My Top 5 All-Time Grudges

One of my many character flaws is that I hold one helluva grudge. My marathon grudges are all part of my Make it Right Theory. Here's the deal- if I feel that you have wronged me in some way, I won't let it go. Ever. I mean, not like I'll harass or bully you or anything, you just get a little asterisk next to your name in my mental Rolodex of the people I know. If an asterisked person is mentioned in casual conversation, I will shudder audibly and gladly tell whomever I'm with the complete story of what you did to deserve The Grudge. With that being said, it's very easy to get The Grudge reversed. All you have to do is make it right with me. Making it right can be as quick and easy as a "sorry" or as complicated as you want it to be. You just have to make it right. Energy has to be put forth. However, if you don't make it right with me (no matter how minute or stupid your offense was) I will continue The Grudge indefinitely.

And when I say indefinitely
, I do mean indefinitely. I'm currently holding some extremely old and outdated grudges. Yeah, it's sort of embarrassing to admit I hate someone with a fiery passion for something they did 11 years ago, but it doesn't matter! They didn't make it right, so The Grudge continues. My mom calls it an unhealthy waste of energy. I call it impressive.

My Top 5 All-Time Grudges:

#5 Kelly M: Kelly M is this total Ice Queen type who married an adorable friend of the family named Jason. One day when I was 14, Kelly and Jason came over with either their new dog or new baby (it's all the same to me) to have lunch with my family. Now, as I've mentioned before, my boobs are a wee bit big. And let me tell you, dealing with stripper boobs at age 14 is a mortifying curse that I wish upon no one. I tried my best to dress appropriately and make sure things were always well supported and covered, but I'm not a magician, damnit! I can't make 'em disappear! Now as I mentioned, Kelly M is a prude with a real stick up her WASP ass. Thus, I think this Jewess with huge knockers greatly offended her. That day, I wore what was possibly a too tight white t-shirt to lunch. I can still see the look Kelly gave me when I descended the stairs for lunch. It was sort of a cross between anger, judgment, pity and pure disgust. It's an emotion I call "anjupituist." All afternoon long, her beady cold eyes stared across the table at me with burning anjupituistment. After she left, the first thing Becca said was "Woah! Did you see the way Kelly was staring at your boobs all afternoon?!" Yes. Yes I had, thank you. Even though this happened nine years ago, I still get fired up thinking about it. I didn't ask for boobs that qualify me as a sideshow, thank you very much! And I was only 14-years-old! I was already painfully uncomfortable in my body, I didn't need the added stress of this woman declaring a Jihad on my jugs! Of course, Kelly never apologized for being so blatantly innapropriate. Since then, she's normally never brought up around me without "CUNT!" uncontrollably flying out of my mouth.
#4 Jessica P: I don't do gym class. That's all I got for you. I really don't feel a need to justify that statement or make excuses for myself. Thankfully, my mom always understood this and would send me off to school at the beginning of each year with a bunch of blank signed note cards. If we were doing an activity in gym class that I really, really didn't want to do, I could pull out a signed note and write in the excuse of why I wouldn't be participating that day. Unfortunately for me, the sixth grade gymnastics unit was two and a half weeks long and I ran out of signed notes by day six. On day seven, we were scheduled to do back flips strapped into a rickety old harness from 1976. My innocent little sixth grade self looked at that situation, said "fuck that noise!" and decided to gracefully hide in the bathroom instead. There I was, sittin' in the john reading a magazine, waiting for the 45-minute class to go by when Jessica P came in. Jessica P was your classic stuck-up middle school bitch, and when I saw her peek into my bathroom stall, I knew I was fucked. And I was. Jessica P ran and told our gym teacher, Ms. Skidmore, that I was hiding in the bathroom and not participating in the activity. Ms. Skidmore came into the bathroom where I delivered an Oscar-worthy performance of the one-woman show "Oh, I'm not hiding! I lost an earring and I'm looking for it!" Ms. Skidmore let me off with a warning and told me that if I hid out during class again, I would be sent to the principal. Ten minutes later, as I was whirling through the air with a too-tight harness strapped around my groin and ass, I vowed to get revenge on Jessica P. I haven't yet, but I'm warning you that if I were to ever see Jessica P at a bar downtown after a few too many chardonnays, I would very likely sucker-punch her in the face and run away to avoid the charges.
#3 Dana P: Oddly enough, this is another gym-class related grudge. This one takes place freshman year of high school during the badminton unit. In the beginning of class, we were sitting against a wall listening to a lecture about the importance of treating our badminton rackets with respect. We were told explicitly not to bang the frames of our rackets on the ground because it would cause the strings to snap, and we would be shit outta luck. When the lecture ended, we were instructed to go get rackets from the racket bin. Being the kind of person who doesn't get too psyched about badminton, I was in no way prepared to race over to the bin and fight the crowds to get a "sweet" racket. I let the crowds swarm and take first pick, while I leisurely strolled over and got the last racket, which basically looked like an untied shoe. Figuring I wasn't exactly trying to win Wimbledon, I shrugged, picked up the racket and sat back down to talk to my friends until it was my turn at the net. As I sat there bored and staring into space, I absent-mindedly twirled my racket handle in my hand. NOT BANGED IT, twirled it. The frame of the racket AT NO POINT touched the ground. However, the next thing I knew, old Dana P was shouting to our teacher, "MS. BURT!!!! MEGHAN MCBLOGGER IS SLAMMING HER RACKET ON THE GROUND!!!!!! SHE BROKE IT!!!!!" Yes. That's right. I had yet again been sold out to yet another butch gym teacher by yet another bitchy girl. "MEGHAN MCBLOGGER! WHAT DID I TELL YOU AT THE BEGINNING OF CLASS?!" Ms. Burt shouted at me. I stared back at Dana P in complete and utter shock. I could not believe I had just been called out by this girl. I could only mutter half words like "Wha? Are you kidd? Seriou? I...." in disbelief. I had never done anything mean to this girl to my knowledge and I had no idea why Dana P had decided to pull such a d-bag move. Thankfully, Kari, our class' infamous psycho bitch, stood up for me and sweared up down and sideways that I hadn't banged my racket on the ground and it was broken when I got it. I guess Ms. Burt figured if the school's resident sociopath was willing to go to bat for me, she might as well just back off. In the end I got off with a warning, Dana never apologized and my badminton game has never been the same since. Game. Set. Grudge.

