A Few Quick Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries Because They Don't Have Conclusions And Just Kind of Abruptly End, Or "Why I'm Not A Terribly Good Writer"

- I'm sorry, but is the world aware of how busy the gym is at 6 o'clock in the morning? Let me back up a bit. So I've been a fair-weather member of the Fitness First gym on L and 19th for the past couple of years and I'm a huge fan. I like it because it's not trendy or complicated. It's a generic gym—you go in, you get your shit done, and you get out. It's like the Shasta cola of workout establishments. I've been calculating for the past few years what I call my gym's "Aspie Hours", or times throughout the day when the least number of people are likely to be there. These hours are roughly the following: 8:30-9:30am, after the nine-to-fivers go to work, before the housewives come in; 1:00-3:30ish, after the lunch rush, before the evening rush, during group classes; and 8:45-10:00pm, after the evening rush, before closing. I particularly like going during the 8:30-9:30am time slot because it's primarily filled with the elderly and I feel like Super Man on my Arc Trainer by comparison. And yet I went in this morning at 6am. I went in as a joke. As a SICK, understated joke—as performance art, really—and it was packed. Packed with fit, perky, fast-moving people who made eye contact. It was disgusting. So. I learned a lesson. Good. Good for me.

- Hi. If I'm going to spend $52 to make my apartment smell like cannabis for 60 hours, I expect to wake up at the end of those 60 hours thigh-deep in chicken bones and half-eaten Hot Pockets with a 50-page opus on my desktop about how time is cyclical titled "SERIOUSLY_DO NOT FUCKING FORGET THIS.doc", not holding an empty 9oz glass jar with the clearest head I've had since I was 14.

- Teresa got a part-time job reporting traffic for the local NBC news station and recently said the following on air: "Reports are coming in of an overturned blueberry truck on I-95 just outside of Baltimore. So if you're headed up that way tonight, it looks like you're headed for a real jam." I bring this up only because I need you to know how incredibly sexually attracted I am to that joke. Not only is it a traffic joke, it's a preservatives joke. I'm wetter than a Slip 'n Slide at a Fourth of July party.

- I came back from the gym this past Monday morning and was about to collapse on my bed and make love to a bagel and an episode of "Fraiser"—as is par for the course—when I overheard my neighbor get into a huge fight with her boyfriend. Or I guess he got into a fight with her because he was doing all of the yelling. And I do mean yelling. I've overheard plenty of neighbors yell at their significant others in my time, but this was some next level shit. This was a sensible blouse and an overcooked meatloaf away from being a Lifetime movie. I couldn't figure out what they were fighting about though because it was one of those situations where all you can hear is a lot of forceful mumbling with the occasional clear word or phrase when someone really wants to drive a point home. Like, "mumblemumblemumble I WAS THE ONE mumblemumblemumble WHILE YOUR ASS mumblemumblemumble FOR FIVE HOURS mumblemumblemumble BECAUSE YOU NEED THE DRAMA." Trying to fill in those blanks is like playing The Burning Bed edition of Mad Libs. It's haunting. Anyway, I didn't know what to do about the situation, or even if I should do anything at all. I just kind of sat there awkwardly shifting my eyes around the room all "ha ha...Roz", hoping things wouldn't escalate to the point where I had to put pants on. I felt badly for her. But mostly I couldn't stop thinking about that "Family Guy" cutaway "Horton Hears Domestic Violence in the Next Apartment and Doesn't Call 911":

So then I obviously watched that clip like sixteen times in a row and just cackled and cackled like an asshole with my bagel dangling out of my mouth while God only knows what was going on next door. I justified this in my head by thinking, "Well, I'm not laughing at her; I'm laughing at what her horrible situation reminds me of." But that still felt...off. 

