2birds1blog

Mail Bag

2012-02-13T01:44:00.006-05:00

Wow, hi Meggles!

I started this email a LONNNNNG time ago and got stuck so it has been sitting in my draft box.

Soooo...I figured I should just send it. I had made it originally for you to answer on days you had writers block, because I love when you just answer people's questions.

Sooo...yeah. There ya go.

Hope all is well! Still reading strong!

<3 jen

Let's do this, Sanchez.

1. Marry Fuck Kill:

Dr. Reuben

Larry Hagman

John McCain

Ooo, GOOD ONE. I've been thinking about this all weekend, and here's my final answer: I'd marry Larry Hagman and we'd live a long, happy life together, thank you; fuck Dr. Reuben because I've always wondered what making love to a Jiffy Bag-covered penis would feel like; and I'd kill John McCain because that son of a bitch never hugged me and/or his daughter is society's longest active queef.

2. When do you actually sleep, Meg?

5-11:00am. Ish.

3. Have you tried wiping standing up yet?

Yes. Everyday for the past 23 years.

4. Would you be upset if Tulane Chris began dating Bobby Flay?

I would feel hurt, betrayed, confused, tickled, aroused, livid, and hurt. In that order.

5. What Would Meg Do?

Oh, God. Meg would take a nap and avoid the situation entirely, then regret it later when it's too late. WWMD? is not a lifestyle I recommend.

6. If your life were a movie, who would play you?

I mean, that's really nice and all, but truthfully, it would probably be a cross between Gabourey Sidibe and Charles Grodin.

7. Have you ever been in a threesome? Do you have plans to be?

I was once an active, and some say uncomfortably competitive, participant in a threeway hookup, but I've never taken it to the next level. (<--- Please know I just re-wrote that sentence so it didn't include the word "penetration".) I don't have any threesomes planned at the moment, but if Hunter's Dean of Admissions and Anthony Bourdain are up for it, I wouldn't say no. (<--- Please know, I just took out an "I'd have no reservations!" joke.) (Or "joke", if you will.)

8. What would you do with $1,000,000?

#1: Buy a membership to Sports Club/LA

#2: Pay off my student loans

#3: Pay back my parents all the money I've borrowed from them over the years

#4: Pay back Chris the $57 I owe him

#5: Pay my bills

#6: PAY COMCAST TO PUBLICLY SUCK MY DICK

#7: Buy Chris and I matching red velor track suits with our initials embroidered on the left breast, so we can wear them: a.) all the time and b.) in a picture where we're standing back-to-back with our arms crossed, glass of whiskey in one hand and mischievous grins on our faces, which will from there on out be used as our official headshot. (This has been an actual goal of ours for almost a year now.)

#8: Buy a new laptop because this one is almost dead and the S, L, F8, and Control buttons are broken. It's exhausting.

#9: Adopt a pug

#10: Buy a couch

#11: Buy an office chair

#12: Bribe the recruiters at my temp agency to actually find me some work

#13: Buy equipment for the podcast Chris and I want to do

#14: Get a tattoo of Homer's bifocals on my ass

#15: Buy a night of hot, passionate lovemaking with Nick Hawk from Showtime's Gigolos (whose rates are surprisingly reasonable, by the way...)

#16: Buy myself a bike, because Lord knows that infuriating situation hasn't been resolved yet

#17: Visit my friends on the west coast and in the middle east

#18: Buy a really, really nice knife set

#19: Buy Evie a...Nope. That cat has literally anything she could ever want and/or need. And I'm jealous of her.

#20: Donate the rest to Howard University, so Becca and I can finally go to Howard homecoming

9. Would you ever go on Fear Factor?

Absolutely not, because if there's anything I hate more than confronting my fears, it's Joe Rogen.

10. Diane invites you over for dinner. When you walk in the house, Jeremy Piven is sitting at the table, helping himself to some potatoes. Describe what happens next.

First, I'd take a moment to pause and let it all just wash over me. Then, like a horny C-level magician, I'd haphazardly yank the table cloth off the table, sending plates, artisan bread, and salad forks flying everywhere. Then, I'd hop up on the table, make the international "suck it" motion across my crotch, rip open my shirt, and crawl towards The Piv while whipping my hair around and eating the odd biscuit, like a hungry hungry Tawny Kitaen. Now in front of Piven, I'd choke him with his own necktie, slap him in the face, slap myself in the face, and lick gravy off his receding hairline until neither of us can take it anymore, and I climb into his lap and make dirty, forceful love to him, right there in front of God, my parents, and everyone.

That's the short answer. The long one involves a few erotic venn diagrams and a lot more swears.

11. Good looking or rich?

Neither; personality. HA HA! Just kidding. Rich. I really want a membership to Sports Club/LA. Do you know how happy access to a lap pool would make me? Also, sometimes I pleasure myself to their group exercise schedule. Like most of my porn, it's sad and extremely effective.

12. Would you rather have invisibility powers or read minds?

Invisibility. That way I could work out at Sports Club/LA without a membership and NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW!

13. Did Sophie make the right choice?

You mean the choice to whore out herself and her blog for a membership to Sports Club/LA? Yes. Yes, I do. And speaking of whoring myself out (which, again, I would absolutely do), the following is an exchange I had with my mom last night while discussing my current financial situation:

Me: You know what? Fuck it. I'm just going to whore myself out in the streets for top dollar.

Mom, in the most heartfelt tone I have ever heard her speak in: Oh, sweetheart. Nickles and pennies aren't going to help us now.

...You know what? Well played, Diane Rowland. Well played.

#SaturdayNight #BuffyDowner

2012-02-11T19:16:00.000-05:00

Go Wildcats!

2012-02-10T04:21:00.001-05:00

Well, I didn’t get fired yet, but the guy I ask for helpdid, so it’s just a matter of time. Since business has been slow, I gotshort-shifted at work, and decided to catch up with some old friends from highschool, which resulted in the following conversations:

“I feel a lot better since I joined a support group forwives of inmates. I found out about it after a guard groped me, but I’m stillglad to have met these women. Oh, also, I found out there’s been a warrant outfor my arrest in Bell County since 2007, so at some point when I go visit Mom Ineed to go get arrested and pay that fine.”

“I should make some money this weekend. The moving company Iwork for got hired to clean out a hoarder’s house. They estimate thirtytruckloads, so I should get some overtime. We keep a keg in the truck for dayslike these.”

“I thought social work wouldn’t involve my having to explainthat marijuana is illegal and has been for generations, but these people don’tread newspapers very closely. Oh, do you remember Alice? She and her husbandgot so good at Catholic birth control – you have to take your vaginaltemperature, thank God for Martin Luther – that they got hired to teach it toeveryone in the entire diocese.”

“I had to drop off a semen sample in case the estrogen makesme infertile, which doesn’t always happen but better safe than sorry. They wereplaying easy listening in the lab – it’s daunting trying to give a plastic cupa very special day while listening to a gentle, instrumental version of ‘TheGirl from Ipanema.’”

I added a couple of punchlines and the marijuanaconversation actually happened last week, but otherwise this is what’s going onamong Temple High School alumni. Go Wildcats! For context, my friendsafeguarding his, shortly her, fertility once accidentally stabbed my friendhelping the hoarder move – and hoarder-move friend is the same one who used tolive on a goat farm. (Oh, the grammatical Twister I play not to use people’sreal names in case somehow being associated with me would injure them.)

Now, I don’t care that my friend is having genderreassignment – if anyone feels strongly enough about a situation to havepuberty twice, they can count on my blessing – but, as with any time someoneyou know does something unconventional, I have more questions than I can politelyask. No one likes to be interrogated except my friend who married the inmate,who merrily volunteered how, since Texas doesn’t allow conjugal visits, onekeeps the magic alive. I limited my questions about the transition to two:

Q: How did you pick your new name?

A: It’s what I would have been named had I been born a girl– well, more apparently a girl.

Q: So is getting your sperm stored, like, a one-timeexpense, or are there recurring costs?

A: There’s a storage fee, but it’s pretty cheap. It costsless than high-speed internet.

Q: High-speed internet is expensive up here.

A: I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you should budget.Or have a career more stable and lucrative than writing toilet books.

Q: It’s a vocation.

A: It’s a trilogy called DeltaBurke and Diarrhea: Meg and Chris’ Big Book of Bodily Mishaps and 80s TV Jokes.

Q: That’s the working title.

A: Oh, of course. I forgot you were also considering Shits and Shoulder Pads.

So now, my new game is imagining the threats the lab thatstores your “essence” sends if you don’t pay your bill. My favorites so far are“if your account is not brought up to date, we will pair your sperm withleftover ova from Eva Braun” and “if this bill is not paid, your semen will bethawed and sent to a pornography studio to be used as ‘filler’ in case ToddStrokely starts running dry.” My new newgame is imagining asking the bank loan officer for money to open a sperm bank. My new, new new game is imagining being the state sperm bank inspector:

Tulane Chris, Licensed Sperm Bank Inspector: Sir, have youjust been cramming Ziplocs full of genetic material in around the edges of yourkegerator?

Dan of Dan’s Discount DNA: Times are tough.

…I smell a sitcom. Well, I smell something.

How was your commute?

2012-02-09T04:02:00.001-05:00

The bad news is that, haha, I owe several hundred dollars intakes this year literally because I only learned yesterday how tax bracketswork. The good news is that I got a DVD of “Who’s the Boss” from Netflix theother day, and it featured an episode guest-starring Delta Burke as a promiscuous socialite and another featuring Betty White as aruthless TV host. #suicidepostponed #this is a non sequitur but I had an eroticdream about garry shandling the other day like for real #he didn’t let mefinish either @meg

Twitter-format jokes: more fun than twitter since 2011.

So, as I mentioned, I’m on the bus three to four (closer tofour) hours per work day. Except for the terrible tailbone pain – the seats areergonomic, but not for Earthlings – it’s a really manageable kind of misery inthe mornings. Everyone else is on a long early-morning bus ride. No one wantsto talk or make eye contact except for the guy at the transfer station who Ioverheard say, “I’ll be a pervert till I die!” and I feel like the rest of ushave a tacit alliance against encouraging him.

Coming home is a different story. My bus goes past theagricultural high school, for all those Philadelphia School District kids whogo on to farm, and it gets thereright at the time school lets out, so the bus is literally packed to capacitywith teenagers.

Things I Have Learned About Teenagers:

1) Loud

2) Talk about sex, masturbation, and the human bodymore in 15 miles than Meg and I do in our entire humor book about war crimes

3) Loud

4) They’ll just put their leg on yours so that you have to move your leg so you’re not achild molester

5) Loud

6) Oh my God, Loud

7) Teenagers have an odor. It results from havingthe energy to run around and sweat, then covering the sweat smell with Bath andBody Works Hayfever and Diabetes in A Jar Turbofloral Spray.

Things I have learned about these particular teenagers:

1) They’re still undecided about what they thinkabout the new girl, Brooklyn, but suspect she will turn out to be a bitch.

2) Brad cheated on Tanya first, which if you knowthat doesn’t make her look as bad as he tried to make her look, and she brokeup with him first too, and he’s texting her now.

3) They do not intend to save anything formarriage. It is a struggle to save it until they get off the bus.

So, hooray. Youths. God bless ‘em. Imagine how thrilled Iwas to get The Early Bus home the other day, which passes the school too earlyfor the kids?

Now imagine how thrilled I was to see someone shoot heroinon the bus.

Let me take you through it. I’ve been on the bus a fewminutes, and we stop near a shopping center. A guy gets on with a suitcase andgigantic Ikea carrying bag and asks the driver for change. The bus driver doesnot have change, but they manage to work out a deal, and homeboy sits downnearish me.

Chris’ Brain: Oh, he’s cute.

Chris’ Brain: Are you kidding? He’s sweating in that indoorway. He looks like he needs an IV, a steak, and like twenty naps. A solidhose-off in the yard wouldn’t go amiss, either.

Chris’ Brain: We’ve done worse.

Chris’ Brain: …Granted. But that was college.

Homeboy proceeds to root through the suitcase, find a candybar (I feel it’s important to note it’s WHITE CHOCOLATE with little cookie bitsin it), and eat it like… well, like it was heroin. I’m doing that thing whereyou stare right next to someone so you can watch them and pretend to zone outor be looking out the window if they catch you. He wraps up the last bit of hisbar and stows it, then starts rummaging in his pants – his arm is down theoutside of his pant leg, so I think he’s either the least efficient masturbatorin the world or getting a gun. I barely have time to think “well, if I get shotMeg will benefit from heightened book sales,” before I realize that most madshooters probably don’t have to spend five minutes rummaging in their pants fora gun and that something weirder is afoot. Sure enough, Homeboy proceeds toflop over from the waist and sway bonelessly along to the bouncing of the bus.Absolutely no one else appears to be watching. After a couple minutes, hestraightens up, works something down his pant leg and apparently tucks it inhis sock, and starts making small talk about guitars with someone else on thebus. I texted roughly a dozen people to be like “HEROIN ON THE BUS BIG CITYLOL” and at least three people asked me if I was sure, like sure sure,that it wasn’t insulin.

Yes, I’m sure. Because ten minutes later he did it again,and followed it with some vigorous stretching.

When he got done stretching, he asked me if I had change fora five – I didn’t, but I gave him a subway token. I figured that since I wasabsolutely going to blog about his addiction, it was least I could do.

Here are the morals I’ve drawn: HANDS DOWN better to beconfined somewhere with a junkie than a meth-head, and I wish I’d tried heroinwhen I was young enough for it to be considered “finding myself.” I know damnwell who I am at this point, but God,he looked calm. I’ve never been as calm as that in my entire life.

On the home front, remember my crazy neighbor? Well, thewoman in the apartment next to her has started teaching herself some kind ofloud “power ukulele.” We might make it to the end of themonth before my building is reclassified as a mental hospital, but it’s goingto be a squeaker.

3 (Self-Serving) Things:

2012-02-08T00:36:00.008-05:00

1.) Guess what?! It's that time of the year again when I harass you to vote for us for best blog/blogger for Washington City Paper's Best of DC awards! Although, I'm going to be real honest: I'm not going to push for it this year. I'm aware that we didn't post nearly enough in 2011 to warrant my typical obnoxiousness, so I'm just going to say that if you'd like to vote for us for best blog/blogger, you may do so here (People & Places), and I thank you.

2.) I am, however, going to obnoxiously push for Best DC Twitter. (@2birds1blog) Why? Because:

DAMMIT. Why hasn't the Internet made a gif of the woman saying "I want that", re: the free mini sailboat with the 24-piece set from Napoleon Dynamite yet?? Fuck. Youtube videos never work as well, but, because:

Well, that didn't work. And it's the wrong size. I want it, OK? That's why. I'm aware that DC is a town of movers and shakers (and candlestick makers) (Meg, please), and typically, the people who win Best Twitter are city councilmen, activists, and people generally "in the know" who actually tweet informative things about the District, and respect knuckles all around, but come on! I tweeted a picture of myself in an exam gown at the gynecologist's office because I was surprised how good I looked in salmon!

Would Vincent Gray do that? I think not. (And Lord knows that man could pull off a coral, blush, or peach if he wanted to and, frankly, I dare him to try.) But I argue that tweet is informative and DC-based! a.) Salmon: who knew? Now you do. You're welcome, and b.) Dr. Stephen J. Horowitz is located at 2141 K street, God bless his heart! Does Eleanor Holmes Norton tweet a disturbing number of photos of her parents' aggressive show cat? Not to my knowledge. But guess who does? This guy.

So, that's pretty much my entire argument for why I think you should vote for me for Best DC Twitter account. Because I'm a narcissistic cat lady with paradoxically low self-esteem and awards make me feel better about myself/my horrible life choices. VOTE FOR ME! Like last year, if I win, I'd be proud to take one of you fine readers as my hot date to the WCP Best Of party. I don't really know how we'll pick this year. Email me, or pick/nominate amongst yourselves. I don't really know how that would work, but you guys seem to always be infinitely more on the ball than I am, so go with God! Polls close March 1st.

3.) Speaking of calendar dates and not being on the ball, next Tuesday is Valentine's Day! What better way to say "thank you for being a friend" you "motherfucker", than with a 2birds1blog Dr. Dre/Eminem "What's the Difference?" Valentine's Day card???? Devotees will remember that I made these cards last year to send to my friends, immediately felt awkward because not everyone knows obscure Chronic 2001 lyrics off the top of their heads, oh wait—yes they do, and they were a total hit. Now you can buy a pack of six A7 (5" x 7") flat cards with six red A7 envelopes for the completely reasonable price of $12, plus a flat $2 shipping fee. Each shipment comes with a free 2birds1blog sticker and a little love note from yours truly. HOLLER! Considering I just got my Internet turned back on yesterday, I didn't have a ton of money to front for supplies and I might get sued by Interscope/Aftermath Records, so these are extremely limited edition. Act fast. But like, REAL fast.

OK, well I have a night of printing ahead of me because I want to make sure these are DTF for tomorrow morning (or right now, if you will), so I'm going to cut this obnoxiously short. Vote, vote, vote! Tweet, tweet, tweet!

A Tribute to Dad

2012-02-07T12:21:00.000-05:00

…I’m okay.

I had an embarrassing freakout this past weekend. I’m fairlyconfident I’m going to get laid off in the next few weeks, and feel silly evenusing “laid off” to describe “losing a temp job you’ve had for six weeksbecause there’s not enough work to justify keeping Dawn Davenport around.”Wacky Wanda started a fire Thursday night. Let me paint you the picture: I’mlying in “bed” (the pile of blankets on the floor I sleep in because we didn’thave enough money for a mattress when we moved to Philadelphia and sleeping onthe floor, like, fixed my back). I’mplaying everyone’s favorite game, I Might Have To Vomit, But Maybe If I FallAsleep I’ll Be Fine In the Morning. I hear a loud buzzer, and my first thoughtis “Dammit, I thought I turned off my phone ringer.” My second thought is“Well, she’s burned down the building.” I checked the hall, and lo and behold,it’s full of smoke, with Wacky Wanda standing in the doorway of her apartmenttrying to air the smoke into the hall, where it belongs. I had the presence ofmind to wet a bathrobe and jam it into the crack between the door and thefloor. That’s where my presence of mind left me. I managed to leave the housewith my iPod, but not with:

- My keys

- The framed photograph of my late grandfatherholding a Boston terrier

- My passport

- shoes

I then proceeded to announce, to the assembled tenants, that“that crazy fucking bitch I hate and ruins everyone’s life” started a fire. Idiscovered a new emotion, “too angry to vomit.”

My Stomach: I’ve decided that English muffin did have alittle mold on it. I’d like to be rid of it.