#2 Shannon M: I've made reference to this grudge before, but I'll gladly tell the tale again. This Grudge dates back to preschool. Yes, that's correct. Millian Methodist Preschool. I was just a wee little Meglet with a bob haircut, a stuffed animal named Monty and a huge chip on my shoulder. My best friend in preschool's name was Katie, and one day my mom and I joined Katie and her mom at their country club's pool. I was nervous to meet Katie's country club friends, but I was very friendly and played well with everyone, until it was time to jump off the diving board. Being afraid of heights, I decided to sit this activity out and wade in the water cheering everyone on. Shannon M. jumped off the diving board, got out of the water, walked up to me as I clung to the edge of the pool in the deep end and said, "Aw! Look at the baby too scared to jump off the diving board!" Then! The little cunt splashed water directly into my face! It was an aquatic bitch slap at the age of five! My little Meglet eyes welled up with tears and a grudge was born. I got my revenge when she got giant nerdy purple glasses a few months later and cried for a week straight and refused to go to any play dates. I can still see those fugly-ass glasses with wire butterflys decorating the giant purple rims. Muhahahaha! However, just because karma bit Shannon in the ass doesn't mean that she made it right with me. The Grudge is very much alive and well today. In fact, when I was a freshman at AU, my mom ran into Shannon's mom at the Giant and found out that Shannon was going to Catholic and was miserable there. When she got home from the Giant, my mom told this to me and asked me to give her a call and go to dinner with her sometime. My response? "No fucking way! That bitch called me a baby and splashed me in the face in preschool at Argyle Country Club! That's what she gets!" ...Seriously people, just make it right with me. I'm really not fucking around.

#1 Emmy G: This grudge dates back to 1988 and involves a vicious game of hide-and-seek. A few months before I was born, my family moved down to DC from Connecticut. One year we took a little vacation back to Connecticut so my parents could see their friends and Becca could see her old BFF Jenny. Jenny had a little sister my age named Emmy whom I had never met before but became fast friends with. One afternoon, Becca, Jenny, Emmy, Becca's friend Eric and I were playing hide-and-seek. Emmy and I were hiding together behind a wood pile and "the big kids" were the seekers. As the big kids got closer to us, Emmy turned to me and hissed "UUGHHHHH, GAWD!!! THEY'RE GOING TO SEE US BECAUSE OF YOUR BIG FAT FACE!!!" My eyes turned black and shot Emmy a look that even at 3 years-old clearly communicated, "BITCH, PLEASE!" I walked up to the seekers all "bitch is behind the wood pile" and went inside to get a sandwich, leaving Emmy screaming and crying behind the woodpile because I sold her ass out. Even though our respective moms yelled at us and told us we were both in the wrong, I never got an apology from her. Ergo, The Grudge will go with me to the grave.

Yep, the patented Meg McBlogger Make it Right Theory. I highly recommend you let it enrich your life. And You're welcome.

You know what ruffles my feathers?

I really shouldn't be complaining about my commute to work. My "commute" (if you can even call it that) involves walking out of my apartment, pivoting my body slightly to the right and walking one and a half blocks to the metro, where I ride the red line two stops to Metro Center, exit, walk one single block and arrive at my office. When I lived in the boonies of Brooklyn, it took me well over an hour during rush hour to get to the office, which was considerably more taxing than the actual work I was doing once I arrived there. So I shouldn't really have anything to complain about, right?

Wrong my friend! Oh so so wrong. My most hated group of individuals, nerds, have found a way to make my easy, breezy, beautiful commute irritating. They would.

People with rolling briefcases are Nazis incarnate. There, I said it. I feel better. What the fuck is up with you people?! Do you realize that during the hustle and bustle of rush hour, the streets, metros and metro escalators are already crowded? Why do you feel it necessary to double the amount of space you would normally take up with a rolling briefcase? It's like you people are just giant bubbles of inconvenience floating around my morning commute. I'm going to wear a giant hoop skirt and walk with arm crutches during rush hour and act inconvenienced when you bump into me, just so you know how it feels.

I've also noticed that there's a correlation between people who opt for rolling briefcases and intelligence. Specifically that they lack it. If you know that you're surrounded by people rushing around to get somewhere on time, why would you think it's a good idea to drag your briefcase behind you? If the strap to someone's messenger bag broke, do you think that person would just drag it behind them by the broken strap like a petulant child? No, because that would make them a complete asshole. So what makes you think you can essentially do the same thing, pop a few wheels on it and call it socially acceptable?

I want to get the email addresses of all the people in the world with rolling briefcases and send them the following memo:
To: The nerd population of the world who uses a rolling briefcase
From: Meg

Hey assholes! I have a friendly little suggestion for you. If you insist on using a rolling briefcase while commuting, you can't suddenly just stop walking without looking to see if there's someone behind you who might run into your fucking nerdmobile if you stop short. You're the ones who brought wheels into the equation, so follow traffic laws. I would never do 85 on the highway and then slam on my breaks to find the nutrigrain bar in my trunk.


There's so much bitchery in this city about the stand left, walk right rule, but I've personally only had a few encounters with it. However, I almost trip and break an ankle on at least three rolling briefcases a morning, no exaggeration. I thought I was going to snap like a twig this morning and start punting people's briefcases onto the third rail. The highlight of rolling-retardation came the other morning when an individual a few people ahead of me went up the escalator with his rolling briefcase behind him and then stopped at the top of the escalator to get something out of his bag, causing the long line of commuters behind him to topple over like dominoes. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? This is why New York has stairs. And speaking of New York, I would like to say from experience that this rolling briefcase conundrum is a problem unique to DC. New York might be overpopulated, but those bastards know how to commute. They let people exit the train before getting on, they move to the center of the car and they can hustle up and down the stairs with ease. Come on DC, I'd like to think we don't suck so hard we need to have our escalator privileges taken away...

Now, I can already hear the rolling briefcase nerds breaking out their calculators and carrying the one, ready to point out that rolling briefcases actually relieve vertical lumbar pain caused by the disproportionate ratio of an individual's height to briefcase weight and nerd speak, nerd speak, nerd speak. Here's what I have to say to that: suck it up. I booked it from Metro Center to Georgetown yesterday in six-inch stilettos and didn't complain once. And when I got to my destination, guess what I did? I bench pressed 280 lbs and karate-chopped a board in half with my head. AND WHAT, NERD?!


Recrap Tuesdays!

The City
Episode 6: Recapped by Chris
Remember 10 years ago how idealistically you thought about what your adult life would be like? How you’d be living in the fabulous city of your choosing, with an amazing job, a hot boyfriend/girlfriend who loved you and you had amazing sex with, and a social life that never stopped? Unfortunately, as anyone reading this blog is well aware, life post-college is hardly ever what you expected. That’s why God created “the twenty-something years,” a time for us all to figure out how to get from awkward teenagers to well-adjusted thirty-somethings who can function in society.

