHS without fast-forwarding through the scene where Mufasa dies. And you know what? That's a point of pride. I was old enough to take control of my destinty and chose not to subject myself to Disney's cheap torture. Unlike with...

4.) The Fox and the Hound

FRIENDS NEVER SAY GOODBYE! And Goonies never say die! Ah, the sage life advice of woodland creatures and Sean Astin. On a scale of one to soul-raping, I'd say The Fox and the Hound song, "Goodbye May Seem Forever", is a forced fingerblasting. The song on its own might be depressing, but what makes it really emotionally scarring is that we're forced to listen to it as the Widow Tweed abandons Tod in the forest. You know, after his mother was tragically killed by a hunter, thereby making him an orphan. (Down two mother figures in one movie? You, Mr. Disney, were a Nazi.) This scene is also uniquely cruel in that it taps into the pain of both being left behind and being the one forced to leave. "And now I find—we're both alone [...] But in my heart is a memory, and there you'll always be." Not to mention that foxes, animated or otherwise, are just god damn adorable. Wanna see something truly horrifying?

"Oh, hey best friend!"

"This feels like a lot of emotions for a woman who I know for a fact isn't raggin'..."

"Dinger."

"This feels premature..."

"So...so I'll just follow you, or did you wanna meet back up at the house or...?"

"You are aware that there was a recent death in the family, right? I kind of feel like I shouldn't be alone right now."

"K, well I'll just be slicing wrists in the forest if you need me..."

HORRIFYING.

3.) The Land Before Time

Now why did I think this movie was so traumatic again? Hmm...uhhh...OH, I KNOW! Because Little Foot's mom dies directly in front of him after promising that she'll always be with him, even if he can't see her. "What do you mean, 'if I can't see you'? I can always see you! Mother?...MOTHER??" Christ. I saw this at a friend's house, was immediately traumatized, and vowed to never watch it again. Then one day, by a cruel twist of fate, my elementary school randomly combined the AM and PM kindergarden classes, plopped us down in a room, popped in The Land Before Time and shut the door. I was like, "OOOF. Shit's about to get real." I can still feel my throat burning as I looked around the classroom, desperately trying to concentrate on anything but the TV because I was too embarrassed to cry in front of everyone. Looking back, I'm honestly baffled why they would ever play that movie for us in a group setting. I'm going to become a kindergarten teacher and force my students to watch The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas in front of their peers. Why? Two words: character building.

2.) Dumbo

Look, I spent a large part of last night on the phone with my mom harassing at her to sing the "mother-related torch song" from Dumbo to me. Am I proud? No. Will I call back and ask her to do it again later this afternoon? Probably. It's also worth noting that during said call, my mom made the excellent point that whereas Fern from Charlotte's Web was a bitch because she became a fast, dirty whore who abandoned Wilbur to explore a world of boys and partial-birth abortions, Christopher Robin callously abandoned Winnie the Pooh when he went off to school and left all of his toys behind. This enraged me in a way that makes me somewhat uncomfortable to look back on, and in the heat of my anger, I googled "Christopher Robin is an asshole" and found this Facebook group:

It's appropriately called, "Christopher Robin is an asshole", and the description is:

"Pooh thinks you're his best friend, but do you ever take the time to hang out with him. I don't think so. Pooh's always trying to find you, and going to look for you. Stop being such a dick and give Pooh the respect he deserves you cock."

It has one sole member: its founder, Bob Lowe, of Madison, Wisconsin. Mr. Lowe, if this Facebook group was your subtle way of proposing marriage to me—YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES!

1.) The Chipmunk Adventure

UH, remember this fucking movie?!!?!?! Laura and I watched a fair bit of it last night on youtube and I'm going to go ahead and make a bold statement: this movie has stood the test of time, if not gotten better since 1987. Is one of its songs currently my ringtone? No. But give me a few hours and it will be. Because the soundtrack is absurdly awesome. ALTHOUGH, can we talk about the musical number, "Getting Lucky"?

