Peg Leg Meg

I’ve started spending a lot of time at the gay sports bar near my new apartment. What’s great about it is that a) it’s as funny as it sounds like it is, and b) it’s funny in exactly the way it sounds like it is. Where else do you get to hear a drunk say, “It’s a football, not a dandelion, you jackass! Kick the damn field goal! Boy, Garrett Hartley sure is cute. TOO BAD HE CAN’T KICK FOR SHIT. I wouldn’t KICK him out of bed, though. Get it?”*

During the time I’m not at the bar, though, I’m thinking about money. I’m a little ashamed of my bald-faced plea for a patron last week. I still totally want one, I just think I should have gone about the hunt with a little more class. That said, what Meg and I have decided to do is start a business. If it succeeds, we won’t need a patron; if it fails, it makes us that much more adorable (in a sad way) and we might get pity bucks. Here are our proposals so far:

Mom and Pop shopkeepers: We could cut off one of Meg’s feet and open a chicken farm and bulk beer outlet by the interstate called “Peg Leg Meg’s Kegs n’ Eggs.” Disadvantages: it’s hard to get a wedge onto the end of a peg leg.

Publishers: I feel like we could tap into the growing feel-good market with titles like Chicken Soup for the Illiterate Soul, an excerpt of which appears below:

L

L................................J

L.............J

L J

L heart! J

J J

Is that a tearjerker or what? For the literate, we would have as our first effort Eat, Pray, Queef**, the inspiring story of a woman in her early thirties who, after going through a divorce and finding herself dissatisfied with her career, starts drinking heavily, eating gas station nachos, and fucking anything in pants.

Miss Helen Thinks You’re A Sorry Son of a Bitch.biz: A friend of mine’s family is “having problems.” The specifics aren’t important (although it does involve an argument over making payments on a trailer), but the end result is that the son has infuriated Miss Helen, the mother’s best friend. Miss Helen is a plain-talking mountain woman who says things like “Whenever I go out, I always wash my face and my ass.” The mother is not long for this world, and Miss Helen is making plans to, after her death, publicly prove the son to be a sorry sack of shit. Wouldn’t you pay for Miss Helen to do this to an enemy of yours? Gather all his acquaintances in a room, turn on a projector, and give a 30-minute presentation on why he’s an asshole? I figure if we get a van, we could make it a mobile service and do several a day. We could go on the road. “Miss Helen will be in the Gulfport area May 11-14. If you know a sorry son of a bitch and would like it proven, please call 1-800-I-ALWAYS-WASH-MY-ASS.”

Screenwriters: “2Birds1Blog productions and Manischewitz Kosher Wines present the gripping story of a driven career woman torn between the pressures of job and family. Now, faced with the biggest case of her career, will this tough female DA who isn’t afraid to play hardball with the big boys be able to finish her closing arguments before being treated for an ectopic pregnancy? Find out in Miscarriage of Justice, tonight on Lifetime.”

Hired killers: Heh, can you imagine two lazy, anxious assassins?

“I think we should go back and see if she’s dead. I’m just not sure…”

“I think we should go home, lock the door, put on Designing Women, and drink Turning Leaf Pinot Noir until we pass out.”

“Sold.”

And

“I told you, the senator needs to be dead by Tuesday’s meeting!”

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll get done. Actually, can you pick me up a gun or something while you’re out?”

And

“Okay, on three. One, two…”

“Wait. One, two, shoot on three or one, two, three, shoot?”

And

“Which bottle of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay did you poison?”

“Uh. Well. Okay, well, we’ll drink a little of each one, and whichever one make us feel a little sick we’ll recork and hide in the banker’s kitchen.”

Phone sex operators: Pretty much the same issues as the assassins, really.

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, uh. Boxer-briefs and a Styx t-shirt with a big Kool-Aid stain.”

“Oh. So, uh, what do you want to do?”

“Tell you what I want to do, hoss, is just kind of relax here and let you get your business taken care of. How does that sound, slugger? I bet if you try you can get done in about three minutes.”

I expect I would get fired after referring to a client’s scrotum as “your little coin purse.”

AA sponsors: “No, I think it’s more impressive to have just one drink. Then you’re really showing them you’re over it.”