Normally, when I recap The City for you, I think “Wow, that’s what my life in The City is supposed to be like? Man, I am doing this all wrong.” But last night’s was refreshing, because it seemed to me as though our cast of beautiful people was having some growing pains of their own. So in order to help them, and by proxy, help you, I’ve come up with this incredibly complex and intelligent formula to determine precisely what age Leggy McBlonde and friends are at in their lives currently.

The City is So High School It Makes The Breakfast Club Look Like a Knitting Circle
  • Allie Eyebrows and Adam’s fight in the street reeks of a fight you would have with your boyfriend/girlfriend in the hallway outside of the gym at your Spring Fling because he/she found out you circled “Maybe” on the “Do you like me?” note that cute guy/girl passed you in Alegbra.
  • Whitney and Jay fighting because of Adam and Allie’s fight. Because your friends actions are a direct reflection of your own? Only in high school pregnancy pacts, Whitney.
  • Adam’s forgiveness plea to Allie? “I’ll never lie to you” is something you say when you’re naive and don’t realize how long never actually is.
  • As much as I hate agreeing with Olivia, did Whitney really need to fill her in on her friends’ drama before H.Waldorf actually meets them?
  • Deciding to tell Eyebrows “the truth.” This does not make things better. Everyone ideally “would want to know” if it happened to them, but in practice, ignorance is bliss.
  • Then the way shit went down. Cat slowly gravitated over, then stood with her back to Allie, until Brows got the balls (read: booze) enough to talk. Meanwhile, every other girl who knows what’s up is studying their shoes in silence.
  • Also, could MTV’s editors be more gossipy without actually saying anything? For instance, the cutting of Bro-Talk with Adam and Jay where Jay asks Adam if anything actually happened. Instead of a yes or no response, we get 10 seconds of silence and Adam and Jay avoiding each other’s eyes.
Who Said Graduation Meant College Was Over?
  • Best exchange of the episode:

Erin: “Wait..Sammy and Cat and then Adam and Allie are gonna be there?”
Whit: “Yup.”
Erin: “Is it open bar?”
  • Erin, I love you more each episode.
  • I don’t think tequila is the preferred beverage at a gallery opening, Jay.
  • Cat and Sam, who are giving Jay a run for his money on the I’m-only-semi-attractive-when-the-sun-goes-down front, thinking that Cat’s gigantic nose is going to come between the power couple. I think these two are in that special period of their life before you realize what beer goggles are.
If I Am Drinking Wine at a Bar, That Means I’m an Adult, Right?
  • Seriously, Adam is always ordering wine at bars. Is this a quirk that all male models have?
  • Adam’s hair also deserves mention. First, he’s an 80s powerbroker, then a sleazy car salesman. How about you keep a haircut that’s age-appropriate?
  • When Olivia shows her true colors (finally!!) and flat out tells Whitney she doesn’t want to hear about her friends’ bullshit. Nothing like some honesty about who you are as a person.
  • Nevan also had a special moment when he exposes the yellowed underarm of his T-shirt to the world. I believe he represents that point in your life where you just stop caring what you look like.
  • On a personal note, Nevia reminded me of Statler and Waldorf of the Muppets fame. They always have shit to say, none of which is positive, on stuff they barely participate in.
Based on highly intensive calculations and logic, Whit and friends are in their first semester, where you can’t quite shake those old high school habits, but you desperately want more Busch Lite, even if you hooked up with a cave creature whilst under the influence last week. Except for Adam, who could very well be Benjamin Button, a 75-year-old man with the body of a 23-year old.


Episode 5: "Little Jeans, Big Hearts"
I'm going to put something out there. You can pick it up and take it with you, or you can leave it on the table and walk away. It really doesn't matter to me. Tonight's episode of Bromance was...legitimately funny television. And I say that without a hint of irony. Not even a teaspoon of snark. I laughed out loud numerous times and didn't write any show notes while watching because I was honest-to-God too busy enjoying myself. Hell! I might watch this episode online again sometime in the near future should I need a good laugh.

Mr. Jenner; hats off to you sir. I was unsure about this show in the beginning, but your masterpiece approaches the fine line between moronic, vapid, self-promotion and substantive comedic television and dances on it. And that dance is a beautiful Viennese Waltz, sir. You are a King among men, Samuel Brody Jenner.

Tonight's episode is all about finding out which Bro can cut through the bullshit of Hollywood and be a true friend to Brody. In order to do this, the Bros will have to rock the red carpet "all up in his" new line of "ugly ass jeans" that Brody has told them is part of the new Jenner Jeans collection. (I like how I'm using quotation marks so liberally to make myself feel intellectually superior to Brody Jenner, when in reality this is exactly how I talk everyday.)

Of course this whole Jenner Jeans nonsense is just a big prank to see if anyone will have the balls to tell Brody that he looks like a flaming jackass and should ditch the Jenner Jeans. It's pretty hilarious. The jeans themselves look like a sixth grade girl's Lisa Frank binder threw up all over them. They're heavily bedazzled, ultra-lowrise, insanely tight and feature a glittery "BJ" prominently on the butt. But before they can hit the red carpet, the Bros go to a spa for some manscaping. Alex gets his chest waxed because, well, as Brody points out, it's just really funny to watch a guy get his chest waxed.

Later, Femi is the only Bro to confront Brody about how horrible his jeans are, but then decides to be there for his homie and wear them on the red carpet anyway. The Bros whore out the jeans pretty well, striking kung-fu poses and talking to the press about how much they just lahhv their BJ's! At one point, E!'s Ted Casablanca asks to see Femi's butt to which Femi swivels around, sticks out his booty and shouts to Ted, "CRACK ISN'T WHACK, SON!" Seriously...amazing.

The next night's challenge is to have a one-on-one chat with Playmate of the Year, Jayde Nicole (who Brody is actually dating). I like this challenge because it's basically Brody Jenner being like, "let's see who can talk to my girlfriend for five minutes without busting a load in his pants." Little Chris, the Token Asian, ends up winning the challenge and gets to hang in a hot tub with Jayde and Playboy's Miss October. Remember that scene in Sixteen Candles when Ted gets to drive Jake Ryan's dad's Rolls Royce around with the Homecoming Queen passed out in the front seat? It was kind of like that, but in water.

Later over a sushi dinner, Brody has to decide between eliminating Alex or Luke. I don't know why this is such a big deal because they're basically the same person, one's Boston accent is just slightly thicker than the other. Brody likes them both a lot (thus proposing that Pip should come back just to kick him off again,) but has to choose between them because Alex and Luke have a very strong Bromance going on themselves. Brody decides to eliminate Alex (with the less offensive Boston accent) and the show closes with a montage of Alex and Luke's most bromantic moments. ACES TEN!


This worries me...

