- First things first: I am so sorry about Monday's Ghost Post. My bad, you guys. My bad. Except it totally wasn't—it was the Bolt Bus' bad. I took an early Bolt Bus back to DC Monday morning after spending a lovely weekend in New York. (Yes, I had to go to New York the weekend Chris finally moved to DC. Then Chris sold his watch to buy me a hair comb but I sold all of my hair to buy him a watch chain. Gift of the Magi is so hot right now.) Although the ride back wasn't nearly as gut-wrenchingly hungover as the bus ride there on Friday morning, it was still pretty rough.
Because I hate No Post Mondays just as much as you, the first thing I did when I sat down in my bus seat was crack open my laptop and get to work on a mediocre post. And write a mediocre post, I did! Seriously! I wrote, edited and formatted an entire blog post! It was about how it was a "Road Post" which made me think of road head and how road head fascinates me because I never thought people actually did it until one summer when I totally saw a couple doing it while I was driving home from work and I freaked out and asked everyone I knew if they'd ever done it was mind-boggled to discover that not only had most of the people I'd asked done it, but they all had comical stories about it; thus giving me the million dollar idea to write a compilation of road head stories called Head on the Road (PATENT PENDING! IDEA & TITLE COPYRIGHT OLNEY ELEMENTARY PRESS & 2BIRDS1BLOG PRODUCTIONS!). So, yes. That was the post. Like I said, it was mediocre at best, but it was a post nonetheless.
Towards the end of writing it, I had definitely felt better. I wasn't lying—the second I sat down in my seat, I took out my laptop and started writing. Which means I completely neglected to take off the 5,000 layers I put on while waiting for the bus in the freezing rain. So there I was, typing away in the tropical 85-degree weather of the bus wearing a wife beater, sweatshirt, cardigan, pea coat, scarf, fingerless gloves and small Inuit man hugging my torso under my pea coat but over my sweatshirt (aka first and a half base) for good measure. I was sweating like a bitch but couldn't take any layers off because I was precariously balancing a cup of coffee on my laptop, my laptop on my lap and my right foot was keeping my shitty laptop charger from sliding out of the outlet and leaving me three minutes of battery life. (Oh, I'm sorry Ava Cutrone. Some of our mommy's won't buy us much needed Apple products despite the fact that we're unemployed writers and not sixth graders who sit around pining for breasts all day. GAWD I HATE YOU AND YOUR MACBOOK PRO AND YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!!!!!!1)
In addition to not feeling well from the extreme heat and the vicious cold I had been fighting off all weekend, I was also beginning to get seriously nauseous from typing on the bus. I get motion sick watching Deadliest Catch, I don't know why I thought writing on the bus would be a good idea, but there I was; clacking away. I just love you like that—it's my cross to bear. Sigh...
Thankfully, my stomach was comforted by the fact that all I had to do was hit "post" and I could put everything away, peel off a few hundred layers and curl up for a much needed nap. So I hit post. Nothing happened. Hmm. I allegedly had a strong Bolt Bus wireless signal so it should have went through. I hit post again. It loaded. It loaded. It loaded. And then loaded some more. I sweat. And sweat. And coughed. And then sweat some more. I hit the refresh button. My cursor turned into the dreaded spinning beach ball of doom. Then, to make matters worse, my phone rang. I forgot to put it on silent so the entire bus got to listen to my ringtone (Alex screaming "BATTLE ROYALE!" in a pompous British accent over and over again...I regret nothing) for a while I searched all 5,000 layers for my phone while simultaneously trying not to spill my coffee/knock my laptop over/let my charger slide out. When I finally got to my phone, I didn't recognize the area code calling, so thinking it was someone calling about a freelance writing gig, I answered it. (HA HA, so young and full of hope. I am adorable.) Turns out it was just a loan collector calling about a late student loan payment. Which, according to my calculations, is the exact opposite of someone calling with a freelance writing gig. I let the debt collector get as far as, "Hi Ms. McBlogger this is Heather calling from Key Bank about your studen—" before I blatantly hung up and checked the progress with the blog. This was as far as it had progressed:
My body temperature rose another 10 degrees. I decided to take a few deep breaths, calm down and wait a few minutes for the wireless signal to get stronger. Once it did, I hit the back button on my browser to go back to the post I had written.
IT. HADN'T. AUTOSAVED. A. SINGLE. WORD. OF. IT.
And that's when the wireless signal went out all together.
I swear to Christ, it took everything in my power not to stand up, grab my computer by the screen, walk back to that tin can filled with Windex and broken dreams they call the "toilet" and bash that mother fucker on the seat over and over and over again into tiny little pieces before flushing it all over I-95. Instead, I opted to let out a defeated little "GEH" noise from deep within before angrily slamming my computer shut, shoving it in my bag and taking off every god damn layer I was wearing until I got down to the sweat soaked wife beater and looked like I was competing in a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. But truth be told, I just could not have physically cared less at that point. I was livid and hot and felt like shit and COULD NOT BELIEVE IT WASN'T AUTOSAVING THAT ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKING TIME. GEEHHHHHH!!!!1
So, that's what happened with Monday's post. The only thing that survived Bolt Bus' half-ass wi-fi connection was that cocktease of a timestamp and this gif image I uploaded to wish all of god's chosen people a happy first evening of Passover.
Which still stands. Happy Passover!
- I get emails from readers all the time asking me for advice. I find this laughable because if there's anything you should have learned about me from reading this blog, it's that I do not have my shit together. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would ever want advice from me about anything not involving what to wear to a Dynasty-themed costume party or how many naps are in a dollar, yet, people do. I get asked everything from blogging advice to "I'm in 7th grade and my BFF is mad at me, what should I do?" to "What should I have for lunch?" and everything in between. (The answers, by the way, are: your middle school friends are like wide-legged jeans: once you reach high school you won't want them anymore and you'll be embarrassed you ever had 'em, so don't worry about it; and a $5 footlong from Subway. Obviously.)
Everyone needs a random schmo to turn to for non-biased advice. As someone who's been in therapy since 6th grade, I get that. Christ do I get that. And I'm honored anyone would ever want me to be that random schmo, but I'm just not sure how much I trust myself to help anyone out. I mean, I'm unemployed and currently watching Buffy pantsless at 2:09 in the morning. Am I really the person you want life advice from?
I wrote a blog post earlier this month about how I suck at PR and as a result, I got a bunch of emails from kind PR professionals in the area looking to help me out. As completely touched as I am by each and everyone of them, I decided to put my blog marketing efforts on hold for a while while I tried to figure out what to do about a job. However, one young PR professional didn't take no for an answer; she had all of her (many) friends repeatedly email me and tell me me what a fuckin' idiot I was if I didn't take advantage of what an amazing publicist their friend was. 20 emails later, I thought, "Welp, this is annoying ::strokes imaginary beard:: ...and I like it. This girl's got moxie!" and agreed to go out for a drink to discuss marketing strategies.
As I've discussed before, it's kind of hard for me to open up to people. I'm a little guarded and rarely discuss major problems in my life with even the closest people to me. Phone conversations with my mom routinely end in "Now, is this one of those times when you say everything's OK but then go be secretly depressed somewhere, or is everything really OK?" That being said, what was supposed to be a quick drink with Amy the Publicist about marketing strategies turned into me pouring my little heart and soul out to her for a solid 4 hours straight about everything. The blog, my writing, New York, DC, friends, dudes, family—everything. She was incredibly easy to talk to and had amazing insight and advice about everything I brought up.
"You give really good advice!" I told Amy.
"Yeah, that's kind of my deal," she told me. "People always come to me for advice. Truth be told, I've always kind of wasted to be a relationship advice columnist. Do you know who Dan Savage is?" UH YES. I was two steps ahead of her. The wheels were turning. (Albeit slowly. I had had a few.) Amy is my long-lost advice Twin! The yin to my yang. The rational to my irrational. The experienced to my "Ooo! Yikes. Good question..." So I proposed she write an advice column for 2b1b and she was, thankfully, all about it.
So now, we need you. Got a question you want my badass lesbian publicist to answer? Ask "QUEER ABBY", 2b1b's new weekly advice column! She'll tell it to you like it is and then I'll throw in some of my ridiculousness for good measure. Maybe we'll even get Co-Blogger Chris in the mix?? Your gender, sexuality and all that junk doesn't matter. This is an equal-opportunity advice column. Ask her which frat you should join. As her about your weird polyamorous girlfriend's boyfriend. Just ask. Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com. If we publish your question, we'll use your first name and last initial, so if you're not hip with that, make sure to let us know you'd like to be anonymous. I'M EXCITED. Amy is gold and my advice somehow always includes "tell them to go fuck themselves." It should be good.
- I was filling out my Census form the other week, because I think we both know I'm the living, breathing embodiment of a perfect American, and I got hung up on question #8:
I know picture is a little blurry, so to clarify, the question is Is Person 1 of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?
Yes, Mexican, Mexican Am., Chicano
Yes, Puerto Rican
Yes, another Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin...
I very sincerely had to read the last option like 50 times because I kept reading it in the entirely wrong inflection in my head. I kept reading, "Yes, another Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin," as if it were like, "Yes, just another god damn Hispanic, Latino or Spanish person" and not like, "Yes, [I am of] another [meaning of a different variety of] Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin."
I was seriously about to call my mom and be like, "Uhhh...did you see question #8 on the Census? The government's getting kind of ballsy about the Latino community, huh?" until I read it more carefully. HA HA, oh ADD. You sneak up on me in the most interesting places.
- Speaking of racism, you know what sucks? I have a tendency to like the most offensive flags possible. No, seriously, I really do. It all started back in 1988 when I was just a wee little Meglet and Cry Baby was one of my favorite movies. (Looking back? Highly inappropriate.) (Also, my favorite song? Lou Reed's Take a Walk on the Wild Side. Also highly inappropriate. I remember on my first day of kindergarten, my dad sang it to me but changed the words to, "And all the BIG GIRLS IN KINDERGARTEN GO—" and I gleefully did the doo-doo-doo's. You can imagine how traumatized I was when I actually listened to the words years later and realized the special song my dad and I share contains the lyrics, "she never lost her head, even when she was giving head." God damn hippie parents...) Anyway, in the scene where they go to Turkey Point, there are Confederate flags everywhere and I distinctly remember being like, "OO0OO0O! I LIKE THOSE FLAGS." Ever since then, I've had a soft-spot for Confederate flags. I like them a lot. PURELY AESTHETICALLY SPEAKING, of course. It's kind of unfortunate that they're associated with KKK rallies, cousin-fuckin' and Deliverance.
You know what's even more upsetting? I have secretly always wanted a Confederate Flag bikini.
There it is. The embarrassing, redneck truth. It's bad; I know. I'm always secretly hoping someone will throw a theme party where it'll be appropriate to wear one so I'll finally have an excuse to get one. It would also be perfect to wear lounging around my apartment, overdosing on Tylenol PM. Unfortunately I don't think my friends are ironic enough to throw a "FAVORITE SYMBOLS OF HATE POOL PARTY!!!!!!" ...Or are they?
I brought up my unfortunate love of Confederate Flags at a dinner party a while back and it led to a discussion about which country has the best flag. My vote? Saudi Arabia, HANDS DOWN. If there is anything more simplistically beautiful or badass than the Saudi Arabian flag; I would love to know what it is.
The green, the white, the sword, the beautiful Arabic script...Aces ten.
I have a little mini American flag stuck on the lamp on my drafting table in my apartment. It's right across from my bed so I stare at it a lot when I'm trying to go to sleep. One night I decided I should get another mini-flag to stick on the lamp going in the other direction to balance it out, but which flag? I immediately thought of the Confederate Flag, but what with the signed Ron Paul photo Anna got me and the McCain bumper sticker and signed photo on the fridge, things are getting slightly too Limbaugh in here for my liking.
So then I thought, oh! The Saudi Arabian flag! It's so pretty! But Dan informed me at the dinner party that the pretty Arabic script says the Islamic declaration of faith and I already have a brass sign in my apartment that says "welcome" in Arabic. What's the problem with that, you ask? Um, hi. I got tattoos and my mom decided it meant I'm a "prison dyke." What do you think she'll assume if I have a Saudi Arabian flag and an Arabic welcome sign? That Jew likes to overreact, bless her heart. I'd like to stay off the no-fly list, thanks just the same.
So then—I swear to god—I decided I should get a mini Gadsden flag. I've been a fan of the Gadsden flag ever since I did a project on it in the 4th grade Revolutionary War unit. I thought it was incredibly cool that Maryland was part of the sectioned "Join, or Die!" rattlesnake. Because I was kind of lame and didn't have friends, clearly. But still! A Gadsden flag! It's yellow and black, has a woodblock image of a snake on it and says "Don't fuck with me." In so many words. And it's a throwback to our ye olde forefathers and the Revolutionary War! How could I offend anyone there, right?
Wrong. Rewind to two weeks ago.
WELL, THANKS A LOT YOU FUCKING TEA PARTY WEIRDOS. Thanks a lot. You took the god damn Gadsden flag from me. HAPPY NOW?! I can't find a god damn flag that isn't associated with Extremists, Klansmen, Islam or fucking Tea Party weirdos. Frankly, I'm kind of fine with being an extreme Islamic Klansmen, but a member of the Tea Party?! Feh. No thank you.
Back to square one. What about Fiji? It's got a lion and bananas; that's kind of badass, right?
Although given my track record, the International Society of Skull Fuckers will announce that they've adopted it as their new flag tomorrow. Callin' it right now.