Weekend at Drinking Game Friday's

TGIDGF you guys...TGIDGF in a big, big way. This week has been torturous. I thought every day this week was Thursday. But it wasn't. It was other days of the week that are not nearly as close in proximity to the weekend. Sigh...BUT! I have good news: the 2b1b promotional stickers that I owe a fair portion of you finally arrived in my fair District yesterday! Sorry for the delay in sending them out. I'm what they call, "not wealthy" (but you're Jewish! I know, I know...) and thus could only afford the cheapest production time and delivery options available. Specifically, I chose the "print these whenevs you have time" turnaround rate and the "old man on Jazzy Scooter" delivery option. But! They're real. They're here. Expect 'em next week sometime!

And In case you haven't heard, we're having a blog promotion*! If you go here and here, vote for us, send a screenshot and your address to meg@2birds1blog.com, I'll send you stickers and a handwritten note as a token of my gratitude!

*Promotion = shameless bribe.

Now, onto what you all really came here for; this week's drinking game! I'm not going to lie; I am RULL excited about this one. I've been in the mood to watch Weekend at Bernie's ever since I suggested you all "Lomax" your dead relatives to give me more votes last week. Plus, W@B's is just such a classic summer movie. It makes me want to get a perm and a speedboat, go to the beach and see what hilarious hijinx I'll get myself into. Growing up, W@B's was one of my and Becca's favorite movies to watch. I think we've seen it about 500 times and can quote not only complete scenes, but can also the vintage '80's previews before the movie (specifically for Quantum Leap, the Jim Belushi movie and a PSA about drugs where a chick dives into an empty swimming pool.) Some little kids have Bambi, Becca and I had Weekend at Bernie's. (Which may explain both of us slightly more.)

Thus, it's a privilege and an honor to give you The Weekend at Bernie's Drinking Game!

(FYI: The entire movie is on youtube in 9 chapters, located here. You're welcome.)

Rules:
Drink When:
- Someone says the name of a New York City beach (i.e. "We could always go to Coney Island and watch the fish disintegrate")
- Someone complains about the heat
- Someone hits on Gwen
- Anyone says "Lomax"
- Andrew McCarthy smokes a cigarette
- It's obvious that someone just did coke
- Richard stutters
- HOUSE PARTY!
- A bottle of champagne is popped (or you hear the sound of a bottle of champagne being popped)
- For ever fabulous '80's string bikini worn (i.e. Tawny's)
- Richard and Larry drag Bernie somewhere
- Bernie falls off the deck (or is pushed off)
- Someone has sex with a dead person
- Someone says they should call the cops or are going to call the cops
- Someone posthumously plays a board game
- Paulie kills Bernie
- Paulie kills Bernie again
- And again
- Richard lies to Gwen
- "He buried all of Bernie!"
- Bernie's head smashes into something (i.e. deck planks, bowie markers buoy markers etc.)
- There's a chase scene with golf carts
- And finally, just chug during the speed boat scene. Why? Because HIJINX, HIJINX, HIJINX!

Thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, voting and voting and facebooking and Twittering and JEEZ you guys are good to us. And thanks for that! Have a great weekend and we'll see you bright and early Monday morning!

The Craigslist Coffee Challenge

I have a recurring problem at work: I want coffee but don't want to get up to get it. First of all, I hate the coffee we have in the office and refuse to drink it. Although I was unemployed for six months, I would say the worst part of the Recession is that my office is forced to cut corners and buy Staples brand coffee. It's disgusting. As Boss #1 infamously said, "it smells like pencil shavings and cooter." To which I say no thank you. Ergo, I'm forced to venture out into the world to get a drinkable cup of coffee.

My office is located equidistant between a Caribou Coffee and a Starbucks, both being about two blocks away. I realize that doesn't sound like that far, but when you're right in the middle of a crucial episode of Dynasty and you're kind of sleepy and it's anyone's guess who stole Crystal's baby, it might as well be a mile away. Normally when I get "coffee lazy," I just complain to a few people via gchat, feel sorry for myself for a little bit and then work up the adrenaline needed to get up and walk the two blocks to Starbucks. And then everything's fine. Yesterday, however, was a horse of a different color.

Not only did I have a vicious case of "coffee lazy," but I couldn't leave my office even if I wanted to. Boss #1 and our VP of sales were headed over to the office between the ambiguous hours of 12 and 4. Obviously, because I'm me, the second I ran out, Boss #1 and VP would inevitably come waltzing in and pee their pants that I left the studio unattended. So I decided not to risk it and stayed put.

As the hours went by, I fell deeper and deeper into caffeine withdrawal. I briefly considered making a pot of Cooter & Shavings coffee, but just couldn't do it. Knowing that Helena had the day off, I offered her $100,000 cash to bring me a latte. She respectfully declined as a.) it was her day off b.) she lives on Capitol Hill and I work in Metro Center and c.) she didn't want to put pants on. I understood completely. So, I did the next logical thing and called my mom to see if she would do it. And she hung up on me.

What was a girl to do? Then I got an idea...what if I posted an ad on Craigslist for someone to bring me coffee? Could I really rely on my fellow man to help me out in my hour of need? Are people really that selfless? I took to gchat to consult Helena:

me: helena, i'm honestly considering posting an ad on craigslist in random gigs for someone to deliver me a latte
Helena: do it
see if it works
what's the worst that can happen?

And that's about all the convincing I needed. Ten minutes later, I had posted this ad in "domestic gigs":

(For those of us without 20/20 vision, it reads "So, I'm at work and desperately need a cup of coffee but I can't leave my office. You can see the predicament I'm in. None of my co-workers are in, none of my friends can do it and my mom refuses to drive in from Maryland. I would really, really appreciate it if you could swing by and help me out. I'd prefer a quad venti skim latte from Starbucks, but I realize that beggars can't be choosers. I can pay you back upon delivery. As a bonus, I can offer you a bevy of free office supplies including, but not limited to, promotional packs of gum and extra-heavy card stock paper. Thanks!"

20 minutes later, I got my first response:

KEEP ON DREAMING HEHEHAHAHEHEhahahehehahahehe

Reading that burned like Chlamydia. Come on asshole! If you're not going to bring me coffee or at least give me advice on how to get coffee, why take the time to email me at all? This was essentially a digital version of pointing and laughing and I did not appreciate one bit.

Luckily a few minutes later, I got another response:

ad was funny.. why not get a coffee pot and lil fridge.. there are pots you can make by the cup when you want em lil coffee packs of diff flavors go in em.. go look in kohls or sears or such pricy but worth it..

'Eh. I guess this one is more constructive than the last, but didn't I explicitly state that I can't leave my office? How do you propose I get to Kohl's or Sears to get a "lil" coffee pot and "lil" mini fridge? Clone myself? And if so, does the clone have her own money to buy kitchen appliances? Because I sure as shit don't. I appreciated the sentiment though.

Then this response rolled in:

how about you suck my dick,,, and we call it even

Now, I like coffee. And I also happen to like dick. However, I'd prefer to keep my interactions with coffee and dick separate. And by the way, I don't really think exchanging a blow job for a cup of coffee really is "calling it even." How much does a cup of coffee cost? $5 max? I'd like to think a Meg McBlogger blow job could fetch more than that, thank you very much. I'd expect a biscotti too, at the very least.