Eff the Blue Oyster Cult; I fear the reaper. The only thing scarier to me than thinking about my own mortality is thinking about my parent's mortality. Thus, when my dad had a mild stroke a few months ago, my shit got shook to the core.

Having a parent in the hospital is like having a backstage pass at a Creed concert; you get an unsolicited view of what really goes on behind the show, but you in no way want to be there or see that view. When the doctor came into the hospital room to explain what was up, my first reaction was to run to the waiting room, get some juice and play with legos or something. Then I realized that I'm 23-years-old, not 10, and not only is it appropriate for me to hear what the doctor has to say, I had to be responsible and composed. That is a weird fucking moment. All I really wanted to do was hear "everything is going to be alright!" and go back to my Mall Madness game.

My dad has always been my hero, and facing facts that your hero is only human is a sad and sobering experience. But nobody should have to go through that pain. Twice. Months apart.

I have recently realized that another silver-haired, well-dressed, older gentleman hero of mine is indeed human and -gasp!- quite possibly flawed. Whom, you may ask? It pains me to say...Mr. Tim Gunn.

I always thought that Tim Gunn could do no wrong. In my mind he's like the Laughing Buddha; a beloved icon of good fortune, kindness and joy. If I could rub Tim Gunn's belly every time I walk into a Chinese food restaurant, I would be dead of MSG poisoning within a month.

The first cracks in Tim Gunn's flawless facade came when I was browsing the magazine section at Barnes & Noble the other day. As I was looking through through the women's interest magazines, I saw that Tim Gunn was on the cover of this month's issue of Skin Deep magazine.
My eyes lit up and I grabbed the magazine in delight. Then I saw the subtitle under the magazine's logotype:
It clearly says "The Ultimate Image Enhancement Resource," but at the time I read "The Ultimate MALE Enhancement Resource."

I stood there with my mouth hanging open and small whimpering noises escaping for more time than was appropriate. My world crumbled and my mind raced-- "TIM GUNN IS ON THE COVER OF A MALE ENHANCEMENT MAGAZINE?! Why in the sweet name of Elle would he do that??? What a horrible decision! Wait, does this mean TIM GUNN CAN'T GET IT UP?!?! Of course he can! I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE TIM GUNN HAS AN ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION!!!!"

Eventually I read things a little more carefully and realized it wasn't a magazine about ED. But still, I felt dirty for doubting Tim and thinking he was the cover boy for erectile dysfunction.

The next day I was googling pictures of Kelly Osbourne's 18-year-old child bride when I stumbled upon a website called ringenvy.com. There, I found an article about Brooklyn Decker's engagement ring from Andy Roddick. When I read the comments to see what people had to say about her ring, I saw the following:
"I heard Roddick dates Tim Gunn. They were hot and heavy shopping at Whole Foods a few weeks ago. Tim served Roddick bites of food they bought at the Indian buffet when they sat down.....so cute! They're the ultimate power couple. A tennis star and a silver fox."
At first I giggled at the thought of Tim Gunn and Andy Roddick canoodling in line at an Indian buffet, and then promptly decided to google the pair to see if there's anything else floating around the rumor mill about Tim Gunn and Andy Roddick.

As it turns out, there is. A LOT. I found more than a few gossip sites talking some major shit about my Timmy and Andy Roddick. Now, if this were simply a case of some Internet rumors about Tim homo-ing it up with Andy Roddick, I'd be fine with that. Elated even. Tim needs his lovin' too, and if it was good enough for Mandy Moore, it's good enough for my Tim Gunn. However, most of these comments paint Tim in a really pathetic light making him seem like a creepy, jealous, bitchy, sugar daddy. (I never thought I would write "Tim Gunn" in the same sentence as "creepy," "jealous," "bitchy," or "sugar daddy." Well...maybe "sugar daddy.")

Here's a random sampling:
"My friend lives in Tim Gunn’s building, told me he lives with Andy and Andy’s gf lives by herself at the 22nd st apartment. Poor gal."
"Tim Gunn was screaming at Cafe Duke today how jealous he is of Anderson Cooper’s girlfriend, he has to get rid of her ASAP, he called her a “bad apple”. The cafe owner told me."
"Tim was on his cell saying anderson cooper must have bought his girlfriend her new penthouse she is moving into because she can't afford it!"
"Tim you are a crazy jealous man! stop stalking the poor guy! Have some respect! If a man tells you he is starting a family with his girlfriend stop harassing him! He doesn't want you!"
"Andy lists Tim Gunn as emergency contact on his medical forms as stepdad. We all know what that is code for, right guys! Blanche Roddick sure never remarried to Tim Gunn. :/"
"That’s like old news to us here in nyc ya know. Tim Gunn’s dated Andy since like Easter. Come on out out."
"I have lots of friends in the gay community in Manhattan telling me about sightings of these two in public. Tim was making out with him and doing who knows what else in the bathroom at a recent Bravo publicity event. EW. Andy's parents should be worried."
"I know a man working on the set of Tim Gunn’s Guide to style that told me Tim has a young athlete boyfriend, and he sends him flirty text messages while Tim is live blogging or texting when filming the show."
"The tragic story of Tim Gunn. He thought the handsome, successful gay man who was using him for sex actually was his boyfriend. When he didn’t return Tim’s phone calls, Tim should have understood what he was meant for. Nobody wants to be called Tim Gunn’s boyfriend. Apparently he isn’t even good at giving sex I heard.

Tim ran into him on the street the other day, and the guy had to break the news to Tim that he has a girl. That’s right. The handsome man would rather date a girl than booty call Tim. Get it, Tim. You are as meaningful as a paper bag.

Didn’t hear this rumor yet about Roddick until I Googled Tim Gunn boyfriend. I guess now he’s dating Andy Roddick. He found a young man dumb enough to date a father figure, because, think about it. Would anyone not under the influence of alcohol want to have sex with Tim Gunn?"

OK WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! First of all, nobody ever talks about Buddha like this, so everyone needs to show some respect! Secondly, in regards to "nobody wants to be Tim Gunn's boyfriend," I took a poll and 100% of the room wanted to be Tim Gunn's boyfriend. Yes, Becca and I were the only people in the room at the time, but I'm confident that even if I increased my polling numbers, I would get the same results. Third, Tim Gunn's not even good at giving sex? Since when do you give sex? Lastly to answer your question, yes, yes someone not under the influence of alcohol would want to have sex with Tim Gunn. This girl.

I know that most of these comments are just crazy Internet rumors, but it's still made Tim seem way more human than superhero in my eyes. I don't actually believe that he stalks Anderson Cooper or is Andy Roddick's mistress, but the question lingers, what if?

From now on when I see Tim Gunn, I'll only be able to think about Andy Roddick and a flaccid penis. God this is hard to deal with. No pun intended.


