Woo—thank Jah it's Friday, huh?? Except not really because now that I work queer retail hours, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are technically my "weekend" and my conventional weekends are full of work. So really, Monday is my Friday. TGIM! (Side note: After typing that, I thought to myself, "Thank God it's—" and my brain auto filled with Mo Collins. Fascinating.) Despite having to work today, and tomorrow, and Sunday, and Monday, I'm still psyched it's Friday. And I'm 99.9% sure we all know why...
(By the way, I get an oddly high number of emails from people being like, "I love TGI Hagman!...But I don't entirely get it. What's the story behind it?" For the record, the back story is located here and I link to it every week to avoid confusion. Looks like I've been doing an "awesome" job.)
As of April 30, 2010 (a.k.a. my Facebook wife Talia's 25th birthday. Happy birthday, baby! You look just as good as you did the day I met you when you were 13. Oh, I was 13 too, for the record. Just wanna clear that up. Things were starting to feel slightly homo stranger danger in here for a hot second...) at 2:44am, Larry Hagman is...alive! And the Lord said, "Let there be Hagman."
Cella's alive too, for the record. As is the last surviving fish from the Real World DC house, Real. I'm pretty much a pro at sustaining the life of Z-list pets. It's a gift and a curse, really. Despite the touching number of people pulling for her, I'm probably not going to make TGI Cella a weekly feature. I feel like throwing the fact that she's maybe kind of about to die in Becky's face once a week on a public blog might be a dick move on my part. Emphasis on the might. So, god speed, little Cella. The 2b1b community is rooting for you.
SPEAKING OF THE 2B1B COMMUNITY! I have lots of things to talk about involving you fine people. Let's delineate, shall we?
Re: Cleaning the lint trap in a shared laundry environment
SURVEY SAYS: You are crazy. And by "you," I mean the degenerates in my building who don't feel it's necessary to clean the lint trap after using a dryer. And despite my win, I'd like to address this comment:
That's not the point. It's not a sanitation issue, it's a common courtesy issue. You used a public machine and as a result, residue built up. Said residue needs to be removed before the next person can use the machine. Therefore, it is your responsibility to remove your residue. I don't care if laundry lint is made of candy corn and orgasms; I don't want to touch yours.
Re: For all intents and purposes vs. For all intensive purposes.
SURVEY SAYS:We are crazy. It's "for all intents and purposes." I'm always so fascinated by what puts the 2b1b communities panties in a twist and this debate definitely did. I haven't seen you guys this fired up since I said Journey sang Livin' On a Prayer. Grammar snobs and 80's power ballad fans, you are. This kind of marketing research is invaluable. But, yes, wipe the sand out of your collective vadge everyone, because now we're all officially on the same page: the phrase is "for all intents and purposes." AND FUCK ME IN THE FACE HOLE FOR EVER THINKING OTHER WISE.
Jesus Christ. I've put on a little depression weight since my birthday; wanna talk about that too?
Jesus von Creezus. If by "careless" you mean I typically write this between the hours of midnight and 4 o'clock in the morning because I have a day job and a social life, than yes, I have gotten mighty careless. That being said, you have a point. I actually considered asking Becca to start editing my posts before I put them up, but that would delay the posting time considerably because homegirl has a real person job. I don't know, dude. Its you're call. (SEE?! See what I did their?!) (And they're!) (And they are!) (I could do this all day.)
Re: Eye-you-dee vs. Yood
SURVEY SAYS! Blow up your vagina because I don't want to talk about IUDs anymore.
Ok, good. Glad that's all settled.
- Now, I know I was kind of just an asshole to three of you (BECAUSE YOU WERE AN ASSHOLE TO ME FIRST, GAWD) but this is a quick reminder to please go here and write in 2birds1blog for Best Local Blogger. Ha ha ha...ha, yes...awkward timing. Today is the last day to vote so please, please, please take five seconds to do it and maybe recruit a few friends to do the same. Any additional awards we win or press we get helps keep the blog going. We appreciate it!
- You know who else I appreciate? 2b1b reader Kate from Atlanta. Why? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because she went to a Kelly Cutrone book signing and made this happen:
I mean, can we all just take a moment to stand up in our cubicles wherever we may be and give Katie one hell of a collective standing ovation? Because well played, madam. Well played, indeed. You are my newest new best friend. (Also shout-out to Andrew M. Because I have a mega friend crush on him and maybe we're already BFFs in my head? What? I don't know, I blacked out.)
- This doesn't have anything to do with the 2b1b community, but I've had the song Hands Across America stuck in my head for three days now. And it's horrible. Because not only is the song stuck in my head, the visual of celebrities swaying is stuck in my head as well. Specifically Stevie Wonder, for some reason.
- And while we're on the topic of things that have absolutely nothing to do with anything, I grabbed a burger and a beer with Lara after work tonight and when our check came, I cackled my face off, took a picture of it and emailed it to Alex with the subject line: "BAHAHAHAHA!" Why? Because our check number was 69 and I'm a small child.
After I hit send, a lightning bolt of fear shot through my body because for the hottest of hot seconds, I thought I sent it to the person above Alex in my email contact list—this total cuntbag from Gotham magazine who interviewed me for a graphic design position when I was trying to decide if I should get a new job or leave New York all together in 2008. She was horrible and point-blank made fun of the magazine I worked for at the time and obviously didn't offer me the job. I felt Ok about it though because as hot as she thought her shit was, she was wearing a halter top with her black bra straps blatantly showing. Because, hi, I'm a strapless bra, we should get a drink some time.
Anyway, the point being, my heart momentarily dropped into my butt at the thought of her getting an email from me, two years after the interview, the only contents being typed laughter and a picture of a receipt with the number 69 on it...But I sent it to Alex, thank god. Although he hasn't responded, which is out of character. Hm. (Alex, call, text or email me as soon as you read this to confirm that you indeed got the email. And do not fuck with me and say you didn't get it when you really did because you think it would be fun to watch me have a stroke.) (Ha ha...stroke.)
