6.29.2011

1 Bird Investigates: The Impossible Task of Writing About My Trip to Omaha

I'm well aware that my Omaha post is now two days late. I know this because I've been trying to write it for two days and I've still got nothing. And guess what? I think it's time that we, as a people and a nation, embrace the fact that it's just not going to happen. But I refuse to take the blame for this one. Because I tried. I TRIED MY DAMNDEST! I scheduled time to write it, I uploaded pictures, I wrote a jaunty little introduction for it, but in the end, I just couldn't do it. So if not me, who is to blame, you ask? Well, I point the finger directly at my sister. It's totally Rebecca's fault. I am the victim here, if anything! So kindly re-direct all of your pissy emails to her. (Although today is her birthday, so maybe wait until Thursday. Or wish her a happy birthday. Either way: not me.)

Here's the deal: My sister has a baller job. She works here in DC as the meetings and events planner for a large association, and part of her job is to go around the country, stay at fancy-ass hotels for free and see if they're nice enough to host whatever meeting she happens to be planning at that moment. Her association has a big meeting coming up next year in Omaha, so she went there last week to scope things out and I went along to write a
hilarious blog post about my first experience in the Midwest.

We were there for a total of two days and the majority of that time was spent being courted by salespeople from the convention center, the Hilton, and the Omaha Convention and Visitors Bureau. Going in, these people knew that I would be there, that I'm Becca's sister, and that I write a blog. That was it. Things were nice and vague. However, over the course of our two days together, they tried to fill in some blanks and started to ask questions. And given the nature of my writing and her obvious association, this made my sister
real uncomfortable.

Here's the thing: I would have totally been fine with lying about what I do. Trust me, I lie about it all the time. If I'm at a party or getting along with a stranger or something, obviously I'll tell them all about the blog. However, if I'm talking to a cab driver or the person cutting my hair or a hygienist or something like that and they ask me what I do, I generally make something up. More times than not, I'm an administrative assistant. "Where?" A small consulting firm. "Oh, that's cool." Yeah. It really i
s.

I do this for a variety of reasons:

1.) It shuts down the conversation. (The cruel irony of writing a
book about misanthropy is that it's a hell of a conversation starter.)

2.) I'm lazy.

3.) I don't want The Lecture. "The Lecture" is the conversation that inevitably ensues when I'm stuck with a random person for a brief period of time and I tell them what I do. It varies slightly from person to person but in general, it's pretty consistent. I swear to God, this is almost the exact conversation I had a few months ago with a new gynecologist,
mid-exam:

New Gynecologist: So, Ms. Rowland, what do you do?

Me: I'm a writer.

Gyno: What do you writ
e?

Me: Non-fiction. And I have a blog.

Gyno: What kind of non-fiction?

Me: Ah, comedy, I guess.

Gyno: You're a comedy writer?

Me: Well, on my way to being one, I hope.

Gyno: If you want to be a comedy writer, what are you doing in DC?

Me: Uh, well—

Gyno: If you want to be a comedy writer, you have to live in New York or LA.

Me: That's true, but—

Gyno: Why don't you live in New York or LA?

Me: I actually
did live in New York and I'd eventually like to move back, but

Gyno: Well good, because you're going to have to. Comedy writers write for television right?

Me: Well, and books.

Gyno: No, that's no good. Television is where the money's at.
OK, gonna feel some pressure now! So when are you moving back to New York?

Me: Um, I'm not really sure.

Gyno: Well, if you want things to move forward with your career, you need to do it soon.

Me: Ha ha, well,
better not let my mom hear you say that, ha!

Gyno: Is that why you're still in DC? For your mother? Because you can't live for other people, Meghan.

Me: Oh. No, no, I wasn't being serious. I—

Gyno: This is
your career, after all. If you need to move to New York, you need to move to New York. Although, you should probably move to LA. Slight pinch now! That's where all the comedy writers are. Unless you work for "The Daily Show" or "SNL", I guess.

Me: Ha ha. Yeah. Well, I should be so lucky.

Gyno: Do you do stand-up, Meghan?

Me: No.

Gyno: Why not?

Me: Well, I'm not really a performer. I just want to write.

Gyno: Well, you'll only get discovered if you do stand-up. Or improv. That's how all those guys are discovered. 
Little more pressure now!