Drinking Game Friday!

Ahh, TGIDGF gang, TGIDF.

I've really wanted to write an SLC Punk! drinking game ever since Ashleigh suggested it a few weeks ago. However, anarchist punks in conservative Mormon society are shockingly not relevant to my life, world news or pop culture in any way whatsoever.

...Or so I thought. Follow my logic:
This week Barack Obama became the 44th president of the United States -> Senator Ted Kennedy collapsed at his Inaugural luncheon -> Ted Kennedy's neice is Maria Shriver -> Maria Shriver is married to Arnold Schwarzenegger -> Arnold Schwarzenegger was in Twins with Danny Devito -> Danny Devito was in Reno 911!: Miami with Paul Rudd -> Paul Rudd was in Anchor Man with Vince Vaughn -> Vince Vaughn was in Wedding Crashers with Isla Fisher -> Isla Fisher was in Scooby Doo with Matthew Lillard, and Matthew Lillard is the star of this week's drinking game: The SLC Punk! Drinking Game!
See? Completely relevant.

Drink When:
- There's a flashback
- There's a tripping scene
- Stevo analyzes punk culture in an aside to the camera
- Stevo classifies what social group a person belongs to
- Stevo says "tribe"
- Someone says "poser"
- There's a fight
- There's a sex scene
- Mark brags about all of the cool, expensive stuff he has
- Sean's acid soaks through his pants as he runs through the sprinklers
- Stevo and/or Heroin Bob cries
- Trish is shown in a new wig
- Stevo's dad tries to pressure him into law school
- Heroin Bob punches something inanimate
- Someone dies.

Hmm...that was a grim note to end on during such a celebratory week. How about this:

- Stevo and the gang spend a weekend at Spooky Island where they investigate why the mysterious theme park seems to be affecting visitors in such a sinister way. Zoinks!

Thanks for reading gang and have a swell weekend. I dare you to recomend the blog to a friend. I DARE you.



Why I was the World's Worst Waitress Slash Bartender

Praise the sweet Lawd Jesus; I'm no longer a Waitress Slash Bartender! I got a call last week from a company that I'd been interviewing with in early December for an event planning/marketing job. I didn't care who I had to blow to get it-- this job was mine. I walked into the first interview feeling confident and left an hour and a half later feeling the same way I do after a really good first date: I was giddy, couldn't stop smiling, told my friends it was "The One!" and was envisioning our perfect future together. Unfortunately, as with most of my amazing first dates, I never heard from the rat-bastard again. I was left hurt and wondering what I had done wrong (I hadn't even put out yet! According to my mom that means they have to buy the cow, or the truck or whatever you're buying!)

In a stroke of uncharacteristic luck, I got a call from the company last week apologizing for losing touch and asking if I was still interested in the position. Because "YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I AM" might be a wee bit too forthcoming, I said yes. Two days and a meeting later, I was hired.

I'm excited about this turn of events for a bevy of reasons, (money! a company issued Blackberry! corporate dress code! I feel like Maxine from Living Single!) the most exciting being that I don't have to be a Waitress Slash Bartender anymore. And I'm not going to lie to you, if I hadn't quit I'm pretty positive I would have been fired within a few weeks. Why you may ask? Because I am without question the World's Worst Waitress Slash Bartender. Here's why:
  • I'm not actually a waitress. Nor am I really a bartender. This is slightly problematic when working as a waitress slash bartender. If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't make a drink or acted genuinely inconvenienced when asked for silverware...well, I'd probably have tips that were proportionate to my number of tables.
  • I'm slow-moving and easily distracted. If I wanted to run around I would join a gym, a-thank you very much. I handpicked this job because I thought it would allow me maximum slack-assery with minimal effort. I'm sorry you have to get back to the office, but I have a text message to get back to. That takes precedence. And I'm going to write it at my own pace. Yes, my pace is that of a sea turtle, but that's how I roll. Slow and covered in tortoiseshell accessories. And it wasn't my idea to put five TV's in the bar! Do you have any idea how distracting Judge Judy is on mute? DO YOU?!
  • People are stupid. The things that come out of people's mouths make me wish I could perform a vasectomy. Because my mind is always on auto snark, it's incredibly hard to stop myself from cracking wise-ass comments while dealing with a customer. Then there's always this really awkward delay between their question and my response because I've yet to master constructing said wise-ass comment in my head while simultaneously saying something polite to their face. Here's a real world example:
Man standing at top of stairs: Excuse me, I want table service. I don't want to order deli-style.
Me: Sure thing sir, if you go downstairs I'll happily take your order and bring you your food.
Man (in an exasperated tone): PFFSHH, but how am I supposed to get down there?!
- You fly sir. Step one: grow a pair of wings. Step two: flap them motherfuckers. Happy landing. -
Me (after staring in silence for six seconds): There are stairs directly to your left sir. Walk down them.
  • I frequently leave the bar to flirt with the barista upstairs. As it turns out, bar managers don't like when you leave customers alone with their alcohol and cash register to ask the hottie barista the story behind his tattoo. I'm sorry, but if you don't put it in the employee handbook, how am I supposed to know?!
  • Sometimes I just don't feel like talking. Many people a day come in alone, order a drink and expect you to entertain them. This isn't a date buddy, I'm not going to bend over backwards to carry on a conversation with you. A guy came into the bar last week (who had an honest to God snout, but that is neither here nor there) who would not stop talking to me about iced tea. Of all the asinine things to talk about, he wanted to talk about iced tea (do you like it sweetened or unsweetened? How about instant mixes? Ever brew your own? What's your favorite flavored iced tea? Ever try an iced green tea from Starbucks, it's amazing! Iced tea is such a delicious way to stay hydreated throughout the day...) COME ON!!!!! I've been talking about everything from Obama to fly-fishing for the past seven hours! I'm exhausted! Sometimes I just can't converse anymore. Call a friend. Christ.
  • The Inauguration is over. The Inauguration was my somewhat unique go-to conversation starter. Now that it's over, I got nothing. Just a lifetime of conversations about the weather and iced tea.
  • I'm horrible with names. At the bar, we're supposed to ask every customer's name, shake their hand and put their tab in the computer system under said name. The problem is that I have the memory of a goldfish and once a customer tells me their name, I've forgotten it by the time I get to the computer. To make up for this, I get a little descriptive with tab names (which has to be in eight characters or less.) This leads to a lot a lot of open tabs under names like "AcneKid," "BstdChk," and "HotLawyr." I had to be taken aside by one of the bar managers and informed that the tab name gets printed on the patron's check in large letters, so stop being so "creative."
  • I was accidentally racist. Last Friday I was waiting on a large birthday party during happy hour. One member of the party, an Asian gentleman, was hassling me to card the birthday girl because she had just turned 25. The birthday girl was clearly irritated by this guy pointing out that she had just turned 25, so I decided to diffuse the situation by telling him that if I had to card her, I would have to card him first. Then the following misunderstanding took place:
Asian Man: Oh come on! You're going to card me? I'm ANCIENT!
Me (...who heard something entirely different than "ancient"): Ohh, I'm definitely going to card you sir. Especially because you're ASIAN!
Asian Man (deadpan): I said ancient. Not Asian.
Me: (gurgles a series of painfully awkward noises.)

