Happy Drinking Game Friday and HAPPY HALLOWEEN BITCHEZZZZ! I'd love to stay and chit-chat about how my wily black-ass got out of The Business Trip or how terribly sorry I am for the Live-Tweetcocktease, but I'm still officially on my unofficial impromptu blog vacation. So don't mind me! I'm just sneaking in to give you this drinking game. Pretend like I'm not even here! In fact, this isn't even me writing this. This is being written by Schmeg. SchmegMcFlogger. She wears a size 32A bra, doesn't drink and loves a good brisk morning jog. And has an overall positive attitude towards life. And would never let Jack Daniel's sponsor her pants...Shwelp!Straighten your bunny ears, research the best bar crawl in town and put on your game face— it’s time for the Halloween Night Drinking Game!
Rules: Drink When You: - See a Balloon Boy, Michael Jackson, Kate Gosselin, Octo-Mom or Lady Gaga costume - See a political costume - Have to explain your costume - Have to ask someone to explain their costume - Regret not wearing a jacket out because it would cover up the sexy even though it’s 40 degrees out - Inevitably make-out with someone - Initiate conversation aimed towards making out with someone with a slurred “IIuffyourcoshtumeeee!!!” (70% of the time, it works every time) - See a group-themed costume - See a “sexy______” costume - eat candy - puke - See a sex offender sign in someone’s yard (actually drink thrice—one for you, one for him and one for the kid) (Too soon?) (Never.)
Hope you all have a fantastic Halloween weekend! We'll see you back here next week when I'll actually write and attempt be funny again. HAHAHAHAHALOLZ! What a novel idea. Make sure to take a shot of Jäger for me tomorrow and enjoy the debauchery! Laterz. <3
Picture it. The Pacific Northwest, this spring. A young man turns to his friend and says "What the hell ass is this song? It sounds like the showstopper from Heteronormativity: The Opera." The friend turns to him and says, "You are a terrible homosexual, and a worse American. Everyone knows this song." Dorothy, that man was me. And the song was "I've Never Been To Me," by Charlene.
This song is fantastically bizarre, and gets more disturbing every time I hear it. And so, former literature major that I am, I've decided to perform the most horrifying of acts:
A close textual analysis. My comments in red, as befits a grader, and the video, for those who want a multimedia experience:
I've Never Been To Me ( Charlene )
Hey lady, you lady, cursing at your life The narratrix of the song is accosting a strange woman in a rude and presumptuous fashion.
You're a discontented mother and a regimented wife The narratrix proceeds to make assumptions about post-partum depression and spousal abuse.
I've no doubt you dream about the things you'll never do Like escape this increasingly surreal conversation.
But, I wish someone had talked to me Like I wanna talk to you..... Ravingly, and apropos of nothing.
Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run The narratrix is unaware that Georgia and California are both fairly populous, popular vacation destinations, economically strong, and contain airline hubs, and that having visited them both is unimpressive.
I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun The narratrix is a whore, and either not of Northern European descent or unconcerned about skin cancer or a sunburned cooter.
But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free The narratrix has been everywhere and alienated every pleasant person she knows, probably by asking them to put sunscreen on her vulva.
I've been to paradise but I've never been to me The narratrix reiterates that she is, in fact, a madwoman.
Please lady, please lady, don't just walk away The audience is beseeched not to take rational action.
'Cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today The narratrix does not understand that her tendency to pigeonhole strangers and bore them with long-winded, poorly-connected stories alienates her acquaintances.
I can see so much of me still living in your eyes The narratrix is a bad poet.
Won't you share a part of a weary heart that has lived a million lies.... It wasn't until I read these lyrics that I realized it was "lies" instead of "lives." The narratrix is tired, but reaffirms her devotion to bad poetry.
Oh, I've been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht The narratrix is unaware that Greece contains thousands of isles; she may have been too drunk to realize she was merely on the Staten Island Ferry.
I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed 'em what I've got The narratrix showed her breasts to some French people. (Side note, while we're talking about the south of France: I had a fling with a Greek guy a couple of years ago. He had been shot in the head during the Yugoslav Wars, but was none the worse for wear. I once metioned Monaco in some context, and he said "My parents used to go there a lot." I asked if they were rich or just strange, and he said "Both.")
I've been undressed by kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see The narratix slept with an Elvis impersonator.
I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me The narratrix continues to confuse herself with a destination.
[spoken] Hey, you know what paradise is? It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be But you know what truth is? It's that little baby you're holding, it's that man you fought with this morning The same one you're going to make love with tonight That's truth, that's love...... The narratrix reads a lot of greeting cards, "Love Is...," and Chicken Soup For The Garrulous Lunatic's Soul. She also assumes that a stranger's marriage is mostly about acrimony and sex. She is probably right, since most are, but it's still a strange assumption.
Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete The narratrix has had multiple abortions, and now regrets them, because had she carried the children to term they might now be paying attention to her.
But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet The narratrix, unlike the present writer, does not have a colorful father who says things like "You have to take the bitter with the sweet."
I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free The narratrix thinks she's been subtle about her whoring. She is not correct.
Hey lady...... I've been to paradise, (I've been to paradise) But I've never been to me The narratrix is conflating "Heaven" and "some tacky places in Europe."
(I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run) I've been to paradise, never been to me (I've been to Nice and the isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht) I've been to paradise, never been to me (I've been to cryin' for unborn children that might have made me complete) I've been to paradise, never been to me (I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run) I've been to paradise, never been to me
The narratrix recaps some of her adventures for the store police, who have rescued the woman with the post-partum depression and failing marriage. This will become a staple story for church socials and bridge night.
Ah Wednesday nights. My favorite night of the week, not because it means the week is half over or because someone somewhere is cracking a cheap "Hump Day" joke. No, Wednesday nights hold a special place in my heart because it is the night I get to watch my stories. Every Wednesday (more or less) since moving to NYC, my friend Jaimie and I get together to watch our programs. And after a long week, nothing is better than a glass of wine and some stupid TV, whether that involves Tyra Banks, Top Chefs, or thinking one can dance merely depends on the season.
