The Worm


All right people, its GO time.

Cue the lights, and the fight song, and the cheerleaders – its go time. This is what we’ve been training for all year people. Remember all those times when you wanted to give up? And you felt you couldn’t go on? Cause it hurt so bad? Well all your hard work, all your dedication, all your blood, sweat, and tears – they weren’t for nothing. Pat yourself on the back my friend, you’ve made it to the big show. The big dance. I am talking, of course, about Thanksgiving Dinner.

You showed dedication this year, and don’t think management hasn’t noticed. With your steady diet of overeating for the past 12 months you have showed yourself to be a dedicated member of this team. A leader really, for you took it upon yourself to take weaker members under your wing. Whereas your Stomach’s natural inclination was to cry “I’m full” or “I might vomit if you put any more food in me” you said “Sack up, Stomach! There’s no “I” in team but there is “Eat” and “Meat” so quit your bitching and start digesting.” And it did. And it was good.

For you understand, you understand as an A-MUR-ican, that you just simply can’t eat as usual all year long and think that you’ll be able to come out victorious at Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving dinner is a strong opponent, with literally hundreds of years experience on you. She has been making diners cry and throw in the towel since before you could chew solid food. Other countries can’t handle her. No sir. But you can. You know the three P’s of Thanksgiving Dinner: Prep, Persevere, and Purge.

Prep is easy – eat a lot for as long as you can in advance. But my waistline! You say. Screw you and your waistline. When the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock and wondered how they were going to make it through a hard winder with little to no food and then the Native Americans showed up with a bounty so delicious and abundant it made them cry do you think the Pilgrims said “But Nay! I shall not indulge for I have no cloth from which to make a larger frock”? No, man! What’s wrong with you? The dug in. As shall you. To honor the sacrifice of our forefathers and the kindly natives they eventually killed. If you haven’t been prepping for an entire year don’t worry, just eat a big meal the night before, a big breakfast, and don’t skip lunch. Your stomach will be so stretched out it will take a mountain of mashed potatoes to fill it.

Persevere – did the American’s quit their fight for independence when it looked as if the Red Coats were sure to win? Did the NFL quit when that other football league was formed and American’s refused to give up their undying love of baseball? Did Budweiser quit trying to be the quintessential American beer when they were bought by a Belgian beverage conglomerate? HELL NO! They persevered and we’ve got The US of A, Budweiser American Lager, and NFL Sundays, Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays to show for it. Would you rather be in England drinking hard cider, watching pansy “football” and not celebrating Thanksgiving? Didn’t think so. So when you get full, take a second. Set your fork down, take a sip of something fizzy. But for God’s sake man, do not let them clear your plate. For as sure as the Thanksgiving Parade is boring you will find room given time and you will be able to conquer that plate. Slow and steady wins the race. Start slow + eat slow = kick dinner’s ass.

Purge – look, I am not advocating making yourself vomit to fit more food. That would be irresponsible and wrong. Though if that’s the level of commitment you choose to show to this thing that’s on you and I salute as a fellow A-MUR-ican and eater. But there are other ways to purge. You gotta make some room down there, guys. Sure your stomach needs to do its part as an integral part of them team but lets not make the poor thing’s job any harder. Your stomach is the Clinton Portis of this whole operation – you give it the ball (Butterball), point it to an impenetrable wall of defense (stomach capacity) and expect it to make some gains. If you’ve trained right it will. But only a few yards at a time and with maximum bodily harm. So try and help it out by creating room where you can. Either create some physical room by taking some Alka Seltzer (its wonderful) or going to the bathroom, or create some caloric room by taking a walk around the block between courses/meals.

This brings us to the fourth and final, the “secret” P. It’s the steroids of the game that is Thanksgiving Dinner. The chemical edge that makes you succeed where others may fail. Except its not a chemical. Its an herb. And its as A-UR-ican as you can get; Barry Bonds and Mark McGuire and that cyclist guy and every professional weightlifter … these guys bleed red, white, and blue. Learn from their mistakes, don’t get caught. Only a little at a time. Don’t ask someone to help you use it unless you know they won’t go squealing to the Feds. And remember, you’re doing if for the love of the game, not personal glory.

Look, its been a tough road to get here. You should proud of yourself that you made it this far. You didn’t become vegetarian or go on a foreign vacation over the holiday like some others – you knew you were in it to win it. This is your destiny. Your destiny as an A-MUR-ican. Fulfill that destiny. And when you’re laying there on the floor tonight, meal consumed, mid-digestion, in that sweet, sweet pain that is both fullness and victoriousness, know that you have won.


Behave DC...


Alright, look DC. I've always had your back. When people in New York were all "You're moving back to DC? Out of choice?" I was quick with, "DC is great! There's a great music and art scene! And most of the people are cool as shit!" I even defended your honor from the evil blog why I hate DC. Yea, I risked a blog war for you damnit!

And then this jack a* walks into the bar:

I can feel all of the anti-DCers looking at me Danny Tanner style with their arms folded and that "You'll have lots of time to think about what you did young lady--when you're grounded!" look in their eyes.

And how am I supposed to defend this guy? He looks like the resulting offspring if a golf-caddy and your office's IT guy lost their virginity to each other. So now I'm left akwardly shifting my eyes from side-to-side all, "Well, shit. Maybe he's from out of town?"


Twilight makes me feel old. And confused. And high.

For the fist time in my life I feel old and out of the loop. And I’m having none of it. Becca has this theory that once you graduate college, you continue to wear what was trendy at that time, despite how fashion has changed. This theory explains why tapered jeans, sleeveless knit turtlenecks, graphic tees, khaki pants of all styles and jean jackets litter your morning commute.

To ensure that I never fall victim to this frightening theory, I work hard to make sure I’m in the fashion know. But I’d like to think I’m in the general know as well. I’m hip! I’m cool! I read the blogs! I watch the "Gossip Girl!" I know what “OMFG” stands for and I’m not offended! I totally know what’s up, you guys. However, what is this Twilight the young kids speak of?

The first Twilight rumblings I heard were on perezhilton.com in the form of “yummy” pictures of Robert Pattson dramatically sliding down a wall with his shirt open. I didn’t get who this kid was or why Perez Hilton was busting a nut over him, but I’m not partial to pale, skinny, effeminate guys who look like KD Lang at age 16, so I didn’t think much of it. (Seriously, I can't not see KD Lang when I look at him. Am I right, or am I right?):
However, this Twilight shit is all anyone is talking about, specifically the ‘youngins. After asking several friend’s little brothers and sisters and a couple random children I found on the street, I’ve ascertained that Twilight is a movie based on a series of books about vampires. Got it. Now I loves me a good vampire movie, I watch "True Blood" religiously and read the Interview with a Vampire series, so I get it; vampires are entertaining. But I still feel like I’m missing something. Why are these kids going ape shit over this movie? I heard it was God-awful and yet it still made bank this weekend at the box office and a sequel has been approved. What’s the secret?! I NEED TO KNOW SO I CAN FEEL YOUNG AND HIP AND JIGGY AGAIN DAMNIT!!!! This must be how my mom feels when she tries to use her cell phone and ends up calling 911 and breaking a finger.

So presuming I’m not missing anything and teenagers really are just psyched about this vampire movie—does anyone else agree it’s all a little emo and gay? I think the paramount movie of my teen years was Titanic, and I’m not saying that movie was the straightest of all films (God knows Celine didn’t help) but it’s slightly more butch than a vampire based Hot Topic love story.

And does this mean that goth kids are cool now? Lord knows I love fishnets and have always had a penchant for black eyeliner, so I wouldn’t be mad, but have we fully thought about the social ramifications of vampire-fan culture becoming mainstream in the halls of our schools? Imagine the movie Mean Girls but the Plastics are wearing crushed velvet Ren Fest dresses instead of mini skirts. And instead of going to house parties they get together in Wicca circles in someone’s basement. And they make over Cady to look like Emily the Strange instead of a total regulation hottie. And the Burn Book is replaced by anime! AND AARON SAMUELS LOOKS LIKE THIS KID:
(“Cady will you please tell him his gelled bang spikes look sexy pushed back?”
::sigh:: "Your gelled bang spikes look sexy pushed back.")

