I've been having some serious iphone drama lately and it's made me aware of three things: 1.) I hate myself for being so painfully white that I have "iphone drama" 2.) I might be an alcoholic and 3.) I might have arthritis
I got the original iphone December 2007 for Chrismukkah and fell in love with it. I specify it was the original iphone less to be a Smug Pug and more to emphasize it had the older, boxy design. Which was a magical design. Magical and wonderful and I miss it. When I first saw it on that snowy Chrismukkah morning, it was love at first sight. We started slow—dinner, movies, late-night phone conversations, intimate heart-to-hearts, custom ringtones...but eventually like all of my relationships, things got abusive. (What?) (I don't know.) More specifically, I got absuve. I treated that thing like a Frisbee. It had more dents than Rhianna's face after a road trip with Chris Brown. (RELEVANT.) But the thing is—Original iphone never gave up on me. It faithfully served me for almost two years without so much as a single dropped call. Then one day this past June—tragedy. I was at the gym, chuggin' away on the elliptical, listening to some Ashlee SimpsonC+C Music FactoryHall and Oates' Man Eater Jay-Z, when my hand accidentally whapped the headphone cord and sent Original iphone flying off the magazine rack and plummeting to the ground. Embarassed, I got off the machine, picked it up and made sure it was ok (it was...such a trooper), got back on and started working out again. I swear to god, not three strides later, I whapped it off yet again. Except this time it didn't plummet straight to the ground. No. It literally ricocheted off the sides of the elliptical, hitting every piece of machinery in it's way going down to ensure it was finally good and dead.
$99 dollars later (plus tax) (Jew...), I had a new mid-level iphone. Not the newest, nicest one, but one step up from the original model. And I fucking hate it. Yeah it's got the 3G network and nerdspeak, blah, blah, nerdspeak blah, but frankly, it is really hard to hold. You see, the original iphone had a more rectangular, boxy design whereas the newer iphones have a sleeker, curvier design that's like trying to hold a wet bar of soap. See helpful image below:
Seriously. I feel kind of retarded saying this, but I can't hold my new iphone to save my life. I got it four months ago and it looks like I've had it for four years. The very first weekend I got it, I dropped it on the ground and the SIM card broke. Since then, I can honestly say that I drop it on a daily to tri-daily basis. And it isn't just me being careless like I was with Original iphone! It's just really cumbersome to hold! I put the blame squarely on Steve Jobs, not this girl.
Also, whereas Original iphone could take a beating like a real woman, Nouveau iphone is a total pussy! The SIM card always slips out of place, it freezes, drops calls and echoes. After only four months of use! And let me tell you a little story about Original iphone: one night after I had had..."a few Chardonnays," shall we say, I came home and crawled into bed with a giant bowl of Kashi. Unfortunately for me, I passed out after the second bite and awoke the next morning to discover the bowl on the ground, half-full of milk and completely full of iphone. I fished my phone out, let it air dry on a paper towel, threw some Windex on it and I swear to Jah, it was 100% fine. Even after two years of use and being fully submerged in a bowl of milk overnight, it was good as gold and better. Now that is what I call a cell phone.
I think I've officially decided to dump Nouveau iphone. But! I have an idea for it's replacement—The Jitterbug. GENIUS, RIGHT?!
What's a Jitterbug, you may ask? Um, what isn't a Jitterbug may be a better question:
Basically a Jitterbug is a comically simplified cell phone made for old people and me. But more importantly, it's specifically designed to be easy to hold! This idea started out somewhat as a joke, but I honestly think getting a Jitterbug might be in the top five Best Ideas I've Ever Had. Not only is it easy to hold, it's significantly cheaper a month than the iphone, delivers clear sound and reduces background noise, is available in graphite or white AND comes with with this clever beaded lanyard so I don't have to worry about losing it when I'm out boozing!:
I quote Lady Gaga's Just Dance: "Where are my keys/I lost my phone?" Ummm...check your Jitterbug beaded lanyard. 'Nuff said.
I'd like to think that I've thoroughly documented on this blog what exactly it is that I do at work all day. In case you're new, I spend my day doing activities including, but not limited to: - Writing blog posts - G-chatting - Twittering - Watching full seasons of Dynasty; My So-Called Life; Arrested Development; Dead Like Me; United States of Tara; Intervention and Extreme Home Makeover - Playing Trapped in a Box for 29 Hours - Playing Guess the Crime - Playing gchat games with Co-Blogger Chris like: "Finish My Sentence;" "Rhymes With;" "Existential Cyber Sex;" "I'd Rather Be..." and "Deepest, Darkest Secrets" - On the occasional slow Friday afternoon—napping - Calling my mom and asking what Evie's up to - Looking at jobs in random cities on Craigslist - Plotting - Scheming - And general tomfoolery
Boss #1 was running incredibly late for a meeting in the studio yesterday afternoon and left her client, who was on time, sitting in the reception area with me for over an hour. Of course the schmo picked the one chair in the entire studio that faces my computer screen, which means I couldn't do any of the aforementioned activities for over an hour. As I sat there staring at a blank Excel spreadsheet, awkwardly shuffling papers back and forth and highlighting random things, it occurred to me...what exactly am I supposed to be doing? I mean, my job is to literally sit here alone and...not die. If I'm not wikipedia-ing watermelons, what's there to do?
The answer, of course, is pretend. Just blatantly pretend that I'm doing some sort of work, like a child playing "Office." I would say 99% of the time I'm not alone in the office, I'm just unabashedly faking a time-consuming and important work activity. Yesterday, for example, I killed a good ten minutes by drafting this "pressing" email to Anna from my work account:
To: Anna From: Meghan C. McBlogger Subject: This is me writing a business related email
Dear Anna:
So the guy is still here. One hour later. Holy Christ I feel sorry for him. But mostly, I feel sorry for me. Because of course he’s sitting in the one chair in our reception are that faces my computer screen. So he can see everything. Specifically my gmail. A$$hole. I have a fake Excel spreadsheet open, so I think that’s giving me some credibility.
In reality, I’ve just been sitting here scribbling the word “$hitballs” over and over again on a post-it while randomly looking up to consult my “spreadsheet” to make sure my “figures” are correct. Hope he doesn’t look closely and see that the spreadsheet is from late 2008 and just has the number 69 written over and over again.
In other news, I just stopped writing this email to look down at the arbitrary sum of $470,750 that I wrote on a post-it note and circled it meaningfully. That’s a lot of money. I hope we made that much! I just decided we landed the “Johnson account” and netted $470,750 and change. HURRAY for us!!!!!!
Welp, Boss #1 finally just came in and I have to go put a bunch of marketing $hit together for her, so this was fun. Hope you enjoy this official-looking email I’m sending you.
Regards,
Meghan
The best part is when my boss actually gave me something to do, I was like, "I'll get right on this but I really have to finish this email and shoot it off first." To which she answered, "Oh of course! Take your time!" Lady, who exactly do you think I'm emailing?! I mean, the woman is more than aware that my job is to sit here and babysit ghosts all day. Does she thinks the ghosts got email and appreciate a prompt response?? Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about this set-up I've got going on, I'm just completely fascinated by what it is she must think I'm doing all day.