Let me digress a bit and explain. I have this bad habit of over-committing myself to things. Meaning if I start something, you better believe I'm going to see it out to its natural end. Which sounds noble, until you put it into practice. If I paid $10 to see The Happening in theaters, I'm going to stay until the bitter end, even if that means cringing through all of Mark Wahlberg's dialogue. Likewise, once I start a book, I'll be damned if I'm going to give up after 20 pages. It could get better, right? (No. No it won't.) Only recently was I able to abort a book like an unwanted pregnancy, but even that took me 700 pages! (Seriously, do not ever start reading Pillars of the Earth. Unless you enjoy 900 pages' worth of detail about the building of a castle.) But still, it's progress. The same rule applies to my TV viewership: when I commit to watching a TV show, it takes a lot to cancel my season pass.
Meg recently explained the phrase "jumped the shark" to me. I’d heard the phrase before but had never really known what it meant. According to Meg, by way of Wikipedia, jumping the shark "has been used as a metaphor to describe something that had become an unintended mockery of itself. The term arose from one of the most famous of these plots on Happy Days, which involved Fonzie performing a water ski jump over a shark in an episode aired on Sept. 20, 1977, during the show's fifth season." So basically, when a series has jumped the shark, said show has passed its peak of quality and popularity.
Being 24, and thus born in '85, obviously I wasn't around to watch Fonzie jump the shark, but recently, some of my own beloved TV shows have gone and jumped their respective sharks, giving me enough of an excuse to stop watching mid-season. Saying goodbye to these shows was hard for me to do, but if I didn’t cut the cord myself, they would be hanging out of my proverbial vagina for the rest of my life.
The Real World When the show first started airing, I was way too young to fully grasp the show’s premise. I vaguely recall Montana and Elka smoking in a firehouse in Boston, talking about boys, or their period, or something else mind-numbing. But later seasons were all anyone talked about at school. Somehow between 1997 and 1998, I grew up enough to care about Stephen bitch-slapping Irene, even though a ho had Lyme disease. Then for about 5 seasons, I was hooked and couldn’t wait until people stopped being polite and started getting real. For me, the show jumped the shark with the Las Vegas season. Specifically one episode where Trishelle, the local syphilis factory, was at a club and was hoisted into the air, “forgetting” she failed to put on underwear. Then I realized the show stopped being about anything other than attractive people hooking up and contracting multiple diseases from each other. Maybe it's because now I'm suddenly older than half the cast members. Or maybe it's because I found out the real real world isn't chock full o' nuts and slutty alcoholics. Graduating and finding out that the real world involves paying bills and getting a job, not just having casual sex with wild abandon sort of puts a damper on watching your peers do just that.
Survivor Keeping in the reality TV show genre, I was a big fan of Survivor back in the day, before Elizabeth Hasselbeck turned into a harpie. The intrigue! The suspense! The challenges! Jeff Probst’s dimples! I’m not going to lie, my best friend junior year of high school and I bought each other authentic Survivor buffs for Christmas. That’s how into the show I was. My fascination with this show was short-lived, however. After watching the All-Stars season where the runner-up proposed to the winner on live TV, I puked into my buff, threw it out the window, and promptly put on Big Brother.
Grey’s Anatomy Junior year of college, Grey’s was what brought a bunch of my friends together. I think we all secretly wished we could be a part of life at Seattle Grace. In those glory days, Meredith wasn’t half as whiny, Izzie was cool, in control of herself, and decidedly not crazy, Bailey was as sassy as ever, and George was just plain adorable. The show even introduced the word “vah-jay-jay” into my everyday vernacular. Then Isaiah Washington had to go drop the F word on T.R. Knight off-screen. New characters were introduced. Izzie falls in love with a patient, then inadvertently kills him to try and save his life. To that, I say “Really?! Cutting someone’s life line seems like a good idea? Really?” But no, I kept watching. Until the end of last season, when I realized that the writers/actors had gotten into this annoying habit of repeating a line for emphasis. Specifically, one episode in which Callie fixed a guy’s broken legs only for him to die on the operating table. Cut to Callie saying “I built him legs!” over and over and over and over, in varying degrees of hysterics. Good day to you.
Gossip Girl This is what prompted Meg to tell me what jump the shark meant. The first season of the show was so good. Everyone was hooking up with everyone, there was drama, there were catfights, there was sex. What else could you need? Then season two strolls along, and things are starting to get weird. Incest comes sniffing around (Lily and Rufus dating, while Serena and Dan are also dating). Vanessa appears once too often, never failing to mention her lesbian sister’s punk band every chance she gets. And then Chuck gets involved in a secret sex club that his father belonged to? When a show starts borrowing story lines from Kubrick movies, I think it’s past its prime. What’s next? Rufus ties down Little J and forces her to watch girls wearing respectable amounts of eye makeup and skirts that go below their labia? I gave it another shot for the Season 3 premiere, but after 45 minutes of Serena’s paparazzi antics to “get her father’s attention,” I put the show on an ice floe and pushed it into the great unknown.
You may wonder why there is no City recap today, nor will there be one tomorrow. Frankly, I just can’t do it anymore. One season of complete inanity was plenty for me. I could recap the whole season for you right now in two sentences: Whitney and Roxy butt heads. Olivia is just a bitch. There, I saved you countless hours of stock footage, plugged music, and forced dialogue. Why The City jumped the shark: does any believe Roxy and Whitney really go way back? I didn’t think so.
Does giving up on The City make me a bad person? I don’t think so. Hating nerds makes me a bad person. Punching babies makes me a bad person. But not watching Whitney get pushed around on a day-to-day basis, or any of the above past-their-prime TV shows is just me preserving my sanity.
I am so incredibly tense right now. My stomach hurts, I'm anxious, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't drink. (Baha! Just kidding on those last two.) I'm a wreck. And there is one concrete cause of all of this anxiety. Sigh...it's hard to say out loud and/or type. Ok. I can do this. Here we go. I, Meghan C. McBlogger........................am going on another business trip this week.
If you haven't read about the first business trip I went on a few months ago, I'm going to need you to go ahead and close and lock your door, draw the shades, light some candles, unzip your pants and read this. And when you're done, you can send your thank you/sympathy e-cards to meg@2birds1blog.com. Thanks.