Me: Yeah. I think, that's typically the case, but I guess I'm just trying to use my blog as a platform instead.

Gyno: No, you have to do stand-up or improv.

Me: [Sigh] OK.

Gyno: And you have to move to New York or LA.

Me: OK.

Gyno: And you have to do it soon.

Me: OK.

Gyno: And you have to start living for yourself.

Me: OK.

Gyno: And you have to bear down.

Me:
 [Silence]

If at all possible, I prefer to avoid that conversation. Although to be fair, the other party isn't typically Rolex-deep in my vagina when it happens. That was just a very,
very special day for me.

So, yes, had my sister asked, I would have been more than willing to lie about what I do, but she had already told them that I was a blogger and we didn't go in with a game plan, so three glasses of wine and four Coors Lights later, there I was in a parking lot handing out 2b1b stickers to our new sales-friends.

"Thanks, Meg! I can't wait to read it!"

"UM, IT'S KIND OF R-RATED," my sister interjected.

"Well, that's OK."

"YEAH. YOU KNOW. JUST. YOU KNOW. PLEASE DON'T GET ME FIRED."

"Jesus Christ, Rebecca," I said under my breath. "It's not
that bad."

She pulled me aside by my arm and whispered, "Meghan, you talk about [dramatic pause]
masturbation!"

"Yeah, but not EVERY day."

Our new friends waved goodbye as they got into their cars and promised once again that they'd check out the blog. It was at this point that my sister—and I shit you not
yelled across a large stadium parking lot: "GRAIN OF SALT! GRAIN OF SALT!!! TAKE IT WITH A GRAIN OF SALT!!!!!1!!1!!!"

Flash forward to Sunday night. I had just finished writing the introduction for "1 Bird
Investigates: Omaha, Nebraska!" and it was time to write the meat of the entry. I sat in my bed and stared at the cursor blinking on the overwhelmingly white screen. And I froze. I
never freeze. My parents, my parent's friends, my friend's parents, ex-bosses, ex-boyfriendsthey all read the blog and being aware of that fact never affects me in the slightest. And yet, knowing that those sweet Omahans were back in Nebraska and probably going to read what I was about to write completely fucked with me. Rebecca had planted a seed deep in my brain and it had grown into a giant literary cockblock. She Inception'd me! I tried to shake it off:

"Omaha was................good. I had a good time in Omaha. I definitely did
not masturbate in the great city of Omaha."

God damnit. it wasn't working. I drew myself bath, turned on some
Dr. Dre
or Mama's thinkin' music, if you willhopped in, and tried to write a few paragraphs in my head:

"Mark from the Omaha Convention and Visitors Bureau took us on a lovely driving tour of Omaha. Although we were encouraged to ask questions, I tried really hard not to ask if Nebraska has a raging crystal methamphetamine problem because the majority of that tour felt like being on 'Intervention: The Ride'." Damnit. STRIKE ONE.

"Mark from the Omaha Convention and Visitors Bureau took us on a lovely driving tour of Omaha. We drove through
Boys Town. Boys Town is a heartwarming organization and a beacon of hope and absolutely does not sound like the name of a gay gym where you can't swing a dead cat without someone giving you a hand job in the shower." STRIKE TWO.

"Mark from the Omaha Convention and Visitors Bureau took us on a lovely driving tour of Omaha. We went to Boys Town. It was very moving and I took this picture of the iconic statue of Boys Town founder Father Flanagan surrounded by the children he fought so valiantly to save.......................................................................BUT DOESN'T IT KIND OF LOOK LIKE FATHER FLANAGAN HAS A DAINTY LITTLE BALLERINA'S LEG FOR A WANG AND IT'S ABOUT TO GINGERLY KICK SOMEONE SQUARE IN THE GROIN 'CASUE OF THE ANGLE?!?!
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STRIKE THREE.
God damnit. I got out of the bath, robe'd up, and flopped down on my bed in defeat. I decided to watch an episode of "Maude" because I deeply believe that when in doubtMaude, but one episode became two, two became three, three became a season, and a season became the complete series. Which leads us to right now: Wednesday morning and giving in to the fact that this blog post just isn't going to happen. I'm too self conscious. I'm too crass. It's probably a bad sign that I can't write without being all "poopy-poopy-fart-fart" or relying on an arsenal of swears, but at the same time, I believe it was a young Marshall Mathers who once said, "Will Smith don't gotta to cuss in his raps to sell his records; well I do, so fuck him and fuck you too." While I'm generally hesitant to take life advice from anyone from Detroit, I did spend my hard-earned treehouse dollars on a round trip ticket to Omaha for sole purpose of writing about it. I say I embrace my inner Eminem, dive in, and give you a quick and dirty Omaha wrap up. Please keep in mind that my thoughts are my own and not those of my employer*.