The Valve That Connects My Stomach to My Esophagus: FUCKYOU, GIRLY-GIRL. THE REST OF US ARE DEALING WITH MADENESS AND FIRE. YOU CANDIGEST BREAD MOLD.

So, it turns out she made a fire smoky enough to evacuate anentire building in the microwave. Idon’t have the words. Especially in this building, with built-in ex-Sovietmicrowaves that make food “as warm as a Latvian autumn.” Her excuse was “I fellasleep.”

Hey, we all do it. Staying up for a whole day – hell, forthe five minutes it takes to make a Healthy Choice meal – is for pussies. Rememberthe Spanish Armada? “Pssst. Liz. Your Majesty. A storm destroyed our enemy’sfleet. Go back to sleep.” Remember Appomattox? Lee gently placing his sword onthe table so as not to wake Grant, who was “at Nappy’s house?”

After the firemen gave the all clear, I calmed down bywatching “Death Becomes Her,” drinking red wine spritzers (I didn’t want topush it re: vomiting) and playing a computer game where you get to fight warsin medieval Europe.

SO, with that kind of a Thursday, I spent Friday havingstress-induced costochondritis , eating banana bread, and playing the samecomputer game (the fucking queen of Castile wouldn’t marry me no matter what Idid.)

So, Saturday… we’ve had this conversation ad nauseam. Coverletters. Stupid. No one reads. Useless. Depressing.

So I called Dad, and he helped. He was very polite about it:“Yeah, it sucks, but you’ll probably have a career eventually. Everyone on theKeith and the Girl comment boards seemed to like the show you were on. I didn’tlisten to all of it because I’m tired of hearing about you getting hand jobs,but other people seem to like it.” This is so much more reassuring than “Godhas a plan,” which was Giant Camel’s contribution, and to which the obvious reply is “Yes,but it might be for me to eventually stand between a scientist and a gunman,and that doesn’t help with March’s rent.”

Dad also helped me plan a post I’m working on for later thisweek, gossiped with me about Texas Instruments, and generally soothed me. So,in gratitude, I’m going to tell you something funny he did.

About ten minutes before the Saints/49ers game, which afterI tell this story will NEVER BE DISCUSSED AGAIN, Dad called me:

“I just wanted to tell you good luck, and tell you about adisturbing dream I had. I dreamt I was a stand-up comic, basically a RodneyDangerfield knockoff. I fiddled with my tie and everything. My whole act wasthis single joke: ‘So, my wife asks me what I want for our anniversary, and Isaid “Honey, after all these years, I really just want a blow job.” So gives mefifty dollars and says “There, go get one,” and I was really touched because itwas enough to afford a hooker who still had teeth.’ I thought you could usethat on Keith and the Girl if you got stuck.”

My father: providing emergency blow job jokes since 1950.

Good morning. Three things:

2012-01-30T03:42:00.036-05:00

My mom. But please don't. Because she's married to my dad. In fact, let's take blowing out of the equation all together and just call and ask her:

[...]

Me: So, one of my readers left a comment on the blog asking who they have to blow to get an Evie update.

My mom: HA HA HA! Aww, that's sweet.

Me: Riiiiight... So, can I get an Evie update?

Mom: Well let's see. Um. She's glad Dad is home from his business trip. She's gotten into the habit of not doing what I want and then snorting her little nasal congestion snort to make me feel sorry for her. We took her to the vet in her carrying case and left it on the kitchen floor when we got back, so she still goes in it from time to time as her little cozy space. That's kind of it. She's just being Evie.

Me: Well, what's she doing right this very second?

Mom: Right this second she's upstairs putting your father to bed. Oh! I know what you'll like! You know how she sleeps in our bed, under the covers, down by our legs at night?

Me: Yes. God bless her.

Mom: Well, your father said he woke up to her having a little sneezing fit the other night and he had kitty snot running down his legs. Oh, and we have to take her back to the vet to get her teeth cleaned!

Yvette Mimew Fieldmouse Rowland—All-American/Tonkinese gold.

(Oh my God, those paws! Look at her: just sittin' around the table, drinking hazelnut-flavored coffee, gabbin' with the girls, talkin' shit about Pam...)

- I wish you could hear the sound of pure orgasmic release I just made when I realized that I do have Prilosec.

- Here are the three most recent things in my Google search history:

1.) What's the difference between a wolf and a wolverine?

2.) What nationality is the Geico Gecko?

3.) Fuck yeah Khloe Kardashian

So, if you're wondering what kind of crazy, hi-octane weekend I had—no. No, is your answer. Although RE: #1, it's worth noting that the hardest I've ever seen my dad laugh in my entire life was when I told him that I thought a wolverine was just a "lady wolf", like Smurfette. And this isn't an adorable Meglet story, mind you; this absolutely happened like, three years ago. Max. When I was walking home from Laura's tonight, I realized that I know there's a difference between a wolf and a wolverine (besides gender and eyelash batting, of course), but I still don't know what it is. After some light googling and a trip to whatsthedifference.net (how badly do I wish that the answer to everything is "About five bank accounts, three ounces, and two vehicles"??), here are the official differences:

1. Wolves are canines, while wolverines are weasels.

2. Wolves are easier to find, living mainly in forested areas, while wolverines are rare, and live mainly in arctic places in the northern hemisphere.

3. Wolves live in groups called packs, and will not attack each other, whereas wolverines live segregated, and will attack other wolverines to protect their space.

4. Wolverines have rounded heads, short rounded ears and shorter legs, and will seldom hunt for their prey; wolves have longer legs and pricked ears, and will hunt for their prey.

5.) Wolverines talk a good one, but they don't do what they supposed to do.

6.) Wolves act on what they feel and never deal wit emotions, which is probably due to the fact that they are used to livin' big dog style and straight coastin'.

So, there you go. Should you want to know more about the difference between wolves and wolverines, I urge you to go to your local library or ask a trusted adult. But not me. Clearly.

Mail Bag

2012-01-26T04:43:00.031-05:00

Dear Meg,

I am a huge fan of yours, [Oh, stop!] and many a time have found myself giggling hysterically in my cubicle, the classroom, my room by myself, on the phone as I attempt to read your blog posts aloud to my friends, family, and whoever else will listen. My all time favorite: My New Pink Button. Funniest thing I've ever read. My second favorite: Sorr bout the bag. This has been incorporated into my everyday speech, and I have as much as possible to tried to infiltrate everyone else's speech with this phrase as well, including my new boyfriend (we'll call him DJ)

SO, last night, my boyfriend and I decided to attempt to use a female condom. I don't know if you've ever used one, but they're REALLY REALLY AWKWARD. (you should do a 2b1b investigates, and maybe you can get pot-smoking fish tranquilizer guy to participate). Basically, once you insert it, the end hangs out like a floppy vacuum attachment, which, we decided, should have INSERT HERE written on it in (flashing) letters. Having recently converted DJ into a 2b1b fan, he took one look, goes "sorr bout the bag!!" and starts giggling hysterically. At which point i also started giggling hysterically, he lost his erection, and we ended up just laying there and quoting you and NOT having sex.

So, thanks for ruining our sex life!
-GJ

You, my new friend, are more than welcome. Because if I'm not gettin' any, nobody's gettin' any. Except the exact opposite of that is true. Meaning everyone's gettin' some and I'm not. Which I suppose isn't the "exact opposite" as much as it's just depressing.

I've never used a female condom before, but that's only because I didn't know they existed until about, oh, an hour ago. Now that I do know, I will never look at a Ziploc bag or my vagina the same way again. Which is unfortunate because I make a lot of to-go sandwiches and bathe with my eyes open. So, thank you.

As far as taking one out for a test spin (vomit), the last time I saw 'ole Fish Dick was when I was running away from his parent's house/numbed phallus, so that's out. I used to have an "eff buddy", but things got complicated at Ren Fest, which is a Statement with a capital S. Chris would probably have sex with me, but he'd probably also spend the entire time making obscure historical references and talking about how much he loves my mom, which is exhausting when he's next to me, nevertheless inside of me. If you're reading this and think you're up for having sex with me while I wear a female condom—that sounds extremely uncomfortable. So, let's not do that.

OK, time out. I obviously just googled "How to insert a female condom" because in my mind the answer was: WITCHCRAFT!, but instead found this highly educational and entertaining student video from Binghamton University.

I love it for the following reasons:

1.) DOROTHY. You sassy, salty old broad, you.

2.) Dorothy's extremely soothing voice and/or the fact that I genuinely can't tell if she's foreign or just has extremely poor diction

3.) Dorothy's no-nonsense belted sweater

4.) The comical cricket noises at 00:50

5.) "Soft tubular sheath"

6.) Dorothy's makeshift female condom made out of an empty water bottle and coffee stirrers

7.) Every time they mention "the lips", I gag and want to die a little. That's not really a reason why I love this, but I thought it was worth noting.

8.) The quick cut to Dorothy at 3:10 where she talks about the benefits of female condoms while tossing condoms into a basket like she just don't give a fuck

9.) Heather's vajayjay caught on fire from using both a male and female condom

10.) Dorothy's deadpanned salty nut joke at 4:00

11.) It has a pre-planned blooper, and it involves a stunt!

12.) Special Guest Matt is pretty goddamn attractive

Christ. I just typed "Binghamton University Matt R.E.A.C.H." into Google because I'm insanely creepy like that AND/OR I'M A ROMANTIC, and everything that comes up is about Matthew Potel, a Binghamton senior who fell to his death last October while reaching to help fellow students cross a dangerous ravine in the Adirondacks. 'Eh.............. Soooooo, to recap, in the span of one blog post I've managed to: ruin a happy couple's sex life, overinform you about the goings-on (or lack of goings-on) of my vagina, offend Chris (probably), fall in love with a college student, bring you all down with a tragedy, and use the phrase "'ole Fish Dick".

I believe my work is here is done.

Vomitting in the Galley

2012-01-25T03:32:00.011-05:00

OK, so the original point of this blog post was to tell you that our galley edits for It Seemed Like a Good Idea... are due tomorrow and I haven't started mine yet (HA HA, me), but first I'd like to address a blog comment and tell you about the intense mini stroke I just had.

First up:

I've gotten a few emails asking me essentially the same thing, so I'm going to answer you all at once out of sheer laziness: yes, I obviously think it's worth it. Which level you sign up for is between you and your God, I think it's more than worth it to be able to listen to their entire backlog. As far as my favorite episode, that's like picking a favorite child. Which I absolutely believe I could do, so my favorite episode is 483: Guns & Roonies. I'm listening to it right now to confirm that it's the episode I'm thinking of, and it still makes me hysterically laugh out loud. Oddly enough, this episode aired on my birthday in 2008, which was also the day of the April 16th Virginia Tech shootings. (I was about to say, "that was a really hard day for me," but then I realized that I didn't get shot in the face on the way to Gender Studies, so...never mind.) I listened to this episode on the subway on my way home from work and spent the majority of the ride trying not to burst into laughter. Like, I had to physically hold my lips together to keep that shit under wraps. I eventually lost it and started unabashedly laughing, thereby making myself look like a completely crazy person. And again, I know that sounds weird because it's the VA Tech shooting episode, but Keith, Chemda, and their guest/friend, Matt Bray, spend the last 45-minutes of the show doing a table read of two of the VA Tech shooter's original plays and it just gets me every single time. Other than that, any episode with Patrice is hilarious. I mean, everything hilarious. Just dive in; you can't go wrong.

OK, so now onto my mini stroke. Tonight was completely lovely. My sister came over and I made us dinner, as cooking is a major part of my plan to start functioning like a normal human being. And, oh, I'm sorry, but I knocked that shit out of the fucking park. Chicken piccata with parmesan-roasted broccolini:

God dammit that's sexy. Plus, I only set off the smoke detector once, which is a personal best!

After my sister left, I felt great. I was proud of the dinner I'd made, I was proud of all the positive changes I've been making recently (true story: when Becca walked in, she actually said, "Hey, one of your blinds is open—making progress!", which makes me sound either like I'm a self-loathing vampire or just incredibly Autistic), and I just felt extremely positive about life in general. Plus I had just smoked a giant bowl and achieved the perfect level of being high, so that didn't hurt anything. Riding said high, I made myself a cup of tea, cut up some apple slices, sat down at my computer and was just like—this is awesome. I'm going to sit here being perfectly high, drinking this delicious tea, eating these delicious apple slices, and copy edit. This is the best night of my life. And it was, until I got this text from my sister:

And I LOST. MY. SHIT. My stomach dropped into my asshole and I actually said, out loud, "FEDERAL AGENTS MAD 'CUZ I'M FLAGRANT!" as I dumped the illegal contents on my coffee table into a Trader Joe's bag and paced back and forth for a good 10-minutes, obsessively re-arranging my ponytail and nervously touching my own breasts while I waited for DEA agents to bust in the door. When that didn't happen, I decided to clarify the situation:

I mean, for the sick love of God. Because now guess who gets to buy me a new pair of yoga pants? You, Rebecca Rowland. Because this soiled pair certainly isn't doing me any favors, thank you. So, that's where I am right now, emotionally. My perfect high is ruined, I'm paranoid, I have a long night of editing ahead of me, and my scalp hurts from tightening my pony tail too many times. That being said, my entire apartment smells like capers and it is delightful.

Alright, work time. Take us out, Keith and the Girl!

A Few Goat Men from Erik Skov on Vimeo.

I'm fairly certain I watched a woman discover a mole with irregular borders on the metro last night...

2012-01-24T03:20:00.000-05:00

And it's fucking with my mind.

So, I went to The Container Store in Tenleytown yesterday to get an August-August calendar/organizer as part of my Meg's-getting-her-shit-together-which-really-just-means-she-naps-slightly-less-and-does-a-crunch-every-now-and-then-when-she's-not-too-high-and/or-watching-Hoarders-on-Netflix...thing...that I'm doing, and I took the metro back to Dupont at around 5:30pm. First and foremost: mistake. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Because (and I'm fully aware of how obnoxious this is going to sound) I completely forgot how God-awful the metro is during rush hour. My psychiatrist asked me last week if I ever worry about running out of material for the blog, and I said no, because if I do, I just have to take the metro somewhere during rush hour and we're back in business. Although I said that as a joke to move the conversation along because at that point I would have shaved my upper-thighs with a cheese grater if it meant we could stop talking about my "career" and move on to the part where he throws a few bottles of pills at me and says, "See you in six months", I still think it's a valid point. Because last night, three noteworthy things happened to me in the span of one metro ride:

1.) The title of this post, which we'll come back to.

2.) While I was waiting for my train on the Tenleytown platform, this goddamn frizzy-haired mouth-breather of a woman waddled up and, despite having ample room to stand next to me, she stood right in front of me. Like, her back was separated from my front by a matter of a few erotic inches. I can understand this happening when the platform is packed and it's like, well where else do you want me to go, guy?, but, again, I had at least five-feet of space on either side of me. I could have comfortably grapevined in either direction and in no way had to alter the size of my jazz movements. I don't know why she chose to stand directly in front of me, but all I could think was that this was the physical manifestation of those assholes on the The Price is Right who wait until everyone else has bid, and then bid one-dollar more than the highest bidder. Those people are the fucking worst. Because how hard is it to come up with the retail price of some asinine home product out of thin air? Pretty goddamn hard. How hard is it to tack a dollar onto that amount, turn around, and throw your arms up in victory at your fellow Arizona State Sigma Chi's in the audience? Not that hard. But they always win! And it's like, what's a bro in the desert going to do with a Jaclyn Smith Heritage dinette set? You just know he's going to sell it on eBay to buy tickets to a Jack Johnson concert or some shit, when it really should have gone to the Latina woman at the end of the row with a hutch to do it some justice, God bless her. So, then, not only was I pissed off that there was an asshole standing in front of me, I was also becoming increasingly more agitated thinking about the unspoken moral code and bidding strategies of The Price is Right's contestant's row, and I was just standing there silently fuming to the point where thank God the train came, because I was 30-seconds away from shoving a bottle of Garlique down that bitch's throat and smashing her head in with a grandfather clock. Had I had any of the necessary tools.

3.) Things were even more infuriating going from Dupont to Tenley. I know I'm a writer and I just applied to a bunch of fancy MFA programs and I should take my "craft" seriously and blah blah blah, but I truly struggle with describing seating on the metro, so I'm just going to draw the situation I found myself in instead:

OK? Get it? So my objective was to get from the aisle to the free seat on the far side of the two-seater, kitty-corner to the handicap seats. You know? Look, if you're still confused, just fucking call me. I don't have the talent or the gumption to tackle describing seating arrangements right now. Let's just leave it at that.

So, Seat #1 was occupied by this horrible girl who looked like a Hill staffer (my apologies if you are a Hill staffer, I'm just trying to paint a picture), sitting there with her perfect posture in her sensible flats and khaki pants and low bun, reading what I can only assume was Eat, Love, Pray on her Kindle. For those of you unfamiliar with the DC metro system, the L set-up illustrated above is a tight squeeze for all parties involved. Therefore, when someone is seated in Seat #1 and the seat next to them frees up, it's common courtesy to scooch over to make it easier for the next rider to sit down. Hill Staffer, however, did not scooch at all. Instead, she ignored me when I asked her to move over or swing her legs out into the aisle so I could get by. She just flat-out ignored me. And it's not like she was lost in the whimsical world of books and didn't realize that I was trying to sit next to her; she clearly locked eyes with me when I asked her to move and just chose not to. So then I had to do these Cirque Du Soleil-like acrobatics to climb over her and everyone else and squeeze myself into the seat next to her, which was as tiring as it was infuriating. But here's the best part: she did it again when I had to get off the train. As we approached Dupont, I said, "Excuse me, this is my stop", and she glanced up at me, glanced back down, and didn't do a goddamn thing. It was mind-boggling. But, I figured if it was a lap dance she wanted, then it was a lap dance she was going to get—I climbed over, straddled, and grinded that skinny bitch like it was the last dance of the night and I was $20 short of making my meth habit. She didn't have a dick, but I was still going to get it hard. I was grinding with that kind of tenacity. Because be an ass to me once, shame on you; be an ass to me twice, I'm going to get you fucking pregnant.

But back to 1.) I'm fairly certain I saw a woman discover a mole with irregular borders. I was sitting in my awkward little corner seat, fuming and absentmindedly watching the woman sitting in the handicap seat nearest to me switch her heavy coat for a light cardigan. She was an older woman, probably in her late 50's, and looked normal enough. The entire situation wasn't that interesting until she starting folding up the sleeves of said cardigan. She folded up her left sleeve with no issue, but then three folds up the right, she (and I) noticed something on her forearm. She looked at it quizzically and leaned in closer to inspect it. She licked her thumb and rubbed it, but it didn't budge. Now I'm just a simple blogger/graphic designer/unemployed Matt Paxton enthusiast, but that was 100% a mole with irregular borders. I've seen enough ZOINKS! DEEZ 'AINT RIGHT! mole posters at various dermatologist's office to know what one looks like and that, madam, zoinks—dat don't look right.