The level of how anxious I am for this stupid business trip is unparalleled. Unparalleled and embarrassing. Nothing in the entire world makes me feel as Autistic as a work function. I revert back to lame 6th grade Meg, sittin' all alone at the lunch table with nary a friend to her name and a whole lot of Joe Boxer going on. I'm praying to the good Lord above that this trip won't be as completely traumatic as the last one was, and I think it might not be for the following reasons:
1.) It's in Baltimore. Which is just inconveniently far away enough to classify as a "business trip" and not a "jaunty overnight."
2.)I have been promised my own hotel room. Although I'll believe it when I see it because that's what they said last time and I ended up visually scissoring with Boss #1 all night long. I didn't even want to stay in a hotel in the first place. The second I heard we would be in Baltimore, I threw myself onto Boss #2's laptop and was like, "DON'T BOOK ME A ROOM!!!!1 MY BIFFLES^MAX LIVES IN HAMPDEN!!!!11 I'LL STAY WITH HER!!! SHE WEARS PANTS!!!1 AND DOESN'T CARE IF I DON'T WEAR MINE!!!!1 THAT'S THE DICHOTOMY I PREFER!!!!!1111!" Boss #2 said OK and then immediately turned around and booked me a hotel room. Which is annoying because now not only am I at high-risk of having a reunion with Boss #1's C-section scar, I also feel locked into going in general. Every time I start toying with the idea of "getting" swine flu tonight or killing off a family member, I remember they already booked me a hotel room and that would kind of be a dick move on my part. Ugh. Being an amazingly considerate person...it's my cross to bear.
3.) The trip is only for two days; not three. Which is still two days too many, but I'll take what I can get.
4.) I made cocksure I'll be traveling alone. Because there's no way in hell I'm going to be trapped backwards on a train again at 8 o'clock in the morning listening to Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker talk about various spreads and chutneys he boycotts because they "taste like sperm." No. Fucking. Way. I will drive myself, thank you.
5.) It's a convention, not a 500-hour long sales meeting. And conventions are big...people get lost easily. Perhaps they'll get lost for two days at a time, finding their way back only when a free meal is involved...? What I'm trying to say is that I am in no way above hiding in my car either reading a book and/or cat-napping like a homeless person all day. There it is. The truth. I just don't see what's stopping me from being like, "Oh hey, I'm gonna go check out some other booths" and just leaving? Trust me, nobody would miss me. There is absolutely no reason for me to go to this convention besides familiarizing myself with our new product. You know, the new product I already learned about in the aforementioned 500-hour long sales meeting. All just in case the ghosts I babysit on a daily basis get curious and start to ask questions or someone in Dynastyneeds their office re-designed. (Season 3: Adam Carrington re-designs recently deceased Cecil Colby's office with toxic paint in an effort to kill Jeff Colby and secure his position as Blake's #2. AND WHAT?!)
The thing is, I really am genuinely interested in interior design and the actual convention itself seems cool enough. Not to mention I'm going to have promotional pens and complimentary mints coming out the ying-yang by the time it's over. That's not what I'm getting bent out of shape about. It's the mingling with my co-workers and the pleasantries and the asking of how the kids are and forcing myself to appear interested in the answer and the being so completely surrounded by Sales People. And that's Sales People with a capital S, capital P. Because yowzahs. That is a tall order. I realize how incredibly curmudgeon-y I'm coming off right now, but as Helena pointed out last night on the phone (and yes, at approximately 11 o'clock last night I was indeed curled up in my bed with the lights off on the phone with Helena whining that my tummy hurt because I'm nervous for my business trip.) (And bless her heart for listening.) there's a difference between Work Socializing and Social Socializing. And Lord knows I can Social Socialize your fucking face off. I can walk into a room of 150 Neo-Nazis with a beer in my head and a song in my heart and leave with each one of those motherfuckers my new and slightly less anti-Semitic best friends. However, I go to one work happy hour and it's like a regional dinner theater production of Rain Man. My undeniable charm and charisma just does not translate in work-related situations. However, if I can inject a bit of Social Socializing into Work Socializing, I might be able to make it out of this business trip alive. Thus, if there are any readers out there who will be attending NeoCon East this week and want someone to walk around and mingle with—I'm your girl.
...Or if there are any readers who want to come and spoon with me in my car and tell ghost stories for 8 hours—I'm also your girl. (Teresa, I'm looking at you.)
Obviously, blogwise, I'll be out of commission tomorrow and Thursday, but Co-Blogger Chris is finally back from Mexico and will have a post for you bright and early tomorrow morning! I'm also trying to "gently" coerse Tulane Chris into writing a post for Thursday. I gave him two subject options: Diarrhea or blouses. Because that's what kind of girl I am and that's what kind of a blog I run.
Also! As with last time, I'll be live-tweeting the entire business trip, so I highly recommend you follow me on Twitter (@2birds1blog). If you don't have a Twitter account, you should obviously get one for the sole purpose of keeping up-to-date with the business trip's inevitable kooky shenanigans. (I figure if I hype this up enough, nothing will happen and it'll be an incredibly boring business trip which means I won't go through the emotional trauma of last time. Unless it backfires and it's just as entertaining as I promised, in which case you win and I lose. Either way, follow me on twitter.)
Happy Drinking Game Friday gang! This week flew, HUH?! Sorry. Jesus. Why do I always irritate myself on Drinking Game Fridays? Anyway, before we get to this week's drinking game, there's something we need to talk about. My frequent misuse of "An." Yeah. It's on the table. Sit down. Let's talk about it.
If you don't read and/or take part in the comments section (and I don't know why you wouldn't; according to my mom it's the most entertaining part of the entire blog. You know, the part I don't write.) you may not know that I was called out by numerous people for the following grammar mistake in yesterday's post:
"Uggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she sighed as she rolled her eyes and moved her body AN single millimeter so I could pass.
For the record, I am 100% aware of how grammatically incorrect this sentence is and I know I should have used "a" where I used "an". It's an inside joke. We ironically misuse "an" to emphasize how small of an amount something is. For example:
"I asked her for more pickles and she gave me like, AN single pickle."