And if goth is cool, what becomes of Janis Ian, the school’s token goth loser? Is she automatically the new Queen Bee OR does she end up looking like Rachel McAdams, which is considered ugly because ugly is considered pretty like in that "Twilight Zone" episode? HOLY SHIT, the actress who played Janis Ian also played Amy on "True Blood"! FULL CIRCLE (SORT OF, NOT REALLY)!!!

My world just collapsed in upon itself.


Happy Drinking Game Friday!

The Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead Drinking Game

Given this week’s personal financial kick in the groin, I feel like Sue Ellen Crandell in the movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. Except in my case I’m not financially screwed because I left all of my money in a manila envelope on the corpse of my babysitter, but I left all of my hopes and dreams in a metaphorical manila envelope on the corpse of my college degree. Either way, both Sue El and I have to get high paying jobs and fast. (Also we both love tacky acrylic earrings and Jewish boys, but that is neither here nor there.)

I have officially given up on trying to find a job in graphic design (time to celebrate bitches!) and am now scrambling to find some schmo secretary job that will pay my (amassing) bills. Of course, although I can type 77wpm, am somewhat familiar with the alphabet and have a sexily raspy speaking voice perfect for answering phones, I have no “real” administrative experience making it impossible to get hired.

To solve this problem, I thought to myself “What would Sue El do?” and have already tried faking a resume, which as memory serves worked so well for her. However I’ve gotten crickets in response whereas Sue El in a stroke of fate runs into Rose Lindy, CEO of General Apparel West who hires her on the spot to avoid promoting her cunty receptionist Carolyn. Damn you Unibrows Applegate! Why is fate knocking on your door and not mine?! And how come she gets to date Brian the hot Clown Dog delivery boy (aka Jake from “In Treatment”…still a stud) whereas the closest thing to a relationship I have is a crush on that Latino kid from the AT&T stand in the mall?! UGHH…I’ll be trying on power-suits in a 90’s fashion montage if anyone needs me…

Rules of the Game
Drink when:
- Kenny is stoned or drunk
- Sue Ellen is sketching her rad fashion designs or one of her sketches is shown
- Gus hits on Sue Ellen
- Carolyn is bitchy
- One of the kids complains about being hungry
- Walter is seen watching TV
- An excuse is given as to why the babysitter isn’t there
- Sue Ellen wears a half shirt, or conversely a mini-skirt
- Someone buys something with the stolen petty cash
- Sue El's token black friend does the running man across the cat-walk in the fashion show looking like she just shit her pants while wearing her "whipping up fun in the kitchen" chef's uniform, because that shit is LOLZ:

To get your 2b1b fix over the weekend, check out our catty thoughts live from the bar at http://twitter.com/2birds1blog. Maybe even take five seconds to make a twitter account and follow us because we need friends?...please be our friend...we'll pay you to be our friend...in sexual favors...it's all we can afford...but it's still worth the twitter account. Have a great weekend!


It's Okay to Look

[FYI: 2birds1blog is on Twitter now! Our (and when I say "our*," I mean Meg. Becca's too cool for Facebook, so something told me Twitter was out of the question.) username is 2birds1blog. If you liked this week's random thoughts post, make sure to follow us* on twitter!]

Oh my beloved readers. This has been a rough week for yours truly. I won’t get into the specifics; suffice to say that it has to do with my usual lack of a job/apartment/money/dude, except this week I also had the bank calling because I over withdrew my bank account by a number that has a shocking amount of zeros in it. My reaction to the number was “zoinks!” Now the banker probably thinks I destroyed my checking account eating sandwiches and riding around in a van solving mysteries all day. Ruh-roh...

However, when I feel depressed and pessimistic about life, there’s only one thing that can talk me down from the ledge: reading the profiles of Bros (Brophiles?) on match.com. Don't read the profiles of guys who look hot or actually seem interesting, just click the ones who seem like total Bros. If you ever need a pick-me-up, I can’t recommend doing this enough. The writing of a Bro trying to sound fuckable while still being soulful and introspective is comedic gold.

Here are some of my favorites:

- "things i’d like to do more often if law school wasn’t, well, law school: hot yoga, road races (not sure if I’ve got a marathon in me, but only because running for 3-4 hours seems like it’d get pretty old), take more pictures, hike, travel to off-the-map places, write poems."
This is literally the description of my anti-match. I would rather date a flagpole for the rest of my life than a guy in law school who writes poetry and loves hot yoga.

- "It sounds funny but I like to cook and eat good food for fun,."
No. Liking to cook and eating good food for fun doesn’t sound funny. It actually sounds normal. That’s like saying, “I’m such a bizarre weirdo freak—I like to sleep when I’m tired and drink when I’m thirsty! LOLZ!!! I know, I'm such a catch!!”

- "I have fits of creativity. Sometimes I'll be sculpting or painting. If I'm really inspired I'll do some sort of print making project. However apparent'y from what I've heard, as a guy, I'm not supposed to do these things?"
I love this because there’s so much effort to seem effortlessly unaware of an attractive trait. All of that effort cancels each other out and creates a black hole somewhere in the universe. This is like if I said, “I have to suck dick when I first wake up and again before I go to bed or else I get migraines. Which according to guys is “awesome”? I never knew, I just hate getting migraines. Guys are so weird..."

- "I live in a condo in the District at around 14th and K, NW. My style is pretty modern, international and funky. Think Italian furniture with lots of brushed metal and glass. I like to be unique in certain ways I guess."
This shit is LOLZ. I have to remember to get high and read that sentence again.

- "I have an artist's heart. I love reading and riding my bike out in the rain."
I like picturing this guy reading Catcher in the Rye as he rides his Huffy in the rain, sobbing, with REM’s “Everybody Hurts” playing in the background.

- "I love sushi, but I also love hot dogs."
This is the funniest fucking sentence on the face of the planet. I would seriously go on a date with this guy, simply for saying, “I love sushi, but I also love hot dogs.” It’s so Ralph Wiggum-esque I can barely stand it. I want to get it tattooed on my forearm so I can look down and laugh at it throughout my day.

- "I’d spend every day at the beach if I could, but for now, I’ve settled on trips to the tanning salon ;-)"

- "Cooking is my passion. I love seeing the transformation of raw ingredients into a polished final product. It’s magical."

- "I tend to spend way too much money on designer jeans and I have a fetish for white shoes."

- "I like buttons because they have such immense power in spite of their smallness."
That’s what she said?

- "Dangit 1316 more characters to go... More about me, I'm a Yeoman in the Navy."

- "I’m looking for a cool “friendship”, what I mean is someone to hang out with. Where you can just be yourself, No pressure, No expectations."
“I’m looking for a fuck-buddy” takes way less characters and gets the point across so much faster, don't you think?


Random thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries

- You know who I just don’t trust? People who’s parents wouldn’t sign the permission slip to take the sex ed unit in high school. No matter how cool they may seem, you know that part of them still thinks you can’t get pregnant from doing it up the butt.

- You know that part of "Intervention" where the addict goes into the hotel room for their last interview and sees all of their family and friends waiting for them? The three seconds before they realize it’s their intervention when they think they’re at a big secret pizza party in their honor are my favorite three seconds on television. I wish A&E would compile an episode of those moments.

- I’m openly out about the fact that I’m a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" fan and am currently on a quest to watch every single episode (I’m currently on disk four of season six, in case you were wondering). However, I need to confess something else Buffy related that’s going to shoot my nerd points further through the roof and maybe alienate a few readers. I have a major crush on one of the Buffy characters, specifically Warren from season six. Oh man. I was all “shit, that guy’s hot!” in season five and now he’s back as season six’s villain and I don’t even know what to do with myself. His name is Adam Busch. It makes sense that on a TV show full of dangerous and sexy vampires, I develop a crush on the average Jewish kid.

- In researching that last random thought, my mind was blown multiple times: 1.) Adam Busch was a panelist on the Nickelodeon show “Figure it Out”! That’s why he looked familiar, and I distinctly remember having a crush on him even back then! 2.) Adam Busch is currently dating the chick who played “Tara” on Buffy. 3.) In reading about the irony of their dating, I read a spoiler that Tara dies later in the season. WTF?! No one warned me! How am I supposed to watch the rest of the season knowing that Warren murders Tara?! 4.) I am 23-years-old living in my parent’s house blogging at 1:30 in the morning about "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." I have hit rock bottom.

