Ack! Mondays! Nermal!

Today is another classic case of "this isn't what I was originally going to write about, but something horrible happened and now we need to talk about it," so let's just dive right on in, shall we?

Chris and I had a "work" conference call last night (which opened with Chris genuinely not being able to tell if I was drunk or it was just my Maryland accent) (it was just my Maryland accent) (sadly), and continued to be surprisingly productive until we slid into a 45-minute long conversation about the 1977-1981 classic ABC sitcom, "Soap". I've been watching a shit-ton of "Soap" lately, you guys. All four seasons are on Netflix instant view and I highly recommend you join the party. I think there's been an episode constantly on in my apartment as background noise for like, what, three weeks now? It's gotten to the point where my inner-monologue has been replaced by Rod Roddy voice over and I spend the majority of my days listening to the theme song in front of a mirror and doing the Snoop Dogg "Drop it Like It's Hot" dance. (For a crude reenactment, press play and watch Snoop go!)


Because my brain processes obsession in one of two ways (make it a ringtone or tattoo it directly onto my person), I decided to go the ringtone route with the "Soap" theme song. Unfortunately the only version iTunes has of it is this queer little MIDI nonsense. While MIDI versions of anything are automatically awesome and Chris' new life goal to strip to it at a local amateur night legitimately made me laugh out a fart, it's useless to me. The magic of the "Soap" theme lies in the strings; I needed the original. I quickly worked The Google and found a site with the string version (minus Rod Roddy voice over) that could even be sent straight to my phone! Before you can say "Kenyan bank scam", I had given them my phone number, phone carrier, account number, social security number, birth date, blood type and a stool and semen sample—anything, as long as it would get me the ringtone. In retrospect, I truly believe this might make me legally retarded for the following reasons:

1.) Jesus Christ

2.) They obviously never sent the god damn ringtone to me

3.) They did, however, send me junk text messages every 30 seconds about free nudie pics and an off-brand Angry Bird game downloadable at a website with "XXL" and "junk" in the same URL.

4.) I can't make it stop

5.) ...This isn't the first time I've done something this. I was really cracked out one night in college and working in the design lab when I saw a banner ad for a special frequency ringtone called "Teen Buzz" that adults can't hear. I had just turned 22 and was feeling kind of weird about it, so I bought it to remind myself that I was young and spry and could still text in study hall. But then the download never went through and I couldn't tell if was because there was a problem with my phone or it actually had gone through but I was too old to hear it. So I downloaded it 30 more times. My phone bill was like $500 that month and my mom had to physically go to the AT&T store to get them to remove it because it was technically her name on the account and she was so mad and I got into a shit-ton of trouble, despite being 22-years-old. Now here we are, almost four years later and I'm in the same position, but this time because of the "Soap" theme song.

This isn't funny and I don't even have a conclusion. WOW, and this just happened:



I....................................could vomit. This is too much for a Monday.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then, I swear to God, my computer crashed.

I'm going to kamikaze this now. Good day to you.

Bruce Vilanch FAIL.

Every single presenter at the Academy Awards reminds me of:


(Minus Kirk Douglas.)

Sham...Wow

I know it's generally not a good sign when you're taking life advice from Rihanna's clavicle, but I decided to adopt "never a failure, always a lesson" as my mantra this week. Because I have learned me a whale of a life lesson. Specifically, if you eat Chinese food that's been sitting out on a counter for 24 hours, you will get food poisoning. And it will be Christ awful. And you will spend days on end alternating between handling "explosive bathroom scenarios" and watching two seasons of "Lie to Me" on Netflix while trying to find a position to curl up in that doesn't make it feel like you're about to vomit your spleen.

I'd like to tell you that I didn't refrigerate said Chinese food because my fridge was broken and I was desperate for food or some shit that would even remotely make sense, but honestly, my fridge was full and I really didn't feel like cleaning it out. So I just left my leftovers on the counter. And then the next afternoon when I was hungry and walked past the kitchen, I saw the food and was all, "WELL HELLO, OLD FRIEND," and dove right in, same fork that had been stewing in the bowl all night and all. And you know why? Because I'm not that intelligent. I'm just not. I can bullshit an A+ paper on literally anything and get through school with flying colors, but I have all the common sense of an Autistic toddler. I swear to God I'm not making this for comedic effect, but I walked face first into a door not 20 minutes ago. Talia once summed me up perfectly when she said, "Meg, you are the dumbest smart person I have ever met in my entire life." Fair. Fair and astute.

