Ok. The dreams, you guys. The dreams have to stop. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in months and it's driving me crazy. I blame a few things for this: Evie, of course, but mostly I blame the god awful recurring dreams I keep having. These dreams are obviously the result of being a whiny little emo bitch, all lost and confused about life, but come on subconscious! Get another hobby! I'm exhausted! It's gotten to the point where before I go to bed I'm like, "Welp, here we go again. Better brace myself for another long night of being pantsless in public or lost on the highway." Sucks.
Recurring Dream #1: TIDAL WAVES. Ugh. Jesus. I hate this one. I'm always hustling to dive into the waves before they break on me. Then I wake up physically exhausted from all the metaphorical wave diving I've been doing, which is a slightly fat-kid move on my part.
Tidal waves or tsunamis suggest a period of emotional upheaval. Anxiety, stress, and unconscious materials may be coming to the surface and affecting your daily moods. Giant tidal waves may symbolize current emotional unhappiness and psychological stress, which are threatening to destroy you.
Oh. Good.
Recurring Deam #2: TORNADOES. 9 times out of 10 I'm running around the house trying to find Evie so I can save her from impending doom. You're welcome, you loud little asshole.
If you have reoccurring tornado dreams consider the emotional changes in your life and also the amount of anger and rage that you may be currently experiencing.
Ugh. I do have a lot of anger and rage. But I plan to take this rage to the badminton court and let the opposing team feel my wrath. AND WHAT?!
Recurring Dream #3: I'M BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL. Jesus god almighty. I have this dream at least three times a week and it's horrible. It's not the fact that I'm back in high school that's so bad, it's the fact that I haven't been to any classes the entire semester and I'm afraid I'm going to be held back. I'm always in class on the final exam review day and I'm like, "Well fuck me, I have no god given clue what this class is about and the final is next week." So then I convince myself that I'll just spend all weekend studying and catching up and everything will be fine and I can graduate on time. But then I have this moment where I stop and think to myself, "Huh. It is oddly out of character for me to just not show up to school for an entire semester. What have I been doing this entire time? Shouldn't my mom be mad at me? Wait...didn't I graduate like six years ago?" And then I wake up. I had this dream last night, except a.) I was Blair Waldorph and b.) I was trying to convince my mom to let me stay home because I didn't want to deal with the stress of talking to my teachers and getting all the work I missed. I distinctly remember running my hands under cold water to make my mom think I was "cold and clammy." I was like, "Ferris Bueller said that's the key to staying home! I have to appear cold and clammy! COLD AND CLAMMY!!!!!" She ended up letting me stay home as long as I helped her deliver Christmas presents to our neighbors. I said no because I was sick and couldn't run around the neighborhood with her all day or I'd puke. Which was a dick move on my part because I was totally faking it. Sorry mom.
To dream that you have to repeat high school, suggests that you are doubting your accomplishments and the goals that you have already completed. You feel that you may not be measuring up to the expectation of others. The dream may occur because some recent situation may have awakened old anxieties and insecurities.
Oooo! Relevant and meaningful.
Recurring Dream #4: I FORGET THE LYRICS IN ROCK 'N ROLL REVIVAL. If you didn't go to Sherwood High School and are unfamiliar with Rock 'n Roll Revival, kindly read up on it here and here (and check out a vintagepicture of my sister rockin' out in white go-go boots, snake skin pants and a maroon halter top here) I'm far too exhausted to open that can of worms. Anyway, so I'm back in high school (again) and it's opening night of RRR. I'm a soloist, but I have no idea what my song is, what the lyrics are, what my costume is or when I go onstage. But I can't let anyone know what's up because I don't want to get yelled at by Mr. Evans, so I have to slyly get information out of people like, "Heyyyguy, sing the chorus of that song I sing...I want to hear what it sounds like when you sing it, L0LZ! And have you seen my costume anywhere...?" This dream is six different kinds of pathetic and I hate myself for having it. Last night I dreamt it was opening night and I was at H&M trying to throw a costume together but nothing would zip up past my boobs. Finally I got on stage (half-zipped) and just stood there because I didn't know what to sing. Then it hit me that I was supposed to be singing "This Time I Know It's For Real" by Donna Summer, except I only know the lyrics to the first verse and the chorus. Ugh. I woke up before Mr. Evans could yell at me. You bet your balls the first thing I did when I got to work this morning was google those lyrics. I am now prepared to sing the disco hit "This Time I Know It's For Real" at any given moment. TRY ME!
A stage in the dreams may indicate your need for more respect and attention. Dreaming of standing on stage denotes that before you have success, you need to work for it first.
I don't generally like to work for things. But know what I am willing to work for? Dizzy Tour's Drunken Monument Experience. Oh yea. It will become a reality. So keep July open...wink!
Alright, I'm exhausted. Let's get this drinking game underway. This week we'll be playing Alex's Requiem for a Dream Drinking Game! Quote Alex, "It's nothing special, but it'll still get you pretty toasted." If that's not an amazing introduction to a drinking game, then I don't know what is.
Rules! Drink When: - Someone does drugs - Someone's eye dialates - The refrigerator attacks Sara Goldfarb - The game show audience says "Juice by _____" - There's a shot of Harry's infection getting progressively worse - There's an amputation - Someone cries Empty every bottle of liquor in the house when: - The old creepy businessman says "ass to ass"
...Then Alex says "most of the drinking should probably be done after the movie is over. Just for comforting purposes."
Thank you so much for reading and we'll of course see you back here Monday morning. If you wanna be a real pal, you can follow us on twitter, join our facebook page and pass this rickity old blog on to a friend. That would be swell. Have a great weekend guys!
So. I'm in a funk. I'm stuck in a rut. I'm in a way, if you will. Mostly I'm bored, and being bored is a very bad thing for me because not only is it, well, boring, but mostly it gives me too much time to think about things. And that's not good. Because I over think things in a way that 360 daily milligrams of Wyeth pharmaceuticals' best can't help.
Specifically, I can't stop thinking about the big picture, and the big picture stresses the fuck out of me. Because what am I doing? I work in a dead-end job that yesterday I said a medium-sized houseplant could do. And after five months of being unemployed, this was the best job I could get. And it's not like a year of human houseplant experience is going to beef up my resume so I can get a more fulfilling job. And even if by the grace of god I do get another job, what do I really want to do? What would make me happy? Would anything make me happy? Am I doomed to be an unhappy, sarcastic curmudgeon for the rest of my life? Should I go back to school? What would I even go back to school for? And since when did I become the most boring person on the face of the planet? Everyday I go to work, come home, swiffer something, watch What Not to Wear, go to the gym, come home and go to bed. What the fuck is that? If you told me that in three months Murder She Wrote on DVD will be part of my daily repertoire, I would not die of shock.
And these are the thoughts racing through mind at any given moment. Even when I'm out with friends, I find myself zoning out and quietly getting worked up thinking about this shit to the point of randomly exploding with, "I'M GONNA DIE ALONE IN AN OFFICE CHAIR AND THE MOST MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP I HAVE IS WITH THE FEDEX GUY AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW HIS NAME!!!!!" Which usually has nothing to do with the conversation going on around me. So that's awkward.