- I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m not black. I always thought that I was a sassy black woman in my heart of hearts, and also a bit of a gangster. However, I keep catching myself in these obnoxiously white situations recently. Like the time I was walking down Wisconsin on the phone with Helena and I had the following outburst: “Damnit! I walked all the way here to find out that the place I thought was a Starbuck’s is actually a Lacoste! Ughhhh! This is the worst day EVER!” Or the time I walked into my room to find a large porcelain “M” I have broken into three pieces after my parent’s cleaning woman had been there. Displacing some anger from earlier in the day, I ran into my mom’s room, threw the pieces on her bed and whined, “LOOK AT WHAT YOUR MAID DID!!! GAWWW-WWWD!!!” I then swiftly bitch-slapped myself and keyed “douche bag” onto the side of my own car. The final nail in the coffin came a few weeks ago at a bar when someone from high school walked over to the table I was sitting at with my friends and said hi and hugged everyone but me. Sure I didn’t know her as well as everyone else, she was a year younger than me and I haven’t seen her in five years, but really? You see me sitting here. Are we really going to pretend that we weren't both on the field hockey team together and I blatantly know you and you blatantly know me? You know me Anonymous Girl From Bar. Don’t act like we weren’t at countless sleepovers and team building exercises together back in the day. Later that night I was listening to T. Pain’s “Hi Hater” when I related the song to my life, specifically the lines:
“U c me Hi Hater Hi hater Hi hater
U c me Hi hater Hi hater Hi hater
U c me Hi hater”
Because come on Anonymous Girl From Bar, you see me! Hi hater!…It was when I realized that I was relating T. Pain (who probably killed someone, let’s not lie)’s song (featuring the lyrics
“Wild out pop more champange bitch/Still G'z up. They won't ease up/It's cool N****** hated on Jesus”) to a social faux-pas involving me and a chick I used to play field hockey with not saying hi to me at a bar, that I realized I am the whitest, most middle-class, Michael MacDonald loving, Gap wearing, rhythemless cracker at the lacrosse game. And I’m not proud.

- You know how certain people with Autism are “Idiot Savants” and are somewhat inept but can do one thing really well, a la Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man? What if there was an Idiot Savant who excelled in having sex? Like, he was just dynamite in the sack. Could that ever happen? Only Helena has ever been receptively helpful to this honest-to-God question I have. Everyone else struggles to get beyond how inappropriate and slightly offensive it is to realize that once you think about it, it’s sort of perplexing…right?


Looking like a slut is soo0oOOo 2007

Remember when Christina Aguilera wore crotchless pants? You know, the days when Lil Kim sported pasties as formal wear? Wayyyy back when Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie went out looking like the Lycra fairy had just vomited on them? Oh man, those were the days. It was so easy to look like a slut back when we actually had money and weren’t living in perpetual fear of losing our jobs. Sadly we’re all broke now and going out all dolled up and getting sloppy every weekend is less of a priority. I mean, who can afford a new bedazzled mini-dress and five boxes of Franzia every weekend nowadays? (You know your economy is in trouble when college-style partying is too expensive…) And if you’re on a tight budget, let me tell you, BeBe tube tops and the occasional abortion are a real strain on the old pocketbook.

Now that we’re all trying to behave and keep our heads above water, dressing like a giant ho is officially OUT. (Unless you’re a giant ho in the occupational sense, in which case I would like your pimp’s number because my sweet ass is still unemployed.)

However, certain people haven’t gotten the memo yet:
This chick was walking up a metro escalator Halloween night in the shortest “dress” I have ever seen in real life. Unfortunately for her (and fortunately for every guy around her,) she slept through the Physics 101 lecture when the class learned that as an escalator's inclination increases, so too do the odds that everyone is going to see your junk, whip out their camera phone and take a picture. As a corollary, the odds that they will send said picture to their friends with the subject line “BEST HO-LIDAY EVER” increases as well. As Anna said when she took this picture, it’s hard to look too slutty on Halloween, but damnit, she pulled it off.

Last August I was apartment hunting in New York in babillion-degree weather. I was wearing skinny jeans that clung to my sweating legs (and other various interesting places) and felt like they were made of flannel-lined wool. I remember thinking to myself very seriously that if I could just manage to find a box cutter in one of the apartments, it was simply a matter of cutting off the pant legs right below my crotch to attain sweet, sweet relief. I imagined it looking a little something like this pair of H&M shorts (except mine featured dangling pockets):
I literally stopped in my tracks when I saw these bad boys. Who in the sweet name of Christ could actually wear these out of the house?! I swear to God, I seriously have underwear that covers more than these shorts could ever dream of. I mean, look at that! I am 100% not comfortable with only an inch of denim keeping me from seeing your labia. I just don’t like those odds. And these are a size 12! That is the maximum amount of coverage possible in this style of short! It’s like whoever designed these did so with one eye shut after huffing glue for an hour.

Rejoice Mormons; modesty is so hot right now.


Friday, Drinking Game Friday.

As I write this post, I’m on Connecticut Avenue in front of the Uptown, staking out a prime spot in line to get Quantum of Solace tickets for tonight’s opening night show. Because my secret ultimate fantasy is to be a Bond Girl, I’m dressed in character: black leather cat suit (halfway unzipped naturally, with my cleavage out from here to Oh-HIOOOO!), go-go boots, big hair and a pistol aimed and ready. I’m sorry. That’s a blatant lie. I’m in my bed ordering tickets on Fandango in sweat pants. But my hoodie is slightly unzipped...

I’m a big James Bond fan. From Connery to the forgotten Lazenby to Moore to Dalton (and how!) to Brosnan and finally to Craig; no other Aryan man with a penchant for vodka and wry comedic timing puts my knickers in a twist quicker.

James Bond movies manage to combine all of the necessary ingredients needed to make an entertaining film and roll it into one, dress it in Burberry, put it in an Astin Martin and then blow it up in your face. And when that’s all said and done, just kill yourself because life doesn’t get any better than this. Two hours of action, comedy, impressive gadgetry, sexy sophisticated men, sweaty sexy sophisticated men fighting other sexy sophisticated men, slutty babes with pornographic names, Dame Judi Dench, expensive cars, exotic and beautiful scenery, cocktails, gowns, romance, betrayal, explosions, and most importantly the over-the-top sexual puns! If you replaced the sexual puns with “that’s what she said,” jokes, a James Bond movie would just be a day-in-the-life of yours truly.

And Daniel Craig. I mean, nuff said? I don’t throw the term “soul mate” around lightly, but I’m almost positive we’re destined to be together forever in the celestial kingdom of heaven. Here’s how I imagine it:

Yea, you’re welcome for that. All right, I know you boozehounds came here for the drinking game and not for my James Bond fantasies, so get your assignment from M, check in with Miss Moneypenny and double check your parachute—it’s time for the Quantum of Solace Drinking Game!

It goes without saying, but only top shelf vodka should be used for this game. If you’ve never had the pleasure of sneaking a flask into a movie theater and getting slowly toasty, maybe it’s time you do so and start living.

Take a Drink When:
- After the opening scene. History tells us, they’re usually pretty badass.
- Likewise at the end of the movie (or the beginning as with Octopussy) when Bond inevitably blows up the bad guy’s base.
- “My name is Bond, James Bond.”
- A sexy girl is introduced by her porno-esque name (what will Quantum of Solace’s heroine’s name be? Pussy von Hustler? Countess Maya Knickersdrop? Chang Kocksucker-Wannafuck?
- Bond gets himself out of a tight situation (and I’m not talking about with the ladies. ZIIIIING!)
- There’s a flashback of Vesper.
- The totally badass and sexy car of the movie is introduced.
- M says Bond! In a belittling or exasperated tone.
- Bond uses a wacky gadget.
- Bond orders his trademark cocktail: a Bennigan’s Strong Island Ice-T.

Have a great weekend and we’ll see you Monday! In the meantime, help some bitches out and recommend 2B1B to a friend! KThnx<3


The Worm – A Poem Dedicated to Chinese Restaurants; or, The Only Time its OK to Be a Vegetarian

From your great land, that is so large
Many types of cuisines have sprung
But yet with all this variety
It still doesn’t sit well with my tongue

It seems that here in America,
We get the worst that you anoint.
Because nothing makes me more grossed out,
Than a shady Chinese joint.

