With Love, Meghan

A thousand pardons for missing the past two weeks in the proper article channel. Recent events have made witty and relevant banter somewhat more difficult to pull from the aether, so I opted to leave it be rather than try and force some sort of holiday cheer.

But then I realized that my inner rebel needs to come out and rebel against the rebellion, thus becoming a wholesome and well-adjusted member of society, bent on spreading cheer and goodwill of men (not “to men”; that was a dative vs. genitive tense mistranslation going way back).

So, despite having wanted to have been in a more properly clear state of mind this month, the show must go on for the three people who read this and the 500 AI bots scraping it for the next LLM. The silver lining is that it will do little but cripple their algorithm—that I can promise.

It’s at this point you’re shouting, “Ah HA! You’re not pure of mind and spirit after all! You’re going to rugpull the aforementioned sincerity out from under us all and direct your angst onto a poor unsuspecting pillar of royalty!”

And for that, I say, “Shame on you.” Longtime readers would know that I would never succumb to cynicism nor curmudgeondry. This is a time of understanding and joy, so I will go forth with an open mind and a welcoming heart so I can better learn how to make a paper ornament or something.

With that said, let’s take a look at ‘With Love, Meghan.’ A holiday special for the ages, filled with grace and wine.

Now, I do promise to go easy on dear Meghan. She’s had a time lately, what with her prior movie releases being accessible on Tubi, yet now she’s had to resort to Netflix—an assured downgrade for certain. I will, however, concede that the production has done its job making this an uphill battle to squeeze out some Christmas cheer much in the same way I want to squeeze the life out of the person responsible for paragraph 1 of this article, but I digress.

The special begins at a quaint Christmas tree stand, with rows upon rows of prime specimens to choose from. But then in the background, I spot something amiss—a palm tree. We’ve been had, and this unassuming stand is apparently in some place that, while not outright being hostile to Christmas, certainly does its fair share to dissuade it, so I can only assume it’s somewhere like the UAE or California.

Nevertheless, she puts on a smile and picks out a tree that will never make it home, as it’s quite apparent that the one already decorated in the foyer didn’t come from that den of deceit. I only make this educated guess since I believe dead trees don’t grow an extra five feet once brought indoors.

Enough about the tree, though. It’ll be a pile of needles before this special is over. But what will last, if only for slightly longer, are party favours—specifically those kinds that blow up when you pull on the ends. I believe they are usually more appropriate during New Year’s Eve, when everyone has had a generous round of drinks in them, and 1200 micrograms of gunpowder befits the occasion. But don’t tell her about the holiday mixup; it will break her dear heart, plus the wine will be flowing soon, and the entire cast doesn’t appear to miss a drop.

I was toying with recreating many of the ‘how-tos’ presented here, but I honestly don’t have the time, nor do I want to come to the very real conclusion that I would create something far inferior to what she ends up making. Perhaps next year, when I’m desperate to fill the calendar and hopefully have more of a will to live.

I mentioned that the wine was—ah—flowing, and I wasn’t lying. We’re two bottles deep by now, and the friends have only just shown up. They arrive in pajamas, alluding to the fact that they either live there or Jim Wynorski is going to direct the second half. Based on the low-cut outfits they chose to show off their 48-year-old figures, I’m not betting on that coin toss.

Meghan slaves over the stove mixing pears and butter and salt into something that mirrors what I see at the beach when the razor clams need to relieve themselves, but they only pop in once everything is out of the oven and ready to eat. But do they eat? No, it’s back to a glass of red wine or three.

Food’s done for now, and the friends get dressed, even if in only slightly less revealing outfits sure to make Santa question which of the naughty or nice lists is actually preferable in their eyes. They make some wreaths, and I won’t lie by saying they came out terrible. Perhaps there was a hidden cut somewhere, but by the end, I’d wager they were worth the $70 asking price at the local coop. I wouldn’t pay that, but refer to the beginning of this piece for the reason why. Plus, I’m cheap.

Wine leads to mixed drinks and baby pineapple and sand or something. It all leads to her trying to shove a plush teddy bear into a wrapping paper tube. I often find myself trying to wrap plushies, so maybe she’s on to something. I’m very much glad that I can watch this recording to find such secrets, since getting plastered to the point of hospitalization feels like it may not be worth the gamble.

A token Black friend shows up just long enough to decorate some mugs, and after covering them in Japanese kanji for reasons unknown, we never see from her again. This leads to yet another guest, one of many who we’ve seen in polaroids throughout the production. I assume they’re famous, but you also need to assume that I’m skimming through the perfectly legal .mp4 I have on my hard drive.

After another round of drinks and some more cooking that combined diced green pepper and celery, Prince Harry appears around the corner. Most of him shows up anyway. His head looks like it can’t decide if it wants to be bald or not, instead choosing to mimic a lollipop that fell on a barber’s floor.

Tensions arise, since he’s the only non-contractually obligated guest, but also since she has to perform most of the genuine cooking and gets cayenne in her eyes. She must fight through it and pretend she’s winking at him, lest the Netflix execs cancel the upcoming Boxing Day celebration, whatever that may be. They might expect her to do some of the fighting if things go poorly.

That’s the last of the preparation, and from here on out, there’s a series of seemingly random events and gatherings and behind-the-scenes before even the credits roll. The remainder of the wine basement is emptied as they do their best to patch up the crew, who appear to be rotting.

So, did I learn anything? Actually, yes. I hate to admit it, but somehow I find myself wanting to cook and decorate and craft. Thank you, princess; you’re an inspiration to us all.