First and foremost, The Chipettes were 100% sold into sex slavery. BOOM—there it is. Second, I know this has become one of the most cliché sentences in the American lexicon, but Britney: you look like a whore. Finally, upon closer inspection, this song is grossly innaproprite:

Verse 1:

Honey, you're a sweet thing 

and you look so fine

all I ever wanted

is to make you mine

Chorus:

Give me

a clue

tell me what I need to do

to get lucky with you

Verse 2:

Boy I really love you

with my heart and soul

honey won't you take me

where I want to go

Chorus:

Give me 

a clue

tell me what I need to do 

to get lucky with you

Hook:

Getting lucky

hmmm getting lucky

is what's its really all about

getting lucky

hmmm getting lucky

its something I can't do without

Verse 3:

Honey I've been waiting

waiting patiently

let me unlock you're heart boy

I think I got the key

To get lucky with you

Right. Now I could analyze this song, the whorish outfits, the fact that in order for the girls to acquire diamonds and cash, they have to tame phallic snakes and "get lucky" with you, boy, and interpret what all of this says about our society, but at the end of the day, the four-year-old girl inside me and the 25-year-old woman that is me really just wants to strut around my apartment in a spangly, spangly Arabian Princess outfit and croon to a baby penguin. So there's that.

Speaking of crooning to baby penguins—"My Mother". That song crushes my soul every single time. You'll note, actually, that pretty much all of the movies in my traumatic Top 5 deal with mother/parent abandonment. One might assume that perhaps I have parental abandonment issues, right? "Where might that have come from?", you may be asking yourself. WELL SIT RIGHT DOWN AND LET ME TELL YOU A TALE. A TALE OF ABANDONMENT AND LUXERY VACATIONS.

On my sixth birthday, my parents abandoned me to go on vacation to Monte Carlo for two weeks. Yeah. I know. TWO WEEKS. On my birthday. (#uppermiddleclassproblems) And during those two weeks, I was shuffled back and forth between my aunt, my grandparents, and our freaky Evangelical Christian neighbors. ON MY BIRTHDAY. To say the least, I did not handle this well. If we're going to get specific, I went on a hunger strike and locked myself in my room for a few days. This has since become a staple McBlogger family inside joke. "HA HA, remember that time we went on vacation and old Meg freaked out and went on a hunger strike?? What a weirdo." Oh, I'm sorry—I was six-fucking-years old! My parents left me on my birthday! And I had to spend it with freaky Christians who wouldn't let me read my Simpsons comic books because they were "blasphemous" and "disrespected Christmas"! I was miserable and have never felt so alone in my entire life. And that pain has since been, and continues to be, a huge joke to my family. For example, I was out to dinner with my parents last week and told them that I wouldn't be in town this year for my birthday because I'll be in Charlotte for a friend's wedding. This opened up the door to a whole slew of "UH-OH! You won't be here for your birthday?? Looks like we all better go on a hunger strike! BAHAHA!" jokes. Assholes. 

Now, I know I only got a three on my A.P. Psychology exam and my current occupation is "Executive Fart Joke Broker", but I can't help but think that maybe part of the reason I was so hesitant to be separated from my parents for a long time at the tender age of six-years-old was because I had been conditioned from an early age to think that, oh, you know, they were going to DROP DEAD at any given moment, whether at the hands of hunters, wildebeests, circus workers, earthquakes, the ice age, tar pits, volcanic eruptions, evolution or a Sharptooth attack. Frankly, I can see why I didn't like those odds! So, fueled by this breakthrough and desperate for a little compassion, I tried to broach the topic with my mom again last night. This was the resulting conversation:

Me: I think I have abandonment issues.

Mom: I understand why you would, sweetheart.

Me: Wait...you do?

Mom: Well of course! All your friends are leaving and it must be very upsetting!

Me: Oh, no no no—what I meant to say was, I think you gave me abandonment issues.