But no more! I refuse to be the victim of mediocrity and complacency. The other week my sister dropped by my apartment unannounced at 8:00 in the evening and found me in bed passed out above the covers, still in my work clothes (minus the pants,) clutching an empty wine bottle and my laptop. (Damn her for having a key...) This was a wake up call, literally and figuratively. Becca and I had a pep talk and decided that it's time for me to make moves. I have make changes in my life. Do things! Be active! Wear pants!
But where to start? Last Friday I sat down with Helena and over a pitcher of margaritas we brainstormed ways to spice up my life. Here's what we came up with:
1.) Move to Antwerp. Actually, we didn't come up with this Friday, this is my standard go-to fallback life plan. I'm convinced that running away to Antwerp is the best life idea ever. Why? 1.) I heart Belgium 2.) moules 3.) frites 4.) Stella Artois 5.) waffles 6.) the streets are paved with diamonds 7.) Antwerp Academy of Fine Arts 8.) the shopping 9.) Belgian boys—I say god damn and 10.) best province flag ever: Now, I don't speak Flemish or French, which might be a slight problem. Well, that's not completely true. I can say the following in French: chicken, shit, please, thank you, hello, goodbye, excuse me, how are you? I'm fine and may I have a beer? So as long as every conversation I have in Antwerp is: "Hello chicken shit, how are you?" "I'm fine, thank you. Excuse me, can I have a beer?" "Yes." "Thank you very much. Goodbye!" "Goodbye chicken shit!" I'll be fine.
2.) Get a gun. I proposed this half-kidding and slightly inferring I would use it to kill myself, but Helena took it somewhere productive: SKEET SHOOTING! How could skeet shooting not be fun? It's an ass-backwards oddly old-money ritzy activity, they do it all the time on Dynasty, you look badass doing it, and it would put my ability to forcefully yell PULL! to good use. We're still working on the logistics of how this is actually going to happen, but it will happen. Oh yes, it will.
3.) Get a drug addiction. Mainly because withdrawal, detox and going to rehab would give me something interesting and productive to do. Plus, you know how I feel about those cushy rehab facilities. The ultimate would be to find a rehab facility in Antwerp that has skeet shooting.
4.) Start a badminton league for young, upwardly mobile, attractive Washingtonians. Technically Andrew and I cooked this one up, but everyone I propose it to, including Helena, thinks it's the best idea ever and immediately wants in. Who doesn't love badminton? It's like tennis, but less strenuous and involves the word "shuttlecock." I imagine mimosas and delightfully ironic tennis outfits being involved. We just need to find a place to play, make a trip to Target, swing by the liquor store and GAME ON!
5.) OK. The idea I'm about to pitch to you literally made me feel 98% better about being alive. Hear us out. Drunken Monument Tours. Specifically giving them. BEST IDEA EVER, or BEST IDEA EVER?! Remember when you were a freshman and one of the must-do DC activities was to see the monuments at night, drunk as sin? And wasn't it fun?! Well what if you had me and Helena there as your knowledgeable and witty tour guides? We call it Dizzy Tours: The Drunk Monument Experience (WORKING TITLE & PATENT PENDING). The tour meets at a to be determined bar near the Mall where we have a Dizzy Tours Happy Hour. After you're nicely toasted, we lead you to the mall for a night of scenic beauty, historical fun-facts and GHOST STORIES! That's right! It's a ghost tour too! A drunken, historical, ghost tour. I literally can't think of anything more fun in the entire world. So there's that. Helena and I aren't kidding about this idea either (not that I was kidding about any of our other ideas, I'd just rather try to create a badminton league before I resort to heroin.) So, I guess the question is, ARE YOU IN?!
[Editor's Note: Chris will be taking a brief hiatus from blogging to take care of some personal issues. Like herpes. Chris has herpes. That's a lie, he actually has some hard family stuff to take care of, so don't I feel like an asshole? Much love and good energy to Chris and his family during this difficult time.]
This wasn't the post I had planned to write today. I planned to write a delightful and jaunty little post about a new business venture Helena and I are embarking on, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. The events that transpired this morning are too important to overlook. It is my duty to document the horribly unfortunate and ill-fated things that happen to me on a daily basis. Future generations of socially awkward and perpetually fucked young twenty somethings must learn from their elders.
Let me tell you something about my job: a medium sized houseplant could do it. I'm not kidding. If I were fired today, my boss could simply go to the nearest Lowe's or Home Depot, buy a healthy-looking medium sized houseplant, put said plant on my chair and walk away knowing that my job will get done just as adequately as it was when I was there. This is not a reflection of my ineptitude (Kelly Cutrone buzzword of the day!) but rather a reflection of how easy my job is.
My job is to show up and sit in a chair for eight hours. And I'm not saying that in a self-deprecating "my job is boring wahhhh!" kind of way. That's really my job. A few weeks ago Alex stopped by the studio for the first time to have lunch. As we sat there alone, eating salad and playing with office furniture like small children, he looked around and asked, "So...what exactly is it that you do here?" "You're looking at it," was my answer. "Ah."
It would be incredibly easy to take advantage of this job. I'm trusted to show up at nine and leave at five and I'm usually the only person in the office. The girl who had this job before me used to show up at 11 and leave whenever she felt like it, which was discovered an impressive four months into her tenure.
Unlike my predecessor, I haven't really taken advantage of how unsupervised this job is. Sure I write my blog and watch Dynasty all day, but the important part is that I'm here. That's my main responsibility and I take it seriously.
But guess what kids? Shit happens! Shit happens and every now and then I'm late, or I have to run out of the office for five minutes. Trains get delayed. Prescriptions need to be filled. There are things beyond my control that make me be absent from the office for very brief intervals of time. And because god hates me and I am cursed, these are the same rare instances when my boss swings by the office. And I'm not there. And I look like the jackass taking advantage of my job. It never fucking fails. I can show up 30 days in a row perfectly on time (if not early!) and nobody knows. But on the 31st day (again because god hates me) I will trip up the metro escalator, scrape my knee and need to run to CVS to get a bandage. And of course, this will be the day that my boss decides to actually come into the office. So she will come and I will not be there. She will call and leave me a hostile voicemail about where the hell am I?!?!?!? I will then fly through the studio doors, bleeding, sweating and lookin' a hot mess, and will try to explain the completely understandable reason why I'm late, but I will get flustered and stutter a lot because I'm scared of my boss. So in the end, I will look like a moron with a speech impedement who was late for no reason. And so the cycle goes.
Let's take this morning for example. This morning started out promising enough. I was excited about today's outfit and, being a deeply shallow person, the success of my outfit usually dictates how the rest of the day will go. However, once I got on the metro things took a turn for the worse. Our train was stopped between Farragut North and Metro Center. Apparently there was an emergency with a passenger on the train (thanks a lot, jackhole.) So we waited there. And waited. And waited. The situation was out of my hands. Unless I physically pried open the metro doors, navigated through the tunnels like a mole person and crawled out a manhole (that's what she said?), I had to wait it out. And I did. Obviously, this made me late for work. "No big," I thought to myself. "Nobody's been by the studio in weeks and we don't have anything on schedule today, so I'm sure no one will be there this morning." Oh Meggles. You simple-minded, country, little fool.