- Yesterday was Amy's birthday (woo hoo!) and I'm sure she's still nursing her hangover (something I think we can all understand) so we're going to skip Queer Abby this week and move on to this week's drinking game. But don't forget, if you have questions, you can always write in to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com.
Considering how the theme of today has been appreciating the frightening, comical and powerful force that is the 2b1b community, I whipped up a 2birds1blog drinking game to start the weekend off right! So I give you—2birds1blog's 2birds1blog Drinking Game! (META!) Rules: Drink when: - TYPO! - A Meglet story is told - Evie makes an appearance - Meg solicits her readers for narcotics - Tulane Chris uses a word that makes you wish you paid attention in SAT Prep - Tulane Chris makes an obscure history reference that makes you wish you paid attention in AP Modern World - An ex co-blogger is referenced - Becca is hyperlinked to the Moustache Manifesto - Sorr about the bag - A post is tagged with a tag that has literally nothing to do with anything (i.e. "Boobs boobs the magical fruit" or "tampon flinging") - A word is italicized - A word is in bold - An em dash is used - Meg talks about her time in New York like it was a tour of 'Nam - The 2birds1blog Twitter account is hyperlinked (DRINK) - Depression, alcoholism or technology problems are discussed - American University gets ripped on - No Post Monday (and pour one out for the fallen blog post) - Someone has a WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?!?! moment - Someone asks Dr. Reuben a question - Dr. Reuben answers a question - Meg mocks Dr. Reuben's answer to a person's question - Someone makes love to a food product - Narwhals - Welp - Blokay - Blalright - Oh, I'm sorry - I'm not not_______ - AN - rull or rully - batshit crazy - !!!!!!!!11 - There's a photo - There's a video clip - Turtle Rapes Shoe - It's a fictitious holiday (i.e. TGI Hagman or Drinking Game Friday) (DRINK/DRINK) - Something awkward happens (HAHAHA, just kidding. We'd all be alcoholics. Ooo! Discussing alcoholism! Drink!) (AH! Italics! Double drink!) - The Jack Daniels pants a.k.a. Second Skin are referenced - Weekend Hair and/or Aspie's Clip are referenced - A McCain is referenced - Someone overshares - Pen names are used - Meg tries to get you to vote for something - You do - Thanks!
Again, thank you so much for all of your support. Have a great weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning. (KNOCK ON WOOD!) Buh-bye.
Before we get to this week's session with the good doctor, it's time to play a few quick rounds of America's least necessary game since The Dating Ref—"Am I Crazy, or Are You?"
ROUND 1! Subject: Cleaning the lint trap in a shared laundry environment.
My stance: It's common knowledge that you clean the lint trap out after you're done with your machine. Why? Because it takes five seconds, not cleaning it is a fire hazard, the lint comes from your clothing, and nobody wants to handle your personal mystery lint, a-thank you very much.
The challenger(s): Everyone in my building who's not me.
Their stance: It's common knowledge that you leave your disgusting mystery lint in the trap for Meg to scrape and fondle the next time she decides to take her Jack Daniel's pants for a tumble dry. Duh.
Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE!
ROUND 2! Subject: The phrase "for all intents and purposes."
My stance: Truthfully, I spent a solid 24 years thinking the phrase was "for all intensive purposes," until I wrote a blog post using it one day and got 9,000 condescending emails being like, "Ohhhhhhh Meg. You are unreasonably attractive, but just plain stupid. The phrase is 'for all intents and purposes.' Thank god you have a magnetic personality and an ass that just won't quit, or else I would have stopped reading this poorly written shit years ago." (I'm editorializing slightly.)
brytesunshine@2birds1blog I love your blog so much! (btw, the saying is "for all intensive purposes" not "intents and purposes")
Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE! (And thank you for loving the blog, @bryteshunshine. Despite the blaring fact I just called you out for calling me out, it loves you back.)
I look forward today's blog comments. Phew. Man, I'm glad that's settled. I feel like I can rest a little easier tonight knowing that all of this confusion will soon be cleared up. But where's the fun in that?! Let's get some Dr. Reuben in here to make us all horribly uncomfortable and confused about life and our own genitals again, huh??
What's a dildoe? [...] The Japanese have about a thousand years head start in the dildoe line and have a good product. Traditionally their market prefers carved ivory, but, ivory prices being what they are, artificial ivory or hard white plastic is well-accepted. While Westerners strive for realism, the Orientals hold out for feeling. Japanese dildoes are available in a wide variety of models from smooth, small caliber versions, for virgins just breaking into this form of sexual activity, ranging upward in size and texture. The advanced models have progressively more prominent carving along with larger dimensions to provide stimulation to mature vaginas. Some of these are thick as a man's arm and over a foot long. They probably exist as a conversation pieces; they are more suitable for consoling a lady elephant. [...] ---------------
This Q&A actually comes from the Masturbation chapter and I bring it up for two reasons and two reasons only:
1.) HAHAHAHAHAHA..."Orientals." Dr. Reuben; you would.
2.) I've just now decided that I want to have twins. And I shall name those twins "Stimulation to Mature Vaginas" and "Consoling a Lady Elephant." Good luck to both of them in Middle School.
What is the best method of birth control? That, like the perfect martini, has not been concocted yet. There are two recent techniques that have some outstanding advantages. The first one is the "Intra-Uterine Contraceptive Device," or IUD (pronounced "yood"). [...] ---------------
Ok...LIGHTING ROUND! Subject: How to pronounce IUD.
My stance: Eye-you-dee.
The challenger: Dr. David Reuben, M.D.
His stance: Yood.
Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE! (Please know that it took every single fiber of self-respect in my body not to type, "YOOD ECIDE!" just now.)
