I owe you this recap...I mean I BRO you this recap!

Bromance, Brody Jenner's find-a-friend reality competition, is like MTV's Christmas present to me. And thank you MTV! I love it! I'll wear it all year and think of you.

I don't want to get too graphic with you, but when I first heard that Bromance was in production, I came in my pants. Twice. First and foremost, I'm a sucker for a good pun and I chuckled over "Bromance" for at least three days. Bro-dy! Bro-culture! Romance! Bromance! ACES. Second, as we all know, I have a bizarre fascination with Bros. What with their backwards caps, boyish good looks, Jack Johnson CDs and energy drinks. But now I don't have to go out to observe their mystifying ways! MTV and Brody Jenner bring 'em right into my living room every Monday night! I owe you one MTV. In fact I'd like to repay you by pitching you another reality competition. I call it Bromancing the Stone. In it, I spend three weeks with 20 bros in a mansion and eliminate a few each week until I find that one special Bro who can melt my snarky ice-cold heart. In the end I learn to stop being such a stuck-up bitch and the Bros learn that there's more to life than banging chicks and Dane Cook DVDs. Yes? No? Get back to me.

Bromance: Episode 1
The show opens with Brody explaining what exactly a "bromance" is (a bond between you and your go-to guys). Currently Brody's go-to guys include Frankie of The Hills fame and a character named "Sleazy T." This is why bros fascinate me. Do you know how much ass Sleazy T probably gets, even though his name is based on a giant unattractive vice? A lot. That's how much. If I changed my name to Doesn't Give a Shit M, something tells me I probably wouldn't have any friends, nevertheless get copious amounts of ass. Sigh...damn glass ceiling.

On the first day of the competition, Frankie and Sleazy T send two security guys to wake up the Bros at their hotel at 4:30 in the morning. We're introduced to each Bro as they're "abducted" by the security guards, seen in cheap night vision on loan from Kim Kardashian's sex tape. I thoroughly enjoyed this scene because it's nothing but Bros in their boxers looking confused and tired. Just like I like 'em.

Right off the bat I'm intrigued by Michael because it's clear he spends more time on his eyebrows than I do mine. Except he doesn't have a defined arch; they just go up and then end abruptly so he looks like a perpetually concerned anime character.

The guys are taken to the Bro mansion. There's something slightly homoerotic about the scene where the Bros are half-naked on their knees with bags over their heads, holding hands waiting to meet Brody Jenner. Bro Chris P. gets some airtime and I decide that I totally want to do it with him and have his little yellow polo shirted babies. He then says "Brody Jenner is pretty much the Austin Powers of the 21st century" and suddenly I have plans to wash my hair.

Michael compares being in the Bro mansion to being in the Ahn-ee-mal house. Not animal. Ahn-ee-mal. That plus the eyebrows add up to Token Gay Guy. At this point I've also developed a crush on Gary who describes himself as "the guy who doesn't fit in, but finds a way to fit in" and looks like Pip from Lord of the Rings.

The Bro's first challenge is to find two hot chicks to take to a lingerie party that night at a club called "Hush." (As in hush, It'll only take a second.) The Bro with the hottest chicks wins. Femi boasts this will be a cakewalk because this is just an average day for him back home. Hm. Later when touring the house, Femi claims a top bunk so that when the Bros sleep, "they'll still look up to him." Something tells me Femi has a lot of experience being a top.

The Bros walk around the street like jackasses begging girls to come to their party. Back at the house they vent about how stressful this is in the can-fessional. A confessional booth in the bathroom. It's a real dump! L0LZ!

The Bros arrive at Hush and start to freak out because not a lot of girls have shown up. Gary is the first guy to have both of his ladies show. Score one for Pip! Michael gets in next because he's attracted two hot chicks with his gaydom. However he fucks it up when he gives Brody a birthday card in the club and Brody does the "Oh...hah...how sweet..." thing you do when you get an ugly sweater from your grandmother. It turns out the card says "It's time to get bromantic. From your new BFF Mike. Frankie Delgado move over!" Later Frankie drunkenly confronts Michael about how rude his card was, specifically because he didn't add a "haha" or "LOL" after the move over Frankie quip.

Luke (who has the world's most grating Boston accent) is psyched when his two ladies show up and as they're walking to the club says, "I'm psyched the girls are here now. And they're hot! I'm totally winning this." Then there's a beat and one of the girls in a pissed off tone inquires, "Winning what?" Please give this show an Emmy. Right now. For that scene alone.

Chris P. and Femi's chicks don't show up. Inside the club, the Bros are forced to give awkward, drunken toasts to Brody (aka Broasts). Jacob's is sloppy. Gary (who it turns out is a dance instructor? LOLZ! I love him even more now!) says that you can't have friendship without love. Frankie whispers something in Brody's ear, which I assume to be "fag!" but Brody in the most sincere way corrects him and says, "No, he's right, he's right. He's right! I like that toast! He's right!" Second Emmy-deserving moment.

Luke wins and Chris P. and Femi have to clean the club.

The next morning Michael decides to leave because Lauren Conrad isn't there and there are gross stains in the sink.

That night the Bros go to "Brody's" sick penthouse apartment and find out that whoever wins the competition also wins "his" apartment, fully furnished by West Elm. Michael must be kicking himself in his madras shorts.

The elimination ceremony takes place in a steamy hot tub and there are far too many shots of Brody lowering himself into it in slow-mo. This scene is seriously one handlebar moustache away from being straight out of a 70's porn and I'm not even mad. The Bros, however, are uncomfortable because their "knees are touching."

In the end Jacob is eliminated because he drops f-bombs, can't write a broast and wears a Panama Jack hat. Good call Mr. Jenner.

Is it next Monday yet?

Introducing Recrap Tuesdays!

New feature alert! Every Tuesday my estranged NYC roommate/BFF Chris (also known as Blair from back in the 2b1b day when I was way more careful and used pseudonyms) will be recapping NYC's answer to The Hills: The City. I could listen to Chris analyze pop culture for hours, so I thought I would share his wisdom and hilarity with you. Tuesdays will also feature my recap of Brody Jenner's Bromance. Yea, that's right, I plan on watching Bromance religiously. I have no apologizes. Considering my love and fascination with Bros, this show is like porn to me.

That being said, there's no recap of this week's Bromance. I went to see West Side Story with my family tonight and my parent's think DVR is witchcraft. Maybe I'll watch it online and get that up later today. God knows I love a good play about a race war, but it really takes it out of a girl! Anyway, enjoy Chris' double episode recap!


The City
Whitney, Whitney, Whitney. I always liked you on The Hills. Drama-free, sound advice, pretty, and actually maybe too smart to be on reality TV. When you took that spill on national TV, I cried for you, since you were somehow able to remain composed (you know LC would have been a mascara streaked SHOW after that) and I was genuinely excited for you when you got the job at Diane von Furstenberg, because as far as dream jobs go, that’s pretty high up there. But then when I heard this job was going to be turned into a Hills spin-off, I thought “Can this work?” Reality TV shows of The Hills variety are like tiny universes where, instead of gravity, all things are kept in motion by the drama created by its central star. On The Hills, Whitney spent much of her time in the periphery of LC’s orbit, looping around a few times to offer some advice about what LC should be doing and who she shouldn’t be talking to. Giving Whitney her own show is a bit like giving Jupiter its own universe.

So, I guess you could say I was a bit skeptical of The City. But I decided to tune in for the following reasons: 1) Since Spencer Pratt’s flesh moustache makes me uncomfortable and I can no longer watch The Hills, The City seems like an excellent alternative.2) There is a slight chance that DVF herself will grace my television screen once more, now that Project Runway is skittering off to Lifetime. 3) There is also an off-chance I could appear in stock footage, or better yet, in the background of a scene.

And so we begin. Whitney pleasantly introduces herself and a few of her friends: Erin, who is a real “downtown girl” (which I’ve taken to interpret as “not uptown” since Gramercy is not nearly as downtown as other parts of the city); Jay, the Australian singer/Justin Bobby stand-in who Whitney is head over 4-inch heels in love with; Adam, Jay’s roommate, a model, and a “downtown guy” (also, a less thug Channing Tatum); Adam’s girlfriend, who for the time being is nameless, but I’m sure her squished face will reappear with a name; and Olivia, a “social” (because even saying “socialite” is too much work) who is your classic Plastic/Heidi Montag/Blair Waldorf/generic bitch, and I shall call her Heidi Waldorf.

