The Southern Comforted Guide to Marriage

Maybe I'm a trendsetter. Maybe people need togetherness in this time of chaos and war. Maybe it's the promise of reality show millions. But whatever the reason, a shit load of people announced their engagement or marriage over the Memorial Day weekend (it, of course, being a thoroughly romantic holiday and all). This morning I have read about the engagment of Paris to Paris and Katie to Tom and the marriage of Demi to Ashton. Now whether this is actually true or not, I don't know. But let's assume that it is. That's a shit load of people, don't you think?

So, in the spirit of helping out those who are in the same shape that I am, I give you the Southern Comforted Guide to Marriage.

1. Do not, under any circumstances, marry someone who is a practicing Scientologist. Ok? I mean, if you want someone who is involved in a pseudo-religious cult that preys on the minds and pocketbooks of weak-minded celebrities, I'm sure Madonna knows someone who could fulfill your needs without all of that pesky couch-pounding.
2. Is your future spouse wearing a trucker hat? If so, answer these questions: 1) Are they a trucker? 2) Did that hat come free with a quart of oil? If the answer is "no" to either of these questions (or, really, even if it is yes), seriously consider your options.
3. Is your future spouse literate? It's always a good idea to check to make sure. A prenup isn't worth the paper that it is written on if he or she can't read it (ahem, Britney).
4. Marriage is a sacred institution. Wear underpants to your ceremony.
5. Once married, do not, under any circumstances, allow your spouse to go anywhere near Angelina Jolie. If you do, well, you're stupid, and you deserve it.
6. Same goes for Johnny Knoxville, strangely enough.
7. When planning a wedding, invite P. Diddy. This adds some sort of legitimacy to the whole process, and he probably won't bring a blender as a gift (unlike everyone else you invited).
8. Remember: the more money you spend on the actual wedding, the fewer hookers/male escorts you can get later when the sex just really gets bad. Spend a little now, reap the rewards later.
9. Why have a champagne toast when you can do Jell-O shots? Be creative, and yours will be a wedding that no one will forget.
10. In order to ensure timely delivery, make sure you order your wedding parties' velour tracksuits 4-6 weeks in advance.

But my main advice is this: Have fun. Marriage is a fun thing, and whether you are doing it for the love of publicity or the love of your future spouse's insurance plan, it's all in what you make it. Good luck, and may your future reality shows be at least a tad more entertaining than Chaotic.

Coming Clean

For those of you who don't know, I am getting married on June 4. Yes, my little savory onion tartlets, in a little over four days, I'm going to be someone's wife. And while this is very, very strange, it's also somewhat nice, and warrants a series of confessions on my part. So in the spirit of coming clean, and the spirit of wasting time while Matt reads Platonov (yes, it's May and he's already doing homework for September), I present to you a list of every man I have found attractive in that burning, desire-ridden way, making no allowances for people who were attractive for their minds/sense of humor/ability to remember Milli Vanilli lyrics. With this list, I expunge them from my soul.

1. Mark-Paul Gosselaar. What? Didn't you?

2. Billie Joe Armstrong. Since I was 12. It's unexplainable. I tie it to two things: eyeliner and er...I cannot think of another redeeming quality, but it's there, and for some reason, I love this man.

3. Billy Corgan. I was 13. Didn't know he was a wretched, wretched poet yet. Loved the sound of whining.

4. A guy whose name was Milton Stapleton. I was 13, he was 22. You can see what potential it had. He had good hair.

5. Gavin Rossdale. I was able to overlook the whole Bush thing. Damn you, Gwen Stefani. Damn you and the whole country of Japan.

6. Michael Madsen. This, I know, is odd, especially given his current state (ref. gofugyourself). But watch Thelma and Louise. Hot, I tell you. Hot.

7. Rivers Cuomo. Love a man in glasses.

8. This guy I met at a drama camp, whose name (I think) was Travis. He worked at Food Country in Abingdon, VA. He wanted to be the next James Dean. Good luck with that.

9. Johnny Depp. No explanation needed.

10. Jake Gyllenhaal. Again, I feel no need to explain.

11. David Bowie. This man can move like nobody's business, and despite his age, continuously toasts my waffle in the best way.

12. Peter Gallagher. It's the eyebrows.

13. Prof. Jacob Kinnard. The only man in America who can get me up for a 9:00 class on religion. Seriously.

14. The cooking guy on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, even though I know he's off limits.

15. Slash from Guns and Roses and now that other band, whatever they are called. It's the hair. And the Jack.

And, of course, Matt, because he has excellent hair (it needs to be cut) and he wears glasses.