Mom: Oh, Jesus Christ. I gave you abandonment issues because of one birthday in Europe? You wait until I die! That'll make me missing your birthday in Europe seem like a day at the beach—which it was, by the way.

And then she burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

...I wish I had studied slightly harder in A.P. Psych. Now if you need me, I'll be in the fetal position somewhere not eating.

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries:

- I'm going to file this one under "Conversations that Just Hit the Spot":

Me: I went through a phase last week of being really into the idea of joining the National Guard.

Becca: I assume someone has since talked you out of it?

Me: Mom said, I "wouldn't be much of a soldier." I didn't even know the National Guard were soldiers.

Becca: Yeah, they're the Army, but for domestic issues. Although I think we've started sending them overseas recently, so it's probably a good thing that you changed your mind.

Me: I don't know why, but I've always pictured the National Guard like, going around breaking up raucous beach parties and such. What am I thinking of?

Becca: Uh, an 80's tittie movie?

And then I laughed for a really long time while my sister repeatedly asked, "You were, weren't you? You're laughing this hard because you were." And I was. But specifically some old school USA Up All Night shit with "car wash" somewhere in the title. That's what the National Guard has always been in my mind. But now that I know it's not, nuts to joining. Although I don't think it's a completely horrible idea for me and Tulane Chris to produce a low-budget Private Benjamin remake where I try to join the National Guard and walk up to my drill sargeant on the first day all, "Pardon me, but where are the busty girls in string bikinis and surfer dudes with ironic names like Tripod and Wipeout? This neon-colored frisbee isn't going to toss itself!" And then my drill seargant is like, "MCBLOGGERRRRRR! DROP AND GIVE ME 50!" And I'm like, "50? Sir, with a body like that, why don't I drop and give you 69?" And then the camera zooms in on me as I throw up my hands and make a "Whatcha gonna do??" face, and a slide-whistle goes off somewhere.


I don't know. The script still needs some workshopping, but you get the gist.


- I was going to make this a You Know What Ruffles My Feathers? feature, but a.) it's oddly specific and b.) it doesn't really have a conclusion. And if that's not a recipe for comedy, I don't know what is! But this topic does ruffle my feathers, so here we go: You know what really ruffles my feather? People who say their hair looks better if they only wash it once a week.


Who are you people? Where do you come from? More importantly, what kind of voodoo are you practicing that you can get away with only washing your hair once a week? Are your hair follicles made of Wonder bread and Bounty paper towels? Because my hair looks like I've spent a full day swimming in the ocean if I don't wash it after two days. And you know what they tell you then? They always say, "Oh, well that's why you use a dry shampoo or baby powder to manage the oil." First of all, strop trying to up-sell me in casual conversation. Secondly, at the end of those seven days, I would look like a founding father there would be so much powder in my hair. English people would actually come up to me in the street and ask for legal advice. And if it's between having oily hair or constantly looking like I'm in a period piece, I'll go with the oily hair, a-thank you.


The other thing they always tell you is that you shouldn't use product. Or blowdry your hair. Or flatiron it. These, apparently, are all things that make it oily while you're not shampooing. Oh, I'M sorry! I'm sorry I was cursed with hair that manages to defy the laws of physics and gravity and be flat and lifeless, yet frizzy and curly all at the same time. I'M sorry about that. You're right. It's more important to avoid a random split end here and there than to wash it everyday. Sure I might look like Bob Ross and Mortitia Addams' love child in the mean time, but at least technically I'll have "good hair." Hippie.


But, no. I need to use product. I need to use heat tools. I need to wash my hair everyday. Why? Because truthfully, I am empirically not an attractive human being. But!, if I put in the man hours, I can trick you into thinking that I'm about an 8. And by "about an 8", I mean a concrete 8. I know this because a guy walked up to me last year at Jäger Ball and said, " You're an 8." It felt like something I probably should have been offended by, but at the time I figured I've always shot for the lower, upper-half in life, why stop now? I'm like a suburb of Chicago with decent schools and families who can afford two mid-level luxury cars, but sorry Taylor, you're going to have to take out a student loan next year; Colgate is expensive. That is what I look like.