We’ve heard the rumors of stir fried cat
And of dog meat served a-plenty
I don’t want to believe these stories
Of which there are at least twenty

So why, oh why, dear China King,
dear Great Wall Inn Buffet,
Do you not try harder to declare innocence?
And instead validate what they say?

For starters, lets try a little thing
Called location, location, location;
A city basement is not the best real estate,
For your highly skilled vocation.

With rats that do scamper, and garbage that does pile,
And a floor that’s perennially slimy
The health inspector will surely fail
Your attempt at dining finely

Keep it clean! Well lit, and smelling fresh!
I beg of you, it gets so disgusting,
When everything’s wet and smells of mold
And your piping is quietly rusting.

Then comes the issue of menu choices,
And sticking to what you know.
If I wanted ribs, chicken or subs,
To a deli I would go.

How can I trust that your chef in the back,
Can my quest for authenticity appease?
When his only qualifications for this post,
Is that he appears to be vaguely Chinese?

A catfish sandwich and egg foo young
Do no ingredients share.
So how do you keep all the components fresh?
And ready to prepare?

Let’s address another issue
That to me is truly offensive,
The all-you-can eat Chinese Buffet,
Puts my intestines on the defensive.

With vats – yes vats! – Of mystery meat,
In lukewarm congealed sauces,
I’d rather drink a fountain soda,
And simply cut my losses.

I can’t stress just how upsetting it is,
Mass quantities are rarely made well.
An all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet,
Is the only restaurant in Hell.

Now I know we’ve all had chicken before,
The texture is smooth, yet firm.
So for good god’s sake, why is my General Tso’s
The consistency of a worm?

Its slimy, it’s grainy, it doesn’t make sense,
How can those two textures co-mingle?
The only explanation is that around its furry neck,
There once was a bell that did jingle.

Beef, though better, is still not good,
Since when was flank steak gamey?
Or rough, or tough, or sort of gray,
It makes me dry heave lamely.

But Becca, you say – its so convenient
To sit on your couch and order in.
I agree, I agree, I’ve done it too,
And therein lies the sin.

To order Chinese and not want to hurl
I’ll get soup and rice and broccoli.
Thereby allowing this damn restaurant,
To make a VEGETARIAN out of me!

The horror! The shame! The un-ending guilt!
Its enough to make me cry.
And put on my ‘Birks, and hug a tree,
And ask you people why.

So Chinese food, you’ve beat me down,
My taste buds are no match for you.
I hope you’re happy, Chinese food -
Now pass the stir-fried tofu.


The War on Social Terrorism: Seipsa's

Monday I announced that Nighthawks are officially at the top of my list of Evildoers for my War on Social Terrorism. Hah! I laugh at myself in retrospect. Nighthawks can't even hold a candle to the most socially awkward, uncomfortable, inappropriate and creepy group of people whom I shutter at the mere thought of encountering—People Who Stare.

We all stare, so before you think I’ve lost my mind with power, let me explain. In my Utopian world of Social Graces, it’s not like everyone would be blindfolded to avoid incidents of inappropriate staring. Staring happens; it’s inevitable. Being a (completely unqualified, uneducated and unaccredited) contemporary urban Social Anthropologist, I stare at people all the time. Sometimes I even creepily and not so discreetly take pictures of them with my phone to use as evidence on my blog for posts I’ll later write about them. But let’s not split hairs here, the point is that I stare in what I consider to be the right and normal way, which is as follows: someone intrigues you, you stare at them, they realize you’re staring at them prompting them to make eye contact with you, you realize you’re being creepy and quickly look away.

The wrong kind of staring goes like this: someone intrigues you, you stare at them, they realize you’re staring at them prompting them to make eye contact with you, you continue to stare not picking up on the social cue that this person is aware of your staring, the person looks away because they are uncomfortable, you continue to stare, the person looks back at you to see if you’re still staring, you continue to stare, the person darts their eyes away embarrassed, you continue to stare.

What the fuck is wrong with you people?! Didn’t your mothers tell you that staring is rude?! I don’t even have a name for you socially awkward witches. You know how people with Asperger’s can’t make eye contact? You are the opposite of that. You have reverse Aspie’s. I call it Seipsa and I argue that Seipsa should be added to the DSM IV as a form of Autism.

The worst part about being stared at by a Seipsa is that you feel embarrassed when they are the ones being inappropriate. I became so baffled with Seipsa’s one time that I actually tried to stare at a stranger aware that I was staring at them for an inappropriate length of time, just to see what it feels like. I didn’t last two seconds. I felt like I was looking at kiddy porn or my grandma stripping. It was wrong and shameful.

I first experienced Seipsa’s when my friends and I went to Europe last summer. People understandably stared at us a lot (we’re loud obnoxious Americans, I get it), but most of them looked away when we noticed what was up. But for the first time in my life, I noticed a large amount of people who wouldn’t stop staring, opting to comfortably sip their coffee and stare like we’re street performers. We are not street performers or your personal dinner theater! And I don’t see you throwing a euro into our guitar case! Look away!

I’m willing to give European Seipsa’s a pass because of the European factor. It’s customary for the French to be assholes, so it wouldn’t shock me if uncomfortable staring is tolerated by the EU. However this is America. Seipsa’s get no sympathy here from me. And I have encountered far too many of them in the past two weeks.

Recently Anna and I were working on a writing project at Starbucks on Rockville Pike. I was enjoying my vanilla latte and ensuing productivity when I looked up and was met with two beady little eyes staring back at me from this guy:
My immediate reaction was to look away, because, you know, staring is rude. But then I realized why should I look away? He’s the one who started it, but I’ll end it. I tried to stare back to prove to him that a creepy guy reading about “Graph Theory,” staring at me like I’m giving the barista a lap dance doesn’t intimidate me. I lasted nine seconds, a personal best. The best part about this guy is that when I was telling Anna that he was staring, (which led to a discussion about how bizarre it is that some people think it’s ok to stare, which led to much reminiscing about the stare-downs we used to get in Europe (from people we called “Stares-ky and Hutches”...get it? Hah! Get it??) ), the whole while, HE WAS STARING AT US. THE. WHOLE. TIME. He could literally hear us talking about how weird it was that he was staring and saw us make pointing motions towards him, with accompanying “ughhh” faces, yet he still thought it was A-OK to peer on! It fucking boggles my mind and keeps me up at night!

Earlier that evening, I was writing in the café at Barnes and Nobles and was sitting at a table next to a teenage boy and girl doing homework. We had been silently coexisting quite well until I looked up and realized that they were both staring at me. I glanced down and then looked back up to find them still staring. I glanced down again, and looked back up to find that they were still giving me a once over. As if this weren’t rude enough, after about seven seconds of staring, the boy started to nod his head and made a facial expression that said, “Yea. I guess I'd hit that” while the girl rolled her eyes and made a “mehhh” shake of her hand. WHAT?? Two feet and a biscotti are separating us and we’re staring into each other’s eyes like we’re about to make love for the first time since your return from Iraq! Maybe there’s a more appropriate time to agree that I’m a 7!

After the double Seipsa's attack that day, I thought it couldn’t get worse. Ohhhh was I wrong. Saturday night, my friends and I were on the metro going home after a rowdy night on U Street, when Anna was the victim of one helluva Seipsa showdown, during which Anna managed to tell me that 1.) she had a Stares-ky and Hutch (ha!) on her hands, 2.) explain him to me in detail because I couldn’t see him behind the partition, 3.) tell him she was going to have a stare-off with him, 4.) actually have a staring contest and 5.) announce herself the victor and him the loser because he blinked, ALL WHILE HE WAS GOD DAMN STARING IN SILENCE. Sir, there wasn’t one part of that exchange which led you to believe maybe this nice young lady didn’t want you to stare at her like she’s a human TV and the Cinemax after-hours channel is on? I just don’t get it! Thinking about people who stare is like thinking about how the universe is expanding and shrinking at the same time; it leaves me confused, overwhelmed and disoriented.