Just when I was giving up hope, I got this:

hey do you still need coffee? - phillip

SCORE! An offer that didn't involve laughing at my misfortune or sucking dick! I jumped on it. But before officially accepting the offer, I quickly looked this Phillip character up on Facebook to make sure his picture wasn't him holding a giant butcher knife, wearing a t-shirt that says, "IMMA CUT YOU!" Luckily for me, not only was he not wielding a knife or menacing t-shirt, he used to work with Alex and is currently the assistant manager of American Apparel in Chinatown. How crazy is that? I briefly considered asking him to bring me a romper and leggings with my coffee, but decided not to press my luck.

10 minutes later, Phillip the delightful hipster delivered me my delicious quad venti skim latte. When Boss #1 and VP showed up a few minutes later, they were none the wiser.

Score:
Murphy's Law: 0
Craigslist: 1

Recrap Wednesdays: More to Love

Believe it or not, I've missed recapping god-awful television on a weekly basis. SO, I've decided to start recapping Fox's new dating competition show, More to Love (or as I call it, Fatties Need Love Too. I like to create my own direct titles for things in my mind. For example, I simplified The Curious Case of Benjamin Button to MAN BABY.) Here's my question: Why? Why did I do that to myself? My life is painfully awkward enough, why did I have to go and force myself to watch an hour of the most ungodly uncomfortable television programming ever? There are some things that are delightfully uncomfortable to watch (i.e. Meet the Fockers; Borat; The Office) and then there are some things that are just really, really uncomfortable to watch (i.e. Schindler's List; The Killing Fields; midget porn). This show falls in the latter group.

After watching Episode 1 of Fatties Need Love Too More to Love, I felt so dirty and wrong that I called my mom and confessed what I had just done. Her response? "Oh, Meghan." But she didn't say it in like a OHHHHH Meghan! GIRL, you so crazy! kind of way. She said it in a Your Mother is Genuinely Disappointed in You kind of way. It was the same "Oh, Meghan" I got when I called to tell her I got an underage drinking citation. (A situation, by the way, that I could not take seriously because I was too busy internally quoting the following from Clone High:

But that is neither here, nor there.)

So why exactly is Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I Got Love in My Tummy More to Love so offensive? Well, to answer that question we need to take a closer look at what the show is really about. When I first heard about the show, I thought it was about a fit, single, chubby-chaser looking for love. (And I was on board.) Then I realized the bachelor in question is overweight himself, which made me think it was a Bachelor meets The Biggest Loser situation where contestants are eliminated each week according to weight loss. (And I was still on board.) Even after watching the show, I still couldn't really nail the show's shtick down. But I think after a lot of soul-searching and reflection, I've finally figured it out.

Virgin Parade More to Love is about a man named Luke Connelly (26-years-old; 6'3"; 330 pounds) who likes fat chicks. (By the way, Luke has the EXACT SAME speaking voice as Harland Williams. Seriously. It might actually be Harland Williams. Lord knows he's not up to much else.) So out of the kindness of their hearts, Fox put Luke and 20 fat chicks in a house together and each week Luke will eliminate one until he's left with his soul mate.

Let me stop myself right there. First of all, Luke is kind of adorable. Sure he's a few pounds over weight, but hell; I'd bang him! He's an attractive plus-sized individual. The show's host, Emme, is also a very attractive, plus-sized individual. Because, you know, bigger people (like any other people) can be attractive. But those other 20 women? Not so much. I'm not just being cruel for cruel's sake when I say this, but these are 20 of the most ugly, unfortunate, homely, poorly-dressed, low-self-esteem ridden, sad women in all of Dress Barn. Seriously. The show is basically just a whole mess of ill-fitting bras, bedazzled nylon, asymmetrical skirt lines and acrylic heels. It's like the casting directors ran into their local mall's Torrid, shouted, "Y'ALL WANNA FALL IN LOVE?" and ran with whoever was desperate enough to go with it. I get that the show is trying to portray "real women," but these aren't real women. Sandy from Iowa wore a bra as a dress and told Luke she was going to teach him to milk a cow. That's not normal. These are ugly women who were picked because they're ugly. The point of the show isn't to portray real women falling in love, it's to show fatties with no game crying about how no one loves them and struggle to get Harland Williams to fall in love with them. And that's fucked up.

Also, besides being ugly, these chicks are...just...sad. And I mean that in both a Sad State of Affairs and literally emotionally sad kind of way. This show is basically going to teach the world that fat people cry. A lot. Every second. Of every day. Want a recap of tonight's episode? Here you go: they all talked about how they've never been on a date and never been in love and no one's ever given them a chance because they're fat and then they all cried. A lot. The end. Again, I reiterate, these are not "average" or "normal" women. There have to be obese women out there who know how to interact with men! Get them! They're out there. I mean, how do you explain all of the brides on Bridezillas?

You just can't help but to feel guilty while watching (and subsequently laughing at) Lonely 'n Homely More to Love. You know how "normal" dating competition shows are so entertaining because watching a bunch of vapid fame whores fight over a guy so they can be on television is funny? Well let me tell you, when you replace those women with fat chicks with low self-esteem who genuinely just want someone to love them, it's really not as funny. To quote my mom, "It perpetuates the idea of Sad Person As Freak. It's sick. It's like watching animals in a zoo." Well put, Mrs. McBlogger.

Poor Luke also can't win in this situation. We all know his pool of women to choose from is busted on purpose. So when he calls them all sweetheart (which he does too much) and gushes about how beautiful and cute they are and how they're just his type and oh-goodness! he just wants to date them all, he comes off like a giant creepshow who's type is fat chicks with low self-esteem. And that's kind of...creepy...and off-putting. After Luke is introduced to the contestants, they have "First Impression Time" where they all get drunk around a pool and vie for Luke's attention. In true dating competition show spirit, making out happens. (To quote my notes, "He just made out with a chick and I don't know. It's just a lot.") Normally when making out happens within 30-seconds of meeting someone on a reality show, I giggle and think "Oh man, what a whore!" However, when it happened on Boners for Pie More to Love, all I could think was, "OH GOD, HE'S TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THAT POOR GIRL!...Slash, I wonder if that's her first kiss?" The show is just so sick and creepy that it's hard to decide if Luke is sick and creepy himself, or if he's really into these women and looking for love. Then again it's a reality show, so who knows what to believe.

There were some funny moments of the show, however:
- In the beginning, when asked what kind of woman he's attracted to, Luke says "it doesn't matter if she's blonde or redhead..." but because of his slurry, dead-pan Harland Williams voice, I heard "It doesn't matter if she's a big blob of a redhead." I laughed. Then cried.
- When Bonnie from Portland said, "I just wanna make a pie for a man and have him go, WOW!" I swear to god, rice shot out of my nose I laughed so hard.
- "I LOVE SKEWERED MEATS!" - Bonnie. Again. Bless her heart.
- Every conversation the girls have with Luke during "First Impression Time" is about food. "What kind of dessert do you like?" "What kind of food do you like?" "Did you know I like to cook!" Ok, Ok, we get it! You people like food! Move on! Get some fucking game. Maybe don't talk about savory meat pies for five seconds...
- During "First Impression Time," one of the chicks decides to jump in the pool. (I couldn't tell if she tripped and was trying to play it off, or if she really meant to jump in the pool. This was one of those moments where I wished I had splurged and spent the extra 10 bucks on DVR.) When she's in the pool she says, "I must look like a beached whale!" And then America said a collective, "Yep" in perfect harmony.
- One of my notes is literally, "I just. I can't."