Life coaches: “Oh, I’m sorry, do you need me to call the waaaaahmbulance? You don’t need a coach, you need a kick in the ass.”

Suicide hotline responders: “Wow, that REALLY sucks. I don’t know how you’re hanging on.”

And if all else fails, we can work at a candy factory.

See? We have plans. We’re entrepreneurs.

*Yeah, it was totally me

** NOTHING is better than hearing Meg say “queef.” She caresses it with her voice in this weird seductive way and it’s wonderful. [Ed. Note: NEW BUSINESS IDEA! For $5 I'll give you my phone number and you can call me and I'll say queef. BOOM. I realize it would be smarter to get your number, but, you know, dialing...]

Half baked. At best.

Greetings everyone! I’m currently writing this at the heinous hour of 7:30am, cruising at 32,000 feet on a plane en route to Miami for Becca’s bachelorette party. Yep, Miami: America’s Creepy Hometown. Things I plan on doing once in Miami, based solely on the Jersey Shore cast’s experience:

- Cook constantly

- Punch someone in the face

- Get punched in the face

- Get really tan (HA HA!...Just kidding.)

- Have sex (HA HA HA! …Just kidding again.)

- Catch a glamorous STD (would I blow your mind if I said I’ve got my eye on scabes?)

- Go to: Dream, Bed, Tantra, Blender, Whisk, House Cat and such and such

YEP. NOPE. This isn’t going to happen. This is a bumpy, bumpy plane ride and trying to write this while being tossed around is going to take me directly a little place called Vomitville, USA. Hey, did you know that planes don’t have wifi? That shocked me. Here are some more fun facts you might find shocking: did you know that I booked my return flight for October 26, not September 26? Did you know that I can’t afford to change it, so I’ll be living in Orlando with Nate for a month; a month exclusively spent stalking Kevin Yang and eating cupcakes in a hot tub? Did you know I actually thought about doing that but decided against it when I realized I’d miss the Maryland Ren-Fest? Did you know that I’m shockingly not a virgin? Did you know the woman next to me is freaking out and keeps doing that little “testicles, spectacles, wallet and watch” then kiss your thumb cross thingy? This is how I’m going to die—blogging about the Ren Fest and trying not to vomit. Sounds about right.

OK, I need to wrap this up before my scone makes a triumphant comeback.

As of 7:56am on September 24, 2010, Larry Hagman is alive! And as of the 21^st, another year older! Happy birthday, sir! 79 years young. A Merry Hagmas to you and yours.

Oh. The asshole in front of me just pushed their seat all the way back and sent my laptop flying into my birth canal. Good. Good for you. Why do I always think I can write while I travel? I can’t even look for a parking spot with music playing. That’s too distracting for me. God, I would give anything to get my chapstick out of my bag right now, but I’m afraid if I lean down I’ll go into labor and deliver my laptop prematurely. It’s so early. This is so rough. This isn’t even worth posting; I’m just going on pure stream of consciousness now. Chapstick. Vomit. Prayer. I wonder if we get peanuts? Is it too early to get a coke? You know how a certain song can take you back to a really specific moment in your your life? Every single song on the Scissor Sisters first album transports me directly back to October 2004. And October 2004 smells like my dorm room and Nanette Lapore perfume, and feels like driving Duncan (or DJ Rad?) in my old Acrua to Commander Salamander with the windows down and my sunroof open while listening to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. And also studying for typography quizzes on Helena’s floor. So fucking random and oddly specific at the same time. Ooo, Dre just came on my shuffle. Good call. Can I just say that I’d rather be literally anything than be a flight attendant? Customer service + small spaces + recycled air + unflattering uniforms + forced perkiness = I mean, Christ. Why? Yeah, you get to see the world, but you have to be an indentured sky waitress to do so. Well, that was derogatory. Now I’m going to have to spend the weekend sifting through emails from angry flight attendants and people who still think Chris classifies Ireland as a third-world country. Meh. Still beats having a real job. Chapstick.

OK, this needs to stop. I’m irritating the crap out of myself and we’re halfway there. Here’s a quick rundown of last night’s “Jersey Shore episode”.