I feel like I should say five Billie Joe's or something in order to get full expiation, but since I'm not sure how that would work, I'm going to leave it with that. Have a good un, and watch for more confessions.

I'm 87 in Celebrity Years

Yup. I'm 22. It's a good age. But it wasn't until I turned 22 that I started to feel really, really old. Maybe it's the whole marriage thing, or the whole selling-out thing, or the whole "Who do I have to screw to get a house in the Berkeley hills?" thing. Or maybe, and more possibly, it's the whole celebrity stalking thing. You see, everytime I get my fix looking at online celebrity stalkers, I feel older and older. And today, I feel roughly 87.

Case No. 1: Frances Bean Cobain. She's old now, and cute, and is a fan of American Idol. Hmmm. How did that happen? Wasn't she just tiny, like, two days ago? Wasn't there just an uproar about Ms. Love taking heroin while she was pregnant? Didn't that just happen? Apparently not. Apparently I'm just old. And yes, Frances Bean, (pinches cheeks) YOU LOOK JUST LIKE YO' DADDY, HONEY! DON'T SHE JUST LOOK JUST LIKE HIM? SHE'S KURT MADE OVER! Moving on...

Case No. 2: Mary-Kate Olsen. Am I crazy or do you also think it is wrong that she is being photographed beside of a leviathan of a man and it's not Bob Saget? Is that not disturbing? She now has a "lover?" WTF? We don't use that language in the Tanner household. Right? Right. No, Mary-Kate. You cannot be old enough for "lovers." Now run along: Comet needs a bath.

Case No. 3: Katie Holmes. Dear, you're not old enough for a fake relationship. What are you, like 16? Don't you belong on the WB? That's what I thought. And if Tom Cruise wants to prove his sexuality in a made-for-media circus that involves couch jumping and crack cocaine, let him fuck Eva Longoria just like everyone else. Now, get your shoes, Katie. We're going back to happy town where you belong.

Case No. 4: Lindsay Lohan. I can remember when she ate. What about that?

So yes, I'm a little long in the tooth. It's ok, though. I can now get senior citizen's discounts, and may finally see the charm in living in Williamsburg. Goody!

A Plea to the American People

Ok, American People. You didn't vote my way in November, but you know, that's ok. I'll get over it. But here's the thing. You're not watching Britney Spears's new reality show "Chaotic" which comes on Tuesdays on UPN (in case you weren't sure about the time and place of said show). And the thing is, Britney's got some problems over it. According to a British paper, my number 1 Britster is seeking counseling because UPN wants to cancel the show and she is worried over her waning popularity. And we don't want that do we? I didn't think so.

Ok, so I understand the reasons not to watch it are high. Yes, it sucks. Yes, you have to take Dramamine before you watch it because the jumping camera will make you physically ill. Yes, there is a whole, whole lot of K-Fed. And yes, the word "retarded" is used quite overzealously. But (and that is a mighty big but) the benefits are also high. Where else are you going to be able to hear sex discussed in such ugly, base terms (besides your local junior high school, of course)? Where else can you see two peoples' tongues colliding in full night visioned glory (besides your latest Paris Hilton film, of course)? And where else can you see two incredibly rich, incredibly lucky people, and go away thinking, "Yeah, you know, my life is not that bad. In fact, I'm a pretty smart, hip person!" NOWHERE! NOWHERE I TELL YOU!

Thus my point: You should watch "Chaotic" because it will make you very, very glad that your parents didn't sell you into the white slavery that is pop stardom. You should watch "Chaotic" because it will make you feel like a freaking genius, even if you have problems seperating the whites from the darks and discerning the symbolism behind a Hilary Duff song. You should watch "Chaotic" because it is the stupidest show on television, and don't we need that?

So watch Chaotic. You will be happy you did. And so will Britney. And isn't that what truly matters?

Rebel with a 401(k)

Given that I now have access to the i,k,and 8 keys (who knows how long that will last), I felt it was time for a good, old-fashioned long post. So here you have it--a post that will air all of the dirty laundry that I've been keeping bottled up since my computer wouldn't let me post. Be excited, be very excited.

So yeah. I graduated, which is surprising in its own little way. I think that I have suffered from English major anxiety, a condition that made me really doubt the existence of a world outside of the friendly confines of Tucker hall. But more importantly, I have had time to actually live for the past week--I have started reading Phillip Roth's "The Plot Against America," which everyone has read but me, and which I am finally enjoying, I have been making real food, I have baked a pie, I have been watching many episodes of Law and Order. It is nice, albeit a bit boring. There are only so many times that one can reload their favorite blogs, hoping that someone else is as bored as her, and has access to their i,k, and 8 keys. It's weird to not have something to worry about.

