Christ on a croissant. Allow me to share with you a text I got from Allison this afternoon while I was at work:
No Post Monday. Your father and I aren't mad. We're disappointed.
Sigh. Now allow me to share with you a gchat conversation two readers from Texas had and sent me:
Kate: it drives me nuts that meg never posts on mondays anymore and EVERY tuesday is like LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG and im like .... that doesn't make up for it, meg. that. doesnt. make. up. for. it. Sent at 3:24 PM on Monday Sarah: I KNOW its annoying its like I NEED THIS it's not a game at this desk Kate: hahaha Sarah: what is she doing mondays if shes unemployed? Kate: she works retail and she drinks sunday nights so she barely has time to put on pants mondays when she wakes up at 10am for her 11am shift ugh, meg. i feel like i know you and yet, i dont. Sarah: its so creepy yet so necessary maybe we should send her this convo
And then they did. And I'M SORRY, YOU GUYS! I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how much No Post Mondays stress me out. I kept remembering that I didn't post anything this morning at work today and feeling all guilty and stressed out like I forgot my kid at daycare or something. Which is absurd because this is just a blog. But, you know, it's more to me and I feel guilty.
I don't even have a good excuse for not blogging yesterday. I got home from work Sunday night and like the responsible young blogger I am (or strive to be), I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, a very much alive and somewhat kickin' Cella and Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know... with every intention of writing a Q&A post for Monday morning. And then I passed out AN single page in. I woke up five hours later at 2:30 in the morning curled up in a ball on the couch, pantsless, TV still on, spooning my laptop with mascara all over my face. It was pretty much the closest I've come to having sex since I made consensual love to a box of Thin Mints last Thursday.
Despite being half asleep and in the midst of nap afterglow (nafterglow, if you will,) I vowed that I would get something—anything—up on the blog to avoid yet another No Post Monday. So I made a list of everything that's going on in my life at the moment. And the list went as such:
- I had a really satisfying salad for dinner last night.
And that concluded the list. I'm not kidding. I very seriously wrote that sentence, blanked on anything else to write and thought, "Welp! That's the ballgame. This is my life. Aaaaaaaand hells bell's it's depressing. Good night and god speed."
But I refuse to believe that that's the only noteworthy thing in my life right now. That I had a satisfying salad for dinner. (Although it's worth noting that it really was a satisfying salad. So much so that I had again for dinner tonight. And some soup. Because it was a rainy, lazy, cozy soup kind of a day. OH MY FUCKING GOD, DO YOU SEE?! DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) No!I'm not letting this happen. I will not talk about depression, or soup, or salad, or soup and salad combo meals, or anything else that will make me sound like a living, breathing Cathy comic. Today I'm going to talk about other things. This, my friends, IS WHAT'S GOING ON.
- UM. Reagan, a 2b1b reader from Houston sent me this tank top the other day:
Oh I'm sorry, Reagan. Did I just go gay for you? Yep. Sure did. So, what are you doing this weekend? ME!? Hehehehe, oh MY! You bring the flannel; I'll bring the power tools.
(Side note: I really want to add a merch store to the blog, specifically because I want to create an official "sorr about the bag" tote bag and proudly sport it around town on a daily basis. If anyone knows anything about how to set up a merch store on a blog, hit a bitch up: meg@2birds1blog.com. Especially because if I get a store up and running, it might solve my next problem...)
- I need $500 and Adderall. Fast. I realize this couldn't sound sketchier if a one-armed Russian drug dealing sailor was involved, but I swear both are for legit purposes. I think I may have solved my laptop problem! Lara's going off to grad school in the fall (THAT'S RIGHT! My design protégé got accepted into Parson's web design masters program, DID YOURS?! Oh. He did? Well. Good for him. He should talk to Lara because she's talented and easy on the eyes. Oh, and he's newly single? Welp. I'm mighty glad we had this conversation.) and needs to get a new computer before she goes. She dropped by the store tonight and informed me that she's going to sell her old (sexy) laptop (which just got a new battery and comes with CS3!) for $500 and I shotgunned that thing so fast my name tag spun. Unfortunately Lara wasn't quite as excited. She kind of awkwardly looked at the ground, shifted her eyes back and forth and asked, "Uhhh...Meg...no offense, but do you have $500?" Well, no, not in the technical sense, but I sure as shit can find a way to get it!