The woman looked concerned for about a fraction of a second, shrugged, and then rolled both of her sleeves down. At this point, I honestly didn't know if I should have said something or not. Because on one hand, I'm not a doctor, it's none of my business and what the fuck do I know? But on the other—IT WAS A MOLE WITH IRREGULAR BORDERS. She needs to go to the dermatologist and get it checked out immediately. Need a dermatologist? Marisa Braun at Braun Dermatology Associates on F and 21st. I'm obsessed. I have an oddly specific balance of $10.87, but feel free to tell her Meg sent you. This woman just looked like she had a nice family at home and you always hear stories about people who don't get little things like this checked out and six months later it's metastasized into Stage 4 cancer and it's this big, traumatic life lesson about the importance of yearly full body mole scans. I mean, despite venturing into the sun only occasionally to get a $5 footlong, I convince myself that I have skin cancer at least three times a year. I rarely go to the dermatologist and get it checked out, mind you; I mostly just ask everyone I interact with to look at it and tell me if they think it looks weird. I've made quite a few happy hours awkward this way, but, hell, it's cheaper than a co-pay. Thank God I'm not a man because I can just see myself 40 years from now being someone's Uncle Mort who shows up to dinner all, "My left testicle is inflamed, but feh."

So, now I'm completely invested in this woman's livelihood. I didn't end up saying anything to her and I'm convinced that she's going to die and it's going to be my fault. I've actually considered putting the following missed connection on Craigslist:

Kind-Looking Older Woman in Smart Cardigan (Redline towards Shady Grove)

YES, THAT MOLE DID HAVE IRREGULAR BORDERS. I was the surly-looking 20-something with giant hooters sitting kitty-corner to you on the metro last night, and as someone who took biology in college instead of the considerably easier "Ocean Studies", it is my expert opinion that you need to get that mole checked out as soon as humanly possible. If the only thing that's stopping you is someone to go with you and hold your hand, here—take mine. We're going to get through this. TOGETHER.

(Email me back with "SKIN TAG" in the subject line so I know you're not a bot.)

But, you know, that's "weird". So, on the off chance that you, ma'am, are a 2birds1blog reader, I truly believe that your mole has irregular borders. I've done some light Googling, I've done the comparison, and I think it would behoove you to get it checked out. And if you're not a 2birds1blog reader, as I assume you're not because you had kind eyes and I just talked about hate-fucking a stranger because they were slightly rude to me on the metro—I'm sorry I killed you.

FULL. BODY. MOLE SCANS. PEOPLE.

It's not because you're black...

2012-01-20T03:12:00.000-05:00

[****NOTE: Correction to yesterday's blog post: Chris and I will be on Keith and the Girl today at 4pm, not 5pm. I, Meghan C. Rowland, am a whore and a horrible human being. I apologize.****]

Well, last night sucked: the Saints lost, I tripped over aChristmas tree on the sidewalk, and Wacky Wanda pounded on the door and triedto get in at 1:30 in the morning. That’s probably the thing that pisses me offmost that people ever do: they knock, and then if you don’t answer they try the knob. And so… what? Are youjust going to walk in? If I’m not here, are you just going to pop in a DVD of It’s Garry Shandling’s Show, helpyourself to a beer, and wait? Wacky Wanda was angry because, as she put it, we“stole her pocketbook that she left in the foyer.” So, naturally, after leavingher possessions in a public place, she assumes they were stolen by the only twopeople who bother to be polite to her crazy ass. I did get a littlereassurance, though: I’ve always hated my speaking voice, but I noticed as Ishouted at Wacky Wanda that, when I’m angry, my voice does in fact sound likean angry adult man, and not the Paul-Lynde-with-hayfever production I hear onanswering machines, so that’s good.

As for the Saints… I don’t know where to begin. I’mcompletely irrational about football, to the point where watching The Walking Dead is less stressful forme than others because, since it takes place in Georgia, I figure everyoneinvolved is a Falcons fan and already spiritually dead. I did manage to avoidactually crying in the bar, which was a very small victory.

So, since 2012 has started with a whimper, I’m going to gofor it and tell you my best “I was accidentally racist” story ever. It’scalled, “It’s not because you’re black; my mom thinks I have a disease.”

So, this past summer, I was running an SAT prep seminar fora group of kids. The organization I was working for would generally leavesomeone in the room with me for crowd control and, presumably, So There WouldBe An Adult In the Room, Not That We Think You’re A Sex Pervert But Well WhatWith the Church Better Safe Than Sorry And We’re Sure You Understand, It’sReally For Your Protection. The Designated Adult was generally one of twoAfrican American ladies of about the same age.

You see where this is going, right? I called the one by theother’s name. In my defense, I badly need new glasses and I genuinely expectedJane, not Tessa, to be there that day. What makes this so acutely embarrassingand Accidentally Racist is that, instead of saying, “oh, excuse me, got a caseof the Mondays!” I PANICKED and started babbling about new glasses because thepart of my brain that ensures compliance with the Civil Rights Act of 1964burst into the control room and yelled at the rest of my brain, “SHE’S GOING TOTHINK YOU DID THAT BECAUSE SHE’S BLACK AND JANE IS BLACK AND THEY’RE BOTH BLACKAND YOU CAN’T TELL BLACK PEOPLE APART BECAUSE YOU THINK THEY SHOULD BE MAKINGYOU GRITS, THAT’S WHAT SHE’LL THINK!” That’s what’s racist – just assuming myblack sort-of coworker with whom I’ve had several pleasant conversations isgoing to be racially offended because I called her by the wrong name onemorning, and further assuming that the only way I can head off being reportedto the Southern Poverty Law Center is to apologize way too much, offer aconvoluted excuse, and make it a bigger deal than it ever would have been if Ihadn’t panicked. Essentially, I was filibustering her being offended.

Thank God for small favors, and the fact that I genuinely doneed new glasses, because the first thing I thought of to say, that I mightactually have said if I hadn’t remembered I was half blind, was this: “It’s notbecause you’re black; my mom thinks I have a disease!”

Backstory: My mother thinks I have that disease where youcan’t recognize faces. When I was a child and young teenager, we’d be watchingTV, and I’d say, “oh, isn’t that Jessica Walter?” Instead of saying, “no, shutup about Jessica Walter for five minutes” my mother would turn to me with abaffled look and say, “No. No. Thatactress doesn’t look a thing like Jessica Walter. That’s Susan Anton. I think you have that problem where you can’trecognize faces.” Granted, untreated ADHD and constantly needing a new glassesprescription mimics that disorder very closely, but it wasn’t like I screamedin terror when Dad came home because there was a strange man in the house,every single day. I have a friend who thinks everyone on TV is “that guy fromMonk.” (She can’t remember hisname or face, but the core concept sticks with her.) Plus, Mom thinks everyone has every disease. (This from a woman who genuinely believes she hadthe menopause three times.)

So, of course, that was the excuse I thought of. What’s lessracist that not being able to tell any peopleapart? I don’t see black and white, I see ever-shifting, interchangeable,practically Cubist agglomerations of features. And, of course – to make sure mypoint got across – the first sentence I thought of was “It’s not because you’reblack; my mom thinks I have a disease!”

“It’s not because you’re black; my mom thinks I have a disease!” just summarizes my life. My awkwardness, my constant borderline hysteria, my peculiar childhood, all neatly explained in one barely coherent sentence. It’s up there with all the other great lines in the history of the English language:

“We have not yet begun to fight!”

“Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute!”

“I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but Ihave the heart and stomach of a king – and of a king of England, too!”

“We shall fighton the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in thefields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall neversurrender, and if, which I do not for a minute believe, this island or a largepart of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armedand guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle until, in God’sgood time, the new world, with all its power and might, steps forth to therescue and the liberation of the old.”

“Sorr about the bag.”

“It’s not because you’re black; my mom thinks I have adisease!”

State of the Meg/SOMETHING SO TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND EXCITING!!@!1!

2012-01-19T05:23:00.045-05:00

First, let it be known that I just typed out (and deleted) the entire intro to Eminem's "Without Me", replacing every instance of "Shady" with "Meggles". So: a.) I'm back, b.) tell a friend, c.) I'm still just horrible.

2012 got off to a rocky-ass start, you guys. Rocky-ass. As I mentioned, I'm applying (or, have now applied) to a few creative writing MFA programs in New York. Getting my portfolio together and writing my personal statement/memoir outline/literary essay/vomit vomit vomit was rough, to say the least. Nothing I had felt good enough, anything new I wrote sucked, and I started doubting my memoir idea. I'd stay up for these long 18-hour stretches, not eating and just re-writing and re-writing and re-writing and tweeting and re-writing the same sentence over and over again like a crazy person. I have an unfortunate tendency to do that. When I pulled that shit with Chris when we were writing our first book, he'd tell me to stop because I was "splitting hairs". This quickly became "you're splitting pubes", which became "you're braiding your pubes", then "you're cornrowing your pubes", and my personal favorite, the direct, "MEG, STOP BEING OBSESSED WITH YOUR OWN PUBIC HAIR." I needed Chris there to keep my pubic hair in check. Which, of course, is one of the reasons why I want to go to grad school in the first place. I'd like to be able to sit down and write something without needing someone there to tell me to leave my pubes alone. <---- If I could turn back time, that sentence in 72-point CurlzMT would be my personal statement. Period.

This entire grad school application process has really made me feel like shit about myself. I couldn't stop reading these creative writing MFA blogs with their forums of people who'd been to fancy-ass workshops and had MFA coaches. MFA coaches! That's a thing! And then there's me sitting in my parent's basement in a "Hoof Arted?" t-shirt, debating if I should say, "I shoved my breasts into an ill-fitting sports bra" or "I crammed my breasts into an ill-fitting sports bra" for 90-minutes straight. Every now and then I'd need a mental break and do a New York Times online crossword puzzle for "Young Solvers". I fucking love those things. They're easy, but not too easy, and to the casual observer it just looks like you're working that Times crossword like a motherfucker. Also, when you finish, a comical pencil pops up to congratulate you.

I call him Colonel Twiggins and he his my jam.

One of the saddest moments of this entire process came when I decided to take a break from my Columbia application with the NYT4YS puzzle "Scary Stories". (Sad in and of itself, I realize.) I thought I had successfully solved the puzzle, but could not for the life of me figure out why Colonel Twiggins wasn't popping up. After about ten minutes of throwing pillows at the cat and yelling profanities at my computer, I realized that I had spelled "radio" R-A-D-E-O. I mean...I just can't. Because to recap: while applying to the Ivy league institution, I misspelled "radio" in a crossword puzzle written for elementary schoolers and worked myself into a lather because the jaunty little pencil didn't pop up to validate all of my hard work. I mean, why did I even apply at that point? I should have just sent them an oil painting of myself playing with my own fecal matter in a sweatshirt that says "I hate Mondays" and saved myself the $150 application fee.

But, I finally submitted all of my applications. I thought I'd feel relieved after I submitted the last one, but I didn't. I felt really, really sad. Which was such an odd emotion to have. Because I didn't feel depressed, I didn't feel disappointed, I didn't feel anxious—I felt sad. True to form, I buried those emotions deep, deep down, started to driving to Teresa's birthday party in Silver Spring, and 100% burst into tears around Georgia and August. It was weird, because I'm not really a "crier". I think I can count the number of times I've cried since 2004 on one hand, and most of them have been in the past six months, which is probably a star-spangled, flaming red flag that something is wrong. I pulled over, had myself a good cry, did some rational thinking, and here's what I realized: I've been unhappy about a lot of aspects of my life recently, and I think going to grad school was my quick fix for everything. Like, who cares that I can't find a job? I'm going to go to grad school! Why should I be upset that I'm the only one of my friends who isn't in a relationship? I'm just going to move in August anyway! Etc, etc. But then when I realized that that might not happen, it was like, well fuck—where does that leave me? Crying in an SUV parked outside of a pirate-themed bar in Silver Spring, oddly and specifically enough. But then I realized that even if I do get into grad school, it's not going to magically fix everything. I'll still be unhappy. Just with a lot more debt. And maybe a pug. Depending on my housing. But probably not. Because I can't spell and my personal statement very much included the phrase "hot-ass mess".

Back outside the pirate bar, a spry, gay young gentleman told me something wise: when you're unhappy, there are things you can do about it and things you can't, so do what you can do now and the rest will eventually to fall into place. (That gay man was Alex on the phone with me, by the way. Reading that back over, it kind of sounds like a spindly gay man tapped on my window with his house keys out of nowhere and offered to ride shotgun while we rounded a few bases and swapped life advice.) (Which I would have been into, for the record.) So, I took some time and got my shit together. Or I've started to get my shit together. And it feels good! I don't know if I'll get into grad school and there are things that certainly suck right now, but whatevs. It'll get better. And it the mean time, it's just blog fodder gold, my friends. Lose/Win!

NEXT PIECE OF TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND EXCITING INFORMATION! OK, OK, OK, hee hee hee, OK. I have an announcement to make: this Friday at ~~5pm~~ 4pm, Chris and I will be guests on Keith and the Girl! I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!?!?11 If you don't know what Keith and the Girl is, you've wasted the past seven years of your life and I feel sorry for you, but for the sake of being a better person, or whatever it is I'm trying to do these days, Keith and the Girl is a free daily comedy podcast hosted by Keith Malley and Chemda Khalili and it's just so good. Their tagline is "Keith and his ex-girlfriend talk shit", and that's pretty much exactly what they do. They live in Queens, they used to date, they have hilarious friends/guests, an intense cult following, and they talk for about an hour and 20-minutes everyday on air about their lives, current events, and pop culture. It's addictive. I started listening to KATG when I moved to New York in 2007 and I've been a daily listener ever since. I swear to God I'm not saying this to suck up to them because fuck it, we already got booked, but do yourself a favor and subscribe to their show on iTunes immediately. It's perfect to listen to in the car, on your commute, at work or around the house. I do all of the above, frankly. It's funny, honest, touching, and life-changing. I say this because it literally changed my life. Which I told them. Which is embarrassing in retrospect, but it did.

It's no secret that my first year out of college in New York was one of the darkest times of my life, if not the darkest. (How dark? Buy the memoir that will in no way be written at Columbia, Hunter, or the New School.) After living in New York for a year, I felt like the only friends I had made were Keith and the Girl and my therapist, which is just as depressing as it sounds. But not only did KATG lift my spirits during a time when I didn't think that was even possible, they also inspired me to quit my job, move back to DC and write this blog. I was listening to KATG one day while riding the F train home from work, being miserable, as per usual, when Keith and Chemda started talking about how infuriating it is when people condescendingly tell that it must be sooo nice to just do a podcast and "work" for only an hour a day and how they wished they could do that. Chemda then started shouting, "THEN FUCKING DO IT! WHAT'S STOPPING YOU, ASSHOLE? YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING CREATIVE, THEN GET A SHIT JOB, PUT IN YEARS OF HARD WORK, AND FUCKING DO IT!" And that, my friends, is how 2birds1blog was born. Well, technically Ex Co-Blogger Eddie and I had created it a few months before as a way to keep in touch after college, but that was the moment when I decided to follow my passion, take full control, and blog five days a week. And thank Christ I did, because if I hadn't, I'd probably either be dead right now or hooking somewhere in Bed-Stuy with Weekend Hair. (Truthfully, the latter doesn't all that bad...)

As you can probably guess, I'm so fucking nervous for Friday that I can barely function. I just can't wrap my head around the fact that we're actually going to meet them. I feel like there aren't enough words to thank them for inspiring me to pursue my writing, and in trying to do so, I'm going to burst into tears, soil myself, and ruin thousands of dollars worth of equipment. Not to mention the fact that we have to BE FUNNY. That's the entire reason we're going on the show! And I'm sorry, but I can either not vomit, or be funny: pick one. Contrary to the cover letter I'm currently half-ass writing in another window, I can not multi-task. Also, their forums are like our comments section on crack. People do not hold back, you guys. They will flat-out be like, "WORST GUEST EVER" 30-seconds into a show and you can't win 'em back! You just can't! My jazzy and elegant solution? Wear a low-cut top. BOOM: tit-tays. Christ only knows what Chris is going to do. Although he keeps obnoxiously texting me about how calm he is. He's so calm. He's just the calmest clam in the...cove. (I don't know if there are clams in coves, but I needed a C to finish the alliteration and THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I CAN'T BE FUNNY WHEN I'M TRYING TO KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER AND I'M BARELY HANGING ON BY A THREAD!!! I'm like a scared horse that needs to be <--- Stop, Meg. Just stop right there. That "joke" was obviously going somewhere involving Pony Play and you, frankly, look crazy enough right now. Speaking of crazy! Up until about six hours ago, I had every intention of baking and bringing them cookies. I mean, there's really no quicker way to say I'm crazy than to show up sweating profusely with a shaky plate full of cookies all, "I was going to kill myself in 2008, but then you gots-me-a-gigglin'." Wiiiiiink.

Christ. Alright, I have one day to get to New York and pull myself together. If you would like to watch and/or listen to my dream come true, (being a guest on Keith and the Girl, that is, not vomiting in front of my heros) (although dear Mary mother of God, something tells me they're going to be one in the same!) you can go to katg.com and watch and listen live at ~~5 o'clock~~ 4 o'clock, or you can download it from iTunes shortly after the show wraps. But really, you should subscribe right now. And follow them on Twitter. And shit, follow me on Twitter. OK, time to unwind with the Colonel. And for the first time in my life, that's not a reference to KFC. See, POSITIVE CHANGES!!!1!

That’s Why It’s Called Work

2012-01-17T02:03:00.000-05:00

So, I got a day job, and I have a bad attitude about it. Theultra-abbreviated version is that between when I interviewed and when Istarted, Giant Camel got fired over some bullshit. (He worked at the sameplace.) Aside from my natural partisanship, the whole situation was objectively bullshit, so by the time Istarted at – let’s call it CompuCom – I was already tired of it. I wasgenuinely going to try to be thankful and have a good attitude, because I’dneeded a job for a while and because so many other people need work, but – fuckit.