The best part of this Seipsa attack is that this guy had the gall to flick her off when Anna (not-so-discreetly…we had a few cocktails in us, I don’t know what to tell you) took a picture of him with my phone.
Oh I’M sorry, sir. How rude of us! Where are our manners?? Please, go back to rubbing your hands together while you intensely stare at Anna like she's a Thanksgiving turkey and it’s time to eat! I never thought about how rude it is to take a photo of a stranger. I’m appalled at my actions! I should take your advice and not take photos of the social retards I write about, but instead stare at them for 20 minutes no matter how awkward and painfully uncomfortable it makes them so I can sketch them from memory later! THANKS FOR TIP.

Oh, Siepsa’s…

My thoughts exactly sir.


The Nighthawk: An Essay

I have to confess—I am completely disenchanted with The Bro. Thanks to the popularity of Bro Culture, Bros are no longer a novelty; they’re trendy, and nothing kills something faster than becoming a trend. Just ask Ashton Kutcher’s trucker hat. Bros are no longer delightfully clueless creatures for us to study in their natural habitats (bars, lounges, kickball games, etc.) Rather, you can go to your local Barnes and Nobles and buy a book to tell you everything about them, or pick up any trendy lifestyle magazine to read some smug, wry, hipster dissect them and their culture (that’s my job damnit! Not theirs!) Therefore, I’m officially retiring my fascination with Bros. Good luck partying like it’s 2003 Bros, may you keep the dream alive.

As with any death, I buried my emotions deep down and decided to hit the bars this weekend to distract myself, surrounded by the company of friends, my main man Sam Adams and a little bump and grind to T.I. on the dance floor. It was hard to distract myself from my ex-social-obsession with delightfully creepy Bros inviting us into their party busses blasting “Journey” headed towards the waterfront for the “sickest bachelor party ever!” My heart said, “Say yes! There’s a strobe light and I think I see a “Best of Eminem” mix CD! This can’t end badly!
My head however, said no. I had to be strong.

Three of my girlfriends and I were sharing a cheer-up beer at Caddy’s in Bethesda Friday night after seeing the disturbing depress-a-thon Changeling, starring Angelina Jolie (I think I went into the theatre thinking it was a touching family comedy…Turns out it’s more of an axe murderer filled...insane asylum centered...not comedy.)

I was sitting at our table outside the bar wondering how I was going to tell my friends that I was too scared to drive home on the back roads alone, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of the guy sitting at the table next to ours who looked suspiciously like Speedy Gonzalez. His eyes were scanning the crowd as he slowly stroked the nine hairs he calls a moustache, deep in concentration. At first I thought he was alone, but I soon realized there was another guy sitting across from him, also creepily surveying the bar. I thought maybe they were strangers who decided to share a table out of convenience, but I noticed whenever a hot girl walked by them, they leaned in and shared a succinct head nod and pervy smile before going back to scanning the crowd in stony silence. It became apparent that although they were probably good friends, they were at the bar to strictly find girls to pick up, sitting in stony silence until that moment arrives. "Who is this creature?" thought I. They weren’t well dressed enough to be White Caps, but not fun-spirited enough to be Bros. It dawned on me that I’ve seen these men before, and odds are, you have too. They were Nighthawks.

The Structure, Mating Habits and Social Rituals of The Nighthawk

Figure One: The Nighthawk

Introduction: The Nighthawk (alternatively called “That Creepy Guy,” “Why is This Creepy Guy Talking to me?” “Who was that Creepy Guy You Were Talking to? And “Ugh, There’s That Creepy Guy I was Talking to Again,”) is a man who comes to the bar or club with one thing on his mind and one thing only: to get the drunkest chick in the bar to fuck him. Whether it’s in the bathroom, in an alley or actually on the dance floor, they are there to get some, and that’s it. I realize that most guys go out with the shared goal of getting laid, but Nighthawks take this classic principle to an extreme and socially awkward level. They’re purists; they waste no time taking part in normal social rituals like talking to friends, having a good time, chatting up a girl, mingling, laughing or generally acting like a normal member of society. These are all things that could potentially distract and take time away from spotting their prey. Instead, they prefer to stand in the shadows of the bar, gently nodding their heads to the beat, ominously sipping a beer, while making intense eye contact with girls to see which one is drunk enough to smile back. It’s such a simple existence. They’re like the Tibetan monks of the bar scene. Once they find a girl to approach, they simple wander over and attempt a conversation starter (“I’ve been watching you all night, you really know how to dance,” “You have beautiful eyes,” “So where do you work?”) If the Nighthawk has done his work right, she’ll quickly give him a once over and decide it’s getting late and she needs ass enough to go home with him.

Clothing: Doesn’t matter. Drunk chicks don’t care what you’re wearing; they care how fast the room is spinning and whether or not you’re interested. Oh you are? Here’s my virginity.

Community Structure: What perplexes me most about Nighthawks is that they’re solitary creatures (save for the double-team my friends and I got.) There’s no point in having a community because community means distraction and competition. Remember, it’s not about having fun; it’s about hunting your prey and going in for the kill. While Bros are LOLZing about the newest South Park episode and White Caps are comparing golf scores, Nighthawks are counting how many Long Island Ice-Ts that blonde chick has had and are waiting for her to lose her balance. Competition is out of the question. Let’s say that drunken blonde chick loses her footing after the fifth Long Island Ice-T; a Nighthawk doesn’t have the social skills to win her affection when she tumbles into his buddy's arms. It’s say goodbye to Sally McSlurs and start all over again.

Where to Find a Nighthawk in DC: Anywhere and everywhere. You might have no clue what I’m talking about right now, but the next time you’re at a bar, you’ll see him, alone, surrounded by groups of friends. He’ll be staring too hard at some girl. If he loses interest in her, his head will quickly dart around 180-degree’s like an owl’s to search for another. If you make eye contact, run away. If he starts a conversation, ask him if he’s found Jesus yet.

Mating Ritual: It’s usually awkward, off-putting and socially retarded. Let me share with you what happened with the Nighthawks from Friday: The Hawks decided they were going to focus their attention on our table. When simply starring too hard didn’t yield results, one of the Nighthawks literally pounded his fist on the table to make a pint glass on the edge of the table fall and shatter, in an effort to attract attention. Mind you, I’m the only one at my table facing them. One of the Nighthawks looked at me, smiled and knocked another glass off of his table. Then he made a mischievous “shhh!” motion with his finger to his lips before knocking another glass over. When my friend across the table looked down, slightly disgusted, to make sure her purse wasn’t wet, the Nighthawk looked back to me and giggled like “Don’t tell her what I’m doing! LOLZ! We’re all this together! LOLZ!” Finally, when it was clear we weren’t drunk enough to think knocking shit off a table is manly and sexy; they literally started pounding on their table like monkeys until we turned around to look at them. Apparently this is an invitation to join us in the mind of the Nighthawk, as they got up, dragged over their chairs and joined our circle. Sadly for them, Anna and Sarah bolted to the bar, I told one of them I was married and pregnant before returning to my beer and Jill was left to awkwardly squirm and look to me for help. Unfortunately I was distracted thinking about my wonderful fake husband and unborn baby at the time, sorry Jill.

How to Capture a Nighthawk: Get drunk and look desperate.

Final Summation: I’ve recently decided to declare war on the mass display of actions that are socially unacceptable, a war I call “The War on Social Terrorism” (read: I declare war on social retards but don’t want the blog to get sued again making so-called negative comments about the handi-capable). Nighthawks are at the top of my list of Evil Do-ers and I ask you for your support during this difficult time. Thank you, and God Bless the Blog.


Drinking Game Friday wants your vote!

Happy “End of the Race!” Drinking Game Friday! I would like to officially declare: BEST. ELECTION. EVER. I think we can all agree that this week was an emotional roller coaster. Both candidates spent Monday campaigning extra hard to win over undecided voters. Tuesday we proudly poured into the gym to vote in record numbers and spent the rest of the day waiting for the results to be announced in eighth period. Wednesday we awoke to a new world and a new president, lives forever changed. A huge bombshell dropped Thursday—Mr. McAllister rigged the election and Dr. Hendricks asked for his immediate resignation, which he received. The person who deserved to win indeed won in the end, despite a controversial and incendiary campaign.

Of course, I’m talking about the Flick vs. Metzler election from this week’s drinking game: The Election Drinking Game. What did you think I was talking about?