So, what am I good at? Drinking, making charmingly awkward conversation and occasionally baking things. Thus, for a nominal fee, I will come to your apartment with a bottle of wine and bake you something. Perhaps a poon cake. It's kind of my specialty. What's the nominal fee? In the words of the church, "give what you can." And then a few bucks more because things are touch and go. Come on! It's like a bake sale that comes to you! It's a lazy man's wet dream! Invite some friends over! We'll make it a night! (PS: those friends should also give what they can. God bless.)
Oh, and the Adderall is just because I have ADD and need it, but can't afford to go see a psychiatrist anymore. Poverty is mighty inconveniencing. I'm rationing out my remaining anit-depressants like meat in wartime.
Now, I don't know how "legal" this is, but I have a request. Is the request to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house? No. No, it's not. But it's also not not to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house, if you catch my drift. And if say a spare painkiller found it's way in there too? Well, I certainly wouldn't be mad. THAAAANX!
- Becca recently asked me to start thinking about what kind of bridesmaid dress I would want to wear in her wedding. She's pretty sure she wants her bridal party to be in gray, but since I'm the Maid of Honor, mine gets to be a little bit different. When she told me this, I obviously heard, "you can wear whatever you want," and immediately knew the perfect dress—the dress that Alexis Carrington/Colby/Dexter/Rowan wears to Steven and Sammy Jo's engagement party in the season 2 episode appropriately titled, "The Party."
when Becca was over the other week, I decided it was a good time to inform her that I had found the perfect Maid of Honor dress for her wedding. "Awesome! Let's see it!" she said. So I juiced up the old DVD player, popped in "The Party" and paused it on the following still:
She seemed to not think it was an option. Although, to be fair, I failed to mention that the mink stole and gold seashell clutch are optional. That might make a difference.
Flash forward to yesterday when Ex Co-Blogger Eddie sent me a link to a dress that she said I should buy because a.) it looks like Dynasty threw up all over it and b.) it would make my boobs look good:
Oh, I'M sorry. Is that not just a modest version of my dream Dynasty dress?! IT'S PERFECT! I mean, gray is sophisticated and elegant and all, but gold lamé? Gold lamé is like surviving a heinous car crash, plunging into a vat of ice-cold water or getting kicked in the groin—it reminds you that you're alive. If there's any fabric more appropriate for a wedding, I'd like to know what it is. Soooo...fingers crossed she goes for that. - What does it say about me that I legitimately almost peed my pants laughing the first time I saw this video?
And keep in mind that a large part of the near urination factor was due to the kid's blood-curdling screams. Not to mention the fact that right it can get any funnier, a rogue donkey scampers across the shot. I mean, this is pretty much what dreams are made of. I've very seriously had this video open in it's own tab for like, four days straight now and I can't imagine living in a world where I close it. Hell should be nice...
- I was having dinner with my parents last weekend and we somehow started talking about Project Runway. During this conversation, my dad informed me that it is his ultimate dream for me to go on Project Runway and make it to the final 3. Not because I want, or have ever wanted to be a fashion designer, mind you, but because that means my dad would get to meet and subsequently hug Tim Gunn during the home visit episode. "I don't know," my dad explained, "A hug from Tim Gunn seems like it would be so cathartic. Like everything would be OK. He just seems like such a nice guy!"
...From now on, whenever people get weirded out by the fact that I have tattoos dedicated to my parents, this is the moment I'm going to refer them to. I just feel like it might clear things up a bit.
- In case you didn't know, I'm on the Twitter. Fellow Twitter user and 2b1b reader @toastedzen tweeted me the following this past Friday night:
toastedzen@2birds1blog I would give just about anything to hang out with you. Hell, to DATE you. I am in love!