As I walked into the lobby, I saw my boss. Fuck. Me. OF COURSE! Of course this is the morning she decides to drop by the office. She couldn't have come any of the mornings in the past two weeks when I was here early, doing fuck-all for eight hours. No! She had to come the morning some selfish asshole decided to have a heart attack on the metro and make me late.
I stopped dead in my tracks and watched in horror as she get off the elevator. She was carrying a bunch of boxes and looked pissed as she went to talk to our concierge. So, I did what any self-respecting, responsible young adult would do—I hid behind a plant. I hiked up my skirt, crouched down and hid behind that plant like it was mother's skirt. In retrospect, I probably should have walked up to her, explained why I was late and offered to help her carry things to her car, but at the time hiding behind a plant seemed like the more honorable thing to do.
After she left, I came out of hiding, got in the elevator and promptly diagnosed myself with Asperger's. If I get fired, my plan is to sue for discrimination and never have to work again. Ker-ching!
So. I don't really know how to say this...I might as well just do it quick like a band-aid and get it over with. Sigh. Here we go: I got teary-eyed at last night's episode of The Hills. Yea, I know. The Hills. The same show I shit on on a weekly basis and insinuate is so god-awful a praying mantis could write. (I'm sorry, that was just cruel Scott. I know you have a name.)
I was in no way ready for how nostalgic and bittersweet last night's episode was. God Scott, what's wrong with you? I know I've been bitching and moaning for weeks about wanting more compelling plot lines, but you can't go from zero to Schindler's List in 60 seconds flat! Slow the fuck down! I don't tune in to relate to The Hills cast and empathize with their problems; I tune in to watch pretty people stare blankly at each other and to catch the occasional guest appearance by Bruce Jenner's disco ghost or Nana Pratt.
I think I've hit some sort of rock bottom when I'm crying in my office at an episode of The Hills. Oye. Time to call Dr. Galler. In the meantime, let's recrap this trail of tears and be done with it.
SO! Heidi was very unsatisfied with the impromptu Mexican Hat Dance wedding she and Spencer had at Chili's last year, so Spencer has agreed to give her the big, traditional, non-Mexican wedding she's always wanted. That's neato and all, but Heidi can't truly be happy about it because she knows her ex-BFF4lyfe Lauren doesn't support the union and won't come to the wedding. That's sad. Heidi stands before Stephanie and Holly in her dream wedding gown (which bee-tee-dubbs looks like if a cockatoo and a bag of icing fucked dirty in a rest stop bathroom and conceived a child) and looks miserable because Lauren's not there. "You can't be sad Heidi, you look so pretty!" Ugh. Sad. Gross.
Later Heidi shows up at Lauren's office to give her an invitation to the wedding in-person, but it doesn't do much to sway Lauren. Poor old LC is just the saddest girl in Sadtown, you guys! She hates that Heidi has changed so much and misses her old friend—the friend she used to love and idolize, not this douchebag impostor. I've been there. That feeling sucks. Ugh, again. Sad. Heidi pleads with her to come to the wedding, but in the end Lauren just doesn't feel right coming and that's that. Heidi cries. Heidi leaves. I cry. I get up to leave. Oh wait, I'm at work.
Things are just as grim for our supporting cast members as well. Brody has decided to end his friendship with Audrina to make things right with his girlfriend Jayde. It's awkward and sad. Part of me wants to feel bad for Audrina because, yea she jeopardized her friendship with Brody, but she was just following her heart, man! Can we really judge her for feeling something with Brody and having the courage to find out if he felt the same way? That's a beautiful thing! It makes me feel like a coward! Anyway, that's what I want to feel, but then I remember she just banged him out to get back at her boyfriend, fully aware he was happily seeing someone else. Then I just feel sad for her on a whole nother level.
And Stephanie Pratt. Poor, sad, old, dumb as a box of hair Stephanie Pratt. Stephanie, bless her heart, goes to a Nylon magazine party with Audrina and Lo. She tells them that if she were to ever see Kelly Cutrone again, she would probably instantly die. Audrina and Lo exchange a look and begin collecting empty Svedka bottles to build a coffin with, as the party is hosted by Kelly Cutrone. "It is?!" Stephanie drools. "DINGER!!!" Wouldn't you know it, just then Kelly walks over and approaches Stephanie. "What are you doing here?" Stephanie asks Kelly. Kelly picks up a Nylon and points to the masthead, "N-Y-L-O-N. Nylon magazine. Nylon is one of my clients, remember?" Ooof. Stephanie tries to apologize for her lackluster performance at People's Revolution but only digs her grave deeper, "It's just so hard to learn anything at a job where the boss is never there." Kelly's eyes damn-near pop out of her head and she laughs, "Are you seriously trying to blame me for your ineptitude?!" Then Stephanie shits herself and cries because dats a big word and who brings a dictionary to a party? Ugh...it just makes me sad that someone this dumb actually exists.
In the end, although Spencer hasn't apologized to someone in 24 years (which is a fact I don't know why he prides himself on; to me that's about as appealing as saying you haven't washed your hands in 24 years) swallows his pride and calls Lauren to apologize. Oh Spencey. Don't you just wish Hallmark made a "I'm sorry I told the entire world you made a sex tape and have oddly long labia" card? I know I do. You could always send her a roast beef sandwhich and spell "I'm sorry" in mustard and be all ironic? Yes? No? No. In the end he opts to call Lauren on the phone, apologize and tells her it would be "life changing" for Heidi if she came to the wedding. Lauren says "K, ttyl" hangs up and looks deeply conflicted as the credits roll. Of course because I read US Weekly at the gym, I can share with you that she ends up going to the wedding, but sits in the back row and ducks out after the service. How...sad.
Alright, I'm gonna go jump off a bridge. I'll be at the bottom of the Potomac if anyone needs me.
This has nothing to do with anything, but on the metro this morning I witnessed a physical fight between the mother of a cripple and a woman wearing a pair of bedazzled sunglasses. And it was awesome. Sorry, had to share. Moving on. ----------
Here are three facts that make me feel like a socially retarded weirdo:
1.) I have no cousins.
2.) I've never babysat a single day in my life.
3.) I've never been to a wedding.
Well #1 isn't completely true. Becca and I technically have two cousins, but they don't really count. I keep forgetting their names. I'm always tempted to call them Rod and Todd, but those are the Flanderses. Anyway, they live in Florida and we've never met and probably never will. I don't want to call them "white trash," but I also don't not want to call them "white trash." Let's just say they're the kind of people who would get arrested for having an illegal gator show in their back yard. A few years ago, Becca actually found one of them (we'll call him "Rod") on myspace. She sent him an awkward message being like, "Hey Rod, my name is Rebecca and I'm your cousin. I have a sister named Meghan. She's your cousin too. Welp! Hope all is well!" He sent her a message back essentially saying, "Thanks, but no thanks. - Rod" PSHHH! Any cousin that's too good for me and Becca is no cousin of mine! And thus I feel confident saying I have no cousins.
I feel like people are mildly weirded out when I tell them one of these facts. It usually goes: "I['ve] actually__________." [insert: don't have cousins, have never babysat or have never been to a wedding.] "........Oh."