I find my whole reaction to this situation deeply disturbing because I'd like to think I'm a feminist, yet here my neighbor's boyfriend is yelling at her in a sort of scary way and I just could not give two shits. I mean, I sort of did. I guess I gave AN shit. The concept was horrifying, but you know, we're all adults here. Let's tend to our own flocks. And then the fact that that went through my head horrified me even more because again, feminist. So then I tried justifying that by reminding myself that I hate her. Because I do. I've asked her repeatedly to stop slamming the door behind her when she goes in and out of her apartment because besides it being rude and startling, it rattles our shared wall where I have two plates hanging and if they fall and break I'm going to blast the most offensive German shiza porno that euros can buy every single night between the hours of 3-6am until death do us part. And yet she continues to do it! Day in and day out! So her boyfriend's yelling at her? Good. I have a strongly worded letter I wrote to our condo board that he can read aloud to her as well. So basically, this means that in my own mind, the following is my stance on verbal abuse: VERBAL ABUSE IS STILL ABUSE! ABUSERS ARE COWARDS! REAL MEN DON'T HURT WOMEN! THAT IS UNLESS THAT WOMAN WON'T STOP LETTING THE DOOR SLAM BEHIND HER BECAUSE COME ON LADY!

So in conclusion: I am a horrible human being, I bring down my gender and this great nation, and Libya is a land of contrast. THE END.

Hello Darlin'

Hello, kids. Daddy’s missed you.

Sorry about my prolonged absence. With school, work, and the books, things got a little intense for a while. I’m back now. Let’s never fight again. I’m going to ease my way back into blogging with a little post following your favorite format and mine: Thoughts I Couldn’t Flesh Out into Full Entries! (Don’t worry about me falling back onto this as a crutch again: I just went to Baltimore, joined a gym, and Netflixed a documentary about a Christian music duo who are PARTNERS IN LIFE AND PARTNERS IN SONG, so some genuine essays about life’s little foibles will follow soon. Think of this post as how, if you haven’t had sex in a while, it’s quick and has bad form but it’s still awesome because it’s been so long.)

Enemies List: I’ve decided to go ahead and start a paranoid, Nixon-style “enemies list” solely for the purpose of adding “doofus at the Apple store” to it. He’ll fit nicely between “Jimmy Carter” and “the Jews.” Here’s what happened: I finally caved and bought an iThing. I didn’t really want to because they have a weird, cultish aspect. That whole gung-ho breadline snaking out of the store for six days before the “new” model of anything, which is as often as not the same thing only a new color, disturbs me and reminds me of lemmings. I finally caved and got an iPod for two reasons: Angry Birds, and the fact that I downloaded a free audio version of Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I figured if I bought an iObject, I could listen to it while I worked out and then actually work out and actually “read” the book and then learn to multitask and then come home and blog while I ate a balanced meal and finally be an adult. I’ll let you know if it works. So I ordered the iWhatever from Wal-Mart.com because I had a $50 Valentine’s Day gift card there from Mom, and it arrived with a screen protector already on it, but very badly applied. It’s crooked and has little fibers trapped between the screen protector and the glass. Now, I’m extraordinarily clumsy. I was so bad at “Operation” as a child that my parents let me hit the board with a hammer in a new game called “Vivisection.” I once was so eager to get my suitcase that I fell onto a baggage carousel and was dragged along for several feet. (Next time you’re at an airport in Israel, do something that makes you stand out. It does not reassure people.) The odds of me successfully applying a screen protector are about the same as the odds of my being the next keynote speaker at the Southern Republican Leadership Conference, so I went to the Apple store to try and have them do it for me, since it’s such a fucking clean, well-lighted place where nothing goes wrong and you live forever.

So of course I get there and it’s packed to the gills, and the one person who’s not busy flatly refuses to help me. He thinks I want him to give me a free screen protector – I don’t know why, but that’s where he went – and then after the third or fourth time I told him I had one he started asking me how the screen protector that’s there got on the iMotherfucker.  I told him it came that way and he got very haughty and insisted that “we never have shipped them like that, never.” Things went downhill from there, and ended with my storming out but oh-so-slyly dropping a candy bar wrapper on their floor. A small and childish act, but I comfort myself that maybe one of those iTools slipped on it.

Oh, Mom: She has been on her game while I was away:

Mom: Oh, I’ve had such a day. I spent all day on the phone with the drugstore. They’re simply not realistic about those controlled substance laws. Accidents happen.

Me: Like what, for example.

Mom: Oh, I poured a bottle of Xanax into a can of peaches.

Me: Were you making a “special” cobbler to eat while you watched the Kentucky Derby?

Mom: No, I just… well. So, I was going to have peaches for lunch. And I opened the can and I just didn’t feel like getting a bowl dirty I’d just have to wash. So I had the peaches in my lap, and I had Grendel* in my lap, and I was fussing with the remote, and I remembered I hadn’t taken my medicine, and you know I have on that wrist brace ever since I hurt my wrist moving the fish tank, and one thing led to another and they just all fell in there. I scooped some out with an envelope but it was mostly a loss. And the pharmacy thought that was just so suspicious.