So imagine my happiness when I received two emails about job interviews. Yessirree, I am going to be gainfully employed in the not so distant future, which is wonderful, despite the fact that these are just office type jobs, and not exactly the creative employment that I have been desiring. But no bother, really. Right now I just want a way to pay the bills, more importantly, one that does not involve the foaming of milk. And both of these are salaried "real" jobs, which is nice. So I am being yuppie-ized. I am rapidly changing from hip college kid to someone else entirely, but it's not so bad really, despite the fact that I keep trying to remind myself that I am selling out. I don't know. It's wretchedly easy to sell out, and I am about two steps away from it.

However, before I can do that, I have to get married, and the date is rapidly approaching. Matt and I had this gigantic fight last night, and I seriously thought about escape for circa 2 hours, but it's over now, and we are leaving today to go home so I can pick up my wedding dress and my mom and I can practice different wedding cake plans for a while. So things are moving along. Moreover, we are going on a honeymoon, albeit a cheap one, to a beach in North Carolina which should be cheesy enough to be really, really fun. It's all good in the hood.

So that's it on me...did everyone watch Chaotic on Tuesday night? Here's my opinion. It's a shitty show. But I loves my Brit through thick and thin so I will keep watching in the hopes that it gets better. I can't seem to get over how totally immature Britney is. She's taken with making funny faces and talking about things that no one over the age of 16 really talks about in public. And I know I should have expected it, but it's just so over the top childlike. And K-Fed looks even more like a rat than what I expected. Oh well. So much for my high hopes.

And I have refused to see Star Wars which is a controversial decision in these parts. I saw the first two, they were totally, totally wretched, I hate Hayden Christiansen with every fiber of my being, Ewan McGregor has a beard, I don't see the appeal of a green man who talks in non-grammatical fragments, and George Lucas has a head that is roughly the size of the Millenium Falcon, so seriously, WHY THE HELL WOuLD I SEE IT?!?

On that note, I will retire. I expect to post more, however, as I want to milk this i and k thing for all it is worth.

Chaos rules! 

I Graduated Ya’ll

Yes after four years of complete and utter craziness, William and Mary gave me my degree yesterday and sent me on my way. It was a good time really. My family all came up and went, I got some pretty kick ass graduation presents, and now I’m tired and happy and my house is clean and I don’t have a hell of a lot to do. It’s nice being lazy.

So on that note I’m going to go and laze around a bit more. I will post a great deal more tomorrow in anticipation of Britney’s new reality show, but for the time being I am going to enjoy the fact that now I can read anything I want, no matter how trashy and/or nonacademic.
Have a good un!

An Open Letter to the Woman on Maury Povich Right Now

Dear Woman,
Are you really 100% sure he’s the father of your baby? Because you’ve been yelling it for about 15 minutes now, but to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure. I’m glad that you’re so sure that the white guy wearing the huge medallion and a pair of pants that are large enough to outfit the entire country of Puerto Rico is the father figure to your son. But see—he’s white and you look like you might be Hispanic, but your kid’s a near clone of Samuel L. Jackson. Now genes are weird and stuff but really…are you really 100% sure? Maybe just 47%? Might be a safer guess…

But the thing is, do you really think this is the way to go? I mean, do you really think that going on national television to scream and flaunt your baby’s eyes that are “just like his’n ya’ll” is the best way to show that you are a responsible parent worthy of child support and, for that matter, life? More so, do you honestly think that wearing horizontal stripes on national TV was a good idea? Because you’re almost big enough to wear your baby’s daddy’s pants. No I’m not disrespecting you…I’m just saying.

You know lady, I consider myself a bleeding heart liberal. I read liberal news, I watch Michael Moore films, hell, I’m moving to freaking Berkeley, CA. But you and your kind make me want to become a republican. I don’t know if it’s your socioeconomic class or what it is but you people need to straighten up. For one, I am fucking sick of defending you to my Republican father, talking about how you just haven’t had the same opportunities as us or how capitalism just keeps tromping people like you. So I’m not going to do it anymore. You’re trash, you’re always going to be trash, and I’m with the Republicans on this one.

So, Lady on the Maury Povch show, you’ve just lost a defender.

Morg

This post is dedicated to Alex because I will never be able to hear someone say “I’m a 100% sure” without thinking of him.

Yo yo yo...

I'm back in the library bitches. Seriously, I have been thinking, no dreaming, of this i and k all day today. So I just had to get here pronto to be able to relish in the beauty of it all.