For example, last week Boss #1 grabbed a piece of paper off my desk to take notes on. She kept this piece of paper for the rest of the day until she realized it was mine, apologized and gave it back to me. This is honest-to-god what I had written on it:
Ideas/ To Do Fo' Sho
1.) Bullhorn? 2.) Alex as a ghost: Research WHO. (Britches a must!) 3.) Logo on bullhorn 4.) Mic/Headset? Ebay? 5.) Make friends w/ a tour guide and exploit that friendship STAT 6.) License? 7.) Partner w/ a bar (research!) 8.) Ghost book 9.) Set up PayPal account 10.) Put together Alex's costume 11.) Research bush to hide in
Now, what in the holy hell did my boss think that list was in reference to? Because the answer is the 2birds1blog Drunken Monument Tour, but that's certainly not something Boss #1 should ever know about. But what important work-related item does she think I'm doing which requires me to research a bush to hide in? What project do we have where britches are a "must"? I mean, she's my boss. She assigns me my projects. Wouldn't she remember giving me a project involving britches, bushesand a bull horn? How does she not think I'm the sketchiest character on the planet? I think what I'm really asking is—how the hell do I have a job right now??
I can't decide if I should take this as a sign that Boss #1 must really trust me, or as a sign that my position here is so insignificant that she's willing to overlook the fact that I use company time to plan a game of ye olde hide-and-go-seek...
I have an honest to god question for all of you fine people: what are my bosses' obsessions with talking about their vaginas? Honestly, I want to know. I am currently having the biggest What The Fuckity Fuck Fuck?! moment I've had in quite some time and it of course relates to my bosses and their obsessive need to keep everyone in the loop about their ladybits. And for the record, it's not just Boss #1 who's a vaginal oversharer. It's also Evil Boss #2! That's double the vaginas I have to hear about! And frankly, that's two vaginas too many.
Boss #2 stopped by the office the other day briefly and asked me for a tampon. Which is completely normal. I said, "yep," gave her one, and that should have been the end of that transaction. BUT NO! She leans in and whispers, "Ugh man. I'm in such a way. I was driving up here and it was just like gushing and gushing out! You know when it's just like, gushing?" WOAH WOAH WOAH lady...first of all, please don't stand so close to me when you're talking about your gushing period. Second of all, thanks for ruining the word "gushing." And finally, apparently I haven't said it enough, but—I DON'T NEED TO KNOW!!!! Me knowing about the State of Your Vagina's Union will not increase my ability to do my job one single iota. In fact, it will probably make my job harder. As I now have to worry about not vomiting for the rest of the afternoon while thinking about The Gushing every time you walk by, a-thank you very much.
But, back to today's What The Fuckity Fuck Fuck?! moment. So, I have to go to the gynecologist this afternoon. It happens. I just made the appointment this morning, so I'm going to have to leave work a few hours early this afternoon to make it on time. It's a little last minute, I know, but shit happens. I called Boss #1 this morning and left her the following voicemail: "Hey Liza, it's Meg. I'm going to need to leave work early today to make it to a 2:45 gynecologist appointment. I'm sorry this is so last minute, but it's important and we don't have any appointments scheduled this afternoon. Please give me a call back and let me know if this will be alright. Thanks!"
Now, there were two key words in that voicemail I wanted Boss #1 to pick up on: 1.) "Gynecologist" and 2.) "Important." Normally when a boss hears that combination of words, they give you an automatic, "You go do what you gotta do" pass and don't ask questions. BUT I DON'T HAVE JUST ANY BOSS FOR A BOSS. I have Boss #1. And I swear to everything and anything, this is the conversation that went down when she returned my call:
B1: Hey girl! So what's going on with you?! Me: Ugh, yea I have to go to the gyno. I'm sorry it's so last minute, but is it OK? B1: Well what's going on? *ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* What the fuck do you think is going on?! Something with my reproductive organs. We cool or do I need to be more specific? *TIME IN!* Me: Uh...nothing major, just kind of what to get something checked out. B1: Oh, like a UTI? Me: Um, no. B1: Ugh, it's not a yeast infection, is it? *ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* First of all, no it's not, but more importantly—do we really have to play 21 Questions about why I'm going to the gynecologist?! You are my boss. I do not want to talk about my vagina with you! There are only five people privy to that information: my mom, my sister, my close girlfriends, Co-Blogger Chris and my gynecologist. THAT'S THE BALLGAME. I'm just here to do as little work as possible and still get a paycheck. I in no way want to break out the cheesecake and talk about my period and emotions with you. I'm sorry. Christ. *TIME IN!* Me: Uh, no it's not. Anyway, is it Ok if I leave early? B1: Girl are you ok?? What's going on with you? Are you in trouble? *ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* Ok. I'm 99.9% sure that the phrase "are you in trouble" means "are you leaving work early to get an abortion?" In retrospect, I wish I had said I was getting an abortion, because I probably could have squeezed some extra time off for emotional pain and suffering, but alas, you have to have sex to have an abortion. That rules me out. *TIME IN!* Me: No. No I am not in trouble. I'm fine, really, I just need to leave early, is that ok? B1: .............................It's not an STD, is it? *ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!* On one hand, again, bless her heart for thinking I'm gettin' some, but on the other, what on god's green earth makes her think I'd be willing to tell her about my hypothetical STD ?! I don't even open up about asinine things like how my weekend was, but sure, let me tell you all about how much it burns when I pee after that anonymous, rough sex I had. *TIME IN!* Me: Ummmm...haha...I don't think I'm very comfortable talking about this with you. B1: Oh................................Well. Yes, you can take the afternoon off. Have a nice weekend Meghan. CLICK.
Ok, so let me get this straight—Now I'm the asshole because I won't divulge the intimate details of what's going on with my vagina to the entire office?! And that makes me the weirdo? I just...I just can't...I just can't do it anymore. I quit. I'm officially resigning from society. Me and my vagina resign. Goodnight and good luck.
But before I resign, here's your Friday drinking game! What with all the vagina talk, I guess a drinking game for The Vagina Monologues would be appropriate. However, I only saw it once like five years ago and spent the entire time trying not to crawl out of my own skin in sheer uncomfortableness. Thus, I'll give you the next best thing: The 2birds1blog Soft-Core Porn Drinking Game!
The Rules Any soft-core porn movie will do, but I reiterate, it has to be soft-core, it won’t work as well with hardcore porn.
