Schmom B. Says: Probs.

leaving for lollapalooza (aka gagapalooza) today, i have only one word for you, c/o Schmom B.

off to a field in chicago for three days to jump around and hopefully dance in the rain and maybe rub mud on my body. probs. bai.

Schmom B. Says: Don't forget ya gotdamn roots

Today I interviewed Dave 1 from the band Chromeo. I was really nervous because I'm kind of obsessed with Chromeo right now and sort of have a big ol' crush on Dave. I texted Schmom B. to tell her as much. This is what she had to say in response.

Brilliant.

/scene

Coversations with Schmom B.: Schpop B. Edition

The following is the rough outline of an actual conversation that took place between Schmom B. and myself. I call her everyday, usually in the evenings; sometimes I talk to Schpop B. as well, but he's often traveling because he's in the military. This last part played a key role in the conversation I had with her a couple days ago, detailed below, while my dad was in Washington, DC.

Me: Hey Moooom.
Schmom B.: Hi, sweetie. How's it goin?
Me: Ohh, you know, it's fine. I'm tired. Getting ready to move, etc.
SB: Very exciting!
Me: Have you heard from dad? I haven't talked to him in a couple days. How's he doing in DC?
SB: (laughing) He's fine. He's been texting me all evening. He's at the vice president's house for a cocktail thing and he's bored.
Me: Oh. Hmmm... the vice president's house?
SB: Yeah.
Me: Like... as in the vice president of the United States? Joe Biden?
SB: Yeah.
M: And he's bored?
SB: Yeah, he texted me a few times. He said he's pretty over it.
M: So he's at the vice president's house, and he told you - via text message - that he's "over it"?
SB: Yeah, he said it's been going on for like five hours and all they have is wine and water and he really wants a beer. I know he's bored because he never really texts me during the day like that.
M: So, just to recap, he's hanging out with the vice president of the United States, he's bored slash over it, and all he really wants is a beer?
SB: (laughing)
M: Yes?
SB: Yep.

The Schfolks rock, no?

Edit: I spoke with Schpop B. the day after the above conversation took place, and he clarified that the event was not in fact "boring," but more of "a pain in the ass."

Throwback Thursday: Lady Gaga Edition

Today is my birthday. I'm twenty four. TWENTY FUCKING FOUR. As many hours as there are in one day, I've lived that many years. You may recall that I announced a couple months ago that Lady Gaga is performing at Radio City Music Hall tonight. I am already prepared: brown hair bow, fishnets, new dress, Art Deco necklace, studded boots and eye liner await my gracious donning.

In honor of my first live Gaga experience, today's Throwback Thursday goes allllll the way back to April 2008, when Gaga released her first single as a solo artist: Just Dance. I didn't like Gaga at this point - in fact, I don't think I had even heard of her - and she didn't really start growing on me until last summer, more than a year after the song came out. But listening to it now, it seems like old school Gaga, or something, which is ridiculous since she's such a new artist. But compared to her tracks on The Fame Monster, it somehow seems like a really old song.

It's definitely not my favorite song on The Fame, but I decided on it because it was the first one released, and it was a huge, ginormous hit. Instead of posting the official music video - which, BTW, I feel doesn't do the song any justice because her inspiration for writing the song was her crazy nights going out in NYC, and the video takes place at, like, some lame house party in LA - I am posting her live performance of the song on So You Think You Can Dance? from fall 2008. I was living in Alabama at the time, and I watched this show religiously every week with Schmom B., so I saw this performance as it happened. I remember actually saying to my mom, "What the fuck?? Who is this bitch? She's not a good dancer and her singing is just sub-par."*

Oh, how things have changed.

This barely even seems like the same person performing. True, her budget was much smaller back then, but even her face looks different. Her body looks a bit stouter. I mean, this was almost two years ago so it's definitely possible that her look has changed. But that's no defense for those shoes. I mean what the hell? Neon highlighter wedge sandals? Hell. To the naw.

*Yes, I used those actual words, because Schmom and I are tight like that.

In Memoriam

One of the things I find most nebulous about being a blogger is how much personal stuff I should share with the rest of the Internet. I've written about bad dates I've been on, amazing nights that can only happen in New York, heartwrenching depression brought on by my break-up, and moving moments in others' lives that brought tears to my eyes. I write about all these things because I literally don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Writing has always been and will always be the only way I really know how to express adequately my version of the human experience.