So, yes. I'm feeling better, but still sort of like I might explode at any given second. I think it's going to be a long, long time before I eat anything with ginger or snow peas in it in again. Jesus, Mary, mother of God, I wish I hadn't just said ginger or snow peas. Twice. I could seriously burst into tears right now. OK, LET'S RAPIDLY CHANGE THE SUBJECT, SHALL WE? I'm at my parent's house and this is sitting on their coffee table:

It's an informational DVD that came with a hair product my mom bought on The Q, but I spent an uncomfortable three minutes thinking it was some sort of touchy-feely learn-to-make-love-again DVD that they neglected to hide before I came over and very seriously I thought I was going to have to gouge out my eyes and kill myself. But it's not. So, hey HEY hey! Small victories.

...Well, now I'm thinking about snow peas and my parents having sex. RAPID CHANGE OF SUBJECT AGAIN! So you know how I have this ~*MyStErY hEaLtH pRoBLeM!*~, and I'm crazy like a fox, and am just generally, as a human being, broken in half? Well, that's all good and fun, but my health insurance runs out next month and I'm fucked. I need a few procedures, physical therapy, and I HAVE EMOTIONS!!!1 therapy, and it keeps me up at night trying to think of what I'm going to do about it. I could COBRA my parent's health policy, sure, but that would cost about $500 a month. I could get an independent policy, but I might as well be an 85-year-old meth addict with AIDS and a pack-a-day smoking habit for how uninsurable I am. I don't make enough money to get coverage through the Freelancer's Union, and my parents are getting mighty sick of this little HAHA-Meg's-following-her-dreams-and-we-all-help-her-out-because-ZOMG-artistic-passion-LOL! thing, as evidenced by my mom's new nickname for the blog: 2 Burdens, 1 Blog. (Which is actually pretty clever, BUT STILL.) (Slash I don't know what Chris ever did...)

I know it's easy to disregard my anxiety about all of this because I'm not exactly an orphan hustling on the streets for a crust of bread and a few shillings, but my parents—while still 100% supportive of my career—really have made it clear that they're tired of bailing me out. Which makes me feel like a total asshole and like maybe I should say fuck it, put this little dream on the back burner and get a 9-5 for the insurance. But at the same time, I can't help but to think we've come too far to quit now. I'm completely confident that one day I'll be able to fully support myself with my writing, but that day just isn't today. And unfortunately, I'm a hot fucking mess today. I need health insurance. It's time to get creative. And that's when Pete, of sexual-misadventure-essay winner Pete, shot me an email to see how I was feeling and casually mentioned that if I need health insurance, he would marry me.

Now...I'm 99.9% sure that Pete was just kidding, but I'm also 100% sure that I was not kidding when I responded: yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I genuinely think a sham insurance marriage is an amazing solution to my problem. And Pete seems cool. He bought some merch and hooked up in an AU formal lounge once. That makes him good enough to marry in my book. Unfortunately, I think my "WHEN'S THE SOONEST YOU CAN MEET ME AT THE COURT HOUSE I HAVE A WHITE DRESS FROM HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION THAT IF I DON'T BREATHE I CAN STILL FIT IN MAYBE I SHOULD BUY SPANX JUST IN CASE EITHER WAY I SHOULD BUY MY BUS TICKETS RIGHT NOW IF I TAKE AN 8AM BUS AND GET IN AT 12 WOULD YOU MAYBE WANT TO GET LUNCH???" response thoroughly scared him away. Drag.

My next thought was to gay-marry Eileen. Not only is Eileen one of my oldest and best friends, she has a stupid good insurance policy, a decently-sized apartment in New York with a sick view, a building that allows pugs, and one time she fixed a 20-year-old VHS copy of Sound of Music while high as a kite with an eyeglasses repair kit. I mean, not to sound gay, but I could fucking create a life with that woman. It would be a privilege and an honor. There are a few problems, though: a.) gay marriages aren't recognized in New York; b.) marrying Eileen might raise a few eyebrows concerning my sexual orientation; c.) both of those eyebrows would belong to my mother; and d.) that's basically just the plot to Chuck and Larry minus the heartwarming Dan Aykroyd Speech at the end and whole widower plot line. So unless the state of New York opens its mind and Dan Aykroyd takes a break from his busy schedule of Botox and nothing, I think my Eileen plan is out. And it truly is my loss, madam.