And you know the worst part? My mom is one of those people who looks better if she only washes her hair once a week. My own mother! The very woman who's gene pool I back floated and perhaps accidentally peed in! It's not fair. She has deep, olive-colored skin, but of course I got my dad's pasty Irish coloring. My dad has bright blue eyes, but I got my mom's dime a dozen brown. My dad is never hungry and rail thin, yet I got the sturdy, childbearing frame of an Eastern European woman. My mother's face bears flawless skin, but I got my dad's cleft chin, or butt chin, as certain evil third graders liked to call it. (Chris Curtis; asshole.) I feel like had they sat down and worked out a Punnett square for me, all of the cross-pairings would have just been a combination of sideways and frowny faces. And then on the next sonogram, all you'd be able to see is a little nub holding up a post-it note that says, "ABORTION: WOULDN'T HOLD A GRUDGE!"


And that's where that rant just kind of ends. With an abortion joke. And that's why it never grew up to become a real YKWRMF? BeHiNd ThE sCeNeS!


- Big ups to 2b1b reader-run vestique.com! You should absolutley mozy over there at some point today and check out Morgan and Caroline's new online boutique. (Nothing is over $100. As a girl who primarily eats gummy fangs and whores herself out on a monthly basis to pay her cable bill, I appreciate that.) Full Disclosure: they gave me a pair of these sassy and absurdly comfortable red flats for the linkage, but I wouldn't have agreed to do it if I wasn't into their stuffs. There's dignity in my selling out, thank you. So go there and buy everything! Because it's a great boutique! And because I also really want the flats in black, so maybe if you guys buy a bunch, I'll get a pity bonus. www.vestique.com. KNTHNX!


- I always thought that Shop Girl was my go-to "I Need a Good Cry" movie, but OOOOF. I've discovered one that takes it to a whole other level. Allow me to share with you my Saturday night:


All last week I felt like I was coming down with something, and I absolutley refuse to be sick on Thanksgiving and only be able to take meager bites of soft foods that I won't even be able to taste, so I pretty much locked myself in my apartment this weekend and just slept and drank a lot of fluids. Truthfully, most of those fluids were wine, but still. Fluids they were. Saturday night at around 11:45ish, I needed a break from sleeping (which happens) (and I think is just called, "being awake") so I curled up on the couch with a a bottle of Mucinex and a glass of wine and started channel surfing. That's when I saw that the 1976 animated version of Charlotte's Web was on and thought, "Oh, I used to watch that movie everyday when I was a wee Meglet! I'll watch that!" 


MISTAKE! MISTAKE! BIG, BIG MISTAKE!!!


Mother of god—I do know the last time I cried that hard. Which means that the last time I cried that hard, there was a concrete, traumatic reason to do so, which made it all the more memorable. I cried in a way that was less crying and more just fluids exiting my face from various orafices, while I made soft little moans and grunted a lot. It was one of those cries where afterwards you're thirsty and completely out of toilet paper.


I'm pretty sure I know why I had this reaction to the movie, though: 1.) It's just a very nostalgic movie for me, and as my TDR Thanksgiving Dinner post last week proved, I don't deal with nostalgia very well. 2.) Whereas Shop Girl resonated so much with me last year because I was having relationship problems, Charlotte's Web did a number on me this year because I'm having friendship problems. I mean, I have friends, that's not the problem, it's just that they're all leaving the country in droves like rats on a ship. And while I know this is a result of living in a city like D.C. where everyone has their eye on the door, I'm still left with all of these emotions about my friends moving on and settling down, whereas I'm stalled, on no path to speak of, with no co-driver, and am ultimately afraid that everyone is going to leave and forget me. YOU KNOW, LIKE CHARLOTTE'S BABIES DID TO WILBUR. 