Some inside jokes translate well on the blog, some do not. This might be the latter. It was born at 4:30 in the morning at a train station in Stuttgart, Germany and involved horse tranquilizers...sooooo maybe I shouldn't have tested it in these waters. But I did. And the overall consensus seems to be that a.) nobody likes it and b.) everyone is relieved to learn that I'm not as grammatically-challenged as I originally seemed. Which I can handle! I decided I would stop using it on the blog but obviously continue to use it in my every day life. And then I got this email from Andrew, of The Great Juno Debate fame:
"[...]I love you and your blog dearly, but twice now in recent entries you've used "an" where you mean "a." Grammar mistakes make me as sad as my train schedule shirt makes you. :("
AND GOD DAMNIT! So, fuck it! I'm officially retiring AN. I'm carefully wrapping it in bubble wrap, putting in a box marked "Memories," taping it up and putting in the basement where it will inevitably get destroyed in a flood or eaten by mice. So there. I hope you're all happy.
AND NOW YOU ALL GET A RECYCLED DRINKING GAME! Not so much because I'm bitter about AN falling flat on it's face (WHICH I AM), but more so because it's the official movie of Meg's Fall Fun Day and this year's MFFD is this Sunday! MFFD might be the most glorious day of the entire year. And by might, I obviously mean is. Every fall since 2005, Helena, Alex, Andrew, Danielle and I pick a day in October, pile into my little Malibu Stacy car and drive up to Lariland Farms in Woodsboro, Maryland where we pick apples, get pumpkins, drink cinder, take inappropriate pictures with phallic-shaped gourds and such and then go back to Helena's house to make pies, carve pumpkins and drink our faces off while we play this week's drinking game—The Sleepy Hollow Drinking Game!
Heaving bosoms, Johnny Depp in tight pants and Christopher Walken. What could be better?
Rules: Drink When: - Someone’s head gets chopped off - Christopher Walken makes a “GAHHHHHHH!!!!” noise - Someone faints - You see a burning pumpkin - Katrina’s bosom heaves - Bram acts like a jackass (I understand this is subjective…just drink when Casper van Dien is on screen) - Someone goes in or out of the Tree of the Dead - Ichabod thinks out loud - Ichabod uses of datdemder fancy big city detective methods/tools - Ichabod has a flashback to his childhood featuring his mother’s inappropriate cleavage pouring out everywhere and anywhere
As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding, emailing, tweeting and the like. We feel strongly about you. I'm not quite sure if it's love...but I think it could grow into love. And now we're making out. In my mind. Blokay! We'll see you next week!
- There will be no City recrap this week. Chris is still having drunken vacation sex in Mexico and I tried to watch Tuesday night's episode and lost interest about five minutes in. Sorry, Whit-dawg. Here's what I ascertained while zoning in and out: Whitney is dating a preppy WASP from Connecticut with a mysteriously Jewish-sounding last name, Olivia didn't fuck up at work for once and Roxy feels like Whitney's friends don't like her. And she's right. There. I feel better.
- A few weeks ago when Alex and I were in New York visiting Co-Blogger Chris, we went out to dinner with our friend Bobby. During dinner, Bobby was shocked and horrified to learn that I don't wash new clothes before wearing them for the first time. I, however, was shocked and horrified to learn that he does. When asked why Bobby does this, he looked me square in the eyes and in the most deathly serious tone said, "Meg. Little children in sweatshops learn to masturbate while making your clothing on a loom." I can honestly say that this is the second most frightening sentence I have heard in my life, next to my sister's "When the white pants go away, the moustaches come out to play" catchphrase. It just raises so many questions. Like: a.) that's not true...is it? b.) who learns to masturbate? c.) how is it physically possible to operate a loom while masturbating? I can barely type and talk at the same time d.) ...How does Bobby know this? e.) Are clothes still made on looms? I thought loom technology had advanced so it's all done by machines? So. Many. Unanswered. Questions. And this is what I'll be thinking about at any given moment today as I wear my new, unwashed, masturbatory dress.
- Boss #2 was in here the other day getting ready for a meeting when she mentioned, out of the blue, that she wants the office (meaning me) to stop drinking bottled water and use the filtration system hooked up through the refrigerator. "It's just so many of these architects are all about "Going Green" these days or whatever and I don't think it looks very good that we [again, meaning me] drink bottled water," she explained. "Oh. We have a water filtration system in the fridge?" I asked. "Well. I know water comes out of it," she said, as she opened the fridge and poured herself a cup, "I'm just not sure if the filter was ever turned on." She stopped, took a sip, made a disgusted face and said, "Hmm. Not exactly ideal. But I'm sure you'll manage!" before throwing the rest of the water out and walking away. OH I'M SORRY, but there is no fucking way I'm going to drink mystery refrigerator water just because you want to give the illusion of Going Green. I mean, I'm just as hippie-dippie as the next person and Lord knows I love me some planet Earth, but frankly I love avoiding lead poisoning on a daily basis just a little more. (Please know I'm trying very hard not to make a racially motivated Mexican/water joke right now. Had I not recently had my Asian debacle, I'd totally go for it.)
- In trying to find a photo of Ox from Revenge of the Nerds for yesterday's post, I came across this "What Parents Need to Know" review of Revenge of the Nerds written by Ellen Dendy. It's basically a laundry list of everything offensive in the movie and it's pretty much the best thing I've ever read in my entire life. My favorite parts are in bold:
"Parents need to know that students binge drink, and smoke cigarettes and pot in this R-rated college movie. There's a strong emphasis on "getting laid" throughout the film, which includes scenes in which students make out and engage in heavy petting. The panty raid scene includes full female nudity, and the frat boys expose their bare behinds in a mooning scene. The nerds install hidden video cams in a sorority house so they can watch them undress. Profanity isn't excessive, but a few bad words and suggestive phrases are uttered. There's no bloody violence, but much of the story line centers on getting revenge. There are many stereotypes targeting Asians, gays, fat girls, and more. The story shows the unfair treatment of people considered outsiders, and in the end, emphasizes the acceptance of outsiders."