"Well that's awfully nice of you, sir," I thought to myself, before tweeting "done and DONE!" back for good measure.
The next morning, he tweeted this:
toastedzen@2birds1blog FYI I have no idea how much sake I had put back before I wrote that. Just in case, you know if it doesn't work out between us.
To which I joked, "what?? so we're NOT dating?!" And this is what I got back:
toastedzen@2birds1blog its not you, its me. really. umm... I just think we should be free to see other people. but we can still be friends.
OK, let me just get this straight: I'm getting dumped by fake boyfriends, these days? Before even meeting me? Is this really how far I've fallen? I'm not mad, mind you. I'm just asking. Clarifying, really. Because when you discover my lifeless body hanging from a shower rod, I don't want there to be any confusion as to what happened. I don't want any lingering theories out there that perhaps old Meg McBlogger David Carradine-ed herself. It was intentional. So we're all on the same page here? Good. Moving on.
- AH! WEIRD! So after writing that last thought, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and on my way back, grabbed the most recent issue of CosmopolitanBecky has and brought it back to bed. I opened to the horoscope section and read mine:
Aries The forecast: As Uranus makes its agitating debut in your sign, you're bound to unleash your grumpiness on all the wrong people. Sign up for a bad-mood-busting kickboxing class, pronto.
Work mode: Cashing in. Moneymaking Mercury settles past-due payments, and you'll enjoy a post-tax windfall.
Love life: A three-way planetary lineup could send hot prospects to singles. Meanwhile, the coupled-up Ram will finally start showing off her man at company events.
Power Day: 27th
First and foremost: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Uranus.
Secondly: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Three-way.
But come on! As much of a giant pile of horse shit that Cosmo is, that's a pretty creepy horoscope, right?? I'm grumpy and taking it out on the wrong people (you, via No Post Mondays) but my money problems will soon be solved (thanks to my new poon cake chef on-the-go business!) Thanks Cosmo! I never thought I'd say this, but you made me feel better about life. And don't worry, I won't forget to play with his balls.
Good morning all! Before we get to this week's recap of Kell On Earth, I have a few matters of housekeeping to discuss:
1.) Re: the following text message I received yesterday afternoon from Allison:
Please tell me No Post Mondays are not the new black. You're my Monday life support, Meg!
a.) Bless your heart, Allison! Bless it good. b.) No, I promise they're not. And sorry about that. I didn't post last Monday because Co-Blogger Chris was in town being all handsome and distracting and I didn't post yesterday because I was having one of my emo episodes where I desperately need to lock myself in my apartment, snort a few lines of Pepto chewables and sleep for an absurd amount of time. But by mid-afternoon things got a whole helluva lot better, so now I'm back! Sorry I got all Morrissey on you. I'm here. My mom thinks I'm queer. Get used to it.
2.) Frankly, I forgot the other item of housekeeping...I saw Shutter Island tonight and things have been kind of touch-and-go since. I'm also currently watching a show called TRANSform Meon mute and I think it's about drag queens giving teenage girls with low self-esteem makeovers? I don't know. I care about it enough to note it's existence, but not enough to reach my hand out and pat around my bed to find the remote to un-mute it. Sorry. I've already been to the gym once today, a-thank you very much. (Lies. I've been laying in my bed feeling sorry for myself and we all know it.)
You may have noticed that I'm kind of just awkwardly typing my inner monologue at this point and not actually writing anything of substance. Well, Chris couldn't recap Kell On Earth tonight (last night, for you) because his TV is packed in a box somewhere en route to the district (HUZZAH!) and I was too busy getting the Ruffalo scared out of me to watch it or the repeat at 11, so now I need to stay up until the next repeat at 2am. And yes, I know there are easier ways to do this, but I don't know when they put the newest episode online and this sister can't afford DVR. I'm unemployed. Don't judge me or my cable package. So now my plan is to type my inner monologue to avoid falling asleep because I know myself and I know that once I'm out, I'm Out. With a capital O. Edward Norton could break in wearing tap shoes, no pants and a gift basket of Kashi Go-Lean and I'd still be out like a light.