(*And in this case, my employer = my sister.)

OMAHA!

1.) I deeply appreciated the weather in Omaha. It was sunny and 78-degrees throughout our entire stay. I can't tell you how genuinely nice it was to look at weather.com and see: "The temperature is: 78-degrees. It feels like: 78-degrees," and not: "The temperature is: 90-degrees. It feels like: The Devil's Assho
le."

2.) People were so unbelievably polite. It started when we were going through security at Reagan and weren't even in the Midwest yet. I got all pissy because there was a family with three little kids in line in front of me who were all taking forever to get their shit together for the X-ray scanner. Annoyed, I loudly sighed and went around them only to end up setting the metal detector off myself, thereby completely holding up the line. As I struggled to quickly put my laptop back in my duffle and put on my shoes at the other end of security, the little kids I had obnoxiously sighed at pulled aside all of my crap for me and handed me back my jewelry piece by piece to make sure I got it all. 
Ugh. It took everything in me not to look at them and be like, "I'M SO SORRY. I'M SUCH AN ASSHOLE. I SAW YOUR BLOND HAIR AND BLUE EYES AND IMMEDIATELY GOT DEFENSIVE. YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTANDI'M A JEW."

I told Becca about this as we sat down for a beer at the Sam Adams bar. "Dude, it's because they're Midwesterners! I'm telling you
they're all polite!" I asked her why she thought this was. "Well, think about it: they're all descended from pussies. Their early American ancestors couldn't hack it on the gritty East Coast but they didn't have the chutzpah to make it all the way to the West Coast, so they just kind of gave up somewhere in the middle." I realize that I'm not married, nevertheless a parent, but I can still securely say that I 100% trust my sister to teach my children U.S. History.

3.) Another blanket statement I'm going to make about Midwesterners is that they love
shtick. I really don't know how to describe what I'm thinking of besides "shtick". They shtick ya. I guess another way to say it is that they like to be playfully difficult. For example:

"Can you please pass me the rolls?"

"UP—HOW BAD DO YOU WANT 'EM? HOW MUCH ARE YOU GONNA PAY ME? HUH? HUH? NAHHH, I'M JUST PLAYING WITH YA, HERE YOU GO."

It's
shtick. I say this is a Midwestern thing because my brother-in-law and his father (Midwesterners) always shtick me and I got a ton of shtick out in Nebraska. While I'm a big fan of my brother-in-law and his father, I do not like shtick. It's not that I think shtick is mean-spirited or annoyingit's just that my brain literally can't compute it. I'm incapable of playing along with shtick when it's happening because in my head I'm like, "Shit, what did I do wrong? Why won't he just pass me the rolls? What did I say to piss him off?!" And then 10 seconds later I'm realize, "OH! He was just being fun. I get it!" But by then it's too late and I feel like an asshole because I've been staring back all wide-eyed and confused for slightly too long.

Take the case of Monte. Monte was our DC to Omaha flight attendant and I can say without exaggeration that he is my best friend in the entire world:

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Monte was great. Monte and I connected immediately. Unfortunately, this connection also meant that he shticked me for the duration of our flight. For example, because I was sitting in the first row, there wasn't a seat in front of me to put my carry-on bag under. I've never sat in the first row of a plane before, so I was very confused when Monte came over and asked me to stow my purse in the overhead compartment for take off and landing. "I'll give it back to you once we're cruising," he said, "but in the mean time, you could possibly use it as a weapon and you look like the kind of girl who would." In retrospect, he was obviously kidding, but because he said it with such a straight face I was like, "Oh my God, is he kidding? Is that a joke? I'm wearing a maxi dress for Christ's sake! He has to be kidding! BUT 9/11 CHANGED EVERYTHING, I DON'T THINK HE CAN LEGALLY SAY THAT AND NOT BE SERIOUS!?" After what felt like forever, he finally chuckled and I stopped preparing my body to be slammed by an Air Marshall at any given second.