After 45 minutes of watching the show, I was still undecided if I would watch it again. I mean, we're in desperate need of some recrapping around here, but at what price? And then they played the "On This Season of Starving for Affection More to Love" teaser. And oh...muh...god. They hold a mock prom for Luke and the girls. So they can all finally say they went to prom. And just like that, I'M BACK IN! Why? Well, one time I was walking to work and a man dropped dead in the middle of the street. People crowded around him and started freaking out, calling ambulances, trying to help etc., but I just stood there and openly gawked out of sheer morbid fascination. I was completely aware that this was sick and made me less of a person, but I couldn't help myself. Watching Kentucky Fried Lover More to Love is a lot like that. I have a sickness and I can't help myself.

So I'm sorry mom, but Recrap Wednesdays are officially back. Cringing and feeling incredibly guilty, but back.

R.I.P. AIM, I knew ye well

I believe, that we, as a generation, and I’m talking specifically about my age group and cohorts, got ourselves born at just the right time for the internet. So way to go us for pushing our way out of our mom’s vah-jay-jays. Young enough to have grown up with it, not too old to be confused by any new additions to it. (What is this Twitter of which you speak?)

But this post isn’t about us, it’s about the loss of one of the internet’s treasures. Specifically that of our teenage years. I’m not talking about Oregon Trail because while I do consider that a cornerstone in my childhood, you can still play that here. You’re welcome in advance. When I ate brunch with Meg this past weekend (after she washed the cheese off her face), we were talking and somehow AIM came up. If you’re new, and don’t know what AIM stands for, maybe just walk away now, because I’m not defining it.

Anyway, we were shocked that neither of us had been on AIM in decades. For something that was such a staple in our formative years, it disappeared for our lives faster than the money in my bank account. The Buggles got it right when they said “Video killed the radio star” and, if I may borrow their idea, Gchat killed AIM. You know why that little yellow man was always running? Because behind him was Gchat’s red M with a chainsaw. You thought that M stood for mail, but you’d be wrong. It stands for murder. But you know what? I’m ok with that.

One thing that I love about Gchat is that it’s not only socially acceptable, but expected, that you will choose your given name as your screen name. On AIM, how many hours did you agonize to come up with the perfect screen name? I’m not going to tell you what I came up with, because it was probably the lamest screen name on the planet. Think of what your screen name was. Make it ten times lamer. That was mine. I had a severe problem (and probably a neurological condition) with numbers in a screen name, so I had to make sure my name was original enough to not have AOL suggest something like “soccerboy12” or “iluvkitties07”.

Then once you get your screen name, you now spend further hours customizing with a unique font/color combination. To me, AIM will always be synonymous with Comic Sans font. And the most garish colors you could possibly pick. Bright green background with bright blue font? Perfect. Neon yellow background and red font? Amazing. That’s how you tell the world that you just love the Goonies or the Backstreet Boys. Or Smurfs. You know, whatever you’re into. While simultaneously giving them a migraine.

How many people did you know tHaT tYpEd LiKe ThIs~*~? (I personally went through a long phase of ending every sentence with multiple periods.....Yes, it was as annoying as you think it was.) Because alternating upper and lowercase makes you stand out. Actually, just those few words were the most annoying words I’ve ever typed. I guess 13-yr-old girls have plenty of patience. Or just very strong left pinky fingers. This was especially prevalent in their AIM profiles. (~*~i LoVe AvRiL lAvIgNe!!~*~) AIM profiles were like the proto-Facebook. You had your basic info, your interests, and probably a quote. And every guy’s interest was some sort of sport. And every girl’s interest involved “hanging with my girlies”. Unless you were going through your Goth phase, then your unisex interest was worshiping the Devil.

What AIM can do that Gchat and most other instant messaging forums can’t do is allow you to meet strangers in a chat room, which really is a shame. Because there’s no better way to make friends than by answering life’s eternal question: a/s/l? I tried asking this question in a group chat on the G and got crickets in response. Because you can only group chat with people you know. All the mystery is gone. You can’t pretend to be a 24/m/FL (weird…24 seemed so old in AIM’s heyday) which was all the fun of AIM chat rooms. You could be anyone. Or meet anyone. Which is probably why “To Catch a Predator” exists.

But meeting strangers online was all the fun of the internet back in the day…until you met them in the mall by Auntie Ann’s Pretzels and they turned out to be a total creepshow. That’s why most relationships online should have stayed online. Anyone out there have an internet bfry/gfry? I remember my older sister had a heavy online relationship with some kid from Burkittsville, MD, but it never came to anything except him sending some pictures of himself playing soccer to her and then telling her the Blair Witch Project was real.

I was curious as to whether anyone uses AIM anymore. So I turned to the best people I could ask: my little brother and little sister. They know what AIM is, but they say they haven’t used it. Being 14 and 16, respectively, and therefore at the prime age to be pretending to be 23 and from KS, but alas no such luck. With Gchat and Facebook chat and everything else, AIM appears to be going the way of the dodo. Bummer, they don’t know the simple joys of the interweb that we grew up with. Like accidentally sending a cybersex IM to your friend instead of some rando you met in the Teens chat room. True story: Talking to my friend Amanda back in the day, she out of the blue IMs me with “Now you fuck me in the butt while she licks your balls”. Nothing livens up an AIM convo like an accidental three-way. It’s the little things.

Overall, I don’t know that I’m mourning the loss of AIM. I get along just fine with Gchat. And since it’s tethered to my email, I’m only Gchatting while at work. Good thing too, because otherwise, I would be all up in AIM chatrooms pretending to be a 35 year old investment banker from Missouri.

I'm too sick to blog. But I puked this up just for you.

Ugh, I'm sick. But not with my normal explosive tonsillitis/Tiny Tim/Satine a la Moulin Rouge/my own fault for not getting my tonsils out sickness. Although this is still my fault. As per usual...

Saturday night I went out a-boozin', as the young kids do. I made the very conscious decision to get drunk. I had the time, I had the money and I couldn't remember the last time I was good and drunk. "Oh man, I'm going to get drunk tonight and I am excited!" I exclaimed to Alex as I stood in line at Subway, waiting to get a delicious sandwhich. "Ooo! Let's do that!" Alex replied. HURRAY! We had a plan.

So I went home, ate my meager six-inch tuna on wheat and thought, "Welp, that's all the food I'll need for the rest of the afternoon/evening/night/my entire life. Guess I'll go drink the equivalent of the Indian Ocean in beer now." And drink the Indian Ocean in beer I did.

As Alex and I were leaving the last bar on Andrew's Birthday Bar Crawl 2009, we stopped at Ben's Chili Bowl to get food. That's where things get a little hazy. I remember 1.) not wearing any shoes (which in retrospect makes me want to curl up and die); 2.) not much else. I faintly recall it being hard to get a cab and thinking "man, these chili cheese fries are going to be delicious, but they are hot." And that's all she wrote.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was Co-Blogger Chris, who was in town for the weekend and had made plans to get brunch with me that morning. I let it go to voicemail as I clawed the walls in an effort to make them stop spinning. (When I get hungover, I get hung-the-fuck-over. I'm never like, "Ooo! I've got a bit of a headache! Tee-hee!" It's always slightly traumatic. I'm specifically thinking of a morning after 4th of July a few years ago spent lying on my parent's kitchen floor, rolling around on the cold tiles, crying my face off. My parents sat disinterested at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, kicking me gently every now and then to make sure I was still alive.)