...I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to get into the office tomorrow.

Sibling Rivalry: Ordering the same thing at restaraunts

Growing up, Becca and I didn't have a perfect relationship. This may have had something to do with our awkward five-year age difference; I was young and annoying, she would never let me hang. Oh the dramaz! Once we both reached the point where age ain't nothin' but a number, (read: we could go to bars together,) we finally became actual good friends and not just siblings. These days there's not much we still seriously fight about (cough snuggie cough,) but there remains one constant source of tension in our relationship: ordering the same thing when we go out to eat at a restaurant. Becca can't stand it. I can't stand that she can't stand it. Today we duke it out once and for all. Round one, FIGHT!

Ordering the Same Thing at Restaurants


[Editor's note: Upon receiving Becca's argument tonight, I realized that we essentially wrote the same introduction. My first thought was to change mine, but then I realized that would defeat the entire point of this fight. I'm sorry, I just can't let her win. Sorry for the redundancy. WAIT, EXCEPT I'M NOT! DAMNIT!]
Gather 'round children, let me tell you a tale! A few years ago, the McBlogger family was out to dinner with some family friends at Pastis in NYC. There were six options on the dinner menu, meaning the six members of the dinner party could each order a unique dish without any duplicate orders. Because I'm not the most adventurous food patron, I shotgunned the ravioli as soon as I saw it. Of course that's what Becca wanted. When it came time to order she had two options: order what she really wanted (the ravioli) or order the dish that nobody wanted to avoid a duplicate order. She chose the latter. Half an hour later, my yummy ravioli arrived just as the waiter put a pot before Becca containing the dish nobody else had ordered; a straight-up fish head stew. I'm talkin' a pot full of fish broth with beady-eyed fish heads staring back and the occasional piece of broccoli floating around. She barely ate any of it, but hey, at least she didn't order the same thing as somebody else!

I just don't get it. That's pretty much my main argument, I realize it's not that strong.

When I go to a restaurant, I'm paying someone to make me what I want to eat. I don't really care if the guy across from me is ordering the same thing. Wouldn't that make things easier for the Chef? The only reason I can think of that Becca gets so worked up about this issue is that as a food professional, she can appreciate the art of a well planned menu and wants the table to appreciate it as well. I say nuts to that. I don't go to the Olive Garden for the ambiance and experience, I go for the never-ending bowl of pasta. Sorry about it.

I just can't believe how legitimately pissed off she gets at me when we order the same thing. Chris (of recaps MTV's The City fame) also dislikes double ordering when out to eat. However, he accepts personal responsibility in this situation and is the one to change his order at the last moment. After a year of living with him (which means a year of watching him change his order from a light salad to a chicken pot pie at the last moment to avoid any overlapping orders,) I'm fine with it. I don't care. He doesn't expect me to change my order. Yes I think he's a total weirdo for having this problem in the first place, but hey, who doesn't have a few quirks? I'm just so offended that Becca expects other people to order and pay for something that they don't even want just to avoid the supposed faux-pas of ordering the same dish as someone else at your table. If Becca's argument is that a table needs to expand their taste horizons by ordering different dishes, I have the following to say: 1.) I don't recall you offering me a bite of your meal and 2.) don't force me to broaden my horizons, ho! I came for the steak! Let me get the mother-effin' steak! This isn't the opera. Stop forcing me to be cultural and shit! GAWD!


I once ate fish head stew at a very fancy french restaurant in Manhattan. It wasn't like I wanted fish head stew, I'm sure any number of other things on the menu would have been awesome, things not made out of heads for example. But out of principle I wasted a meal at Pastis on fish head stew. I did so for a simple reason - someone else was already ordering what I really wanted. And I just cannot abide by double ordering.

I'm not sure where this aversion sprung from but I can tell that it's a strong aversion, like that of a Mormon to per-marital sex and Red Bull. And like the Mormons I can't really explain why its wrong, I just know in my heart that it is.

Part of it stems from the fact that at a restaurant, choices are abundant. And, in the face of that abundance, it's simply immoral to order three servings of chopped chicken salad (oh my god I am getting that too!) or whatever. Come on, there HAS to be something else that sounded interesting. Get it - maybe it sounded interesting to me too and we can share, thus turning this debacle into a world of culinary opportunity.

Its also kind of embarrassing for us all to order the same thing, you know? Its kinda "Hi Mr. Waiter we'll take three waters and three blue cheeseburgers and we have this much money (envision wads of sweaty bills placed on table)." I mean, show a little finesse, a little sophistication. You're not a 7 year-old who is in his chicken finger stage! Be a big boy and order for yourself.

This point of view of mine does understandably irritate my fellow diners. If they dare make the mistake of announcing the desire to order what I have already claimed (whether out loud or otherwise) as mine, they're met with total teenage irritation, "but I wanted that!"-style. I scoff at their suggestion that we both can get it. No, no we cannot.

I have a little game I like to play that settles these ordering-induced arguments - its called Rock, Paper, Butter Knife and boy is it a doozy! It's like the more traditional Rock, Paper, Scissors but on the shout of "shoot" the object is to actually stab your opponent with your butter knife. The winner (stabber) can order whatever that want, the loser (stabee) doesn't have to worry about ordering because the ER doctor has a heaping helping of tetanus shot waiting for them. Yay!

I've eaten some weird shit in my day and some of that is because I simply refuse to double order. Sometimes I've won this game of culinary roulette - and sometimes I've wasted my one trip to a fancy restaurant on fish head stew. But hey - now I know that, when you order it, I can gladly get something else.


Take a break from the Inauguration with Recrap Tuesday!

The City
Episode 5: Recapped by Chris

Hey everyone, did you know Allie’s going to be out of town this week? We better keep an eye on Adam. If you
didn’t know that fact already, you probably had it drilled into your cranium last night watching The City. If you had taken a shot everytime someone mentioned that Allie wouldn't be around, you would have taken about 5 shots. Not cirrhosis-inducing, but 5 shots in 30 minutes is enough to get you to make bad decisions. Just ask Adam, as that’s probably how he got himself into this little snafu.