So what can I talk about? Umm...I did my laundry today. It was really cathartic. I hadn't done it in a while. I bought a new brand of laundry detergent because it was $2 off at CVS with my bonus card and I'm thoroughly enjoying it's refreshing yet musky scent. Uhhh....I've been ravenously hungry recently and I'm breaking out, so I guess I'm going to get my period soon? That's exciting. I guess. Fertile Myrtle and all that. Ooo! It's 1am. Making progress. Just another hour to go. Real Housewives of New York City is on right now but I refuse to watch it because the rift between Jill and Bethenny affects me and my daily mood way more than anything not involving me or someone close to me should. I don't know why I give reality television this much power.
What else? OH! So my "everyday necklace" is starting to give me a rash, which I find completely irritating on two distinct levels: 1.) I like it and I don't want to take it off and 2.) It was expensive. I totally interpreted it's expensiveness as a sign that it doesn't have any nickel in it, but judging from the disguising and painfully itchy rash developing around my neck, I guess not. Nickel has to be the most inconvenient metal to be allergic to. That shit is everywhere. Like on the inside of every button on every pair of pants in America, for example. True story: I have to put clear nail polish on the back of the buttons in my pants or else I get a really painful rash on my stomach. It's either that or get hypo-allergenic pants, which is a level of nerdom I'm just not ready to explore. Yet. Ok, 1:30, doing well. Let's see, I've already shared that I'm broke, ovulating and allergic to common metals, how else can I convince you not to have sex with me? WOW. There's a bottle of skin astringent laying next to me in bed and for a hot second I thought it was a bottle of water and almost drank it. That would have been interesting to explain to the paramedics...
Um. Um. Um, what else? My face itches. Fucking allergies. I have to pee but I don't want to get up. I should probably stop typing and/or delete all of this later. GOD DAMNIT, I just reached for the astringent again. 'Ehhhh...I'm going to check Twitter. See what's happening in the world. Ok, according to Snooki, season 2 of Jersey Shore is going to be "crazy." Good to know. OMG! Someone retweeted something from Henry Holland!!!11o2i3rjo2i3jr. I didn't know Henry Holland was on Twitter?! I once tweeted that he's like, "a walking boner for my eyes." Had I known he was on Twitter I totally would have @-ed him and we'd obviously be in love and wearing matching neon mesh outfits in the English countryside right now! I think the reason I'm so into Henry Holland is because he kind of looks like Michael Showalter, except times gay:
Just a little theory I've been working on. 1:56am. AWESOME. That photo research really wasted time quite nicely. Cutrone AHOY!
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This week we got a good look at the inner workings of Andrew M, and let me tell you something: Andrew M fascinates me like nobody has ever fascinated me before. (Well, except Al Corley, maybe.) Andrew M apparently comes from a lot of money and only has a job because there are 24 hours in a day and you can only spend so many of them polishing your solid gold shitter. This, for some reason, is shocking to me. I mean, I'm not trying to say that he's always seemed "down-to-earth" to me, as the boy repeatedly wears outfits that look like if ADIDAS track pants made love to Elvira's dungeon, but of all of Kelly's lackeys, I'd probably want to be trapped in a box for 29 hours with him the most. Skinner comes in a close second. Kelly's navy caftan third.
Andrew M lives in an apartment attached to his parent's place on 57th street and playa be ballin'. He has a gilded baroque Versace chair in his bedroom. I have a Jäger machine. His employers found it endearing when he ordered over $500 worth of printer paper because he didn't want to deal with the stresses of ordering office supplies again. I was shit-canned and threatened with legal action for writing a blog. He has a job just for funsies. I spent the better part of today emailing various craigslist adult gigs to Alex and asking if they're good ideas or not. What I'm trying to say is: jealous.