After the room stopped spinning a little bit, I sat up and surveyed my situation:
1.) I was completely naked. This is bizarre because unlike Boss #1, I despise sleeping naked.
2.) My clothes from the night before were nowhere in sight.
3.) Curled up on the pillow next to me was two (count 'em, two) orders of half-eaten cheese fries.
4.) Being a tosser and turner, there was cheese virtually everywhere. All over my sheets, pillows face, chest, arms...dignity.
5.) I tossed back the covers and discovered a rogue pair of tweezers and a bottle of club soda in bed with me.

Given these clues, I've deduced that after leaving Ben's Chili Bowl, I came home, made violent yet passionate love to two orders of cheese fries, tweezed my eyebrows, sipped some club soda and passed out.

A few minutes later, Co-Blogger Chris was a-knockin' on my door. I answered looking like the hot-morning-after-cheese-show that I was. He seemed worried. I hopped back in bed, fully expecting him to follow. Instead he opted to sit in a chair. Three feet away from me. "...You're not getting into bed with me because of the cheese, aren't you?" [Chris looks around awkwardly,] "....Yeah..." Sigh. "And please go wash your face. I can't take you seriously with all that cheese everywhere." Double sigh.

So it's Monday now. I think I'm still full from my midnight cheese raping. I feel like I'm going to vom at any given second. Still. This is so painful.

I remember a time when I would wake up on Sunday mornings and be like, "OH MAN, who's this dude in my bed??" And now it's "OH MAN, who are these cheese fries in my bed."

Humbling 2.0

And if this world runs out of lovers, we'll still have Drinking Game Friday, nothing's gonna stop us now!

Hi gang! Happy Drinking Game Friday and such and such. Before we get into this week's drinking game, we're having a little promotion around this here rickety old blog. I have now become obsessed with winning the Blogger Choice Awards for both Best Humor Blog and Best Blog of All-Time. But I'm not fixated on winning because I think this blog is that good. Because it's not. (Which I'm reminded of that every day via email and anonymous comments. Thanks!) I'm obsessed because it gives me something to do. I could focus my attention on a.) doing my job (LOL!); b.) stressing about my life; c.) finding a new job (DOUBLE LOL!) or d.) winning a random blog award. I choose D. With a dash of B.

Here's the deal: go here and go here. Sign up (I'm sorry, it's a pain in the ass, I know, but I swear it just takes a hot second,) vote, take a screenshot, email it to meg@2birds1blog.com and I'll send you a handwritten note with a bunch of super fun promotional 2b1b stickers! FOR FREE. STICKERS & A NOTE? Fuck yeah! What will the note say? Don't know; depends on my mood. Might just be something I'm thinking about at that moment. Could be a random Dr. Dre lyric. Perhaps the recipe for my mom's Sicilian Vinegar Chicken. Could be a secret I've never told anyone before. Maybe if you're lucky it'll be an embarrassing story from my childhood. Who knows what you're going to get! Oh wait, I do; STICKERS! Who doesn't loves stickers? You can put them on shit and they look cool. So vote for us, take a screenshot and email it to meg@2birds1blog.com with your address. If you've already voted, that's cool, just go back to the site and take a shot of that. Use multiple email accounts and I'll send you multiple letters/stickers. Get your friends to do it and I'll send them shit too. We all win! meg@2birds1blog.com.

---------------

So last night I was walking home from dinner and got caught in a giant thunderstorm, sans umbrella. While I was walking all emo-like in the rain, I had a total flashback to the scene in Mannequin where Jonathan is pushing his broken motorcycle in the rain after his failed date with Roxie and he sees his Mannequin in the window of Prince and Company and freaks out. God I love that movie. It has arguably the best outfit montage in motion picture history:

That and I think I've offically decided that my wedding song is going to be Jefferson Airplane Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now":


It is my great pleasure to give you this week's drinking game: The Mannequin Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- Jonathan gets fired from a job
- Hollywood yelps
- Hollywood complains about Albert
- A cheesy transitional wipe accompanied by a "woosh!" noise is used between scenes
- James Spader sucks up to B.J.
- Armand hits on Roxie
- OUTFIT SWITCH DURING THE OUTFIT MONTAGE!
- Emmy goes from mannequin to person and visa versa
- Emmy talks about her life in Ancient Egypt
- Felix calls Jonathan, "Switcher"
- Felix talks to Rambo
- New window display
- People speculate about Jonathan's relationship with his Mannequin
- Estelle Getty is on screen. Period.

As always, thank you so much for reading. Remember to take your screenshots and get your free shit! Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

Ooo. That was a little Don Imus of me.

OH GOD. I accidentally said something racist yesterday to Boss #1. My bad.

I got my hair cut Monday night. It was much needed. My hair was getting a little too "Horse Lover" for my liking. It was long and scraggly and every time it brushed against my back I'd shutter and be like "oh god my name should be Misty."

So, after work Monday night, I jogged over to Bang and hacked it all off. Madeline Kahn a la Mrs. White in Clue was my inspiration:


Russell-the-Co-Worker was the first at work to see my new do. "You...cut your hair." Yep! "...Did you ask them to cut it like that?" Uh, yes. "Oh. Well. It looks...nice." Thanks. I think?

Boss #1 came in later that afternoon and was much more receptive to the change. But then this highly unfortunate conversation happened:
Boss #1: So has Russell seen your hair yet?
Me: Yeah, he was in earlier.
B1: Did he like it?
M: Honestly, I don't think so. I don't think he meant to hurt my feelings or anything but he was all, "did you ask them to cut your hair like that on purpose?" LOL! Ohhhh Russell!
B1: Pshh! Don't let that bother you.
M: Oh, I'm not.
B1: I just think that men don't like change. That and I think they like long hair. Like, my husband won't let me cut my hair shorter than my shoulders, you know? But he'll get used to it.
M: Yeah, well, I'm not really that stressed about it. Russell isn't exactly the demographic of man I'm going for, if you know what I mean.
*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* Now of course, the demographic of man that I was referring to was older, married men. Why would I go for Russell? Look at him; he's happily married, has a giant flock of kids and is old as fuck. The fact that he's black has nothing to do with anything, I swear! *TIME IN!*
B1: [Nods understandably] Gotcha. Have you ever tried dating a black guy? Had a bad experience or something?
M: No, although I did have a big crush on my morning Caribou barista who's bla—wait a minute...Oh! Oh, god! You thought I meant Russell isn't my demographic because he's black! *ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* Oh Meg. Why couldn't you have just let Boss #1 just think you're a giant racist? She's kind of a hillbilly, you know it didn't bother her. Why did you have to start digging a giant hole for yourself and then awkwardly try to climb out of it? Bless your heart...*TIME IN!* Because that's not what I meant. When I said "demographic." I meant he's married. And old. Not that he's old, old. Because you're probably the same age. [Boss glares at me] I just meant older. Than me. And married. And Russell. So he's not who I'm going for. I don't care that he's black. Because I like black people. A lot, actually! Haha...hah...I think I'm black on the inside. What's that called? An inside-out-oreo? Inside-out-twinkie? Oh no, that's as Asian thing. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH ASIANS. Although I've never dated an Asian either. Mostly I date white Jewish guys. But not on purpose! I don't like, profile or anything.
B1: Ok... [shifts eyes around and walks away]

BAHAHAHAHA! I out-overshared the Queen Oversharer! Yes, with accidental racism and then an embarrassing amount of effort spent trying to prove that I'm not racist, but still! I made her uncomfortable. Hats off to this girl.