It's the same "Oh" you'd get in response to telling someone you're 35 and still a virgin. Or you were home schooled. Or weren't allowed to watch TV growing up. You say "Oh" but what you really mean is "Huh...and you seemed so normal up until this point."
I realize it's not that bad, but I'm still self-conscious about it. I feel like less of a person. I also feel like less of a person because I hate burritos, amusement parks, trampolines and Lost.
But come this Sunday, I will be mildly less of a home schooled anti-trampoline virgin freak! I'm going to my first wedding (naked. Because I can't find an attractive formal dress in the entire District of Columbia. If you'll be at the wedding, I'm sorry...slash, you're welcome?) (Mostly, I'm sorry.)
Frequent blog commenter/my sister's BFF4lyfe/one of my biggest supporters, Rachel and her fiancee Eric are getting married! In honor of Rachel and Eric's upcoming nuptials, this week's drinking game is dedicated to them. Mozel tov Mr. & Mrs. N! It's time for the Wedding Crashers Drinking Game!
Rules: Drink When: - Jeremy and John attend a wedding ceremony - Jeremy and John introduce themselves with fake names - One of the "rules" is mentioned - Chazz is mentioned - A bottle of champagne is popped - Someone uses the line, "We lost a lot of good men out there" - Crab cakes are mentioned - Someone gives a toast - Mrs. Cleary hits on John - Grandma says something inappropriate - Jeremy gets hurt playing football - Jeremy is forced into a sexual situation - Someone says "lock it up" - Todd's homosexuality is referenced - Someone reads don't-kill-yourself-books - A funeral is crashed - "DAMN YOU ROGER!" (which I say minimum twice a day when frustrated) - And finally, during the following exchange, simply because it's my favorite: Jeremy: I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. John: Soft mattress? Jeremy: Yeah, it could have been the soft mattress. Or the midnight rape. Or the nude gay art show that took place in my room. One of those probably added to the lack of sleep. As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, following us on twitter and joining our facebook page. If you'll be the wedding Sunday, I will see you there. I'll be the drunk, naked chick twittering in the corner. Have a great Memorial Day weekend, we'll see you back here Tuesday and congratulations Rachel & Eric!!!!
So Chris and I decided that although not siblings, it's high-time we do a Sibling Rivalrypoint/counterpoint post. Figuring out what topic to argue wasn't too hard as there are two things Chris and I will never see eye-to-eye on:
1.) Bee Movie. I loved it and thought it was heart-warming; he hated it and thought it was stupid. Does this have something to do with the fact that I have a soul and Chris does not? Probably. Is this topic interesting enough to blog about? Probably not.
2.) Tourism. More specifically, tourists and taking part in touristy activities. I'm very pro; Chris is very con. It's a sore subject in our friendship. I'd be lying if I said I've never thrown a temper tantrum in the middle of the National Mall because Chris wouldn't stop texting and acting above my monument tour. Jackass.
So it is with my fanny pack strapped tight and a map at the ready that I present to you the 2birds1blog Point/Counterpoint Battle on Tourism!
PRO: MEG God I love tourist shit. Give me a guided tour or give me death. If there is a tourist trap within 10-paces; I'm there. Posing for a picture. And buying a t-shirt. And squishing a souvenir penny (yes I do very seriously have a souvenir squished penny collection—WHAT OF IT?!)
Double decker tour buses? Been there. Group photo in a giant wooden clog in Amsterdam? Done that. I have more photographs of myself giving the shocker in front of national landmarks than I do with my own parents. Why? Because it's stupid fun. And sometimes in life, we need to stop worrying what other people think about us and have some stupid fun.
That's the beauty of being a tourist—people already judge and think less of you, so you might as well throw your inhibitions to the wind and have some fun with it. It's liberating! You're never going to see these people again, so put on that sombrero, give two thumbs up and take a picture with the mariachi band! Sure, the natives think you look like a total jackass, but fuck them. In my opinion there's nothing worse than surly natives. Oh, I'm so terribly sorry that I'm interested in learning more about your city and it's history and culture! How terribly rude of me! And excuse the hell out of me for stimulating your economy with my hard-earned dollars! Gosh, I'm tacky! ...Please. Get on top.
It's important to recognize that tourists come in two distinctly different varieties: Responsible Tourists and Obnoxious Tourists. Obnoxious Tourists give us Responsible Tourists a bad rap. They're loud, poorly dressed, perpetually confused, inconsiderate and just plain ignorant. And I hate 'em just like you do. Do I have oddly specific fantasies about ripping the hearts out tourists who don't move to the center of the aisle when boarding a metro? Of course I do! But these people should not represent tourists as a whole, nor should they cock-block you from taking part in fun touristy activities yourself. Why let one bad apple spoil the whole barrel? It's like assuming that every German person is a Nazi and refusing to go to Germany because it's a Nazi country. Yeah, Nazis suck, but how completely unfair is it to assume that every person in Germany is a Nazi? Come on Bube, it's not 1942 anymore. Let yourself enjoy some schnitzel.
Take this guy for example: I saw this guy wandering around MoMA last year and thought he would make a great That's a lot of Look segment. But when I sat down to write it, I couldn't really fault him. So what he's wearing hiking boots and ankle socks at a museum and there are more cocktails on his shirt than in my stomach on any given Saturday night? He's not bothering anyone! He's just trying to absorb some culture and check out some art! That's something I can jive with! Plus, his ass looks kind of cute in those frayed little cargo shorts. Shame on me for being so snarky and elitist! I hope he had a fabulous day.
Good people make good tourists and bad people make bad tourists. You can't blame tourism as a whole for the assholes you run into on a daily basis. Because they're not tourists—they're just assholes on vacation.
CON: CHRIS Living first in Boston and now in New York, I'm accustomed to tourists being all up in my bidness on a day to day basis. But just because I'm accustomed to it, doesn't mean I'm ok with it. Let's get one thing straight: I hate tourists. If you visit me in the city, I will gladly take you to a bar and get crunked or we can go for a walk in the park. But I'll be damned if I take you on a double decker bus to see the sights.
Not like I haven't done my share of touristy things. I manned up and went to Ellis Island a few weekends ago. (Stood in line for an hour just to get tickets while hordes of Asian children played tag around my legs. Was in the foreground of literally hundreds of pictures of the NYC skyline, as I had primo real estate for picture taking. Got muscled out of my standing position by some foreigners oversized backpack. You see where I'm coming from..) It's not that I don't like tourism, because generally some of the tourist sights are pretty cool. If I didn't have to suffer through being crammed on a ferry with a billion people yammering in not-English, snapping pictures of literally everything that stood still long enough I probably would have enjoyed Ellis Island alot more. What I don't like are the tourists.
People say New Yorkers are unfriendly. I'd venture that tourists are equally as unfriendly, unless they need something, like directions. If they are armed with their oversized map of the NYC subway system, they could give two shits less about how much of your personal space they are occupying with their fanny pack, because they are on a schedule and they can't be late to ride horses in the park because that would cut into the amount of time they have to take pictures with the living statues before seeing Shrek the Musical on Broadway. God forbid you miss lunch at the diner Seinfeld ate at.