Personally, I relate more to old Andrew S. Poor, poor Andrew S. Robyn hates Andrew S' guts with a burning passion and he just can't figure out why. I'm apt to blame the lisp. Or the absurd tan. Or the Britney Spears lyrical tattoos. Or the fact that he's a pill popper who always looks like he's wearing a jar of high-gloss lip balm. Or because he can't quite seem to ever do his job correctly. My guess is as good as yours. The only thing we know for sure is that Robyn is a raging Cuntosaurus Rex whenever Andrew S is in a 4-food radius of her and I kind of feel badly for him.
BUT YOU KNOW WHO I DON'T FEEL BADLY FOR? Ava. I don't want to say I "hate" the daughter of my idol, because that seems so callous and uncalled for. Let's just say that I don't find it "adorable" when she clickity clacks away on the computer my grown-ass has been saving months for while she badmouths Wal-Mart and the fact that her grandmother shops there. Oh, I'M sorry, Ava Cutrone. We can't all have golden MacBooks thrown at us for graduating new-age hippie Kindergarten. Some of us have to work jobs to afford computers and then get fired from those jobs and are forced to dip into our laptop funds to survive, so it only makes sense to take advantage of every day rollback prices. Gawd. (Ok. I swear I'm done picking on 8-year-olds. For now...)
Where was I in this recap? Oh yes—
Robyn to Andrew S: "CUNT CUNT CUNT, WAH WAH WAH, HATES YA HATES YA HATES YA."
After a hard day berating Andrew S and his tan of many colors, Robyn, Emily and Kelly decide to take a stroll around the block to blow off some steam and meet interesting, fascinating people. One of these people is Lucien, a skateboarder slash bookmaker with a fancy European accent and a quasi Jheri Curl whom Robyn is all over like under-eye circles on Skinner. And good for her! Kelly thinks Lucien is the perfect guy for a power girl like Robyn because "he's just a cute guy who rolls up with you to events and looks good and just wants to fuckin' have fun." I'm pretty much in the market for that exact same thing myself. Except I'm not a power girl. And the events you'd be rolling up with me to wouldn't so much be "events" as dive bars and my couch. But, you know. Tomato, toe-mat-oh.
The next day Kelly takes Andrew M to a look book shoot for the Xenya line of affordable* dresses. (*Affordable = under $500. RECESSION LOL!) Here's the root problem with Andrew M: he doesn't really know what's up with his job half the time and he doesn't really care that much about figuring it out, but he'll never get in trouble for it because he's so god damn likable. Everybody likes him. Myself included! Even though he's kind of lazy and clueless. It's not fair. For example, he kind of half-asses the Xenya shoot, but every one's too busy being like, "HAHA! LOOK AT HIS ADORABLE GOTHIC STOCKINGS!" to notice or care. Kelly even takes him to meet noted milliner (that's a hat maker for you peasants) Stephen Jones and offers to buy him a one-of-a-kind black Price of Darkness crown...hat...thing because she thinks he's so cute. Do you think she'd do that for Skinner? Uh, hellz no. But you gotta give it to Andrew M; it's kind of genius. If only poor Andrew S would realize that all he has to do is stop listening to Britney Spears and start listening to Saviour Machine and he'd have Robyn in the palm of his hand before you can say Emily The Strange.
Alas, Andrew S never gets the memo and only makes things worse for himself when he wants to take time off right after Fashion Week to go to a wedding back in California. To be fair, Andrew asked for this time off back when he was just a little baby intern and didn't know that things are still really hectic right after Fashion Week, but he stands his ground to Kelly and tells her that even though the office is going to be crazy short-staffed without him, he's still going to LA. And ooof. Tenseleytown/AU. (Oh, wow. Really? A DC metro pun?) (It's 3am. Let's not talk about it.)
DVR Teaser: Children grow quickly and it's funny to watch them walk around in adult-sized shoes. Like dogs. The end.