Or there was the time when I came out of the bathroom and Monte was waiting for me with a quarter in his hand. "Need a quarter?" he asked. Again, internal monologue: "What? A quarter? What the hell would I need a quarter for? DID I NOT FLUSH PROPERLY? Do you have to pay to flush on Fronteir? I know times are tough and they downgraded us to one cookie per flight, but
Christ. He's still staring at me. He can't be joking. Why the shit would I need a quarter? I guess I did have to pay a euro to use some public bathrooms in Europe, so it's not that weird. HAS MONTE BEEN TO BRUGES??" And again, Monte finally chuckled, patted me on the shoulder and moved on. Frankly, I'm still confused.

I feel like I should be able to get shtick because I'm such a deeply sarcastic person. I'm quick. I'm clever. I like giving people a hard time. I should be able to get it. Alex had a professor in Madrid who once told him that to the Spanish, Portuguese sounds like someone trying to speak Spanish with a dick in their mouth. That is
exactly how I feel about shtick. It's like, logically I should be able to understand Shtick because Shtick and Sarcasm are next-door neighbors, but then someone starts shticking me and I can't understand what they're saying through all those balls in their mouth.

4.) Although most of my time with the convention center/Hilton salespeople was spent socializing, I did tag along to a few of Becca's meetings and
OOF. It has been a while since I've been in a professional setting. When your only co-worker is Tulane Chris and your boss is an editor your own age who emails you all day about "X-Files" episodes and whether or not we should seriously approach Gary Shandling about doing a murder-mystery TV series, it's easy to forget how to conduct yourself professionally. I chose to deal with this in Omaha by not talking. At all. But then we all sat down for a lunch tasting at the convention center and the conversation somehow turned to blue collar comedians, specifically Ron White. Before I knew it, "UGHVOMIT!" had flown out of my mouth. Loudly. I apologized and explained that I just really, really don't like Ron White. Inevitably, somebody asked me why not. "He's just...um...well, as a human being, he just...I just feel like he...I mean, I've never met him, but...he seems like he would...you know...I mean..." Painful second after painful second went by as I searched my brain for the most professional, eloquent, and non-offensive way to say that Ron White just seems like the kind of guy who would...rape you. The term "might force himself upon you" came to mind, but I ultimately went with, "Um. He weirds me out." And I call myself a writer...

5.) I swear I'm not just saying this because today is her birthday, but I have such an unbelievable amount of respect for my sister and what she does. It's like, you write "I am a detail-oriented, highly organized, motivated self-starter," on so many cover letters that the words begin to completely lose their meaning, and then you meet someone who
actually is all of those things and it's like, holy shitnarwhals are real! all over again.

6.) I'm very weary of salespeople because my last "real" job was in a position supporting salespeople who were the worst human beings on the planet. When it dawned on me in Omaha that we were about to spend an intense amount of time with salespeople, I got incredibly anxious. That being said, these were the nicest fucking people I have ever met in my entire life. And they may have just been bullshitting us to get my sister to sign a contract with them, but fuck it
they did it well. By the time we left, they felt like old friends of the family. Sitting here right now, I can legitimately say that I miss them. One of the saleswomen from the Hilton told me in passing that she's in DC about six times a year and I had to bite my tongue so, "HEHEHE ZOMG DO WANNA GO TO DINNER NEXT TIME YOU'RE IN TOWN?!!??!?!" didn't fly out of my mouth. And frankly, had it, I'm sure she would have said yes! Because she was so nice!

The cynic in me keeps reminding myself that they were only nice because they wanted the money from my sister's account, but it
felt genuine. And in my world, that's newsworthy. At a certain point when we were all out to dinner before the College World Series game, they began to press me for details about what I do. I told them my "Story" from college graduation to where I am now, fully expecting them to not take me seriously and nervously glancing at my sister for help the entire time. When I was done, the sales representative form the convention center paused, looked me in the eye and said, "Meghan, I am so proud of you." I know I had a few glasses of Malbec swishing around inside of me at the time, but I thought I was going to burst into tears. To clarify, it's not like I'm not used to getting support or anythingmy family and friends are insanely supportive. It's just that I'm used to telling people outside my inner circle about this shit show and getting jaded responses in return. "That's...nice." "Oh. Cool. I had a Xenga in college?" "Well, I saw Julie & Julia and thought it was...cute."