I first saw Election when I was 13-years-old and it was being marketed as a hilarious teen movie on MTV. It had Reese Witherspoon, Chris Kline and Ferris Bueller, so I figured it was a perfect sleep over movie. Yea…Not so much. I think I lost my innocence when the dirty math teacher described Reese Witherspoon’s wet pu$$y and Ferris Bueller had homely, suburban sex with his wife (who was wearing a nightgown my mom owns and was shouting “FILL ME UP!”) before heading into his porn den. Although, the sex scene with Chris Kline still comes in handy and Tracey Flick is still my all-time favorite sweater-vested character.

Take One Sip When:
- A character is introduced
- Any election propoganda is shown (poster, cupcake, buttons, etc.)
- Anything sexual goes down (pun indeed intended)
- Mr. McAllister is seen going through his morning routine
- Someone talks about what a good teacher Mr. McAllister is
- Someone prays
- Linda flirts with Mr. McAllister
- An election ballot is shown
- Paul mentions football
- During the following exchange, because it’s LOLZ:
Mr. McAllister: What have you got?
Larry, (the Student Government Kid): Well, I'm not supposed to tell. Not until you've counted, too. We're each supposed to make an independent count.
Mr. McAllister: You're kidding, right?
Larry: Well, I thought those were the rules, Mr. McAllister. If they've changed in anyway, I can—
Mr. McAllister: Larry, we're not electing the fucking pope here. Just tell me who won.

Thanks a shit ton for reading and spreading the 2birds1blog gospel to your friends. Have a great weekend and we’ll see you back in the office Monday morning.

The Worm - This Bird says Cheap! Cheap!

As I walked home yesterday I passed the Dupont Circle CVS; this is, without a shadow of a doubt, the sketchiest CVS in all of creation so I was not surprised when there was a line snaking out the door and around the corner. “Hmm,” I thought to myself “homeless person passed on the floor and the police aren’t letting people in? Spontaneous industrial refrigerator thaw created a flood and they had to close until a giant squeegee can be brought in to clean up?” But no, as I walked by the door and saw a sign that said “one paper per customer” I realized these people were waiting to buy copies of the paper with all of the election-related headlines.

I will not make this a political post; suffice to say I am pleased a Democrat is in office. However, waiting in line for a newspaper? REALLY? I’ll admit, I thought about it briefly but then quickly realized that this newspaper, even with its exciting headline, would still end up relegated to a corner of my apartment fairly quickly, a la old National Geographic issues. Yet as I walked home with my toilet paper and birth control pills (hey, who’s got two thumbs and knows how to party responsibly? This guy), I began to think to myself that people really are very very excited about this whole change in administrations and see it as a change in the focus, goals, and ideals, of this country. And I guess I can’t really say as I blame them. Whether Republican or Democrat, we can all agree that something good needs to happen to this country.

For me, this feeling was crystallized, like many other seminal moments in my life, by going out to dinner. Or rather, the inability to. My girlfriends and I like to go out to a yummy restaurant once a month or so and do it right – order wine, hors d’oeuvres, desserts, etc. We were planning on going to Hook in Georgetown and I was planning on writing about it for The Worm. I was excited not only for all of the fishing puns this dinner would afford my title (“The Worm gets Hooked,” “A Hook this Worm is willing to Bite”– I know, you’re sad too) but also because this place is supposed to be damn good, with several RAMMY winning chefs in their kitchen.

A few days before dinner however, the emails started coming. Apparently no one, not even myself, could actually, in good conscience, spend $100+ on dinner for one. One friend went so far as to say that it came down to paying for treatment for her sick dog or going out to dinner. Ouch. The dog won, understandably, but if I know this friend at all, semi begrudgingly. Unwilling to just not go out to dinner (the horror!) a few friends and I rallied and tried to find somewhere exciting to go that would not cost an arm and a leg. Actually, who am I kidding, we had nary a finger to spend, and basically were looking for a night out on a fingernail’s budget. One friend suggested, in jest, Amsterdam Falafel. I know a good thing when I hear it, and pretty soon a dinner date was set.

Amsterdam Falafel is an experience. An experience that many of us have had while hammered. My friends, I entreat you to try it sober. You will be immensely glad you did. The falafel is served on fresh warm pita and comes in two sizes: small (3 falafel patties) or large (5 patties). Once you are given your sandwich you are able to top it with dozens of fresh sauces and veggie included pickled beets, a tangy tzatziki sauce, cornichons, and silky hummus. Add to the mix crispy French fries offered with the traditional Dutch accompaniment of mayonnaise or, for a change, peanut sauce (!!) and you are in business. The small falafel is, including tax, $4.40. NO, I am not shitting you. $4.40! In case you were wondering, that is less than a grande blended coffee drink at Starbucks. They only take cash but there is an ATM right there in the shop and, if you are particularly pretentious and affected, uh I mean … well-traveled, they even accept Euros. Seriously.

Venturing to Adams Morgan sober – and then staying sober and leaving sober – is definitely an experience in itself. But again, one I recommend; to truly appreciate the seediness, and general funky attitude, Adams Morgan has to offer it helps if you are in your right mind and the area is devoid of drunk assholes. Amsterdam Falafel plays perfectly into this eclectic vibe; it is small, with tables so close together you are forced to befriend your neighbors (I was offered a few fries by mine). The walls are decorated with concert posters from venues in Holland and the place is just clean enough to not gross you out but just dirty enough to feel authentic. It’s important to note that the “Amsterdam” in the name is not some lame attempt to ride the popularity of stoner culture (“Dude, I went to a coffee shop in Amsterdam once and got sooooo baaaaaked. Let’s get some gnarly pot falafel!”) but, in fact, the place where the joint’s owners (couldn’t help myself) first encountered the walk-up falafel shop. Thankfully they recognized the genius of the concept and thought that Adams Morgan – with its high demand for late-night portable meals – was the perfect place to open one.

As you can probably tell, we had a great time, spent less than $5 each, and left incredibly satisfied. Had we gone to Hook we still would have had a great time and left incredibly satisfied BUT we would have spent twice that on one glass of wine. And really, knowing that the next morning I could wake up and not feel absolutely terrible for spending money that was earmarked for bills (or sick pit bulls) on food that wouldn’t stay with me past my morning bowl of fiber rich cereal and cup of tea added to the “great time” we had.

Yeah it totally sucks that people are out of jobs (like me), people’s houses aren’t worth what they paid for them (like mine), and it costs a lot more to maintain the lifestyle that up until recently was affordable (like mine, hang on a sec, I am just gonna jump out this window …) but that is NO REASON to not have fun. To not do stuff that makes you happy. Worrying doesn’t get you anywhere. Worry is the opposite of action. Either do something pro-active, or quit worrying. And in these times, when there often isn’t anything pro-active one can do, the only thing to do is to have fun. So with that in mind, here are a few other inexpensive restaurants for when the dining out bug bites:

Surfside – Glover Park. Approximately $12 gets you an awesome plate of fish tacos with rice and beans. And you’re right next door to Max’s, where $3.50 buys you a delicious cone of homemade ice cream.

Madhatter – Dupont area. Yes this place turns into an underage freak fest on the weekends but during the weekdays it’s simply a bar that turns out some excellent bar food, including a turkey Reuben that is to die for. Go on Tuesdays and enjoy trivia and discounted microbrew bottles.

The Big Hunt – Dupont Circle. Half price burger night is Tuesday. And these are greasy, awesome burgers and thick, cafeteria-style fries. Awesome. Plus they have totally random beers that AND PBR on draft – what??

Fresh Med – Cleveland Park. Counter service = cheaper food. Excellent Middle Eastern and Lebanese food items plus an awesome selection of international foodstuffs to browse and buy while waiting. As far as I am concerned Cleveland Park is one of the most accessible places in NW as it’s a reasonable walk from almost anywhere. Make a night of it and walk home after your cheap and chipper dinner – bonus if you live south on Connecticut Ave. ‘cause its all downhill.

Rhodeside Grill – Courthouse. Tuesday night is half price rib night (apparently no one goes out on Tuesdays) and they are good and the portions are large. Brunch is pretty sweet too since they have a make-your-own Bloody Mary bar. They bring you a ginormous glass of vodka, the rest is up to you.