Next idea: Tulane Chris. Status: Student. GOD DAMNIT.

Next: Alex. Status: Student. GOD DOUBLE DAMNIT.

Next: Andrew of the Great Juno Debate Fame. Status: Won't drink from the same water bottle as me, so something tells me he won't jump at the opportunity of a sham marriage. Asshole.

And every single other person I know is in a relationship, so fuck me.

So not to be creepy, but I keep coming back to Pete. And I know I responded to his jaunty little "HAHA wouldn't it be funny if?" email with a lock of my hair and the name of five public notaries within a city block of his office, but I feel like marrying me wouldn't be the worst thing he'd ever do. Or anyone, really! Maybe there's another insured gentleman out there that I'm not even thinking of! And that's why I sat down tonight and whipped up a list of 23 reasons why you should marry me:

1.) Got a girlfriend? Cool. This isn't a Shakespeare play, I'm not trying to fall in love with you—I just need a $10 co-pay.

2.) That being said, I got some tig 'ole bitties. I'm sorry, it had to be said.

3.) I refuse to move in with you, which I would interpret as a good thing considering the number of friendships I've ruined as a result of living with friends.

4.) I have a rapier wit. But I don't like to talk on the phone. And again, I won't live with you. So...here's hoping you gchat.

5.) One day you can refer to me in passing as your First Wife. That's kind of glamorous, right?

6.) Two words: JEW HOLIDAYS!!!!1

7.) I have a decent DVD collection.

8.) A very kind reader is sending me a new Brita pitcher. Yeah. Being a blogger is kiiiind of a big fucking deal and if I were you, I'd get in on this obscene fortune and fame ride as soon as humanly possible.

9.) Because this just happened:

Dad: What are you writing? Your reasons why someone should marry Meg McBlogger?

Me: Yeah, but I can't think of anything.

Dad: That's not true, I bet you have at least ten by now!

Me: Yeah, but one of them is literally, "I can carry a tune, question mark? I don't know, period."

Mom: .........You have ties to Jägermeister? Just tell him you can get him all the Jägermeister he wants.

10.) I have ties to Jägermeister. I can get you all the Jägermeister you want.

11.) The next McBlogger family vacation is this fall—time to shag ass. (Slash as of now I think they have me sleeping in a storage closet, so I also need an insurance husband to justify why we should get a house with three bedrooms instead of two bedrooms and a dungeon in the basement for old, single Meg and her hollow womb. Kthnx.)

12.) I have a convertible. I named him Kevin. I don't really consider that to be a selling point, but my dad told me to add it. So here we are.

13.) I was dicking around on Wikipedia last night and put it in Afrikaans for funzies and now I can't figure out how to switch it back to English. Again, that's also not really a selling point, but I just feel like it's something my sham husband should be able to help me with.

14.) You can have Evie as my dowry. She's small, portable, light in the hoof. All in all, not a bad deal.

15.) Mom: Instead of finding a random person or a gay guy to marry, why don't you just approach someone you're actually interested in?

Me: Because I don't want to have sex with my sham husband. It's just prostitution at that point, right?

Mom: 'Eh, everyone's a prostitute. As the old saying goes, "when two people are having sex, someone's getting fucked."

16.) I'll have sex with you.

17.) I have zero qualms about having a child, putting her in pageants, and spending her prize money on Bartles & Jaymes and chicken kickers.

18.)
This box was in my parent's kitchen tonight and I pointed out that you could use it to make a sick robot costume. I'm full of amazing ideas like that!

19.) Then Evie crawled in, it was adorable, and I started calling her R2Eve2. Bee-bop-boop:


20.) Richard and Diane would be your in-laws. They obviously insisted I add this one, but let's also not pretend like I'm not sitting in their house right now on a Wednesday night for no God given reason when I have an apartment of my own.

21.) My dad volunteered to cover the expenses of a modest City Hall ceremony. Why? Because even when desperately trying to pawn me off on a stranger, I'll always be his little girl.

22.) We can get one of those $400 divorces you always see advertised on billboards in se habla Español neighborhoods. Because I am in no way trying to put airs on here.

23.) Beautiful, beautiful blog fodder.

In the immortal words of Kenny Ortega and Zefron, "this could be the start of something new." meg@2birds1blog.com.