Next step: talking about my snatch.

"I'm a psychiatrist, not one of your football players"

I would like to share with you my all-time favorite five minutes of television, ever. It's from an episode of Dynasty called "Alexis' Secret" from Season 2. In this clip, Claudia Blaisdel (upset that her husband Mathew took their daughter and skipped town to Brazil) tries to take her own life by overdosing on pills. At around the 1 minute 40 second mark, Blake Carrington and his staff psychiatrist Dr. Nicholas Toscanni (brilliantly played by James Farentino) show up and try to save Claudia. Accidental comedic genius was born:


Here is an itemized list of why I love this scene quite possibly more than I'll ever love another human being:
1.) If they gave Emmy's for overacting, James Farentino would would have 'em coming out his ass.
2.) Dr. Toscanni rolls up in a Delorian. Because of course he does.
3.) The overly dramatic violin music.
4.) The fervor with which Dr. Toscanni takes off Claudia's shoes.
5.) At 2 minutes and 30 seconds, Dr. Toscanni tries to hug the overdose out of her.
6.) Now, I'm not a doctor. But if I were, I miiiiiight try pumping Claudia's stomach before I try dragging her around the room, regaling her with charming, yet racially stereotypical anecdotes about growing up as an Italian-American on the Lower East Side. But then again, I'm not a doctor. Nor am I Italian.
7.) Dr. Toscanni's monologue at the 2 minute 50 second mark is what dreams are made of. If you only do one thing today; watch it.
8.) RE: Dr. Toscanni's childhood apartment: "We had a John in the hall!" Genius.
9.) The story of Dr. Toscanni's childhood is basically just extremely condensed version of the Fievel movie An American Tale. I'm always dissapointed when he doesn't bust out with "There are no cats in America and the streets are paved with cheese!" while he dances Claudia around the room like a rag doll.
10.) At one point Dr. Toscanni's dramatic monologue disintegrates into random cliché Italian phrases. It's now one of my life goals to burst into a room where someone is overdosing on pills and be like, "EVERY STEP ASIDE, I GOT THIS!" Then pick said person up and drag them around the room while shouting things like, "MANGIA! BERTOLLI! MI SCUSI! RAVIOLLI! Someone get me a cold towel, damnit! VESPA! PREGO! MARIO AND LUIGI! A-PIZZA-PIE!
11.) I understand whoever wrote this scene was thinking, "Dr. Toscanni will ramble on about anything and everything for a while to keep Claudia conscious." That makes sense. But sir, self-editing is important. Because this shitshow of a monologue could have been about a minute shorter and still have been just as effective. For example, maybe it's time to end the scene when the character is awkwardly telling failed inside jokes about the Statue of Liberty's flat ass that ends with, "'eh...maybe you had to be there."
12.) You just know that John Farentino went home at the end of the day and was like "God. I fucking nailed that."

"Take a Lick" and "Bootyhole": A Comparative Analysis

Every now and then a song will get some airplay that is just downright filthy. I think Cedric the Entertainer has a joke about these types of songs: on the radio they seem pretty tame (good beat, alright lyrics) and then you hear the uncensored version and blush like a Japanese schoolgirl. Cedric cites “The Whisper Song” as the prime example. In my own life, I downloaded David Banner’s “Play” which on the radio says “Work them hips, run girl” and I thought “Oh! A nice clean song about working out.” When I played it at a party and heard “Work that clit, cum girl” I was more than a little shocked.

Sometimes, there are songs that are equally, if not more, offensive and don’t get radio airplay, simply because there is no way to change the lyrics without fundamentally changing the song. Meg kindly introduced me to Akinyele's "Take A Lick" not long after we became friends (and that's how I knew it was meant to be).


This past weekend I was informed of the song "Bootyhole" by Tryflynn (pronounced triflin') or Trife Luv according to his Myspace. Unfortunately for our purposes, his Myspace page is the only place to listen to this genius song, until I eventually make a tribute video on Youtube.
http://www.myspace.com/thelovegoofy

Both songs are vulgar in their own loveable way. But each song also has some fundamental differences. Let's assess, shall we?

First and foremost, both songs are sung from the perspective of a couple who is already in bed together, in the middle of foreplay. And each guy wants his wife/girlfriend/mistress/trick/ho/etc. to do something for him. To be frank with you all, if someone busts out a song mid-coitus asking me to do something, I'm probably going to do it, out of sheer confusion if nothing else. Unlike me, both women in this case are reluctant to perform said act. But, not to be deterred, both men are insistent upon it and are willing to fight to get their way.

It deserves to be said that one of the fundamental differences between these two songs is the act which each is proposing. Akinyele is obviously pro-blow jobs, if you didn't guess by his subtly titled ditty. Not that much of a sexual deviation, but I guess some people just don't like giving BJs. And to those people I say, what the point? Tryflynn, on the other hand, is not pro-buttsex, but is in fact, pro-fisting. And while the subject matter is far grimier, I find his song to be far less abrasive. In fact, if you suffered from a neurological disorder that rendered you unable to process words, you'd probably enjoy Bootyhole alot more (and that is what she said!). It's just got a slicker R&B beat, one that would not be out of place in the boudoir.

Likewise, the women in each song differ in their resistance to perform said act. In Take a Lick, the chick, who sounds like a real frigid bitch, claims "Oh no I motherfuckin' won't" lick your dick. She's not only against it, she's is going to fight tooth and nail to not give him a BJ. Because of her extremely anti- stance, the bridge leans a little bit towards forced blow-jays. I believe at one point she yells "Get your hand off my head!" On the other hand, Tryflynn's partner sounds like she simply cannot believe what she's hearing. In her words, "Did he just say my bootyhole?" However, she's not entirely against it, in fact, she does let him get that bootyhole. And, unlike Akinyele, Tryflynn is concerned as to whether or not he's hurting her. Granted, at that point, he is doublefisting her.

Lyrically, Akinyele's rap has got some classic lines. I've taken the liberty of excerpting a few for you below:
"'I don't suck dills', I looked at the chick like 'Bitch, ill.'" Any new and inventive way to describe penises or blowjobs is a-ok with me. Personally, I'm fond of "getting dome" or "brain" in place of head, but I respect his reference to kosher dill pickles.
"She put her thumbs up like the Fonz" I'm sure exactly why she's giving him the Fonzie "Ehhh" to ward off his unsheathed wang, but I like the visual.
"I put my nuts by your chin, so when you look up, I be on top of you doing bobby brown push-ups" Likewise, excellent visual. Bobby Brown gets very little in the way of references that don't include coke, Whitney Houston, or beating a bitch up. Although maybe that'll change with a new scapegoat in town. (Too soon for a Chris Brown joke?)
"Stop acting scared like my house haunted" I don't think I need words for this one.

Similarly, Tryflynn's a bit of a lyrical maestro as well, although some of his lines border on gross out territory.
"My finger's getting kinda cold, I need a place to put it" This is just the most solid logic to fist someone as I've ever heard. You wouldn't want them to be cold, would you? If so, you're a communist.
"Punch you in your ass, call me Tyson, bitch" I'll call you Tyson if you promise not to also bite my ear off.
"Control you from your ass like a ventriloquist" This one is one of those uncomfortable lines. Just how far do you plan on going up there? But, on the same token, a ventriloquist is like the original fister. Some kinky 1920's vaudeville attendee probably got the idea to fist someone from watching some risque puppetry.
"I hoped you washed your ass, cuz if I smell your ass, I'm gon' kick your ass" Good hygiene is just good manners. But threatening to beat someone up is probably not going to get them to give you their bootyhole.