1.) Drink (don’t chug, don’t take a shot, just a standard swallow (that’s what she said) will suffice) when a saxophone is playing. 2.) Drink when a tattoo is in plain sight during sex. 3.) Drink when a woman is wearing jewelry during sex (studs and minor jewelry like a ring doesn’t count. I’m talking gaudy necklaces etc.) 4.) Drink once for a pierced navel and twice for a pierced nipple. 5.) Chug if a guy is wearing shitty jewelry (i.e. “a shitty ring,” as Co-Blogger Chris calls them). 6.) Drink once if we’re talking fully shaved, drink twice for a landing strip and chug for a bush. My roommates and I struggled over when the rule is for a half-bush situation. I say drink whatever quantity you want. 7.) Drink twice if there’s sex not on a bed. 8.) Take a drink for a masturbation scene. 9.) Chug if there’s a three-way. 10.) Chug if an unexpected visitor leads to sex. 11.) Chug if there’s sex in a public place. 12.) Chug for girl/girl sex. 13.) Finish your drink if there’s a shitty ring half-bush combo.
Alright, hope you all have a fabulous weekend. I'll be farming rutabagas on a hippie commune in New Hampshire, not taking part in society, if you need me. Laterz!
Spotted: The most bona fide Kate Gosselin haircut I've ever seen not actually on Kate Gosselin's head Where: Metro Center It Made me Feel: Terrified
Of all the "celebrity" fads to catch on, why did it have to be the quasi-dykey and incredibly unflattering haircut of a butch reality TV mom? Who saw that coming? I mean, Khloe Kardashian has big boobs and a fat ass, why couldn't thatcatch on?
- I went to hot yoga Tuesday night. And despite my burning hatred of physically moving my body, being hot and sweating—I loved it! I know, I was just as shocked as you! I never thought I'd say this, but I'd take hot yoga over a trip to the gym any day of the week, and here's why: 1.) Oh my god I looked adorable. No fucking way I was going to be caught dead looking like Homely Helen again. 2.) Sweating like a fat hog isn't embarrassingat hot yoga—it's something I'm actually doing right. 3.) Oh hey scantily clad, smokin' hot young guy with dirty blonde hair. Thanks for wearing tight shorts that prominently display your downward-facing dog. 4.) I'm 100% aware of how emo this is going to sound, but I think I liked hot yoga for the same reason I like getting tattoos—it's the zen of Pain. Bear with me. When you get a tattoo, it fucking hurts. That's a given. But the thing is, there's nothing you can do about it. You just have to lay there, clear your mind and find a way to deal. There's no other way around it. When something hurts that bad, you're not thinking about how shitty your job is, or how you still haven't figured out how to change the light bulb behind the back splash of the bar, or how the hell are you going to pay this month's student loan bill—your mind is completely clear and focused. And for someone like me, that's a nice little change of pace. Because I'm a worrier and it's hard to get me to clear my mind. Normal mediation doesn't work for me. If you put me on a massage table, rub me down with eucalyptus oil and put me in a room with pan flute music playing for an hour, I will have a panic attack. That is entirely way too much time to sit there and think. However, if you jab me repeatedly with a needle or lock me in a 105-degree room for an hourand a half—enlightenment.
- I was in the shower the other morning when I realized, if you change the context of The Little Mermaid song "Part of Your World" to be about a wheelchair bound person instead of a mermaid, it's sort of a giant Fuck You from Disney to the handicapable:
I wanna be where the people are I wanna see, wanna see them dancin' Walking around on those - what do you call 'em? Feet!
[Spinnin' your wheels,] you don't get too far Legs are required for jumping, dancing Strolling along down a - what's that word again? Street
Up where they walk, up where they run Up where they stay all day in the sun Wanderin' free - wish I could be Part of that world
When I re-visited this idea later that afternoon, I realized the thoughts I have first thing in the morning are shockingly similar to the thoughts I have when I'm high as a kite.
- Helena and I ended up making it to Meghan McCain's speech at AU last night. (As Helena pointed out, this was our first KPU event. Two years after graduating.) Final summation: Meghan McCain is a silly goose. And by silly goose, I of course mean inarticulate cunt-bag, but silly goose sounds more civilized.
My ultimate goal of the night was to somehow get Meghan McCain to sign an extra birth control prescription of mine: My plan was to then put said prescription on my refrigerator to remind myself that there are some pregnancies the world would have been better off without. So take your birth control.
Unfortunately, you had to be on some list to meet her afterwards (?) and upon asking "who do I have to blow to be on that list?" Helena pointed to an unfortunate, lanky boy wearing mom jeans and we promptly decided to bounce. Despite this Fail on my part, Meghan McCain was adequately punked. By a kid in a wheelchair. (Not a mermaid.) And oh my just and gentle Lord was it awkward...
After McGiggles' (oddly short) speech, she held a Q&A session. One of the Q&A participants was a gentleman in a wheelchair who slowly and dramatically wheeled his way down the aisle towards the microphone to address Meghan. I fully expected him to be like, "Bah! I was shot in the legs in Afghanistan! Thanks for supporting our troops and mozel tov to your brothers!" but that's not quite how things played out. Which I should have known when he chose to open his question with, "Sorry I missed some of your speech, I came in late because I was buying liquor." At first I thought this was just a LOLzy OH COLLEGE! joke, but it became increasingly clear he may indeed have been adequately liquored up. For he went on to: 1.) Openly compare her father to Hitler 2.) Insinuate that her dad's about to croak at any given moment—not once, but twice and 3.) Came damn closes to tears while discussing his twice-divorced lesbian mother
...And holy shit. First of all: you fuck with John McCain and you fuck with me. I don't care who his daughter is. So back off, Roller Derby. Second of all, I mean, I hate Meghan McCain as much as the next person, but for realzies? Isn't yelling random and offensive shit in a public forum a little passé at this point? All I know is I have never wanted to crawl out of my own skin more in my entire life and I had "Monster in a Wheelchair" stuck in my head for the rest of the night. So thanks a lot, asshole.
Hey folks, it’s Becca, Meg's sister. She emailed me after her post on Thursday, alerting me to the fact that the public responded quite vocally to her mention of moustache season, and that response was a hearty "yes" and "please." I'm with you. But she herself doesn't understand the appeal so she's asked me to explain it to her, here on the blog.
One word & two letters: Magnum, P.I. Hot man, hot 'stache. Does anyone watch Magnum P.I. on A&E?? It’s on at noon or something so I haven't watched it since college but back in the day I was a huge fan. Oh Tom Selleck. You. You and your tan and your bootie shorts and your huge luxurious 'stache. You solve crime, you live in Hawaii, and you look damn good doing it. I am not sure if Magnum P.I. started my obsession or just merely reawakened a feeling I didn't even know I had. A feeling of love towards the moustache. This is truly one of the great 'staches in the world of modern 'stache history. A landmark, if you will. Tom Selleck himself has always sported a spectacular 'stache and I like to think that he refused to play Magnum P.I. if they wouldn't let him keep it.