What is the best method of birth control? (continued) [...] The IUD has been in use for about 2,500 years. Arab camel drivers in that era were faced with a difficult problem. The voyages of their caravans often lasted two years and involved many intermediate stops where several camels would be dropped off with their loads. The voyages were marred by a quirk of camel psychology--a pregnant camel refuses under any circumstances to leave the caravan. At stops their burdens would have to be shifted to other camels and the whole caravan rearranged. The camel drivers could not eliminate the female camels since they carried heavier loads and had more endurance.
One day, an anonymous Arab genius thought of implanting an apricot pit in the uterus of a camel. This foreign body effectively prevented pregnancy and was the perfect camel contraceptive. From that time on, every female camel (except those used for breeding) was equipped with her personal apricot pit. [...] About fifty years ago a German doctor, von Graff, decided to try the same approach in human beings [with a] coil of silver wire he inserted through the vagina directly into the uterus. ---------------
Alright, let's talk contraceptives for a moment, shall we? Babies: they've got to be stopped. I hear ya. But that being said, I am in NO WAY on board with IUDs. I know that they're super effective and thousands of women have them and everyone swears upside-down-and-sideways that you can't feel it, but no. Just no. No to hookworms and no to IUDs. And I say this for a few reasons:
1.) I don't want the female contraceptive techniques of an Arabic camel herder or a German doctor named von Graff from the 1920's (who I'm not saying was probably a Nazi, but I'm absolutely not not saying was probably a Nazi) anywhere near my genitals or reproductive organs. ANYWHERE. NEAR. 'EM.
2.) The thought of having an IUD inserted into my cervix seriously makes me gag. Therefore, the thought of having an apricot pit haphazardly shoved up my cervix by a camel herder makes me want to peel all of my skin off with a moderately sized carrot peeler.
3.) I can not find it now for the life of me, but when I referenced how you supposedly can't feel an IUD in the hookworm post, a reader emailed me and said that when she had an IUD, her boyfriend could feel the strings hanging out when they had sex. MODERATELY. SIZED. CARROT. PEELER!
Does the IUD work well? It's only fair. The rate of protection is about ninety percent. That is compensated for by the convenience--no chemicals, no condoms, no diaphragm, no nothing. However for those who might be inconvenienced by pregnancy, the IUD has its limitations. There are stories of babies being born clutching the plastic coil in their little hands. ---------------
Are nuns allowed to take birth control pills? Only under certain unusual circumstances. In the early 1960s when the Belgian Congo was given its independence, things got a little ugly. Bands of terrorists swarmed over the country killing, looting, and raping. It was the raping part that particularly disturbed the Catholic Church. Many hundreds of nuns manned Catholic missions there and they were the rapists' primary targets. Several hundred half-breed children fathered by black terrorists born to white nuns was an appalling possibility. The Church ordered a special dispensation and birth control pills were distributed to the nuns. they took them obediently. ---------------
First of all, nobody was wondering that, Dr. Reuben. Someone just got a little excited about a fun fact they learned on the History Chanel last night and wanted to put it in their book to make them seem worldly and knowledgeable. It's like if I wrote a Q&A book about life post-college and included:
Is Christmas Island a real place? Why yes, dear reader, it is. Christmas Island is a territory of Australia located in the Indian Ocean. It has a population of 1,403 residents, 63% of it is a national Australian park and it was first discovered by Captain William Mynors when he sailed past it on a British East India vessel on Christmas Day, 1634, thus giving it it's joly name.
Did anyone ask? No. Does it make me feel slightly better about all of the Wikipedia work I've been doing recently? Yes.
Also, is what we're expected to take from Dr. Reuben's delightful little history lesson here that the Catholic Church wasn't so much worried about the fact that nuns were getting raped, but more so that they were producing interracial babies? And am I also correct in picking up that their solution to the problem wasn't to remove the nuns from the area all together, but rather to send someone down there to put their ho asses on the pill? And did I once have a professor in college who said that black men and white women make "plaid" babies? (I'll answer that one for you: yes. Professor Zuber; god bless your heart.) Because if so: yowzahs. If I were a nun stuck in the Congo surrounded by a bunch of terrorists who's daily goal was to rape the wimple off me and some random guy showed up to give me a few complimentary packs of Yaz and bounce...I think I might ask if I could go with him. Maybe just hitch a ride to the next country over. Nothing too fancy. But then again, I'm not a Woman of God. Perhaps I never heard the calling for a reason: I'm a quitter.
Ahhh the Catholic Church: turning a blind eye to the Holocaust, child molestation and nun rapings for the last two thousand years...
[Quick note from Meg: Not to break the fourth-wall or anything, but I'd like to share with you the email Tulane Chris sent me with his post for today:
I almost asked you to see if you thought this post was too coarse, and then I read your post about suicide and asking readers for recreational drugs.
HAH! It's funny because it's true. Ok, sorry, I'm done now. Back to Chris!]
Being friends with Meg is stressful because she’s so funny. Having an attractive friend sucks, but at least you can claim to fall back on your personality. Meg has a much better personality than I do, so I have to fall back on my SAT scores. (Those of you who were at the bar meet-up will remember me as the person behind Meg to the left, wearing a sandwich board that read “750 Verbal, 720 Math.”) I was reading Meg’s archives at work the other day – because Thursday is “File Your Own Damn Paperwork Day” – and I found her post about having to clean up blood with post-its at work. The wackiest thing that ever happened to me at my current job was when one of my co-workers gave me a Xeroxed Reader’s Digest vocabulary quiz and I got a perfect score, and so I put it on the fridge and everyone thought I was an asshole. (They were right, but they based it on the wrong evidence.)