In conclusion, while they differ markedly in style and delivery, these songs really are not that dissimilar. Each guy knows what he wants and won't stop until he gets it. But I think it would be best served if they each ditch their prude girlfriends and find someone more receptive (insert fisting joke here) to their suggestions. If I may be so bold, I think a three-way with Akinyele, Tryflynn, and Khia might be crucial.

I hope you enjoyed listening to those songs at work as much as I did. I feel like I need a shower now.

"We Landed on the Moon!"

I just passed a bunch of newspapers commemorating Apollo 11th's 40 anniversary on my way to lunch and it took everything in my power not to reenact the following scene from Dumb and Dumber:

Excuse Me Mister

I would like to introduce a new term I've coined. I call it "excuse me."

Ex⋅cuse [v. ik-skyooz; n. ik-skyoos] verb, -cused, -cus⋅ing,noun

Excuse me, (used as a polite expression, as when addressing a stranger, when interrupting or disagreeing with someone, or to request repetition of what has just been said.)

Also, I beg your pardon, pardon me. Forgive me, as in Excuse me, please let me pass, or Pardon me for asking, or I beg your pardon, I don't think so. These phrases are used as an apology for interrupting a conversation, bumping into someone, asking a speaker to repeat something, politely disagreeing with something said, and so on. The first dates from about 1600, the first variant from about 1800, the second from the mid-1700s.

Oh wait a minute, that's right; I didn't coin this term. It's existed for hundreds of years and can be translated into virtually any language:

En Français: Excusez-moi!

En Español: Perdón!

Auf Deutsch: Entschuldigung!

Italiano: Mi scusi!

In Nederlands: Mag ik even uw aandacht!

In het Japans: Shitsurei shimasu!

In Swahili: Samahani!

...to name a few. So why doesn't anyone say "excuse me" anymore? Honestly, I would love an answer.

I was walking around Georgetown Saturday afternoon running errands and I had one of those moments where for a hot second you think it's completely possible that you've died and become a ghost. Because only being a ghost would justify the lack of courtesy your fellow man is showing you. So you try to walk face first through a wall and you're all, "Oh wait, I am alive. Just nobody respects me. K. Good to know."

All day people were cutting me off left and right, bumping into me, letting doors slam in my face, allowing children to dance around my feet like rabid Chihuahuas. Kid, I can punt you from here to next Tuesday; I suggest you learn how to say "excuse me." Actually, it's not the kid's fault; he's new and simple. His parents are the ones responsible for teaching him the importance of saying "excuse me." But no! Mom and Dad think it's just adoooooorable that little Taylor darted in front of me and almost broke my ankle! HE'S A PRECOCIOUS LITTLE DEVIL IN'T HE?!

Sunday morning I was strolling through Dupont, minding my own business, getting some coffee, when a random guy walked directly into my personal space and in an incredibly hostile tone asked, "So is this Connecticut Avenue or what?!" Woah, woah, woah, sir:
1.) I am not your campus tour guide. Don't ask me for directions like it's my job.
2.) I don't recall volunteering for a kissing booth today; kindly take one giant step back.
and 3.) I understand that being lost is frustrating, but that attitude isn't going to get you anywhere.

This was a perfect example of an appropriate time to say "excuse me." Had this man said, "Excuse me, is this Connecticut Avenue or what?" I would have gladly said, "No. One street over," instead of giving him the stink-eye and sending him in the wrong direction. You are interrupting me. Therefore you say excuse me. Right? I mean, I feel like I'm sniffing glue here. You just say excuse me to people. Common courtesy; it's what separates us from the animals. Or something.

This whole "excuse me" business has been building up for a while and I kind of lost my shit this morning. In my defense my hair was frizzing, I was running late and hadn't had coffee yet. I can't be held responsible for my actions under such harsh conditions. Anyway, I was in the metro (which was delightfully comfortable and not nearly as packed as it is when I'm on time) standing, holding the pole next to me for balance, as you do. At Farragut North, a woman walked on and stood in front of the pole I was holding. And that's cool; it's a tall pole, plenty of space for us all to grab on. But she didn't grab on. She leaned her entire body against the pole and her disgustingly long pony tail draped over my hand. (I've re-written that sentence like 500 times. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time putting this into words. Please see helpful stick figures below:)

Gross! Don't drape your creepy stranger hair all over my clean hand! Then when I gruffly moved my hand up the pole, she turned around and gave me an irritated look. Oh, I'M sorry! Was my hand in the way of your horse hair?! My mistake! Want a scalp massage while I'm there? Well blokay! NO! That's not the way that things work, sister! My hand was there first and how presumptuous are you to come in and lay your physical person all over the community pole, nevertheless directly on my hand! And when you realize you're on my hand, say EXCUSE ME! You invaded my space, not the other way around! My hand was there long before your horse hair was! I had vested real estate on that pole! And shame on me for giving up so easily and moving my hand.

As I stood there staring at the back of her head, I couldn't stop fuming about her lack of an "excuse me." It was just so unbelievably rude. And she'll probably go through the rest of her life being just as rude and never realize what a drain she is on society. And then I noticed that the sunglasses perched on her head had multi-colored hearts running along the frames. Hearts. Hearts are the universal symbol for peace and love. This woman was rude and hostile. She was the anti-heart. How dare she don hearts?! I could just see her at Jones New York all "Awww, these sunglasses have hearts on 'em! That's so me!" But they're not you. Hemorrhoids are you. Your yearly gynecological exam is you. Hurricane Katrina is you. Hearts are not you. And suddenly it became very important to me that she know this fact.

So I punched her in the head as I got off the metro. Not hard. Just hard enough to let her know what was up.

As clearly illustrated above, instead of simply letting go of the metro pole before exiting, I slid my hand down and knocked her in the back of the head with slight, yet ample force. And then I ran without looking back. Because that's the kind of girl I am.

What I want you to take from this story is the following:
1.) It's important to say "excuse me"
2.) Don't take shit from anyone who wears sunglasses with hearts on them
3.) I am not the most stable table before 9 am.

Drinking Game Friday needs your vote!

Self promotion makes me highly uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Thus, I would like to thank Leslie from Alabama for nominating 2birds1blog for the 2009 Blogger's Choice Awards for both best humor blog and best blog of all time. She also offered to destroy her brother's relationship with his girlfriend and "have him stalk me." Frankly anyone who whores out their brother and senselessly destroys relationships for my personal benefit can party with me any day of the week. So I award you 50 points, Leslie. You're currently tied with Tulane Chris, who was awarded 50 points for streaking through UPenn on the Fourth of July. Because public nudity and extreme acts of kindness are equally heartwarming, you know?

So here's the deal guys: go here and go here. Vote for us. Then get your friends to vote for us. Then get your grandma to vote for us. And if she's dead, dig her ass up and make her vote for us Weekend at Bernie's style. I know it's kind of irritating because you have to make a little account for yourself, but I swear it takes like 15 seconds max. And we both know you're not doing anything else right now. So yes. Please. Vote. Get friends to vote. Dead grandma. Bernie Lomax. Self promotion. I feel awkward. Time to abruptly segway into Tulane Chris' 80s/90s Sitcoms with Strong Female Lead(s) Drinking Game!

Rules:
Drink for:
- Shoulder pads. Drink twice if they're worn by a fairly small woman who
looks kind of freakish with them.