We didn’t know many moustaches growing up so I think that Meg maybe just suffers from a lack of exposure. Mr. Meehan the elementary school gym teacher had one (“down doobie doo, sorry about you” anyone?): And so did our neighbor Ned. Ned’s moustache terrified Meghan. Literally, screaming crying anytime it came near her. She was probably under 5 at the time and I remember thinking “what's all the fuss about??” I believe the best answer she can come up with now is that it was “large and bristly and coming near her” which sounds so wrong on so many levels. And I know what you're all thinking, that the ‘stache is the common facial adornment of creepy child molesters, ergo …. But no. We just think she really didn’t like the moustache.
I think more people would like the ‘stache if they separated it from its bad reputation. Sure, rednecks have moustaches, child molesters have moustaches, the unibomber’s police sketch had a moustache, cops have moustaches—generally people you don’t want to mess with. But come on! Be open minded! Every character in every Western ever has a moustache. Tombstone alone has the following glorious moustaches: Kurt Russell; Val Kilmer; Bill Paxton; Sam Elliott; Powers Boothe; Jason Priestly; Thomas Haden Church. I mean wow—a shining team of attractive, non-molester moustache-bearers. Ditto for Lonesome Dove—even freakin’ Ricky Schroeder has a (sort of) moustache in that! I can think of nothing more harmless than Ricky Shroeder’s sweet pre-pubescent attempt at a moustache. I want to hug it.
Lets just address it—the ‘70s porn star aspect. I get it. The image of a guy in nothing but gym socks and puffy hair with a moustache … sure. I totally get it. Ron Jeremy. Right. But isn’t there some kind of charm to that? Doesn’t that say “Hey ladies (or gentleman) I am here and I got a blow-out and I meticulously groomed my facial hair and I put on these clean gym socks all in an attempt to ravish you. And ravish you I will. Rarrrr!” Thanks for the effort, porn star. I can’t speak for the rest of world but I happen to like it when my sexual partners make efforts to look attractive and are into things like grooming.
As you all know I’ve hereby officially anointed “Moustache Season” – this season falls between Labor Day and Memorial Day. Official motto: “When the White Pants Go Away, the Moustaches Come Out to Play.” This started because I – as we’ve clearly established – like me some moustache. My bf was willing to oblige. To be fair he has a full beard. But he did shave it into a moustache for my birthday. True story. Anyway, he always said that it’s too warm for facial hair of any sort in the summer, hence the seasonality of the situation. Most guys will agree with this, though I think the full beard is a bit warmer than the solo moustache. I do not in any way want to discourage anyone from sporting the ‘stache year round. Please, by all means. The “no white pants after Labor Day” rule doesn’t apply in all situations (tropical locations, hospitals, Cheesecake Factory) therefore the moustache rule has its own exceptions and I encourage you to get creative.
Speaking of beards, I am also a fan of the beard. But I felt that beards get enough love (or at least not as much hate) so they don’t really need a season. If beards had a motto it would be “Beards—Widely Accepted Since 1864.” And a word about goatees—horrible. Seriously truly horrible. Commit, man—commit to the full beard or the moustache. This Comic Book Guy from Simpsons thing you have going on is not doing you any favors. We can still tell you’re fat. Sorry.
In summation, I leave you with this final thought: A moustache is like the hot sauce of the facial hair world—its always appropriate and it goes great with beer.
Yesterday afternoon, Meg and I were both sharing horror stories from our formative years. Specifically how we were both not even remotely cool, nor did we have very many friends. Luckily, neither of us is Josie Grossy anymore. (This movie has been on E! at least once a day recently, and I’ve watched it about ten times in the past week.) Our awkward middle school selves have matured into awkwardly charming 20-somethings who no longer pee our OshKosh B’Gosh overalls in social situations (but the larger issue at hand being that we are still wearing OshKosh).
So regardless of how much of an asshole I may come off as sometimes, I am fairly competent at making friends. But when it comes to taking friendships further, that is a horse of a different color.
Seriously, I just do not understand the fundamentals of flirting. If you asked me how to get from point A to point B, where point A is a bar and point B is someone’s bedroom, my best guess would sound like a MacGuyver plot, involving a shoestring, tin cans, and bubblegum. And then I would realize I was building a contraption to open a wall safe instead of someone’s fly.
Prior to recently (read: in college, when everyone was perpetually wasted so game never mattered), my strategy was just to be as forward as possible without being completely crass. After 5-6 Busch Lights, I would just outright tell someone that I wanted to make out with them. Plain and simple and to the point. I found that it worked, as people assumed that my tactic was to act like I had no game, and that was somehow endearing. I do, however, realize that this only worked when you say it to someone’s face and not via text message. Because no one wants to put forth the effort for awkward sexual advances. This strategy gets eclipsed, at times, when 5-6 beers turns into 10-11 and you start making out with anyone and everyone. Guys, girls, dogs, a ficus, a buffalo chicken wrap, you name it.
Part of my problem is that I am never quite sure where being friendly ends and being flirtatious begins. True story: my reviriginization ended when I was out at a bar, chatting with my (now) boyfriend, and he says “Ah, it’s kinda late, and I don’t want to have to catch a train, do you mind if I stay at your place?” And literally verbatim, I said “Sure! No problem! I’ve got a futon!” And it wasn’t until we got back to my apartment that I realized he wasn’t sleeping on the futon. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
But that’s the thing with having game is that you are never supposed to actually make your intentions clear. That’s why pickup lines hardly ever work. (Sidebar: if they has worked for you/on you, I’d love to know). Because a line like “Is there a mirror in your pants? Because I can see myself in them,” clearly states “I would like to have sexual intercourse with you. Please reply.” If someone were to use a tried and true line on me, I would more than likely still sleep with them, simply because that’s such a ballsy way to hit on someone. Of course, first I’d ridicule them for having nothing more original to say than “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.” But I find that ridicule is a great way to make it to date #2.
Frankly, I would prefer someone use a line than take the “Silent Bob” strategy of announcing one’s intention. Everyone is familiar with these people at bars or clubs (and if you’re not familiar, then you are that person). These are, usually guys, who don’t say anything to the guy/girl they are interested in. Instead, they use a crowded location as an excuse to unabashedly grope someone. As if your latest gropee is going to turn around and start making out with you, because molestation is so hot right now. Usually, but not always, this is proceeded by intensely staring someone down. You know how mimes are vaguely creepy because they don’t ever say anything? Why do you think not speaking is going to land you a hot hottie? I would be more interested if you pretended to be trapped in a box. But even then, I still wouldn’t sleep with you.
So what’s a guy or girl to do? What do you do outside of college to meet that special someone? Being completely liquored up stops being a socially acceptable method of introduction unless you are on a company retreat or a VH1 dating show. And it certainly does nothing to help you remember anyone’s name if you end up next to them in the morning. There’s got to be hope out there somewhere. So I turn to you fine people, because nothing gives me hope more than our readers. What works for you in the flirtation department? Have you been seduced by a Silent Bob? Have you used a pickup line successfully? How do you bridge the gap between friends and friends with benefits?