Ellen goes on to suggest discussion questions parents can raise with their children to ignite a thoughtful discussion about bullying and stereotypes. And I could fucking keel over and die. It's just that funny to me. Because this is a movie where one of the main characters (specifically,"Booger") spends a major part of the film wearing a t-shirt that reads, "Gimme Head Til I'm Dead" and my favorite line is:
Stan Gable: What are you looking at, nerd? Booger: I thought I was looking at my mother's old douche-bag, but that's in Ohio.
God I love The Internets.
- This past Tuesday morning, I came as close to killing another human being as I ever have in my brief 24 years of life. Not wanting to swallow a stranger's DNA at yoga again that night, I ran into CVS before work to grab two giant bottles of Vitamin Water to chug throughout the day. I feel the need to point out that I looked fabulous, and as dedicated readers know, I'm about as shallow as a shot glass and my general mood for the day is pretty much dictated by how attractive I look. Ergo, I was in a great mood. My great mood was short-lived, however, as there was a young woman of Asian descent—approximately 5'3", 26-years-old, black hair, headband—standing directly in front of the refrigerator with the Vitamin Water in it. Her shit was everywhere. She was taking up the entire aisle, her handbag, gym back and CVS basket were on the floor and she was digging through her wallet, clearly looking for something. "Excuse me," I asked her politely, motioning towards the refrigerator. "Uggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she sighed as she rolled her eyes and moved her body AN single millimeter so I could pass. Which is irritating in and of itself, but not Voluntary Manslaughter irritating. I went into the fridge, got my Vitamin Water, turned around and immediately tripped one of the various items she had thrown on the ground, causing the zipper from one of my boots to snag and ultimately tear a giant hole in my favorite pair of tights. After I fell face first into a display of blueberry Tasty Kakes, I looked down and surveyed the damage: not only was there now a giant hole in my favorite pair of tights, but the zipper on my brand new boots had also snapped off in the process. My eyes turned red and I felt my fangs descend. I turned around and looked at Asian Chick directly in the eyes. "Oh." she said, as if I had just told her I like a good pork chop. Now, I probably would have said "I'M SORRY" in that instance, but you know what? I'm actually the one who's sorry! I'm sorry that my human body got in the way of your various bags. They deserve a comfortable place to stand, not me. And I'm also sorry for not realizing that CVS is your bedroom! OH, pardon me! Now if you don't mind, I'm just going to go into "your" fridge and grab a few of "your" Vitamin Waters. I'll leave a few bucks with your "roommate" at the front register for "you" to grab later. "Thanks."
Of course I was so overcome with rage that I couldn't think of a single thing to say and just stared at her for an uncomfortable length of time before awkwardly shouting "JESUS CHRIST!" and running away. Naturally I spent the rest of the day thinking of things I should have said, which is irritating. Damnit. So if you or a friend is a young lady of Asian descent who was at the 19th Street CVS Tuesday morning at approximately 8:50am—you are incredibly lucky to have your life right now. I want an apology and a new pair of tights. At the very least. You A-fuck.
- Damnit...now I'm all riled up again after I had somewhat let it go. I hate leaving things on a sour note...WELP! You know what time it is!
Yesterday Boss #1 took me aside and told me that she needed to talk to me about something. I was pretty sure she was either going to a.) fire me; b.) tell me something horrifyingly informative about her vagina or c.) ask me something horrifyingly informative about my vagina. Imagine my surprise when it was none of the above! Instead, Boss #1 asked me to have a sit-down with her 17-year-old daughter (who vehemently does not want to go to college) and somehow convince her that going to college is the best idea ever. And to that request, I say Yowzahs. For two reasons:
1.) Oh my god, I just don't care.
and 2.) I had literally just finished having this gchat conversation with Allison after sending her my resume:
Allison: your resume is impressive! me: it's really not, but thank you! Allison: you're all "honors everything, CHECK. Winner of everything, CHECK CHECK." me: yea. i like, tried real hard in college 'n shit. LOLZ HAHAHHAHAA that was a bad call because it got me "so far" Allison: yeah you tried hard in college - what was THAT all about?? me: fuck i don't know Allison: I feel ya - I had 85 internships in 4 years and was the president of every academic club in the entire university and I have been laid off twice in one year me: HAHAHA RIGHT??? i shoulda just been doing meth the whole time. Allison: I know...I can't believe the drug opportunities I passed up for THIS
Sooooo...maybe I'm not the best person to come to for advice on why you should go to college. Frankly, I don't think I'm the best person to come to for advice on anything ever, period. Unless that advice is about napping, how to kill time or The Art of Sass. That I got covered. But seriously, I worked my ass off in high school just to go to my safety school and then I worked my ass off in college to become what—a Professional Houseplant?? Who really gives a shit if she goes to school or not? Let's not lie to ourselves, by the time she graduates high school, I'll probably be dead in a ditch somewhere and she can just take my job (which she'll probably do a far better job of,) meet an architect, fall in love, get married, pump out a few kids and wash, rinse, repeat. And PSHHHHH—doesn't sound horrible to me. The world will not end if she doesn't go to college. Hell, Boss #1 didn't even go to college! What am I supposed to tell this girl? "Honey, you gotta go to college. You don't want to end up like your mom and become...my...boss?"
I also think it's slightly ridiculous that the only reason she doesn't want to go to college is because she's scared she's "not smart enough." I reject that excuse. Because have you seen the movie Revenge of the Nerds? Are you familiar with Fred "Ogre" Palowakski? If he could handle the pressures of academic life, football season, being an active brother of Beta Alpha, a member of The Greek Council and nerd-hunting, I'm sure she can too. Perhaps toss your copy of Princeton Review's 365 Best Colleges out the window, aim a schmidge lower than your friends and you'll be right as rain come Fall.
Knowing that I'm inevitably going to have to sit down with this girl and talk about the merits of going to college, I whipped this up for, just for her. It's Meg McBlogger's Top-5 Reasons You Should Go To College:
1.) ~*BoYz bOyz BoYz!!*~: Look. I talk to your mom on a daily basis. And your mom, bless her heart, is Boss #1. I obviously know everything that goes on with your snizz. What I'm trying to say is—I know you're a slut. And that's fine! I'm not here to judge. However, be aware that passing up college means passing up the opportunity to matriculate with thousands of young, eager and willing boys. And girls! Shit, I don't know what you're into. You seem like the kind of gal who after six drinks will bang anything with ears. And you know what? In college, that's fine! You should be banging anything with ears! Because college is your chance to get all that Freak out of your system before you enter the Real World where staying out all night having sex, jacked up on Zelko and Windex fumes is considered "A Problem." You want Candy Finnegan banging on your door or an RA telling you to pipe down? Yeah. That's what I thought.
2.) Close proximity to free food: UM HI. I'M A DINING HALL, HAVE WE MET? Do you know how many 20-somethings there are out there starving every night, just wishing they could go swipe their way into the dining hall for even one single slice of chicken? Too many. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. There it is. The disgusting and embarrassing truth. I have sick and oddly specific fantasies about running through TDR with a tray in my hand and the wind in my hair, just grabbing whatever the fuck I want. (Oh HEY American University students reading this right now! Got extra meal blocks? LET'S DO DINNER! meg@2birds1blog.com) I know what you're thinking, "But Meg, if I don't go to college and live at home, I'll still get all the free food I want!" WRONG! Because mooching off of your parents while living at home is considered a "burden," whereas mooching off of your parents while living at college is just "how things work." When I lived at home, I couldn't reach for a single bowl of Kashi without my mom lecturing me about how I needed to get a job. Yet when I was at school, I could call her up all, "MOM I'M CRAVING YOGURT-COVERED PRETZELS! I NEED MORE EAGLE BUCK$! KTHANKSSSS!" and she'd be all over it within an hour. So next time you're snacking on popcorn, you remember that story. Also remember that somewhere out there, there's a sad, poor 20-something eating your nosh for dinner.
3.) Greek Life: Elle Woods did it and now she's a lawyer.
4.) New Friends: Whether you're willing to admit it or not, you're probably nervous about the whole starting over from scratch and making new friends thing. But you really shouldn't be. College is designed for making new friends. Literally everyone there is in the market for new friends. Do you know how I met the girl who would turn out to be my Sophomore year roommate? From this exchange on the first week of school: Allie: Hi, I'm Allie. Meg: Hi, I'm Meg. Allie: I miss having a circle of friends. Meg: Oh my gawd, me too. I hate this. Allie: Do you want to be best friends? Meg: YERP. Allie: Done.
And then we just were. I swear to God. That's literally how the conversation happened. You would have to be some special kind of ass backwards crazy to not be able to make friends in college. However, starting over and making friends outside of school is considerably more difficult. Whereas people were literally soliciting my friendship in the streets in college, I felt like I couldn't pay somebody to be my friend when I moved to New York. It's just harder outside of a collegiate atmosphere. Everybody, for the most part, already has their set group of friends and is kind of caught up in their own thing. You really have to make the effort and like, join a kickball league or some shit. And you know how I feel unnecessarily moving my body. I'd rather just go to grad school. Or move back to DC. Apparently.
5.) Because it's not that hard if you don't want it to be: That's the beauty of college—you pick your major, you pick your classes, you pick which ones you actually go to, you pick whether or not you give Professor Montoya a lap dance to pass Spanish—it's all up to you. If you really don't think you're that smart, then go to fucking Easiest Ever University and major in Breathing. Who gives a fuck? You just need that little piece of paper that says "Whoop-dee-doo! You Know Your Ass From a Hole in the Ground!" so you can get a boring entry-level office job out of college and spend all day pretending to enter data in a spreadsheet while you count down the minutes until Happy Hour. Which sucks. So you might as well enjoy start enjoying the next four years of your life now and quit your emo whining about not being "smart enough." McDaniel College called; they're rull interested.
So as I alluded to in yesterday's post, there was some "Unpleasantness" last week in hot yoga. Frankly, I just had an all around shitty class, which is totally upsetting because I felt like I really pushed myself the class before and was finally making my robotically stiff body slightly more limber. (Slightly.) To be fair though, I had a lot of things working against me last week:
1.) I had just come fresh from this debacle. 2.) I had had AN single drop of water throughout the entire day. 3.) The class was packed by the time Becca and I got there and we had to sit in the first row, right in front of the mirror. I hate that. I'm willing to accept the fact that I'm going to have to stare at myself sweating like a pregnant woman in labor for an hour and a half, but I'd prefer not to do it at such a romantic proximity to my own face. 4.) I had re-dyed my hair the night before. The problem here is that black hair dye is difficult to completely rinse out and tends to linger for a few days. Normally this isn't a problem because it just makes your hair seem thicker and darker than usual, which as someone with fine hair, I appreciate. However, when you're sweating profusely from your head, it has sort of a Tobias' new hair plugs affect: Which is...unique. To say the least.
All of these factors added up to me feeling distracted, tired and dizzy—a bad, bad combination of things to feel. If you start feeling sick in class, you're supposed to lie down on your back and take deep breaths, which is exactly what I did about 15 minutes into class. Unfortunately, standing next to my sister, two people down from me, was a man who we lovingly refer to as "Soap Opera Guy," as he looks like an aging soap star. Fact: Soap Opera Guy sweats like a bitch. Which I totally get! It's 105-degrees! Lord knows I'm not judging. However, at the exact second I opened my mouth to take a deep and refreshing gulp of air, Soap Opera Guy whipped his arms out to his sides and sent two giant globs of sweat flying off of his arms and directly into my open mouth.
Let me repeat that.
Two globs of Soap Opera Guy's sweat—his personal mystery sweat—were made airborne, traveled past my sister's body and landed directly in my open mouth. I consumed Soap Opera Guy's sweat. (And frankly, that's the most male bodily liquids I've consumed in a month of Sundays...) (...Which is an upsetting statement.) I didn't know what to do. I couldn't make a scene because the class was in the middle of a pose and I didn't want to break everyone's concentration. And yet, there was a good 90% chance I was about to vomit everywhere and claw my own fucking face off. In the end, I decided to suck it up (no pun intended,) block it completely out of my mind and let it re-surface later in the week at therapy. This worked quite well until Soap Opera Guy entered Trikonasana pose again, this time sending globs of his sweat flying onto my stomach. I decided I'd rather stand and risk passing out than continue to lay down and let this silver shower continue any longer. It was a long, long class...