Adam and Allie are both models and have been dating for quite some time. Allie apparently books a lot of modeling jobs (which is surprising to me because her eyebrows are so severe and don't follow the contour of her brow, no?) and is out of the city a lot. And when the cat’s away, the mice will play. Or if we’re speaking Jay, then Adam will get the chance to hold his own nuts and masturbate while Allie’s gone? I’m not quite sure I follow your metaphor, Jay.

So, holding their own nuts, Jay and Adam and some of their anonymous bros have a guys night out. They end up at a club, where they get eye fucked for a while before one thing leads to another (Hey, did you know Allie’s out of town?) and Cat and Adam appear to be leaving together?

In other, less interesting news, Nevia appeared in this episode to complain about Nevan’s lack of employment. I mention this only to say that it is not worth mentioning. I believe personally that Nevan need a haircut and a personality more than he needs a job. In the meantime, he appears to be crashing on Heidi Waldorf’s couch, where he is not allowed to have chicks over, ever. Do we think that’ll be a problem? (No seriously, is he or is he not a homosexual?)

But back to the actual problem at hand. At brunch the next day with Sam, Whit, Erin, and a whole mess of yarn (seriously girls, those headpieces?) Sam gets a text message saying Cat and Adam made out. Scandal! Whitney tells Jay what she found out, which leads to Bro-Talk with Adam and Jay. Adam shadily denies everything so Jay, and then heeding the advice of Jay, also shadily denies everything to Brows. According to Adam, he and this girl were talking and some random girl decided via text that they were actually kissing. After several awkward silences Eyebrows is skeptical, but appears to trust Adam.

Until it’s Whitney’s turn to break the news. After sharing what they know (which isn’t much as all of them found out via text message), they leave. As the other girls are leaving, the conclude that the “tell your friend her boyfriend cheated on her talk” did not go well. Because those things always work out magnificently. When Adam meets Allie, they have the lamest fight ever, in the rain no less. Eyebrows must have some tricks in the sack, because homeboy is pussy-whipped. Brows’ voice gets all nasally and she seems to misplace the word “girls” for about 5 seconds mid-whine. Adam looks and sounds like a kicked puppy and promises never to do this again.

But what did really happen between Adam and Cat? That’s one secret I’ll never tell.

Episode 4: Bros in the Wild

I'm not going to lie to you. I spent the first 20 minutes of tonight's episode serving wine to my inauguration guests and wondering what it is I normally do on Monday nights. My bad. As much as I love you (and I do love you baby,) I would rather bedazzle every pair of jeans I own than wake up early to watch the repeat to see what I missed.

Here's what I ascertained went down:
Brody tests each of the Bro's strength by putting them in the ring with a "bad-ass biker dude" named Mario. I only saw a brief moment of this in which The Token Asian Guy basically pees his pants and curls up in the fetal position to take his beating. God I wish I could been there.

By the time I tuned in, the Bros have gathered around a camp fire to exchange shameless hookup stories. Pip, however, doesn't have a shameless hookup story, so he decides to share a "beautiful story" about having sex on a golf course. This scene cements the fact that Pip is my Special Someone. Mind, body and soul.

The next day, Brody and the Bros meet with Life Coach "Dr. Gary" to get in touch with their feelings. Apparently to get in touch with your feelings you jump up and down, scream, and then say what you're afraid of. This obviously leads to another BrOprah moment where Brody talks about his relationship with his mom (although I'm far too distracted by his cross-eye and orange camo hat to feel for him); Alex talks about being an outcast; Luke cries about his fear of never having a family; The Token Asian Guy confesses his love for the Bros, gets his period and then bursts into tears; and finally a teary-eyed Pip confesses that he can't open up to people because everytime he lets someone in, he inevitably gets hurt. You guys. I seriously just want to hold Pip, rock gently, whisper "everything is going to be okay" and cradle him until the sun comes up.

This week's elimination takes place on the roof of "Brody's" apartment where there are five bath tubs set up four Bros. If a Bro is safe, he gets to strip down to his jockeys and hop in a tub with a hooker. At this point I had a flashback to a few summers ago when Becca and I took a spa day together in Napa and spent the most gratuitously naked four hours I have ever spent with another human being. Male or female. I was specifically reminded of the moment when we were soaking in side-by-side bathtubs together, awkwardly talking about the weather and current events. There was also a moment when we were each given a washcloth and shoved into a small steam room together (seriously, if this wasn't the most incestuously gay day of my life, then I don't know what was.) When I was deciding what part of my anatomy to cover with my small square of terrycloth, Becca looked at me, paused and simply said "Dude...go with the lower half."

Shudder, shudder.

Anyway, Brody breaks my heart and decides to eliminate Pip because "his path isn't here." I don't know whether to be upset because I know this means I'll never see my Soulmate again or because this means I have to see The Token Asian Guy in his skivvies getting soaped up by a hooker.

The absolute highlight of this week's episode was actually in the coming attractions for next week's episode. Next week, the Bros help Brody with his new denim line, which we see a promotional photo for...which brings us to my new favorite game: WhIcH iMaGe iS gAyEr?

Which image is gayer?

Image 1, a Leather Daddy:

or Image 2, a promotional cut-out from Brody Jenner's new denim line:

Not as easy as you thought, right?


So, DC is suddenly cool.
"Washington is suddenly hip again, infused with the heady double-barreled combination of a new crowd of idealistic young political worker bees, who actually believe they can change the world, and the arrival of America's first black president. It's even cool to wave the Stars and Stripes. And in the honeymoon months of the Barack Obama presidency, before the country's marriage to its new president undergoes the usual souring, a trip to the nation's capital is just the ticket."
That and our bars are open 24-hours! And serve booze until 5 am! DC knows how to get this party started, right? DC knows how to get this party started quickly, right?

Wrong. I hate to be a traitor to my beloved city, but I can't help but feel like DC is William in Can't Hardly Wait:

It spends it's life being a giant loser and then for one magical evening proves it can party like a porn star.

Let us not be fooled by our momentary surge in popularity, oh wise District residents. After inauguration, our bars will go back to closing at 2 am, the metro will return to it's normal hours and DC will try to hang with Mike Dexter at breakfast and get called a four-eyed Poindexter freak. And the phrase "Urkel" might get thrown around. A lot.

Until then, take me to down to the Paradise City!


Anna is the sexual icon of Ron Paul's revolution

With a highly visible nameplate attracting a bevy of horny Ron Paul fanatics facebook stalking her, check out the performance of 2b1b's BFF in "Dr. Paul's Walls":

I blame that naughty little come-hither wave, Ms. Hugo. I know when I watched it all I saw was bangin' hot chick, blah blah old man talking about German marks and bread blah blah, Sennholz quote, blah.


Happy Drinking Game Friday urrybody!

The Quitting Your Job Drinking Game!
Drink when:
- You walk into work, heart pounding, palms sweating, like you're about to break up with someone
- Tasks you would never normally do seem inexplicably important to complete before you talk to your boss about quitting
- You consult with a friend about how you should quit
- You text a friend "I'M NERVOUS"
- You remind yourself of all the things that piss you off about your job to give you the adrenaline needed to confront your boss
- You inevitably fumble your well-planned quitting speech
- Every time you say "um"
- Every time you say "I'm so sorry"
- Your boss tells you that he just doesn't know how he's going to fill these shifts
- Every time you compromise your schedule and agree to work on days you clearly can't work because you feel guilty
- You justify working more shifts (even though you promised yourself you wouldn't) because this means you'll be making more money
- You realize that you'll be working during Inauguration weekend/day/week and it will be hell on earth not worth all the tea in China
- You suddenly adopt a "fuck this noise" attitude, walk out mid-shift and go to Cosi's to get a slammin' bowl of soup and spend the rest of the day catnapping

...See you all Monday morning when hopefully I'll be an ex-bartender and full-time young professional again...



Intermission over. Act 3: Meg Becomes a Bartender

Cast of Characters:
Teresa: Owner. I have a theory that all small-business owners are bat-shit crazy and this loon is no exception.
Doug: Bar manager #1. Doug looks like your dad and once made me turn off CNN and put on Fox News because he refuses to "let the liberal media infest his bar." Doug is soft-spoken and nice enough, but talks about Jesus way too much for my liking. Doug's wife just had their first child and when I told him that I hadn't made up my mind about having kids, he told me not to worry because when the time comes, Jesus will turn on the switch to make me care for another being as much as I care for myself. Frankly, I don't hold myself in the highest regard, so if I do have kids, I sure as shit hope that's not true for their sake. Plus any and all conversations involving Jesus and turning me on make me painfully uncomfortable.
Julien: Bar manager #2. Julien wears an Under Armour mock-turtleneck everyday (despite the fact that we're not playing a football game in 32 degree weather,) is a part-time karaoke DJ, a single dad and only drinks shots of Peppermint Schnapps. More importantly, Julien is also coked out of his gourd 9 times out of 10 and has a penchant for grabbing my ass and calling me "lover."
Melissa: Part-time bartender, full-time girlfriend of Julien. Melissa is what I can best describe as "Boardwalk Hot." Every time I've seen her, she's wearing the same thing: white Reebok sneakers, khaki booty shorts and a Secrets Ocean City, MD sweatshirt. She is unusually tan, has long platinum blond extensions and has the personality of a parking meter. The weird thing about Melissa is that her face doesn't match her body. She has this amazing body and given the above description, I always think she's 22 years old. Then I look at her face and realize she's probably more like 42 years old. It's unsettling.
Adam: Adam is a weekend bartender and looks like Tom Green times nerdier.
Chef: Chef is Kenyan and learned English in France, which means 99% of the time I have no idea what he's saying. Chef came down to the bar this afternoon and said, "It smells like Satan's asshole in here," and it was the first thing he's said in a week and a half that I actually understood.
Ondreah: Ondreah might be the only person who hates the concept of working more than me. Unfortunately, the only thing Ondreah hates more than working is white people. This created some tension between us during my first few days of work. Eventually Ondreah explained why she hates white people so much, and I explained that I'm not a White Devil and just want to be her homie. One night I was complaining about having a stressful day and she started lecturing me about how white people can't really have hard days. I lost it and shouted, "You're right! Everything is fine! I'm not tired at all! I never really work hard and everything comes easy to me and none of my problems are real! Now I'm going to float away on my cracker rainbow and continue to have a wonderful night!" Her reaction: "You. You are alright." We've been bestest friends ever since.
The Greater Kitchen Staff Population: My BFFs #1. They save my ass when I inevitably screw things up and then come down to the bar at the end of their shifts to have a shot of cognac and shoot the shit with me. They each have oddly specific ice requests, which I know by heart. I now have a PhD in cognac mixology and feel pretty good about it.

I have to admit, being a bartender is a lot harder than I had originally anticipated. Before this job, I had never waited on a table a day in my life or made a single martini. Now I'm doing both. I got this job by lying my face off and telling Doug in my interview that I had worked at a bar before. Talia was my "boss" at this supposed bar and gave me a shining recommendation. I know, I know, I'm a raging liar and blah blah morals blah, but the bar is literally next to my apartment, I need money in a fierce way and it's a recession. After Doug gave me the job, I went out and bought Bartending for Dummies, watched a few instructional videos on YouTube and bada-bing-bada-boom; a bartender was born.

If I may say so, I think I'm doing a damn good job so far for being so full of shit. I've only completely fucked up one drink. Last Friday a guy came in and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Although I went through a phase Junior year when I consumed at least a dozen or so of these a weekend, I had no God-given clue how to make one. I remember learning in high school health class that a Long Island is just a bunch of various liquors mixed together with a splash of coke for color, so I threw a bunch of shit in a shaker and called it a day. As I was preparing the garnish, I noticed that the color of my freshly made cocktail resembled human excrement and began to get nervous. When the guy turned around to glance at the sports score on the TV, I threw a straw in his drink, sucked up some liquid and quickly hid under the bar to sample my concoction. It tasted like gin and death. I threw out the drink and tried again, but got the same disgusting result. Being the only bartender there, I told the guy our CO2 tank was out and I couldn't make him his Long Island Iced Tea because only syrup was coming out and please pick something else. As I successfully served him a Grey Goose and Pineapple, I applauded myself for my ability to think so quickly and then proceeded to serve the next customer a Jack and Coke. Coke being the integral part of that mixture. Bubbly, bubbly coke made from my magically broken and then magically fixed CO2 tank. Long Island man tipped me zero dollars, and I earned every penny of it.

Besides that little snafu, things are going swimmingly. The only downer is that I'm not crazy about my fellow bartenders. I think they're rednecks and I'm pretty sure they think I'm a snob (in the end we're probably both right). It's not a big deal because I'm usually the only bartender during my shift, but it's just sort of a drag when they are there. They're always gossiping about God knows what and doing drugs in the back room together and I am in no way invited. At first I was sad that they wouldn't let me in on the work gossip or share their drugs with me, but I'm starting to realize that it's probably a good thing that I'm not in on that in-crowd. I'm there to serve the booze and get some good stories, not make friends (I feel like I'm on a reality show all I'm not here to make friends!) Besides, I totally do have work friends! They're cognac drinkers and cognac beats coke in the backroom any day.

Besides, it'll be a cold day in hell before I spend a Saturday night at a karaoke party in Virginia, belting out "Fins" in a pair of khaki shorts.

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