But this woman continued, "You just must be so proud of yourself
."

"Well, thank you," I said, awkwardly.

"Really, just
so proud."

"Truthfully, it's hard to feel proud because we don't monetize and monetizing is how I gauge success. I know that sounds really shallow, but you know...it's almost been four years. Mostly I just feel really stupid and like why am I still doing this?" (I mean, Christ. I've had
therapists who I've admitted less to.)

"You can't look at it that way, Meghan. You can't. Because you're doing something special: you're chasing your dream. Even if nothing happens to your career and in three months not a single book sells, absolutely no one can take that away from you."

Normally being told to "chase my dream" because "nobody can take that away from me" would be enough to make me vomit my moderately priced chicken dish back up into my meagerly priced handbag, but coming from this woman, with all of the heart and emotion behind it
shit got REAL. She continued on for a bit and then kept doing that thing where she looked at me and shook her head back and forth while repeating "SO impressed". Had Rebecca and I chugged a few Bud Lights in our hotel room before coming to dinner like we had planned, I probably would have jumped across the table, burrowed myself betwixt her breasts, cried hysterically and asked her to say "SO impressed" a few more times and really enunciate so I could make it my new ringtone. I don't know if all Midwest salespeople are that genuine, but fucking hats off to Omaha. Of course Rebecca ended up signing a contract with them and had I had the money, I would have throw down a fucking 20 of my own because whatever the contract ended up being, trust me, they deserve more.

7.) As mentioned, we saw a College World Series baseball game and it was awesome. We sat in the
MECA
box and I fell in love with a Hilton employee's son who was also in said box. I'm not naming names, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that it happened. He went out of his way to shake my hand twice. I don't know. In some countries I could be pregnant. When Becca and I were drinking $5 pitchers of margaritas the next day at the American GI Forum (because that did happen), I said that if we were in a rom-com, I'd miss my plane and dramatically burst into the kid's office to be like, "I CAN'T LEAVE YOU!!!!" We then tried to think of what said rom-com about a big city gal who goes to Omaha and falls in love at a baseball game would be called. Becca had some good baseball punny ones, but we ultimately decided to go with one of my gems:
The Seventh-Inning Vagina Stretch. You're welcome for that mental picture.

8.) So, yes. $5 pitchers of margaritas and $1 delicious enchiladas at the American GI Forum on Fridays in Omaha. It'
s a real thing:Photobucket
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And a great thing.

9.) And a
potent thing. I was like, lose-your-virginity-in-a-frat-house-bathtub drunk AN single drink in, which is very uncharacteristic of me. I talked about the kid a lot, which led to this slurry exchangege:

Me: I mean, I'd move to Omaha.
Shhhhhit yeah I'd move to Omaha! You have to make sacrifices for love, dude.

Rebecca: Yes. Like
getting to know someone.

10.) Speaking of Rebecca's sass-mouth, she told everyone in our box about how college athletics
stress me out because I can't stop thinking about how the student athletes balance it with their schoolwork. It was embarrassing. If not accurate. While it was nice to not have to think about the in-school factor during the game, a Cal outfielder quite literally dropped the ball and let UVA score a few more runs. You could see how upset he was for like 20 minutes afterwards and I thought I was going to have a panic attack from secondhand sports failure anxiety. So instead of leaning over to ask Becca questions about time management, I kept leaning over all, "DO YOU THINK HE'S OK?! I FEEL HORRIBLE!!! IS HE GOING TO GET
RAZZED IN THE DUGOUT?? WILL I GET IN TROUBLE IF I RUN OUT ONTO THE FIELD AND HUG HIM??" Finally one of the convention center salespeople leaned over, put her hand on my knee and said, "Aw Meghan, you have such a big heart!" Internally, I had a field day with that one. I was like, "GAWD, I really do have a big heart! And it so rarely gets noticed! I'm a sweetheart!" Later when said saleswoman went to the bathroom, I leaned over to Becca with a shit-eating grin on my face and said, "Soooooooo, did you hear her tell me that I have a big heart??" "Yeah. Well," she responded, "If anything, it's just proof that she clearly doesn't know you." RAZZED!