Need to get this Milton paper done. It weighs on my mind like a fat person who has been at Mongolian BBQ for the past three hours. It's due tomorrow, so I really have no choice as to whether I get it done or not, but I'd like to get it done tonight before SVU as Stabler is supposed to finally implode or explode or turn into an ass-raping helper monkey or some such. Actually, you and I both know that whether or not I get this done before 10:00 tonight means nothing--I'm going to watch anyway. Because no man, epic poet or not, can keep me away from my L&O fix.

Did you hear that Renee Zellweger married Kenny Chesney in a surprise ceremony? Another marriage brought together by Pabst Blue Ribbon...

And now it's just one week until the premiere of Chaotic, Britney and Kevin's reality show, which means that all next Tuesday I will be sitting on my couch watching VH1 and weeping in sheer anticipation. I can hardly wait...

I need to go, but before I do, here are some questions for my favorite newsmakers and ass shakers or the day:

To Gwen Stefani:
1) Who told you that you could use Japanese women as fashion accessories? Because that's, er, wrong, you know. You should, uh, refrain from doing that. Oh, and don't just sing about b-a-n-a-n-a-s. Eat one. You need it.

To Ashlee Simpson:
1) Why did you dye your hair? You look like a cross between Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and Donatella Versace. And while I love Uma, it's bad. No matter what your daddy told you, it's bad.
2) Are you sure he's not gay? I'll wait while you check.

To John Milton:
1) So, uh, does Adam have free will in the poem? If you could answer that for me, the next few hours would just be lovely.

And finally, to Billie Joe:
1) I heard you didn't graduate from high school. That's sad, hon-bun. Would you get a GED for me? Because if I'm going to be able to debate the existence of free-will in a poem centered around the fall of mankind, I think the man that I currently would throw it all on the fire for could at least be qualified to get a job that doesn't require a paper hat...you know, if you needed to (like say, for instance, you married me and realized that you could never go on another tour again because you couldn't stand being away from me, and then we squandered all of your money on eyeliner and Cabernet Franc and Lord knows I wouldn't have any money, because see, I'm trying to write an semi-autobiographical novel and it's just not selling--don't roll your eyes, Billie Joe. It could happen.)
2) You're not growing a beard yet are you?

Ok...one short rant: Ukrop's

Having the i and k is really spoiling me...

Dear Ukrops,
I am a very big fan of your grocery stores. I love your bakery--you always have great European style breads at good prices, and your associates are really, really nice, even when I ask them to cut the bread so thin that I can see through it and/or wrap it around my tongue while I'm eating it and...oh never mind. But really, your stores are great and I love them.

That being said, your strawberries have me in a bit of a quandry. See, you (or your packers, which you insist to me are local fellows) have this really nasty tendency to put these soggy, dark burgundy strawberries on the bottom of the package, and then you fill the top of the thing with nice, firm crimson ones. So I come along and buy two packs because it's such a good price and I intend upon making a pie with one pack. But then I get home, and open them up, and realize that I only have one package of edible strawberries as half of each package is nasty. I thought you were above this. As I have great faith in you, I go back to your store and buy 4 (!) packages, meaning that I spent $6 on flipping strawberries, as I am sure that I just got fluke packages before and that these four packs (I thought I checked pretty well) would be fine and I could make 2 pies (one freezer, one crumb topped) and have waffles. But it's the same deal. So now I've got two packs of nice strawberries (albeit a bit dry in places, but it's the beginning of the season, so I forgive) and two packs of the strawberries that God forgot and which are dissolving into a pit of their own filth right now as we speak.

What gives, Ukrops? Why you gotta do me like that? I thought we was buds, friends, compatriots in a fast food world. But you just took that and spit on it. You said, "Morgan, that's it. I'm going to give you some nasty-ass berries, because that's what I think of our friendship." You said that--don't be sittin' there all snide thinkin' that Target got your back, because you know they ratted you out and told me this shit. Target said you don't care about your consumers no more, and that I'd be better off to spend more at the Fresh Market for all you care. Man, I don't even know how I'm going to face you now, Ukrops. I mean, I came down to Target yesterday, and I couldn't even look at you. I'm serious. You played me, bitch. You gave me at least three packages of strawberries that are better used as water balloons, and you laughed and took my $4.50 and run. I cry, Ukrops, I cry. I thought we was friends, but I guess I was wrong.

I'll be seein' you when I come see Target. And don't tell me that all my Mossimo clothes are gonna come apart. Target's all I got now.

You disgust me, bitch,
Morg

Back to Milton--I have 547 words of 1500. How cool am I?