Over the weekend I finally caught The Girl Who Cries Blood on my new favorite channel/boyfriend/what?/it's questionable, NatGeo. Regarding it's abrupt and anti-climactic ending, I only have this to say: BULLSHIT! It was BULLSHIT! And it's BULLSHIT! has lit a fire deep within, the likes not seen since Suzy Soro kicked me square in the metaphorical balls.
First a disclaimer: this rant obviously divulges the end of TGWCB, so if you're about to curl up on the couch with a big bowl of Kashi and watch it, I highly recommend you don't read this first. EXCEPT I DO, because the ending was BULLSHIT! and this rant will prepare you for the inevitable pain and anguish of which nobody prepared me. And you're welcome.
Now, in case you haven't seen the 5,000 commercials NatGeo hyped up the show with, TGWCB is about a 13-year-old Indian girl named Twinkle who spontaneously bleeds from her eyes, scalp, hands and "other body parts." There's no physical injury and she feels no pain. She just spontaneously starts bleeding. A quick little recap: the first part of the documentary follows Twinkle and her mother, Nandani, as they trek around India trying to find answers from various holy men and holistic healers. When that doesn't help, they decide to meet with top American pediatric hematologist Dr. George Buchanan, who has traveled to India take their case.
Dr. George meets her, examines her, does lots of tests, beakers beakers beakers, coagulate coagulate coagulate until he reaches his final diagnosis: a bad case of Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire. The bleeding isn't coming from an injury, the blood from her eyes isn't even coming from the tear ducts, her platelets are fine, she's otherwise perfectly healthy and most importantly, nobody besides her or her mother have seen the bleeding start. She's always conveniently on the john or having super-secret-happy-alone-playtime when she starts a-bleedin'. Therefore Dr. George says, "I've seen the movie Heartbreakers, I know what mother/daughter teams are capable of and I say good day to the both of you." But then Twinkle starts to cry and he feels badly for her, so he tells them that the only way anyone will know for sure if they're telling the truth is if they see the bleeding start, so they'll need to set her up in a sleep study situation and monitor her on a 24-hour basis. Twinkle and her mother not only agree, but are relieved that this will finally prove the truth and get Twinkle the help she needs.
THE END.
What happens? FUCK IF I KNOW! Oh wait, was there a second part on after that you missed? NOPE! World's Smallest Girl was on next. Oh, well was she at least adorable? Nope, wanted to punt her across a football field and celebrate with wings and a beer.
MOST UNSATISFYING END OF ANYTHING EVER! And the thing is, I could handle it if the answer to the mystery was, "Welp! She's a liar!" Because that wouldn't be so bad, it was still an interesting documentary. I could even handle it if the doctor was like, "Fuck if I know! Guess she's a Medical Marvel! GLAVEN!" Because it's not the not knowing that's so frustrating, it's the fact that a simple test is all that lies between knowing and not knowing, and yet it never gets done. And not because Twinkle or her mom don't want it to happen, but just because. Just because it never gets done. Like when you go get a physical and half-mention to your doctor that you've been tired recently, so he or she tells you that you should really get your iron level tested and you're like, "yea...that'll totally happen..." but never do and your doctor never follows up because who really gives a shit and everything is fine in the end because you just needed to stop staying up to watch reruns of South Park and go to bed on time. That's how everyone handles the situation. Except Twinkle hasn't been feeling more tired than usual—she's been bleeding out of her fucking face holes. And this isn't just a physical—a doctor traveled to India with a camera crew for the sole purpose of figuring out why this is happening. Don't you think everyone involved, including the documentary crew, has a vested interest in finding out what's up?? I mean, I'm the Queen of not following through with things, so I guess I get it, but this seems like one thing that even I might want to put in the time and energy into actually getting done. You know, what with the stigmata and all.
You may be tempted to point out that if this is just a hoax, than of course Twinkle and her mom would be hesitant to go get the test done. But that's just it! They were the ones who were actually the most psyched about doing it in the first place! Her mom literally says, "This test is exactly what we want to happen. Sooooooo...how do we contact you about doing this...?" But Dr. George is all, "Yyyyeaaahh...I've got a game of squash next Tuesday that I've already rescheduled twice and really can't move again...umm...yiiiiiikes...let me wait to get back to the States and take a look at the old google calendar and then you look at yours and I'll chat ya and we'll work it out. Mmk? Kay. BYE NOW!" and high-tails it out of the country.
And the most infuriating part is that it really isn't even a test that needs to be done! They just need to film her for 24-hours or until she starts bleeding, whichever happens first! And then they'll know for sure whether or not she's lying! AND THEY BLATANTLY ALREADY HAVE A GIANT CAMERA CREW WITH THEM. The hard part's already done! What? Are you trying to tell me there isn't one single tripod in the entire country of India? Not one motherfucker willing to sit in a chair, drink coffee and make sure the little REC light is blinking? And not one single person in India has insomnia and can poke that guy with a stick if he starts to nod off? I mean, I'm not a medical doctor, but that sounds like a pretty fail-proof system to me.
So now we're in our first fight, NatGeo. Good job. How dare you flood the TV with intriguing and provocative commercials for The Girl Who Cires Blood and then have it fail so monumentally? Tonight I will only watch you on the couch, not in my bed. Suffer.
Man, it genuinely feels good to not be hungover on Drinking Game Friday. That's a nice change of pace. Anyway, before we get to today's drinking game, I'd like to share with you two things that have nothing to do with anything. One being I just checked my blog e-mail, to discover this:
And my god, it is far too early in the morning for my spam filter to fail. I generally don't like to be confronted with the phrase "lick a chick out" until noon. If ever.
Next, I had the most coked-out dream ever last night. But it was one of those really realistic dreams you have right before you wake up, so as you get ready throughout the rest of the morning it's still fresh and weird and you remember all of the weird details...if that makes any sense? Anyway, I dreamt that I was at Eastern Market shopping for a Halloween costume when I saw two blinged-out characters in tuxedos walk by me carrying boxes of cupcakes. They looked somewhat familiar so I stared at them for a few seconds until I realized, "...Is that Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg??" Obviously, I flipped out and followed them for a few blocks and as it turns out, Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg were at Eastern Market getting cupcakes for Dre's daughter's wedding. I freaked out all, "BLO-MY GOD, I'm at Dr. Dre's daughter's wedding!" and tried to stealthily sneak around the venue to find Dre, but instead managed to stumbled into a private Eminem concert. Now, I don't generally like Eminem, nor do I find him sexy in the least, but at the time I was rull, rull into it. I was dancing my face off, a-makin' eyes at him and he totally ended up pulling me on stage during the last number and we started making out. Hardcore. And I'm not going to lie, it was kind of hot. Which again is confusing because I really, really don't like Eminmen. ANYWAY, after the show, Em lead me backstage to his dressing room and was like, "Yo, what the fuck you wearing?" And I looked down and I was wearing a comically over sized black cable-knit sweater and Eminem was like, "Damn girl, those sleeves too long," and took out a pair of pinking shears and cut the sleeves off. He tossed my sleeves to the ground and I was like, "OH MY GAWD I FEEL SO SEXY AND LIBERATED" and we started making out again. That's when things get a little hazy, but the next thing I remember is everyone telling me that I was just a groupie and he was just using me and I freaked out and started screaming, "EMINEM LIKES ME FOR ME! NOBODY UNDERSTANDS US!" I went to his next private show and truthfully I was really nervous he wasn't going to remember me and my friends would turn out to be right, BUT, not only did remember me, he pulled me on stage again and took me backstage after the show. Except once we got to his dressing room, he pulled me in for a kiss and said, and I quote, "You smell like a fucking Cosi." To which I said, "No! It's just because I ate a bag of salt and vinegar chips!"