Then we are introduced to the two most important characters on the whole show: Whitney’s gams. (Seriously, I’d ask you to take a shot for every time her legs get screen time, but frankly, I don’t wish cirrhosis on any of you.) Our dear Whit shows up to her first day in a tiny yellow dress, which receives stares from the horny construction men she saunters past. Unauthorized ho #1 shows Whitney the office. In short: “Here are three desks. Olivia sits here. Meeting in 15. Peace!”

Cut to Olivia, Devil-Wears-Prada style, slow mo walking into work. She really doesn’t seem that bad, but I cannot get over her resemblance to Blair Waldorf. Uncanny. She does not acknowledge poor Whit’s existence, so Whit decides to be the better person and chat her up. Instead of doing actual work for the first 15 minutes of her job, Whitney fills Heidi Waldorf in on the intricacies of her personal life and her budding romance with Jay. H.Dubs casually drops into the conversation the exclusive dinner party she’s having, and pointedly does not invite Whitney. The hazing begins!

In work related news: Whit’s first day went swimmingly, and blah blah blah Fashion Week blah. Did anyone else notice that most of the other woman at that staff meeting had really bad hair? And made some sour faces upon Whitney’s introduction? I’d be bitter too if some young leggy blonde waltzed in here last week and snatched the job I’d been clawing my way towards my whole career without so much as an ounce of effort. But then again, have you seen Whitney’s legs? (If you’ve been watching The City for even five minutes, then the answer is a resounding yes)

After work, Whit goes to her friend Erin’s apartment. They discuss work for a hot second, and immediately Erin asks about Whitney’s upcoming date with Jay that night. Whitney is excited to get her mind off work. Already? You’ve been there a day, and frankly, it did not look that stressful.

Anyway, she heads off to Nero, wearing another short dress, this time in black. (She does look great, but what is this girl going to wear when it gets cold? Inquiring minds want to know.) There she meets Jay, a man who looks better when the sun goes down, which leads me to believe he is, in fact, a vampire. They talk about Whit’s job and settling into the city. Jay is playing his best cards to get into Whitney’s lack of pants: I have an Australian accent! “Can I sing for you tonight?” “If you need a place to stay…” Whitney allows herself to be wooed by the vampire and goes back to his place, where I’m sure they slept in different beds and nothing unchaste happened.

Whitney recaps the date for Erin at Erin’s apartment (but I’m confused, does Whitney live there? Or does she have a place of her own?) which is almost as boring as the date itself. Except for Whitney’s coy response to Erin’s inquiry: “Did you go back to his place?” Your silence speaks volumes, Ms. Port.

Next, we get to see Whitney in action at a DVF runway show. I’m confused about Whitney’s actual job, as I thought she was doing PR but then all of a sudden she’s backstage styling and helping to keep the models in order. No matter. We get a brief glimpse of the glorious DVF herself, and some clever editing to make it appear as though Whitney is soaking up her presence, when in fact, Whitney could be staring doe-eyed and smiling at any number of people.

As R. Kelly once told me, after the show it’s the after party, and DVF follows suit with an after party in SoHo. Whitney and Olivia socialize for a bit, Olivia blathers to someone about her belt and how fabulous it is, while Whitney gets pulled aside by Elise, the woman who hired her, and DVF’s right hand woman. Elise basically gushes over Whitney, telling her she’s doing a great job and to keep up the good work. I’m surprised she didn’t tell Whitney to lay off the high heels, since Whitney towered a solid 6 inches over her. We get a cut of Olivia looking pissed, so naturally one expects drama. But when Olivia asks Whitney about what just transpired, for some reason, the news of Whitney’s great work equals an invitation to Olivia’s exclusive dinner party.

At brunch with Jay (wearing, dare I say it? PANTS!) Whitney invites Jay to the dinner party, but he not so politely declines. Not liking Olivia’s friends is probably understandable, considering their queen bee. But the best part of this exchange is when Whitney asks Jay to come to the party “just to hang out with me” and he replies simply with an awkward intake of breath. This does not bode well for our heroine’s love life.

So Jay refuses to go to the dinner party and Erin invites herself instead. Classy. But at least this should create some much needed drama, right?! Olivia and Erin don’t get along, so there will be a catfight, right?! As Whitney and Erin get ready, we cut to Olivia discussing the merits of proper place settings with her cousin Nevan, who may have a touch of the gay. More guests show up, and…wait, this is Olivia’s party? There is one girl here who is kind of frumpy looking, and a bunch of queens. This is definitely Nevan’s party, and he has more than just a touch of the gay. Regardless, Olivia claims she’s “so happy Erin’s here.” Are you kidding?! Where is the drama? Instead of drama, we get awkward toasts to Olivia and Whitney. Hooray, now pass me some champagne so I can forget about the fact that you aren’t fighting. If I had wanted awkward toasting, I would have gone to a wedding.

Meanwhile, at an unnamed bar with a few pool tables, Adam and Jay are playing pool and talking about Whitney. Because that happens. Playing pool with your bro and talking about relationships. To be frank, I didn’t listen to a word they said, as I was mesmerized by Adam’s perfect teeth. Seriously.

Back at the party, Olivia asks Whitney why Jay didn’t come, but being the mature Whitney we know and secretly resent, Whitney does not reply “Because he hates you and your lame friends.” Instead, she plays it off gracefully, which is more than can be said for the downtown girl, Erin. Erin is talking to Olivia, and couldn’t be less interested. “Oh. School in Paris? ::yawn:: That sounds great.” Lucky for her, Jay comes to surprise Whitney, and he stays for approximately 3 seconds before tearing Whitney and Erin from the clutches of Olivia and Nevan. As they leave Nevan’s voice-over lisps “No one has ever left Olivia’s party so fast.”

While this episode was the ultimate in drama cockteases, there is potential for Olivia to bear her bitch fangs and truly be the Mean Girl we all know her to be. Overall I’d give this episode a C: very middle of the road, nothing exciting really happened, but nothing terrible.

But if you thought it was over, you’d be wrong, suckers! There’s another episode!

Episode two starts off with a bang: Alex, the model with whom Whitney went on a date the very first time she came to the city, is back with some vague news about Jay. From Alex’s POV, his roommate’s best friends’ former girlfriend’s soccer coach’s niece (or something like that) may or may not have been with Jay. Biblically. And Jay told this random girl that Whitney and he were definitely not dating. Considering Whitney has only been in NYC for a week, I think this could be fairly legitimate. I mean, were you technically dating? Are you even dating now? I believe she told Olivia at the party last episode “I’m not his girlfriend, so what can I do?” Regardless, she takes this news in stride, and relays it to Erin, tear-free (LC, take note). Now Whitney is questioning who she should trust, but really I think if she were the smart girl I know her to be, she’d steal the script for an episode a few weeks in the future to find out what happens. But I digress. So Whitney’s all OMG and Erin OMGs right back. Whitney decides to confront Jay about this, because there is no better way to cause drama resolve problems.

(We also find out that Whitney does not have an apartment in the city and is crashing at Erin’s apartment. Interesting. I would have thought MTV would have set her up with a place. Is this just one of many signs of the failing economy when C-list reality TV stars cannot find affordable housing?)

More bro talk with Jay and Adam (that sounds like a segment on a sports radio show…and I like it). Distracted by the discussion with my roommate regarding Adam’s shirtlessness and Jay’s seeming douchebaggery, I hear little of what is said, although I get the gist that it’s something along the lines of “I mean, we were never really dating.”

Olivia and Nevan are back, dining together at a fancy restaurant. That’s a little strange. If they are going to be the Speidi of this series, they need to not be related. They devise a wicked plan to incorporate Whitney into their elite circle of friends, but they fail to make mention of ultimately crushing her. You are planning on doing that, right Olivan? Nevia? OK this is not going to work. You can’t be the dastardly duo of the series if your combined names sound like an olive oil by-product or a brand of facial cleanser.

Whitney confronts Jay, and lays all her cards on the table, telling him exactly what Alex told her. Jay responds like any guy who has been accused of being unfaithful: vehement denial, bordering on anger. He even tries to call Danielle to prove his innocence (which I think is a bluff, since I believe Jay is a total douchebag and may actually have slept with someone else). According to Jay, he shared a cab with this girl home, and nothing more happened. But I’ve seen Taxi Cab Confessions, and I know that just because you didn’t spend the night in the same apartment doesn’t mean you couldn’t have gotten it on in the cab on the way home.

Whitney clearly has not seen Taxi Cab Confessions and she decides to trust Jay. The next day (or several days later, it’s unclear) Olivia graciously offers to take Whitney to the Manolo Blahnik event at Bergdorf’s, claiming that Manolo is a friend of her family. She tells a cute (read: annoying and a little pathetic) anecdote about her first pair of Manolo Blahniks which she had for her debutante ball.

Before they get to the event, it seems like Olivia is going to own the place, but when they get there, it’s almost as if O-town is Whitney’s shadow, fading into the background as Whit schmoozes with DVF’s buyer at Bergdorf. Olivia chimes in with her story about her deb ball as she and Whit meet Manolo himself. As they are leaving, I’m pretty sure Manolo says “Nice meeting you” to Olivia. Family friend? I think not, Olivia. Now what else have you been lying about?

That night, Whit and Erin are going out with the “downtown crowd” which includes Jay, Adam, and his girlfriend Allie. If the bumping beats of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” are any indication, this should be a fun night for our girl Whitney. (I found it poetic that they start up that particular song as the camera pans over the Statue of Liberty. Maybe the ultimate single lady?) Everyone is out having fun, including Erin, who clearly mustn’t have seen a mirror because that spangled hat will probably ruin her night when she realizes how ridiculous it looks. Unfortunately, in the coincidence of all coincidences, Alex is at the same bar. This does not sit well with the downtown crowd, or with Alex. Either Whitney/Jay/Erin/etc. have bionic hearing or they can read our subtitles because they do not seem thrilled about what Alex has to say to the girl next to him. Unauthorized ho #2 (or Shannon as she prefers to be called) tells Alex to go say something, so he talks to Jay, while she whispers into Whitney’s ear about “blah blah blah New York New York New York blah blah”. (Honestly, that girl said the words New York like ten times in 30 seconds, in case anyone had just tuned in and perhaps thought they were watching The Hills). Jay and Alex’s talk does not go well, as Jay gets increasingly more angry, and tells Alex “She likes me. She doesn’t like you.” Deal with it. Just when you thought Alex was down and out, he counters with the prophetic “The truth will reveal itself.” And just like that, the fight is over with nary a spilled drink or thrown punch. Still, Whitney looks pretty frazzled. What to do?

Clearly go to brunch. Jay and Whitney take some time the next day to dine at Extra Virgin, and rehash their night last night. Although Jay seems to have grown a lot more hair since last night. Anyway, they decide to just not talk about. Wise. That’s a great way to deal with problems. So instead of talking to Jay about Jay, Whitney meets up with her former boss Kelly Cutrone of People’s Revolution. They shoot the shit, but all I could think of was doesn’t Kelly have more important things to do than listen to Whitney’s boy problems. They talk about Alex, which leads to Jay, which leads to Kelly’s sage advice: “Maybe you can’t trust both of them.” Scene.

Why I hate New Year's Eve

God damnit I hate New Year's Eve. I look forward to New Year's Eve about as much as I look forward to Flag Day. Except that's not completely true because this past Flag Day I went to a really sick indie radio party on the Lower East Side and met a hot guy who put himself in my phone as "Ron Big Wang" and then went and rode a mechanical bull at a bar uptown. New Year's Eve doesn't have shit on Flag Day.

Logistically speaking, New Year's Eve should be my favorite holiday. If there's anything I love more than my friends, it's getting drunk and rowdy with my friends. And if there's anything I could possibly love even more than that, it's making out with total strangers. When you combine these factors together, you'd think it would create the perfect storm of holiday fun. But no. A couple of days before New Year's Eve I get the same anxious feeling I get a couple of days before my yearly pelvic exam at the gyno's. And frankly I would prefer to get the pelvic exam because then at least I know I'm gettin' some out of it.

I really should want to go out and celebrate this New Year's Eve. Thankfully, things are finally looking up for me: I'm moving out of my parent's house in the 'burbs and into Becca's old studio in Dupont next weekend, I got a great bartending job down the street from my apartment and I've been hired to blog for a fashion website (although the thought of writing about things other than Kashi Go Lean Cereal, The Slanket and one night stands is slightly intimidating.) I really do have the most amazing friends in the word and I should be with them, drunk off my ass with my boobs hiked up in a dress I can't afford when I ring in the New Year.

Instead all I want to do is host my own I'm A Big Fat Loser Party '08 and invite the following exclusive guests:
1.) My Mom
2.) My Dad
3.) Their cat
4.) Half a pound of steamed shrimp

So why the attitude? Honestly, I just can't handle the pressure of New Year's Eve. Although my cover letter says differently, I do not work well under pressure at all. In stressful situations I have the composure of a fat person water skiing. I'm like a chicken with it's head cut off; I just run around freaking out until I lose steam and fall over. And then twitch for a while.

There are multiple layers of pressure to New Year's Eve that I can't handle. There's the initial pressure of finding something to do so you can answer people when they inevitably ask you what your big plans are. Don't feel guilty. I ask people too. I'm part of the problem and in no way the solution. After New Year's you then have to deal with people asking what you did for New Years. And you better be ready with a good answer, my friend.

Once you've figure out something to do, there's the age-old question of who you're going go kiss at midnight. Whoever originated the superstition that if you don't hook up on New Year's you're sexually cursed for the rest of the year is a real asshole. How dare you put that burden on me?! Being a highly superstitious individual, every year I put an unreasonable amount of stress on myself to find someone to make out with. This is difficult because if you get to a party at about 10pm, that only leaves you with two hours to find someone to kiss at midnight. Sadly, the first two hours of a party are usually the most sober, so your odds of making out when the ball drops are pretty slim unless your real friendly. The rest of the party is then spent hunting for someone to hook up with to avoid being cursed for an excruciating 12 months. But it's a jungle out there; every other single girl at the party is hunting her own prey for the evening and my friends are inconveniently attractive. This makes the hunt more intense and challenging. And god I hate a challenge. New Year's Eve would be so much more bearable if I had a boyfriend, which turns New Year's into another holiday designed for people in a relationship. And nuts to that.

There has only been one New Year's Eve when I had someone to kiss when the ball dropped, but that didn't so much go as I had planned. I had been talking to a guy (not even talking to, maybe chatting with) for a bit, and when I saw him over Thanksgiving Break he said he had made plans for a fancy schmancy New Year's Eve so I should get my gown ready. I was psyched. Finally, a stress-free New Year's Eve (and in formal wear no less!) About a week before New Year;s I was a bit perplexed why he hadn't called me (or returned any of my many couple of calls) to confirm our plans. A few days before New Year's I found out from a friend that he secretly had a girlfriend at school who came down to surprise him for Christmas and New Year's, which meant I was out on my ass for the big night. That night when the ball dropped, I realized what an idiot I had been for trusting him and I could feel my thumb twitching, ready to text various Ghosts of Hook-Ups Past. In an effort to keep some dignity that New Year's, I grabbed a bottle of Andre from the kitchen and quietly slipped out of the party, ready to bench myself for the evening. Half a bottle of Andre and a line of Klonopin later, I was no longer a danger to myself. For at least 12 more hours.

...God I hate new Year's Eve.

After a firm talkin' to by Anna, Jill and Talia tonight, I realized I need to stop acting like a superstitious curmudgeon and allow myself to have fun this year. But old habits die hard and I can't stop being so unreasonably superstitious. Therefore, if I even remotely know you and will be seeing you this New Year's Eve, I will be making out with you. Whether you like it or not. I might not even say hello. I might just walk up, stick my tongue down your throat, slap you on the ass, say "good game" and walk on. Gender is a non-issue. I've got 12 months to cover and it's a recession. Game on bitches.


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Becca says hoops are HER thing

From both birds to you, happy holidays!

We're going to take a little break to celebrate Chrismukkah, move (Becca to Arlington and Meg to Dupont) and start new jobs (guess who's DC's newest bartender bitchezzz???) but we'll be back Monday morning. In the mean time, as always thank you for reading and have a great holiday!

www.twitter.com/2birds1blog

I. Am. Livid.

In addition to irritating the hell out of me as explained in the post below, the god damn Seal playing, lisp slurring, wife beater promoting, bald headed, beer not recommending bartender from Axis gave me the wrong credit card Saturday night. Jordan A Nelms: I have your Redskins Bank of America card and you have mine. Go Skins.

Oh good. I didn't really need access to my money right before Christmas anyway. And it wasn't too embarrassing when "STOLEN" came up on the register when I tried to pick up a prescription at CVS with said card. Because only a winner buys birth control with a stolen credit card. I'm glad people got to see that.

A big congratulations to Axis Bar & Grill in Washington, DC. You are 2b1b's first BOYCOTTED bar.

The War on Social Terrorism: YOU STARTED IT!

People never cease to bewilder, shock and amaze me. I don't know why I'm wasting my time with this "graphic design" crap because I think anthropology is my true calling. I could sit in my bed, curled up in the fetal position, rocking ever-so-gently, making "pfffwhhaaaaa?!" faces all day long trying to figure out why people do the socially retarded, super retarded, what's a term I won't get sued again for using? unacceptable things that they do.

Before I die, I'm going to publish an anthology of my experiences with these characters who routinely ruin my day and boggle my mind called Interesting Decisions and the People Who Make Them. This weekend provided me with material to add yet another chapter:

Chapter 7362349: People who invoke the "YOU STARTED IT!" Principle.

It all started at Axis bar on U street Saturday night, where I was ready to give my liver another round of good old fashioned hazing in honor of Jodi's birthday. I should have known something was up the minute I talked to the bartender. The bartender (a dead ringer for Harry from Sex and the City who was playing Seal on his ipod,) came over and asked, "Thup? What can I get you ladeeth to drink?" TEE hee HEE heeee, he had a lisp! I don't know if I've made this clear or not, but what babies are to normal people, lisps are to me. I think they're effing adorable. Like kittens and puppies and rainbows and sunshine.

In an effort to hear the bartender talk his silly talk some more, I asked him what beer he recommended. He all but rolled his eyes and exasperatingly handed me a menu. Thinking maybe he hadn't heard me, I asked him again what he recommended. "There'th a menu," he deadpanned. O...K...now I've only been a bartender for all of 12 hours, but I'm pretty sure when someone asks you what beer you recommend, you recommend a beer. Any beer. Just say the name of a beer. I didn't ask because I'm wildly fascinated by what beer you like guy, I asked because I'm lazy and all I want for Christmas is to hear you say "Tham Adamth ith pretty thweet."

I pushed this little mishap out of my mind and continued with my good time. An hour or so later, I was a few cocktails deep and had a nice buzz going. In honor of my new job and feeling a little sassy, I snuck behind the bar and posed for a picture with a bottle of vodka and a beer pitcher. Just as the flash was going off, I got bitch-slapped in the face with seltzer water. Looking down at my now wet shirt and wiping my hair back, I looked to see who had given me this lovely little hose down. I looked up at the culprit and was met with the stony, upper-middle-class, dockers wearing, black eyes of a White Cap. A random White Cap shot me with seltzer water.

(Dramatic Double Dare Re-enactment)

Now, that alone not enough to send me into full What's The Matter With Society? mode. Don't worry, I'm not that snarky. I have a sense of humor and understand that rowdy things happen when people are drunk. Ergo, I decided to give the White Cap a chance to LOLZ it off and make it right with me. Because...you know...you don't just go around spraying random people in the face with water and then not say word one to them when they're attempting to dry themselves off with cocktail napkins while looking at you like "what the fuck was that for, guy?" ...Right?

"Hey. So you just sprayed me with water there a second ago. You should probably buy me a drink to make it right," I said in a light-hearted and friendly tone as I wiped mascara from under my eyes.

"No. I'm good, actually," the White Cap said back to me with the same tone and look in his eye that one might give a hunchback after they ask you if you want a rim job.

WOAH, WOAH, WOAH, White Cap! Now I'm not asking you to buy me a drink because I want to go to the prom with you or go steady and wear your varsity Letterman jacket, you jackass. I'm asking you to buy me a drink so I don't punch you in the nuts for dousing me with water. I realize you don't know me, but here's an intro: I'm a house cat. I sleep a lot, am fascinated by balls of twine and hate getting wet (that's what she said.)

This is where my inner rage started to boil. What the fuck was this guy thinking?! Of all the interesting decisions to make, why would he act like such a little douche bag and not only spray me with water (which is slightly Three Stooges of him and kind of just a lame move on it's own) and then refuse to buy me a drink or even offer the slightest little piff of an apology?

It was at this point that I was feeling like a rejected, washed up, sad sea hag when my family motto came echoing into my mind: "Don't fuck with a McBlogger!" I could hear my forefathers cry out. And you're damn right. Don't fuck with a McBlogger. It's not an interesting decision, it's just an all-around horrible one.

I figured this White Cap needed to be taken down a peg or too, and I would be more than willing to do it for him. But I didn't want to do it just for myself; I wanted to do it for society as a whole. White Caps need to learn that you can't go around acting like a flaming douche bag to everyone you meet and not suffer the repercussions. I can't just declare a War on Social Terrorism and be too scared to drop a few bombs. What kind of leader would I be?

I slyly wrapped my hand around the beer in front of me and slowly slid it towards the White Cap, ready to knock it into his lap in an effort to make it look like he had pissed himself. However, White Cap whapped my hand away, grabbed the beer and turned his back to me. OH. HELL. NAW.

Having lost my drink when I went down with the seltzer Titanic, I looked around for a liquid to shower this douche bag with, to no avail. That's when I turned around to see the cocktail waitress' busing station and a little light bulb went off above my head. If beer was out, then Tabasco sauce was in. I unscrewed the top and acted like that White Cap's back was the juiciest steak in town and doused him in Tabasco. As she had been watching this all go down, I tossed the Tabasco to Anna so she could get in on the fun. (PS: I wold like to take this time to publicly apologize to Jilllian who sadly got in the Tabasco crossfire and deserved none of it. I am so sorry for that civilian casualty!) Feeling like maybe he wasn't spiced up well enough, I got greedy and unscrewed the lid of a pepper shaker and tossed it to Anna, who promptly spilled it down Dr. Douchebag's polo shirt. Whenever Anna and I are getting away with one of our pranks, we inevitably get caught. And that is exactly what happened.

The White Cap realized what was up and took off his jacket to discover the spicy Jackson Pollack I had created on the back of his pea coat. I gave him a look that said "eesh, that sucks" and took out my iphone ready to text what had just happened to Talia across the bar. The White Cap turned red with anger, grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with not exactly Ike Turner force, but enough to be completely uncool.

My jaw hit the floor and I began to have a little conversation with myself:
"Holy shit. That asshole just pushed you!"
"I know, right?! Punch that asshole in the mouth!"
"No, no, no! Do not punch him! To be fair, you were acting like a total cunt face and he's rightfully mad."
"But dude, pushing a girl?!"
"Yea. Good point. OK punch him."
"Seriously? Do I even know how to punch someone?"
"You took kickboxing. Upper-cut, jab, jab, upper-cut and then grapevine your way outta there!"

Unfortunately by the time I talked myself into punching him, he had already turned around and was cleaning Tabasco sauce off of his jacket and the moment had passed, so I looked over at Anna to see if she saw what had just gone down. And indeed she had. In the grand tradition of getting in a physical fight for the sake of having for your drunk best friend's back at Christmas time (what an oddly specific tradition...) she went to grab the White Cap's beer to throw in his face. Unfortunately this enraged the beast even more and he stopped her mid grab and proceeded to full body, two hands on chest style, full force shove all 100 lbs of Anna off of him. Now, I realize that it probably was a dick move on my part to douse this kid in a delicious pepper sauce, but hitting a girl is about as cool as a pair of denim shorts. Anna went to shove him back and it was clear this guy was about to deck her in the face so I jumped in to separate them and it turned into a bona fide scramble before out of nowhere Meredith, or as I now refer to her, the Beast from the Northeast, stepped in and threw her full beer square in the face of the White Cap like a fuckin' champ. It was brilliant. Then the shit really hit the fan and old Lispy McLisperson had to grab the White Cap to keep him from pummeling three girls to the ground.

A few minutes later, the bartender came back and said, "Alright look you guyth, now I kicked him out, but to be fair, he did have a fair amount of condimenth on him stho the next time I catch you guyth thpilling thtuff all over people, I'm kicking you guyth out too! Alright?!" What?! HE STARTED IT!

And to the White Cap: YOU STARTED IT, YOU BIG CRY BABY! This boggles my mind and makes me feel like I'm five years old again. You wouldn't have gotten sprayed with Tabasco if you hadn't sprayed me in the first place! Take a physics class! Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. You spray me with water and I'll spray you with Tabasco. Sure mine is slightly worse, but as my favorite comedian Keith Malley once said, "You start it with a BB gun, I'll end it with a tank." Sorry man, If you didn't want to get sprayed with Tabasco, you probably shouldn't have sprayed me with water with no apologies. I don't go around blowing on dead dandelions and then beat the shit out of them when the seeds blow away in the wind. CAUSE AND EFFECT. And when you go shoving girls around like they're rag dolls, you have no excuse for your behavior because YOU STARTED IT! Did you expect me to just stand there and let you be a dick to me? LOLZ! I think not. I'm sure that's what you're used to because girls rarely stand up to White Caps (because frankly they're kind of scary and intimidating) but as General in the War on Social Terrorism, I'm willing to take a few hits for the team. And so is Anna apparently. And Jillian. And Meredith. Purple Hearts for us all!

Sigh...interesting decisions. Interesting decisions all around.

Becca starts off your week right: with an entry that involves nose-picking and Fruitopia.

Isn't it a Shame That:

People with heavy accents/new English speakers who don’t have the best command of the language automatically sound like they are sort of “simple”? They're probably thinking the most intelligent, complexly worded thoughts about what an asshole you are because you're talking to them the same way you’d talk to a five year old. Only they’re thinking it in their language and can only smile and nod at you. Gosh that would suck.

Movies are now, on average, 17 million hours long? Who has that kind of attention span? Who gives a shit? There are very few subjects that I care about enough to watch them for that long. Its insulting really – I have plenty of better things to do with my day than spend the vast majority of it watching some big-shot director indulge his egomaniacal streak. I get it, you’re a genius, your work is amazing, I willingly spent $10 to sit here in the dark and try not to fall asleep – can I go now?

They don’t make some of those awesome ‘90s after-school snack food anymore? Remember Fruitopia – the first trendy juice drink in a glass bottle with a black cap and a cool swirly logo? Now Honestea has jacked their black cap and people under the age of 24 don’t remember it ever existed. Fruitopia is the backwater blues singer to Nantucket Nectar’s Elvis – without one there couldn’t be the other. Or Dunkaroos? Which were just essentially animal crackers shaped like kangaroos that came with a handily packaged container of cake frosting for you to dunk them in? See you don’t just eat ‘em, you dunk-a-roo! Those were the days.

Saturday Night Live sucks again? You know who should be the most pissed off about this? Andy Samberg – that guy is hilarious. He wrote “Dick in a Box” for God’s sake! And no one is watching the show because Amy Poehler and Tina Fey are gone and we once again have that void. One person cannot carry SNL, I am so sorry Andy. Hey remember that movie you made where you were some sort of semi-retarded version of “Jackass” with a hero complex? Yeah me neither, I am pretty sure you made it though. My advice to you is get a new agent and hang in there – the talent behind “Jizz in My Pants” is too big to contain.

Certain beverages are high in calories? You don’t chew them, they’re not food, they won’t make you full – so how come soda, and alcohol, and fruit juice are all fattening? So lame. You do so well, you eat healthy, and you hate it, and the only thing getting you through is that beer at the end of the day and BAM! Might as well have had half a candy bar ‘cause that beer has plenty o’calories. Fruit juice is the worse cause you think its healthy and good for you – and it is – but if you drink it you better make sure to adjust for it, cause those sugar calories are like you drank a glass of Pixie Stix. Fruit is nature’s candy – fuckin’ nature. So uncool.

It’s socially unacceptable to pick your nose? I mean – we all do it, let just be honest here. But you have to hide it, and do it furtively, when no one is watching. Which can be dangerous, especially if you have long-ish fingernails. I know you feel me. Why can’t it be ok? You know, you blow, something more is hanging on, you grab it, you put in a tissue, you wash your hands, you move on. I mean, blowing your nose is kinda gross so we try and do it in certain situations and not others – in the bathroom at a restaurant, not at the table – so why can’t picking your nose be like that? It’s just a suggestion.

Corey Feldman turned into such a hot mess? That guy is a great actor: I name, in no particular order, some of his films: Goonies, The ‘Burbs, Stand By Me. You had me at Goonies. But did anyone see him on The Surreal Life? He was a total douche. Yeah some bad stuff happened to him in his life – his parents stole his money, he was most likely molested by Michael Jackson, he had a coke problem by age 12 – but that doesn’t mean he has to be so lame. Corey F. you were always the cooler of the two Coreys – everyone knew it. And look at Cory H. now – he’s just a puffy older version of his young hot skater self. You still have the talent. You are a great actor. Please pull yourself together, get your head out of your ass, and make a good movie. Call Robert Downey, Jr., I bet he can give you some advice.

Snow days are only for school kids? Snow is exciting! It’s a downright meteorological miracle – its water, but it’s frozen, but its not so frozen its ice, its something different - its snow. It’s like Slurpees from heaven, minus the flavors. So why can’t everyone get the day off when it snows? It is definitely inconvenient to travel in, and dangerous. And more often that not it’s gone by the next day. So why can’t we all enjoy in that childhood pleasure of a snow day? I defy anyone to name an experience greater than waking up and before you even open your eyes knowing that is has snowed because the sound of cars driving down the road is muffled. You rush to the tv, sit in your jammies and wait for them to call your school district’s name. You wait, you wait … yes! Montgomery County! The best part is that you really do get a full day to enjoy it because you woke up at normal time and are way too excited to go back to sleep. Who can I talk to about this?

No one sells Coors Original? Coors is delicious. It’s the Banquet Beer! You can only buy it at Harris Teeter or in redneck parts of Virginia (I know, I know, but that’s all of VA! But I digress…) Coors Light is really not that good. Miller, Miller Lite, Bud, and Bud Light are all equally terrible. But sometimes I want a beer that will neither fill me up nor cost $6 and High Life just isn’t gonna cut it. Seriously – bar owners of DC – PLEASE START SERVING COORS ORIGINAL. It’s delicious, people will buy it, I promise. Someone needs to do a Coors happy hour special – you watch how popular it will get. In fact, I call it now – Coors is the next Pabst – trendy in its untrendiness. Though the first time I see some hipster drinking a Coors Original I will definitely bitch about it. But I’ll secretly be happy because it means a) I can buy it at my local beer/wine/liquor store and b) I was right. And I love being right.

Happy Drinking Game Friday!

Guys I have been totally Scroogin' it this week and I want to apologize. I've been going down an emotional spiral ever since I found out the following:
1.) Christmas is next week. WTF? When did that happen? I'm always horny for the holidays and I just can't get in the mood this year. Now I find out that I have less than a week to get it up?! I can't handle that kind of pressure and performance anxiety!
2.) Bing Crosby beat the sin out of his wife and was an all-around asshole. Yea, Bing Crosby. As in one of my favorite Christmas crooners of all time. Now every time I hear "White Christmas" the left side of my face hurts and I smell cheap whiskey and broken dreams.
3.) I have $46.98 in my bank account. This means that if I'm getting you a Christmas present this year, there's a 98% chance it will be made out of Popsicle sticks, cotton balls and Elmer's glue.
4.) Despite my best efforts and many interviews, it looks like I will remain unemployed through the holidays and into the New Year. That breaks my little soul into two equal pieces. And then pisses on those pieces. And then puts those piss-soaked pieces into a kiln to bake. And then I shall paint those pieces with tempera paint and give them away as gifts.

Man...the holidays are a really shitty time to feel like a big-fat-failure, what with all of the cheer and family newsletters people feel the need to "share." My mom was reading our neighbor's holiday newsletter to me tonight and I thought I was going to snap like a twig. Now isn't the best time to hear that Kari will be wrapping up her last semester at Law School after her wedding and Guy is using his extra retirement time to distill his own gin. That is unless Guy is giving me some of his distilled gin for free, and then I totally care. True story: upon hearing in a holiday newsletter tonight that some random friend of the family just had a new baby girl , I interrupted my mom with, "I HOPE IT WAS FUCKING BORN PREMATURE AND HAS A TINY HEAD AND A SPEECH IMPEDIMENT!!!" and stormed out. I don't really hope that. I just half-hope that. Because I think lisps are more adorable than kittens.

It's really not pretty though. I've spent the past week pretty much acting like when Ron Burgundy gets fired from the Channel 4 Evening News Team and stumbles around San Diego drinking milk and making fart noises with his mouth. I've increased my sleeping schedule tenfold. It's gone from house-cat to koala bear level. When I am awake, I just lay around my bed downloading apps for my iphone and feeling sorry for myself. It's pretty disguisting. (But my Tap-Tap-Revenge score is through the roof!)

I had a rude awakening today though. No it wasn't the screaming about premature babies and small heads that made me realize I'm acting like a complete asshole; I realized I skipped my blogging duties this week. Twice. I'd love to say I didn't blog last night because I was up late applying to more jobs or re-designing my resume. But that would be a lie. Because the truth of the matter is I was up late last night watching You Tube videos of "Bartending 101" and listening to old Beastie Boys singles in my bed. As rough as life seems, there's no reason for me to act like an anti-social 12-year-old boy from 1998. It's time to quit feeling sorry for myself and get back to my real life. And the first order of business: get in the Christmas spirit.

But how to do it? Making s'mores hasn't done it, watching Home Alone hasn't done it, picking out a Christmas tree hasn't done it...It's time to bring in the big guns. I need something that's going to pull mercilessly on my heart strings and kick me in the sentimental bone hard. I need a frog. And a pig. And a Gonzo. And a Michael Cane. I need The Muppet's Christmas Carol.

I talked a bit last year about how every Christmas Eve my family watches The Muppet's Christmas Carol and I weep like a small child in the arms of whoever will hold me. It's that God-damn frog. I think Kermit the Frog could sing "Dick in a Box" and I would get choked up and nostalgic. Kermit the Frog is essentially a puppet/amphibian version of Tim Gunn in my mind. But if anything is going to melt my black heart and fill me with holiday cheer, it's this movie. And a big 'ole Irish Coffee. Extra Irish.

So if you need a little help getting in the mood this year as well, let The Muppet's Christmas Carol be your Viagra. Take my hand, grab a box of tissues and let's get it on with The Muppet's Christmas Carol Drinking Game!


Rules!
Take a Drink When:
- Gonzo and Rizzo get into an argument
- Someone says "Merry Christmas"
- "Bah, humbug!"
- They break into song
- Someone complains about being hungry and/or cold
- Beaker flips off Scrooge as he and Bunsen are leaving Scrooge's office
- Jacob and Robert Marley (aka the Old Hecklers) laugh at their own jokes
- Michael Cane gets a visit from a ghost (sidenote: could the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come not make me shit my pants out fright every year?)
- THE BELL TOLLS ONE!
- Tiny Tim has a coughing fit
- Michael Cane gets teary-eyed
- Tiny Tim dies, specifically when Kermit says the following: "Life is made up of meetings and partings. That is the way of it. I'm sure that we shall never forget Tiny Tim, or this first parting that there was among us." (Yes I did tear up just typing that...eff you.)

Finish Your Drink When:
- They sing "The Love We Found" during the last scene and you're inevitably crying but trying to play off your tears by pretending to text message someone because grown adults don't cry and emotions are for losers. Damn. That. Frog.


Have a great weekend and look forward to a Becca post bright and early Monday morning! (Want your 2b1b fix over the weekend? Friend us on Twitter! Last weekend Twitter friends got to be the first to hear about Meg's drunken Britney Spears dancing shenanigans...come on, take the 5 seconds to make an account and follow us...www.twitter.com/2birds1blog) It won't suck that badly.

This totally beats a conjugal visit.

I am addicted to meet-an-inmate.com.

A-ddicted. If I could boil it down, mix it with Ny-Quil, Windex, and battery acid and inject it into my veins, frankly I would. Meet-an-inmate.com is pretty much exactly what it sounds like; photo personals of female and male inmates. You can search inmates by sex, age, or by newest members. Whoever wrote the homepage description deserves a Pulitzer because they sort of make it sound like a good idea for about .5 seconds:

Can you imagine what it must be like for attractive men and women to be without companionship? These incarcerated female and male inmates are paying a price for crimes they have committed. These inmates are very real and are seeking you! Why not give it a try? Make the day of a lonely inmate! He/She will get excited when his/her name is called to receive a letter from you. Just think how lonely it must feel at mail call to never hear your name, especially after being locked up for several years and family and friends have deserted you. All of these prisoners behind bars have written me a letter requesting to be listed. It can be a lot of fun communicating with these individuals. Don't be shy, give it a try!

The inmate profile pics are hilarioussss! Most of them were taken in prison, so just imagine all of the classic lame Facebook poses but add a jumpsuit and one helluva child molester-y vibe. How hard must the ass-raping in the shower be after asking someone in the yard to take a picture of your good side from a flattering angle for your personals ad? Answer: so hard.

As far as the "about me" section goes, remember when I said there's nothing funnier than a Bro trying to sound introspective and sexy on a personals site? J/K, there is something funnier: inmates trying to sound introspective and sexy on a personals site. This shit is LOLZ. The best is that there's a fair amount of inmates who write something to the effect of "I never thought about going on an Internet dating site before..." or "Normally I wouldn't do this but..." Really? You're a part-time DJ who just got 7-10 for marijuana possession with intent to sell, at this point I think the fact that you're on an Internet dating website is the least embarrassing thing about yourself.

The most functional part of the website has to be the very faint chain link fence background image on all of the user profiles. That way when you think you're connecting with someones description and start to feel sorry for them being so lonely and think "I had a pen-pal in Girl Scouts and it was totally fun! I should do that again and brighten this poor person's day!" you'll see the chain-link fence and be like, "Oh, right! Criminal..."

Now before you think I've managed to become some Latina mami's prison bitch even before being sent to prison, let me explain why I'm so into this. I have created a game called "GuEsS tHe CrImE!" in conjunction with Meet-an-Inmate and if I do say so myself, it is some fine holiday family fun! It might be my new favorite weapon in The War Against Office Boredom. I say might only because I don't know if you want www.meet-an-inmate.com to be in your work computer's history. If you do--enjoy and you're welcome! However, if you get fired as a result of my blog (which I deem a worthy reason to get fired,) you're in luck because I am in desperate need of an intern to do a few administrative tasks around the bedroom office because my parent's cat current intern doesn't cuddle with me enough is going back to school. I pay in boxes of Kashi Go Lean cereal money.

How to play GuEsS tHe CrImE!

• Go to www.meet-an-inmate.com

• Pick an inmate

• Guess what crime they committed to end up in jail (some clues to pay attention to are: location, age, release date, occupation before prison and activities in prison)
  

• Google them to find out the answer

• Guess correctly to win points. Points values are as follows:

Solicitation: 1 pt.
Failure to pay child support: 2pts.
Fire-arm possession related: 3pts.
Battery/Assault/Attempted anything: 4pts.
Marijuana related: 5pts.
Cocaine related: 5pts.
Meth related: 6 pts.
Bank robbery: 7pts.
Arson: 8pts.
Kidnapping: 9pts.
Attempted Murder: 10pts.
Murder/Lifer/Death Row: YAHTZEE!

Let's do one together:

$un$hine Th0rt0n (excuse the dollar signs and zeros. I've learned the hard way that people like to google themselves and don't love it when I talk about them on my blog. And Lord knows I'm not fuckin' around with this chick.)
OK, so let's look at some important clues about Ms. Th0rt0n:
1.) She was pre-determined to be white trash at birth with a name like that.
2.) She's got a shape to her, dark red lipstick and 90's pageant hair.
3.) "I very much enjoy my mischievous side, having learned to take each opportunity to instigate a good laugh."
4.) Incarcerated in Texas
5.) Being released in 2012
6.) Was in sales and now likes to workout and play sports in the slammer

Hmm...1,2 and 3 suggest a healthy dose of white trash suggesting a meth charge or assault and battery on a a babby daddy. However, 6 tells us she was in "sales" before jail which could indicate solicitation. Her release date isn't too far away and 3 tells us she hasn't fully learned her lesson which makes me think what she did wasn't too embarrassing or horrible. This is a doozy...I'm going to go with possession of meth but not with intent to sell.

Survey says!
+3 points! GAHH! I had the meth part right, but looks like someone didn't learn their lesson from the movie Traffic. Ergo, I gave myself only half of the full 6 points a meth related charge carries.

Oh well, so close. Until next time, I'm your host Meg McBlogger asking you to help control the convict population; have your hookers and meth addicts spayed or neutered. So long everyone!

Inner Monologue Time!

Random Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh-Out Into Full Entries:
- I've recently switched from liquid body wash to bar soap. And sometimes I drop the soap. And .2% of me is nervous that when I bend over to pick it up, a prison style ass raping will follow. I've started to curtsy down to retrieve it.

- As anyone who knows me knows, I am not a morning person. Or an early afternoon person, let's be honest. I'm generally belligerent and unpleasant, and I feel sorry for anyone who has to be around me between the hours of 5am and noon. Anticipating a new job starting soon (DEARGODPLEASE!) I've started to get up early in an effort to ween myself off of the vampire hours I usually keep. When I'm getting ready in the morning, I watch "NBC News" and then "The Today Show." I hate both equally, but I need some sort of background noise or else I'll fall back asleep mid-eye-lining thereby jabbing my eye with eyeliner and then tragically see only "slate brown" for the rest of my life. I believe, however, that the companies who advertise their products in the ungodly early working-gal/guy hours know that the demographic of people watching are half-asleep and cracked out. How else could the following commercial be explained? It was a commercial for an arthritis medication. As we all know, sufferers of arthritis generally have chronic pain in their hands and wrist joints. We've all seen the commercial of the sad man who is not capable of holding his tennis racket, or the housewife who can't garden anymore. This commercial however said, and I quote, "Having arthritis can make it difficult and even painful to experience [takes awkward pause] life's more [another awkward pause] simple pleasures." If that is not a blatant reference to jerking off, then I don't know what is. All the while an older couple is swimming around a pool. Okay, I don't consider synchronized swimming one of "life's simple pleasures," but I absolutely consider gettin' off to be one. I salute you sufferers of arthritis and recommend you consult your doctor about Celebrex.

- The other day I was driving behind a car that had a bumper sticker that boggled my mind. It simply said "I drive...like I ski." I stared at this stupid bumper sticker for 10 minutes all the way down Rockville Pike trying to figure out the punchline. It's all I can think about now, it consumes me. I drive like I ski: fast? I drive like I ski: swerving? I drive like I ski: in snow? I drive like I ski: in tight spandex and a helmet carrying poles? I honestly hope it's the latter.

- You know what's awkward and always sneaks up on me? When you're in an elevator with someone and they say a polite parting line to you when they get off. For example, the other night I was in an elevator with a guy and when he got off at his floor he turned around and said, "Have a great night." I'm never prepared for this. It's just so polite. I mean, we weren't talking and I don't know you. But that's really nice. So then my inner monologue starts dissecting this act of kindness: "Oh shit, is he talking to me? Of course he's talking to me, I'm the only person in the elevator. Wow, what a nice and awkward thing to do. Is he trying to get in my pants? Would I let him? Is he Lebanese or just really tan? Either way that's hot right? FUCK! SAY SOMETHING BACK!" And then I manage to make out a soft "Your too. I mean you. Night. Ha." just as the doors have closed. This happens to me more than you would expect. And I'm sufficiently awkward about it each time.

- I found out that Long Island Ice Teas have 780 calories, and now I'm having an identity crisis.

- I was driving home from College Park the other night, and I ended up in Alexandria. How the shit did that happen? I was going from one point in Maryland to another. I hate Virginia because no matter where you drive around the tri-state area, you will inevitably end up lost in Virginia. I get up in the morning, walk to the bathroom and suddenly I'm on the Wilson Memorial Bridge lost as fuck. It should be studied.

- Free Willy 3 is currently on the HBO Family channel. What? There was a sequel? How many times can you free that fuckin' whale?

- When I was bored at work, I frequently played on-line Family Feud. I forgot why I stopped and recently started playing again. Now I remember how regoddamndiculously...ridiculous that game is. I don't know who these so-called 100 people they "surveyed" are, but they must be a group of glue sniffers. For example, the following question came up during the "fast money" round: "Name something people own, making them feel safe at night." I put "alarm system" and then thought, "you idiot, the #1 answer is probably a gun or something." The #1 answer was A PET. Yes, because if rapists and murderers break into my home, I know my cat is going to wake up, throw herself in front of me and use her non-opposable thumbs to clutch a gun and scare them away. Also, the system of the game is just flawed. Another "fast money" round question was, "name something bank robbers say to the bank teller." My answer was "give me money"...because that seems pretty reasonable. I received, however, no points for that answer. The #1 answer, worth 56 points however, was, "give me the money." I hate you.

- I have a dentist appointment Wednesday that I'm dreading. I hate the dentist because they always make me feel like I never brush my teeth and like I'm the dirt of the universe. I, in fact, brush twice daily, floss and use Scope mouthwash to chase away germs. I tell them that though and they're all, "WELL THEN WHERE DID THIS PLAQUE COME FROM??? YOU'RE OBVIOUSLY NOT DOING SOMETHING RIGHT" and suddenly I'm convinced I haven't brushed my teeth in two years and I eat out of garbage cans. Now I'm confessing, "IT'S TRUE...I EAT DIRT!" Then I go home and I'm like wait...what just happened? Fucking dentists. My dentist also consistently thinks that I am five years younger than I am. I would bet good Mall Madness money that he'll ask me Wednesday if I'm nervous for freshman orientation.

- Car flirting. I'm not going to lie to you, I enjoy me some car flirting. I become a brazen hussy in the safety of my Sebring, a-makin'-eyes at the hot menfolk. And yet, my flirting efforts usually yield awkward results, as in real life. Monday I experienced an extreme case of car flirting. I was was stopped at a light on Wisconsin and I glanced at the car next to mine and saw a man who seriously could have been William H. Macy's twin in a sweet Audi. Noticing how weird it was that he looked like a clone of William H. Macy, I stared at him, realized how badly I was staring and looked away quickly. Then I looked back and he was staring at me and smiling. So I smiled back, and looked back towards the road. Then I looked back at him and smiled again. He did the same; this went on for a while. It got a little hardcore; at one point I seductively blew a bubble with my gum while looking at him. He laughed. I might be pregnant. I noticed that he had his turn signal on and was going to be turning onto Western, while I was staying on Wisconsin. I was a little disappointed, I was going to miss Mr. Macy. As his turning lane's light turned green, he looked back at me, smiled and did the salute motion (BALLSY, RIGHT?!). I girlishly giggled, looked down and then "sexily" whipped my head back up (I had the sexy wind-blown hair effect going courtesy of my air conditioning) while blowing another bubble giving him a wink. However, I guess I looked down too long and/or Mr. Macy sped off too fast because when I whipped my head back up doing my gum blowing/wink thing, I was met with the cold stare of an older Chinese man with a giant cross dangling from his mirror looking at me like I was a giant whore. My bad sir.

Drinking Game Friday you're what the French call "Les Incompetents"

Happy Drinking Game Friday gang! Guess who has an appointment with DC’s Reiki Grand Master? Yep. This guy. Thanks for everyone’s votes; I’m glad the idea of me getting felt up by a stranger is as exciting to you as it is to me. Although it came in second place, I might go to the psychic studio in Trinidad this weekend as well. We’re dealing with a curse here people…I have to cover all of my bases. Plus I have a houseguest staying with me and Martha Stewart defines being a good hostess as dragging your guest to the hard-core ghetto for a chakra re-alignment session and a possible chicken blood drenching. It’s a good thing.

Given this week’s darker subject matter, I was going to write this week’s drinking game about an occult related movie, but then I realized, it’s the most wonderful time of the year! Eff my curse! You’ve got cocktail parties to go to! Trees to trim! Rinks to skate on! Office Christmas parties to attend! Open bars to drink! Co-workers to make out with! Decisions to regret in the morning! So let’s all get in the holiday spirit with what I’m sure is Jesus’ favorite Christmas movie: Home Alone. It's time for The Home Alone Drinking Game!


Drink When:
- Someone knocks over the McCallister’s lawn jockey
- Someone alludes to Fuller wetting the bed or being a bed wetter
- The word “pizza” is said
- Uncle Frank delivers the powerhouse line, “Look what you did, you little jerk!”
- Harry’s gold tooth is shown
- Angels with Filthy Souls is on
- Kevin talks out loud to himself
- Buzz’s tarantula is shown
- Marley salts the sidewalks (even though there are totally dead bodies stashed in his salt bucket, duh)
- BUZZ YOUR GIRLFRIEND—WOOF!
- Marv get hits in the head or face with something
- Harry or Marv fall down the stairs
- John Candy says the word “polka”
- You inevitably weep like a child when Kevin is reunited with his mom on a snowy Christmas morning. I dare you, dare you, not to shed a tear.

Thank you so much for reading and we'll see you bright and early Monday morning!

www.twitter.com/2birds1blog

Starting a New Job

We McBlogger sisters are moving up in the world – Meg is this close to finding a job and moving into my apartment so she can experience DC life first-hand and I can shack up with the BF in VA (but that’s another post) and I got a new job 3 weeks ago! That’s right, who’s got two thumbs and no longer gets to read Go Fug Yourself for hours at a time? This guy!

Starting a new job is kind of like transferring to a new high school mid-way through the year. I’ve never done that mind you, but I can just imagine that’s what its like. Cliques are already formed, people already have their lunch buddies, and everyone knows that at this particular work place it’s just so totally uncool to put pics of your friends out on your desk – they just never told you.

Inevitably you’ll have like, two friends – the one kid who lives in your neighborhood that you met when your parents forced you to go introduce yourself and the guidance counselor, because it’s her job to make sure you’re doing fine and you got to know each other during the transfer process. In my case, my two friends are the Executive Chef because he and I worked together at a previous job and the HR lady because, well, it’s her job to make sure I’m doing fine and we got to know each other during the hiring process. Being friends with the Chef is kinda cool – I always know what we’re having for lunch in the employee cafeteria (I TOLD you its like high school!) but I think that’s kinda backfired since a large part of his and my shared job is to buy new platters and china for the catering department and to decorate the restaurant and bar for the holidays. So I guess its like I happened to luck out and the one kid in my neighborhood just happens to be the coolest kid in school therefore making everyone jealous – while they’re trying to book rooms for inauguration so they don’t get yelled at by the owners I am taking field trips to Crate + Barrel and debating the merits of glass platters vs. bamboo.

The HR lady, well, what can I say. She’s lovely, really. Slightly out of touch with pop culture but very sweet and kind and caring, just like an HR professional should be. [Editors note – she just came into my office and asked for my key to something. I, because I am a hilarious human being, made a Ghostbusters gate-keeper, key-master reference. She thought I made it up. Oy.] The downside of that is when she suggests doing things like volunteering at a homeless shelter as a company-wide activity her enthusiasm is all contagious and shit and the next thing I know I’m all “ok that would be great!” and sign up. And then I look at the posted sign-up sheet and its like, me, her, and a few other managers, mostly the ones I hear at lunch talking about Jesus and which pastor is their favorite. Oops. I kinda feel like I just joined the AV Club because one of the members told me I would get to miss a lot of class but then realized too late that, oh crap, I just joined the AV Club. You know who’s definitely not going to the homeless shelter? The only two co-workers who are my age.

Actually, I take that back. They are not my age, as they were so eager to point out. Ladies, this is one of the more obnoxious things ever said to me; if you’re over 27 you may feel me, if you’re under 27, don’t say I didn’t warn you: on day 2 of employment I am chatting with female co-worker about working out. We’re discussing how, the older you get, the harder it is to get in shape. I innocently mention that my goal is to be in the best shape I can be before I turn 30 so it’ll be easier to get back to after I have kids (I can’t believe that’s a viable thought of mine - another post). I point out that this leaves me 1.5 years to get there. “Oh I guess I owe Billy a coffee!” she exclaimed. Um, come again? Turns out she and male co-worker had a bet – a fucking bet about how old I was. She thought 24 (I love her), he said there was no way I was under 28. What??? And she, being all of 26, told me this all matter-of-factly, clearly unaware of how upsetting this would be to a 28 year old. I saw him later in the cafeteria and tried to hide my humiliation/rage by making a joke about he owed me coffee since he won the bet. “Yeah” he said, “I knew there was no way you were under 28, you just don’t look it.” OH. MY. GOD. Aarogant prick. I am beginning to think they’re doin’ it and that’s why they never invite me to get coffee/eat lunch/chat casually/make eye contact (sniff) – I’ll just be over here with my walker and my Geritol.

Remember when you were in middle school and wearing pinch-rolled jeans and rugby shirts from Britches was cool? And then you got to high school and that was definitely NOT COOL? That’s sort of what I’m working with here. For the past 6 years I’ve had jobs where funky creative outfits were expected of me. I would have been ripped on hardcore for wearing a two-piece suit unless one piece was made of leather and the other was hot pink. I practically lived in skinny jeans and oversized sweaters last winter. So imagine my surprise when we get to the “Maintaining the Proper Dress Code” section at my new employee orientation. Let me tell you what is mandatory: name tag; closed toe shoe; jacket. My bracelets may not jangle, my haircut must follow the natural contour of my head (huh?) and I may only wear one ring per hand. I can wear neither denim nor corduroy; apparently my shoulders are offensive. Thankfully I was going through this process with another new employee who happened to be a sassy black lady. Poor HR lady didn’t even know what we were talking about as we demanded to know if “closed toe” applied to peep toe shoes, and what the policy was on patterned tights and tall boots. I’ve never argued for anything so eloquently in my life as I did for the inclusion of peep toe shoes. I can no longer dress myself in the morning. I have no clue what looks professional and what will make me look like a total goober. I try on, conservatively, three outfits a morning. I’ve made some serious missteps trying to incorporate old favorites such as a great cowl neck sweater dress: in case you were wondering it does NOT look good with a blazer and pumps. I spend most days running out the door in what I know is a substandard outfit and then silently hating everyone else who looks put together with their cool blazers and fun necklaces. Ass hats.

Oh and you know what else is tough at the new job - I have no clue what people are talking about. The new job is in a hotel and there is some serious hotel lingo that is way beyond me. I will literally sit in meetings and not have any of idea of what is going on. The first time this happened someone pointed to a hand out in front of me that was a pie chart showing the same thing being spoken about; well, not only was it really embarrassing that I didn’t even know the pie chart and the discussion were about the same damn thing, looking at the pie chart didn’t help me follow along at all. NOT AT ALL! People ask me about the rev max of the pick-up and how it will affect the +3 and I just look at them all slack-jawed and confused. We have an Executive Committee meeting once a week – and I’m on it, which is so bizarre – and I have to read a fairly large report and I sound retarded. Like, the kid who’s in special ed but gets to take normal kid math or something but everyone in the normal kid class knows I really belong in special ed so they just kind of look sympathetically at me while I stutter and then immediately ignore me once I am done. The other day the GM of the hotel came up to me to tell me I was doing a really good job and she had that look on her face where I KNOW she would have donated money to my Special Olympics team had I asked her.

So to sum up, at this point I have no friends except dorks, the people I want to be friends with think I’m old, I dress poorly, and I appear to be mildly retarded. And the worst part – I just signed an HR document promising to not read or write blogs at work. SHIT.