A Real Honest to Goodness (albeit short) Post

I am in the library and thus have access to the i,k,8, and comma keys, so I felt that I had to post something. I have a huge final (my very last one!) due on Wednesday so I am here studying and trying to make some sense of Paradise Lost by doing a close reading of one of Adam's pre-fall speeches, and well, it's just not happening. So here I am, spending one last night in the library, boning up on my English poetry. Damn, I'm going to miss this...

I now graduate in just barely less than a week. That's scary for some reason that I didn't really fathom until I picked up my graduation tickets. Then it hit me like a big, fat truck. I'm graduating. I have to get a job. No one is going to pay me to make snarky comments about Britney Spears. I'm going to be doing something that I probably do not like, but I'm going to have to do it. I'm really, really scared. Scared shitless, some might say. I'm have rendered to a whole big grab bag of contradictions--I want to stay here, but I also want to leave...I want to spend my days writing, but I also want to eat...I want to be married, but I also just want to have some time to myself to just think about what predicaments I've gotten myself into. Ho hum.

But there are all these things to do, and I just can't breathe anymore, you know? All of a sudden I have to send out wedding invitations and make appointments, and call caterers (again) and be friendly to my family and pretend that I don't see the irony in making my wedding all about the wishes of other people. Sigh.

Well, I should go. Milton awaits. And I imagine Milton as a really impatient, testy guy who just can't stand waiting.

Oh, one last thing. Have you seen Ashlee Simpson's hair? Oh, it's wretched. Just when she had almost endeared herself to me in that I-feel-sorry-for-you-because-your-dad-is-stuck-so-far-in-the-closet-that-he's-finding-old-Christmas-ornaments way, she goes and gets this blonde blunt cut which just has to be the work of Book IV Satan (the smarmy, shape-shifting one for those of you not into the Miltmeister). So now I'm mad at her, and refuse to watch any more episodes of her show, no matter how bored I am or how much housework I'm trying to escape.

Oh, and...God, I really need to go. More later.

I am posting this old picture as proof of what my obsession does to men. I had been obsessed with Ewan Macgregor since I saw Moulin Rouge (hence well-used copy of Velvet Goldmine). I loved him through thick and through thin and through Obi Wan. And then this. Frightening huh? And this is not the only case. I recently saw another past crush of mine looking like he fell down on Beaver Mountain. So I give it two months before Billie Joe gives up the eyeliner and starts going for the Medieval Russian man look. Two months. I am a femme fatale-that is fatale for the looks of my love interests.

Things done today: got graduation tickets, turned in finals for two classes, found this picture, finally retired well-used copy of Velvet Goldmine, licked lips. It's been a good day.

Canada's so proud about now. 

I‘m really sick of sitting in your urine

To the ladies of the world,
So what’s up? How’ve you been? I’ve been ok, just kind of busy you know. But you see, I got this problem. You see, every time I go to the bathroom outsde of my apartment, there’s piss all over the toilet. And me, you know I drink a lot of tea and I’m always in a hurry so I just sit down in it without looking and before you know it my ass is covered in your urine. Sick huh? Thought so.

And this is all because you, you immaculate being, choose to hover over the toilet like a big fat insect because lord knows you can’t put your pristine ass on that wretched public toilet seat. Never mind the irony that the only reason anyone would ever actually do this is because the hovering people are the ones who’ve made it dirty. No, don’t even think about that. Just answer me. What are you so scared of? Do you think a rabid rat is going to hop out of the toilet and bite your lovely seated ass? Do you think you’ll get crabs from the local Target? I mean, how stupid are you? Unless your ass is covered in open lesions you’ve probably got nothing to worry about.

But I understand that I ‘m not gong to change your mind. You’ve seen too many episodes of Dateline, too many scaredy-ass shows and you know science dammit don’t you? Your ass will remain pristine and perfect because you are never ever gong to soil it by sitting on a public toilet. So will you do this for me? See, I’ve got a handy dandy list that will make both of our lives better—yours because you won’t get ass crabs or whatever you’re scared of and mine because won’t have to sit in your sprayed urine. Ready? Why don’t you use the toilet at home? In other words, if you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen. Don’t even go into the public toilet. Or why don’t you use those sani-ass covers that you can buy anywhere and that will cover the seat so neither your ass nor your piss will touch it? Wouldn’t that be lovely?

But whatever you do, don’t hover. It’s disgusting, you leave a mess and seriously, just imagine what you look like, your pristine fat ass kept perfectly clean by the full 6 inches of air that protects it from the dangers of the toilet seat. Lovely huh?

Love and kisses,
morg