Who's got platform wedges, an S&M beltlace and feels like throwing a wacky Adam's Family themed dinner party?? Andrew M, of course! But how ever will he find time to plan a dinner party and run Kelly's office? With the help of his assistant/mom, of course. Andrew basically calls his mom (whom he literally refers to as his "assistant") from work and asks her to throw together the dinner party kthnx! and she does. This should annoy me but mostly I'm just sad I didn't get an invite. GOD DAMN HE'S GOOD.
Andrew and Skinner then proceed to get in the world's most pointless fight when Skinner shows up late to his dinner party because she had to stay and finish the work he abandoned to get dressed and "call everyone up to see what they're bringing." OH, ANDREW! You little skamp, you! (Side note: I almost just drank the astringent again. I have officially moved it to my nightstand.)
Blah, blah, blah...Kelly tries to whore Robyn out to a waiter who likes big boobs, yadah, yadah, yadah, Skinner and Andrew S make up....BAM! Monday morning everyone comes into the office and—SHOCK!—Andrew S quit over the weekend and is moving back to California permanently. Poor little thing. Truth be told, I'm actually going to miss Andrew S. That's when Andy Cohen pops out my refrigerator and shouts "SURPRISE! WE'RE ONE STEP AHEAD OF YOU, SWEETHEART!" and there's a really funny black and white remember when... montage of Andrew S. hair spraying his hair, laying in a tanning bed, showing off his B. Spears tattoos, offering Skinner Ativan and cluelessly shaking a printer cartridge. God...if I could be in a Facebook relationship with Bravo TV, it would not be an open one.
Welp! Good night slash have a wonderful day at work!
Yesterday Boss #1 took me aside and told me that she needed to talk to me about something. I was pretty sure she was either going to a.) fire me; b.) tell me something horrifyingly informative about her vagina or c.) ask me something horrifyingly informative about my vagina. Imagine my surprise when it was none of the above! Instead, Boss #1 asked me to have a sit-down with her 17-year-old daughter (who vehemently does not want to go to college) and somehow convince her that going to college is the best idea ever. And to that request, I say Yowzahs. For two reasons:
1.) Oh my god, I just don't care.
and 2.) I had literally just finished having this gchat conversation with Allison after sending her my resume:
Allison: your resume is impressive! me: it's really not, but thank you! Allison: you're all "honors everything, CHECK. Winner of everything, CHECK CHECK." me: yea. i like, tried real hard in college 'n shit. LOLZ HAHAHHAHAA that was a bad call because it got me "so far" Allison: yeah you tried hard in college - what was THAT all about?? me: fuck i don't know Allison: I feel ya - I had 85 internships in 4 years and was the president of every academic club in the entire university and I have been laid off twice in one year me: HAHAHA RIGHT??? i shoulda just been doing meth the whole time. Allison: I know...I can't believe the drug opportunities I passed up for THIS
Sooooo...maybe I'm not the best person to come to for advice on why you should go to college. Frankly, I don't think I'm the best person to come to for advice on anything ever, period. Unless that advice is about napping, how to kill time or The Art of Sass. That I got covered. But seriously, I worked my ass off in high school just to go to my safety school and then I worked my ass off in college to become what—a Professional Houseplant?? Who really gives a shit if she goes to school or not? Let's not lie to ourselves, by the time she graduates high school, I'll probably be dead in a ditch somewhere and she can just take my job (which she'll probably do a far better job of,) meet an architect, fall in love, get married, pump out a few kids and wash, rinse, repeat. And PSHHHHH—doesn't sound horrible to me. The world will not end if she doesn't go to college. Hell, Boss #1 didn't even go to college! What am I supposed to tell this girl? "Honey, you gotta go to college. You don't want to end up like your mom and become...my...boss?"
I also think it's slightly ridiculous that the only reason she doesn't want to go to college is because she's scared she's "not smart enough." I reject that excuse. Because have you seen the movie Revenge of the Nerds? Are you familiar with Fred "Ogre" Palowakski? If he could handle the pressures of academic life, football season, being an active brother of Beta Alpha, a member of The Greek Council and nerd-hunting, I'm sure she can too. Perhaps toss your copy of Princeton Review's 365 Best Colleges out the window, aim a schmidge lower than your friends and you'll be right as rain come Fall.