I honestly don't think this movie is appropriate for children (and 25-year-olds with a bottle of Riesling and emotions.) It's about people creating emotional dependencies on other people and then having those relationships ripped away from them. Except by people, I primarily mean animals and arachnids. And death! So much of the movie is about death! The only reason Wilbur and Charlotte meet in the first place is because they're about to fucking slaughter Wilbur and he's literally weeping for someone to save his life! So Charlotte does save him—only to die herself! But it's OK, she has babies to carry on her legacy—except they're like, fuck you Wilbur, I do what I want! I'm going to Des Moines to study improv! and only three babies stay with him. Jesus fucking Christ. Are we classifying Schindler's List as a "children's classic" these days? Deliverance? Look at this pu-pu platter of quotes:


"I'm less than two months old and I'm tired of living." 
Seriously?? Seriously? I feel like that could also be lyrics to a Linkin Park song I listened to a lot when I got rejected from NYU and drove around soul-searching a lot.


Wilbur: Why did you do all this for me? I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.
Charlotte: You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heavens knows anyone's life can stand a little of that."
I mean, is this a children's movie or a one-act based on that token old guy in every dive-bar named "Ernie" who's lived a lot of life?


Charlotte: I'm done for. In a day or two I'll be dead. I haven't strength enough to climb into the crate. I doubt if there is enough silk in my spinnerets to lower me to the ground.
Wilbur: Charlotte! No, Charlotte! My true friend.
Oh my fucking god...


Wilbur: Are you writers?
Charlotte's daughters: No, but we will be when we grow up. 
Wilbur: Then write this in your webs, when you learn: This hallowed doorway was once the home of Charlotte. She was brilliant, beautiful, and loyal to the end. Her memory will be treasured forever.
Charlotte's daughters: Ooh, that would take us a lifetime.
Wilbur: A lifetime. That's what we have.
I just can't.



Wilbur: No. Please don't go. I'll be all alone. Your mother wouldn't want that to happen, I'm sure. Please don't go.
Narrator: Soon the sky was filled with baby spiders, floating away on the wind. Wilbur sank to the ground, crying, his heart broken once more.

I mean, for fuck's sake. I'm crying right now.

But this is the one that really got me:
Narrator: Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders quite took her place in his heart. She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.

HYSTERICALLY. CRYING. Tulane Chris and I are obviously good friends, but we don't really have a "gushy" friendship. Like, you know you have those friends you get drunk with and have serious conversations with about how much you love each other and how important this friendship is and you just weep and hold each other a lot? That's not really me and Chris. We like each other, obviously, but we also respect each other as writers and at the end of the day have to do business together—it's the same reason why we won't fart in front of each other or why he won't let me call him when I'm on the john.


But after that line, I was a hot second away from calling him up at 1 o'clock on Sunday morning all, "YOU ARE A TRUE FRIEND AND A GOOD WRITER! YOU'RE BOTH! YOU'RE MY CHARLOTTE! YOU'RE. MY. CHARLOTTE! AND I DON'T SAY IT ENOUGH! YOU'RE IMPORTANT TO ME! AND, YES, I'M TAKING A SHIT RIGHT NOW AND I THINK IT'S IMPORTANT THAT YOU'RE OK WITH THAT! BECAUSE YOU'RE MY CHARLOTTEEEEEEEEE!"


But I didn't. Mostly because we were supposed to have a conference call that afternoon that I slept through and thought that if I skipped it and woke him up later that night to drunkenly ramble about my bowel movements and being my "Charlotte", he'd be another spider in the wind. Oh my god. Another spider in the wind. That was so prosaic. Now I'm tearing up again.


Time to cleanse the palate.


- I had to go to the bank the other day because I de-magnetized both of my ATM cards when I put a magnet in my wallet, and when I told the sassy black woman who was helping me how I did it she said, and I quote, "Baby, I wish I hadn't asked," and I've never felt more stupid.

There. That feels better.