Why do you think there are places that are called "tourist traps"? Because tourists are ignorant. If you put a statue in a heavily trafficked area anywhere in the world, tourists are going to take pictures of it. It could be of Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, and sure enough, someone if going to put their kids on its back to snap a photo. And why do you always have to take pictures across a crowded sidewalk?! It's not my fault if I don't see you taking a picture, because I'm too busy trying to avoid the Fleece Vests, and I just assumed that sidewalks were for walking.
The last time Meg was in the city, we went to Coney Island, which is also heavily touristed. And while waiting in line at the Cyclone, the girl in front of me asks me "You from America?" Um...yes, I replied. And she's all like "What part?" I took a look at myself: flip flops, black shorts, polo shirt, sunglasses. Pretty standard hot weather attire. Is it wrong that I was offended she assumed I'm a tourist? Here's my question to 75% of the tourists I see out and about: If you wouldn't wear socks with sandals, a fisherman's hat, sunglasses with a neon strap so they don't get lost, two fanny packs, and a giant camera carrying case around the town where you live, why would you wear that shit when you are visiting somewhere else? Unless that's your signature look. But if it is your signature look, it is a look that says "Please mug me." Another tourist phenomenon: wearing matching clothes. Why?! WHY! The other day, I was the incredible pleasure (read: misfortune) of walking through Times Square. I had a train to catch at Penn in 15 minutes, so I'm bobbing and weaving like Evander Holyfield (is that an entirely outdated sports reference? You know I don't know these things) until I come across a family of four, all large an in charge with asses that rappers would swoon over. All. wearing. pink. polos. And moving at the speed of molasses, which is probably the last thing that crammed in their gullet before heading to NYC.
One of the first times I visited Meg in D.C., we did the tourist thing jetting around the National Mall, seeing the museums and monuments and what have you, which I was heavily not into. And in a fit of rage, Meg took my shoulders and told me to man up and let her take pictures of me in front of the Capitol building. I did, begrudgingly, but our yelling match, from afar, looked like a heart-to-heart, and a large Indian family reunion now thinks Meg and I are engaged. That's what tourism is people. False perceptions. Now I've got to go pick a tuxedo for the wedding.
If I could marry an inanimate object, I would marry this empty carton of wine flavored Black & Milds. Just the fact that Black & Milds come in wine flavor makes me so genuinely happy to be alive. I just wanna come home from a long day at the office, pop in a João Gilberto CD, slip into something more comfortable and pour myself a nice tall glass of wine flavored Black & Mild.
I especially like how "wine" is on a golden scroll in a fancy italicized font to really drive home the point that these aren't just any Black & Milds—they're wineflavored. It's just so god damn perfect. It's like drinking a gold flavored 40. If I were to redesign the packaging, the only thing I would do is stick a marble column and a cherub somewhere on there. Besides that; aces.
Item #2:
My friend Lara found this "Super Kegel" at a Salvation Army in York Pennsylvania. I caught crabs immediately after looking at it.
Now, I understand that we're in a recession and times are tough. Lord knows I pinch pennies when I can: I buy generic brand at the grocery store; I drink significantly less when I go out (L0LZ! That's a lie and we both know it); I haven't been shopping in decades! It pains me, but I understand that when times are tough, sacrifices have to be made. That being said, there are just some things that I am not willing to buy at a discount. Anything that goes near my genitals happens to be one of them.
First of all, is a kegel device really necessary? I understand the value of a tight hey HEY hey, but buying a kegel exerciser seems somewhat frivolous. And I did some research—it's not inexpensive:
22-29 fucking dollars?? Do you know how much Nati Boh and Kashi you can buy with that? A lot. Recessionomics: act like you shoved your savings up your twat and squeeze tight.
Now let's say you just really, really need a kegel exerciser for whatever reason. I guess there's some merit in buying it for cheaps at the Salvation Army...but really? Look at it. It looks like it's been on that shelf since 1988. And look how the top is just ever so slightly ajar. You know punk kids have been shoving it between their legs and taking pictures with it since the Ford administration. There are just some things I don't want between my legs. A 10 cent kegel device from the Salvation Army is one of them. A wine flavored Black & Mild, is not. HI-OHHHH!
It looks like Scott the praying mantis/head writer of The Hills actually listened to the constructive criticism I offered him last week—last night's episode had nary a mention of the Stedi the Stach-tender plot line! Seriously Scott, I can't thank you enough. Because if I had to watch one more episode revolving around that busted plot line with that regional dinner theater caliber acting, I was going to smash a bottle of Cuervo over my head to put myself out of my misery. So thanks.
Damnit...I'm going to have to nutshell this episode pretty quickly. I spent a good portion of my morning photoshopping that picture of Scott and I was just informed I need to assist my boss on-site today. UGHHHH...I can't play Snood and make snowflakes out of post-its on-site! Bitches & hos man...bitches & hos.
THE HILLS:
Lauren fired Stephanie and she cried. Which made Lauren cry. Which made me cry. Which made Evie cry. And then we all just cried and held each other, wishing life were easier. It was cathartic, really.
Actually Stephanie didn't really care that she got fired. I mean, she cared, but she cared more that the guy she's been crushing on has a live-in girlfriend. Priorities.
Our main plot line centered around Spencer meeting Heidi's dad. Not Tim, her stepfather, her for reals for reals Dad. The guy who stuck it to mama Darlene in the first place. His name is Buffalo Bill and he's an honest-to-god cowboy who looks like a humanized version of Yosemite Sam. He carries a gun with him at all times and wears cowboy apparel in a non-ironic kid of way.
Let me tell you something about Buffalo Bill: he was not pleased that Heidi and Spencer decided to elope in Mexico. Every good prairie dog knows that you gotta ask your lil lassie's daddy for her paw in marriage. Duh. Spencer now has to win over Heidi's dad so he can ask her to marry him. Again. Actually, if I'm not mistaken, this would make the third proposal. It's like god is shittin' red flags all over the place and they still think it's an awesome idea to get married. Nothing says love like repeatedly breaking up.
Anyway, believe it or not Buffalo Bill and Spencer got a long like rawhide and fringe. They bonded over guns, social ineptitude and child molestery moustaches. While they were getting matching "BFF 4 Lyfe" tattoos, Spencer finally got the cajones to ask for Heidi's hand in marriage. "It puts the engagement ring on the hand or else it gets the hose again," the weathered cowboy said with a tear in his eye. Then they went out back and made love in an outhouse.
At the end of our episode, Spencer proposed to Heidi. Again. On a ferris wheel. Ferris wheels don't scream romance to me. They scream panic attacks, hot dog-laden piles of vomit and carnival folk, but then again I've never been in love. Maybe that's what love is; a panic attack and a big pile of puke. God I can't wait.
Anyway, Heidi said yes, but her "yes" came with a condition: Spencer has to apologize and make amends with both mama Darlene and Lauren. Spencer agreed, they made out, I puked hot dogs and that was the end of that. FIN.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition—tonight is my last night with Evie! Soon my blog posts will return to their normal non-feline related awkward subject matter, I'll be able to sleep through the night and my neighbors won't show up at my door with pitchforks and torches chanting "kill the beast!" anymore.