She’s not even a bitch about it. If she were, I could just hate her in the face and be done with it, but she’s all gracious and says things like, “Oh, thank you for saying I’m funny. You’re funny too, and I mean that” and then makes a joke about a Llama Adoption Robot that kills the room. Sharing friends with her is like being her parasitic twin. She gets to be the funny one, and I get to be the one Bawbawa Wawtews says is “so brave to keep going on with his one kidney and control only over a vestigial flipper.”
So now I share a blog with her, and it’s a whole new level of crisis. Meg has a more interesting life AND tells stories better than I do, so here I sit trying to even FIND a sow’s ear to try to make into a silk purse. I got lucky last week because EVERYONE apparently has some emotion or other about widescreen movies, and so if I haven’t touched hearts, I’ve at least touched nerves.
So, things around the apartment I could
—BREAKING NEWS—
I heard a fight out in the street just now, so we’ll be talking about white trash. You know how some parents have weird hobbies like model trains or swinging? My mother’s was hanging out with white trash. To wit:
When I was about eight, my mother once took an about-to-be-homeless woman in “for a few days” for eight months. “Bev” had an unusual relationship with the Lord. The Lord had gotten her a job as a topless waitress once (“I was pregnant and even breastfed, and I’m 41, but look!” she said as she whipped up her T-shirt. “Still firm!”) and they continued a lively correspondence. Regularly, Bev would go onto the front porch and have a cigarette while staring into space, and then come in and say “I was out having a smoke and talking to God, and do you know what he said?” Invariably, he told her to go ahead and do what she had already decided to do. Bev was an “artist” and custom-painted two and a half cement Virgins for our house. I say “and a half” because she never finished the one she made for me. An attempt to paint over a red dress with yellow had left her with a bloody-looking dress, and an ill-timed distraction while Bev was painting the face left her with a twisted, angry, stroke-victim mouth. This statue stayed in my room for five years, which I think gives me a good all-purpose excuse. Did Mom consider using one of these statues to make a “shrine for travelers” in our front yard? Is the sky blue?
“Hattie” had been raised on Guam by Satanists. She taught water aerobics, which is how she met Mom. Both of her children had spent time in the state mental hospital, and who had to go on play dates with them? Now, I was a really, really weird kid and at any given time had, at best, one friend, so I was fairly lonely, but even I straight-up could not stand these kids. After a few forced playdates and one nightmarish sleepover (“No, pants on, I think. Thanks, though”) they started just showing up at our house all the time. By now Mom had changed her mind and thought they were going to do a school shooting and wanted them to have a COMPLETELY NEUTRAL attitude toward me, so she’d go out and give them weird excuses about why I couldn’t play. Last I heard, one had gone into a home, and the other after MICROWAVING A CAT (who lived, thankfully, since it’s the only sympathetic character in this whole post) went into the Army. This scares me more than a thousand thousand Russian soldiers, probably because “A Thousand Thousand Russian Soldiers” sounds like a low-budget porno. The United Nations needs to close its hole about the damn climate and outlaw lunatics as weapons.
“Vance” sold reptiles, so of course Mom got on him like a hen on a junebug. He sold her a Bearded Dragon (doesn’t that sound like a middle school sex joke, like Cleveland Steamer?) and she’d go out there every so often to buy mealworms or, on one memorable occasion, biker do-rags with a sewn-in change pocket. She bought herself one with skulls on it and called herself “Big Momma Bones,” and wore it to a poetry slam (yes.) She gave me one with dice on it, which, full disclosure, I may or may not have worn to the same poetry slam. Anyway, years later, she ran into that guy again and went out to his house, and someone put meth in her Diet Coke without her looking and she was up for three days. Yes.
“Doris” thought her husband was trying to kill her by leaving rakes in the yard. She divorced him and moved to the country, and for fun she’d get drunk on wine coolers, put on a ballgown and dance around the house. She and Mom were planning to leave on a road trip to the mountains once, and Doris showed up in an evening dress. She had a mail-order degree from Antigua or somewhere, and we’re 90% sure she had sex with her cousin.
Technically, “Ross” wasn’t white trash, but he was a stray Mom picked up. He had been in the Peace Corps in Bingo-Bango-Bongo or somewhere until he had a malaria-provoked nervous breakdown. He lived with us for about six months. This was mostly weird because he was my teacher at the time. If you think you were weird in school, be the Kid Who Lives with the Awkward Teacher. The kid with the glass eye was way, way cooler than me. He also grew up to better looking, but I can gauge distance, so I feel like it’s a draw.
“Gwen,” Bev’s sister-in-law, married a man who thought he was a prophet. “Angelica” “Bernice”I Dream of Jeannie.) “Lana” had very widely spaced teeth that were a) brown and b) not remotely of a uniform length. “Royce” and “Deeann” lived with us one Christmas when it froze and then left with the VCR.
So, again, I’m at the end of a post with no clear closing. I guess the moral is “My Mom Can Probably Out-Weird Meg’s Mom.” I thought the slumming gene had skipped a generation since I’m an elitist loner, and then I got a call from my best friend from high school. She’s marrying an inmate live on the radio next month.
Christ on a croissant. Allow me to share with you a text I got from Allison this afternoon while I was at work:
No Post Monday. Your father and I aren't mad. We're disappointed.
Sigh. Now allow me to share with you a gchat conversation two readers from Texas had and sent me:
Kate: it drives me nuts that meg never posts on mondays anymore and EVERY tuesday is like LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG and im like .... that doesn't make up for it, meg. that. doesnt. make. up. for. it. Sent at 3:24 PM on Monday Sarah: I KNOW its annoying its like I NEED THIS it's not a game at this desk Kate: hahaha Sarah: what is she doing mondays if shes unemployed? Kate: she works retail and she drinks sunday nights so she barely has time to put on pants mondays when she wakes up at 10am for her 11am shift ugh, meg. i feel like i know you and yet, i dont. Sarah: its so creepy yet so necessary maybe we should send her this convo
And then they did. And I'M SORRY, YOU GUYS! I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how much No Post Mondays stress me out. I kept remembering that I didn't post anything this morning at work today and feeling all guilty and stressed out like I forgot my kid at daycare or something. Which is absurd because this is just a blog. But, you know, it's more to me and I feel guilty.
I don't even have a good excuse for not blogging yesterday. I got home from work Sunday night and like the responsible young blogger I am (or strive to be), I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, a very much alive and somewhat kickin' Cella and Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know... with every intention of writing a Q&A post for Monday morning. And then I passed out AN single page in. I woke up five hours later at 2:30 in the morning curled up in a ball on the couch, pantsless, TV still on, spooning my laptop with mascara all over my face. It was pretty much the closest I've come to having sex since I made consensual love to a box of Thin Mints last Thursday.
Despite being half asleep and in the midst of nap afterglow (nafterglow, if you will,) I vowed that I would get something—anything—up on the blog to avoid yet another No Post Monday. So I made a list of everything that's going on in my life at the moment. And the list went as such:
- I had a really satisfying salad for dinner last night.
And that concluded the list. I'm not kidding. I very seriously wrote that sentence, blanked on anything else to write and thought, "Welp! That's the ballgame. This is my life. Aaaaaaaand hells bell's it's depressing. Good night and god speed."
But I refuse to believe that that's the only noteworthy thing in my life right now. That I had a satisfying salad for dinner. (Although it's worth noting that it really was a satisfying salad. So much so that I had again for dinner tonight. And some soup. Because it was a rainy, lazy, cozy soup kind of a day. OH MY FUCKING GOD, DO YOU SEE?! DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) No!I'm not letting this happen. I will not talk about depression, or soup, or salad, or soup and salad combo meals, or anything else that will make me sound like a living, breathing Cathy comic. Today I'm going to talk about other things. This, my friends, IS WHAT'S GOING ON.
- UM. Reagan, a 2b1b reader from Houston sent me this tank top the other day:
Oh I'm sorry, Reagan. Did I just go gay for you? Yep. Sure did. So, what are you doing this weekend? ME!? Hehehehe, oh MY! You bring the flannel; I'll bring the power tools.
(Side note: I really want to add a merch store to the blog, specifically because I want to create an official "sorr about the bag" tote bag and proudly sport it around town on a daily basis. If anyone knows anything about how to set up a merch store on a blog, hit a bitch up: meg@2birds1blog.com. Especially because if I get a store up and running, it might solve my next problem...)
So, what am I good at? Drinking, making charmingly awkward conversation and occasionally baking things. Thus, for a nominal fee, I will come to your apartment with a bottle of wine and bake you something. Perhaps a poon cake. It's kind of my specialty. What's the nominal fee? In the words of the church, "give what you can." And then a few bucks more because things are touch and go. Come on! It's like a bake sale that comes to you! It's a lazy man's wet dream! Invite some friends over! We'll make it a night! (PS: those friends should also give what they can. God bless.)
Oh, and the Adderall is just because I have ADD and need it, but can't afford to go see a psychiatrist anymore. Poverty is mighty inconveniencing. I'm rationing out my remaining anit-depressants like meat in wartime.
Now, I don't know how "legal" this is, but I have a request. Is the request to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house? No. No, it's not. But it's also not not to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house, if you catch my drift. And if say a spare painkiller found it's way in there too? Well, I certainly wouldn't be mad. THAAAANX!
- Becca recently asked me to start thinking about what kind of bridesmaid dress I would want to wear in her wedding. She's pretty sure she wants her bridal party to be in gray, but since I'm the Maid of Honor, mine gets to be a little bit different. When she told me this, I obviously heard, "you can wear whatever you want," and immediately knew the perfect dress—the dress that Alexis Carrington/Colby/Dexter/Rowan wears to Steven and Sammy Jo's engagement party in the season 2 episode appropriately titled, "The Party."
when Becca was over the other week, I decided it was a good time to inform her that I had found the perfect Maid of Honor dress for her wedding. "Awesome! Let's see it!" she said. So I juiced up the old DVD player, popped in "The Party" and paused it on the following still:
She seemed to not think it was an option. Although, to be fair, I failed to mention that the mink stole and gold seashell clutch are optional. That might make a difference.
Flash forward to yesterday when Ex Co-Blogger Eddie sent me a link to a dress that she said I should buy because a.) it looks like Dynasty threw up all over it and b.) it would make my boobs look good:
And keep in mind that a large part of the near urination factor was due to the kid's blood-curdling screams. Not to mention the fact that right it can get any funnier, a rogue donkey scampers across the shot. I mean, this is pretty much what dreams are made of. I've very seriously had this video open in it's own tab for like, four days straight now and I can't imagine living in a world where I close it. Hell should be nice...
- I was having dinner with my parents last weekend and we somehow started talking about Project Runway. During this conversation, my dad informed me that it is his ultimate dream for me to go on Project Runway and make it to the final 3. Not because I want, or have ever wanted to be a fashion designer, mind you, but because that means my dad would get to meet and subsequently hug Tim Gunn during the home visit episode. "I don't know," my dad explained, "A hug from Tim Gunn seems like it would be so cathartic. Like everything would be OK. He just seems like such a nice guy!"
...From now on, whenever people get weirded out by the fact that I have tattoos dedicated to my parents, this is the moment I'm going to refer them to. I just feel like it might clear things up a bit.
- In case you didn't know, I'm on the Twitter. Fellow Twitter user and 2b1b reader @toastedzen tweeted me the following this past Friday night:
toastedzen@2birds1blog I would give just about anything to hang out with you. Hell, to DATE you. I am in love!
"Well that's awfully nice of you, sir," I thought to myself, before tweeting "done and DONE!" back for good measure.
The next morning, he tweeted this:
toastedzen@2birds1blog FYI I have no idea how much sake I had put back before I wrote that. Just in case, you know if it doesn't work out between us.
To which I joked, "what?? so we're NOT dating?!" And this is what I got back:
toastedzen@2birds1blog its not you, its me. really. umm... I just think we should be free to see other people. but we can still be friends.
OK, let me just get this straight: I'm getting dumped by fake boyfriends, these days? Before even meeting me? Is this really how far I've fallen? I'm not mad, mind you. I'm just asking. Clarifying, really. Because when you discover my lifeless body hanging from a shower rod, I don't want there to be any confusion as to what happened. I don't want any lingering theories out there that perhaps old Meg McBlogger David Carradine-ed herself. It was intentional. So we're all on the same page here? Good. Moving on.
- AH! WEIRD! So after writing that last thought, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and on my way back, grabbed the most recent issue of CosmopolitanBecky has and brought it back to bed. I opened to the horoscope section and read mine:
Aries The forecast: As Uranus makes its agitating debut in your sign, you're bound to unleash your grumpiness on all the wrong people. Sign up for a bad-mood-busting kickboxing class, pronto.
Work mode: Cashing in. Moneymaking Mercury settles past-due payments, and you'll enjoy a post-tax windfall.
Love life: A three-way planetary lineup could send hot prospects to singles. Meanwhile, the coupled-up Ram will finally start showing off her man at company events.
Power Day: 27th
First and foremost: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Uranus.
Secondly: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Three-way.
But come on! As much of a giant pile of horse shit that Cosmo is, that's a pretty creepy horoscope, right?? I'm grumpy and taking it out on the wrong people (you, via No Post Mondays) but my money problems will soon be solved (thanks to my new poon cake chef on-the-go business!) Thanks Cosmo! I never thought I'd say this, but you made me feel better about life. And don't worry, I won't forget to play with his balls.
BONUS ROUND! As of 3:21 am on April 23, 2010, Cella Hurst is...alive!DOUBLE WIN!
- I had the most absurd and vivid dream the other night and I'm going to share it with you because it was somewhat inspired by a blog comment. So! The other night I was walking home from work and I started thinking about how nice it is outside and how I can't believe the pool opens next month, and oh, speaking of pools, man I wish I owned a confederate flag bikini. And then I remembered the following blog comment:
Because really, what an awesome call. My sister and I used to watch Shag all the time when we younger and I can't believe I forgot about it. (But you bet your balls that shit shot to the top of my Netflix queue faster than you can say "Myrtle Beach".)
Then that night I dreamt that I let a Hollywood producer and director double-team me so I could get Bridget Fonda's role in the 2010 remake of Shag. True story. And even weirder, the double-teaming happened in my parent's shower and the director kept knocking shampoo bottles over and I distinctly remember being like, "GAHHH, you have to stop knocking those bottles over! My parents are gonna know we were in here!!!!1"
So...That's one way to get a confederate flag bikini, I guess? Although truth be told, I don't even know if I got the part in the end. I'd like to think I did. And also, call me crazy, but a remake of Shag doesn't sound like a horrible idea. I know, I know; they're remaking everything these days and it's kind of bullcorn, but I'd totally be all about a Shag remake. Specifically if I got to write it and play Bridget Fonda's part. Oh my god, what if I wrote it while wearing a confederate flag bikini? WHAT IF I DO ALL OF MY WRITING WHILE WEARING A CONFEDERATE FLAG BIKINI?! It would kind of be like Homer's chili boots, but it would be my writing bikini. I feel like I meant for this entire last paragraph to stay in my head but it didn't. Awkward...
- A homeless woman almost made me cry tonight. And not for obvious oh, poverty is so sad! reasons. More so because she was mean. I mean, she wasn't that mean; I've just been in a really fragile emotional state recently. I don't know what's going on with me. My depression fascinates me—it ebbs and flows without reason or rhyme. For all intents and purposes, I should be pretty happy right now. It's the spring, I like my job, I'm not stuck in the ghost factory with my evil bosses anymore, I have a bunch of fun trips coming up, I've got great friends, great family and a roof over my head in one of the best cities in the world—life is good. And yet, I'd say that I spent an estimated 85% of the past week curled up, fully clothed, in the fetal position in my bath tub singing The Rainbow Connection to myself.
I'm pretty sure this has to do with my birthday last week. I hate to seem predictable, but I don't like birthdays. I'm sure I sound like a total fucking killjoy because I feel like I'm always bitching about whatever holiday it is and how I don't like it, but I just don't like how holidays cause an unnecessary amount of reflection. I don't like reflecting. Because, hi, I'm a little bit crazy so when I reflect, I tend to just think about all of the things I haven't accomplished and end up feeling really empty and disappointed in myself. And birthdays and New Year's Eve tend to be when I'm the hardest on myself.
So I lock the door, put on a wife beater and my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, blast Gwen Stefani's What You Waiting For? and go white girl, go white girl, go! dance around my apartment for a while to psych myself up for all of the things that I will make happen this year. I will, I will, I will! Starting right now! I'm going to write that book! I'm going to try harder to put myself out there and meet a dude! I'm going to find a way to monetize the blog! I'm going to succeed! But ooooo.........there's a Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood marathon on. And my left foot hurts. And I can't find my bra. Welp! Better just sleep for 14 hours straight so I don't have to think about anything anymore. NIGHT!
And this frustrates me. Seriously. I just want to get a long pokin' stick and be like, "Hey, you. JAB, JAB. Stop that. Go do something." JAB. But I just can't get my shit together. And it's very frustrating.
Today I was feeling particularly frustrated with myself and as I was walking home from work tonight, a semi-loose cannon looking homeless woman approached me and said, "Excuse me, miss! Excuse me!" I'm terribly sorry, but I was not going to stop and talk to her. I don't know if that makes me a horrible person, but a.) I'm fucking broke b.) it was late and c.) I was in Georgetown and if Kal Penn can't take a late night stroll there without getting mugged, I'm sure as shit fucked. So I kept walking and said, "I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry." To which the woman screamed, "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, YA DUMB BITCH. I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS." Subscribing to the I Am Rubber And You Are Glue theory of life, I ignored her and kept walking, which prompted her to forcefully bark at me, "FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID-ASS CUNT."
Now, if I got upset every time a random homeless person yelled something nonsensical or hostile at me, I would have packed up my weekend hair and moved back to the suburbs years ago. Dealing with crazy people is part of the charm of living in a city and I wouldn't have it any other way. That being said, after the word "cunt" finished escaping this woman's lips, honest-to-god tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to turn around and be like, "MADAM! TONIGHT IS NOT A GOOD NIGHT! I WOULD LIKE TO USE MY 'GET OUT OF BEING YELLED AT BY A HOMELESS PERSON, FREE CARD' NOW BECAUSE I RECENTLY TURNED 25 AND I FEEL FUCKING OLD AND LIKE I HAVEN'T ACCOMPLISHED ANYTHING IN LIFE AND I FEEL ALONE AND UNLOVABLE AND YOU NEED TO NOT CALL ME A STUPID BITCH OR A CUNT RIGHT NOW AND WALK AWAY BECAUSEI. HAVE. EMOTIONS!!!!1
But instead I went to Trader Joe's and got string cheese and beer. Because the path that involves not getting shanked by a homeless woman and dairy is always the path of least resistance.
- On a positive note, the mirrors in Becky's apartment are the most flattering mirrors I have ever seen in my entire life. I wish I was kidding when I say that I spent the better part of this afternoon strutting around her apartment, gazing at myself and being like, "My god you're attractive." Then I got to work, washed my hands and looked up into their mirror and was like, "GAH—PUT IT AWAY! PUT IT AWAY!" Sooooo, the moral of the story is I'm never leaving Becky's apartment. Ever. Hope she's cool with that.
- This blog post is so emo I could vomit everywhere. Let's take a break from me and listen to other people's problems for a while!
Queer Abbey,
I recently hooked up with a long time crush. It was hot. I want more. He's a tad younger and all electronic forms of communication between us are new as we do not run in the same social circle/ see or speak to each other often. Tell me how to play it. Make me look good here.
Sincerely, -Cannuck who likes to.....go for dinner. What did you think I was going to say???
Dear Hungry Cannuck,
I know very little about the two of you and your situation, but generally speaking, keep it casual. I find that any combination of random, funny and alcohol is usually fail-safe.
For example, I might text/email/facebook message him and say: Did you know 4/20 falls on a Tuesday this year?
Sub questions: Did you know Tonic has 50¢ tacos every Tuesday night?
Um, the universe clearly has a plan for us and I think it would be foolish (and maybe even dangerous) to resist.
Of course, if 4/20 means nothing to you or you don’t think he’s into that kind of thing, I’ve found that smuggling a six pack into a movie theater for something like Hot Tub Time Machine is a perfect, no-pressure, non-date date. It just depends on what you’re both in to.
Bottom line, plan something fun/ridiculous (based on what you’re both in to) and invite him to join. It’s your call whether to make it a group thing or just the two of you; either way pitch it like you are going to do it regardless and he’s welcome to join in. If he’s interested in hanging out you’ll know-- boys don’t play hard to get. So if he doesn’t bite, don’t push it. Leave it alone until you either randomly run into each other again or something else fun comes up that you can casually invite him to (after at least a few weeks have passed). And if he does want to hang out, then I’m 84% positive that you two will hook up again as long as you still want to.
I have a few thoughts on this one:
1.) I feel like I'm on glue because I had to read that question like 9,000 times to figure out what that person was asking.
2.) Tonic has 50¢ tacos every Tuesday night? Seriously? What are the chances that this "slightly younger hook-up" you're referring to is me? Because if you asked me out to a high-taco night, I'd pretty much give it up to you in the cab on the way over.
3.) This question seemed sort of time sensitive...I hope I didn't ruin your game by postponing last week's Queer Abby because of my birthday. But if so, check it out—my birthday ruined bothof our weeks! TWINSIES!!!
______________
Queer Abby,
I hate my job. I truly do. I know that there is absolutely, 100% nothing unique to my situation ... soooo many people dislike where they work. I have a degree in journalism and am looking for a career in an advertising/PR firm. Well, thanks to the economy, media jobs are horrendously scarce and after months of searching after college, I had to settle on the first offer I was given - a graphic designer in the publishing industry. It's not glamorous, I promise. A year later I applied for and was given a job in the marketing department of the same company. I thought it was a huge step in the right direction to be in an ad agency, but I was wrong. I just make lists of who is appearing in what advertisement. Like most people in my department, I'm grossly over-qualified for the work (and my yearly income is below the national poverty line). I wouldn't mind that so much if the work was rewarding in the least bit. I work for a fast-growing company that introduces new products and services without telling anyone how to go about fulfilling them. We don't have time to get used to the changes before even more are introduced. There is no breathing room. People are being fired and hired constantly. I reach out for help and guidance just to get empty promises of, "We're looking into this" or "Someone will help you figure this out". I'm so overwhelmed and sick of staring at my computer screen for 8 hours a day, doing monotonous, paint-by-number work. I come home grumpy and tired. I've been looking for other work for over a year now and have little results. I don't know what to do. I'm so thankful to even have a job, and it makes me feel guilty for complaining ... I just need to figure out a solution to preserve my sanity.
Sorry that was long-winded, Courtney A.
Good news, Courtney! You’re completely allowed to hate your job even during a recession. And you’re right, you are in good company. So, here’s what you should do: start a blog that’s dedicated to ripping on the culture at your office and the ass-hats you work with. As long as you remain anonymous, you should totally be fine…oh wait.[Smart ass...]