Peruvian Chicken – anywhere. Have you ever had Peruvian chicken? It’s god-damned delicious. And meals normally consist of a half or whole chicken, rice, and salad, feed two people, and cost around $20. Quick, easy, authentic, and really – so fucking good. A personal favorite is the one off Columbia Pike next to the Arlington Cinema ‘n’ Drafthouse. If you venture out there beware – when they’ve sold all their chicken they just close with no warning. I appreciate their commitment to freshness but when you really want chicken it’s about the most frustrating thing in the whole world. Don’t call to ask if they’re running low unless you’re fluent in Spanish.

Ben’s Chili Bowl – U St. You hear about this place all the time. And again, because its open late it tends to get the reputation as being a 3am hot dog stop. Try it at regular meal time, you will not be disappointed. The dogs, etc. really are good – they wouldn’t have them at Nationals Stadium if they weren’t. Plus the atmosphere is cool, with tons of pics of celebs on the wall. The restaurant’s creation is a great DC story and the Ali family still runs the place, making it a true landmark. And again, counter service = cheaper food.

Julia’s Empanadas – U St, Dupont, Adams Morgan. Delicious homemade Argentine patties filled with meat, veggies and spices. They’re big and filling and sooo tasty. There aren’t really ever seats in these places to grab them to go and watch a movie at home for a true money saver. Bonus is the dessert empanadas and Inca cola available too.

The Diner – Adams Morgan. Sure we all know about this place but man, it really is inexpensive! Beer, wine, comfort food, awesome deserts and a really cool space make this more than a late night eats spot or hung over brunch destination.

There are so many places where one can get cheap food that is still tasty. The ones above are just places that I know and love. If you keep in mind the following principals, it’ll be easy to identify cheap eat and fun night out:

Counter service – It sounds silly but when there are no waiters to tip you automatically save 20%,

Décor – if the area is fun who cares what the restaurant looks like inside? Paper napkins, small tables, whatever. Get your atmosphere from the city and the culture, not the décor, You’ll save tons – those linens aren’t free you know.

Places that are open late night – They know their crowd, and their crowd is drunk and usually just wants to run in and then get on the road home to vomit or hook up or whatever it is you young kids do (hoola hoops, Dan Fogelberg … who’s feeling me?).

In these trying economic times we could all use a free (or really inexpensive) meal - please feel free to share any yummy cheap dining experiences I’ve missed!


Abortions, gay sex and health care for all!

Since you probably haven’t heard this obscure tidbit of political news yet, I’ll fill you in: Barack Obama has been elected as our 44th President of the United States, defeating John McCain in last night’s election. I don’t know about you, but I was pretty fuckin’ relieved when I heard this news. I fear Sarah Palin like people in medieval times feared the plague. You know how certain celebrities said they would leave the country if Bush beat John Kerry in 2004, but then blatantly didn’t and hoped no one would call them out? Well I was very seriously considering bouncing if Palin’s hockey stick came anyway near touching the White House. Ergo, yayyy! Obama!

I really liked Obama’s acceptance speech. I always considered the US to be a bit like Regina George’s character in Mean Girls: beautiful, confident, popular, feared and ultimately hated. Thus, Obama’s acceptance speech reminded me of Cady Herron’s Prom Queen speech. It was humble and hopeful for the future. However, it would have been better if Obama broke his tiara and through the pieces into the crowd….just sayin’.

As Obama’s speech ended and the streets flooded with rioters, I felt a certain sense of loss. I should be happy; Obama won, change is on its way, I can finally stop researching DIY abortions, and yet, I felt genuinely sad. Why you may ask? I have one word for you: Maverick.

I Will Remember You - Sarah McLachlan
Turn your speakers up and click play!


Oh Johnny…I’m gonna miss you man. I’m sorry it had to end this way. Except I’m not sorry because we don’t see eye-to-eye on anything.

I really can’t explain the intense affection I have for John McCain, but my love for him is real (but not real enough to vote for him.) Although it goes against everything I believe and stand for, I sort of wish I had voted for him. Here’s why:

- His acceptance speech. While everyone was getting choked up at Obama’s touching acceptance speech, I was a shaky hot mess, seconds away from bursting into tears during McCain’s concession speech. It was so humble and eloquent! My Johnny Boy seemed genuinely concerned when the rednecks in the audience started to boo Obama (and speaking of scary republican antics, did anyone else notice when the camera panned to what looked like a Neo-Nazi with one hell of a handle bar moustache for an uncomfortably long amount of time?) J McC loves our country and doesn’t want it to be divided! It was very “Don’t Cry for me Argentina” of him.
- The Torture Factor. Now, I knew that McCain was a POW, but was unaware that he was tortured on a daily basis. This knowledge breaks my cold, jaded, little heart. After five seconds of torture, I’d tell you whatever the fuck you want to know and then some. He’s so gentle! How could you torture him?! My List of People I Want a Big Hug From has been officially amended to include: Tim Gunn, Bob Villa, Clinton Kelly and John McCain. Welcome to the club, sir.
- His Smokin’ Hot Family. Those McCains are mighty easy on the eyes (except for the adopted one.) Obama’s ears distract me, Michelle looks like she’s got a stick up her ass and might kick me out of college for smoking pot in my dorm at any moment and it’s just plain creepy to refer to two little girls as “smokin’ hot.” (Or so I’ve been told.)
- The Death Factor. The man was captured and tortured, served in office for a babillion years and is about to meet his maker. Can’t we just throw him a bone and let him be president for a little bit? He earned it. We can get the Make a Wish Foundation involved. Except in this case it’s not a terminally ill kid going to Disney World; it’s John McCain running our country. It’s not his fault that he dreamed bigger Timmy…
- Sarah Palin. GOD DAMNIT I HATE YOU, YOU BITCH! My boy was doing just fine until he introduced you as his running-mate (and you know it wasn’t his idea.) Maybe you could have let the man know you have a few skeletons in your closet. Huge skeletons. Like a retarded baby with questionable maternity issues, huge. Or a couple of state investigations regarding your expenses and conspiracy, huge. I think Palin took advantage of J McC in a big way. He needed to bust out a wild card for his VP pick to get some edge and she was just bat shit crazy enough. There is no way she’s as dumb as she seems though. I think she took advantage of McCain to become his VP pick to use that exposure and publicity to make a name for herself so she can run for her own presidency in 2012. BOO-YEA! I’m always one step ahead of you Palin…one step.
- A Cast of Crazy Supporting Characters. I’m sure it can’t help when you’re name is associated with Sarah Palin, The First dude, Bristol Palin and her white trash boyfriend/”fiancée” and teen pregnancy, Heidi Montague and Spencer Pratt, hunting big game from a helicopter, Alaska as a whole, that crazy chick in Pittsburg who claimed she was jumped by a black Obama supporter who beat her up and carved a backwards B into her face, George W. Bush, Elizabeth Hasselback and your wife (bless her heart) and her multiple pill addictions and creepy Stepford wife vibe. None of those things are your fault, talk about a bad fucking break...

What’s done is done though and I can’t turn back time. Even if I could, I would use the opportunity to actually get the balls to say something to Michael Showalter when I saw him on Madison Avenue because I know if I had said something, we’d be married with a kid by now.

Overall, well-played John McCain. I’ll miss seeing your Hans Moleman-esque face in the paper everyday. God speed.



In high school (and in college too, let’s not lie) I was obsessed with AIM. I spent more time finding the perfect quote about my group of friends to put in my profile than I did actually spending time with them. I would break out into hives and have a panic attack if I realized I’d left the house without putting up an away message. I stalked the profiles and away messages of friends of friends of friends who I had never met, but felt a close bond with from keeping AIM tabs on them. There was also a disgusting amount of calculated effort to find a buddy icon that perfectly reflected my personality (an icon of Homer Simpson from the Tree House of Horror episode where his head turns into a donut and he can’t stop eating it, btw.)

When I started work after graduation, I became less enchanted with the world of AIM, a day I thought I’d never see. AIM is too all over the place to use at work, so I started to use it less and less until I finally stopped all together. Thus, the stalker and ADD kid inside of me were pretty psyched when I discovered gchat.

On a functional level, gchat is simply more discreet than AIM and isn’t quite as all over the place. And like most google applications, it works in tandem with your email/schedule/google maps etc. If google made birth control, I’d never use a condom again.

A few days ago, I was talking to my mom about how Talia had just gotten busted using gchat at her new job. My mom started ranting about how irresponsible it is to use gchat at work and how it has no place in the office. I then shot back a fiery and persuasive rebuttal, which I will share with you now. I call this rebuttal “Gchat: Where the Productivity’s at!”