Last night was probably the worst night yet, which doesn't make any sense as she's been here for almost a week and you'd think she'd be acclimated by now. Last night started promising enough—I invited Evie up on my bed to watch Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai on my laptop and have a little snuggle-fest. She politely accepted. Evie dozed off laying on the keyboard and I dozed off with both the laptop and Evie resting on my tummy. It was a warm and adorable Meg/Evie/Forest Whitaker sandwich.
I woke up at about midnight to find the movie over and Evie missing. I shut my laptop and looked around for the cat, who was curled up like a little shrimp at the foot of my bed, fast asleep. "THERE IS A GOD—AND HE IS JUST AND GENTLE!" I thought to myself as I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
I woke again up about another hour later feeling like I had just walked through the Gobe Desert while downing a bag of cotton balls. I don't know what marathon I had been running in my dreams, but I was painfully thirsty. Even worse, there was a large bottle of Deer Park water sitting three feet away from me on my coffee table. Mocking me. It glistened in the night, all wet and delicious just waiting to be guzzled (that's what she said? Or he said? Either way, someone said it.) Obviously if I got out of bed for a drink, Evie would wake up and do her best impression of Christina Aguilera hitting a high C for the next five hours. I cursed myself for over-using and subsequently breaking my Gopher Grabber, and cursed Billy Mays for not being my live-in lover.
The way I saw it, I had three options: 1.) Get out of bed and get water, but deal with Evie howling at the moon all night. 2.) Call my sister and ask her to drive over and hand me the bottle of Deer Park water. 3.) Die in my bed from dehydration, but not wake up Evie.
I ruled out option #2 because I'm pretty sure Becca's boyfriend would kill me for waking him up too, and if I'm going to die, dehydration seems more exotic than murder.
I was down to #1 and #2. I was leaning towards option #2, so I decided to weigh the pros and cons.
Pros and Cons of dying in my bed from dehydration: Pros - Would not disturb Evie - Neighbors would not wake up from Evie's scr-owing - Wouldn't have to go to work tomorrow (or ever again for that matter) - Wouldn't have to worry about my overdue cable bill - Liked Friday's blog post, so I'd be going out there on a high note - Need to do laundry and go grocery shopping anyway
Cons - Am wearing madras booty-shorts and a wife beater that says "Wormser" in puff-paint.
In the end, I decided dying in a shirt with a Revenge of the Nerds reference on it and my ass hanging out was just not the way I wanted to go. I'd like to think I have slightly more class than that.
I strategically slithered out of my covers and slid down the side of my bed to the floor where I proceeded to army crawl to the coffee table. Once there, I chugged that fucking bottle of Deer Park water like it was going out of style. And I'll be damned if water has ever tasted better in the history of people drinking water while trying not to disturb their sleeping cat.
Getting back into bed was going to be harder than slithering out of it, as gravity was not on my side. I laid there on my back staring at the ceiling, panting like a fat kid who had just run the timed mile, water dripping down my neck, strategizing how I was going to pull this one off. In the end I decided my best plan of attack was to slowly integrate one part of my body after another onto the bed.
First I slowly sat down on the bed, ever so gently resting my ass deeper and deeper down on the mattress. Once safely sitting, I swung my left leg over the sleeping beast and lay it down next to her. Then the right one; all the while Evie still in sleeping shrimp mode. Then I put my hands behind my back and slowly scooched my butt down the bed. Finally, I slowly lowered my back, then shoulders, then arms and lastly my head onto the bed. I had done it. I was back in bed. I stayed perfectly still for a few seconds, waiting for Evie to stir. She didn't. I let out a small sigh of relief. And then...I got cocky.
I shifted my weight to my right side and bent my knees slightly for added comfort. Why did I do that? I had made it so far. I didn't need to bend my knees; I was comfortable enough! And yet, bend my knees I did. Suddenly, time stood still. My heart stopped beating. I watched in horror as my right heel overshot it and kicked Evie square in the jaw.
Damnit.
Her head shot up and she gave me the universal look for, "Oh, really?"
I knew it was over. I could apologize and plead with her all I wanted; but she was up. And so the vicious cycle began: Skulk away.
So I had a lot of time on my hands last night spent not sleeping. I decided to make use of that time and write a screenplay for a short film I call Ambien & Evie, which is also the subject of this week's drinking game. So, without further ado I give you—The Ambien & Evie Drinking Game!
Rules Drink When: - Evie insults Meg - Meg insults Evie - Evie curses - Evie asks Meg to cuddle - Meg sings- Meg complains about being tired - Evie has a freak out - Something is microwaved - Evie gets locked in the bathroom - Meg cries - A 90's sitcom is referenced
Characters:
Meg: A 24 year old graphic designer with a heart of gold and a mouth o' sass. Evie: A 4 year old Tonkinese cat originally from New Jersey.
Setting:
Meg's studio apartment in Dupont Circle, Washington, DC. Necessary props: 1 bed; 1 stuffed frog; 1 red blanket; 1 microwave; mail; 1 cat carrying case; 1 strand of pukka shells; 1 litter box.
Scene 1:
[Evie is curled up on Meg's bed asleep; Meg enters door carrying mail and takes off her headphones.]
Evie:[waking up] Well, well, well...look who finally decided to come home. Meg: [sighs heavily, puts down mail] Oh, I'm sorry Evie, but some of us actually have to work while some of us get to stay at home and lick our own ass. Evie: Bitch please. I've read your blog. I know you watch Dynasty and eat pita chips all day. Considering your job, you might as well be licking your own ass. Meg: Alright, look you; it's 5:30 now. I have a 7:15 doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, so I will be going to bed at 11 o'clock tonight. That means you have five and a half hours to talk allllll the shit you want, but when 11 o'clock rolls around, it's time to shut your face. Got it? Evie: You realize you have absolutely no authority over me and I find this hilarious, right? Meg: Yeah...Well. I don't really have a comeback for that, so I'm just going to lift you in the air Lion King style and pretend to be Rafiki, because I know you hate when I do that. Evie:[dangling in the air] ...Well played madam.