Happy Presidents Day!

Mini flags. Day drinking. OBVS. xo

Erotic Dream/Dog Diarrhea

My “that’s a fine how-do-you-do” moment of the week: I was having a very vivid, very pleasant erotic dream when the phone woke me up. It was, of course, my mother: “Oh, I’m so tired, Chris. The dog has had diarrhea all day. I heard little sounds in the night, but I just thought it was the fish tank, but then I woke up and looked at the floor and… well. He only weighs eight pounds, I don’t know how it all fits. Anyway, I’ve been cleaning that up and making him rice. Rice is good for upset stomachs. Oh, it was a chore getting the Kaopectate down him, though. We had to get one of those oral syringes for babies. I gave him some Pedialyte, too. I’m sure he lost too many electrolytes….” The sudden transition from “men at work” to “the poodle digestive catastrophe hour” has ruined my sexual imagination. I can still envision Scott Fujita in the leather harness, but now all he says is, “I even stepped in some in my sock. Under the end table! I was finding little poops all morning.”

We got a wonderful little write-up in my college’s student newspaper. My cover is pretty much blown at this point. I had hoped to graduate without my professors knowing I was behind such phrases as “I can still envision Scott Fujita in the leather harness, but now all he says is, ‘I even stepped in some in my sock. Under the end table! I was finding little poops all morning,’” but there it is. In the alumni newsletter, my entry will read: “Tulane Chris. Sagittarius. Research interests: medieval England, prewar Vienna, and diarrhea jokes.” So that’s fun.

Speaking of “phone conversations I had with female relatives recently,” here were some pips from last week:

Grandmother: How is the book coming?

Me: Oh, fine. It’s hard work, but I think it’ll be good.

Grandmother: Don’t write anything your grandmother can’t read.

Me: Um. About that…

Grandmother: I’ve been twenty-nine for fifty-one years. I don’t want to be shamed by my only grandson this late in life.

Me: Now, this “shame.” Would you be ashamed of, say… an entire page of suicide jokes? Topped off with a limerick?

Grandmother: I wouldn’t be particularly pleased. Is that something I need to be worried about?

Me: SO HOW’S THE NEW DOG

Grandmother: He’s fine, but you won’t get to meet him if your book is vulgar.

Later….

Mom: How did the book go? Am I in it?

Me: Indirectly, in that any psychiatrists who read it will probably guess your existence. We need to talk about Grandmother.

Mom: Oh, she was grouchy today. I asked her if she was regular and she jumped all over me.

Me: Well, bowels aside, it’s probably best she not read the book. There are… discussions.

Mom: Just tell her not to read it! She’s not stupid; she can guess what it’s like. She’ll just blame me. I raised you to write books like that, is what she’ll say.

Me: Well, still.

Mom: You didn’t use the c-word, did you?

Me: Crocodile? Colostomy? The answer to both of those is yes.

Mom: You know what I mean.

Me: Oh, “cunt?” Are you asking me if I said “cunt” in the book?

Mom: Yes.

Me: A little.

Mom: You’re grounded.

Me: MEG DID IT. MEG SAID “CUNT.”

Mom: She’s grounded.

[Ed. Note: Chris' mom is a cunt.]

It’s lucky I have them to talk to. Nothing funny happens to me anymore, since I’ve gotten “lolz busy” with school. It’s a brutal little arrangement: now that I’m a little bored with grad school, I hit the busiest patch. I thought I was covering well and not showing the stress of school/work/book/blog/personal issues we’d all rather not discuss, but then I got a “talking-to” at work yesterday. I was told that my “level of politeness in dealing with other employees’ requests had gone down,” which is a very, very diplomatic way of saying “you’re being kind of an asshole.” My initial reaction was enormous embarrassment, which probably worked in my favor, but now I’m annoyed, since I was never rude and just occasionally an stitch short with someone. Brusque, maybe, but not rude – the difference between “in a minute” and “Nothing would give me greater joy than to make these copies.”

Of course, having apologized profusely, I can’t very well go back in and say, “I’ve changed my mind, whoever said I was rude is irrational and probably a Communist, I’m a Goddamn peach to work with and you’re lucky to have me, I brighten everyone’s fucking day and you very well know it.” And to be fair, I do regret upsetting whomever I’ve upset, since I do genuinely like my job and all of my co-workers, but this whole incident seems a little thin-skinned – a classic “well, I’m sorry you feel that way” situation.