12.) If you held a gun to my head and forced me to complain about
one thing on our trip, it's that I had to keep playing the old "Don't Blog About It!" game. "Don't Blog About It!" is fairly self-explanatory: it's when someone finds out that you're a blogger and then constantly asks you not to blog about asinine things that you would have never blogged about in the first place. It is, without a doubt, my biggest blogging pet peeve. I'd take 500 anonymous comments telling me to eat my own shit if it meant avoiding even one round of "Don't Blog About It!"

Although my
track record may suggest otherwise, I, for the most part, always ask if I'm going to write about something that a friend or acquaintance specifically said or did. Similarly, my friends don't censor themselves around me and rarely ask me not to mention something on the blog. More times than not, they trust my judgement and that I'm not a completely shitty person. Because of this, my friends are not the ones I have to play "Don't Blog About It!" with. It's always random fucking friends of friends who have clearly never read the blog and always ask me not to blog about something extremely personal or fucked up that I would never even blog about. For example: I'm at a party with a group of people and a friend asks someone that I don't really know well, "Oh, Blah Blah, how is your grandfather doing?" "Well truthfullyand Meg, please don't blog about thishe really took a turn for the worse over the weekend and the doctors don't think he'll make it past Wednesday." WHAT?!?!? WHY THE SHIT WOULD I EVER BLOG ABOUT THAT?? Like, beyond the fact that this isn't 2 Tragedies 1 Blog, beyond the fact that believe it or not, I'm not a completely horrible person, the shit these people go out of their way to ask me not to blog about is never even good material! It's like, OH RASPBERRIES! There goes a comedic blog post for the ages: "Did You Know a Friend of a Friend's Grandfather is Terminally Ill?" Drats! I really thought that one was going to go viral, too! Christ.

So, yes. Didn't
love playing that, but on a scale of one to Ron White, it really wasn't that bad.

11. ) This is a sign for the "Gas Works Grill" in Ameritrade Park:
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I mention this only because Becca thought it was a giant sign that said "GAY SWORDS" and that's never not funny to m
e.

All in all, our trip to Omaha was pretty awesome. I can definitely understand the appeal of the Midwest, but much to the dismay of my handshake fiance and gynecologist, I think I'm going to stick to the surly, rude, insincere, heartless East Coast. Not a day goes by in this swampy hellhole that I don't want to kill someone or need to take a Xantac/Xanax "Let It Go Cocktail", but shit—thank God I can blog about it!

57 comments:

Hails said...

Chicago doesn't count as the midwest, right?
Because people are DEFINITELY not nice all the time here.
But outside of this major metropolis, I will agree with the shtick business.

BF said...

hahahahah great post!

Lex said...

This incredible tome of a post was one of the greatest fucking things I've ever read.

Laura said...

Meggles this was epic! But don't blog that I said that. My bosses read this and they don't need to know that I think "ballerina penis" jokes are "epic" you know? Could you please think about me for once?

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

Jesus Christ, thank you!

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

That was re: Lex. But God bless you too, Laura. And if my penis ballerina jokes get you fired, I'll totes buy you Chipotle.

Work in Progress said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Laura said...

Meh, you know where I work. I'll probably get a raise for introducing everyone to a great new penis joke. But we should tots get Chipotle soon!

Krystina said...

The quarter thing has to either be a tampon machine or condom machine joke...right?

Lauren said...

fantastic post! i used to live in the midwest (st. louis) but the east coast is definitely better. not everyone was super nice though...probably because i was in the college bubble and all residents hated us. gay swords! ha.

Laura B said...

Gahh!! I loved this post so much!! Totally worth the wait. :)

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

The quarter thing has to either be a tampon machine or condom machine joke...right?

That makes so much more sense than being a Bruges reference.

Anonymous said...

freaking amazing post.

Anonymous said...

happy birthday to becca!

Leigh said...

agreed on the shtick business. i always just laugh nervously and nod my head at whatever people say, and then they're like "i was joking." also - maybe you dropped the quarter, and when you were confused he realized he could keep it? score?

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

The odds of me being wealthy enough to have dropped a quarter and not realized it are very slim to none.

Anonymous said...

Jews don't drop quarters and not notice it. Zing! Oh, just kidding. *just a little shtick*

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

Bear with me, it's going to take at least 20 minutes for me to get that.

Anonymous said...

Beyond fucking funny,you made Omaha sound slightly cool. My husband's from Omaha and we live in St. Louis - yes it is that sincere, I have the "you have a heart" exchanges all the time...now I know why we don't leave. I wouldn't feel as rude and surly in DC....