And then I woke up. Fifteen minutes late. And all cracked-out of my gourd.
Ok, well that was special. Hope you enjoyed that little tour of my subconscious. Now onto today's drinking game. And on a day like today, did you really think DGF would be dedicated to anybody else?
Oh Pay-Sway...RIP, my tiny dancer.
The Dirty Dancing Drinking Game
(Before I get 900 emails reaming me out for not picking Point Break, I would like to state for the record that I fucking hate that movie for the following reasons: 1.) Lauren Petty. Period. 2.) Keanu Reeve's invisible acting skills 3.) HE THROWS HIS BADGE INTO THE OCEAN AT THE END!!! The fuck?! I get that he lets Pay-Sway catch The Great Wave because they were bros and Keanu apparently has the heart of a surfer, but really?? Was it really necessary to chuck your badge into the ocean too?? Garey Busey was viciously gunned down trying to catch Pay-Sway! And not only does Keanu not avenge said death (which, by the way, is what I thought all FBI partners do for each other, asshole) he goes and shits on everything he learned from Busey in the process by dramatically throwing his badge into the ocean! So Busey died for nothing. Because in the end, Pay-Sway gets to catch his Great Wave and Keanu decides, fuck it, I think I'll quit my job and work at the fish taco stand for the rest of my life. And it's bullshit. But, you know, still, RIP Swayze.)
Rules: Drink When: - A voice comes over a loudspeaker - Watermelons - Neal patronizes Baby - You can't stop looking at Jerry Orbach's eyes and thinking that some random schmo in New York City is currently walking around with them - Someone receives a monetary tip - Anyone says the word "lesson" - Anyone says the word "summer" - Someone counts off - Baby and Johnny practice the lift - Anyone lip syncs - Baby says "daddy" - Anyone goes a-slummin' - She's like the wind - 15 years later you finally understand that Penny got a back-alley abortion, not the flu - Baby sneaks off to Johnny's cabin - Lisa talks about doing it with Robbie - Somebody puts Baby in a corner - Somebody takes Baby out of said corner
Sadness...welp! Have a terrific weekend! You know, I bet if you told five friends about 2birds1blog, Patrick Swayze could rest a little easier in heavan. And shouldn't we all do our part to make sure Pay-Sway's eternal soul can rest a little easier? You know, after all the joy he's given us over the years...don't be selfish guys. Tell five friends. K, love you, mean it!
- I've totally fallen out of my gym routine. Which is irritating because it hurt like child birth to get me into said routine in the first place. My sister has been singing yoga's praises for months now and lord knows she's 50 times more jacked than I'll ever be, so I thought joining her Yoga/Pilates class last night would be just what I needed to get me back in the gym mood. Gym foreplay, if you will. It was my first yoga class ever. My thoughts: 1.) Yoga District is located in a fifth-floor walk-up. And yowzahs. Because it's always good when you're gasping for air as you sign up for the class. 2.) Um, hi. I sweat like a bitch last night. Like, an embarrassing amount. And no it was not a Bikram yoga class, but given how disgustingly red and sweaty I was during and afterwards, it might as well have been. 3.) Note to self: wear adorable, skimpy yoga outfit like everyone else next time. 4.) PS to self: go to gym and lose weight before acquiring said adorable, skimpy yoga outfit. 5.) So the instructor touches you, 'eh? I was aware she would probably have to touch me to adjust my stance and such, but at the end of class, during our quiet meditative time, she came around and gave each of us like a mini head/shoulder massage. Which I'm in no way complaining about. I just felt bad for her (...see thought #2). 6.) Overall, this experience less motivated me to go to the gym because it felt so good and more motivated me to go back because I'm now incredibly aware of how grossly out of shape I've become. This was Becca's first class at Yoga District, and apparently it was no where near as challenging as she normally likes. As she said, it gave her "yoga blue-balls." I, however, feel like I got hit by a car this morning...Back to the gym I go.
- Speaking of ridiculous things my sister has said, the other day we were discussing her intense love of mustaches when she mentioned how excited she was because it's almost, "mustache season." Apparently, mustache season begins after Labor Day ends, in a sort of reverse White Pants Rule kind of way. Or as Becca puts it, "When the white pants go away, the mustaches come out to play."
I have never felt so completely molested by a sentence in my entire life.
- Russell The Co-Worker is driving me completely fucking crazy for the following reasons: 1.) Whenever he introduces me to one of his clients, he introduces me (in a Southern accent) as "Boss Lady Meghan." This makes me highly uncomfortable for so many reasons. Specifically because Russell is African American and his referring to me as his "Bossy Lady" makes me feel slightly too slave-mastery for my liking. I always feel like after he says that I should make a joke about how I can really "crack the whip," but then the .5% of me that actually has some common sense tells the other 99.5% of me to shut the fuck up. 2.) Oh. My. God. The sucking noise. Russell makes this noise with his mouth all god damn day long that grates my nerves like you wouldn't believe. To replicate the sound, please do the following: place the top of your tongue on the back of your front two teeth; pretend like you're about to say the word "Thursday"; now suck through your front teeth. Hear that high-pitched, squeaky noise that's produced? That's what I hear all day long. ALL. DAY. LONG. You know how they say that the painful part of Chinese water torture isn't actually when the water hits your forehead, but rather when you're waiting for the water to hit your forehead? It's the same principle for Russell's Chinese Air-Sucking Torture. The anxiety I feel at any given moment sitting at my desk, just waiting for him to suck air through his two front teeth is unparalleled. Unparalleled and maddening. What about being in a shared office environment makes you think it's acceptable to repeatedly make a high-pitched and irritating squeaky noise with your mouth? It's just endlessly confusing to me. And now I have all this anxiety about whether or not I should say something to him about it. Because on one hand, it's legitimately driving me insane and I'm about to lose it, but on the other, telling a co-worker to stop sucking air through his teeth might make me That Guy. Jury's still out. 3.) I have to clean up after him all day long. I understand that he's never going to offer to help me clean up after big events like his meetings or lunches. Yes, it would be a nice gesture, but I gave up on society a long time ago. I've accepted that people don't really waste time on nice gestures, and I've moved on. However, what I refuse to accept is that he can't even be bothered to close doors or drawers after himself. I mean, honestly, how much extra effort does it take to close a drawer all the way?? The energy spent pushing a drawer shut all the way and the energy I will inevitably spend fuming when you don't are completely disproportionate. When you're done with a drawer or cabinet, close it. Completely. Because it just shows such a blatant lack of respect for me and my time that when faced with the task of shutting a drawer, he's like "meh, Meghan will do it," and gives it a half-push. Because, frankly, fuck you, buddy! I have better things to be doing with my time. Better episodes of Dynasty to be watching. Better paper airplanes to be making.
The following photos are actual photos taken this morning as a result of Russell's inability to shut doors. I assure you they were in no way staged: (True story: directly after taking this photo, I started to hear this irritating beeping noise. I looked around everywhere trying to figure out what it was, and then I realized it was the refrigerator beeping, as—SURPRISE!—Russell didn't close the door all the way behind him and the temperature had dropped too low. See next picture.)
I am not your wife, sir. Nor are you my child. It is not my job to walk around and pick up after you all day. So shut the fucking door behind you or I will punch your front teeth out and kill two birds with one punch.
- What I'm about to share with you might very well be one of those things that's only funny to me, but it was also funny to Alex, so I'll take a risk and share with you. I'm going to let the e-mail I sent to Alex a few weeks ago while he and Helena were in Greece speak for itself:
From: Meg To: Alex Subject: Important
Alex:
I just tried to download the Scissor Sisters song "Making Ladies" because I thought it would be a good gym jam. I couldn't find it on itunes, which only made me want to listen to it even more. I went to youtube, searched "Making Ladies" and subsequently found a video of someone designing female Sims characters and dressing them in gothic club outfits, which they wear to go line-dancing in, all the while with "Making Ladies" playing in the background.
I guess what I'm asking is, when you come back from Greece, would you like to get high with me and watch this video a bunch of times?
Please advise.
- Meg
To quote Alex after he first saw it, "Thank God the Internet was invented."
Before you read my recrap of last night's series finale of More to Love, I need to you to know a few things about the state I was in last night when I wrote it: 1.) I had just come home from yet another day of abuse at work. 2.) I had to stay at work until 7 o'clock to clean up after Boss #1's last minute "Happy" Hour, canceling plans I already had and making me look like That Guy. 3.) While I was cleaning up said "Happy" Hour, I sliced my right middle finger open on a cheese knife and therefore wrote this recrap down a finger. (Blogging is a full-contact sport. Don't say I never did anything for you.) 4.) I'm not going to lie, as my fee for staying late at work on such short notice and slicing my finger open, I stole a bottle of wine and three bottles of beer. I wrote this recrap not entirely sober, hopped up on Mucinex and in a state work-induced depression.
That being said, enjoy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Can you believe it? It's our last episode of More to Love. I feel the same way I did when high school ended: partially relieved it's all over but mostly sad the curtain is falling on such a beautiful shit show. (Cue Vitamin C's Graduation Song.) If More to Love has taught me anything, it's that fat people missed out on crucial high school moments (what with being fat hogs and all). Therefore, I'd like to take this moment to do my part in giving these fine women a part of the high school experience they may have been too fat to experience: Superlatives.
Biggest Ta-dows: Malissa
Most in Need of a Supportive Bra: Mandy Gyllenhog
Most Likely to End Up a 40-Something Divorcèe/Office Manager: Lauren
Most Likely to Cut You up into Tiny Pieces and Store You in Her Refrigerator, Taking You Out Only at the One-Year Anniversary Mark to Eat You Like a Piece of Wedding Cake: Kristian
Least Likely to Have a Vagina: Tali
Most Likely to Break a Bicycle: Malissa
Least Likely to Open Her Eyes: Mandy Gyllenhog
Most Likely to Loser Her Virginity in a Produce Aisle: Danielle
Least Qualified as "Overweight": Arianne
Least Painful Elimination: Bonnie
Most Painful Elimination: Kristian
Best Location for a Date: The set of Medieval Hog Fuckers IV
Worst Location for a Date: TheSS Rohypnol
Best Dressed: The Zebras in Episode 5
Worst Dressed: The Entire Cast
Most Likely to Be Poured on Everything: Aunt Jemima
Least Likely to Make a Decision That Makes Sense/Most Likely to Describe Himself as "Husky"/Most Likely to Describe Another Person as "Precious"/Most Likely to Get the Best Cuts of Meats/Most Likely to Take a Date on a Party Boat/Most Likely to Pop a Cork Between His Legs/Most Likely to Actually be a Child Molester: Luke Conley
Congratulations to our winners! And with that, I give you your last More to Love recrap.
Our final episode takes place in Lukey Boy's hometown of Santa Maria California. Luke describes Santa Maria as a laid-back, blue collar kind of town. You know, the kind of town where a man can walk proudly down the street with his bountiful man boobs and tiny dog and no one will bother him none. Mmmm...I like it. Luke and his comically tiny, emasculating dog Max have a lot of soul searching to do. For, you see, he just can't decide between Malissa or the Tranny. On one hand Malissa is about as interesting as an HPV vaccination, but on the other, the Tranny is...well...Jewish. And therein lies the problem our final episode explores—Luke is a nice, devout Christian boy and his one-special-someone is a Torah-reading, upper-lip-bleaching, glass-smashing, matzah-ball-gargling Jew. What's a boy to do?! Consult his family, that's what!
Our horned-maiden Tranny is the first finalist to meet Luke's father, grandmother and brother. AND OH WHAT A MEETING IT IS! I would give anything for my future boyfriend's family to be just like Luke's for the following reasons: 1.) Luke's dad reminds me exactly of Champ Kind from the movie Anchorman. And let you a story: one day during sophomore year in college, my floor decided to cast what celebrity would play each floor member if our lives were made into a movie. As a point of reference, College Roommate Danielle was cast as Kylie Minogue. I was cast as the fictional character Ron Burgundy. "NOT LOOKS WISE!" Ex-co-blogger Eddie assured me, "just PERSONALITY wise." This would be the one moment where that would be a benefit, not a giant insult.
and
2.) Oh my gentle Jesus—Luke's Grandmother. She is a-freaking-dorable! She's just the sweetest old woman with black teeth and a hair net you'll never meet! If my sophomore year floor were cast her in a movie, she would be played by Whistler's Mother. And all I want to do is kidnap her, take her to the nearest Cracker Barrel and have her tell me all about life over an order of chicken-fried steak and a tall glass of sweet tea. Bless her heart.
The Tranny gets the privilege of meeting Champ Kind and Grammy first....with her shirt tucked into her pants. Unfortunately. For us. As Luke and The Tranny roll up, Luke's family is having a good old-fashioned backyard bar-b-que, featuring the infamous best cuts of meats. Now, I've never officially met a significant other's family, but if I did, I'd like to think I'd know better than to bring an Entenmann's brand store-bought bunt cake with me...cough Tranny, cough...Anyslice, Tranny meets the fam and raps with Grammy about her Israeli background. "I think it's great to experience different cultures," Grammy tells The Tranny. And of course she does! Because she's the most adorable thing on the planet.