I strongly believe that all companies and corporations should allow their employees to use gchat throughout the workday, because I argue that using gchat actually increases office productivity.

I compare using gchat at work to taking a power nap. When you feel exhausted and need energy, many people opt to take a “power nap.” You nap briefly (say, 30 minutes) and when you wake up, you have a sudden influx of energy—minimum sleep resulting in maximum energy.

Gchatting works in essentially the same way. For example, if I have actual work to do, I’ll work for a solid hour and then take a nice little five-minute gchat break to clear my head. Then, back to work I go. It’s sort of like taking a cigarette break, but a lot less deadly and a lot more hilarious. Hmm…cigarettes or gchat? I don’t think I want to live in a world where companies encourage and tolerate multiple cigarette breaks throughout the day, but don’t allow gchatting.

In fact, I think not gchatting is dangerous. Without a doubt, the most stressful part of the day in my last job was trying to hide the fact that I was using gchat. On a normal workday, I had three windows open: 1.) gchat 2.) a layout I was working on and 3.) an inappropriate website (inappropriate like a blog, not inappropriate like asspounders.com.) Because I used a mac, I had the advantage of using hot corners, which shuffle your windows around quickly when you move your mouse into said hot corner. I used to sit in my cubicle like a twitchy drug addict going through withdrawal, paranoid that someone was lurking up behind me ready to bust me for being on gchat. I think I have permanent neck damage from snapping my neck back to see if someone was standing behind me.

I actually almost got fired once for being on gchat at work. It was the day before Thanksgiving and I was stuck in my cubicle with nothing to do but wait for a new photo to add to my layout, bored as fuck and slightly homesick. The editor of the magazine (who NEVER came to my cubicle, I was always summoned to go to her lair) rounded the corner and popped into my cubicle unexpectedly. I was like a deer in headlights. The color drained out of my face and it felt like my heart dropped into my ass. Editor found me in a state of disarray: slumped down in my office chair with one leg propped up on the table (wearing a skirt…I have no regrets,) with a pen dangling out of my mouth, gchatting the day away. Editor and I had this moment where we were both just stared at each other in disbelief. When I realized that sitting there looking up at her with an expression on my face that said “DANG!” wasn’t going to help the situation, I quickly hot cornered my windows to hide gchat, but accidentally chose the page where I was wikipedia-ing Cameo of “Word Up!” fame instead of my layout page. I ended up getting-a-good-talkin’-to from her, the Associate Art Director and my Art Director. Editor’s speech involved lots of swears and brought me to tears whereas my department superiors told me to be more careful next time and have a nice holiday.

Why must we sit in our cubicles in fear that our cunty bosses might see that we’re on gchat?! It’s like an office crush—so simple, but so necessary to get through the day! The summer after my sophomore year in college, I got a job as an office temp. I hadn’t had an office job before, so for the first few weeks I still had a work ethic and respected the “no internet” policy (I KNOW, LOLZ!) The result wasn’t getting more work done; I just found more creative ways to entertain myself. I calculated that 66.5 Marylands fit into the state of Texas, improved my sketching abilities, widdled a gun out of a paper weight using a letter-opener, fake shot myself in the head with it and avoided getting sexually harassed by a 50 year-old accountant who incessantly asked me if I wanted to go to his golf course and “knock a few balls around.”

So we have a lot of slack-assery, simulated suicide and a scorching case of sexual harassment, but thank God I wasn’t gchatting...


TMI & a Conspiracy Theory to start your day off right...

November marks a few personal milestones for me: 4 months since I left New York, 4 months since I got mono, 4 months since I made-out with someone, 5 months since I’ve had sex and 4 months unemployed with no job prospects. I can’t decide which part of that list depresses me the most. It’s sort of a five-way tie at this point.

I think the whole “job thing” depresses me the most because once I get a job, everything else will fall into place. Behold my logic:
Job -> Money -> Move out of Parent’s House -> Ability to go out Guilt-Free and Afford Alcohol -> Meet Mad, Crazay Hawt Dudes = Sex. THEREFORE: Job = HI-OH!

There is one slight problem in this equation: I cannot physically get a job to save my life. Upon hearing this, most people don’t believe me and assume I’m just a lazy, drunk, blogger who doesn’t try. Which is only half true. Name a non-profit, government agency, design studio, marketing firm, law firm, architecture firm, college, gallery, museum or private company and I guarantee you, I’ve applied there. I have written an encyclopedia’s worth of bullshit cover letters sent out with my resume and haven’t gotten even one preliminary interview. Who do I have to blow around here to get an interview??? Because as God as my witness, I will!

By the way, I find it irritating when people tell you not to freak out because you haven’t been looking for a job that long. Not only is their entire point condescending, but they say it in this horribly judgmental way where you end up feeling like a complete asshole for being understandably stressed out:
Me: Oh man, I’ve been looking for a job for a while now, I feel like I’m never going to get one.
Friend: Umm Meg, you’ve only been looking for a job for four months. That’s really not that long at all. Some people have been looking for years. It’s really not a big deal.
Me: Oh good call. I’m such a pussy for being freaked out that I can’t buy my own food or afford to pay rent in a radically declining economy, which might become a Depression. My B*! LOLZ!

…Call me when you lie about where you’re going at night because at the age of 23, you still need your parent’s permission to go out, and then we’ll talk. In the mean time, shut your pie-hole. I digress.

I got a good design job in NYC pretty quickly after graduation, so you can understand why I’m slightly miffed that after another year of professional experience designing for a national entertainment magazine, I can’t even get my foot in the door at Kinko’s. My first thought was: maybe I’m just a straight up shitty designer. I can handle that. It’s concrete logic. And I embraced and accepted that logic until I met with six agents from Aquent last week that reviewed my portfolio and pretty much fell in love and went down on it. As psyched as I was that my portfolio got some ass, this meant I had to go back to the drawing board about why I can’t get a job. However, I think I’ve come to a conclusion.

This might sound slightly paranoid and neurotic, but…I think I’m part of a government conspiracy aimed towards avoiding massive layoffs by keeping an unnamed amount of people in a so-called “holding pattern” designed to ensure that they never get and therefore laid off, which would generate public outrage demanding an immediate solution because layoffs are ostensibly more disturbing to the public than an unrealistically tough job market where inability to get hired puts the blame on the candidate and not their government, thus avoiding said public outrage and solution.


When I say, “I can’t get a job,” it’s not in a “Dear Diary: I can’t get a job and Tommy is never going to realize I exist and ask me to the dance. And am I ever going to grow boobs like Sarah’s??” kind of way. No matter what job I apply for, whether it’s a Junior Designer or janitorial position, I never get an interview. As you know, I’ve ruled out my suckage, I know for sure that my resume is perfectly designed and grammatically correct and my e-mail is fully functioning. Thus, I believe that any e-mail I send containing a resume or cover letter is never actually sent out, instead blocked by the government. To test this theory, (and I’m not exaggerating this story for the giggle factor,) I sent out 20 fake resumes, which made me appear ridiculously over qualified for the position, while still being believable. I tailored my major and minor to whatever job I was applying for, enhanced my GPA and gave myself more honors and recognition than a Vietnam veteran missing a leg. And yet, four weeks later, I haven’t heard from a single one.

After that, I went one step further. I sent out 20 more fake resumes, but this time I applied online and checked off various minorities in the ethnicity box. I’ve been African American, Latina, a South Pacific Islander and my personal favorite—a Native Alaskan with Cherokee blood and a handicap. I realize this is unethical and probably illegal, but ethics are for people whose mother’s don’t analyze the fat content and carbohydrates of every meal they eat giving them an extreme complex. Plus, I have to take some risks to see if this really is a conspiracy.

And alas! Weeks later I haven’t gotten an email from a single possible employer. It’s obvious that I’m not a lazy ho, but rather a victim of a government conspiracy. And I want the Bush administration to know that my walls are COVERED in a networking web and I WILL find a job!

…Although I sort of hope I never hear back from anyone because it might be slightly uncomfortable to explain how Meghan Riverdance McPotatoFamine is Asian (despite the Irish name, fair skin and red hair) and served in the Gulf War at the age of five…
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