Anonymous said...

Tour de force post, madam. (Slow clap)

Abo said...

COMPLETELY WORTH THE WAIT! But if you make me wait again, I'll send a methed out Ron White to tirelessly hunt you down in DC!

Anonymous said...

Excellent post, Meg! I've never been to the midwest, this has encouraged me to make a trip there someday.

Also, thanks for referencing the spit in porn post. I hadn't read that one in awhile and it's also a goldmine.

Cate said...

uh muh guh. that was glorious.

Anonymous said...

meg, you should know better about college athletes from talia and i. oh wait, does playing a sport at frostburg not count?!

socialassassin1974 said...

First time I've visited this blog - and how glad am I that I did. Frankly piss-stainingly funny, I was laughing from the start. Epic in scope and wonderfully sarcastic, your writing just put the spit-shine back on an otherwise crappy day for me - thank you!!!!
BTW, don't worry too much about the ..er ..different way your mind sees things - you should try living on a 12x24 mile island off the coast of England where people crack jokes about sleeping with their sister and no-one laughs.
Frankly, I live in sarcastic comedy Heaven :)
Kevin, Isle of Wight, England.

Ginny said...

So this blog is like your Secret Diary of a Call Girl... and your poop jokes are are her sexscapades, administrative assistant for a consulting firm is to night legal clerk as Belle du Jour is to Meg McBlogger... Except her whole situation is a lot more profitable...

I assume you've read that filthy book? If not, its just like Eat. Pray. Love. ... I promise.

BDiddyNoVA said...

You know what else is from Omaha? The band 311!

Now that your (sorta) posting again, I demand some Evie updates/stories/pics.

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

meg, you should know better about college athletes from talia and i. oh wait, does playing a sport at frostburg not count?!

Playing a sport for Frostburg counts for double, you sexy son of a bitch. I watched your games with a tense stomach EVERY time.

Anonymous said...

Ha ha ha, good post! I hate when the temp reads 90, feels like devil's asshole.

Raquel said...

You're back! Your big heart and your dream chasing = blog funnies. Thank you!

Anonymous said...

SHE'S BACK! wooooooooooooo

Sarah Lindahl said...

Hi! I'm a midwesterner and I totally don't get schtick. I hate it. And I also hate the "don't blog about this" game, or the close relative, the "Are you going to blog about this?" game, usually after some really annoying and unfunny schtick. (I really have to type that word slowly. What? It's hard to type.)

Anonymous said...

Just want you to know -- since you're from the East Coast and don't know any better'n'all -- that Midwesterners do NOT consider Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, or even Idaho (which I once heard an Idahoan say) to be the Midwest.

The Midwest (with the exception of Iowa) has one thing in common: the Great Lakes. The pattern of settlement and trade that developed around the Great Lakes shaped the Midwest's identity. Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota are the Midwest.

Those others? They're the Great Plains. An amorphous, non-identifiable place to be from, it's true, which is why they want to glom onto a part of the country with an actual identity.

I just feel badly for them.

And yes, I'm a 5th-generation Illinoisan.

Anonymous said...

I've missed you. You're perfect.

Miss Sassy Pants said...

Did you see a lot of fat people?

I tend to see a lot of fat people when I go to the Mid-West. Also, if you want to meet the true Mid-West you should go to a Walmart in the middle of the night. Classy folk.

Anonymous said...

Not to hate on Becca, because goodness knows I love a good interjection by her on the blog, but Midwesterners/Prairie people are not pussies. Have you ever dealt with a Prairie wind the middle of the winter? Harsh. Have you seen Little House on the Prairie? They were always fighting shit off.

That being said, I totally get where you're coming from about schtick, because I am from the east and now live in the prairies and people schtick me all the time and I get ruuuulll offended. Then they're like, j/k!!! And that's the worst.

Also, this was a badass post. Slow clap time.

Anonymous said...

I think schtick may be universal, it's big in rural areas in Australia too!

JamaLee said...

I've lived in the mid-west (rural Illinois and currently Indiana) all 26 years of my existence and must say that I an so used to the shtick that I don't even notice it anymore. Also, it may be a considered a way to 'break the ice' with folks that you don't know well.

Great Post Megs!

Mike K said...