Do yourself a favor and Netflix it before Halloween. Plus! It has an unbelievable ratio of male to female full-frontal nudity. Specifically, a shit ton to none. So, I'm sorry and/or you're welcome. Mostly, you're welcome.
In other news, I started writing a blog post this morning at approximately 9:15 about some..."Unpleasantness," shall we say, that occurred last week at hot yoga when I got distracted by a stack of improperly folded pamphlets sitting on my desk. Boss #2 let me leave a little early last Friday as long as I printed 50 sales pamphlets and folded them before I left. Obviously wanting to get the fuck up out of here as soon as humanly possible, I folded them a bit haphazardly. In the harsh light of Monday morning, however, I found my sloppy level of folding to be completely unacceptable. I decided I couldn't concentrate on blogging until I printed 50 new pamphlets and folded them properly. Mid re-folding, I remembered a dream I had last night in which Allison (of looks like Boss #1 minus 20 years fame) made a hee-larious cameo. I decided I couldn't concentrate on my re-folding duties until I emailed Allison about my dream. Three minutes later, I abandoned that email to Wikipedia Hall & Oates. Why? I don't really know. I've had "Private Eyes" stuck in my head all morning and it just felt like the right thing to do. This obviously led to a long string of Wikipedia article hopping and two hours later, I realized I have a stack of 50 unfolded pamphlets, a half-written email and no blog post to show for my morning. (But an impressive new knowledge of Hall & Oates!)
This gots me a-thinkin'...I genuinely think I have ADD and/or it's hyper-active cousin ADHD. And truthfully, I've always thought this. I remember confronting my mom in high school that I thought I had ADD and she was like, "Well. If you're that concerned, just go get tested" and I was all, "FINE! MAYBE I WILL!" and then got distracted by the crinkling noise of a plastic bag and never did anything about it. Ever. So here we are, six years later, and I'm still undiagnosed. But! This morning I took a break from Wikipedia-hopping and found an online Adult ADHD Screening Quiz! I enjoyed taking this quiz because it felt like a "Remember When..." flashback episode of a sitcom. Almost every question reminded me of a blog post. Check it out:
1. Do you have a sense of underachievement, of not meeting your goals, regardless of how much you have actually accomplished?
[I mean, my sense of underachievement is sort of the cornerstone of this entire blog. Just insert any given blog post here.]
2. I find it difficult to read written material unless it is very interesting or very easy.
[I swear to god, I couldn't even get through reading the intro of this test. I made it to "This is a screening examination for adult ADD. It is not a diagnostic test. Scores over 70 are associated with..." gave up and proceeded directly to the test.]
3. Especially in groups, I find it hard to stay focused on what is being said in conversations.
"Even when I'm out with friends, I find myself zoning out and quietly getting worked up thinking about this shit to the point of randomly exploding with, "I'M GONNA DIE ALONE IN AN OFFICE CHAIR AND THE MOST MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP I HAVE IS WITH THE FEDEX GUY AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW HIS NAME!!!!!" Which usually has nothing to do with the conversation going on around me. So that's awkward."
"OH MY FUCKING GOD. I FUCKING HATE THE INTERNET AND I HATE MY COMPUTER AND I HATE BOSS #2 AND THERE'S A PINCHED NERVE IN MY NECK THAT I JUST EXACERBATED WITH ALL OF THE CRAWLING AROUND ON MY HANDS AND KNEES I JUST DID TO REPEATEDLY PLUG AND UNPLUG MY COMPUTER 5,000 TIMES TO TRY TO FIX THIS WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT 1991 DELL COMPUTER THAT I'VE BEEN GRACED WITH AND TECH PEOPLE ARE THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE SECOND ONLY TO BOSS #2 AND HERE'S YOUR GOD DAMN DRINKING GAME. FINALLY. SIX FUCKING HOURS LATER. AND YES I DID FORGET TO TAKE MY MEDS THIS MORNING, AS I HAVE FOR THE PAST THREE DAYS AND YES RAGE IS A SIDE EFFECT OF WITHDRAWAL, AND YES THIS DOES EXPLAIN WHY I'M OVERREACTING AND TYPING IN CAPS BUT WHATEVS. OK? GOOD. LET'S MOVE ON. HERE. DRINK."
6. I say things without thinking, and later regret having said them.
"I awkwardly outed Andrew to our entire comm class today. We were sitting in class at the conference table and Andrew informed everyone that the British Navy is apparently trying to recruit gay men. So I slapped Andrew on the back and said, "HAHA! Looks like you're going to sea Andrew!" He was not thrilled."
7. I make quick decisions without thinking enough about their possible bad results.
"And then I smoked a blunt with my newfoundthugalicious friends. Soon my friends caught up and we boarded our subway home. It turns out that copious amounts of various alcohols, found drugs, and a rocking subway car do not make for a good time. It was at Smith and 9th street that I calmly exited the train and threw up in a well-placed trashcan. Thank you MTA."
8. My relationships with people are made difficult by my tendency to talk first and think later.
"Well I'll make sure to wipe my mouth as I walk out."
That was my response. And WHAT. THE. FUCK?!
Why!?!?! Of all the things I could have said, WHY did I have to go with that?! I turned our innocent little game of office flirting into a hardcore pornographic awkward-fest. The second the words flew out of my mouth, I looked horrified. Disgusted and horrified. With my own actions. I couldn't believe I had just said that. I still can't believe I said that. I wonder if that's grounds for a sexual harassment suit. I'm going to be the first woman in history to have a construction worker sue her for sexual harassment."