Knowing that I'm inevitably going to have to sit down with this girl and talk about the merits of going to college, I whipped this up for, just for her. It's Meg McBlogger's Top-5 Reasons You Should Go To College:
1.) ~*BoYz bOyz BoYz!!*~: Look. I talk to your mom on a daily basis. And your mom, bless her heart, is Boss #1. I obviously know everything that goes on with your snizz. What I'm trying to say is—I know you're a slut. And that's fine! I'm not here to judge. However, be aware that passing up college means passing up the opportunity to matriculate with thousands of young, eager and willing boys. And girls! Shit, I don't know what you're into. You seem like the kind of gal who after six drinks will bang anything with ears. And you know what? In college, that's fine! You should be banging anything with ears! Because college is your chance to get all that Freak out of your system before you enter the Real World where staying out all night having sex, jacked up on Zelko and Windex fumes is considered "A Problem." You want Candy Finnegan banging on your door or an RA telling you to pipe down? Yeah. That's what I thought.
2.) Close proximity to free food: UM HI. I'M A DINING HALL, HAVE WE MET? Do you know how many 20-somethings there are out there starving every night, just wishing they could go swipe their way into the dining hall for even one single slice of chicken? Too many. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. There it is. The disgusting and embarrassing truth. I have sick and oddly specific fantasies about running through TDR with a tray in my hand and the wind in my hair, just grabbing whatever the fuck I want. (Oh HEY American University students reading this right now! Got extra meal blocks? LET'S DO DINNER! meg@2birds1blog.com) I know what you're thinking, "But Meg, if I don't go to college and live at home, I'll still get all the free food I want!" WRONG! Because mooching off of your parents while living at home is considered a "burden," whereas mooching off of your parents while living at college is just "how things work." When I lived at home, I couldn't reach for a single bowl of Kashi without my mom lecturing me about how I needed to get a job. Yet when I was at school, I could call her up all, "MOM I'M CRAVING YOGURT-COVERED PRETZELS! I NEED MORE EAGLE BUCK$! KTHANKSSSS!" and she'd be all over it within an hour. So next time you're snacking on popcorn, you remember that story. Also remember that somewhere out there, there's a sad, poor 20-something eating your nosh for dinner.
3.) Greek Life: Elle Woods did it and now she's a lawyer.
4.) New Friends: Whether you're willing to admit it or not, you're probably nervous about the whole starting over from scratch and making new friends thing. But you really shouldn't be. College is designed for making new friends. Literally everyone there is in the market for new friends. Do you know how I met the girl who would turn out to be my Sophomore year roommate? From this exchange on the first week of school: Allie: Hi, I'm Allie. Meg: Hi, I'm Meg. Allie: I miss having a circle of friends. Meg: Oh my gawd, me too. I hate this. Allie: Do you want to be best friends? Meg: YERP. Allie: Done.
And then we just were. I swear to God. That's literally how the conversation happened. You would have to be some special kind of ass backwards crazy to not be able to make friends in college. However, starting over and making friends outside of school is considerably more difficult. Whereas people were literally soliciting my friendship in the streets in college, I felt like I couldn't pay somebody to be my friend when I moved to New York. It's just harder outside of a collegiate atmosphere. Everybody, for the most part, already has their set group of friends and is kind of caught up in their own thing. You really have to make the effort and like, join a kickball league or some shit. And you know how I feel unnecessarily moving my body. I'd rather just go to grad school. Or move back to DC. Apparently.