I hit my first personal hurdle before I even technically started.There were four of us in the orientation group, and wouldn’t you know it? Wegot The Office Conversation Guy. You know that guy who insists on having a conversation during lag time instead of lettingeveryone sit quietly with their own thoughts? He’s sitting there just going onabout operating systems, and how no one makes palm pilots anymore, and he hastwo monitors on his home computer, and “the cloud,” and data encryption… Ican’t add to any of this, but since I’m in the room, I’m In The Conversation,and for some reason it’s rude to say “I’d rather dread orientation in silence,please.” Then the office manager comes in and – lo and behold! – OfficeConversation Guy reveals his other personality, Office Humor Guy. You know thatperson you work with who constantly makes “jokes” using one of the four workpunchlines: “Is it Friday yet?” “That’s above my pay grade!” “Coffee break!”or, sarcastically, “I love work!”? Him. So not only are we filling outpaperwork about how CompuCom owes us nothing, but if we invent something, theyown it, and don’t nickname your coworkers things like “Tits” or “TowelheadDennis,” we have to have it narrated by this guy whose sense of humor is theresult of Cathy getting knocked up by Dilbert and then drinking during thepregnancy.

Of course, my name was wrong on the paperwork: “Oh, we haveyou down as Chris Turner, is that fine?”

No, it’s not fine. My full name is right there on all thepaperwork I filled out. Do you justquit typing in the middle of other words because you feel like it, as in “Fousco a seve year ag, ou forefat…” Can I call you “Mary Smith” because it’ssimpler? People never realize that – just maybe – my full, hyphenated name is,I don’t know, on my Social Security card, birth certificate, and bank account and maybe it would be niceto, I don’t know, have my actual name on my paycheck? After trying to make thispoint politely, I was treated to a short holier-than-thou lecture about howsomeone else in the office has an apostrophe in her name and she just omits it because it makes everything easier. Had I not needed the job, I would have shouted “I’ll omityou!”

Do you think that being given three PowerPoint lectures toread on your own counts as training? Me neither.

About this time, I started thinking, “Wow, I need a newspirit animal for this job. Someone who scowls. Someone who doesn’t takebullshit.”

Ladies and gentlemen, my spirit animal for the duration ofthis temp job… Dawn Davenport, central character of John Waters’ film Female Trouble.

Dawn Davenport knocks down the Christmas tree when shedoesn’t get what she wants. Dawn Davenport eats meatball sandwiches in class.Dawn Davenport screams obscenities because it makes her feel strong. DawnDavenport will cut you.

Something about the stance – the fat-and-angry posture ofher – really speaks to how I feel about things right now, probably because I’mfat and angry.

So now, whenever I’m annoyed at work, I ask myself, “Whatwould Dawn Davenport do?” So far, what I’ve decided Dawn Davenport would do hasincluded:

- Taking extra pastries every time they appear inthe break room

- Going ahead and gnawing on the bone of the porkchop I brought for lunch, because who the fuck am I trying to impress, whereasan animal died so I could eat that meat

- Smoking clove cigarettes right by the door

- Not washing my hands after I pee, so everyone Itouch is, in some small way, touching my penis

- Refusing to make small talk with a coworker whowanted to talk about his pirated DVDs (let me tell you, you feel differentlyabout intellectual property once you have some)

- Refusing to pretend to be sympathetic when theabove coworker was laid off

- Refusing to give a flying fuck about long-termcorporate goals

- And I ALMOST talked myself into licking theoffice doorknob of someone I don’t like when I had a cold, but I was afraid I’dbe seen

So, of course, my plan has succeeded too well, since now Ireally like work because I spend all day imagining that Divine is sitting nextto me, keeping up an extremely foul-mouthed commentary about my workday.

Which brings me to my appeal. If any of you readers stillknow how to make this little woven string “WWJD” bracelets, I will pay you amodest sum to make one that says “WWDDD?”* I’ll wear it next time I don’t givea fuck.

*I’m totally serious. I really want one.

Mallgasm, Etc.

2012-01-16T00:17:00.009-05:00

I have a real post about an uncomfortable trip to the mallbelow, but first I need to talk about magic and John Edwards.

So… Meg’s and my writing career is cursed. Not just in theobvious “only sold 14 copies of Brainwashing so far” sense, but in an eerier,more metaphysical sense. In The Misanthrope’s Guide to Life, we refer to vomiting to get out of anill-advised threesome as “the Amy Winehouse defense.” Now, she’s doing linesoff angel’s wings. In Brainwashing for Beginners, we made any number of jokes about Kim Jong-Il, and there’s areally solid North Korea joke in It Seemed Like a Good Idea…, and now Kim Jong-Il is behind Q/G/Kadd(h)afi/y inline to be reincarnated as a mealworm with a spastic colon. The centerpiece of It Seemed Like a Good Idea…, literallythe funniest thing ever written, is about a lesbian ghost who uses a neti pot –and lo and behold! Several neti pot users have dropped dead this winter inLouisiana because they got brain amoebas.

So, this brings us the matter of funding. For five dollars,we will mention one of your enemies in the next book, tentatively titled The Big Book of Strangers Who Might Die froma Curse. Ten dollars gets the name in bold.

I feel like I should feel bad about this, but how in keepingwith his whole life and career is the fact that John Edwards has a heartproblem and can’t go on trial? Of course. When the going gets tough, thecorrupt get the vapors. He probably does have some problem, but if anyone canfind a doctor to diagnose him with whatever’s convenient, John “Follow ThatAmbulance” Edwards is that man. Keep in mind, this is the man John Kerry choseas his running mate so the ticket wouldfeature someone likeable – and over whom voters chose Dick Cheney.

I haven’t been blogging lately becauseI have a new job with terrible hours, which I’ll tell you about in a subsequentpost. Right now, I want to tell you about the circumstances of the interview.

I actually had two job interviews that week, by far apersonal best. The first did not go well – my interviewer was rocking theunusual combo of “plunging neckline and obvious cardiac surgery scar,” whichwas distracting. We did that awkward little eye-contact dance where a womancatches a man looking at her chest and gets that “well I’m offended but didn’texpect better” facial expression and I wanted to holler “I COULD CARE LESSABOUT YOUR TITS!” This is, PS, on a day when I thought my grandmother washaving heart surgery (it was later postponed) so of course I had crackedsternums on the brain. The situation went further downhill when she used “airquotes” when referencing my teaching experience. I have teaching experience. I have taught. I have not “taught,” it’s not a lie, an exaggeration, or a week-long community service project I did in high school to appear well-rounded when I applied to college.

I have teaching experience, “bitch.”

I then had to take a writing test. Now, I understand thathaters gonna hate, but I can write.My job was to take some notes and write content for a simple website for a poolmaintenance company. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have written “Try Capital PoolServices and see just how swimminglypool maintenance can go!” but - shit. It was literally like a back-to-schoolnightmare. The assignment was full of abbreviations and acronyms I didn’tunderstand, which… isn’t it easier to tell people what to do and see if theycan do it than to make them figure it out and see then if they can do it? Like, how often on the job will I have todecipher something impenetrable? Is my cubicle between a Navajo codetalker witha lisp and a signalman who stutters in Morse code?

I then had to go into another room, bare except for a table,filing cabinet, and shelf holding three VHS tapes: Managing Diversity, SexualHarassment: IT’S NOT FUNNY, and OfficeSpace. It’s always a bad sign when people try to self-parody and miss.Can’t you hear that conversation? “Haha, let’s be light-hearted about thecubicle situation! After you watch the mandatory videos about sexual harassmentand diversity.” I was then re-interviewed by “Elaine from HR,” who asked me allthe same questions but was more polite. I was not called back.

The next day, I went to be interviewed at the other place.It took five minutes:

“MY job is really just to weed out the crazies. You don’tlook like an axe murderer. Yeah, here on your resume. No axe murderer couldwrite three humor books.”

I shit you not.

So, on the way home, the main bus stop is at a largesuburban mall. I decided to have Mall Time. I never go to malls except TheGallery – for those of you who don’t live in Philadelphia, The Gallery is like…it’s a Burlington Coat Factory, a Kmart, and a train station welded togetherwith a food court and some nail salons, and teenagers go there to cruise. Thiswould be my first time in A Real Mall in several months at least.

I got the very last Chick-fil-Abreakfast biscuit, so I was riding high. I ate it leisurely strolling around,and once I was done I decided to take a spin in the hurricane simulator. Haveyou seen these? It’s a little booth and you get in and get blown – not in thefun way, with fams, and it’s supposed to be “like a category two hurricane.”Having largely been spared THE WRATH OF IRENE earlier in the fall, I put in mytwo dollars (I could afford it! I was employed!) and went for it.

Now, you’d think a pair ofseventy-year-old mall walkers would have better things to do than stop andstare at a man in a hurricane simulator. You’d be so terribly, desperatelywrong. They just stopped and looked, with the same flat intensity of gaze andinscrutable reason as a Byzantine icon. Sts. Herman and Bertha of Ardmore,patrons of uncomfortable encounters with strangers. I folded my hands and facedthe wall, so they wouldn’t have anything to watch, and so they got to watch avery calm, composed man in 50 mph winds. I guess their expectations were low.

I checked the video store for acopy of Pink Flamingos (nope) and thebookstore for our books (nope), and then… well, there’s no dignified way to saythis.

I let the little Israelicosmetics demonstration guy give me a cosmetics demonstration because he washandsome.

I am absolutely not aCosmetics-and-Grooming Gay. I don’t want to spend the money, I don’t want toinvest the time, and somewhere over my shoulder a Protestant ancestor (hell,maybe Pocahontas herself) is whispering “You know what they call ahyper-well-groomed person of average attractiveness? A fussy queen. You’d be better off learning how to make jam. That’sa skill. Famine comes, you’re going to eat your blemish concealer? NO. Jam,you’ll eat.” There’s something comforting about being average-looking: I don’thave to worry about losing looks I don’t have, yet people at the bank willstill make eye contact with me. So if I can look about the same without being a person who shapes hiseyebrows, I’d rather stick with that. (That used to be my test if a man was tooeffeminate for me to be interested in – not if he groomed his eyebrows but ifthey looked like they had beengroomed.)

So, why sit through a cosmeticsdemonstration? Because someone attractive wanted me to. Because the real titleof our first book is The Misanthrope’sGuide to Maybe If You Let Him Show You a Moisturizer, You Can Have Sex in aMall Bathroom. Because I’m an absolute dillhole. And then – because itwould be rude not to, after he spent so much time! – I bought some exfoliant.It’s made with salt from the Dead Sea, because nothing says “beauty” likeminerals from a shrinking, oft-contested lake that fish can’t like in because ofthe chemistry.

So, fine. But Hot CosmeticsDemonstration Guy had also demonstrated nail care products, which I refused tobuy. (I have a limit, apparently.) So I had one perfect, pink, smooth, buffed,shiny, elegant thumbnail and nine matte, unglamorous, respectable nails. I wasso reluctant to explain this that I hidmy thumb for the next several days by keeping that hand in my pocket andtrying to do everything left-handed so people wouldn’t think I’d applied glossynail polish to one nail, over and over, excluding all other. I rubbed my otherfingers over the nail constantly, like a worry stone – it was pretty fucking smooth.

You know – unlike me.

2011-12-17T15:37:00.001-05:00

I know today is officially Chris' day to have custody, but...

2011-12-16T03:57:00.007-05:00

RE: This blog post:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm currently rolling around my bed laughing-out-loud. But like deep belly laughs. Because:

1.) Mom and Dad really did tell you to keep the clay model the class made because it was "almost just as good". I was three-years-old when this happened, yet I can still see you standing in the kitchen, jabbing pieces of grass at its clay mouth until you eventually gave up and hung your little head in disappointment all, "...........Damnit."

2.) I really was the living Samantha doll in an American Girl Doll & Me fashion show at Tyson's Corner. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I P-P-P-P-P-P-P-Peaked young.

3.) Speaking of Chicago, the tables have turned, my friend. You just spent the entire weekend with Mark Stein, aka author of How The States Got Their Shapes, aka my favorite television show in the entire world, aka the thing I introduced to you. Would I trade my time with Abu if it meant I could hang out in Chi-town eating deep-dish pizza with Mark Stein, rappin' about border rivers, acts of Congress, pioneers, Mormons and the coulda-woulda-shoulda state of Deseret?..................................................................................................................................Maybe. It's a Sophie's Choice if there ever was one.

4.) Dude, it sounds like there's an all-out fucking frat party going on outside my window on 20th street and it's ungodly obnoxious. I realize it's Thursday night, Kids Will Be Kids, and I could simply close my window, but it's unseasonably warm out and you know I can't fall asleep without the gentle reassurance of a light breeze. You're my landlord, so please consider this my official complaint. And yes, I realize you have virtually no control over this situation and at this moment I'm watching illegally downloaded episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras and laughing about your childhood and in no way actively trying to fall asleep, but I expected some sort of dozing off to eventually happen.

In the time it took me to write that last paragraph, the party seems to have dispersed. So thank you for solving that problem.

Oh! I have another complaint for you! (Sorry guys. This has pretty much just turned into an email to my sister and if you skip ahead to today's Chris post, I would totally understand.) OK, so I came home from running errands yesterday morning and Ruta buzzed me in, right? So I stop, say hi, ask how she is and ask if I have any packages, and she says in a completely judgmental tone: "Oh. Hi Meg. There are no packages for you today, but you certainly had a ton yesterday," and rolls her eyes like, "Oh that fucking baller Meg Rowland. She just sits in her apartment and Internet shops all day and stuffs more money into her mattress made of cash and diamond-encrusted lobsters. Must be nice." And it's like, dude, it's the fucking middle of December. Obviously those were Christmas presents and not for me. And I didn't know if I should say something like "Ha ha, 'tis the season!" to drive that point home, but then it's like, why should I have to justify my purchases to you, asshole? But at the same time, I know mom's present and my Hanukkah present from Chris are coming tomorrow and I'm completely anxious about it. My plan is obviously to go down later in the day when Henry's working because the only conversation he ever engages in is his soothing little Helllloooooooo!, but I'll still know in my heart of hearts that Ruta checked them in and it's going to affect me all weekend.

So what I'm really asking is: What Would Mark Stein Do?

IVY HIJINX!

2011-12-16T02:08:00.000-05:00

As Meg and I mentioned during our Elephant in the Room fit of honesty last month, we’ve been invited to speak at Yale. Let me set thescene: we were working on the most recent book, which was, hands down, the mostdifficult thing I’ve ever done. I can’t speak for Meg, but for her sake I hope it was the most difficult thingshe’s ever done. As of Friday, I’m too old to be drafted unless the homeland isinvaded, and barring unwelcome advances in technology I’m unlikely to givebirth, so I think writing It Seemed Like A Good Idea… will stand for a while as the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

You know how when you have something unpleasant or drainingahead of you, you start doing everything in your power to avoid it? Well,unfortunately, I’d already done all the niggling little tasks I had to do whilepostponing writing my graduate thesis “Laughing at Hitler: Nancy Mitford in anAge of Extremism.” Actual title, and I got a good grade on it. Not only did Iget a good grade, I’d been so reluctant to sit my ass down and finish it that I also had a cleanrefrigerator, resumes uploaded to multiple job websites, an organized recipefile, and my Christmas card list made. So with all that done, all I had to doto distract myself during the tearful orgy of obscure pop culture referencesthat was the writing of It Seemed Like aGood Idea… was obsessively check my email and the Amazon sales rank of The Misanthrope’s Guide to Life, backand forth, over and over, like an epileptic terrier. I’d gotten no email in sixhours and Misanthrope’s waspersistently hanging out at a “respectable” level and so I was more or lessdoomed to start working when we got an email with the subject line “PossibleReading/Book Signing at Yale?” If you can imagine, this managed to distract usfor a solid hour, for which I’m almost as grateful as I am for the invitationitself.

This started me thinking. Before I was officially the OtherBird and was just an occasionally recurring character, Meg, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, and I got together in Philadelphia and I may or may not have (butdefinitely did) streak a dorm at Penn. It was empty for the summer, so I’mfairly sure the only people who saw me were Meg and Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, bothout of the corners of their eyes, but still. With this head start, what if Ijust did a hijink, one single hijink, at each Ivy? I liked this idea so much Imade myself a scorecard, with the seal of each Ivy, a check box, and a blankspot to write in a summary of the hijink. I couldn’t figure out how to do it inPaint or Photoshop, so presented here is your VERY OWN WORD DOCUMENT Ivy LeagueHijinx Checklist, so you can play along at home.

OFFICIAL IVY LEAGUE HIJINX SCORECARD -

On the off chance I run through all the Ivies before Ioutgrow this idea, there’s always the Seven Sisters. If, in six years or so,you pass a hitchhiker in Massachusetts carrying a crate of whoopee cushions anda cardboard sign reading “Mount Holyoke or Bust,” pick me up. We’ll have somefun.

My Pornographic Empire

2011-12-15T02:53:00.000-05:00

Remember my Scott Pilgrim vs. The World porn parody idea? I wasn’t done:

Tidbits Magazine:

You hear aboutbig dicks all the time, but what about little ones? For everyone who wants togo “to the limit,” there has to be at least one other person who wants somethingmanageable and non-threatening. Steakhouses serve eight-ouncers for a reason:not everyone is always in the mood for the 72-ounce Pride of the WestColon-Stopper Mushroom-Topped Sirloin. Tidbitswould be devoted to little dicks, just hangin’ out, havin’ fun – sort of a Little People, Big World for genitals.Giant Camel provided the subtitle: “Enjoy the little things in life.”

themsmasheduptitties.com:

You know how itis when you’re doin’ a chick up against a parked car, and her titties get allsmashed up against the window? I don’t, but I imagine a lot of people do, orwould like to. Themsmasheduptitties.com is a premium paysite devoted to chicksgetting done up against the sides of cars, with their titties pressed firmlyagainst the window. All footage is shot from within the vehicle in question,providing a perfect view of the woman’s flattened, distorted breasts. No carwith a model year after 1993 will be used; emphasis on Camaros and Malibus withmild to moderate rust damage.

Sacked!:

A feature filmfor the viewer who likes a little history with his smut. Limpus Dickus is thelast Roman emperor, a confused eighteen-year-old who lived most of his life onhis family’s rural estate. After the Gothic forces capture the city, theirleader offers to spare Limpus Dickus’ life – provided he allows himself to beteabagged by every single soldier in the invading army.