"Guess who's in an oddly good mood this morning? THIS GIRL! Why? BECAUSE IT'S OFFICIALLY PRE-HALLOWEEN SEASON! And we all know that Halloween is my FAVORITE HOLIDAY EVER!!!!1"
10. I have trouble planning in what order to do a series of tasks or activities.
"This obviously led to a long string of Wikipedia article hopping and two hours later, I realized I have a stack of 50 unfolded pamphlets, a half-written email and no blog post to show for my morning. (But an impressive new knowledge of Hall & Oates!)"
— "Taking a Trip Down ADD/ADHD Lane" 10/19/2009
11. I easily become upset.
"I also had no idea I felt so passionately about Jon Heder. After my co-worker asked what's wrong I sort of just made inaudible moaning noises for a while before getting out, 'JON HEDER DIED IN A DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT! I THOUGHT HE WAS A MORMON!'"
12. I seem to be thin skinned and many things upset me.
JKreids: Um Meg, you're starting to sound like a MEEK... 2birds1blog: You shut your whorish mouth. My love of Buffy is hip and ironic and I vowed to stop being mean to my co-workers. And I'm attractive. And I get regular haircuts.
"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."
14. I am more comfortable when moving than when sitting still.
[Ok, so maybe "hyperactive" doesn't quite describe me...] "And I will gladly be the fat kid who says out loud that I would rather move out of this city than have to wheeze my way up and down stopped metro stairs day in and day out just because KristonCapps think it would make the city healthier. Because who are you, Mr. Capps, to decide how to make people healthier? You're like that office manager who only stocks the fridge with water because soda rots your teeth and wastes calories. I'm a grown-ass woman. Let me make my own health choices. If you health-rape me, I will blow my whistle."
17. There is a lot of "static" or "chatter" in my head.
"You know how certain people with Autism are “Idiot Savants” and are somewhat inept but can do one thing really well, a la Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man? What if there was an Idiot Savant who excelled in having sex? Like, he was just dynamite in the sack. Could that ever happen? Only Helena has ever been receptively helpful to this honest-to-God question I have. Everyone else struggles to get beyond how inappropriate and slightly offensive it is to realize that once you think about it, it’s sort of perplexing…right?"
18. Even when sitting quietly, I am usually moving my hands or feet.
"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!"
19. In group activities it is hard for me to wait my turn.
"I stood there defeated. I turned around to see a group of thugs staring back at me. “Some dumb bitch punched me and I was trying to catch her so I can beat her ass in!” I explained to the head hood. I was met with sympathetic “Shit girl”s. They turned out to be really cool people! They informed me I had a “runny mascara situation” where I had been hit and I sassily told them not to worry about it. Then one of the thugs looked at me and said, “So we gonna smoke this blunt or not?” to which I said, “Spark that shit up! Pass that shit to me!” to which he said, “SHIT GIRL, there’s an established circle, you new to the crew, wait yo turn!” to which I said “Well then hurry up and light that shit!”
20. My mind gets so cluttered that it is hard for it to function.
"I'm one of those people where if one aspect of my life is going downhill (i.e. work...in a big way) then everything else seems like it's going downhill too and I just sit here all day thinking about how everything is spiraling out of control and there's nothing I can do about it except turn off the lights, put on The Smith's Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want and dramatically writhe, writhe, writhe, check my email, writhe, writhe, change into comfy pants, writhe. You know. I'm That Guy."
21. My thoughts bounce around as if my mind is a pinball machine.
"For example, the other night I was in an elevator with a guy and when he got off at his floor he turned around and said, "Have a great night." I'm never prepared for this. It's just so polite. I mean, we weren't talking and I don't know you. But that's really nice. So then my inner monologue starts dissecting this act of kindness: "Oh shit, is he talking to me? Of course he's talking to me, I'm the only person in the elevator. Wow, what a nice and awkward thing to do. Is he trying to get in my pants? Would I let him? Is he Lebanese or just really tan? Either way that's hot right? FUCK! SAY SOMETHING BACK!" And then I manage to make out a soft "Your too. I mean you. Night. Ha." just as the doors have closed. This happens to me more than you would expect. And I'm sufficiently awkward about it each time."
22. My brain feels as if it is a television set with all the channels going at once.
"This morning in Gender in Society, we were discussing "The Glass Escalator" which is when men enter "women's fields" like teaching and get promoted quickly to administrative positions because they are men...patriarchy...matrix of domination...blah blah blah. Anyway, all I could think of was Mr. Feeny from "Boy Meets World" and how he was first their middle school teacher and then followed them to high school and finally was promoted to became a college professor. Mr. Feeny like owned the Glass Escalator. Then I couldn't stop thinking about how hot Eric Mathews was. And how comical Rider Strong's name is, and how odd it is that he's gay. Who knew?! Then I realized why I have an A in the class and a D in participation. So when I was walking to Art of the Renaissance, I was still thinking about my Mr. Feeny-Glass-Escalator-Theory and blatantly tripped and fell flat on my face in the quad, producing a giant cut on my leg, which was bleeding during class. So there I am, bleeding-out in the middle of class trying to take notes and maintain consciousness. Why is my life so awkward?"
"I have a gym crush by the way. Tee hee ha ha hee hee hooo...He's a giant dreamy dream boat that I just want to sail away on. His name is Kyle. (In my mind. Clearly, I've never talked to him, nor do I have plans to ever talk to him. Because that would just be crazy.) Kyle is a veterinarian for sick and lonely pugs, owns his own row house on Capitol Hill and moonlights as a cage fighter. He's the best."
24. I am distressed by the disorganized way my brain works.
"I pay a therapist $200 a session, two sessions a month, and 3/4 of our session is spent with me awkwardly looking around the office desperately trying to think of something to talk about. However get me in the back of a cab and I open up like I’ve just taken a truth serum. My life is just one incredibly un-sexy episode of "Taxi Cab Confessions." One time I was talking to a cabbie about his native Barbados and he told me that he thought I would like life there better than New York because it was laid-back, like me. I actually told him, and I quote, that I “indeed have the soul of an islander.” First of all, who the fuck says that? And secondly, just on a factual level, I actually don’t have the soul of an islander; I’m kind of neurotic and high-strung. I don’t know why I adopt this Jimmy Buffet, open-book persona with cabbies, but I appreciate our time together. It’s less expensive than therapy and pine-scented."
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