Vinny continues to be bummed out that he got stood up -> He asks Ronnie for tips about how to be an emo Guido -> Ronnie gives him a My Chemical Romance CD, an “Emily the Strange” hoodie, and an Italian flag lighter to burn himself with because pain reminds you that you’re alive -> Angelina says that Ronnie and Sammi are her best friends in the house -> Which is awkward because they pretty much openly hate her -> Ronnie muses that the Smoosh Room mattress is covered in “Mike’s children, my children and Snooki juice” -> Which is when I seriously consider removing my skin with a potato peeler because it’s crawling so badly -> Angelina withholds birthday sex from Jose because she’s tired, on her period and “I’m a woman, so I pick and chose who I have sex with” -> I imagine that picking and choosing to be as exclusive as the admission process at Devry -> Vinny is still all about Rocio, his ethnically ambiguous lady friend, because “she’s not a whore or a stalker” -> “Grandpa, how did you know you were in love with Grandma?” “Well, Tino, your grandmother wasn’t a whore or a stalker, and truthfully, I found that to be incredibly refreshing.” -> J-WOWW’s boyfriend, Tom, comes for a visit -> They get in a fight within the first five minutes of his arrival because she has a number in her address book that he asked her not to take down -> She picks his nose, he exposes her breast and all is good again -> Angelina’s friend comes to visit -> One time Snooki was on a bike and ran into a wall and thought she broke her vagina bone -> That night at the clerb, The Situation meets a Canadian model (…) who is so DTF it’s not even funny -> He takes her to john to make sweet, passionate, toilet love to her, but security kicks them out -> He loses her in the chaos of the club and is bummed because he didn’t bother to catch her name or number -> Back at the house, Sammi and Ronnie are proud of themselves because they “killed it at the club”, meaning they didn’t get into a pointless fight or dramatically storm out on each other -> It must be an interesting point in your life when you have to pat yourself on the back for not sucking -> The Situation’s mystery girl from the club, Samantha, leaves her number The Situation on the house door -> In the immortal words of Zac Effron and that Vanessa Hudgens, “this could be the start of something new.” -> The Situation goes to the bathroom and finds one of Angelina’s used pads on the floor -> Disguisted, he puts it under her pillow and calls her out for it infront of some guy she picked up at the beach and brought back to the house -> ESCALATE, ESCALATE, ESCALATE -> He calls her a “dirty little hampster” (which is pretty much amazing) and she runs at him and starts to throw a drink in his face, which as perusual, is when MTV Mr. Belvedere freeze frames and fade to credits.

Alright, we’re about to land in Miami and if my sister knew I was still using my laptop, she would kill me.. Have a great weekend guys and we’ll see you right back here Monday morning!

My Rosh Hashanah Rant

Three things:

1.) I've been procrastinating writing this blog entry by watching military documentaries for the past four hours (don't ask) (don't tell) (HAHA!) (but not really, that's a sad policy) (but god I'm clever) and OOF. If I decide to join the Marines, it's your responsibility to remind me that I find socializing in humid weather taxing and recently quit a Jillian Michaels On Demand home workout after three minutes to order Greek and watch shit on Hulu. Thank you.

2.) I hate doing this, but I need you to do me a favor and vote for us for Express Night Out's Best Blog. To do so, just click here, scroll down almost to the very bottom, click 2birds1blog for "best blog (non food)" and hit vote. Done. Then perhaps ask a friend to do the same. Promise them sexual favors and delicious spiced meats for doing so. Then when they're done voting and want to cash-in on your promises, simply say "PSYCH!", pat them on the back once and walk away. What will I give you for doing this? Sexual favors and delicious spiced meats. PSYCH! And now I'm walking away. See how easy that was?

Actually, we'll do a giveaway next week, but I need you to tell me what you want first. 2b1b shit? Jäger shit? Some random shit I find laying around my apartment? A comical picture of me from middle school? I'm open, so vote, come back, leave a comment telling me what you'd like and we'll do it next week. (Another reason I probably shouldn't join the Marines: I'm too lazy to think of my own blog giveaways.) Oh, and since I know there's nothing the 2b1b Army loves more than helping me only to fuck someone else over (bless your hearts), we're up against our blog nemesis, The Prince of Petworth. BOOM. Revenge and a giveaway; what more could you want? XOXOXOXO.