AND

Me:…so, if I can afford it, I want to try to visit the gals** this fall.

Mom: Chris!

Me: What?

Mom: How terrible!

Me: I thought you liked them.

Mom: No! That word!

Me: Afford? Fall? Prolapsed?

Mom: Chris! Gals. It’s so offensive.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, I meant womyn.

Mom: That’s not what I mean. It’s so racist. So very racist.

Me: GAL?

Mom: Yes! You know…(whispering) as in “li’l nigra gal.”

Me: You have never once heard that phrase outside the film Mississippi Burning.

Mom: You don’t know everything.

I love her very, very much, but she’s weird.

*Mom’s poodle. He has an eating disorder.

**Two female college friends of mine.

From the Department of Varied Meats: Shit, who knew about ox tails and didn’t tell me? They are so incredibly, amazingly delicious. One wouldn’t think so – you know, ox and tail – but by the same magic as two negative numbers multiplied making a positive number they are delicious. I also feel they qualify as “healthy” because it’s so much work to knaw (<- when you don’t write for a while you come up with all kinds of fresh, vibrant spellings) the meat off the wonky little bones. I even had a nice conversation with a stranger while buying them.

Woman: “Four? Ha. I gotta buy ten pounds. My kids fuss if they don’t get ox tails when they visit.”

She then shared a recipe with me: “Cuban style” ox tails: brown ‘em, then boil them up with chorizo and raisins. “I know raisins sound awful, but trust me.” The only blemish on my new ox tail love is, of course, a passing vegetarian. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this ever, but I have moderately severe ADHD, one symptom of which is that it’s very hard to separate background noise from what you actually want to hear. You can’t pick up the right strand. The exception, of course, is when something is annoying enough to punch its way into your consciousness. So I’m standing at the meat counter waiting to order my beloved ox tails and some hipsterette passes by and says, clear as day, “It’s so disconcerting to just see slices of animal piled up.” Two things: One, vegetarianism is not terribly common and wasn’t super-widespread until recently. This girl almost definitely grew up in a meat-eating household, and definitely had some relatives or friends growing up who ate meat. She might not like it, it might disgust her, she might think it’s unethical, but Goddammit she’s used to the idea of meat. It does not disconcert her. It’s not wildly foreign. I wasn’t in a loincloth, squatting over the corpse of a slain enemy, chewing his still-beating heart to gain his courage. Second, I am always polite to vegetarians. I’m not going to join them but it’s none of my business what they eat and I know it’s hard to get good vegetarian or vegan food so I don’t bait them like some people do. If I’m polite about it, she has to be! I’m not eating human flesh! I’m not eating currently alive things! I’m not eating a rare steak naked in front of her as the bloody juices drip down my chest (although if you provide the steak and think you would enjoy this I’ll come to your house and do it.) If this happens again, I’m writing a pamphlet called “The Carrot Wept” and see if I can starve her into submission.

Why I Am Not a Political Writer: I came up with the most tortured metaphor in the world today during my “awake but not up” period. So, Barack Obama is in the eleventh grade, and “running the country” is a Calculus test. On the first page, there’s an incredibly intimidating problem with a huge elaborate diagram labeled “unemployment: 25 pts.” He doesn’t know if he knows how to do that, so he does all the other problems first: “Health Care: 15 pts. Palestinian statehood: 10pts.” to try to get enough done that even if he leaves unemployment blank or only gets partial credit he can still pass (get reelected.) The other kids in the class are Republicans and they might wreck the curve by… I thought this was so fucking clever until I got up and let some blood get to my brain. I think this whole thing says very little about me and still less about the government, but a lot about how much I disliked my eleventh-grade calculus teacher, a man named “Jan” (not Jan as in “Yan,” Jan as in Jan Brady, thus named because his father died in January while little Jan-to-be was in the womb) who wore short-sleeved shirts with ties, believed he had been a Roman centurion in a previous life, and told one startled class about the overwhelming joy he felt while conducting a faster-than-sound jet flight as his wife was artificially inseminated. The resulting son was a midget.

You know what they say in show business: Always leave ‘em laughing, but failing that, end on a midget. All my love, and see you soon.

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.