Okay, as I write this, I actually think I’ve figured it out. The geography of the office means that 1) people who need files have to come into my area, which startles me and puts me uncomfortably close to someone I don’t know very well and 2) anytime someone needs to ask me something, they have to come toward me from behind, which – my whippet-drinking-a-Red-Bull nervous system being what it is – startles me several times a day. Maybe they’re misinterpreting my bulging eyes and flaring nostrils as anger, rather than “OH GOD SOMETHING’S BEHIND ME IT’S A WOLF! WOOOOOOOOOOLF! - oh, here’s the stapler.” My ancestors must have been fun to be around on the boat to the New World:

Other Immigrant: I can’t wait to see this beautiful new land.

My Ancestor: Tomahawks. Syphilis. Wide open spaces. Shipwreck. Weird plants. We’re all going to die.

Since this whole business went through “the boss” and was all done in vague, correct HR terms, I have no idea whom I annoyed or how, leaving me with the same old options:

-       - Quit

-       - Get fired

-       - Get drunk in the parking lot before work

-       - Unnatural glee when confronted with any request of any kind, you know, like we all claim to have in cover letters

So, I guess the reason I’m telling you this story is that in case a headline shows up that reads “Area Man Found Dead at Copier, Smiling, Wearing A T-Shirt with Two Chipmunks Hugging on It,” you won’t expect a purple post that week. Hail and farewell, readers.

I should really read the comments in a more timely fashion...

Well, now I feel like an asshole. It doesn't make up for the bike...but I apologize for my mid-afternoon sassiness.

UPDATES!

1.) You're a piece of shit.

2.) God damnit...No you're not. Not at all. I'm sorry.

3.) WHO CARES IF IT WAS A PIECE OF SHIT?! It was my piece of shit! I don't care if it was made of pick-up sticks, tinfoil, and packing tape, it wasn't yours to get rid of! That's like if I borrowed a shirt from you and then put it down the garbage disposal because I decided it was ugly. And then when you get mad at me (and rightfully so), I reverse get mad at you because I was just trying to "do you a favor".

4.) Oh I'M sorry, so what you're trying to say here is that if I should suddenly get the urge to go on a lovely Spring bike ride, I have to call and confirm that either you or Geoff are home, coordinate a good time to come if not, get on the metro, transfer lines, get off at Clarendon, take a bus to your neighborhood, and walk over to pick up the bike first? Uh huh. And how many times have I almost peed my pants in your car because I was too lazy to go in the restaurant?

5.) I only get motion sick going over cobblestones and don't you dare pretend like you don't know that.

And finally, this morning's email exchange with my dad:

To: Dad

From: Meg

Subject: Quick question!

Hey, what's that reclining chair in your Panamanian Relaxation Room called again?

To: Meg

From: Dad

Subject: RE: Quick question!

It is the “Library." Books, old prints, crystal decanters, Panamanian relaxing. A little bit of Regency England, right in the heart of MOCO. I go up there and read with Evie on my lap. We both sip some single malt and settle in. Right now we’re reading a history of the Crusades. Sometimes I read aloud to her. She seems very alert, but that just might be the scotch.

Love,

DAD

He didn't answer the question...but that is adorable.

Like sands through the hourglass...

I moved out of my parent’s house almost eight years ago (and then again two years ago…) and am fully aware that it’s not “mine” anymore. It is—and really has always been—theirs and they’re free to do with it whatever they’d like. Ergo, I was totally fine with it when they decided to fill the void I left in their hearts with my cat doppelganger; I always keep my protests to a minimum when they talk about selling the house and moving to St. Michael’s; and I was more than understanding when literally an hour after I moved to New York, they gave my bike to my sister to abandon in Malcolm X Park because apparently it’s quote, “a piece of shit”, and then when I came home and wanted to take it for a ride one day—Oh, sorry! We gave it to your sister and your sister gave it to a park bench and the park bench set it on fire, and to this day nobody will replace it or apologize to me because every party involved blames it on the other and Meg on a bike? That’s a fucking riot to begin with! I was really cool about that. (Except I wasn’t. And probably never will be. And will continue to bring it up as much as humanly possible. Because what the fuck?)