3.) I got an email earlier tonight from a reader asking if I was ever going to write about my issue with Rosh Hashanah. And YEP. Sure will. Right now. That's all it takes; one single person asking for it. Because I will rant about Rosh Hashanah to literally anyone who will listen. And frankly, actually listening is a non-issue. Sometimes I line up my Larry Hagman action figures and walk around my apartment just bitching and moaning and making points with animated hand gestures. And now, despite it actually not being that funny or interesting, you fine people will get that pleasure too. So, here we go.

Diane McBlogger: God I love that woman. My mom is one of my all-time favorite people and I love her very dearly. HOWEVER, she is the reason why Rosh Hashanah season gets my modest, ankle-length skirt in a twist.

As I've discussed, we McBloggers are an interfaith family. My mom is Jewish, my dad is Catholic and my sister and I lost interest at the beginning of this sentence. My entire life, our family has only celebrated four religious holidays: Easter, Passover, Hanukkah and Christmas. That's it. That's the ballgame. And I use the term "celebrate" loosely because I really mean we get drunk, watch "Mystery Science Theater 3000" and eat a brisket.

Now, my mom's interest in Judaism comes and goes. And you know what? That's fine. Mozel tov to you and yours. If one day you feel like being a Super Jew and the next you want to host a pig roast with Jesus and Rush Limbaugh—good for you. I pray to Kelly Cutrone, who am I to judge? What I don't appreciate, however, is when her feigning interest in religion affects my life and my schedule. Because if you're going to make the conscious decision to raise your kids all, "Ohhhh, here's a pupu platter of religions! Take want you want and leave what you don't! There is no right and wrong! Come as you are and leave as you were; we're not trying to change you, just educate you," and all that hippie bruhaha, I think it's hypocritical to force me to participate years later just because all of a sudden it's important to you. And yet that's exactly what happened in September of 2006.

I was a Senior in college in September of '06 and much to my chagrin, I was forced to take web design. If you couldn't already tell from how primitive this blog is despite my background in graphic design, I loathe web design. I think it's boring, confusing, and involves wayyyy too much thinking for my liking. Which is exactly why I chose to be a print design major. But our department head, in all of his infinite wisdom and glory, decided to make my graduating print design class take web design so we would be more "marketable" after graduation. Asshole.

Web Design was basically a semester long project where we had to design two versions of a website for a local band; one using HTML, JavaScript, CSS blah blah technical blah and one using Flash. (SPOILER! I didn't do it. My friend Stephanie did mine for me and I say a little prayer for her and her health every night because Christ knows I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. The extent of my coding knowledge is mostly Live Journal based and is limited to bold, italics, underlines, strike outs and my pièce de résistance:

SCROLLING MARQUEES!!!!1

Pretty much all of us outsourced our websites, which looking back made sense at the time, but now that I'm paying off my student loans in one-liners and handjobs, I kind of want to set myself on fire.)

Flash forward to a phone call I got from my mom the first week of September:

D: Meg, I need you to come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner next Tuesday night.

M: Rosh-a-what-now?

D: Rosh Hashanah.

M: Oh. No offense, but...why?

D: Because Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and it's important that you're here for it.

Let's time out right there: no it's not. I mean, yes, Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, but it really didn't matter if I was home for it or not. The Jews managed to survive 5,771 Rosh Hashanahs with out me up until that point, I'm sure one more wouldn't have brought on any plagues or frog showers. That being said, who was I to turn down free brisket and facetime with Evie? So, I agreed to go.

Unfortunately, part of my web design project was to create a photo gallery of our band with original photography from live shows. And when was my band's next show before our photo galleries were due? You guessed it: Rosh Hashanah. I figured my mom would be cool about it though because, you know, we had been to Disney Land more times than we'd even discussed Rosh Hashanah and school comes first, right? Wrong.

[Ring, ring!] D: Hello?

M: Hey, it's Meg.

D: Hi honey, what's up?

M: Listen, I've got some bad news—I can't come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner anymore. The photo gallery for my band's website is due soon and I need to go to their show at the Black Cat that night to take pictures. Sorry!

