Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries

- In my office we play the Comcast "ToP 40 HiTz!" music channel throughout the studio all day. But like, all day. Like eight hours straight, five days a week of the same god-awful songs over and over and over and over again. The worst part is I'm not allowed to change the channel. My bosses think that if clients come in to discover that we have ToP 40 HiTz! blasting throughout the studio, we'll seem young and hip and straight-up dope. Personally, I don't think there's anything cool about the air horn remix of Lady Ga-Ga's Just Dance, but that's just me.

There's one song on the ToP 40 HiTz! list that I hear at least four times a day, that specifically makes me want to rip my hair out. It's called Don't Trust Me by a group called 3OH!3. It's actually got a jaunty little beat that I don't hate and wouldn't mind busting a move to on the treadmill. However, the lyrics are 100% absurd. Specifically, I lay awake at night thinking about how frustrating I find the following lyrics:

shoosh girl, shut your lips,
do the helen keller and talk with your hips.

For the record, I loves me a good Helen Keller joke—what's Helen Keller's favorite convenience store? WAAAWAAA—but this is the most half-assed, lazy attempt at a Helen Keller joke I've ever seen. Because it's like, Helen Keller didn't talk with her hips, she talked with her hands. Why do pop stars keep lying to me via song? I mean, if you're going to be provocative enough to make a Helen Keller joke in your song, I just don't understand why you wouldn't want to take the extra minute or two to make sure it makes sense. Because I want to applaud you, 3OH!3. You're two white boys from Denver who rap Helen Keller jokes. I feel like I should support just on principal. But then you had to be all lazy and have it not make sense so I stay up at night thinking about it! It's like a Ph.D. student handing in a stellar dissertation without spell checking it. How am I supposed to respect you and call you "Doctor" now?

- Please read the following Craigslist missed connection entitled, "You gave me an enema - m4w - 42 (Metro)":

You gave me a wonderful therapeutic enema at a wonderful place in Dupont Circle on Thursday afternoon (I prefer not to mention the place by name, but I'm sure you know the name!). I didn't want to ask for your number while I was in such a compromising position, but I've never stopped thinking about you! Perhaps it's common, but you may have been able to tell my attraction to you by the state of my "ding-dong". I took a long cool shower when I got home!

...Is it sad that what I took away from this missed connection is the hope and dream that one day I'll meet a man so into me he'll be able to sustain an erection thinking about me, even while getting an enema?

- Yesterday my friend Ali and I went to Earth Day on the National Mall. I'm not really into environmental issues that much, but I am into openly gawking at hot hipster boys while eating a hot dog. So I was pretty much all over this event.

At one point during the day, a representative from the Netherlands got on stage and talked about how the Dutch are the greenest motherfuckers on the planet and how we could learn a thing or two from them. Which is legit. But, she closed her speech with something to the effect of, "And you should come to the Netherlands and stimulate our economy! I mean, when Katrina happened, the Dutch came to your aide, sooooo you kind of owe us one. KTHNXBYE!!"

For realsies, lady? Are you really throwing Katrina back in our faces? The Netherlands is like that friend who drove you to the hospital when you got appendicitis and now that he needs a ride to Chipotle is all, "well I mean, I did drive you to the hospital that one time..."

- Also speaking at the event was This Old House's Steve Thomas.

And holy crap was I excited. You see, Steve Thomas' co-host on This Old House is the #3 person on my List of People I Just Want to Hug—Mr. Bob Villa. I figured hugging Steve Thomas is probably the closest I'm ever going to get to hugging Bob Villa, so I'll take it and be happy.

BUT I FUCKED IT UP! I MISSED MY OPPORTUNITY! AGAIN! GAHHH!!!11 I lost my nerve and it was like the Michael Showalter experience all over again! I looked up and saw a denim-clad man walking towards me me and just as I was about to make a Canadian Tuxedo joke to Ali, I realized who it was—Steve Thomas! "OMGALIIT'SSTEVETHOMAS!!!!!!!!!!!" I yelled at Ali. "Say hi!" I froze. "Say hi!" I continue to freeze, but this time also managed to make a series of inaudible high-pitched gurgles. "MEG, say hi!!!!"

BUT I DIDN'T! I physically couldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, no offense to either of them, but seeing Michael Showalter and Steve Thomas isn't exactly like seeing Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. And yet I was that level of shaking like a leaf, paralyzed with fear, starstruck. I'd probably be cool as a cucumber if I ever were to meet Angie and Brad. I'd strike up a conversation and charm the pants off 'em. Yet give me an obscure comedian and a home renovator and I'm passing out like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.