All things considered, I understand that my parents have the right to make changes to their house and it can’t stay a time capsule of the life and times of Meghan C. McBlogger circa the early ‘00s forever. (Which is a shame because I had a pretty decent collection of graphic-tees, SAT prep books, and Express jewelry lying around, but meh—their loss.) That being said, I have to draw a line somewhere. And that line is drawn square down the middle of a gentleman named Monty.

Monty was my beloved childhood stuffed animal. He was a stuffed…ambiguous…creature-type thing that my parents always told me was a monster (hence the name Monty) but my scary Girl Scouts troop leader insisted was a cat on our Savannah trip and it changed everything and/or begs the question why was I traveling with Monty at the age of 13-years-old when I definitely had breasts? But that’s not the point. The point is, he was my number one jam for a good portion of my life, and while I don’t need to sleep with him every night anymore (that’s what Jason is for) (and as you’ll recall, Jason is a stuffed fox and not a cute passing reference to a gentleman friend) (in retrospect, I kind of wish I had let you think it was a gentleman friend) (your keyboard does have a backspace, you know…) (silence) (only if you stop typing your inner-monologue) (that’s probably for the best), I don’t ever want to get rid of him.

I stayed at my parent’s house for a week or so over the holidays and could not fall asleep for the life of me. After a few restless nights, I hypothesized it was because I didn’t have anything to curl up with, so I got out of bed one night and turned my room upside down looking for Monty. I couldn’t find him anywhere. Frankly I couldn’t find anything anywhere because my dad had just finished turning my room into a guest room so the old guest room could become his infamous Panamanian Relaxation Room. And again, that’s fine! It’s their house. But, you know...Monty.

The next afternoon when I woke up (don’t judge me or my life style), I went across the hall and found my dad sipping a glass of wine in his chair and reading a book, soaking up all that is his Panamanian Relaxation Room.

Meg: Dad?

Dad: Hmm?

M: Do you know where Monty is?

D: Yeah. He’s in your room somewhere.

M: Well, where in my room? I couldn’t sleep last night so I got up to look for him, but I can’t find him anywhere.

D: I remember seeing him when I was cleaning out your room…check the Container Store bin in your closet. That’s where I put all the stuff I saved for. I wouldn’t throw him out.

After thoroughly ransacking my bin of keepsakes, I didn’t find Monty, but here’s what I did find:

My Retainer  
 
I was about to say that I don’t even remember the last time I wore this, but I do: the night of September 11th. My friend Kelley had people over that night because we didn’t have school the next day, and I remember Jen called our friend Jason to ask where he was and he was like, “UH. I kind of want to be with my family right now and not drinking Michelob Lights in a basement with you assholes…thanks.” It was at that moment that the gravity of the situation finally sunk in, and I had a panic attack and had to go home. Later that night as I was lying in my bed trying to go to sleep, I distinctly remember thinking, “I could fucking die soon.” It’s weird how that wasn’t really an option up until that point. I also remember thinking that if I were to die that night; I totally wouldn’t go to heaven. I’m pretty sure I considered myself Agnostic at that point and didn’t really believe in the concept of a heaven or hell, but that night I was certain there was a heaven and a hell and I was even more certain that I was bound for the more tropical option. I then proceeded to get up, pop in the retainer I had abandoned almost immediately after getting my braces off two years earlier, go into my parent’s room, and at 16-years-old ask if I could sleep with them that night. This never ceases to crack me up. And not because it was only then that the notion that I could die popped into my head, not because I slept in bed with my mom that night, but because my first step towards getting out of hell was wearing my retainer. Like there are over 20 major religions in the world and nobody can agree on anything except that God is a real stickler for orthodontics.

My TI-86 Calculator 
 
If you don’t think I took this home, immediately went to CVS to get AAA batteries and spent a solid day playing “Gang Wars” on it, you are severely underestimating the amount of time I have on my hands.

A Copy of The Chocolate War  
 
Christ only knows why, but in the year 2000, Montgomery County Public Schools made The Chocolate War an option for 10th grade honors English summer reading, and because it’s like 92 pages long, in 14-point font, and not The Poisonwood Bible, everyone did their required summer reading oral presentation on it. But literally. Everyone. An entire class of 25 people. After listening the 12th synopsis of the book, our teacher snapped like a twig and offered to give us all A’s if that meant she didn’t have to sit there and listen to another half-assed essay about the ethics of selling promotional chocolates and its effects on friendship and the heart. I know this sounds crazy, but every now and then I kind of miss high school…

A Pack of Dentyne Ice with Two Pieces Left

“Well Dad, God only knows where my childhood best friend is, but at least we can both have minty-fresh breath for the next couple of hours, HUH??”

The Most Unflattering Photograph of Me That Has Ever Been Taken

If I were .05% more secure with myself, I would totally scan it and upload it for you, because this shit is LOLZ. I’m not kidding, it really is the most unflattering picture of me that has ever been taken. NASA has confirmed it. I’m not even mad. It’s a picture of me giving a side-hug to my friend Eileen on New Year’s Eve 2003, and oh…muh…gawd. I have the brassiest of brassy blonde hair; I’m wearing more eye make up than an entire Japanese kabuki theater; the angle it was taken makes it look like I have 16 chins; I’m wearing a black blazer with no shirt underneath, skinny jeans, and fishnet high-heels (OK, I’m not trying to front…those shoes were kind of cool); and my eyes are just ever-so-slightly…crossed. That being said, I always liked having it around because no matter how god-awful I felt, I could always pull out that picture and be like, “Well thank Christ I don’t look like that,” and feel like a million bucks. Truthfully I’m kind of psyched to have it again.

A Souvenir Keychain from Senior Prom



I mean, I appreciate having it because it’s a cute picture of my friends and me, but it’s also an unfortunate reminder of why I should never spray tan. Prom in general was an unfortunate reminder of why I should never spray tan. Or at least why I should never do six sessions in three days on the darkest setting possible. There’s a really hilarious picture floating around my parent's basement somewhere of Teresa and me at prom and the contrast between Teresa’s pale skin and my synthetic tan makes me look borderline Puerto Rican. It’s genuinely exciting.

A Small Cup of Meggle-brand Lemon Juice

There was a complimentary bowl of them at a Starbucks in Munich…I took one and kept it safe for like half a month in my money belt because, you know, Meggle. I guess I can’t fault my dad for hanging on to something that I literally strapped to my person to smuggle out of Europe.

Nellie’s Collar

Aw, Nells! Nellie was my cat in high school. I rescued her from a tough life on the mean streets of Rockville and then Rachel killed her when we went to Hawaii and she cat-sat for us. Her ashes are now in the closet of the Panamanian Relaxation room, along with those of our first family cat Sibley, Nellie’s short-lived replacement Simon, a standard poodle, and my grandfather. THE AND.

A Pair of Off-Brand Wayfarers That I Bought, Wore Once, Realized What an Asshole I Looked Like In, and Never Wore Again

I mean, that kind of says it all.

My Driver’s Education Program Completion Certificate From June 14, 2001

Do you know what I find fascinating? We have absolutely no idea where on God’s green earth my college diploma is (the college diploma that I worked my ass off for four years to earn and am still in tens-of-thousands of dollars in debt over,) but my driver’s ed certificate (the driver’s ed certificate I assed around in a small office with Eileen and Talia for a few weeks to earn and cost maybe 45-dollars,) is safe and sound and tucked away in my closet. That, to me, is fascinating. Am I saying that it’s wrong? No. Not really. Because given what I’ve chosen to do with myself these days, a degree in graphic design and art history is about as helpful as an asshole on my elbow, whereas every now and then I do need to get a zip car, haul ass to Ikea and get some shit. So you, Mr. McBlogger, have yourself a point.

Thankfully a few hours later, my dad found Monty under a few towels in what used to be my sock drawer (?) and all was right in the world again. That is until I came home a few days later to work on the book with Chris and discovered this new piece of artwork hanging directly next to my bed:

Yep. My old friend Monte-fucking-Carlo. But again, I’m totally cool with it! I’m an adult and it’s their house! Go ahead and give Becca my shit and punch me in the face—I’m totally well adjusted.

OH! ALSO!

Come see Chris and me this Thursday, February 17th, 8:30pm, at The Looking Glass Lounge in Petworth for a live recording of the internet talk show You, Me, Them, Everybody! The Looking Glass Lounge is located a block south of the Petworth metro stop (seriously, AN fiscal metro stop) and you can learn more about YMTE here. 21+, no cover. Watch as we awkwardly try to promote ourselves and stay to have a few drinks with us and the rest of the 2b1b gang! Hope to see you then!

xo

A Seven Locks kind of Valentine's Day

Three things that seemingly have nothing to do with each other:

1.) I keep having nightmares about snakes and lizards, which according to five minutes of intense Internet research means that something "senseless" and horrible is about to happen, AND/or someone in my inner circle will betray me.