5.) Because it's not that hard if you don't want it to be: That's the beauty of college—you pick your major, you pick your classes, you pick which ones you actually go to, you pick whether or not you give Professor Montoya a lap dance to pass Spanish—it's all up to you. If you really don't think you're that smart, then go to fucking Easiest Ever University and major in Breathing. Who gives a fuck? You just need that little piece of paper that says "Whoop-dee-doo! You Know Your Ass From a Hole in the Ground!" so you can get a boring entry-level office job out of college and spend all day pretending to enter data in a spreadsheet while you count down the minutes until Happy Hour. Which sucks. So you might as well enjoy start enjoying the next four years of your life now and quit your emo whining about not being "smart enough." McDaniel College called; they're rull interested.
- From an article entitled "Asteroid Program Lagging" in this morning's Post Express:
"NASA is charged with spotting most of the asteroids that pose a threat to Earth but does not have the money to complete the job, a U.S. government report says.
That's because even though Congress assigned the space agency that mission four years ago, it never gave NASA the money to build the necessary telescopes, according to the report released Wednesday by the National Academy of Sciences.
Specifically, the mission calls for NASA, by 2020, to locate 90 percent of the potentiality deadly rocks hurtling through space.[...]NASA estimates that there are about 20,000 asteroids and comets in our solar system that are potential threats. They are larger than 460 feet in diameter―slightly smaller than the New Orleans' Superdome."
Hi. I currently have 45 dollars in my bank account. NASA: you are more than welcome to 35 of it. I just need 6 bucks to get a salad this afternoon and 4 bucks to get my "Yay! You made it through the week!" Friday morning latte, and the rest is all yours. Because I've seen Deep Impact. If I were lobbying for NASA funds, I would simply walk into Congress, sit down my laptop, ask people to gather 'round and show the following scene:
Then I would shut my laptop, do an "AND WHAT?!" chest-bump to the crowd and walk out.
- One of my life dreams is to be a tattoo artist. Tattoos and tattoo culture are probably the most fascinating thing in the entire world to me. I know I only have three tattoos, but If it were up to me, I'd have a half-sleeve by now. But it's not up to me. Because I fear my mother's wrath. Diane is one of God's chosen people, so automatically she's not too keen on the idea of tattoos. Plus I think my parents still associate tattoos with criminals, sailors, prostitutes and prison dykes. When I was living in New York, my (completely magical, wonderful, amazing, miss him everyday) therapist, Bart, was really into the idea of me pursuing this dream, so I started sketching more and more and even put together a drawing portfolio so I could get an apprenticeship. When I moved home last year, the dream will still very much alive. I started researching tattoo apprenticeships in DC and found a woman-run studio in Southeast that was hiring apprentices. Now, you could not ask for two more supportive parents than mine. They support all of my wacky dreams and kooky antics and somehow remain proud at the end of the day. Not all parents would be cool with their daughter calling them up all "Yo! I'm quittin' my job and shacking up with you two to write a comedy blog, sooooo you need to come help me move out. KSEEYOUSOONBYEEE!" But they thought that sounded like a great idea. So kudos to them! However, they do not like the idea of me becoming a tattoo artist. I wouldn't even say they don't like it. I would say they don't even tolerate it. They've made it very clear that if I were to seriously pursue this, they would cut me off. I've always kind of resented them a bit for this. I mean, it's not like I want to be a stripper or a hit man. And my parents are both artists! And I'm an artist! And they've always supported that! I'm just switching my medium up. I feel like they should get that. But they don't, so I get all emo and angsty and writhe around in my bed listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince's Parent's Just Don't Understand, screaming at the wall about how no one gets me and my life is a lie. But then I read this in the Express this morning (man, relevant morning for the Express, huh?):
Police: Tattoo Artist Shot Husband to Death in SE [tattoo shop] The co-owner of a Southeast tattoo parlor has been charged with fatally shooting her husband in the head and back. Kristin Kozak, 36, known in the tattoo world as Liquidity Jones, was charged with second-degree murder in the death of a 56-year-old Michael Burnett. Police say Kozak told officers that Burnett was not armed or trying to attack her when she shot him.
Yes. That is indeed the tattoo shop I was thinking of apprenticing at. Hmm. