God damnit I love this holiday. Any holiday that combines mass quantities of alcohol, spooky decorations, slutty costuming and mini Kit-Kats is automatically my favorite. I’ll be celebrating this year atop Becca’s apartment for her rooftop ripper. I’m drunk just thinking about it. I’m not divulging my costume yet because there’s still time for you costume vultures to knock it off. I will say that it’s a two-man job (Talia’s my partner-in-crime) and I bought the costume components at CVS tonight: spray tan in a bottle, hairspray, fake eyelashes, liquid eyeliner and cigarettes. No I'm not Britney Spears. Give me a little more credit in the creativity department! I don't fuck around when it comes to Halloween! Of course when I was standing in line holding my white trash paraphernalia, someone I hated with a fiery, fiery passion in high school walked up and initiated conversation. You try facing your high school nemesis unemployed, living at home and holding two aerosol beauty products and a pack of Parliaments.)
At least I can drown my I-Still-Live-at-Home-Sorrows tonight with this week’s drinking game. Straighten your bunny ears, research the best bar crawl and put on your game face, it’s time for the Halloween Night Drinking Game!
Drink when you: - See a Sarah Palin and/or Miss Alaska and/or First Dude costume - See an Obama or McCain costume (or conversely Michelle or Cindy) - Fuck it, when you see a political costume in general - Have to explain your costume - Have to ask someone what their costume is - Regret not wearing a jacket out because it would cover up the sexy even though it’s 40 degrees out - Inevitably make-out with someone - Initiate conversation aimed towards making out with someone with a slurred “Iuffyourcoshtumeeee!!!” (70% of the time, it works every time) - See a group-themed costume - See a “sexy______” costume - puke - See a Maryland sex offender sign in someone’s yard (actually drink thrice—one for you, one for him and one for the kid) (too soon?)
Enjoy tonight’s debauchery and we’ll see you Monday morning!
Confession: One of my favorite things to do is read the adult gigs section of Craigslist. I’m fully aware of how sleazy that sounds, but honestly, nothing makes me laugh harder. I have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old, so I appreciate reading about people getting kicked in the balls and just generally enjoy when dollar signs are substituted for S’s. $ome people get their giggle$ from Family Circu$, I get mine from the adult gig listing$.
However, I don’t appreciate when people write confusing ads. How horny are you that you can’t run spell check or read over your ad a few times? For example…
IN SEARCH OF DMV'S FINEST LADIES AND GENTS
KABERET KING PRODUCTIONS IS CURENTLY SEEKING DMV'S MOST SEXIEST MALES AND FEMALES TO PARTICIPATE IN AN EROTIC EVENT!!!!! WE WILL BE SELECTING 6 INDIVIDUALS (3 LADIES) AND (3 MEN) TO PARTICIPATE IN DMV,S FIRST EROTIC CABERET. TO BE CONSIDERED FOR THIS EVENT, YOU MUST BE OPEN MINDED TO BOTH SEXES, 21 AND OVER, CONFIDENT, AND SEXY. THIS GIG WILL PAY 25.00 PER HOUR +. THERE WILL BE ABSOLUTELY (NO SEX INVOLVED)!! THIS EVENT IS BEING HELD FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY!! TO BE CONSIDERED YOU MUST SUBMIT A NUDE FULL BODY PHOTO, AND FACE SHOT, WITH A SHORT PROFILE ABOUT YOURSELF/ WITH CONTACT NUMBER. ITS ALSO OK TO INCLUDE THINGS THAT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO INCLUDE THAT WILL MAKE YOU MORE TIPS!! THIS EVENT WILL BE HELD ON NEW YEARS EVE, WE WILL SCHEDULING INTERVEIWS SOON, PLEASE APPLY NOW!!! THOSE PHOTO'S THAT ARE SELECTED WILL BE CONTACTED IMMEDIATLEY.
When I read this, I was perplexed why anyone would want to have a sex party hosted by the DMV’s finest ladies and gents. That’s actually the least sexy situation I can think of. You might as well have a sex party in a bucket of ice. All I can picture is overweight white guys with sock garters and women with a whole lotta girdle and Hanes Herway action going on. DMV employees are real assholes, so the only way I could justify this posting is that it’s really a sick and twisted S&M party. Later it dawned on me that this is for DC/MD/VA’s finest ladies and gents. The letters “C,” “D,” and A” have never been more crucial in the history of the English language.
Handsome young thick hung football CEO love @ eat pu$$y $$$$$$$$$$$$ (look @ me now girls only !) I am a young certified bachelor hung that loves football from Jamaica
currently looking for (1) Chick on da come up ..
We can work things on a 1 on 1 basis more like
(Partners,promoters,marketing,booking gigs,etc).
I have $500 to invest & very fast computer & a spot !!!
(I can be your body-guard & your mentor private shit plus travel)...
Holla @ me baby !!!
There isn’t one single part of this ad that makes sense. 1.) Is this man a handsome, young, thick, hung football CEO, or is he just shouting out random adjectives and nouns (Handsome! Young! Thick! Hung! Football! CEO! Toaster! Fiji! Antiques! Delighted! Femur! Limber!)? 2.) If the absence of a comma was on purpose, what exactly is a “football CEO?” 3.) Please tell me his email address is CEOlove@eatpu$$y.com 4.) I spent far too long trying to figure out how football from Jamaica differs from the US or UK version. I’m going to buy this man a gift set of commas for Christmas. 5.) What the fuck does “looking for one chick on da come up” mean? Say it out loud. It sounds like when you play someone talking backwards and you think the devil is telling you to burn your house down and kill your parents. 6.) New life goal: have a man tell me that he has $500, a very fast computer and a spot. 7.) Frankly, I think I might be interested in a job where you’re guaranteed a private shit and travel opportunities.
FREE CHINESE FOOD WITH CHICKEN WINGS ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: (WWW.PUSHERGIRLS.COM)
NO PAY !
JUST FOOD !
At first I thought this ad was geared towards people who find a buy-one-get-one-free bargain erotic. Later I realized the ad is trying to get models for “pushergirls.com” and the pay is in free Chinese food and chicken wings. I find this especially funny because this was their old ad from a few days before:
WE LIKE HOEZ WITH THINGS IN DE AZZ @$$$$$%%%$%$%$%#$%#$%$#%#$%#$%#%#$ (WWW.PUSHERGIRLS.COM)
YEAH BABY APPLY ON OUR SITE NOW
WWW.PUSHERGIRLS.COM
Here’s how I imagine that marketing meeting went down: Advertising Guy 1: Well Fred, we may like hoez with things in de azz, but I don’t think hoez with things in de azz like us. We haven’t gotten a single reply to our ad! Advertising Guy 2: Hmm…what would Don Draper do?… I’ve got it Charlie! Throw some free chicken and lo mein at ‘em and they'll be dropping down to show us their great wall in no time!
I need to ask something before I get into ripping today’s victim a new asshole. You guys…is “guido” a derogatory term? I have yet to get a straight answer from anyone about this issue. I never thought it was a racially insensitive term, but it’s quite possible that I’m horribly, horribly wrong. Like how I used to throw around the term “mulatto” like confetti until my mom pointed out what a jackass I looked like.
You know how in college you give random people around campus nicknames like “Big Ass Dancer Girl” and “Cowboy Boots Swimmer”? Helena and I strictly referred to our biology lab partner as “The Guido.” I walked around for a year telling comical stories about The Guido to people and was very confused when 50% of those people found my story uncomfortable and slowly backed away while shaking their heads.
Urban Dictionary defines a guido as the following: “A sad pathetic excuse for a male; not necessarily of Italian descent, but most likely; usually native to the New York/New Jersey Tri-State area.
WARDROBE: tight zipper shirts, tracksuits, designer jeans, fuzzy kangol hats, tiny hoop earrings, fake gold chains, and related Euro-trash garb and tacky cheese-wear.
NATURAL HABITAT: Known to frequent Tri-State area malls looking for club gear to waste their week’s pay on) most likely spotted shopping at “Bang Bang” in Staten Island). During the day when not at their food delivery, telemarketing or constructing job, can be located at their local gym tanning or lifting weights. Can be found nightly at mainstream danceclubs they read about online (SF, Webster Hall, Etc.). Most notable for cruising the Jersey shore in an old car (Honda, Mustang, etc.) which has been tinted, painted and sports $1,000-$3,000 in rims in a feeble attempt to look like new. Gudio cars usually have a boomin’ systems through which cheesy music like freestyle, commercial club/trance and hip-hop (anything KTU plays) is loudly blasted.
PASTIMES/RECREATIONAL ACTIVITIES: Guidos enjoy beating up a non-white homosexual while assisted by a group of 5-10 guido friends backing them up; engaging in date rape; and displaying their lack of rhythm by dancing poorly in the middle of a club’s dance floor while non-guidos look on in disbelief.
If you know a Mike, Joe, Rob or Tony, he’s probably a guido."
I feel like that’s a pretty accurate description of a guido and I appreciate that they point out he doesn’t necessarily have to be Italian-American. The fact that they usually are is completely irrelevant. Kind of like how you don’t necessarily have to be Jewish to be called “Jappy”…unless calling someone a JAP is insensitive. And I’m not referring to Japanese people when I say that by the way. Jews, you guys, Jews. I mean Jewish people. Jewish-Americans. The moral of the story is for once I’m not trying to be offensive. If you are offended, email me at meg@2birds1blog.com and I’ll totally read it and cry. Let's get to today's victim already.
Where: Starbucks on Walnut Ave. in College City, Philadelphia.
When I saw this guy, my eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. The lights in the Starbucks went dim and it was like me and this extreme guido (exuido, if you will) were the only people in the room…nay, the world. I walked towards him slowly and our eyes locked. He lifted his sunglasses onto his perfectly spiked head revealing the most girlishly well-groomed eyebrows I’ve seen since looking in the mirror earlier that morning. Without even a “fuhgedda bout it” or “try my mother’s spaghetti sauce!” he gently grabbed my hands and we sang a duet of “Only You” from West Side Story while twirling.
Part of me thinks this Exuido is so perfect, I must have dreamt him up. Surely someone this ridiculous looking must be a figment of my imagination. However, my fantasy was confirmed as reality when Eddie read my mind: Eddie: Uhhhh…do you see that— Me: Oooohhhhhh yea, couldn’t miss him. Eddie: Wow. I mean…wow. Do you think he’s still on Ecstasy from last night? Me: He’s on something, that’s all I know for sure.
I’m not even sure where to start because my head is still spinning from seeing this specimen in person. First of all, I know most guidos can appear to be gay because they take such pride in their appearance, but we can all agree this guy is a big 'ole homo, right? The designer sunglasses, slender frame, slight stance and Armani Exchange outfit all point to yes. However, what batch of crystal meth was he smoking when he decided to put those monstrosities on his feet? I mean, rubber athletic sandals? Really Exuido? Unless you plan on being ankle deep in a creek all afternoon, you have no excuse for committing this fashion faux pas. Especially when it’s a brisk 60 degrees outside.
I’m gonna go ahead and ask the question I know we’re all pondering: what in the sweet name of Christ is going on with this man’s hair? His head is like an annoying brainteaser you can’t solve and drive yourself crazy trying to figure out. No matter how I try to justify or theorize, I can’t figure out why he would take the time to craft his hair into terrier fur or one of those spiky hats/stress relievers, on purpose.
Another perplexing aspect of this exuido is who he was at Starbucks with. I was expecting him to bring his latte over to a table with a Jappy looking chick in Uggs or a table with a well coiffed gay man sitting down, but he was there with a woman who I can only compare to the lunch lady in Billy Madison:
I would have taken a picture of her, but she seemed slightly unstable. Oh, and how much do you want to bet The Exuido is listening to the Vengaboys’ “The Venga Bus” on repeat? Because with that outfit, you can tell that he likes to party. He likes to, He likes to party.
I don’t think I can write any more about this character because I’m getting all heated and worked up again asking questions I know will never be answered. I’m so sorry I passed this burden on to you.
You know that feeling when you're in your cubicle and think, if I play one more round of online Family Feud, I'm going to physically turn into Louis Anderson and kill myself? Have you developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from playing hour after hour of spider solitaire? Ever reached the awkward "some weather we're having..." point in a gchat conversation with your best friend because you've already discussed everything else on the face of the planet earlier that morning? These are frightening moments. The War on Office Boredom is no joke, and as (self-appointed) Secretary of Defense, it's my job to make sure our arsenal is always fully stocked.
Suit up soldier, I have a new weapon for you to play with today: www.inspotla.org
InSpot is a website where you can send comical ecards with a personal message to partners warning them that they miiiight have caught a little somin' somin' from you the last time you two got rowdy. You know, specifically HIV, but you can customize the STD to your case. (FYI: I first heard about this through the podcast Keith and the Girl. It's offensive and hilarious and therefore I'm addicted. You should be too. www.keithandthegirl.com)
I've never been in this situation, but I would imagine that having to tell the random Bro you effed last weekend that you have a scorching case of herpes might be somewhat mortifying. However, spreading diseases around like you're handing out lollipops in a doctor's office is no fun either. Therefore, I'm supportive of any way to anonymously let someone know they better get themselves checked out before having sex again. However, these ecards are a wee bit too lighthearted for the subject matter, and not in an ironic someecards.com kind of way. Take a look: I like this one because you can actually hear the "eeeeeshhh..." and loosening of the tie when you read it.
That's a witty little catchphrase. But do we really need a zinger (in pink, no less) to say "I gave you AIDS"??? Why don't we just do this exchange: Infected Guy: Did you hear the one about the chick who unknowingly had sex with a random guy without a condom and contracted HIV? Fucked Girl: No, I don't think so. Infected Guy: Oh, really? That's weird...CUZ IT'S ABOUT YOU! (BADUMP, CHHH!)
I think if I ever were to get an STD, I'm going to have a party and invite everyone I've had sex with. This is what the invitation will say: Who: You and Me What: Had sloppy unprotected sex When: Oh man...three weeks ago? Four weeks?...to be honest it's all kind of a blur, that was a really busy month for me. Where: My apartment. And speaking of my apartment, come over Friday night at 9. Why: Yea...just come
Hmm...what says "I care about you, but not that much" more than breaking tragic news in an ecard? Oh I know! Breaking tragic news in a post-it-note! Ooo, you know what would burn more than the gonorrhea I just gave you? An ecard of a post-it-note!
Again, while I promote getting tested and having others get tested and educating yourself about safe sex, and blah blah blah, I also promote pranking and extreme tomfoolery. Thus, it is HILARIOUS to send these to your friends and scare the hell out of them.
Check out this one I sent to Eddie:
I think the most ironic part of this whole situation is that these emails usually get flagged as spam and never get read. And best of all, when you move it out of spam to your inbox, some email providers ask you to confirm that you really want to do that to avoid getting a virus. Hah! WHERE WERE YOU LAST SATURDAY NIGHT WHEN I HAD SIX LONG ISLAND ICED-TEAS AND WENT HOME WITH A GUY NAMED "RICKY," HOTMAIL?!?!?!
TGIDGF! Before we get to this week’s drinking game, I’d like to make a public plea to the socialites, starlets, pop stars and general glitterati who’s train wreck lives I’ve grown so dependent on for my daily gossip fix. Ahem…can somebody please fuck up already?! Honestly! The whole world’s gone to hell and I need to watch celebriwhores mess up their lives so I feel better about my own. I mean, I can’t even pay someone to give me a job and I spent the better part of yesterday flirting with Jose, the AT&T salesman at White Flint Mall. Meanwhile, Britney Spears is back in the studio, gets to visit her kids and has never looked better. COME ONNNNN!!!!11
I feel like I’ve come back from a semester abroad to find that the group dynamic within my friends has changed and everyone is awkward around each other. Now I’m left wondering where, even if, I fit into their new lives.
Britney Spears: Thanks to her dad’s good parenting, I won’t get to see the “tragic accidental overdose” we all knew was coming for so long. GOOD ONE MR. SPEARS…good one. Maybe you should take a page from Lynn Spears’ parenting handbook, sir.
Paris Hilton: Remember when she was a public threat and went to jail? Or when someone broke into her storage unit and found herpes medication in bulk? Man, those were the days. Now she’s just in love with a Christian boy from Maryland. From personal experience I can say LA-AAAAME.
Nicole Richie: See above plus a baby AND an episode of "Chuck." Ugh...even Bob Saget is more PG-13 than this crap these days. I'm going to send Nicole Richie some heroin and a taco in the mail and see what happens...
Mischa Barton: Huh? Who's that? (OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OHHHH SHIT!) Jessica Simpson: What Ken Paves wig shop has she been hiding out in?? Come on Jugs! Your inability to keep a boyfriend for more than a week made me feel like I wasn’t alone! Amy Winehouse: How do you go from wandering the streets of London, fresh from a recent domestic dispute involving a kitchen knife all cracked out of your daisy dukes to falling under the radar in a matter of months? Lindsay Lohan: …You disappointed me the most, Lohan. I mean, she went to rehab not once, not twice, but thrice! Now she makes “headlines” for recess-style handholding. I miss the days when she would pound a few 40s, punch an Olsen in the face and play bumper cars on the freeway…sigh…Twas a simpler time back then.
What am I supposed to get inappropriately excited about now? Madonna’s divorce? I find psoriasis of the liver more interesting. Miley Cirus dating a 20-year-old underwear model? Frankly, I’m jealous and good for her. I’m glad somebody’s gettin’ some, and if not me it might as well be Hannah Montana.
So please, if Sharon Stone could contract VD from John Mayer or if a socialite could go to jail for tiger poaching or something equally glamorous, that would be great. I’d even settle for a B-list sex tape at this point. Thanks. XOXO, Meg.
In other news that has nothing to do with what I was just talking about, IT FINALLY FEELS LIKE FALL YOU GUYS! I haven’t been this excited since David Duchovny went public with his sex addiction. My official “OMG FALL IS HERE, LET’S RAKE LEAVES AND DRINK CIDER AND CUDDLE!” movie was the inspiration for this week’s drinking game…so light a fire, carve a pumpkin and watch your head, it’s time for the Sleepy Hallow Drinking Game!
Take One Sip When: - Someone’s head gets chopped off - Christopher Walken makes a “GAHHHHHHH!!!!” noise - Someone faints - You see a burning pumpkin - Katrina’s bosom heaves - Bram acts like a jackass (I understand this is subjective…just drink when Casper van Dien is on screen) - Someone goes in or out of the Tree of the Dead - Ichabod thinks out loud - Ichabod uses of dat dem der fancy big city detective methods/tools - Ichabod has a flashback to his childhood featuring his mother’s inappropriate cleavage pouring out everywhere and anywhere
Have a great weekend and we’ll see you back in the office Monday morning.
This past weekend I did something that I am not sure I would ever recommend to other people: I went to two weddings, back to back. Saturday night and Sunday afternoon, and these weddings couldn’t have been more different: Long Island and Dover, DE; Jewish and Christian; black tie and casual; 3-course, full bar, with an over-the-top hors d’oeuvres hour and buffet dinner, beer & wine, with a few cheese and crackers; big band and DJ; one did the most raucous version of the hora I have ever seen (the extended version, the Timbaland remix) and one showed the ‘Skins game, then the Sox-Rays game. It was a study in religion, culture, and formal wear. Why do Jews love sparkles so damn much? Why did one of the guests at the Dover wedding have pink hair and no bra? I ate a lot, I drank even more, and I felt like all I did was blow dry my hair, put on make-up, and dance to old Black Eyed Peas songs, up and down the I95 corridor. Notice I didn’t mention “give wedding presents” – who’s got two thumbs and doesn’t get people wedding gifts? This guy.
People my age are experiencing what we call the “second wave” of marriages. The first wave happened right after college, when high school sweethearts, people who went to school to get their MRS. and people who didn’t feel the need to mature as individuals before deciding to partner with someone else for the rest of their lives tied the knot in ceremonies paid for by their parents, and attended by their slightly weirded out school friends. The most often overheard line at these weddings is “I can’t believe we/she/he/they are old enough to get married” (psst – you’re not) and “Well she’s not showing …”
Wave two starts at about 27-ish and I’ve got friends who already have nine weddings to attend in 2009. NINE! That is so much wedding - I don’t know about you, but my capacity to be tearfully overjoyed for other people is not infinite and I am pretty sure after wedding six I’d be crying sawdust and bribing bartenders to pour me large glasses of white zin before the ceremony starts.
As my back-to-back wedding experience showed me, there are many different types of weddings. However there is one element that remains the same whether you are at an Indian wedding for 600 or a white trash wedding in a church basement. This element is alternately heartwarming, excruciating, boring, hilarious, and – if you’re lucky – highly inappropriate. I am talking, of course, about the wedding toast.
Wikipedia defines “toast” as having three definitions: “someone or something in honor of which people usually have a drink; the drink or honor itself; the act (pledge) of indicating that honor.” It says that toats originated in ancient Greece and served the purpose of ensuring guests that the wine had not been poisoned, the logic being that, to put guests at ease, “the host would pour the guests' wine from a common decanter, take the first drink to demonstrate its safety, then raise his cup to the guests and invite them to drink in good health.” It then says that there are “multiple issues” with this entry since no references have been cited but what can you do – I like that definition and I am too lazy to think of my own.
In the course of two weddings and one rehearsal dinner I heard eight toasts. Holy balls. As I am now an expert I feel I can firmly say that toasts can be divided into several categories:
The Father of the Bride/Groom toast – Usually this toast is first and functions as a kind of welcome to the event. These are the wild cards of the toast world; Dad can be a funny cool guy who gives some ironic piece of wedding advice (“If she’s right, she’s right, if you’re right, she’s right - HE-YO!”) OR he can be an accountant with no flair for ineracting with people who stutters awkwardly, makes an off-color comment about how expensive the event was, and sits down quickily to scattered applause. Its like icing on the cake when Dad gives a cool speech because then you know the chances of him doing some wacky ‘60s dance are high and that when you run into him at the bar later on you can definitely get him to do a shot with you. Of course, awkward Dad toasts just make you see your friends father as weird and creepy and you sort of never look at him the same way again.
The Crying Female Relative of the Bride toast – God don’t you haaaate these???? You’re barely three words into what seems to be like a really sweet toast when all of a sudden the high-pitched goat voice starts to happen: “A-a-and, she taught me how to p-put on m-m-mascar-ara and …. EEEEEE!” Damn girl! Practice that shit. Its just embarassing to all of us to watch you sniffle and whimper, and into a microphone no less. You perhaps more than anyone else have the ability to actually give a meaninful toast – you’re related so you know her better than her sorority sister but you also probably really resented her at one point in your life (especially if you’re younger) so we know we’ll get an un-baised view. Your speech can be informative and topical and include some gentle ribbing but also astute observations as to our lovely bride’s character – so quit your crying, sack up, and talk, dammit!
The Drunken Groomsmen toast – This toast is by far the most entertaining equally because of the chance you may find out something really embarassing about the groom and because the bride and/or every guest over 45 will be totally shock and horrified. I can only hope this guy put his tie around his head and his shirt around his neck like a cape before he started talking. What I like best about the Drunken Groomsmen toast is that its totally heartfelt. Sure its poorly worded, slightly slurred, doesn’t really follow the whole build-up, climax, conclusion trajectory (that’s what she said, hehe) but he really means it. Plus everyone is worried he’ll say something really innappropriate so it keeps you on your toes. These toasts always end with a really hearty dude hug between groomsman and groom and one of those awkard “don’t touch my torso” hugs between the groomsman and the bride. She’s probably concerned that he’ll spill something on her dress and, judging by his own shirt, she’s probably correct.
The Rhyming toast – I can’t explain it, but the more Jewish someone is, the stronger the desire to rhyme is. I think it starts with rhyming bat mitzvah speeches and it just sort of progresses to graduation party invitations, bridal shower invitations, wedding speeches - pretty much anything that is mailed to, or said in front of, your friends and family. This is presumably because they would never make fun of your rhyming couplets. But they will make fun of what you say, because its lame and kind of gay, your are not twelve and you don’t dot your “I”s with hearts, so you should write something that requires a little more smarts. And while rhyming “as close as can be” with “a best friend to me” is snappy, the overall product is pretty crappy. So as you stand in your gown talking at such a fancy event, say something just as fancy so her parents money’s well spent.
The Completely Inside Joke toast – Like OMG! Stephs and I have been BFF since bid day freshman year. Remember the first time Stephs and Smithies hooked up? It was at a sweet Around the World Party at Blue Stucco and Smithies’ big brother accidentally spilled a pitcher of jaeger bombs on Stephs North Face. Remember that time we took the Blackura to King of Prussia and J-Dawg tried on that heiny silver dress at Fashion Bug? We made her wear it to Senior Night at Skips and that stripper totally complimented her on it? Remember the time Smithies pinned Stephs and we were all in the ballroom of Hunt and it was so special and I totally knew they’d make it forever. So Steph, even though you’re married, you’ll always be the Hubbs to my Boo – snaps!
The Total Cop-Out toast – How bored do these people look? No seriously, the groom looks mildly amused but the bride is like “this toast sucks almost as much as my hair.” You just know that there is someone standing in front of them mumbling something about them both being really nice people, and how he hopes they have a good marriage, and how he wishes them all the best. BO-RING. In my most recent experience, the cop-out toast was given by a very shy best man. Sure he was a sweet guy but his speech lasted conservatively about one minute long. I could have said something more meaningful and I had met the groom once and the bride never. Here’s a hint – if you don’t have something even remotely interesting to say make something up. But telling us that you hope for the best for the friend you met in kindergarten and you’re happy he met a nice girl so lets raise our glasses blah blah blah – BAM! REMEMBER THAT TIME HE RAPED A GOAT? There, now I’m listening …..
This morning I sat down, coffee in hand, and flipped through a Harriet Carter catalogue forwarded from my grandma’s old house. Harriet Carter is like an “as seen on TV” company geared towards the elderly. They sell cell phones with giant buttons; loofahs on comically extended rods; sentimental afghans etc.
I was pretty psyched to look through the catalogue because I’m incredibly lazy and appreciate unnecessary and slightly embarrassing tools to make my life easier (who can forget the Hanukkah I got the Gopher Grabber and used it so much it broke within the first two weeks and it felt unnatural to pick things up with my hands again?)
I feel like that catalogue just gave me a horribly misguided education on the needs and interests of the elderly. Basically the catalogue offers many variations of the following crucial senior citizen products:
Memorial Ornaments Now maybe it’s just because my way to deal with death is to stick my fingers in my ears and say “LALALA-nbody-died-everything-is-fine-just-bury-it-deep-down-LALALALA!” but the last thing I want to see dangling on my tree Christmas morning is a picture of my dead family member and/or pet reminding me they’re celebrating Christmas with Jesus that year. But again, that’s just me.
Left-Handed Paraphernalia Maybe I don’t get this because I’m a “rightie” (KILL RIGHTIE!…bwahaha…I’m so sorry) but I don’t understand left-handed pride, or why the elderly specifically have a lot of it. I mean, being a leftie isn’t really an accomplishment or a skill; it’s just the way you are and it doesn’t really say anything about you. It confuses me for the same reason I don’t understand people who are really proud of being a PC or Mac user. It’s like, OK. Would you like to know an arbitrary fact about myself that I’m oddly proud of? I wear a size 7 1/2 shoe and prefer to write in black ink. Where’s my t-shirt?
Dickeys A dickey will never not be funny to me. Ever. When I was living with Blair, he bought a jacket with a removable hooded dickey and sometimes would walk around the apartment just wearing the dickey with the hood up. It was so LOLZ I laugh about it now in retrospect. However, isn’t it slightly condescending to think the elderly can’t handle layers?
Personal Sound Amplifiers I actually do understand the purpose and importance of these, I just wanted an excuse to link one of my all time favorite infomercials (specifically note how the old man comically turns his head 1 minute and 12 seconds into the video. Blair and I could re-enact it for days):
Novelty T-Shirts/Mugs/Caps These will always boggle my mind. You know the girls who wear those “Hold my beer while I steal your BoYfRiEnD!” or “Someone take my credit card before I SHOP AGAIN!” t-shirts? These are what they replace their wardrobe with when they become senior citizens. It’s like Spencer’s Gifts comes in and takes over your closet when you reach a certain age. Audrey Hepburn would have never worn a "I can fix it!...Where's the duct tape?!" t-shirt.
Fart Jokes Now don’t get me wrong, I’m don’t mean to seem holier than thou or pretentious with this post. I love a good fart joke as much as the next girl (and maybe more). However, I want to say publicly here and now, if anyone (and I do mean anyone) refers to me as an “old fart” after the age of 35, I will rip off my dickey, turn down your personal sound amplifier and kill your leftie ass. Kill it dead. Put that in an ornament and stick it on your tree.
I thought when I went to UPenn this past weekend to visit Eddie, the ambitious academic within would become ignited to do something constructive with my post-collegiate life besides blog and go to happy hour. I looked forward to being inspired by UPenn’s historic ivy covered campus to delve deeper into the academic arts. There’s still so much to study in the art history field and Penn has a strong reputation for their design/architecture/urban design programs. And with the right motivation, I could definitely find scholarships and grants to finance this expansion of my education. All thanks to my weekend immersed in the cerebral ivy-covered eutopia that is UPenn.
That did not happen.
More harebrained schemes were born.
It might be time to give up any higher expectations I previously had for myself.
UPenn Inspiration #1 My new life goal is to be a frat mom. I would totally be an amazing frat mom. I’m a people person, I relate to frat boys, I enjoy the collegiate environment, I support Greek Life, I’m pro-manageable fun, I’m organized, I can hold one hell of a meeting, I’m good at damage control, I handle drunk people well, I’m domestic, I enjoy baking, I find cleaning therapeutic, I’m responsible, I give good advice…I mean should I go on or save it for the interview? Look, I saw The House Bunny, and the job doesn’t look that hard. Being a frat mom would mean I get to stay in the good-time college environment without the pesky educational part! And I’ll be helping kids—the leaders of our future! You're welcome society. Sure, those kids would be drunken frat boys only a few years younger than me, but it’s legal! I sort of imagine myself like Lady Catherine, the cougar from "Gossip Girl," even though I’m only 23. There’s just something so right about me walking around dripping in diamonds, sipping martinis, and hitting on frat boys.
UPenn Inspiration #2 Part of my fun-filled weekend with Eddie was spent in the UPenn bookstore. A very large part, might I add. I amassed more UPenn garb/swag than Eddie owns, and she actually goes there. I momentarily considered getting a “UPenn Parent!” t-shirt for my parents. Here’s my plan: If I lounge around the K Street area long enough, wearing a UPenn t-shirt, writing with a UPenn pen, sipping coffee out of a UPenn mug with my UPenn keychain dangling out of my pocket, odds are at some point a high powered business man/UPenn alum will stroll by and catch a peek at my pride. We’ll then bond and have a hilarious chat about the good old days at Penn, throwing toast on the football field at home games, doing the old “Hurrah!” while singing the school song, pranking those lollygagging Columbia cads—oh, we had some times! And then he’ll offer me a job. A high-paying job. No fuss, no muss. I’m sort of banking on this happening at this point…so, fingers crossed.
UPenn Inspiration #3 Eddie gave me a really fun UPenn rape whistle as a souvenir. This isn’t really an inspiration, so much as something I now enjoy on a daily basis. Rape is obviously not a joke, but this is the most ridiculous excuse for a rape whistle I have ever heard. Rape whistles should be incredibly loud and high pitched so to attract attention and startle the attacker. The Penn rape whistle, however, sounds exactly like the whistle in Steamboat Willy. They might as well have given the kids whoopee cushions or bicycle bells in case of rape. It’s the most stereotypical and adorable noise ever produced. Rape whistles should not produce adorable noises. However, functioning strictly as a whistle, it’s super fun and I never let it out of my sight. I can’t explain how much fun it is to say, “Here comes the _________ train!” followed by an authentic whooo, whooo! noise. It’s already gotten me out of a sticky situation. Tonight after dinner, my parents became slightly peeved at me for taking what I consider to be my Meg-Charm a little too far when I entered the realm of irritating and obnoxious. I grabbed my rape whistle, ran up to my dad and said, “Dad, don’t be mad at me! Let’s be friends again! Here comes the friendship train! Whooo, whooo! Don’t miss the friendship train! Whooo, whooo!” I turned around to see my mom change her sweatshirt, which prompted a “There’s mom on the gratuitous nudity train! Whooo, whooo!” which had the kitchen in stitches and all was forgotten about how irritating I had been a mere 30-seconds earlier.
You know what really ruffles my feathers? Using doors. I know, a rather inconvenient irritation. Allow me to be more specific: using doors in public places where you have to rely on other people to not be morons. In my experience you can never count on people to not be morons, and might as well count on the opposite just so you don’t lose faith in all of humanity (its getting close … I am fairly sure Paris Hilton: My New BFF is a sign of the impending apocalypse) and turn into some hermit the neighborhood kids refer to as “Scary Cat Lady.” So people are morons, I’ve accepted it. But do they have to enter and exit through doors like morons? Blind deaf and dumb morons? As the saying goes “Hi, my name is Becca, and I have door rage” (“hi Becca…”).
Lets start with a little etiquette lesson; when you are attempting to enter somewhere through a door, be it a train, an elevator, or a building, and someone is attempting to exit at exactly that same moment, you let the person exiting go first. Why? Because you want to go in, and they are already in, so it’s kind of like yielding the right of way – I don’t turn right into oncoming traffic even though I am allowed to turn right on red, do I? No, I allow the cars that are already going in my desired direction (lucky bastards) to go first. I am not sure why this isn’t common knowledge, this letting-people-leave-before-you-enter thing, as it’s a fairly common situation. I would venture to say that every single day I encounter some schmo who wants to get on the elevator so very badly that they attempt to leap on the second the doors open only to find me standing politely, humming a little ditty, at the door. Some people will recognize their mistake right away and apologize, to which I say “don’t worry about it” and I get off the elevator and they get on. Hey, we’ve all done that, no ones perfect. You’re in your own world, you gotta pee/get in to the office before 9:05 so you don’t get yelled at and the quicker you can get on that elevator the better. Simply acknowledge that you had a momentary lapse of social graces and we’ll both move on.
There are others, however, that are simply outraged that you were standing there. How dare you be on that elevator? The doors opened and they wanted to get on but they couldn’t because you were already standing there! It makes them so mad you are standing in their way that they are going to barrel directly towards you so that you can’t get off, making it impossible to remedy the situation. My favorite is the dirty look, the “you’re in my way” look. Oh, I’m sorry – did my already being on the elevator inconvenience you? Well I got here first dick, so back off. Seriously, I am already on the elevator, you want to get on the elevator, kinda looks like I got what you want – elevator real estate. And real estate prices in DC are high my friend, so I wouldn’t piss me off. I might just decide that, you know what? I don’t want to get off at the lobby. No, I think I want to go up to ... what floor are you heading to? Yes, the 3rd floor, I’d like to go there. Ooh bummer, looks like there’s no more room for you here. Guess you’ll just have to wait until next time.
This exact situation repeats itself in a horribly magnified fashion every day on the metro. I ask you, fat mid-western tourist attempting to board the metro during morning rush hour, how in the name of God do you think I am going to be able to get off the metro if you are standing DIRECTLY in front of the doors? Will I walk through you? Am I the “get off my train” ghost from Ghost? Did you notice that everyone else made a sweet little tunnel for me to walk thru? Did you think maybe that tunnel was for you, so that you could get to the front of the line and hop on the metro with a fucking crowd around you? “Go Jean! Go Randy! You can do it … yes! They’re on!” NO Jean. NO Randy. I am not saying your fears aren’t valid - the metro will definitely leave before you’ve gotten a chance to board, I can promise you that. But if I am still standing on the metro, where exactly do you think you’ll go? Nowhere. You’ll go nowhere. You’ll push on, I’ll push off and we will both be at a standstill until YOU get crushed by the metro doors because I know that they don’t spring open when they encounter an obstacle but rather crush the shit out of it. Especially obstacles with fanny packs and pink “FBI” t-shirts …. You know sometimes, when its real quiet, you can hear the screams of tourists who were killed by the metro doors all because they didn’t wait for the passengers to exit before they boarded.….
True story: one day, as I rushed home from work to do something incredibly important (I don’t remember what it was but I am sure it was of supreme importance) I encountered this exact situation. The metro doors sprung open and an entire troop of Boy Scouts stood in the doorway. Like, 25 kids just packed in front of the door – there was literally no where to go. Being the good ambassador of DC that I am I believe I muttered something along the lines of “get the fuck out of my way” and pushed through the Scouts to get off the train. As I walked away from them I heard one of them turn to their Scout leader and say “that lady was mean.” You’re goddamned right I am mean. Your patches don’t impress me. Where’s the “Common Courtesy” patch, huh little Timmy? Where’s the “Physics” patch – the one that proves you’ve learned that one solid object cannot pass through another solid object? Do me a favor, get off my train.
Happy Drinking Game Friday everyone! This weekend I’m going to Philadelphia to visit a friend I haven’t seen in over a year and a half; the very first friend I made in college; 2bird1blog’s first co-blogger—Eddie.
Eddie goes to grad school at UPenn and I couldn’t be more excited to spend a weekend in a collegiate environment. I’m going to soak it all in and do it right—stay in a dorm, pregame with Zelko and Gatorade, go to a football game, go to a frat party, take a freshman’s virginity…you know, the usual.
I absolutely love a good weekend college jaunt. I think it’s because I didn’t have the typical college experience at AU (albeit out of choice,) so when I visit a friend at their school, I get to have the Ultimate College Experience for a weekend. I’ve been fascinated with the College Experience ever since I visited Becca for the first time at Bucknell when I was 14. I walked around campus and pretended I went there; we went to the Lewisburg Wal Mart (which was legit); and like any good big sis, Becca got me drunk for the first time in the safety of her dorm while watching Troop Beverly Hills.
When I was in college, I spent many a weekend visiting my friends at their respective schools. I think I actually deserve an honorary degree from Frostburg considering the amount of time I spent there. Weekend college trips are fun because you get to experience the school’s native party style without any added academic pressures. Plus you don’t actually go there, so you can really loose all inhibitions (for example, I rushed and was accepted into a sorority at Frostburg one drunken weekend.)
I genuinely think the Travel Channel should produce a show where I spend a weekend at different colleges and investigate their party repertoire. It’s like E’s "Wild On"…but more collegiate and less hot. That could be my tagline!
Speaking of holding onto the college dream, it’s time for this week’s Drinking Game. Streak through the quad, party with Frank the Tank and put your earmuffs on—because it’s time for the Old School Drinking Game!
Take a sip when: - Frank drinks - Anyone says “Frank the Tank” - Mitch is referred to as “The Godfather” - Anyone says “Blue” - Dean Pritchard says something sarcastic - Speakercity is referenced or mentioned - Someone puts earmuffs on - Anyone gives a pledge an order - Anytime a chain restaurant is referenced (i.e. Red Lobster, Olive Garden, KFC etc.)
And finish your drink upon the following because it’s my favorite line from the movie: “True love is hard to find, sometimes you think you have true love and then you catch the early flight home from San Diego and a couple of nude people jump out of your bathroom blindfolded like a goddamn magic show ready to double team your girlfriend...”
Thanks for reading and see you back in the office Monday morning!
I can't believe Season 5 ends tonight. People really shat all over this season, but honestly, I didn't think it was that bad. I mean it was no season 2 (which gave us Daniel V, the songs "Daniel Franco, Where Did You Go?" and "Lighten Up, It's Just Fashion," the catchphrase "Where's Andre?" the love story between Andre and Tim at Red Lobster and the infamous motherfuckin' walk-off...best season ever).
Sure this season wasn't as memorable, but whatevs! It had everything I needed to get through another week: Tim Gunn (tandem bicycling in a bright blue helmet no less!) Michael Kors and his prom night spray tan and sassy one-liners ("This is like a good bar mitzvah moment!") a villan (Kenley) a weirdo (Blayne) and a catchphrase ("_____licioius." As in, "This season was Timlicious and I'm not complaining.")
Pre-Show Predictions: Calling it- Korto will win, Kenley will come in second and Leanne will come in third. BOO YEA BITCHES!
Let the games begin!
--------------- Awwwww, they're totes BFF^max 4realz again! And Kenley kind of looks cute in that argyle sweater.
Korto needs a bra in a fierce kind of way.
Leanne calls dibs on the "alien-looking girl" during model casting. Perhaps she saw a lot of herself in her.
Tim helps the designers edit two looks. Kenley decides to own the fact that everything she makes looks like a knockoff. Tim gives a "OH REALLY BOO?" look at the camera with a sassy eyebrow raise. I burst into girlish cackles.
Kenley's voice makes me want to rip out her vocal chords and play them like a ukelele. I know she was raised far away from the real world on an island with her tugboat captain father, but on the mainland we call that noise "grating."
Korto decides to nix her wedding dress and bridesmaid gown (good idea) and starts to make two looks from scratch. Ambitious! GO KORTO, GO! KICK BLAND LEANNE AND KENLEY'S ASS!
--------------- The Runway Show!
If I looked as flawless as Heidi Klum, 99.9% of my life's problems would be solved.
Why does Michael Kors insist on wearing sunglasses regardless of whether or not he's actually in the sun? They dim the lights for Christ's sake! I can only deduce that if you look directly into Michael Kors' eyes, you turn to stone. Or tweed.
OH SNAP! Heidi calls out Jennifer Lopez's "foot injury" which prevented her from judging at the last moment. I respect Michael so much more for the "Pfff! Yea right honey!" look he gives the camera after Heidi says "foot injury."
Tim Gunn walks out and the camera flashes to Daniel V. My eyes melt. Too much perfection at once.
Kenley I was expecting Kenley's father to be a jovial fat man with a popeye, anchor tattoo and pipe. In actuality he looks a lot less like the Skipper and a lot more like an investment banker.
Overall, not bad. I'm not as impressed as I thought I would be.
Korto Re: new wedding dress: DAYUM! Bitch pulled it off!
Overall, pretty impressive. Refreshing colors, interesting silhouettes and her daughter is effing adorable.
Leanne I want the high waisted sailor pants from her third look rull bad.
My mom keeps saying, "I get tired of her flaps!" "Enough with the flaps!" and it's making me extremely uncomfortable.
I would kill a stranger for the turquoise gown.
Overall...ugh...I loved it. Gross.
--------------- Heidi calls Tim a "hot hottie." I have an asthma attack from giggling.
OH SNAP! Kenley gets called out for making a rip-off Balenciaga dress. Whatever Nina...Vogue wasn't part of the cargo on her dad's tugboat.
--------------- Well, Leanne wins, Korto is second and Kenley is third. I'm apathetic. My mom is extremely upset by how wet and greasy Leanne's hair looks.
So I'm sitting here at work, bored out of my mind yet not motivated enough to actually do my work (ah, that old magic feeling,) so I decided to waste some time by taking a look at the "latest headlines" in my Firefox browser.
I audibly gasped and dramatically sprang to attention when I saw the following headline: Haider 'Drunk' in Fatal Car Crash
...because I thought they were referring to Jon Heder (of Napoleon Dynamite and Blades of Glory Fame).
Before reading the article (which would make sense,) I googled "John Heder" and saw that the sixth hit is "NAPOLEON DYNAMITE (John Heder) DIES IN A CAR WRECK." I freaked out, told a few people, meditated on how the world was never really ready for his genius, and then clicked on the BBC artcle.
As it turns out, Austrian politician Joerg Heder, not Jon Heder, was drunk during his fatal car crash last Saturday in Klagenfurt (baha, Klagenfurt!).
I probably should have realized that the article from google was fake seeing how this was the accompanying photo:
Woops, I totally told a few co-workers that Jon Heder died in a drunk driving accident. This is like the time I told everyone John Basedow (of Fitness Made Simple Fame) died in the Tsunami.
I also had no idea I felt so passionately about Jon Heder. After my co-worker asked what's wrong I sort of just made inaudible moaning noises for a while before getting out, "JON HEDER DIED IN A DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT! I THOUGHT HE WAS A MORMON!"
I think we can all share a collective "phew" now.
Sorry for the delay with today's post. I was all prepared to write an entertaining post about how Breckin Meyer is supremely underrated, but then I fell asleep. Having a real person job takes it out of me. Thank God today's the last day in that case! Oh, and I'll be live blogging for the Project Runway finale tonight!
[So sorry for the delay with today's post. My parent's cat curled up on my keyboard and the distribution of her weight somehow messed up my internet settings, which I can't seem to fix...Most adorable problem ever.]
Well my tempstitution position is almost over, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm a little bit heartbroken about it. For someone who spent an impressive amount of time and energy avoiding a job, I actually liked this one. I think this one was, the one. I wish they didn't have their architect heads up their architect asses and would hire me full time. Come on, they love me! I love them! HIRE ME DAMNIT! I feel like I'm having an affair with a married man who I know will never leave his wife to be with me. No matter how much I love this job or how much they love me, it's already been formally offered to another girl who formally accepted it. Sigh...Her name is Kate. She starts the 21st. Bitch.
I broke the first rule of tempstitution (I also broke the paper trimmer and then ran away, but that's neither here nor there): I fell in love. My last job didn't exactly set the bar too high for it's replacement, however. Any job where I don't spend a large part of my day wondering who's trying to get me fired that week or where I'm not sitting at my desk with every muscle tensed waiting for someone to round the corner and verbally kick me in the crotch is a major step up. It's seriously bizarre to go to the bathroom in the office for reasons other than to hide out or have a good cry. I'm like a battered wife doesn't trust anyone and needs to learn to love again. My boss got me cupcakes Friday to thank me for my hard work and when she handed them to me, I stared at them suspiciously for a good five seconds wondering what her motive was to do something so nice. I said an awkwardly delayed "thank you" when I realized she was probably just feeling grateful and not trying to fuck with my head.
The best part of my job is having a work crush again. It's been so long, and work crushes are so necessary. They give you a reason to make an effort to look presentable at 7am and actually go to work. There were literally three men in my last office (each gayer than the last) so this architecture firm is like a Chippendale's in comparison. I've found myself unnecessarily printing things just so I can pimp-strut my fine self retrieve it (I apologize to the trees I've killed in the name of office flirting.)
The only awkward thing about that is I get really self-conscious about the clacking noise my heels make because it's a large studio style office, so everything echoes in an obnoxious way. I'm the only gal in the office who wears heels, so I feel like the clacking of mine reverberates off the walls and draws attention to the fact that I keep printing blank pages so I can walk past my work crush.
I then attempt to compensate for this by lightly tip-toeing, but it ends up looking like I'm about to shit my pants and I'm trying to make it to the bathroom in time. The other day I remedied this situation by cutting an earplug in half and taping it to the bottom of the spikes of my heels. Not only did it muffle the obnoxious clacking, it gave me some much needed arch support. I won twice!
So my office crush's name is Carlos and we're getting hot and heavy. Friday we had vicious eye sex and last night he asked me if I was printing something. I said yes. And then he was like, "Oh, Ok, I'll cancel my print job." And I was all, "Well mine shouldn't take too long." And then he was like, "Ok, cool."
I heard that 2birds1blog was mentioned on a comment thread at the now defunct DC blog www.whyihatedc.blogspot.com, so I headed over to check it out. I appreciate the blog’s brand of tough love humor, but the comments people left on the most recent post are abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous. People really hate this city. And apparently they like to anonymously rant about it on blog forums. And then have inner-blog-comment-drama between posters over who hates DC the most. Check out this comment posted by “Anonymous”:
You know, I don't actually hate DC. It's the fucking people. You all come here swarming like locusts, roiling in the liquefied manure that is this particular flavor of cesspool, fermenting in your own exhaust.
I've been to enough major metro areas in the US to sort of get the feel for them. NYC is this melting pot where hopes of all walks of life come to die. LA is Hollywood vanity. SF is a blend of geeks, dweebs and fags, all juiced together in an ever-undescending kumbaya moment.
DC is a magnet for ego-infused filth. These aren't even people anymore, just stacks of elevator pitch CV drivel, networking for the sake of networking, accumulating and comparing credentials, where everything and everyone pretends to be globally significant and universally relevant.
It's the one city where I've taken painstaking care to avoid people lest catch the plague while I'm forced in this penalty box.
There isn't even theatre here that hasn't been polluted, breathing in the scum fumes.
Fuck you all. And up yours, too.
Holy hell, calm the fuck down! Go nibble on a delicious Fudgsicle or take a hot bath, maybe take a laxative or two, lie down for a little while and see how things feel in the morning. Christ…I actually hadn’t planned on writing a post today, seeing how it’s Columbus Day and the majority of people are off work, but this comment got me fired up.
First of all, anonymous? Really? I look forward to going to the funeral of your balls, seeing how you clearly don’t have ‘em anymore. I’m sorry for your recent loss. If you feel that passionately about something (and I think you might. “Liquified manure” and “scum fumes” aren’t phrases casually thrown around in chitchat,) be man enough to attach your name. Sitting around Tryst with your laptop giving the blogosphere a piece of your mind sure does sound like fun, but it won't change anything when nobody can respond to you. Stand up for yourself and your ideas (no matter how shitty they may be) and challenge the rest of these blogeeks, ya pussy. That’s what this grand city is all about!
And DC is a grand city, might I add, with grand people. As you say, San Francisco has it’s geeks and fags, LA is up to it’s balls in vanity and New York is…well I didn’t quite understand your point about New York except that everyone goes there to die (jeez, someone didn’t get enough hugs when they were a kid…) but the great thing about DC is, we have them all! Everyone “swarms here” and makes it a more interesting and diverse place. And sure some of them suck, but if we didn’t have jackasses to make fun of, what the fuck would we do all day? I know I would have 60% less material to write about and a whole lot less to laugh at on a daily basis. Plus, sometimes these douche bags can turn out to be interesting people and good friends. Remember Anonymous; we can’t all be as perfect as you. Having friends that are different from you is a good thing, it makes you a well-rounded person so you don’t just sit at home on weekends and draft anonymous letters to hate-blogs. I would rather stab myself in the eye than have friends who are all exactly like me. I’ve met myself. So I would like to officially thank the Bros, the White Caps, the preppy Georgetown students, the hipster wannabes on U Street, the drunk sluts in Adams Morgan, the networking, credential comparing geeks on Capitol Hill and every entertaining jerk in between. You make me feel normal, and that’s saying a lot.
And you know what? If you (and I’m talking about the greater you, the anti-DC community as a whole) don’t like it here so much, then you can get the fuck out. Leave! Christ, I’m so sick of your whiny drivel about what a shitty town this is, chock full of networking, fake, career climbing, pretentious snobs. This is our Nation’s capitol, home of American politics, what the fuck else did you expect?
Ambitious people are annoying; as someone who’s incredibly lazy and unmotivated, I agree. But if you can’t handle it, leave! I grew up a shake outside of DC and then went to college at AU (epicenter of the self-important and over-achieving). At the end of those 22 years, I felt like I had to get out, so I can understand your frustration. But you know what I did when I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore? I left. Funny how that sort of makes sense. And after a year in NYC, I missed this “plague ridden penalty box” and actually came back for another spanking!
Nietzsche once said, “If you can’t see the views through the trees, you need to chop them motherfuckers down.” Actually it wasn’t Nietzche, it was P. Diddy, but he still has a valid point. If there’s something wrong in your life, get up and fix it. Nobody wants your pseudo-intellectual smug self here (there are too many of you as it is,) so just grace another city with your presence. Yes, DC is annoying, the people kind of suck, it’s really hot in the summer, there’s a high crime rate, the nightlife sucks, blah blah blah—BUT YOU CAN ALWAYS LEAVE! No one is asking you to stay. In fact, I, Meg of 2birds1blog, DC metro area resident of 23 years am formally asking you to get the fuck out of my town. You’re just adding to the rush hour cluster fuck and dwelling in the apartments I only wished I lived in.
Actually liking DC probably makes me a douche bag in the eyes of old Anonymous, but I’m going to do something even more douche-tastic and leave you with an appropriate Sex and the City quote:
“If you can only have one great love, then the city just may be mine. And I don't want nobody talkin' shit about my boyfriend.”
I know it isn’t 2001 and this isn’t my emo LiveJournal, but before I get into the rules of this week’s drinking game, I have to make this morning's exchange with my dad public so you can all feel my pain and understand how totally traumatic and unfair my life is, GAWD! Dad: “Hey, you’re wearing yet another great outfit this morning! You look poised, professional, well put-together and very attractive. Great job!” Me: “Umm…While I appreciate the compliments, I’m sort of offended that every morning for the past week when I come down to go to work, you’re genuinely shocked that I can make myself look presentable.” Dad: “I’m sorry, but it is sort of surprising. It’s just that I associate you with being slumped over on the couch wearing Jack Daniel’s pajamas. But, you clean up really well!”
...Well if wearing those pants around my house like a second skin is so wrong, then why did Kohl's sell them to me at such a reasonable price?! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS!Now I’m going to wear lots of black eyeliner, listen to my 30 Seconds to Mars mix CD and brood while playing the Friday in the Office Drinking Game! Wondering how it’s possible to play this at the office? Well, it’s Take Your Daughter to Work Day. And my daughter is vodka. Now go get Mommy some OJ.
Take One Sip: - When someone asks if you have any big plans for the weekend - When someone says “TGIF!” or a variation of - For every minute you’re late in the morning - For every minute you extend your lunch break - For every minute you duck out early - For every co-worker out of the office today (if you work in a big company, you’re welcome) - Every time someone tells you about their weekend, unsolicited - Someone complains about how long this week seemed - Someone mentions Happy Hour - A complaint is made about how long today is - Every time someone says “Have a great weekend”
Um, I don’t really know how to say this, but…I think I love Tim Gunn more than anything in my entire life. And I don’t know how to deal with the seriousness of that statement. I just finished watching tonight’s Project Runway, which (thankfully) was very Tim Gunn heavy (although Michael Kors said “boobs” way too many times for my liking) and I’m so giddy I can barely contain myself. I have all of this girlish energy built up from the past hour, and the only way I can think to expel it properly is to have a good old-fashioned skip. I have no idea the last time I honest-to-God skipped somewhere, but I want to get my fucking skip on. In a posy field. And I want to twirl around. And giggle. And I want to wear a puffy pink party dress with a bow in my hair. What’s wrong with me? Who am I? For Christ’ sake, I’ve been prancing around my house like Jack McFarland for a good 15 minutes now.
It's just that Tim Gunn makes me so genuinely happy. He has this soothing presence that makes me believe everything going badly in my life will fix itself and it’s going to be ok. My life goal is to hug him. Just a hug! No more, no less. I mean he's like a kitten; everything he does is so fucking adorable. I don’t really gush or prattle that much, but when I see Tim Gunn, even in still photographs, I just have to squeal and giggle like a school girl. I don’t think it’s likely I’ll find my own child as adorable as I find Tim Gunn, and that makes me intensely worried. If I took a wrong turn and stumbled into a dark alley just in time to see Tim Gunn kill a hooker (“make THIS work!”—stab, stab!…or at least that’s how I see it playing out…) I think I would just get the giggles, jump up and down a few times and ask if he wants to cuddle in a trash pile. That’s not a normal reaction.
And for someone who is so beloved, revered, influential and fabulous, he’s so humble! He says that after work he goes straight home, gets into his PJs, makes dinner and hunkers down to watch a good night of TV! The mental picture of Tim Gunn in his jammies watching Gilmore Girls is so adorable I might pee my pants. And speaking of Tim’s Pjs! Did you know that at the age of 54, he just bought his first Queen size bed and got rid of his old twin. HEHEHEHAAHHAOMGLOLZ, now I’m thinking about Tim in a onesie curled up in a twin bed with Winnie the Pooh sheets. And I just peed my pants. Oh, you should also know that I’m totally getting a tattoo of me and Tim Gunn riding a bicycle built for two after tonight’s episode. Did you see his little blue helmet?! HEHEHEEhhheee…
I love the way he speaks. He’s the most concise and articulate man in the entire world. Plus, he uses rull big ass words like consternation, placated, precipitous and Sturm und Drang. One time in my info graphics class senior year, I had to give a presentation on short notice that I hadn’t prepared a speech for. When I got up to the podium, I pretended I was Tim Gunn addressing the workroom and delivered an eloquent and thoughtful presentation successfully, no lie. People complimented my speaking skills afterwards. I did not reveal I was pretending I was Tim Gunn in my head, however.
Speaking of words, caucus is the most fun word in the English language and I say it 98% more thanks to Tim Gunn. It’s like cock and cactus. Tim also introduced me to the phrase “that’s a lot of look,” and for that, I’m eternally grateful.
I can’t handle it when Tim gets emotional on the show though. When Tim hurts, I hurt. I cried my face off tonight when he got choked up and cried when it was time to say goodbye to the designers. I was able to keep it together until he reached up to wipe his little tears away and I saw that limp little wrist of his shaking like a leaf. I just lost it. He’s just such a genuine, good person and it warms this jaded heart of mine. I get so angry and frustrated everyday surrounded by asshole white caps, shitty drivers, Sarah Palin, evil bosses etc. and then I see Tim Gunn and my faith in humanity is fully restored. Some people have religion to keep them grounded and happy, I have Tim Gunn.
I didn’t know how to express my emotions earlier, so I wrote Tim a poem. I call it, “Hey, Thanks!”
My teas gone cold, I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all The morning rain clouds up my window and I cant see at all And even if I could itd all be grey, but your picture on my wall It reminds me that it’s not so bad It’s not so bad
I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life Oh just to be with you is having the best day of my life
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