2.) As devoted readers know, I love Dr. Dre and The Chronic 2001 more than anything or anybody in this entire world. I listen to that album with the regularity of a bible thumper reading scripture—shit just never gets old. One of my favorite tracks is the emotional roller coaster ride that is "What's the Difference", featuring Eminen and Xzibit.

I love everything about this song, but specifically, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the exchange between Dre and Eminem at about 2:35, which, in case you work somewhere that doesn't support blasting gangster rap in your cubicle at 10 o'clock in the morning (sell out...), is the following:

Eminem: STOP THE BEAT A MINUTE! I got something to say. Dre, I want to tell you this shit right now while this fucking weed is in me.

Dre: The fuck?

Eminmen: I don't know if I ever told you this, but I love you dawg. I got your motherfuckin back, just know this shit.

Dre: Riiight? Slim, I don't know if you noticed it, but I've had your back since day one, ni*ger. Let's blow this bitch.

Eminem: I mean it dawg, you ever need somebody offed—whose throat is it?

Dre: Well if you ever kill that Kim bitch, I'll show you where the ocean is.

And then Eminmen goes on about how if he were to kill his ex-wife, he'd want to drive around for a while with her dead body in the front seat honking and waving to people, which sounds suspiciously like the plot to Weekend at Bernie's to me, but my point here is this: I love it. I love it because whereas we live in an era when Cam'ron can't even ask someone to pass him the nut bowl without adding a paranoid PAUSE or NO HOMO, ten years ago Dr. Dre could stick Eminem saying "I don't know if I ever told you this, but I love you" to him in the middle of one of the most aggressive tracks on his album without anyone even batting an eyelash. Why? Because they're friends! And friends love each other. Sure the entire thing is padded with some good old-fashioned hypothetical wife-killing, but the sentiment remains the same: it's OK to tell your friends that you love them. To quote Bun B after the untimely passing of Pimp C: "[...] [I]f you really love your homie, don't feel like you can't tell him you love him. Because when things happen, you're going to wish you had said it. You're going to wish you said it louder." PREACH.

3.) Being obnoxiously broke has seriously adverse affects on my friendships: I can rarely afford to go out; I never have people over for dinner because I never eat dinner; I bring cheap booze to parties; and I can't afford to give birthday, wedding, shower, housewarming gifts. Not to mention I keep weird sleeping hours and don't answer texts or emails until 3 o'clock in the morning, so it always seems like I'm blowing you off. What I'm trying to say is: I'm fully aware that it can be a giant pain in the ass to be friends with me. With that in mind, I decided to make my friends Valentine's this year as a small token of gratitude for putting up with me. It took me all of 36 seconds in front of a blank Illustrator file to think of the perfect way to say "I love you": via Dre and Em in "What's the Difference". With that in mind, I designed a 5 x 7 card with their conversation from "Stop the beat a minute..." to "...Let's blow this bitch" on the front, and "You ever need somebody offed—whose throat is it? HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!" on the back:

Then I tied the card up with red and white baker's string and popped it in a red A7 envelope:


Now, it was right around the time when I let go of said envelopes and they started tumbling into the mailbox when I realized that not everybody has been listening to The Chronic 2001 once a day for the past ten years, and not everybody has an oddly specific interest in, and knowledge of platonic signs of affection in hip-hop music and culture. Both of those things might just be a "me thing". And it was around when I started walking back to my apartment when I calculated that only three out of the 25 people I had just sent that Valentine to are going to recognize its contents as lyrics from "What's the Difference" and not as Dr. Dre/Eminem slash fiction that I had just cooked up myself and felt the need to physically mail to them. And finally, it was when the apartment door closed behind me that it finally sunk in that in a matter of days, 91.7% of my closest friends and family might think I'm a wee bit of a flagrantly racist, misogynistic, would-be murderer.

SYNTHESIS OF #1-3: To all of the people who received a Valentine's Day card from me this year: I am not a flagrantly racist, misogynistic, would-be murderer. It's from the Dr. Dre song "What's the Difference" featuring Eminem and Xhibit. I did not fabricate that conversation, I do not normally drop hard N's in my holiday cards, and I don't actually fantasize about "blowing this bitch"—please do not betray me by reporting me to the local authorities. I was just trying to say I love you. No homo.

The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.