Scene 2:
[Five and a half hours later. The lights in Meg's apartment have all been turned off except for the lamp on the nightstand. Meg is lying on her back and Evie is on her stomach.] Meg: Alright Evie, it's bedtime. All you have to do is lay on my tummy and shut your little gullet. Think you can handle that? You comfortable? Evie: Yeah, surprisingly comfortable actually. You've packed on a few pounds since I last saw you. You know the Kashi isn't "lean" when you have five bowls of it, right? Meg: Alright smartass, enough. I'm going to turn off this light, OK? Evie: OK, I'm ready. Meg: OK. Goodnight Yvette. Evie: Goodnight Meghan. [Meg shuts off lamp next to bed]
-- 5 minutes later--
Evie: HOLY CRAPPPPP! [Jumps off the bed and runs to the front door] MEG! MEG! I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM! JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST, WHERE THE SHIT AM I?! GAAAHHHHH!!!! Meg: Jesus Evie. [Gets up, walks to the front door, turns on the hall light and stares at Evie] Evie:[Stares back] O heyyyyy girl! Meg: Can I help you with something? Evie: Yeah! Let's cuddle! Meg: But we were literally just cuddling. Evie: When? Meg: Just now! Like, five minutes ago! You were purring! What happened? Evie: Shit, I don't remember what happened five seconds ago. I'm a cat, not Rain Man. Quit the interrogation me and pick me up, bitch! Meg: Ugh, fine. [Picks up Evie and brings her back to bed] OK. So we're going to try this again. I'm going to turn out the lights and go to bed, and so are you. OK? OK. Goodnight Evie. [Turns out light]
--2 minutes later--
Evie: RAAAAPPPPPEEEEEEE!!!!!! RAPE!!!! [Evie jumps off the bed and runs to the front door] Meg: What now?! [walks to front door and turns on the hall light] Evie: O heyyyyy homegirl! What starts with a "c" and rhymes with puddle?? Meg: Are you kidding me? We were just cuddling! And did I hear you scream rape?! Evie: Oh please. Now you're just making things up to get attention. Meg:[Picks up Evie] Alright, according to an article I read online, if I sing to you, you'll calm down and go to bed. [Gets into bed with Evie] Here we go. [Singing] Let's have some fun, this beat is sick; I wanna take a ride on your disco sti— Evie: Oh come on! That's just crass! I hate Lady Gaga; sing me some Barry Manilow. Meg: ...Are you serious? Evie: You wanna go to bed or not? Meg:[Sighs] Fine. [Singing] Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl— Evie: No, no, change the words so it's about me and you. Meg:[Rolls her eyes and sighs; singing] Her name was Evie, she was a showgirl; with yellow feathers in her fur and a dress cut down to thurr; she would meringue and do the cha-cha; and while she tried to be a star, Meggles always tended bar across the crowded floor, they worked from 8 til 4...[stops singing, whispering] Evie? You asleep? Thank god.
[Meg closes her eyes and begins to drift off to sleep]
--60 seconds later--
Evie: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! KILLER BEEEEEES!!!!!!! [Evie jumps off the bed and runs to the front door] MEG! GET UP! THERE ARE KILLER BEES EVERYWHERE! THEY'RE IN MY FUR! GET THEM OUT! GAHHH!!!!
[Meg opens her eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling]
Scene 3:
[Meg is standing in front of the microwave looking exhausted.] Evie: Hey slut. You makin' us popcorn? We gonna watch a movie? Meg: No Evie, I am not making us popcorn and we are not going to watch a movie. I'm heating up your red blanket. Evie: Well that's stupid, why are you doing that? Meg: One of my readers said if I wrap you in a heated towel, you'll calm down. [Microwave beeps and Meg pulls out the red blanket] Evie: Pshh, fuck that noise! [Meg picks up Evie, swaddles her in the blanket and rocks her like a baby] How would you like it if I wrap you up like a friggin' burrito against your will and—oh—this is kinda nice. Oh man. I feel all warm and protected. I'm gettin' kinda drowsy... [Meg walks Evie back to bed and turns out the light] Meg: Good night Evie.
--30 seconds later--
Evie: THE HAMBURGLER!!!!!! [Jumps out of bed and runs to the front door] MEG! THE HAMBURGLER IS IN THE APARTMENT AND HE'S GOING TO STEAL ALL OF MY HAMBURGERS!!!!!! GAHHHH!!!!! WE HAVE TO PROTECT THE HAMBURGERS!!!!! [Meg opens her eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling]
Scene 4:
[Setting: Meg's bathroom. Meg carries Evie in and and sets her down on the rug.]
Evie: What the shit are we doing in here? Meg:You are sleeping in here. I am going back to my bed. Evie: Oh please. You can't really expect me to sleep in here all alone. Your job is to keep me company. If you leave me, I'll tell mom. You work for me brown eyes, remember that. Meg: You do whatever you want Evie. I'm going to bed. Goodnight. [Meg shuts the bathroom door and walks back to bed]
Scene 5:
[Meg lies in bed, tossing and turning. There are muffled whimpering noises coming from the bathroom. Finally, Meg can't take it anymore and goes into the bathroom to free Evie.]
Meg: [Opens the door] I'm sorry Eves, you can come out now. I didn't mean to be an asshole, I'm just really, really tired. Evie:[Sauntering out of the bathroom] Yea, well, I forgive you. Oh, but I took the liberty of breaking that pukka shell necklace on the door handle for you. There are currently shells all over the floor. You might want to clean them up before I eat 'em and get sick. It would be a shame if I puke all over your new rug. Or maybe I already ate a few...? Rats, I just can't remember! Meg: God I hate you.
Scene 6: [Meg wakes suddenly from her sleep and looks around for Evie, who is at the foot of her bed sound asleep] Meg: Phew. Good Girl. [Meg lays back down and closes her eyes]
--1 second later--
Evie: JOHN GOODMAN!!!!!!! [Evie jumps off the bed and runs to the front door] MEG! JOHN GOODMAN CIRCA 1992 ROSEANNE IS IN HERE! HE'S GOING TO GROUND ME INTO MEAT AND SERVE ME AT THE LANFORD LUNCHBOX!!!! MEG! GET AUNT JACKIE!!!!!! GAHHH!!!!
[Meg puts a pillow over her face and begins to sob]
Scene 6:
[It is the next morning. A very tired Meg has just finished getting ready. She comes out of the bahtroom and looks around for Evie, who has been absent all morning. She finally finds her snuggling under the cover's on her bed.]
Meg: Good morning asshole. Have a nice time last night? [Evie stares at her blankly] Meg: What? Nothing to say? Evie: Meow. Meg: Meow? You serious? Evie: Meow. Meg: What, no insults? No fat jokes? No hamburglers raping you? Evie:[Yawns] Meg: Aww...Ohhh Evie, what am I going to do with you? [Meg kisses Evie on the cheek and heads for the door] Have a good day Eves, I'll see you tonight!
[The door closes after Meg.]
Evie: You bet your lily white ass you will bitch! MUAHAHAHA!
[Fade out as Evie continues to laugh diabolically]
I currently have three schemes in rotation to get out of this whole "working" thing:
1.) Rehab. Every week there's a commercial during Intervention for a rehab facility that makes me want to dive into a giant swimming pool of cocaine and snort my way out. An all-expenses paid trip to Malibu where I talk about my feelings; learn to cook; enjoy some pilates and yoga; meditate and do all the arts and crafts I want doesn't sound that horrible to me. It's like summer camp for adults! Yes and please. There's only one problem: I'm not addicted to anything. (Unless you're of the Robert Palmer school of thought, in which case sign me up!)
2.) Jail. Do you know how many times I walk to work and litter, jay-walk, steal from street vendors, kill an anonymous hobo or grifter; praying to god a cop will arrest me so I can go jail and take a nap? Every single morning. Because taking a nap in jail would be preferable to coming here, where my only task is to figure out where the "dead critter" smell is coming from. That's not a joke. That really is my one and only task today. Figure out the dead critter smell. At least in jail we all know where the dead critter smell is coming from (crackhead, I'm looking at you.)
3.) Get pregnant. Did you know that in the Netherlands, both mother and father get one year paid maternity and paternity leave? How amazing is that?! Ergo, new life plan: unprotected sex -> move to Amsterdam -> eat falaffel ->Heinekin factor tour -> have baby -> 1 year paid Amsterdam vacation. Plus, I'd get a baby shower and tons of free shit. It's a recession! Can't argue with free shit!