Yesterday, my grandmother passed away. She had Parkinson's Disease for several years before that, and we basically watched her fade away over the past couple of years. She was my only remaining living grandparent. She was 82 years old. She had three children, one of whom is my beloved Schmom B. She had three grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. She was sweet and beautiful. Here she is. I called her Mema.

Isn't she pretty? This photo was taken while my family, friends and I stood outside Taylor Grocery in Taylor, Mississippi waiting for a table for my college graduation dinner in May 2008. At this point, she was shaking because of the Parkinson's, but she could still walk around and do stuff pretty much on her own. It's really my last significant memory of her being self-sufficient and out in the world. When she passed yesterday, she was confined to a wheelchair and not really able to eat or do anything for herself anymore. We begin life as babies, and if we are among the lucky ones, we end it as them as well.

The last time I saw her was on Christmas Day, just a few weeks ago. She said a couple things to me that were so poignant and painfully beautiful that I debated for a long time whether I wanted to write an essay based entirely on these few words. I still haven't decided, but I feel comfortable sharing them here now. I feel like I need to share them, because I feel like they represent the person she was.

When I walked into the house she and my Papa shared for at least the past 23 years - they were married for more than 50 before he passed away in 2003 - she was sitting in her wheelchair in the kitchen. She was shaking pretty badly but she still reached her hand to me as I went to hug her gently. As I hugged her, I said, "Hey Mema, how are you doin'? You look good. You feelin' OK?" I never really know how to talk to old or sick people, which is something I have always disliked about myself. My face hovered close to hers and she looked directly in my eyes and said, "This isn't contagious, you know." Then her voice tinkled with laughter, weak but real.

My heart broke a little bit. On the one hand, I admired her for still being able to tell a joke, despite her condition. On the other hand, I realized that she wasn't really joking at all. She was always more concerned about the comfort of everyone else than she ever was about herself. And I could hear the loneliness in her voice. It was that palpable loneliness that is not linguistically replicable, but beats under every vocal chord. I cannot tell you what it sounds like or feels like or looks like. Writing is failing me here.

After we ate our Christmas meal and opened our presents, my parents and I were getting ready to head back home. I reached down to hug her, this time more tightly, because I had a feeling I might not see her alive again. She grasped my hand in hers, and it stopped shaking. Just for a few moments, the shaking stopped. I told her I loved her very much. She looked at me and said, "I love you, too. Maybe next year we'll all be healthy."

My heart broke the rest of the way. Even after several years of illness, and being so aware of her sickness and how it affected everyone else around her, she still had this hope in her heart, this seemingly unwavering belief, that we would all be together again for Christmas the next year. After 83 years of life, she seemed to have no concept of giving up, or of not being around to enjoy Christmas dinner. I knew that what she said was very unlikely, if not nearly impossible, but at the same time I felt inspired by her resilience. If she could live so long and endure so much pain and still think that way, then I can certainly find my way through to the other side of my own problems and survive. More than that - I can live, and love others, and love myself, and breathe hope into my heart forever.

Lots of people might balk that I am writing about such personal moments in such a public sphere, but that's just what my life is. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to create work - essays, blog posts, plays, poems - out of my personal experiences, with the implicit hope that other people will read it. I want to connect with other people and effect them. I can't say how exactly, but I do. I just want to effect the world.

And I want other people to know what happy memories I have of Mema. I want people to know that I  remember this one Christmas when I was real little, my mom packed pillows around my body and put me in a homemade Santa suit, and I was so fat that I couldn't walk and I just fell down on my face in my grandparents' house and everyone just laughed and laughed and laughed. This other time, when I was in high school, my mom, Mema and I were watching Elf one Christmas and whenever that scene happened when Will Farrell belches really loudly at the dinner table, Mema just laughed and laughed and laughed. And anyone who knows me understands now where I get my warped sense of humor, and my strong penchant slash skill for burping.

I remember playing Uno with her on the couch, and Sequence with her at the kitchen table. We like card and board games in my family. I remember her laugh and how she always used to call me "hun." I remember how she always used to greet me at Christmas by coming outside her house and standing in her driveway with her arms open, expecting a big hug. I remember how she smelled. I remember how she always used to say "shoot" through her smile after she had a laughing fit. She was very Southern.

I am going home today to be with my family and attend Mema's funeral. I really hate funerals. Like a lot of things about Western culture, I just don't get it. They seem to never have anything to do with the actual life of the person being mourned. It seems like every funeral I've ever been to has been basically the same experience, which is wrong, because no two people are alike. Perhaps that is why I write; I want to create something unique so that I can pass on memories and important experiences to other people. Isn't that what a funeral should really be like, in theory?

So here you go Mema. This is my funeral for you. I'll be there Sunday, crying and laughing with everyone else, but just know that I've already committed my heart to my own memorial for you. This is it. I hope you liked it. I love you.

In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write.
And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself: must I write?

Merry Crimma!

My mom has this amazing holiday habit of buying me pajamas and other random garments generally considered to be inappropriate for wear outside the home. She does it every year, no matter how much I bemoan her doing so, because I swear to God I don't need any more pajamas, and she swears to God that I always need more pajamas. She usually buys these things at Victoria's Secret, and yesterday as we opened our gifts (yeah, we sometimes do this on Christmas Eve, what about it?), I discovered at the bottom of a bag filled with pajamas and panties - gasp - a cupcake thong.

I promptly asked my mom if she had read my blog post about these delicious panties/pastries. She responded that she had not, which just goes to show that she is truly a woman after my own heart.

May all of your Christmases be filled with just as many wonderful surprises. Much love to everyone.

What, other people don't appreesh abbrevs?

I went to the gayno today. Yes, my (likely) gay OB/GYN. It was a thrilling experience, as always, but it was made all the more thrilling by the following sign, which I spotted on the wall as I was waiting for the doctor.

Clearly, not all people share my intense love for writing in abbreviations. In fact, some people go so far as to create an entire class of abbreviations and then dub them "inappropriate." I found this borderline offensive, and if I didn't like my gayno so much, I would probably boycott.

Also worth noting: the following is an actual textversation that happened between Schmom B. and me, immediately following said doctor's appointment.

Me: He said everything looked good. He was gay. I loved him.
Schmom B.: Good. A gay gyno! That's NYC for u.
Me: A gayno!
Schmom B.: I'm peeing my pants!
Me: Well don't do that.

Humor-laden urinary incontinence aside, Schmom B. is so tech-savvy y'all.

Schmom B. Says

Sigh, I dropped the ball on the Schmom B. Says feature. It's been like at least a month since I posted one. Well, Schmom B. came through last night with the following e-mailed words of wisdom, this time totally unsolicited by me. (Usually she doles them out in response to a pitiful text message or phone call from yours truly about how I miss my ex or work is hard or blablabla other uninteresting things about my life.) This just further illustrates that Schmom B. is the best.

Schmom B. Says: Don't forget, you are loved

Hey sweetie,

Heard something today that's very meaningful to me.  Struck me, you would appreciate it too.  "Scars remind us where we've been; they don't have to dictate where we're going." Something else I read:  "We tend to seek happiness when happiness is actually a choice." Happy "two weeks before Christmas."  See you soon.  Take care.  I love you.

Mom




This honestly couldn't have come at a better time. The city's been closing in, and I've been feeling really anxious, and my inner peace has slipped away from me, and I needed a reminder that I have people who love me, even if some of them are way down South in Alabama. 

Up here in the city, feels like things are closing in;
The sunset's just my light bulb burning out.
I miss Kentucky, and I miss my family;
All the sweetest winds they blow across the South...

Ugh please forgive me for the excessive song lyric usage recently.  I sort of hate myself for it.... but I just watched this live version of Ryan Adams' Oh My Sweet Carolina, and it made me cry more than anyone should ever cry in a public place ever. I actually had to stop watching. Self-sustenance. Shake it out.

And How NYC: Times Square is our bitch

Schmom B. and Schpop B. are in town for the weekend! They've never, ever been to NYC, so this is a big adventure for them. And, LBO, for me as well. I'm taking them to all my favorite places in addition to all the touristy standbys. Soo yeah that's tiring.

Their first night in town, I showed them around my hood, then took them to see Grand Central, followed by the shuttle (my least favorite thing ever) to Times Square. Z joined us, natch, and recorded the first of what will likely be many videos of us wandering around and being ourselves for his blog, And How NYC. It is lolz. Nay, it is lolx. Enjoy.



This is the first video of me that has ever appeared on the Internet. Things you might learn: 1. Yes, I have an accent sometimes. 2. We really do talk like this. 3. We are bitches. 4. I am sleepy or drunk.

Schmom B. Says

It's Friday again! I have a very busy weekend ahead of me, which includes - and I can't believe I haven't mentioned this yet - a trip down to DC early Sunday morning for the National Equality March and - oh my fucking jesus - a performance by Lady Gaga. It might just be the gayest weekend I've ever experienced, and I've had a LOT of gay weekends in my life, so that's really saying something.

I am very much looking forward to it, partially because it means I can put this shitty week behind me. I mean, I fully acknowledge that I live a charmed life and that, as such, all my so-called "problems" are charmed ones, and I am very thankful for everything in my life, but I've had a tough week, OK? And in this installment of Schmom B. Says, my mom gives me a little bit of perspective about it.




Schmom B. Says: Calm down, it's not that bad

Meghan: I'm having a really bad day. :(

Schmom B.: Sorry! I'm cleaning up cat puke! Bad is relative.






I guess Queen B. (my family cat) had a little accident. And it's true - so far this week, I haven't cleaned up anyone else's vomit, be it that of a human, cat, dog or any other creature, so really I just need to STFU and CTFD.

Happy weekend everyone!

PS. The Office wedding episode last night was perfect.

Schmom B. Says

It's that time again, dear readers. Friday! Yay! I'm so happy about it I could shit myself, but that would markedly decrease my happiness, so I will refrain.

Anyway, the arrival of Friday can mean only one thing: the next installment of Schmom B. Says! Today, she reminds us all that honesty truly is the best policy.



Schmom B. Says: It's Aiiiiiiight

Meghan: Here is the guest blog post I wrote! I'm so excited!
Schmom B.: Sweetie, I liked your "quiet party" blog. There was a kind of "unhappy"undertone in your writing though. You have written things a lot funnier. You are such a good writer. Love ya.
Meghan: I've written things a lot funnier?? Ouch!
Schmom B.: True, though. Don't you agree?
Meghan: Yes, but I was writing for a different audience.
Schmom B.: K, don't really know what you mean. Funny is funny. I just didn't giggle as much. I still love the way you write.
Meghan: Haha k. Thanks.




You heard it here first, kids: funny is funny. I mean, I guess it's good that she thinks I'm funny? Sometimes? Sigh.

New Blog Feature: Schmom B. Says

I am an emotional person. I know that I sometimes come across - especially on this blog - as increasingly flippant and irreverent, but really I can be the most emotional, dramatic, ridiculous person you've ever met. Proof: I once left my ex in a restaurant, mid-meal, because he told me something I found to be very upsetting. I just got up and walked out. And I don't even watch that much dramatic television; it's just how I am naturally. Good or bad, whatever, it's just the way it is.

People who know me well know this about me, and know how to deal with it. Foremost amongst these people is my beautiful, smart, funny mother, who perhaps personifies the NSA I wrote about recently. As such, I have decided to start a new weekly (or mayhaps twice? thrice? weekly) feature called "Schmom B. Says," in which I will post her latest wisdom nugget (sometimes sweet, sometimes tangy, sometimes hilarious) doled out - via e-mail, text message, phone call or actual snail mail - when I'm feeling emotional. My friends lovingly refer to her as Schmom B.*, which is a derivative of one of my many high-pitched nicknames, Schmeg B. So, without further ado, the woman who birthed me.



Schmom B. Says: Follow Your Dreams

Meghan: Ughhh A and I broke up. I'm feeling sad because I'm scared I lost the love of my life and I will never find someone again. Waaaah my life sucks blablablabla insert more dramatic statements here.

Schmom B.: Always be you - that brilliant, assertive, confident young lady who got on a plane to pursue her dreams. Always follow your dreams and go around any bumps in the road. I love you so much. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."





Yeah, my mom quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Moms are the best.

*When I asked her via text if I could put a photo of her on my blog, her initial response was "No, because you don't have any good ones." She later conceded it was OK as long as I found a photo "that doesn't make her look 100 years old and definitely one with makeup." I succeeded, no? Isn't she pretty?