D: Well, I'm sorry too. Because you have to come home for dinner.

M: What? Wait, seriously?

D: Yes. Seriously.

M: But, why?

D: Because it's Rosh Hashanah.

M: So?? I don't even know what that is! This is like you telling me I have to come home for Fluggityfark.

D: Meghan, you know what Rosh Hashanah is. We celebrate it every year.

M: WHAT?! We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah in my entire 22 years of my being on this Earth. EVER.

D: Meghan, we always celebrate Rosh Hashanah. You're just not remembering and I'm not having this conversation with you anymore. It's important to me that you be there and that's final.

Now, time the fuck out right there. This still boggles my mind. We had seriously never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't believe she told me otherwise to try to get me to come. Because had my mom just been like, "Hey-o feelin' kind of Jewy, it's important to me that you come home so we can celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a family," that would have been one thing. But to try to implant these false memories in my mind of Rosh Hashanahs past to guilt me into coming is just so manipulative and ultimately, well, Jewish.

And then the truth came out:

M: This is absurd. We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't go because I have something to do for school. They're not going to have another show until after my gallery is due and if I don't get those pictures, I'm going to be totally fucked.

D: Well, I'm sorry, but I already told your sister she didn't have to go because she got tickets to see Mos Def that night and at least one of you has to be there.

...Allow me repeat that: I had to go because Rebecca was going to a MOS. DEF. CONCERT. My already shitty project in the class that I was struggling the most in was now in serious jeopardy because Rebecca felt it necessary to go to a fucking MOS. DEF. CONCERT. I'm aware that older siblings sometimes get preferential treatment, but at that point I was 22 and she was 27; we were grown-ass adults. To let her go to a god damn Mos Def concert and not let me do something for school was just lunacy and borderline reckless. Plus, who gave a shit if neither of us were there?? Who was going to judge?? The only people at that dinner were my parents, my aunt, the cat and a bottle of red. Which part of that cast would have been like, "Ohhhh, the McBlogger girls didn't show up for Rosh Hashanah dinner. What values, these kids!" (Evie, obviously, but still.)

I brought this up to Becca when she was over for dinner the other week and her only response was, "Oh. Hah. Yeah. That was a good show," then went right back to chopping something.

WHAT?!!?!?!? For all the trouble it caused me, that had better have been the best god damn show she's seen in her entire life. Mos Def himself should have showered her in Cristal and performed a one-man rendition of his guest episode of "House" in Latin before sexing up her and everyone else in the audience. "That was a good show." Christ.

In the end, I obviously went to dinner, I'm sure it was delicious, my website sucked, I got a C in the class, and according to Mos Def's Twitter, he just saw Salt and has to say that that ending was the worst he's seen yet, which is saying something because he watched The Last Airbender. SO, GOOD. We're all comedians and we're all winners.

And you know what the most infuriating part of this entire situation is? OUR FAMILY NEVER CELEBRATED ROSH HASHANAH AGAIN!!!1 After all of that! I didn't even know it was Rosh Hashanah season until Chris proposed we do a post about our Rosh Hashanah New Year's resolutions the other week and I freaked out. I was like, "WAIT, IS IT ROSH HASHANAH?" "...Yes." "AND MY MOM ISN'T HAVING A DINNER?!" "Uh...I guess not?" [Drops phone, falls to knees, raises fists in the air] "GOD DAMN YOU, MOS DEF!!!!!!"

So, I've decided that from now on, I am forcing my family to observe Rosh Hashanah, whether we're feeling Jewish that year or not. Just based on principle. Because if it was magically important that year (when I was BUSY) (with something ACADEMIC), it should be important EVERY year. Diane McBlogger should personally provide me with a free hot meal, at her residence, transportation fees covered and Rebecca's presence mandatory. And at said dinner, we will listen to local DC band Deleted Scenes' EP on repeat, pass around my grades from that ill-fated semester and each family member must look me dead in the eye, apologize, give me three compliments—in alphabetical order—and at least two of them have to be based on my physical appearance and have nothing to do with my personality or "wonderful" sense of humor.

Happy fucking New Year.