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.