As a native Michigander (yes, that is really what we call ourselves) I object to putting Nebraska in the mid-west. As someone said before, the midwest states must touch a Great Lake to qualify. Kentucky is the south, Missouri and points west are the Plains. But we do share a common thread of decency and kindness with the Plains states (except Ohio, fuck Ohio). Maybe schtick is a plains states thing, I don't recall that being the norm in the midwest.

And the next time you call us pussies, spend a winter where I went to college and then you'll think twice. I think people in DC are pussies. OMG IT MIGHT SNOW RUN TO THE STORE AND BUY ALL THE TP, MILK, AND BREAD!!!!

Alison said...

hahaha I have the same job as your sister for an association in Alexandria- those CVB people can party their asses off.

Anonymous said...

I'm from fucking Chicago and can't understand the appeal of the Midwest. I think it's because of the superiority complex that comes with being the best city for about a thousand miles in any direction.

ps come to Chicago, bitch! :D

Chicago James

Anonymous said...

Hey Anon 9:53, your a dickbag.
-A 6th Generation Illinoisan

Anonymous said...

Anon 9:53 - you're also a 5th generation douche. Your ancestors would be proud.

Anonymous said...

People are certainly defensive of where they're from and the requirements to be considered from there.

It's great to have pride in where you grew up but why does there have to be a competition over whose hometown/homestate is superior?

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?

Anonymous said...

If "treehouse dollars" was in reference to Now and Then, I love you even more than before...which I didn't think was possible.

GeePuff said...

Anon 5:57 *you're

Francesca said...

Ugh, I also appreciated the Now and Then treehouse dollars reference! And the Gay Swords. Great post.

Meez said...

Hey hey hey. Missouri is totally the midwest. Those other states are a subset of the midwest, most appropriately called "The Great Lakes States." I'm tired of people trying to make their own definitions of the midwest. Some asshole once told me that Utah is part of the midwest. Something about everything that doesn't touch an ocean or a gulf being part of the midwest. And you know what? I'm tired of that crap. Cut that shit out. All of you's.

Anonymous said...

My husband played college and pro ball and I swear I still have that same reaction...mostly because the first time I asked my husband what the other players say to the downtrodden one it went like this: me "like, are you sympathetic?" to which he's all, "fuck NO! he just lost the game for us, FUCK that guy!" Oh, ok. That's awful. What if he goes home and hurts himself? Or takes it out on his dog! Think. About. The dog. Husband. Geez.

Courtney said...

The Midwestern states via wikipedia.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midwestern_United_States

Now everyone can calm down.

Anonymous said...

This has nothing to do with the post... but Meggles I thought of your desire for a pug. Pugs with boobs!

http://www.regretsy.com/2011/07/03/weekend-flashback-nice-puggs/

Lindseh said...

If you *Ever* want to write about your trip to impossible Milwaukee, WI, you should hit me up. I think it would make a great post ;)

Kevin said...

Yeah, I have to agree that East Coasters really don't get the Midwestern niceness thing. It completely throws them. I grew up in Missouri (which is not the same as growing up in misery, despite the phonetic similarity) and my friends who grew up on the East Coast periodically get freaked out about me being nice to them. One of them even told me to stop being nice to them, which was weird.

The suspicion is always we're just being nice to get something or hide something, that no one could just be nice as a general rule. Simple truth is Midwesterners are just nice because we think that's the way people should be to each other. It doesn't cost anything to be nice. That generally flummoxes East Coasters.

Jess said...

Yes, yes, just getting caught up on my reading today...

As a Nebraskan (and native born South Dakotan), I can say that most of us are of the fat, non-pussy variety. Stereo-typical, yes. True, also yes.

I recently returned from my first trip to the East Coast (DC actually). And after three days I actually called someone an asshole to their face for the first time in my 34 years (besides my ex-husband, but that was his name). Maybe it's the weather...it was frickin' humid beyond anything I've ever experienced.

Meg, I would love to read what your mind was really thinking in Omaha...like maybe if they used all the extra mayo they order on everything to fill the pot holes, they could lower the state income tax rate...maybe living over here by the WY border has made me jaded...

As always, loved the post, thanks!

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juegos friv said...

Ich möchte nur sagen Danke für Ihre wunderbare Post, es enthält viel Wissen und Informationen, die ich brauchte, gerade jetzt. Vielen Dank!

 
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