(Do you see whatI did there? Sacked! Like the Sack of Rome but also like BALL SACK)

Beating aroundthe Bush:

A whole new genreof porn featuring male humiliation. In these scenarios, the lady consents tohave sex with the man… but, uh-oh! He’s had one too many chardonnays, and can’tquite seem to find the hole in the dark! He works away at the lady’s thigh fora while until, disgusted, she orders him to leave. The erotic experience isheightened by the fact that these videos are shot in total darkness: instead ofwatching, you hear a series of increasingly irritated sighs interspersed with aman’s voice saying “Sorry… just a sec… okay. Wait, sorry…”

The Pivtronic8000:

Usingcutting-edge new facial recognition and visual editing technology, thissoftware allows you to superimpose Jeremy Piven’s face over that of any adultactor you choose in any footage. Popular projects include Jeremy Jeremy, aJeremy Piven-Ron Jeremy hybrid. For those wishing to make an artisticstatement, consider Pivenizing multiple actors in the same film – or even everyone! You don’t know the meaning of the word “erotic” until you’ve watchedJeremy Piven with Tommy Lee’s body make love to Jeremy Piven with PamelaAnderson’s body.

And yes, it ismaking love. Just look at the passion on Jeremy Piven’s faces.

7 Things You Didn't Know About Me: 6-7

2011-12-14T07:28:00.000-05:00

6.) I had a pet chameleon when I was in eight. His name was Abu and he was so noble and adorable that I want to vomit everywhere just thinking about him.

My family had mixed emotions about old Abu. Becca was a straight-up hater (speaking of our shitty relationship growing up) because I had adopted him from Olney Elementary's third grade this-is-how-you-take-care-of-a-lizard unit...that apparently happened. Five years prior to this adoption, Becca asked if she could adopt her class' lizard and our parents wouldn't even entertain the thought. Five years later I asked and our family gained a new beloved pet. Similarly, Becca wasn't allowed to have an American Girl doll because our parents thought that they were laughably expensive and frankly, you've got some stones for even asking, missy. But me? Proud owner of both Samantha and Kirsten. Is this evidence that our parents love me more? One could certainly make that argument.

My father, on the other hand, was a big Abu fan. I might even go as far as to say that he was Abu's best friend...? In the whole world...? When I first got Abu, it was very much a FINE, BUT HE'S YOUR RESPONSIBILITY, YOUNG LADY situation, but somewhere down the line he stole Richard's heart and my dad spoiled that damn lizard rotten. Every Friday he'd go into the pet store he passed on his way home from work and buy Abu some new top of the line lizard accessory or gourmet bag of crickets the store clerk promised you couldn't find anywhere else. To give you an idea, Abu came to us in a small plastic fish aquarium and left in a giant glass habitat with mahogany detail, deluxe electric heat rock, and his choice of five high-res images of the Grand Canyon to serve as a backdrop, depending on his mood. (Although he didn't have an American Girl doll, so: Abu: 1, Meg: 1, Becca:...it's questionable.)

As far as pet's deaths go, Abu's was pretty traumatic. (Not as bad as the time Rachel killed my cat when we were in Hawaii and I missed the luau because I couldn't stop crying, but hey—we all make mistakes.) Like any other morning, I woke up, spritzed some water onto the side of his habitat and waited for him to scamper over and PFFFT! PFFT! PFFFT! it up with his little missile tongue. Instead, Abu, who was noticeably struggling to breathe, could only manage to turn his little lizard head towards the water and stick out a tiny portion of his pink little tongue before he collapsed completely. This image is scorched into my memory. This happened 18 years ago and I can still remember what pajamas I was wearing and what was on that bookshelf. It was almost as bad as the Christmas morning my family sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast and our neighborhood fox walked up to the deck and dropped dead. Almost.

Back in 1993, I freeeeeeaked the fuck out, burst into tears, ran to get my mom and made her call pretty much every veterinarian in the state of Maryland until she found one who'd be like, "A one-year-old shitty little class chameleon? THAT'S AN EASY FIX! Bring 'em on in!!!" But she never found one. SHE NEVER. FOUND ONE. Instead, my mom sat me down on the living room couch and very sweetly explained to me that all the vets she talked to agreed that one year is an impressive amount of time for a chameleon like Abu to live and maybe this was just his time to go. Holy shit. It was horrible.

I blamed myself for Abu's death for months afterward because I was also babysitting Teresa's chameleon at the time, and instead of putting hers in a separate room, I put him on the table across from Abu so they could see each other. I thought he died of jealousy. How tragic is that??

Oh my God. Why did I choose to tell this to you this story? I feel like I'm about to cry and all I want to do is call my mom, but it's 5 o'clock in the morning and I feel like she'd disinvite me to Hanukkah dinner and Lord knows she only makes those sweet, sweet latkes once a year. I am completely miserable, San Diego.

7.) This last one isn't so much a piece of trivia as an anecdote Dan's been trying to get me to tell on the blog for a year now but I've been resisting because it makes me seem...well, racist.

Growing up, I lived a few streets over from an African American girl named Amber who's father was a police officer. A few years ago I somehow found myself having a conversation with a co-worker about how cops are assholes. My co-worker made the point that although yes, most police officers are assholes, it's also a really mentally and emotionally draining job that in the long run can have damaging effects.

"So many of these cops," she said, "are put in a position where they have to shoot someone on the scene because it's a matter of public safety, but afterwards, it really fucks with their head and they're never the same. Nobody really thinks about that."

"Oh my God, I know exactly what you're talking about," I told her, "My friend Amber's dad was a cop and he had to pull a gun on someone one day and it totally fucked with him. He came home and got his hand stuck in a pickle jar and I remember he lashed out at Amber's mom and she was like, 'It's not about the pickles, is it? You had to pull a gun on the job again today, didn't you?' It really does affects family's lives."

After I said that my co-worker continued on with our conversation, but in my head I stopped and was like, "Huh...I wasn't really that good of friends with Amber. How do I know all of that? Specifically the pickle jar thing. Why can I see that happening so vividly...?" And that's when I realized that that in no way happened to my friend Amber's dad—I was thinking of a plot line from Family Matters. I had just confused the black family in our neighborhood with a cop for a dad with THE WINSLOWS.

I immediately turned beet red and all I wanted to do was acknowledge what had just happened, but I didn't really know this girl well enough to be like LOL RACE LOL!, so I had to just stand there like an asshole and finish having this conversation about my "friend" who's "dad" got his "hand stuck in a pickle jar" and then he and his neighbor got in the "Sexy Urkel Machine" and "Laura" was suddenly "interested" and it was an important "life lesson" about how it's what's on the "inside" that counts.

A year has passed since I told this story to Dan, who has since moved halfway around the world, but I still regularly get text messages from him being like, "I just thought about how you told someone your friend Carl Winslow got his hand stuck in a pickle jar and laughed-out-loud in a meeting," and all I want to do is melt into a puddle and slither out of the room Alex Mack style because it's so fucking mortifying.

So, 7.) I am a racist asshole.

7 Things You Didn't Know About Me: #5

2011-12-13T07:48:00.010-05:00

5.) I only becamefriends with my sister a few years ago. Which sounds weird because now she’sone of my best friends and I was just her maid of honor, but it’s true. I thinkfive years is a hard age gap between siblings. You get stuck in these roles whereone of you is the obnoxious little sister who desperately wants to hang all thetime, and the other is the bitchy older sister who doesn’t want to hang becauseyou’re nine and hi, I’m in high school. It’s hard to shake that mindset.

This is going to make both of us sound like ragingalcoholics, but I think the catalyst for us becoming friends was my turning 21.Being able to go out to bars and drink together changed things because suddenly weweren’t being forced to interact with each other in a family setting anymore—wewere electing to hang out in a bar.With our friends. Like normal people. It was kind of the push we needed torealize that “HEY, IDIOTS—you guys aren’t five and 10 anymore. You’re grown-assadults. Get to know each other.” And we did. Specifically on our familyvacation to Napa Valley the summer after my Junior year. There was thisextremely important moment between us in a hot tub (emotions wereinvolved—where else?) one night when I was like, “You knowwhat, guy? I like you,” and she waslike, “Shit—I like you right back!” and we’ve been friends ever since. Mind youthis was also the vacation when we shared “The Most Naked Experience of OurLives.” That may have had somethingto do with our bonding. Allow me to explain…

So, a few days into our vacation in Napa, my sister found awrite-up for the Calistoga Day Spa in my dad’s travel book. Intrigued by thespa’s hot springs and mud bath treatment, she suggested we take a drive up and treat ourselves to a little spa day. Considering the last time we hada spa day together it ended up being the Giftof the Magi explosive diarrhea/sun poisoning spa treatment swap debacle thatwas Scottsdale, Arizona, I was in. This spa had large, farcical shoes tofill…and fill them they did.

Now, I don’t think of either Becca or myself as prudes. Becausenudity? Fine by me. I, personally, hate to wear clothes. Pants and Ispecifically have had a long, tumultuous history together. As I’ve mentioned, at any given moment I’m typically wearing a white wife beater with nobra and booty shorts and accidentally flashing my bits to whoever happens tobe in the room. And am I embarrassed? No. It’s your fault for being in the room.But as we drove up to Calistoga that day, I started to get a little nervousabout just how naked I would have to be in front of my sister. Becauseremember, we weren’t really friends at this point. She was my big sister whom Iboth adored and feared. God forbid see my big ‘ole hooters.

“So…I get the concept of a mud bath,” I said to her, “Buthow exactly is this going to work? Like, will we be in separate rooms? Are youcompletely naked in the bath? Should I wear my bathing suite?”

“I’m sure it’s up to you. Just do whatever you feel morecomfortable with. And we may be in the same room, but I’m sure there’s a littledivider or a sheet or something.” OK. I could handle that.

We got to the spa, checked in and were told to go to thelocker room and change into the sheets waiting for us. Once we sawhow big the sheets were, we decided to skip the bathing suites figuring thiswould be like any other spa treatment where the masseuse/technician (?) workswith you to discreetly move the sheet to continually cover what needs to becovered. We wrapped up and headed for the door marked “Spa Room”.

As I pushed open the door, I expected to walk into anotherdimly lit, zen room with private little alcoves where we’d individually receiveour treatments. Instead, I opened the door to reveal what was essentially alarge, sterile garage with two mud-filled tubs manned by what can only bedescribed as a pair of sturdy-lookingEastern European women. Moreover, the tubs were situated directly next to eachother. And when I say directly next to each other, I do mean directly next to each other:

In fact, as I looked around the room, it occurred to me thateverything was set up in two's and located just a romantic handhold away from each other. And spoiler alert: thatis because we had accidentally scheduled the romantic “Golden Haven Baths forCouples” treatment, which according to the spa’s website allows you to “sharethis wonderful Napa Valley spa experience in privacy with your companion only afew inches away.” We had no idea that’s what had happened, mind you. At this point,all I could think was, “This feels oddly………….intimate.” Suddenly, one of the spa techniciansbarreled towards us.

“TAKE SHEETS OFF,” she barked at us. We, in turn, stoodfrozen.

Seconds passed.

“Wait…………like offoff?”

“OFF!”

It took me a few seconds, but I finally realized that thiswoman wasn’t going to discreetly move our sheets around anything; she was goingto take them and discard them. Like,for the rest of the day. I was going to spend the rest of the day naked, gettingin and out of a series of tubs in a small room missing a fourth wall with mysister and two large, and to the best of my knowledge, Hungarian women who very thought we were lesbianlovers.

My sister and I then turned to each other and exchanged thislook that so beautifully conveyed, “SHIT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL NAKED—LET’S GO WITH IT,” without either of us having to sayanything. And thank god for that because just then the spa technician, sensingour hesitation, reached out, grabbed both of our sheets and yanked them off forus. Again, up until that point I hadn’t really considered myself to be that bigof a prude, but there I was clutching my pearls all, “WELL, I NEVER!” My hands briefly floundered north and south in a desperate attempt to give myself some coverage, but I ultimately decided to fuck it, suckin, stand up straight and walk over to the damn mud.

The hot mud treatment was actually pretty cool. Youbasically just float in hot, heavy mud up to your neck while the Hungarianwomen apply a steady flow of fresh, cold washcloths to your forehead. It wasincredibly relaxing and probably would have been sensual had I not been a pubichair away from an equally naked relative at the time.

As the bath went on, however, my relaxation slowly turned into anxiety as I became increasingly more concerned about how we weregoing to get the mud off of ourselves. Or outof us, frankly. Because the mud was heavy. And the mud was hot. And the mud wassettling. Everywhere.

My concerns were quickly addressed when the Hungarian womenreached into our tubs and pulled us out. After they got done removing some ofthe excess mud by giving us one helluva standing rubdown (which, again,probably would have been sensual had it been done by anyone other than awell-rooted Hungarian woman convinced I was gayer than a chestnut), theymotioned towards the wall behind us and said, “SHOWER.”

The so-called “shower” area in question was actually just a tiledwall with two hoses dangling from the ceiling and nary a piece of nylon to separateas far as the eye could see. And let me tell you people something: you haven’texperienced pure embarrassment until you’ve stood an elbow jab away from yoursister and shot hose water up your asswhile the Lucy and Ethel of the Eastern Bloc leer on disapprovingly. That is embarrassment. That is something that can never beundone. That is something that canone-up any story about tripping up a few stairs at the bank, thank you.

After The Traumatic Showering it was time for our mineralwater baths, so Tweedle Dee and Tweedle OOF led us to a pair of old timey Victorianbathtubs separated by the distance of a sweet whispered secret. It was atthis point that Becca finally acknowledged the elephant in the room and waslike, “Dude. Your boobs are reallybig.” “Yeah, I know. But your boobs are really nice. Big, but not unmanageable.I think if I ever got a breast reduction, I’d want to make ‘em your size.” I mention this conversation because Ilove imagining what the spa technicians must have been thinking about the stateof our relationship if that was our romantic tub conversation. Talkingabout each other’s breast size in the most clinical way possible and referringto each other as dude.

Finally, it was time for our last treatment: a schvitz in thesteam room. I hate steam rooms. Primarily because I hate heat, sweating, andsmall spaces. So, pretty much everything about a steam room. This steam room,however, was like a steam room on crack. First of all, they handed us each ameager washcloth when we walked in which was laughably unhelpful. I sat downand held mine up in front of me for a long time trying to decide whichdirection I should go in until Becca finally said, “Dude. Lower.” Even worse, the steam came in from the sulfur springs so itsmelled overwhelmingly like rotten eggs, and it was hot in a way that wouldmake Hades ask for a Dasani. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and I have neverbeen so uncomfortable in my entire life. After a few minutes I couldn’t take itanymore, so I stuck my head out the little porthole in the glass door,turned my head to the left, and started gasping for air. Which is exactly when I lockedeyes with the incredibly nude woman standing across the room, waiting to starther spa treatment. “SHIT!” Iducked my head back into the steam room. “BECCA, I JUST LOCKED EYES WITH ANAKED WOMAN ACROSS THE ROOM WHILE I WAS GASPING FOR AIR AND I THINK SHE THINKSI’M A PERVERT SO WE CAN’T LEAVE UNTIL SHE’S IN THE MUD BUT I THINK I’M GOING TODIE IF I HAVE TO STAY IN HERE ANY LONGER AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

“…Want my washcloth?”

After we got back into the car, we drove in silence for a bit as we both tried to process the sheer absurdity of what just happened.Becca finally broke the silence with one of the most astute observations I think I’ve ever heard:“That……………was the most naked experience of my entire life.” Because it was. It was the most naked experience ofmy entire life. It made getting a full-body mole check at the dermatologist’sfeel like standing in an empty cornfield in a three-piece suit and a chastitybelt. I’ve had sex with strangers andfelt more modest than that. It was just really, really…naked. But also reallybonding, in a weird way. I think all great friendships should start out with awacky misadventure. I just don’t think they should all be so…naked.

(Sidenote: Every time I write that it was just so…naked, I can’tnot automatically say it in my head in the “I THINKTHEY WERE…ASIAN” voice from CableGuy.

So goddamn underrated.)

7 Things You Didn't Know About Me: 1-4

2011-12-12T04:29:00.020-05:00

From an email I received last week:

Hi Meg! Longtime reader, first time emailer.

[…]

There’s this “7 Things You Didn’t Know About Me” thing going around on some of my favorite tumblr accounts and although you don’t have a tumblr (to my knowledge), I totally think you should do one! Maybe as a blog post? It’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like. I feel like yours would be especially interesting because of how incredibly open and candid you are with your readers. I can’t imagine what we don’t know!

[…]

- Sara

Well bless your heart for thinking seven random facts aboutme would be interesting. And no, I do not have a Tumblr account. I made oneover the summer when I was bored, posted five pictures, and immediately deleted my account because I felt really self-consciousand wasn’t sure if I was doing it right. That being said, I will list sevenfacts that you may not know about me. I can’t promise they’ll be interesting,but here you go:

[OK, I’m going to stop myself right there. So, I wrote thispost on Saturday night because I didn’t feel well enough to go out and wantedto get some work done. I took an Adderall and it…complicated things. Becauseapparently I either don’t take my Adderall and never finish a blog post becauseI write a little, get distracted by something shiny, write a little, PLASTICBAG! PLASTIC BAG! PLASTIC BAG!, write a little, I NEED TO KNOW WHAT EVERYMEMBER OF THE WU TANG CLAN IS DOING RIGHTNOW! and end up with this huge archive of half-finished blog posts I hate, OR Itake my Adderall and write a fucking college thesis about something inane like myfavorite soup. This post ended up being the latter, so I’ve decided to breakit up into three days. I’m going to post facts 1-4 today, 5 tomorrow, and 6-7on Wednesday. The exciting thing is it’s already written (and 30 pages…What? Idon’t know. I can’t stop grinding my teeth.), so you know I’m good for it.

The other thing I want to mention is that for this week and this week only, as partof an Adams Media holiday promotion, our first book, The Misanthrope’s Guide to Life, is available as a free Kindle download! Pretty sweet, right? If you lucked out because you already planned onbuying it, you should totally use the money you would have spent on it to downloadour second book, Brainwashing for Beginners. Two books for the price of one! HO HO (w)HO (loves you? AdamsMedia. Not me. This makes me extremely nervous because I’m afraid we’re goingto take massive royalty hits and even though our royalties are only like 85 centsbetween us, that’s almost an applepie on the Dollar Menu. We’re losing pies upon pies upon pies here, people. Butthen again, as of Saturday night we were #25 in free downloads and A Tale of Two Cities was #26. I feellike it’s a genuine accomplishment to be able to say that you’ve fraggedCharles Dickens' ass. Especially in December.)

7 Things You Didn’tKnow About Me (1-4):

1.) Dan and I got tattoos together while he was here visiting last month! It was kind of crazy and spontaneous, as most things I end up doing with Dan are. (Getting tattoos, walking around New York Avenue at 2 o’clock in the morning asking hookers if they know where we can get ecstasy, LaTe NigHt PizZa PaRtieS!!1…) A few nights before Dan had to go back to Dubai, we were chitchatting and/or watching Sister Wives (obviously) before bed and out of nowhere he was like, “I want to get a tattoo.” I’d been trying to find someone to go get a tattoo with me for over a year so I was like, “YES. TOMORROW. LET’S DO IT.” and it was decided. The next morning, I completely expected him to be like, “Remember when we decided we were going to get tattoos last night? LOL!!!1!” because one night while he was living with me last Fall, we decided (under the influence of about a baker’s dozen La Playas) that we were going to wake up, rent a Zip Car, drive to a mall two hours away in eastern Maryland and buy a pug. Because LIKE, LET’S JUST DO IT, YOU KNOW?! LET’S JUST FUCKING DO IT. WHAT’S STOPPING US? YOU KNOW? NOTHING. OURSELVES! THAT’S WHAT’S STOPPING US. SO LET’S JUST FUCKING DO IT. LET’S JUST BUY A PUG. OMG—WE’RE TOTALLY GOING TO BUY A PUG TOMORROW!!! …….We didn’t. If I remember correctly, we woke up, ordered wings at 10 o’clock in the morning, watched a documentary on Mt. Everest, and catnapped.

This time, however, Dan and I were true to our word. We endedup going to Embassy Tattoo in Adams Morgan, which I cannot recommend highlyenough. I’ve gotten other tattoos in DC at Jinx Proof and Fatty’s, and my bestexperience hands-down was at Embassy. Fairly priced, friendly, accommodating,and incredibly well done. I just sent College Roommate Rachel there last night.My artist’s name was Fernando Gonzalez and I can’t remember the name of Dan’sguy, but he was really hot, just moved here, and has shoulder length blondehair. I kept trying to make small talk and flirt with him, but it was hard becauseI was also concentrating on keeping my leg muscles from involuntarily twitchingand/or not vomiting everywhere. It was adelicate dance.Dan ended up getting a tattoo of a tree on his rightshoulder blade because he’s a hip kid from Portland and I got this little dittyon my right foot in honor of thefightingest squad in the fightingestcompany in the third-fightingestbattalion in the army—The Flying Hellfish.

(Such a shitty picture. And yes, this is my second Simpsonstattoo. And no, despite Chris’ constant mocking, I am not embarrassed.)
If you’re reading this and are my mom’s friend, haircolorist, or a neighbor (and I know you all are), please don’t tell her. Ifyou’re reading this and are my aunt’s assistant (Kaitlin…), please don’t tellmy aunt, who will obviously tell my mom. And if you’re reading this and are mysister, please don’t tell your husband who will yell at me and/or make fun ofme (probably and) in front of mom at Hanukkah dinner, thereby ruining thisyear’s Festival of Lights. Because do you really want that on your shoulders?It burned for eight days and eight nights, Rebecca. It was a miracle.

2.) I’m applying tograd school. But I’m only applying to three. And all three are in the top 10non-fiction writing MFA programs in the country. So I’m applying to gradschool, but will probably not be goingto grad school.

3.) I want red hairagain so badly, but I can’tafford the upkeep. (Pot, yogurt,eyebrow threading. Tattoos. Replacement phones. Diamonds are a Meg’s bestfriend.)

Sidenote: While searching through my Facebook photos for picturesof me with red hair, I stumbled upon this vintage ’06 picture of Talia and meat a party at Anna’s house over summer break. We both had (and very much have) a crush on Anna’s dad, so we snuckup to her parent’s bedroom and…well, I’ll let it to you:

I’m still not sorry.

I also found a picture from that party where I’m rapping andusing a box of Franzia as my beatbox. I’d like to say I’ve moved on from thatphase of my life, but then I remember that less than two months ago, I pulled astomach muscle vomiting old school Four Loko and broke my hand drunkenlystumbling around Ren Fest within a weekof each other. I haven’t really “grown as a person” in the past five years,per se.

4.) In 2003, Iaccidentally and successfully rushed a sorority at a school I didn’t go to. Even though I went to college essentially five feet away from my hometown, itwas still a really hard transition for me. Being the wacky MiSaNtHrOpE!~ that Iam, I was really anxious about having to make all new friends, and I chose todeal with that anxiety by driving up to Frostburg (a small state school in Western Maryland where Talia andTeresa went) every weekend instead of staying and trying to make it work at AU.As an older and wiser Meggles with slightlymore social skills, I acknowledge what a poor decision that was. Thankfully Ihad friends at AU like Helena, Ex-Co Blogger Eddie and Ashleigh who sat me downone night in November and were like, “HEY ASPIES—MAYBE STAY A WEEKEND?” and Iwas like, “Ooo. Yes. Good call.” My collegeexperience obviously improved significantly after I started staying there onweekends, but I still wouldn’t trade my honorary semester (or other weekendvisits) at Frostburg for anything in the world. Because that shit was fun. Frostburg State knows how to partyin a way that makes me wonder how anyone graduates from there at all. I’darrive on Friday nights and leave Sunday morning with a hoarse voice, sorethroat, bloodshot eyes, and a new absurd story. My favorite being when I rushed a sorority.

I got into Frostburg pretty late on the Friday night inquestion and went straight to Talia’s dorm to pregame. She gave me the rundownfor the night’s plans and said that at some point, she had promised that we’dmake a courtesy stop at a friend’s sorority’s rush party. “Uh, can I get ineven though I don’t go here?” I asked. “Meh. Just put down my dorm number whenyou sign it. It won’t matter.” (I also said my major was mathematics with aminor in geography, because if you’re going to go for a lie, I say go hard.) We got to the party an hour laterand as I started to pour myself a tall glass of trashcan jungle juice (becausethat’s how a Frostburg rush party rolls. As the owner of Hat, does it reallysurprise that I felt at home there?), Talia had to run out and tend to somedrama that I can’t remember the details of, perhaps because I was drinking alcoholout of a trash receptacle by the ladleful at the time.

“Are you going to be OK here alone?” she asked. Knowing mewell.

“PSH. I’ll be fine. You do what you have to do,” Iresponded, Zelko, Sunny Delight, and Rubbermaid particles filling my veins withthe kind of courage you only wished you had in the light of day.

Now, truth be told, I’m actually pretty OK at parties whereI don’t know anybody. I’m pretty OK at parties in general. Breaking the ice andbeing charming in a large crowd scenario isn’t my problem; it’s one-on-oneconversations that get me. I have absolutely no problem going up to a hugegroup of people I don’t know and being like, “Hey, I’m Meg! What’s up?”, but putme on a first date in an intimate setting and suddenly I’m talking too muchabout my uncomfortably thought out “Theory on Ex-Fatties” or how I’m starting aletter writing campaign to have sex with Steve Buscemi and two weeks later Iwonder why nobody ever fucking calls me back. But…yes. I’m normally pretty goodat parties where I don’t know anybody, but on this particular night? I was on fucking fire.

Knowing that I didn’t actually go to school there, wouldnever see any of these people again, and in no way cared about getting intotheir sorority gave me a freedom to be myself that I have yet to experienceagain, frankly. After Talia left, I walked up to a blond “sister” standingnearby and struck up a conversation.

“I gotta say,” I said as I held up and tapped my solo cup,“good call going with the Sunny D. I feel like most sororities would put onairs and go with something like a Fruitopia or frozen Minute Maid, but not you.And you know what? I like it.”

“Thanks!” she said. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Meghan, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Brittney. So, what dorm do you live in, Meghan?”

“Ugh, Frost.” [Frostwas the community service dorm that both Talia and Teresa were placed in, I’mfairly sure because they turned their housing forms in late.]

“Oh my gawd, seriously?? How can you stand it?”

“Dude, you’re telling me. Everyone pretty much just stays inon the weekend to play with their Bunsen burners and beakers, but then againit’s also close to the dining hall and I’m borderline sexually attracted towaffles, so I can’t complain.” [I don't even know if that's true.] [The dorm's proximity to the dining hall, that is. I am absolutely borderline sexually attracted to waffles.]“Have you met anyone in your dorm you like?”

“Oh, totally. I feel really lucky that I found a small groupof girls on my floor that I instantly clicked with. But I guess that’s why I alsowant to join a sorority—I want to to make that small group grow, you know?” [Imay have been, and frankly might be,a sociopath.]

“Absolutely! That’s what being in a sorority is all about!Kristen!” she shouted at another sister, “Come over here, I want you to meetsomeone!” Kristen came over and we were introduced.

“Oh my gawd, I love your jacket,” she said to me. “Where didyou get it?”

“Thanks! It’s from North Face,” I responded.

“Oh my gawd, I’m obsessedwith my North Face!” she said. “My boyfriend got it for me as an earlyChristmas present, but we just broke up.”

“Yeah…BUT YOU GOTTA KEEP THAT JACKET, GURL—Y’ALL KNOW WHATI’M SAYIN’?!?!”

High fives. High fives all around. And it went on like thatfor quite some time. It was startling.Finally, Talia came back to retrieve me, I said goodbye to my new friends, andwe went on our way.

Later that night as Talia, Teresa and I hunt out in Talia’sroom recapping the night, her friend from the sorority walked in lookingextremely tired and pointed at me.

“Well done, Meg,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I just came back from a two-hour long post-rush partymeeting, and at least a half an hour of that was spent with girls arguing overwho would get to be your Big.”

“WOW! Seriously??” I asked, genuinely flattered.

“Yes. Seriously. It seriously took a half an hour of arguingover ‘Meg with the black hair from Frost Hall’ before I realized that that wasyou and had to tell them you don’t go toschool here.”

“Aw, man. Brittney’s gonna be so disappointed in me…” And I meant it.

So, while I felt kind of shitty because I blatantly wastedthose peoples’ time, the experience also ended up being a really good lifelesson for me about what happens you stop giving a shit about what other peoplethink of you. I wish I were jokingwhen I say that one of my social mantras is still: “Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. Lovelike you've never been hurt and rush like you don’t go to school there.”

You’re welcome.

Hi. REAL QUICK:

2011-12-09T06:56:00.000-05:00

1.) It's currently 5:30 in the morning and I'm laying in bed eating special holiday shaped pretzels and watching Hulu, and in the past hour I've cried at not one, but two episodes of Community. In unrelated news, I am very much on my period.

2.) I was obsessively cleaning/re-organizing my apartment the other night, as you do when you feel like a big fat failure but are trying not to eat your emotions and/or the internet is being wonky, and I stumbled upon three Sorr About the Bag bags that I had no idea I had. If you'd like to buy one, shoot me an email and we'll make the arrangements. First come first serve. meg@2birds1blog.com.

3.) I believe I owe you this photograph:

Soak it in. Take your time. It's not a race.

xoxo

NeIgHbOr LoLs

2011-12-07T01:16:00.000-05:00

I feel guilty writing this post, but not guilty enough tonot do it.

Apparently my apartment building has a fairly high tenantturnover rate. I don’t know if this is due to the guy who walks his pit bulloff-leash, the overactive heater in winter that makes every day “hang out inyour underpants despite freezing temperatures outside” day, or the generallysuicide-inducing effect of industrial grey carpet, but there it is. When Imoved in, out floor “roster” was as follows:

Indian Family

White Guy

Lanky African-American Homosexual

Korean Guy with Trombone

Girl Who Slams Her Door All The Time And Has Loud PhoneConversations About Being in a Band and How Her Bandmate Wrote a SongSuperficially About Ducks but Is Actually an Allegory About Sexual Abuse and is Named Maggie Fineman and If YouGoogle Yourself Please Stop Slamming the Door

Russian Girl

Me, later joined by Giant Camel

A year and a half later, the roster is now:

~~Indian Family~~ Hispanic Family

White Guy

~~Lanky African-American Homosexual~~ Hipster Girl WhoThinks Having Someone Hold the Elevator Door for Her Is a Right, Not aPrivilege

~~Korean Guy with Trombone~~ WACKY WANDA

~~Russian Girl~~ Southern Girl

Me and Giant Camel

Now… Wacky Wanda. While I was out of town, Giant Camel mether as she was moving in and introduced himself. I have told him a hundredtimes not to do this, because if you introduce yourself people know who you are. Anyway, Wacky Wanda started coming over tothe apartment to talk. All the time. Once, while I was still out of town, sheknocked, then waited, crouched by the door so she would be out of sight fromthe peephole, until he opened the door. She still comes by every few days andknocks a really, really long time in an irregular pattern: tap tap tap tap taptap tap tap tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP TAP tap tap tap pause pause tap tap tap TAPTAP TAP tap. I do not feel compelled to answer the door because I am almostnever wearing pants because of aforementioned heater issue.

Wacky Wanda leaves her keys in the door… every few days.Wacky Wanda takes naps in her living room with the door wide open. Wacky Wandaborrows Giant Camel’s cell phone to call her parents and have screaming fightswith them. Wacky Wanda leaves scissors in the hall. Wacky Wanda leaves laundryin the hall. Wacky Wanda leaves her apartment door wide open and plays theCranberries at top volume (Yes, “Zombie.” What else?), which is why I’vestarted using the fire escape to go out for errands.

Now… I have a thick skin when it comes to bizarre behavior.I could chalk most, if not all, of the above up to being a free spirit or goodold-fashioned alcoholism. But:

I don’t think Wacky Wanda believes in me. Having been raisedpolite if not exactly right, I smile at her in the hall and amignored. Not shrugged off, ignored, each time. I’ve run into her with GiantCamel a few times, and she greets him warmly and does not so much as rest hereyes on me. The other day he mentioned his roommate to her and she said “Youhave a roommate? I’ve never seen him.” Apparently my recent weight gain andAryan complexion now allow me to pass as a pink elephant.

Wacky Wanda has started leaving a series of notes on thefront door of the building. It started with this:

Well, shit. I took a picture of it but it didn’t come out.It read, more or less:

“My keys went down the elevator. If you have time, could youget them?”

There’s a lot going on here. Her keys – I know what theylook like because they’re always in her door lock – are on a gigantic ring. Asin, I would have bet they couldn’t fall down the crack between the elevator carand the floor. As in she either dropped them exactly right or was somehow playing with them in the elevator crack. I also like “went down.” It’s that samepassive voice everyone uses when theyfuck up. “Mistakes were made.” Note also the lack of identifying details on thenote: two months, and it’s already assumed that Wacky Wanda’s handwriting andunique antics are recognized by the staff.

Then, of course, there’s the simple elegance of this one:

“Please fix the toilet in my apartment immediately.”

It was stuck to the glass with a Band-Aid.

Fun with Technology!

2011-12-06T06:35:00.007-05:00

"During my birthday celebration, Meg bribed the guy at the piano bar to play “Colors of the Wind” just for me. A woman near us immediately closed her eyes and began to sway and feel it, which pissed me off because it was MY SONG."

Oh, that totally happened. Here's a picture of Chris, the second drunkest I've ever seen him, belting "Colors of the Wind" into the extra microphone at the piano bar. I apologize it's so blurry. The bar was crowded and I was obviously a-cackling as I took this. Although, you could argue that the motion blur is also a visual representation of the struggle between The White Man and Chris' people for land and freedom. (That's the second time in my life my art history minor has come in handy. The first time was in December 2008 when I overheard someone at a house party trying to remember the name of the artist who did "those paintings with the people and the squiggles," and I completely abandoned the conversation I was in, ran in from the other room, pushing people out of my way to be like, "KEITH HARING, UNTITLED, ACRYLIC AND DAY-GLO ON METAL, 1982. DIED OF AIDS-RELATED COMPLICATIONS IN 1990. IT WAS A LOSS. FOR US ALL." Nobody was impressed and I felt like an asshole. So, in many ways, it was like most of house parties I go to.)

OH, GODDAMNIT. So, my plan for today was to blog about my two most recent obsessions, but I'm going to have to scrap that idea because I'm now completely distracted by how my iPhone is making a sizzling noise. Per my most recent tweet, like an honest-to-god, fajitas being delivered to your table, sizzling noise. Aaaaaaand now it won't turn on, despite being fully charged. Shit. This might be the end of the line for my phone. Which makes sense because it's been dying forever. I lovingly nicknamed it Beth, after Beth March from Little Women because much like Beth March, my phone just lays around all day with a quilt over its fragile little legs playing the piano and waiting for Father to return from the war, making everyone incredibly anxious and sad because it's obviously going to die any day now. That's my phone. My poor, poor phone. Although, to be fair, I've put it through so much in its short little life:

1.) It's over two years old. Which isn't really anyone's fault, but it needed to be said nonetheless.

2.) I drop it. Constantly. As I blogged in '09, I blame this partially on its old school slippery little frame, but also on myself. Because sometimes I just hand to god forget I'm holding it and drop it. Like, I'll be standing there, hear it bang on the floor, look down and be like, "Oh shit, was I holding you, guy? I'm sorry about that." Like it's news to me that I was even holding it in the first place. It's incredibly unnerving. It's like when you drive home from work and all of a sudden you're at your house and have no recollection of getting there and you weird yourself out to the point where you don't tell anyone because you're either having a small stroke or are just incredibly bored with life.

3.) This is technically an extension of dropping it, but I also accidentally fling it across the room a lot. Both my iPhone and my sheets are black, so sometimes I won't realize that my phone is somewhere in my sheets and then I'll pull them up quickly or throw them back and it sends my phone flying across the room. I also lose bottles of Coke Zero, black underwear, and scissors incredibly easily in my bed. But when I take my sheets off to wash them and find all of these things at once, it feels juuuuuust a little bit like my birthday.

4.) Laura accidentally kicked it into the pool a few summers ago. I'm hesitant to even bring this up because she felt so badly about it. She sent me an apology card and a blank check a few days later, which was completely unnecessary because despite being submerged in five feet of chlorine water for thirty seconds, it was fine. It may have even performed better than before it had fallen into the pool. But this was back in my phone's younger, healthier days. Because...

5.) Last April it had another run-in with being submerged in water and it did not fair well. To be fair, I had had "one too many Chardonnays," if you will, came home and ever the diligent Acne sufferer, immediately went into the bathroom to wash my face before passing out. I put my phone on the edge of the sink, turned on the faucet, obviously knocked it in, couldn't wrap my head around how to solve this problem and continued to wash my face with my phone bobbing up and down in the Clearasil micro-scrubber filled waters. As a result, it still worked (shockingly), but for months I couldn't control the ringer or headphone volume, and it insisted on going back and forth between vibrate and ringer mode for no reason. Which was sometimes irritating and sometimes delightful.

6.) One night a few months later, I got drunk again, got mad about something and threw my phone at the wall, and I swear to god, it fixed both of those problems. It was one of the coolest things I had ever seen. It was like witnessing a self-sustaining economy.

(I swear I'm not just saying this because I mentioned it earlier, but I'm writing this in bed and I just patted around my sheets trying to find my tweezers and instead found a black sweatband I had been looking for forever. Black sheets: as it turns out, tacky and impractical.)

7.) I'm fairly certain I know what tipped my phone over from "rickety" to "barely functioning" status. As you may or may not remember, I house/Evie-sat for my parents while they were in Napa a few months ago. In a desperate attempt to lose some weight before our book release party (HAHA!), I made use of the treadmill and bike in their basement a lot. Now, normally when I go to the gym, I rest my iPhone on the tiny, tiny ledge the front of the elliptical machine provides you with and spend the entire workout being incredibly anxious that I'm going to whap the headphone cord with my hand and send my phone flying. And as we've established, I don't necessarily care about sending my phone flying, but I do care about having to stop, get off my machine, and retrieve my phone from under someone's treadmill like a jackass.

When I was at my parent's house, however, I was in a judgment-free zone and had the incredible luxury of being able to shove my phone in my sports bra and work out anxiety-free. I didn't think this was a big deal because my phone is no stranger to being stored in my cleavage. Rare is the time that I don't have either my phone, a pen, or both shoved in there. When you have boobs as big as mine, it almost makes less sense not to use them for storage considering how much goddamn space they take up. (Sidenote: one time in high school, Teresa and I tried to see how many things in my parent's basement we could shove into my cleavage. We fit 32 things, including a power strip and a VHS copy of Turner and Hooch. You'd think I'd be embarrassed, but it's very much a point of pride.)

What I didn't factor in, however, was that because I was working out, I was sweating. "Profusely", some might say. And I found out the hard way that although my phone can handle falling into a pool and a sink full of soapy water, it can not handle boob sweat. Yes, I believe boob sweat broke my phone. Because ever since then, the home button barely works, it's always putting itself on airplane mode, and every three minutes a window pops up being like, "WOAHHH WHAT'S HAPPENING?! THIS DEVICE WASN'T MADE TO WORK WITH THIS THIS PHONE!!!" and I'm like, you're not doing anything. You're just quietly sitting next to me while we watch an episode of Wings. Stop telling me that.

Update: OK, so it stopped sizzling and I somehow got it to turn back on, but now the home button doesn't work at all. And it's stuck on that goddamn picture of Chris singing "Colors of the Effing Wind" that won't email itself to me for some reason. Fuck. This is so unbelievably annoying. I know the obvious answer is go get a new phone, because I'm clearly eligible for an upgrade, but eh. It's still $99. And I know I'm going to get shit in the comments section for saying that because I'm always frivolously spending my money on things like yogurt and drugs and eyebrow threading (each one slightly more important than the last), whereas this is an actual necessary expense, but again, eh. $99 just feels like a lot of money to spend at once. When I'm buying pot and yogurt, it's like 15 bucks here, $4 there. This is throwing down $99 once and getting one thing in return. So I guess what I'm saying is I'd rather get high and have meticulously groomed eyebrows than communicate with friends and family. I mean, I suppose I don't have to get an iPhone. They're just incredibly useful. I could always get a "burner" until Hanukkah/Christmas and hope my parents help a sister out. This blog post has now completely unraveled into me essentially live-blogging my decision making process about what phone to get, so I'm going to stop now before this gets any worse.

R.I.P. Beth March. 2009-2011. "And it seemed to me you lived your life like an iPhone in my cleave..."

Colors of the Wind

2011-12-05T02:51:00.002-05:00

Exchange during the last editing session:

Meg: We’re the two most insufferable people in the world.

Me: Why, did something happen to Zooey Deschanel?

Meg: No, but ever since I delivered copies of our books toOccupy DC’s “People’s Library” and wrote that letter to the Texas Parole Boardyou asked me to, I’ve been saying “I do my fighting with my writing,” like, allthe time. And you won’t shut up about finding out you’re related to Pocahontas.

Me: “DID YOU EVER HEAR THE WOLF CRY TO THE BLUE CORN MOON…”

Meg: Yes, exactly that.

During my trip to Texas, my aunt casually mentioned we weredescended from Pocahontas. Like, just kind of threw it in there: “And so turnleft up here to get to the place with the dinosaur tracks. Yeah, so, yourgreat-great grandmother was an Allen, but her mother was a Lee – I said LEFT –and her mother was descended fromPocahontas.”

“Wait. So I’m descended from Pocahontas.”

“Yeah, apparently. I mean, so are about 150,000 otherpeople, I don’t think we’re getting a casino anytime soon.”

I learned this at the worst possible time. Being “less thanemployed” has been hard on me, so I’ve been doing those Oprah-style “list youraccomplishments” exercises to stave off a fried chicken, Cybill, and tears 2008-style meltdown. “I have co-written threebooks” and “I have a master’s degree” weren’t cutting it anymore and I wasready to try “compared to the average of EVERYONE who EVER lived, I’m reallytall,” but then I found out I was descended from Pocahontas, which makes me, inthe vaguest, most tenuous, most not-holding-up-to-scrutiny way, royalty.

I think about “Grandma Pokey” all the time, as evidenced inthe infographic below:

My Pocahontal frenzy has manifested itself in the followingways:

- I’ve been humming “Colors of the Wind” to myselffor weeks, which of course means that everyone who’s been around me recentlyhas started humming it. Last week’s catchphrase around here was “How high doesthe sycamore grow? If you cut it down, GODDAMMIT, CHRIS.”

- During my birthday celebration, Meg bribed the guy at the piano bar to play “Colors of theWind” just for me. A woman near us immediately closed her eyes and began tosway and feel it, which pissed me offbecause it was MY SONG.

- I tried to Netflix Pocahontas to watch overThanksgiving (you know, because it’s an accurate historical epic withwell-developed characters), but it wasn’t available, so I had to settle for“Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World,” which arrived late. I watched it bymyself yesterday and communed with my ancestors.

- I saw in the news that archaeologists thinkthey’ve found the remains of the church where Pocahontas married John Rolfe. Itold Giant Camel, who accused me of setting up a Google alert for her. Ihadn’t, but I have now. More than one person called to tell me.

- I wrote tomy congressman about how it pissed me off that Virginia Native Americansget treated especially badly. According to internet, they don’t get land grantsliterally because their paperwork got fucked up during segregation in the ‘20sand they’re not registered right. I used the same good stationery I used to write the Texas Parole Board. It’s gold-edged and makes me look rich, so maybe they’ll take me seriously.

Get back to me on this in a few weeks, by which point I intend to have found out from the grinning bobcat what’s so damn funny.

2011-11-24T04:47:00.000-05:00

Online Photo Editor

Aaaaand Philly Productivity Week continues...

2011-11-23T03:29:00.001-05:00

On Monday, we paid tribute to the many elephants in the room.

Today, we thought we'd let you know what's keeping us going:

1.) There was a mix-up in the warehouse and our publisher accidentally sent Chris’ 20 author copies of Brainwashing… to a stranger. At first this was upsetting to Chris and funny to Meg. Now it’s funny to Chris and really, really funny to Meg. We’re not sure if it’s funny or not to the person somewhere in the United States or Canada who opened a surprise package from Avon, Mass and found 20 copies of a bright orange book called "Brainwashing for Beginners", but we hope they use it wisely, possibly by mailing copies to major media outlets. We wouldn’t be mad if they mailed one to the Gersh Agency…

2.) The fact that there’s an episode in season four of Maude where Maude gets debilitating stress diarrhea. 'Cuz BEEN THERE. DONE THAT, SISTER.

3.) Chris has a master’s degree.

This hasn’t really been a “career builder”, but sometimes when he and Meg are feeling particularly unemployed, he’ll take it out of the closet, roll it open, and let Meg read it aloud in her best Alan Rickman voice. It can be a real emotional game changer.

4.) Last week, Meg said, out loud, to a large group of people: “It’s a beautiful night for a rotisserie chicken.” And meant it.

5.) The other day, Chris went to get a haircut before The Job Interview That Went Nowhere. As the stylist was finishing up, he said, “Don’t worry, this hair cut will get you laid,” then put his hand on his shoulder, leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I guarantee it.” This is the first time a stranger has flirted with Chris since a drunken ex-umpire tried to cop a feel during a Phillies game this spring.

6.) ...And is a much more glamorous version of this text Meg sent Chris from the bus:

2birds1blog: That's sad. Since 1984.™

7.) Meg’s promise to Chris that she’ll one day, at orgasm, open her eyes and exclaim, “JEEPERS!” in an over-articulated 1950’s co-ed voice.

8.) Meg drunk-ordered the book Mastery, Tyranny, and Desire: Thomas Thistlewood and His Slaves in the Anglo-Jamaican World off Amazon last weekend.

She will let you know if it’s good.

9.) We’re tentatively scheduled to speak at Yale in January. We haven’t prepared what we’re going to talk about and we’re not even sure what day we’re going, but we have purchased boat shoes!

10.) This NEW picture of Dave where he looks comically photoshopped in.

Thank God for small favors. <3

I've been trying to craft a PUlitzer/PUbic hair joke for 20 minutes and it's not happening. So...hey.

2011-11-22T01:56:00.000-05:00

Chris and I finished editing! Woo hoo! (Or BOOYAKASHA!!!!!!!!1!!,as I’m obviously thinking. God I hate myself.) Here’s a list of things we were“gently scolded” by our editors for saying:

- Referring to the miracle of conception as “squirting yourwife up a keeper”

- Every single cannibal joke (and there were a lot of them)

- A reference to the world’s economy locking itself in itsroom and cutting its arms while listening to Morrissey

- Countless, countlessmasturbation jokes

- Referring to intercourse as “getting your gears stripped”

- A reference to all homosexuals burning in hell, which wasconsidered quote, “potentially homophobic”

- The phrase “a semen-stained Halston gown away from being the human embodiment of 1976”

- An imaginary Roseanneblooper reel where John Goodman calls Laurie Metcalf “six cunts in a five cuntbasket”

- Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too many Asian jokes

- The phrase “little kids can’t cross the street withoutgetting molested six-ways-to-the-weekend”

- The phrase “with a honker like a Jewish anteater”

- Numerous references to fingerbanging and/or fingerblasting

- A fictional yoga pose called “The Senator’s Erection”

- A non sequitur about Hilary Clinton being a lizard personfrom beyond the moons of Saturn

- The sentence “I’m an octoroon, but the bad part isn’tblack—it’s German.”

- A Bennington girl drinking an unpretentious little Pinotout of bowls made from human skulls

- Even more fingerbanging references, frankly

- The imaginary newspaper headline: “Weirdo Dies in France,As Usual”

- A joke about how it’s not incest if you and your cousinwent to different middle schools

- A joke about urinating into a slot machine and stillmanaging to win $200

- A joke about joining the army expecting to be in Gryffindor,but it turns out you’re more of a Slytherin

- The concept of shoveling a sundae into your mouth like a“gravedigger with the squirts”

- Too many Dress Barn jokes

- Too many ghosts

- Referring to a sex scene in a serious novel as “classy,but still totally functional, if you know what I mean.”

- The phrase “jive cracker”

- An imaginary Abercrombie & Fitch graphic tee that says“Fat Girls Give Good Head”

- An imaginary government-themed gay porn movie called “TheDepartment of Health and Homo Services”, in which a freshman Tea Partyrepresentative is ordered to separate his powers and get ready to see what biggovernment can do to him

…I now understand why Chris’ grandmother’s reviewfor our last book was simply: “A mite racy, but funny.” Truer words were neverspoken, Grandmother. Truer words were never spoken.

Let’s just acknowledge all the elephants in the room...

2011-11-21T13:38:00.002-05:00

(Chris: Now let’s put a picture ofan elephant and a picture of a room. Ooo! And can it have a speech bubble thatsays, “Hi, my name is Chad. I’m in sales.”??

Meg, eager to be agreeable inlight of recent events: …Sssssure.)

- Meg hasn’t been posting becauseshe fucked up her hand. Well guess what, butter? It’s feeling better and I’mback. I can grip things again, which is genuinely exciting. And kind of soundslike I’m referring to hand jobs, but I just mean I can blow dry my hair again.And drive stick. If I ever could. Either way, thank you for your patience whilemy little talon healed.

- Meg and Chris got into a TIG‘OLE FIGHT. Which didn’t “enhance” productivity, per se. That being said, we’refriends again. The doors of communication were flung open so wide the doorknobmade a dent in the side of the wall when I called Chris hysterically crying thenight I broke my hand. It was that kind of hysterical crying where you can’tcatch your breath and have to repeat everything twenty times because everythingjust comes out as “ghhhheh, ghhhheh, ghhhheh, GAAAAH!” It was embarrassing. Butnot as embarrassing as the admission that I don’t remember the twenty minutesof the phone call when he pitched book ideas to me because I took four TylenolPMs, passed out, and went on “Auto Agree”. But they’re good ideas sober, sowe’re back in business!

- Chris hasn’t been postingbecause he went on an extended “Visiting Loved Ones Who Might Die” tour. Itwas, to put it mildly, extremelydepressing. Silver lining: he found out he’s descended from Pocahontas! Sincethen, he’s been spending most of his time wearing a denim vest and a shit-loadof turquoise jewelry, painting with all the colors of the wind.

- Meg’s dad emailed her last weekto reprimand her and Chris for not posting regularly. And SHIT. GOT. REAL.Because you know you’ve fucked up when the official Non-Nagging Parent nags you.

SORR ABOUT THE NAG!!!1!

- The job search has beenhumiliating for both of us, but probably more so Chris because he's gotten further. He actually got a call from a real live human woman who found hisresume on Career Builder and wanted him to come in for an interview. He got a haircut,clipped his moustache, and squeezed into his cotton Dockers and went down forthe interview, only to find that the woman who had contacted him had been firedin the interim. He was allowed to interview with someone else who told him notto get his hopes up and assured him that a 27-year-old with a master's degreeand three published books is still entry-level. There might be something inKing of Prussia in a few months. He will let Chris know. South of theMason-Dixon, Meg was denied a job at a bakery.

- Chris bought Meg an “apologycandle”, but Meg did not return the favor. This will be remedied in 3-5 days. Inlavender.

- There’s a porno spoof ofPocahontas called Poke-a-Hot-Ass. Thisisn’t an elephant in the room as much as a play on words that seriously got Megthrough some hard times in 2007.

- Also the guitarist from GWAR died.This has fucked everything up.

- We’re out of elephants (for themoment. The night is young and we have a brand new bottle of generic Adderall),but we recognize that as it stands, this is a short blog post and probably willnot suffice. That being said, we also recognize that the entire reason we’retogether right now is to do a nauseating amount of editing on book #3 beforeThanksgiving and we haven’t started yet. Therefore, I will now show youpictures of things in Chris’ apartment that fascinate me and allow Chris toexplain them, if he can.

This ceramic piggyback from Tampa,Florida:

“Oh, I bought that for youduring a layover in June. Happy Hanukkah.” [Ed. Note: BOO YEAH!!!!!!!!1!!] [Ed.Note: Full disclosure, I actually said “BOOYAKASHA!!!!!!!!1!!”, which hassomehow worked its way into my vocabulary seven years after the fact and taken myself-loathing to a level I never dreamed possible.]

This Gone with the Wind musicbox:

Primarily because this ScarlettO’Hara looks disturbingly like Ex Co-Blogger Eddie.

“A few months ago a friend sent mea package and I undid the paper and the box was for a musical Gone with the Wind musical statuette. Ithought, ‘Oh, how funny. She bought me a present and went to the trouble offinding a Gone with the Wind musicalstatuette box to wrap it in.' Then I opened the box and it was actually a Gone with the Wind musical statuette. Itplays 'Tara’s Theme' very, very slowly.”

This large fleece wolf blanket:

“I have a lot of aunts and I’mkind of hard to shop for. I also, in all seriousness, like this and it’s warm.”

This signed picture of ChristineBaranski with Certificate of Authenticity:

“This was a gift from the samefriend that got me the Gone with the Windmusical statuette. It's also my favorite object in the world. Cut-up episodes of Cybill on YouTube literally kept me from committingsuicide in 2008. I wrote a letter to Christine Baranski thanking her and shenever wrote back. I don’t blame her.”

This picture of wee baby Chrisleton the fridge:

“I was going to tell you not toput that on the blog, but I’d feel like a bad sport because there are so manypictures of baby Meglet. Note that I’m already worried.”

This compilation of Jeff Leedycartoons called “The Check is in theMail”:

We were in a desperate, desperatetime crunch while writing Brainwashing...and my discovery of this on Chris' bookshelf derailed us in a way that's borderline concerning. We spent a solid hour curled upon the floor, flipping through this book, laughing at, not with, the cartoonists. Here are some of our favorites:

This ceramic ornament of Garfield embracingan entire turkey:

“Meg, get out of my hope chest.”

Birthday Thoughts

2011-11-15T00:18:00.004-05:00

I had a BIG OLD case of writer’s block trying to start thispost. I was staring blankly at my iTunes wishing I could write when I thought,“OH, I should listen to some Squirrel Nut Zippers! That’ll help! So help me God, I don’t know what my logic was there.

My twenty-seventh birthday is November 25^th,2011. I will officially be in my late twenties. This struck home the other daywhen I realized that early episodes of “Friends” were about people my age ormarginally younger. This revelation was followed by “Oh, God. I hope I’m not Ross.”Advanced degree in something obscure? Check. “Not conventionally attractive,”in an ethnic way? Provided “cracker” counts as ethnic, check. Obsessed with aJewish waitress? No, but it’s the kind of thing that WOULD happen to me. Let mewarn you: figuring out that you’re a louder, bawdier, drunker, moreEpiscopalian David Schwimmer doesn’tmake aging any easier.

It’s also going to be a sad birthday because Mom doesn’thave a phone. (“AT&T says I owe them three hundred dollars! We’ll see whogives in first.”) Mine was, apparently, a difficult birth, which my motherlovingly recounts every year like a war story. “Oh, around this time eightyears ago, the midwife said she couldn’t do it, we’d have to go to thehospital.” “Twelve years ago, we were driving to the hospital in the sleet!” (This is a bigger deal inTexas than you might think.) “Sixteen years ago, the doctor told me he didn’tneed to do an episiotomy, it was already torn.” I’ll spare you the details of“I had cold sores all over my face” and the destruction my skull allegedlywrought on her tailbone. Anyway, the story of The Birth is very much a part ofmy birthday, much like the recitations of the Ten Plagues are central toPassover. It’ll be sad not to hear it this year.

Being born on or near Thanksgiving, predictably, sucks. Notonly does it mean I was conceived on Valentine’s Day, but no one ever is aroundor in the mood to do anything on my birthday. I used to sulk about this, butthis year I’ve taken the opportunity to create Birthday Week:

Thursday November 24: Thanksgiving. I get a turkey legbecause it’s “almost my birthday.”