So far option #3 had been my front-runner, but as of last night I've changed my mind. Jail is back on top. And it's all "thanks" to my parents cat, Evie.
Evie arrived at my apartment Tuesday night and I'll be cat sitting her for the next seven days while my parents are away on vacation. Originally, I was pretty psyched about this. When I moved into my parent's house after leaving New York, Evie and I pretty much became BFF4lyfe. We share a mutual love of napping and spent our days curled up on the couch in our pajamas watching MTV Hits, eating free KashiGoLean Crunch cereal and whining at my mom to give us attention. It was awesome.
However, cat sitting her is less than awesome. She's driving me crazy. I feel like I've been given a small glimpse into the life of a new mother—and I want to claw out my eyes, close my legs and pretend like I never saw anything.
The meowing you guys, the meowing. It's got to go. All night long, she just meows. And I'm not talking gentle, adorable kitty meowing, I'm talking "Timmy fell down the well; you need to get your fuckin' ass up now," screaming/meowing. Scr-owing, if you will. She has this one kind of meow that starts with a "meo-" but ends in this deep, throat gurgle that distinctly sounds like she's telling me to eat shit.
The only way to shut her up is if I get out of bed and gently rock her in my arms like a baby. I do this and she's suddenly happy as a clam. Shuts right up and purrs her face off. HOWEVER, the second I put her down on my bed and try to go back to sleep, she freaks out, flies off my bed, jumps on top of her carrying case and scr-ows at me. So I have to physically get out of bedagain, pick her up and hold her for a little while. But god forbid I get tired and want to lay down in my own bed at 2:30 in the morning! If I do that she just flicks me off, heads for her carrying case and yells derogatory things at me until I get up and hold her again. It's a vicious cycle.
I've tried everything. I tried reasoning with her. I tried begging and pleading. I tried shutting her in the bathroom (but felt bad and let her out after 30 seconds.) I put her favorite toy, Fillipe the frog, in my bed thinking that might coax her off her little soap box, but nope! There she was, atop her crate telling me to go eff myself. Then I got the genius idea to put her crate in my bed, thinking maybe that would solve something. Instead, she just stood where the crate once was, shouting at me from there. Even better, I forgot the crate was in my bed at one point and rolled over and slammed my face into the door.
I think at around 4:15ish, she finally ran out of steam and fell asleep. Two hours later my alarm clock buzzed and she woke back up. From 7-8 (aka my precious snoozing time,) she meowed. And meowed. And meowed. At that moment, I sort of understood why someone might be tempted to shake their baby like an Etch A Sketch.
I look like shit today. I didn't shower. There are circles under my eyes. I was 15 minutes late to work. This post isn't even well-written or funny. Somebody out there has to know—how do I get her to stop meowing? I can't hold her forever (L0LZ! That sounds like it should be a Maroon 5 song or something). If I ignore her, she meows louder. What do I do?!
You how there are tons of things everyday that you just take for granted and don’t think about. But then when you do think about it, you realize just how weird it is. Like the word fork. Fork. No, I’m not high, I just think fork is a weird word. Anyway, sex is another one of those things. Recently, my sex life had been going through a serious serious drought. It was like I was trekking across the Sahara desert barefoot and my canteen was empty and I kept seeing mirages of people I would want to have sex with. And the one oasis I did come to was tainted. That’s a clumsy metaphor for saying the one time I had sex last year (yea I know! ONE TIME in a full fiscal year!) was horrible. I can’t even explain it to you as there aren’t words for how bad it was.
Anyway, the drought is over now, and I’m happily getting my swerve on so I’m going to take a page from Salt, Pepa, and Spinderella and talk about sex.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mg1PEoQ_cq8
I apologize for not embedding the video, but Universal Music Group apparently disabled that function for this video. Which is a shame, because there’s absolutely nothing I don’t love about this video. Seriously, watch it and love it. The 90s fashion, the kickin’ dance moves, the amazing ghetto hairdos complete with intense spit curls in the middle of their foreheads. (Are those spit curls? I’m just assuming, but if anyone knows for certain, please fill me in as I’m genuinely curious.)
But I digress. Take a minute and think about sex. Just in general. It’s so bizarre, right? You are putting yourself inside of someone else’s self. Like physically inside of someone. Or conversely, someone else is inserting themselves into your person. Repeatedly. Sure, that’s what those parts are made for. But if you were to stop mid-coitus, you would just be lying around with someone else in you. Like Siamese twins connected at the genitals. Except sexier.
More than that, unlike the ~1,500 people on this website (not necessarily NSFW, but maybe don’t click and then call your boss over): I don’t want just anyone to see the weird faces I make during sex. I don’t even want to see them. Sex in a room with a mirrored ceiling? No thanks. Why do you think I’m not already an internet sensation of the X-rated variety? Because I’m not interested in a lasting memory of my oh-face.
And the faces wouldn’t even be the worst part of video. That would be the sounds. Like I’m talking straight up sounds people make during sex, not words, I’ll get to that later. Taken out of the context of getting freaky, all the grunts, gasps, screams, moans, and other noises are almost entirely inappropriate. My neighbor, during her various and extremely loud sex romps, is fond of the noise “Aw,” sort of an abbreviated “Aw yeahhh.” (To be fair, she throws that in later.) Not quite “Oh” and not quite “Ah.” Nowhere else would “Aw, aw, aw!” be appropriate, unless I suppose you see three adorable things in a row. Isn’t moaning is what ghosts are often said to be doing? Ghosts must then be perpetually horny from being all dead and whatnot, because that shit doesn’t happen anywhere else in life. In regular, non-sex world, grunting just makes you sound illiterate. Who decided that grunting during sex was sexy and encouraging?
Oh, I know. Porn decided. Which brings me to my next point: the stuff people say during sex. Talking dirty is pretty friggin’ hot. I’m horrible at it, as I feel ridiculous telling people to do what they are already doing. I’ve only ever told someone to “Suck it” whilst doing the appropriate hand gesture.
And even then, I was like 15. My inability to talk dirty aside, the only reason people say all this bizarre stuff like “You like when I fuck you like this?” “I want to cum in you!” “You’re so tight!” is from watching too much porno. They say that stuff in porn so the fat, old creepster who is watching it by himself in a dark room can imagine what it’d be like if he were the one doing the fucking. No one is watching while you have sex, so you don’t have to describe it to anyone. And common sense says that whatever you’re feeling, you’re partner can probably feel it too to some degree, as previously mentioned, you are inside of them (or they are inside of you).
Conversely, it would be weirder if no noises were made at all. The aforementioned horrible sex I had involved no noise. Which was all kinds of awkward. You could have heard a pin drop in that room. I can only fill the void for so long, but being a one-man moan show is exhausting and not sexy.
All that being said, I had forgotten how much I enjoy getting laid. I mean, that’s a pretty asinine statement, but previously when “U & Ur Hand” would come on in a bar, I’d cry a little, because it was true. It got the job done, but you know how it is. But I have to completely remove all of these thoughts from my head during sex, because if I think once about what is happening, my penis will definitely go all turtle on me faster than you can say “Bonerkiller.”
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