- Articles of clothing that don't really have an English name. "Blanche
Devereaux is wearing sort of a... sequined... cagoul-blouse with
stirrups?"

- Drink if the episode touches on a hot-button women's issue, like
breast cancer screening, abortion, or hormone replacement therapy.

- Drink if the episode centers on a trite women's issue, like losing
weight but then learning to love your body but then losing weight
anyway.

- If Bea Arthur is involved.

- Drink when a character pays lip service to feeling guilty about binge
eating, and then drinks a pint of melted ice cream.

- Drink when a character delivers a tirade-homily about how things are
different now. Drink twice if this is directed at a male authority
figure - doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. (It will be.)

- Drink when a character drinks. (This one works really well with Cybill.)

- Drink for a Historic Episode, such as Ellen coming out or Maude having
an abortion.

- Drink for every awkwardly explained "Suzanne Sugarbaker Goes to Israel
to Live in a Moshav" mid-series cast change (Designing Women will fuck
you up on this.)

- Drink every time the "progressive" character chides the "traditional"
characters about being open about their sexuality. Drink three times
if this is immediately played for laughs by having the progressive
character be shocked by something.

- Drink for that weird wispy-yet-immobile hair that was for some reason
considered attractive between 1985 - 1992. (No man wants to run his
hands through the AquaNet topiary.)

- Drink if the theme song is sung by a white woman who thinks she has
soul, but is mistaken. Double if it's about friends or making it on
one's own. Quadruple for the Maude theme song.

As per always, thank you so much for reading and voting and voting and Lomaxing and Twittering and facebooking and oh gosh we just love you! Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

Baby's First Business Trip

So I went on my first business trip. I don't mean to get all Aspie's on you, but I've been anxious for weeks about this trip. It's no secret that I don't like my co-workers, so going on a three-day romantic getaway to NYC with them sounded pretty god-awful to me. But I went; I didn't fake sick and lie my way out of it. I owned up to the fact that I'm a big girl now so it's time to put on my big girl pants and go on a business trip. So, how was it? Take how bad I thought it was going to be, multiply it by a thousand and then punch yourself in the face because you're still no where close.

Allow me to give you the play-by-play:

Day 1: Monday
I arrived at Union Station at 7 o'clock in the morning to meet my co-workers and catch the train. In order to pack, shower, primp etc. and get there at 7, I had to wake up at 5 o'clock in the morning. That's a big deal for me. If you were to wake me up at 5 o'clock in the morning and say, "Hey Meg, there's a giant pot of gold waiting for you down the street! You just have to physically get up and get it and it's all yours!" I would honestly mull it over for about thirty seconds and go back to bed. But, by the grace of god, I managed to pull myself together and get there on time at 7. We took the 7:30 Acela train to New York, business class. Sexy, right? Boss #1, Boss #2, Russell-The-Homophobic-Co-Worker and I sat down at a 4-seater with a table between us and embarked on our journey. Shenanigans started almost immediately. Boss #1 decided to get a bagel with cream cheese and offered Russell-The-Homophobic-Co-Worker half. He declined saying "it tastes like mumble, mumble." Excuse me? What did you just say? He repeated, "it tastes like ____" And then he said what I thought was sperm. But no, he couldn't have possibly said that. Because Russell is a raging homophob! And he loves Jesus! People who love Jesus don't say sperm! Boss #1 asked, "Did you just say it tastes like sperm?!" "Yea! I don't eat cream cheese, cottage cheese, ricotta cheese, any of that stuff; because it all tastes like sperm!" At this point I thought I was going to vomit, cry and die of laughter simultaneously. Because 1.) you are Russell-The-Homophobic-Co-Worker, not Russell-the-Jizz-Wizzard-Co-worker; how the hell do you know what sperm tastes like?! 2.) What sperm have you been tasting that tastes like cream cheese? 3.) What would move you to tell us this and not just say "No, thank you." Just another chapter in my book, Interesting Decisions and the People Who Make Them.

Once we arrived in New York, we went straight to the conference and had a welcome reception and welcome lunch. This was way too much time spent awkwardly standing around eating finger foods, contemplating whether or not it would be too shameful to hide out in the bathroom until our meeting started.

Then, from 1-5:30, we conferenced. Presentation after presentation after presentation about god knows what. And here's my question: why do all power-point presentations start with a motivational quote slide, which the presenter reads in a meaningful tone and then asks "who said it?" For some reason this really, really gets my goat. For example:

"Winning is not a sometime thing. It's an all the time thing. You don't win once in a while. You don't do things right once in a while. You do them right all the time. Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing." ANYBODY? ANYBODY? WHO SAID IT? ANYBODY KNOW?......ANYBODY...COME ON GUYS...Anybody? Vince Lombardi. Ok moving on.

What's the point of this? We're not 13-year-old girls with motivational butterfly quote journals. We don't know who said it. Just ask once (if at all) and then move on. We have four and half hours to get through here. Christ.

Four and a half hours later, we made it back to our hotel. We had a half an hour before we had to be at our team dinner and I was looking forward to flopping on my bed and not talking to anyone. Alas, that much needed personal time was not in the cards. Marriott fucked up and I had to share a room with Boss #1. Upon hearing this Boss #1 looked at me and said, "well, hope you're comfortable with me because I sleep bare ass," and then walked away. She sleeps "bare ass." Let me just jump ahead a bit and answer the question I know you're asking—yes, I have seen Boss #1 very, very naked.

After dropping off our luggage in our hotel rooms, we convened outside the hotel and waited for our car to come and take us to dinner. Our car came. But it wasn't a car. It was a prom-style stretch limousine blasting Madonna's Vogue at full volume.

Dreamy star-studded limo ceiling:

Classy fake limo crystal stemware:

My co-workers squealed with delight. I died a little on the inside and prayed to god I wouldn't see anyone I knew. We piled into the limo (prompting a delightful flashback to Senior Prom, tripping balls on pot brownies) and suddenly it was like Girls Gone Wild: 40-Something Divorcée Edition. Everyone was taking shots, flashing their bras and taking pictures. I sat quietly with my hands folded in my lap. Honestly, I am not a prude at all, but I just can't quiet that little voice in my head that says, "THIS IS HORRIBLY INAPPROPRIATE!!!" Finally we got to the restaurant and headed to the bar for pre-dinner happy hour. Where of course the pregnant woman from our NYC division was pouding beers. And no, it was not non-alcoholic beer:


At that moment, I sat myself down and thought, "Meggles, you have two options here: you can go through the next three hours feeling awkward as sin, ruminating to yourself about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or you can chug this beer and get rull friendly." I chose the latter. So I put in the effort and mingled with my co-workers. I have heard about more children's softball leagues than I ever knew existed. But I was inquisitive and polite, so good for me. Mid dinner I glanced down at my iphone and guess what wireless network popped up? Dr. Dre.

A high-pitched squealing noise flew out of my mouth and the table went silent. I looked up and everyone was staring at me waiting for an explanation. And let me tell you, it's not as easy as you'd think to explain to a table full of strangers that Dr. Dre is your soul mate and you're totally all up in his wifi right now.