Friday November 25: Actual Birthday. Giant Camel, Meg, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, “some of the West Philly hipster queers if they’re around,” and I aregoing to Ethiopian food, bowling, and the gay piano bar. Can you imagine? A gaypiano bar AFTER a holiday and DURING a three day weekend? “Okay. Ooooookay.We’re going to have a drink, then we’re going to do ‘Thank You For Being aFriend’ again, then another drink, then ‘Those Were the Days,’ then drink, then‘Moon River.’”

Saturday November 26: GWAAAAAAR! I love Gwar, and if youdon’t, fuck you.

Sunday November 27: Rest; cake.

Monday November 28: “Alternate” birthday for people who wereout of town for Actual Birthday. Saints play Giants. A shot for everytouchdown, field goal, or safety. Will there be black and gold temporary haircolor? Is the Pope a shithead?

Tuesday November 29: Write obscene fan mail to ZacharyQuinto. LIBERAL use of construction paper.

Wednesday November 30: Rest; eat entire Whitman’s sampler inbed.

Thursday December 1: Philadelphia’s premier lesbian bar,Sisters, has a Thursday special: for ten bucks you get eight drink tickets andaccess to the buffet.

So, that’s my plan. 27. Halfway to 54, which is halfway tohaving been dead for twenty years.

The Deep End of the Ocean

2011-11-01T03:21:00.057-04:00

I got a really aggressive email last week from a reader telling me to go eff myself because I never wrote a follow-up post about The Great Towel Exchange with Alex. While it's genuinely exciting to know that there's a human being out there who appreciates Towel and his journey and isn't me, come on guy—get a Twitter account. I can't drop everything and write a blog post every time I'm reunited with a towel. Except I totally can!

As far as epic reunions go, this one was up there. It was a lot like that scene in The Color Purple when Whoopi Goldberg is reunited with her sister and long-lost children. Except with white people. And towels. And in a Target and not rural Georgia. And we were only separated for about a week. So, exactly like that scene in The Color Purple.

Take my hand, reader. Let's go on an emotional journey.

Here we are in the towel section in Target.

Meg: Alex, do you feel like a kid in a candy store?!

Alex: No. I feel like an adult in a towel store. [walks away]

HA HA, ohhh someone was feeling cranky that day! It was also at this point that I ran into a friend-of-a-friend who I hadn't seen in over two years. She was there because she's obviously doing wonderfully at her job and just bought a condo in Glover Park and was setting up house. She asked what I was up to these days and I was all, "Oh. Nothing. Buyin' towels. Settling scores. The usual." Our books did come up, but then she asked if they were paying the bills and I had to be like, "No. Not really. Or at all. I need a job. I probably shouldn't be buying towels. Ha ha. WELL, IT WAS REALLY GOOD TO SEE YOU!" Just once I'd like to run into someone from my past and be like, riding a shark and 30 pounds lighter and wearing a cape made of 100-dollar bills and the phone numbers of the many people who want to have sex with me. Not buying towels on a Friday night in stretch pants.

But I digress.

Alex found a towel that was to his liking.

I picked up a new shower liner because I'm an infamously frivolous spender.

Then I went next door and stickered the somewhat uncomfortably racist "Singing Rabbi" in Bed Bath and Beyond.

Finally, we took the party to IHOP to make the official trade.

THERE IT IS. THE DEED IS DONE. IN GIF FORM.

Welcome home, baby. Welcome home.

The Official Rowland Family List of Good Vampire Movies

2011-10-31T04:33:00.005-04:00

Truths that I will expand upon later:

1.) I'm sorry to disappear after my big Jerry McGuire mission statement/freak out, but I broke my hand. In half. One half is currently in the kitchen, the other half is in Delaware. Sucks. How did I break my hand? There's a story. There's always a story. This story, specifically, involves Ren Fest, alcohol, a whole lot of self-loathing, and tripping over my own boot. Will I tell you the story? I think I have to. But I'm not ready. I'm not emotionally there yet. I will be some day. That day is just not today.

2.) These painkillers are doing fuck-all and I keep being like, "Oh, well I'll just take one more!" And then I lose track of what number I'm on and remember that's how Heath Ledger died and completely freak myself out.

3.) Speaking of freaking myself out, I've been doing some research on the old Google and have fully convinced myself that I'm dying of a bleeding ulcer.

4.) I'm speaking at Hood College this afternoon and I don't have any clean pants. Just some food for thought.

5.) I am fascinated by this review of our book.

6.) My mom told me yesterday that I have the responsibility of a newt, which frankly is just adorable imagery. Fail on your part, madam. Fail.

7.) Happy Halloween! To get everyone in the Halloween mood, I thought I'd share with you today The Official Rowland Family List of Good Vampire Movies. My family enjoys five things in this world: food, alcohol, Mystery Science Theater 3000, Evie, and vampire movies. (Actually Becca doesn't enjoy Evie and Evie doesn't enjoy Becca and watching their genuinely icy interactions is never not entertaining, but I'm counting it anyway.) My dad in particular has strong emotions about vampire movies, so I sat down with him and my mom last week and we talked about vampires and what makes a Good Vampire Movie.

The first thing my dad wanted me to clarify in this post is that vampire movies exist on a spectrum that goes all the way from vampire-light movies like the Twilight series (quote my dad: "They just emo-ed vampires to death. [Looks wistfully off into the distance] They didn't even need a stake..."), to ultra-gory glorified zombie movies (30 Days of Night), to the very specific and very real sub-genre of lesbian vampire porn. Yes, these movies have vampires in them and sure, some of them might not even be that bad, but they're not Good Vampire Movies. So what makes a Good Vampire Movie? According to my dad, a Good Vampire Movie needs to have the following:

- Sexual tension

- Atmosphere

- Good-looking women

- Humor (Although, apparently it can't be "too funny" and nobody is quite sure where the "too funny" line is drawn. Love at First Bite is a genuine source of contention between my parents. My dad classifies it as "too funny" whereas my mom refers to it as, "Oh, you mean the funniest vampire movie ever made? With my best friend, George Hamilton?"...It's a gray area.)

- Style

The second thing my dad wanted me to clarify is that there are three basic vampire movies you need to see for your own vampire movie education, but, again, they're not necessarily Good Vampire Movies. They're building blocks on the way to Good Vampire Movies. They're the 100-level classes of Good Vampire Movies:

- Nosferatu, 1922. "It's a silent movie with Nazi undertones, so...that's kind of uncomfortable, but it's also one of the most creepy Dracula movies of all time."

- Vampyr, 1932. "It's a Danish movie and is ALL atmosphere. Very little plot, but, again, it helps you understand the atmosphere of vampire movies."

- Dracula, 1931. "This is the Dracula with Bela Lugosi and it introduces sex to vampire movies, but it's a little slow-moving. If you played it at Meg's Fall Fun Day, when you turned on the lights at the end, half of the audience would be gone and the other half would be asleep. But that's how you start. If you watch those three, you'll really get the Gestalt of vampire movies." (I later had to look that word up on Wikipedia. Kudos to my dad for going to film school and kudos to me for going to American University.)

So with that in mind, I present to you now The Official Rowland Family List of Good Vampire Movies (in no particular order):

- Bram Stoker's Dracula, 1992. "Directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Best backstory on Dracula. Very creepy. It's got style, it's got sex...very good movie."

- Lost Boys, 1987. "Best catchphrase: 'Sleep all day, party all night'"

- Andy Warhol's Dracula, 1974. My dad's only comment on this one was, "It was just...................so weird," and then he moved on. I though this was odd until I read the description—

Count Dracula knows that if he fails to drink a required amount of pure virgin's [pronounced "wirgin's"] blood, it's time to move into a permanent coffin. His assistant (Renfield?) suggests that the Count and he pick up his coffin and take a road trip to Italy, where families are known to be particularly religious, and therefore should be an excellent place to search for a virgin bride. They do, only to encounter a family with not one, but FOUR virgins, ready for marriage. The Count discovers one-by-one that the girls are not as pure as they say they are, meanwhile a handsome servant/Communist begins to observe strange behaviour from the girls who do spend the night with the Count. It's a race for Dracula to discover who's the real virgin, before he either dies from malnourishment or from the wooden stake of the Communist!

—and his reaction immediately made more sense.

- Let the Right One In, 2008/Let Me In, 2010. 3 out of 3 Rowlands agree: the American version is better. (AND I PROUDLY STAND UP NEXT TO YOU.)

- Suck, 2009. "A funny Canadian vampire movie. That says it all."

- Alucard, 1943. "It's Dracula backwards. Put it on the list for subtlety."

- Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 1992.

- Tales From the Crypt Presents: Bordello of Blood, 1996. "It's gory, but it's also an hour and a half of Dennis Miller making vampire quips, so—[shrugs, sips glass of scotch]"

- From Dusk Till Dawn, 1996. "The perfect vampire movie. It's got everything, plus the humans are scarier than the vampires. And it goes without saying it's also got Salma Hayek with a huge yellow snake between her legs."

- The Hunger, 1983. "Style. Ultra style. David Bowie as a vampire? Come on..."

- The Forsaken, 2001. "Pretty good. Takes place in the Southwest. It's the Tony Hillerman of vampire movies."

- Shadow of the Vampire, 2000.

- Vampire's Kiss, 1989. "You never quite figure out if he's actually a vampire or if he's just going psychotic. Really good movie. Nicholas Cage is great. Funny and unsettling—perfect. It's what a Good Vampire Movie should be.

- Innocent Blood, 1992. "This is the Animal House of vampire movies. Directed by John Landis. Very funny. The first five minutes of the film are worth the entire move if you're a guy." Why? "Full-frontal nudity." The entire 112 minutes are worth it if you're a Meg. "Why?" Don Rickles.

- Count Dracula, 1977 BBC miniseries with Louis Jourdan. When this was put on the table, my parents just went back and forth saying "INCREDIBLY SEXY", "VERY SEXY", "THAT'S A SEXY ONE" and I felt extremely uncomfortable.

- Dracula, 2004: "It's got a lot of style and some very good lines."

- Vampire Vixens from Venus, 2004: "Meh. It gets a point just for being so alliterate."

- Interview with the Vampire, 1994. "It's the battle between cool vampire Tom Cruise vs. emo vampire Brad Pitt. And child porn vampire Kirsten Dunst. A lot of style. Great cast. Very atmospheric. Very stylish. Perfect."

Plus, these just look intriguing:

Near Dark

Vampire Dentist

G-String Vampires

Ankle Biters (It's about a town taken over by a rare breed of dwarf vampire. I mean...)

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter ("For the history buff in you!")

Ghoul's Gone Wild

Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter

Muffy the Vampire Slayer

My dad doesn't interact much with 2b1b readers (you know, when he's not walking around our release party signing people's books...), but he genuinely wants to know what vampire movies you guys like. So, what vampire movies do you guys like? Write it down, slip it to me in homeroom, and I'll give it to my dad during English. LYLAS AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!1!

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

2011-10-21T02:02:00.025-04:00

- I ran across this while perusing fuckyeahtattoos the other day:

...Look, I'm not trying to seem insensitive here, but there's just something so ~~hilarious?~~ ironic about paying someone to permanently scar you by dragging an ink-filled needle across your skin to further self injury awareness. It's like going on a hunger strike to battle anorexia. Or organizing a fight club against domestic violence. Or renting out a That's Amore! for a night and turning it into a full-blown Roman vomitorium to end bulimia. It just ~~makes me laugh~~ is an interesting choice.

- Remember the 90210 episode where Steve decides to try out his stand-up chops at comedy night at the After Dark, bombs, panics, and ends up stealing a routine from Richard Belzer and it's this big morality lesson about how you should always tell your girlfriend the truth and never steal from Richard Belzer? .........................................................Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry. There's no punchline here. I just think it's completely absurd that that was actually a plotline on 90210.

- "I still really want to see a Christian foam party"- Andrew, October 14, 2011. It just seemed too funny to waste on Twitter. Sorry.

- Alia Shawkat's overacting in Drew Barrymore's Best Coast music video extravaganza "Crazy For You" is one of the most magical things I've ever seen in my entire life. (4:45)

Best Coast - Our Deal from sssnake on Vimeo.

Sometimes when I come back from the gym out of breath, I throw on my doorknocker earrings and a denim jacket and walk around my bathroom delivering that monologue to myself in the mirror. Kind of like how when I get bored emptying the dishwasher, I make all of my movements really big and dramatically slam dishes down in frustration and pretend I'm the piano player in The Style Council's video for "Shout It to the Top".

It passes the time. Either way, Night Creepers 4 lyfe.

- I listened to the unedited version of "Guilty Conscious" the other day for the first time in a while and it was startling.

- Somebody from Hurricane, West Virginia hacked into my Facebook account last Wednesday at 2:38 in the afternoon. The story here is obviously that there's a Hurricane, West Virginia. And that it was recognized for Outstanding Drinking Water Performance in 2010 and has one of the oldest barbershops in America. Swear to fuckin' God.

- I wrote a tweet last Friday about an incredibly mediocre sandwich I was eating at the time and got this in response:

You know what? I resent that. Because I'm fairly confident that they have sandwiches in the third world and the law of averages tells us that some of them have to be mediocre. So suck it, Angie.

- It's T.G.I. Hagman!

And it really is T.G.I. Hagman. I'm not jumping the gun and dooming a man to months of radiation therapy this time. PROOF:

(That was a very meta experience for me. Check it out:

Let's go one more level.

It's like being trapped in a really mediocre Escher drawing.) As of 1:22am on October 21, 2011 (FOR REALZ, FOR REALZ), Larry Hagman is...alive! And I would sell my soul to the Devil to keep it that way.

Alright, that's going to do it for us this week. Have a great weekend and if you're going to the Maryland Renaissance Festival this Saturday—SEE YOU THERE. (!!!1) Buh bye.

Yesterday afternoon was extremely eventful:

2011-10-20T06:19:00.005-04:00

1.) A homeless woman on a D2 bus explained both sides of the Occupy Wall Street protests to me and while getting into this conversation was in no way my idea, I'm not trying to front like it wasn't extremely helpful.

2.) I was taking the D2 from McPherson Square to Connecticut and 20th and get my eyebrows threaded, but I was so caught up in this woman's surprisingly coherent and helpful explanation of the protests that I completely missed my stop and had to get off at Connecticut and S. While hoofing it back to the other side of the circle, I totally crossed paths with THE HOT DILF-Y WAITER FROM SETTE. For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter (and I don't know why you wouldn't, as I clearly tweet about ~*BoYz, bOyZ, BOyZ!!!*~), I have a bit of a thing for one of the waiters at Sette Osteria. It's not creepy, it's not desperate, I just want to have semi-rough sex with him and I'm relying solely on the power of the Internet to make it happen. It's normal. Steve Jobs is dead. It's 2011—anything's possible.

I go out to dinner with my parents every other week or so and we typically either go to James Hoban's or Sette. This means that I see hot DILF-y waiter quite frequently, and very much in a context where I'm stuffing fried seafood into my face and sitting directly next to my father. Which is uncomfortable, to say the least. What's even more odd to me is that we're always there when he's working, yet he's never our actual waiter. (Which actually might be a good thing because I'd probably end up being like, "Oh, I'll just have a small salad and I don't have HPV, thanks!") (Although, in this day and age, I can't help but feel like that's quite the dowry...)

When I saw HDW across the street, so many things went through my mind in a fraction of a second. In order: "Shit. That guy's hot." —> "Why does he look so familiar...?" —> "Christ, did we hook up?" —> "HA HA! It's the hot DILF-y waiter from Sette!" —> "God, why did you insist on not showering today and wearing that dress with the salad dressing stain near the crotch because 'who's looking that closely?'" —> "I should tweet this." —> "No, loser, don't tweet this." —> "Blog this!"

This means that as I locked eyes with HDW, my face did the following Superbowl Shuffle of awkwardness: slight smile, single raise of eyebrow —> pug-like head tilt and extremely country "HUH??" facial expression —> heart drops into asshole, might vomit --> laughs out loud like an insane person —> hangs head in shame and moves purse over crotch —> eyes light up —> head goes back down —> TO THE BLOGMOBILE!

But in a fraction of a second. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And my vagina on my Twitter.

3.) Later as I was walking down 19th street, a hot (yet significantly less Piven-esque) guy starting walking towards me in the opposite direction and we kind of gave each other the old once-over. As I started to go up the steps to Dupont Threading, he stopped me.

"Excuse me," he said, as we obviously fell in love and I became pregnant with his seed, "But I've always wanted to know—what's threading?"

"Oh. Uh. It's an Indian method of—deep, deep sigh—hair removal." He then did the little you take care now! hand wave and said, "Hair removal. Got it," and walked away. Quickly. I don't know. It was humbling.

4.) This didn't happen yesterday, but speaking of constantly falling in love on the street, I was en route to a party on Q street last Friday night and got stuck walking behind a group of bro-looking guys who were probably in their early 30's. It was one of those irritating situations where you're awkwardly walking at the same rate as the person (or people) in front of you, but it's been a few blocks so you're starting to feel like a stalker, but if you speed up and pass them you know you won't be able to keep that rate up and you're just going to end up falling back behind them and appear even creepier...yes? No? Only me? Still boycotting Fitness First for their towel policy? Yes. Anyway, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation they were having about Hank Williams, Jr. and one of them brought up how he just wrote a new song to address the whole Obama/Nazi comment scandal. "Oh, really?" one of them asked sarcastically, "What was it, [sings] ARE YOU READY FOR SOME NEGROS?!" It took everything in my power not to laugh-out-loud, and in retrospect, I really wished I had. Because a.) you know if there's anything I love more than a bro in his early 30's, it's a receding hairline. And if there's anything I love more than a receding hairline, it's a lisp. And b.) I just appreciate anybody who has the chutzpah to sing a joke of that magnitude on a crowded street on a Friday night without any apologies. I was extremely tempted to write a Craigslist missed connection but decided not to when I realized it would essentially be: "YOU WERE THE GUY SINGING ABOUT NEGROS ON Q STREET FRIDAY NIGHT, I WAS THE BIG-TITTED GIRL BEHIND YOU WHO DIDN'T HAVE THE STAMINA TO WALK SLIGHTLY FASTER AND PASS YOU. WAS IT JUST ME, OR DID I FEEL A CONNECTION?!?!" Sigh. The one that got away...

5.) At a certain point yesterday afternoon I got really nauseous and my lower back started to hurt, so I obviously convinced myself that my kidneys were shutting down and completely freaked myself out. I'm fairly certain that I just had a bad cheesesteak, but I wouldn't say I'm out of the woods yet.

So...that was my Wednesday afternoon. What adventures will today hold?? I shudder to think.