Unfortunately, not all at the table are as open-minded as Grammy. Specifically Champ Kind. Champ is just a little pre-occupied with this whole Jewish mishegoss Tranny's got going on. "I mean, Tali could be my future daughter-in-law," he later tells the camera, "She could be the future mother of my grandchildren!" So, you know...sucks she's a kyke and all. AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT?! The family sits down to dinner and prays over their fine cuts of meat in the name of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Amen. "Praise the Lord and pass the taters!" says Luke's dad. And I'm not embellishing. That's really what he said after the prayer. And I fell a bit further in love.
Luke's family asks about The Tranny's background and she says she moved to New York City four years ago with 20-dollars in her pocket and a dream and has since become a motivational speaker for young girls with weight problems. To which, I say—the fuck? Thus far, Tranny's by-line has always read "Fashion Stylist/Decorator." When did motivational speaker get thrown into the mix? Can I start making up shit when people ask what I do? If so, I'm a forensic scientist and part-time go-go dancer. Officially.
Despite Tali's big penis heart, Champ is still unsure about the idea of her ending up his daughter-in-law. He's curious how she, as a Jew, feels about Christianity and what faith Luke and Tranny would raise their children. "It's a conflict for a lot families," he explains to Tranny, "Being Christian and being Jewish, there's going to be some hurdles to jump." .........Riiight. Having a Jewish mother and a Catholic father myself, I totally get what Champ is talking about. I mean, those damned hurdles—like getting double presents at Hanukkah and Christmas time and generally learning to become a more open-minded person—SUCKS...
Baruch a ta ado-five minutes later, it's Malissa's turn to meet Luke's paternal family. And boy does it go a lot smoother than with The Tranny. Malissa impresses Luke's dad with her Aryan Irish Eyes, brings flowers instead of a Snack Pack, loves that the family says grace and generally just impresses the hell out of everyone. Grammy even asks her for a hug! That lucky, fat bitch! Later, in a private moment, Champ tells Luke that he thinks Malissa would be a perfect addition to their family and it feels like "she's the last missing piece of the puzzle." ...After 20-minutes of meeting her. Which is perfectly normal. And healthy. Luke, however, still isn't convinced. He needs advice from the one woman he always goes to when he needs crucial advice: his mother.
The next morning Luke's mom, in all her ill-fitting white pin-stripe suited glory, unexpectedly drop by the house to meet her son's final picks. And holy shit do Tranny and Malissa duke it out to impress this woman..."I told this to Luke's dad, grandmother and brother yesterday," Malissa tells her, "but thank you soooo much for raising such a great guy." BBBBAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'd rather be alone for the rest of my life than suck up to a woman wearing Jones New York. But, then again, I'm single. Malissa goes on to try to impress Mrs. Luke with her (instant Pillsbury crescent rolls) cooking skills and The Tranny, not to be outshone, shares her inspirational no-cats-in-America-and-the-streets-are-paved-with-cheese story of moving to America and becoming—a model. Ok, seriously homegirl, pick a trade and commit. As of now, Tali is being billed as the following: fashion stylist/decorator/motivational speaker/model/potter/painter/Starbuck's barista/welder/CVS pharmacy technician/speech pathologist/ghost-hunter/freelance bodyguard. Perhaps it's time to narrow down the list a tad bit. Either way, Luke's mom is lapping it up. She LOVES her some Tranny! She finds her inspirational and thinks that although basic values have to be shared, they can definitely come from different religions. WARM BONDING GLOWING GLOW! Malissa doesn't do herself any favors when she tells Mrs. Luke that she tried out for the show on a whim and is just here for the "experience." A-PSHH! Wrong answer tubs! You're here to prove that love comes in all different shapes and sizes, duh. During Malissa's one-on-one time with Luke's mom, she fucks it up even more by divulging that she's an ex-skinny-person. (Not to mention the fact that she's wearing camo sweat pants, but that's neither here nor there.) That being said, I actually teared up at this scene. Malissa opens up to Mrs. Luke about her mother's death and says, "I'm just so sad my mom won't be there on my wedding day. " "Don't worry," Mrs. Luke says, "Another mom will be there for you. Trust me on that one." I don't know if it's my love for Diane talking or the free Sam Adams Oktoberfest, but I suddenly realized tears were 100% streaming down my face. From a scene of More to Love...strong, strong statements 2009. Although Mrs. Luke thinks Malissa is light-hearted and fun, she confesses to Luke that "thinking about Malissa as a future daughter-in-law feels extremely premature," whereas she thinks "Tali is amazing." BUT WHAT'S LUKE TO DO?! "...I know you'll make the right decision," she cryptically tells Luke. And sometimes what you don't say says it all, you little pin-stripped poor-man's Diane Keaton, you.
Before our final elimination, Luke takes each girl on one final date. As per any More to Love date, they're both ungodly boring, full of awkward kisses and premature confessions of love. Later, Luke confesses that he loves both girls, but there's a difference between being loving someone and being in love with someone. And he's only in love with one girl. BUT WHICH ONE!?!?!?!!11 In the mean time he plays them both like fiddles. The Tranny says she loves Luke, Luke says he loves her. Malissa tells Luke that "if you ask me to marry you, I would say, YES, YES, YES—a thousand times, yes!" To which Luke says, "We've only just began." Now, if I were in the bedazzled dress sitting across from him, I'd toss my glass of Robert Mondavi wine in his face and walk out, as proper tense usage is an important characteristic in my potential life-mate, but again, I'm single.
The next day, our love triangle prepares for the final elimination. Luke goes ring shopping—GASP!—and Malissa and The Tranny visit the gayest man on God's green earth to get their hair and make up done. Obviously, I sort of fell in love with him, as having a gay man play with my hair while I dish about my love life is my version of heaven, but more importantly! Luke has made his final decision!
As Luke stands in the winner's circle, nervous beads of sweat and marinade drip down his face and he turns to look at the ring box beside him. Malissa rounds the corner and approaches our hero with his shiny, shiny lips and golden broquaed tie. They kiss and hold holds. A hush falls over the crowd of one in my apartment. "I love you for who are you are," he tells Malissa, as her eyes like up like a marshmallow held too long over the fire, "BUT, my heart belongs to someone else. I have to let you go." OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT! MALISSA'S OUT, TRANNY'S IN! WIN FOR THE JEWS! WIN FOR THE BRUNETTES! Although, I have been blonde for an (unfortunate) period of my life and my dad is Catholic, so I guess this also kind of a loss for me in a way. Just another one of those hurdles I'll have to jump in my lifetime...
After Malissa waddles away in defeat, The Tranny makes her way down the aisle and approaches Luke. "I know life has made it difficult for people like you and I to find love," Luke tells her, in what has to be the worst intro to a marriage proposal of all time, "but you are such a beautiful curvy woman. You make me a better man............will you marry me?" And she says................................YES! MOZEL TOV, BABIES!!!!!
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