As dinner winded down I couldn't wait to go back to the hotel. I was pooped. I wandered over to a (drunk) Boss #1 and told her I was heading back, to which she slurred, "Aw hell, does this mean I have to go too?" "No, no; I have my own room key." "GOOD. Cuz I wasn't done partyin'!" Hahaha awkward polite laughter you're a drunk and you make me uncomfortable gotta go. By the way: you people are all married and 46-years-old. Why are you getting freaky with each other like inner-city children at a school dance? Seriously, I have never seen so much drunken ass-grabbing and shameless sexual innuendo swapping in all of my days. Growing up my dad was always away on business; is this what he was doing that whole time?! Is this normal business trip behavior?? You have children and loving spouses! Stop sitting on each other's laps!

When I got back to the hotel I felt like the biggest loser ever. It was 10:30, I was exhausted, and everyone else was out partying. As I sat on my bed in my Jack Daniel's pajamas (that I was in no way prepared for Boss #1 to see,) I called my mom and had a total flashback to freshman orientation. Freshman orientation was a disaster for me. I hadn't met one person I thought I could be friends with and my over-night roommate answered the door completely topless and made me feel like a loser when I didn't want to go "watch the boys play Frisbee." I called my mom in tears all "I HATE COLLEGE! Everyone is topless and from Long Island and this was a huge mistake and I don't want to be here anymore!!!!!" Bless her heart, she stayed on the phone with me until I fell asleep. This time I called her up tear-free, said "these people are bit-shit crazy" had a good LOL and curled up in bed to watch Dead Like Me on my laptop.

A few hours later Boss #1 poured herself home. She was drunk. She stripped down to her bra and underoos, grabbed a pair of tweezers, perched herself on the sink and with the door open proceeded to drunkenly pick her zits in the mirror while gossiping about our co-workers. The night actually turned out to be kind of fun because we both got into our respective beds and stayed up for hours giggling and talking shit, slumber party style. It turns out she hates Mark The Big-Gay-Co-Worker maybe even more than I do! That was a special moment. A special, naked moment.

Day 2: Tuesday
The next morning I got up and hopped into the shower, ready to face a 9 hour day of meetings. As I stood in the shower, Boss #1 barged in—"MEGHAN! I just got my period! Do you have any tampons?" Now, the shower of course had a shower curtain, but it was semi-transparent...which made things semi-awkward. I said "no" as I awkwardly tried to hide my entire person behind a six-inch square of washcloth. "Aw hell. I'm bleeding out my snatch. Guess I'll just have to shove some toilet paper up there until we can find a CVS." So I stood there. Naked. As inches away from me my boss shoved toilet paper up her "bleeding snatch." Nothing will ever be the same in my world again.

To make matters worse, Boss #1 later walked out of the bathroom and caught me changing my underoos. I grabbed my skirt and covered myself. Boss #1 clearly didn't notice what I was doing and kept talking to me about God knows what. Finally I squeaked out, "Um, would you mind turning around, I'm sort of, um, changing my bottoms." CHANGING MY BOTTOMS? Who the fuck am I??? I might have well said my "fanny" was showing.

A few hours later, we arrived back at the conference and dived into nine straight hours of meetings. I got through these nine hours by playing many a round of "99 bottles of Stephen Hawking on the wall" ("99 bottles of Stephen Hawking on the wall, 99 bottles of Steve, you take one down, pass Steve around, 98 bottles of Stephen Hawking on the wall"—and so on) At one point I looked at a graphic that was on the wall and thought to myself, "Ooo Trade Gothic! I like Trade Gothic!" and decided to see how many songs I could write about my love for Trade Gothic.

To the tune of Baby Got Back:
I like Trade Gothic and I can not lie
You other designers can't deny,
When you open that doc, highlight your type and put in trade goth
It looks CLEAN.

To the Tune of Billy Idol's White Wedding:
Hey little sister, what have you done?
You put it in comic sans cuz you thought that font was fun,
Sure it's kind of fun, but so is smoking crack
You need a new font and I know where it's at
Let's go to Font Town—SHOTGUN!

Yeah, you need a new font that's, not as played
You need the sexy font of, Gothic comma Trade

To the tune of Johnnie Taylor's Disco Lady:
Rag it left, rag it right
Kern it in, make it tight
Trade Gothic Lady!

Lead it up, lead it down
Play with placement, move it around
Trade Gothic Lady!

To the tune of Lady Gaga's LoveGame:
Let's make it sans serif, let's make it thick
Trade Gothic is my favorite typeface, bitch.

Let's make it sans serif, let's make it thick
Trade Gothic is my favorite typeface, bitch.

'Eh. I kind of lost it with the last one. But this and a lot of Twittering is what got me through those long nine hours. At one point I noticed the person leading our discussion clearly had an accident and was missing three fingers on his right hand. You could also tell he was rocking a fresh skin graft too. I was retrospectively nauseated at shaking his head. I was sitting right next to him while he was giving his presentation (his opening motivational slide quote was from the founder of Patagonia, in case you were wondering) and every time he would point or motion with his hand, his freshly skin grafted numbs would fly past my face and I'd spend 15 minutes trying not to vomit. I realize by me saying this I'm probably going to get my hand chopped off on the way home from work today, but I'm just being honest.

Nine (—ty billion) hours later, our meetings were over and I skipped the second team dinner to meet Co-Blogger Chris for dinner, where I'm not saying I acted like a manic psychopath, but I'm not not saying I acted like a manic psychopath. I was just so excited to see someone I could actually be myself around. Being Work Meg (aka Meghan) for such a long amount of time can really take it out of a girl.

I got back to the hotel room at around 11:30, Boss #1 nowhere in sight. Again I cozied up in my Jack Daniel's pajamas and watched TV for a few hours until Boss #1 came home faaarrrr drunker than she had been the night before. She was stumbling, slurring and incoherently mumbling about how "she couldn't walk even though she was flat-footed." Boss #1 stripped down again, got in bed and proceeded to drunk dial her ex-fiancé from 13-years ago, Steve. She told me all about her four prior marriages and the intimate details of Steve her ex-fiancé. Steve and Boss #1 met on a business trip similar to the one we were on, except Steve walked her back to her hotel room, pushed her into her room, threw her up against a wall and fucked her then and there. (True or false: that's the hottest thing I've ever heard?...True.) They drank champagne and ate chocolate all night and "boy was he good at what he did," (I prayed to god she was talking about sales, but she was in fact she talking about sex. "Freaky shit," to be exact.) They tried doing a long-distance relationship, but he would cry when he dropped her off at the airport so she dumped him.

Boss #1 and I stayed up all night talking and I have to say, it was pretty nice. I feel like we really connected. I opened up a wee bit and she told me more (and more and more) about her life. I liked it. I felt like maybe I was wrong about her and she wasn't an over sharing hillbilly. My little heart was warmed. Until she concluded our little heartfelt talk with, and I quote, "Ah man, I gotta go change my tampon, I'm bleeding like a stuffed pig."

Comparatively speaking, Day 3 was pretty tame. We caught a train back to DC, had a post-meeting meeting and parted ways.

Overall, here is what I learned from my first business trip:
1.) I was not made for Corporate America
2.) I might have Asperger's
3.) For having two kids, Boss #1 has a bangin' body
4.) Maybe it wouldn't kill me to open up a little more around my co-workers
5.) Sperm can taste like cream cheese
6.) Should you ever not have a tampon, shoving toilet paper up your snatch is a reasonable alternative
7.) It's not just me; Mark the Big-Gay-Co-Worker is a total asshole
8.) Man I miss New York
9.) People in their 40's like to get their freak on
and 10.) Stuffed pigs apparently bleed like a menstrating snatch

Man it's good to be back.