Really though, I know so many people in this boat that I think it deserves a real answer. Over the last year, if you’ve just been searching a lot and applying occasionally because you’re not seeing much you love, you need to be less picky right now. The immediate goal is to get yourself out of the bad/uninspiring/unsatisfying situation, where you currently spend most of your waking hours. If you’re miserable and you’re not learning there anymore, almost any move will help you preserve your sanity and broaden your skill-set with transferable, if not directly relatable experience. You're exceptionally lucky that you at least know the direction you want to go in—that’s more than most people in their 20’s can say. But, for now, you don’t have to find the perfect job and you don’t have to stop the job hunt once you move on to something new.
If you’ve been pushing tons of resumes out with no luck, it’s possible your resume or cover letters could use some work. It’s worth paying someone to look over it with you, seriously. Let me know if you decide to go this route and I can put you in contact with some people I know who are great at this and very reasonably priced. You might also think about scheduling some informational interviews. It’s great way to network, get face time with people in your field and learn whether a company/job will get you where you want to be. Be shameless in asking for them, most people love talking about themselves (except Carolyn Hax apparently…she doesn’t know it, but we’re in a fight)
I'm torn. Part of me wants to take you in my arms, hug you and rock gently because I know the pain of what you're going through all too well. The other part wants to flick you in the tit as hard as I can because the unglamorous first job you "settled" for after college was the job I worked my ass off to get. But because you clearly read my blog, I'm going to go with the hug. So there. This is me hugging you. And rocking, ever-so-gently. Hugs!
Yeah man. I agree with Amy. It sucks, but you totally have the right to be like, "this sucks." I mean, I pretty much just had my period all over today's blog, so I'm obviously pro-whining. It's cathartic. Don't apologize or feel guilty for it. But like Amy said, you know what you want to do, so now it's just a matter of getting your inner poking stick out and jabbing yourself hard enough to go get it. In the mean time, you are more than welcome to watch Tori and Dean and binge drink the pain away with me any time.
______________
Dear Queer Abby,
I recently was broken up with by a boyfriend. We were in a serious relationship for four years and were living together. I kind of had thought he was going to be... it. But, obviously not. Although I am glad that dirty fuck and I are over, I have also had a lot of issues maintaining my self-esteem and self-respect since the whole ordeal. Is there anything that I can do? I thought about trying out girls, but I can barely handle the idea of my own vagina much less another persons!
I guess what I actually really want to know is whether it is crazy to feel like every member of the opposite sex is completely uninterested in me. I mean, is my ex just under the impression that I am some monstrosity of a woman?! Are all men?! Because, I am interested in all of them. Well, except that dirty fuck. And only the attractive ones. That are funny. And, that are tall, and can carry an intelligent conversation, if needed.
Thank you, Margot
Dear Margot:
A) I’m so sorry your relationship with your vagina is on the rocks.
B) I’m so relieved I don’t have to talk you out of that whole “trying out girls” thing.
C) Everything you’re thinking and feeling is 100% normal. I’m assuming for the past 4 years, you’ve taken your ex’s opinion of you pretty seriously. If you could just turn that off, I would be worried about you. But it will definitely become less and less important in how you see yourself.
D) His opinion (whatever it may be) does not reflect that of ANYONE else, and every member of the opposite sex is not totally disinterested in you. BUT people can sense it when someone is desperately seeking affirmation and approval from others because they feel like shit about themselves, so don’t. Concentrate on doing things that legitimately make you feel good about yourself like working out, traveling, taking on a cool project, buying stuff, learning stuff, or whatever else is your jam. And don’t worry about jumping right back into dating. You’re so much more likely to end up with someone who is good for you when you respect yourself and have a clear sense of who you are, what you want and what you deserve. It can take a minute to get there after a break-up.
E) I recently read somewhere that attractive, funny, tall, guys who can carry intelligent conversations on queue flock to women who love their va jay jays and are temporarily unavailable by choice. Don’t ask me why, it’s just science.
OK, this isn't advice at all, but one time freshman year of college, I was talking to my friend Jill on AIM about this very subject and we were being like, "Bahh, boys suck! I feel like shit about myself! Why can't I find a good guy?" blah, blah, blah and I said, "Sometimes I wish I were a lesbian. And then I remember how much I like dick and it seems like a bad idea." Jill thought this was really funny, so she put me saying it as her away message, which as we all recall was quite an honor in the world of AIM, so I felt pretty good about myself. That is until her mom sent her a message telling her how crass it was and asking her to take it down. I was so fucking embarrassed. And what's even more embarrassing is that her mom reads this blog. As do many other of my friend's moms, my mom and my mom's friends. Which I've decided to embrace. HI LADIES! SEND MARGOT GOOD ENERGY!
Got a question for Queer Abby? Email QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com! Amy will give you super sound advice and then I'll ramble incoherently about god knows what and make you feel better about your life in comparison. QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!
Things are feeling oddly WOOO! SAD-TURNED-EMPOWERED SINGLE LADY! in here today. Thus, I leave you with Ex Co-Blogger Eddie's brief but potent First Wives Club Drinking Game!
[To be played with a bottle of Andre fine California Sparkling Wine.]
Take a sip of your drink (out of the bottle)… - When a character takes a sip of their drink (alcoholic)
- When the word lesbian is used or lesbianism is referenced
- When someone says something to the effect of “this is the 90’s!”
- For every character on screen who is wearing pearls.
Shout l'chaim and drink...
- When Bar Mitzvahs or studying Hebrew is discussed/occurs (this was turned into when Judaism is mentioned…which turned into when a person who is Jewish is on the screen.) In conclusion drink when you see Bette Midler.
As per always, thank you so much for reading and especially for passing the blog on to your friends, family and co-workers. Should you feel so moved, you can always follow us on Twitterand join ourFacebook page as well. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here bright and early Monday morning! Later!
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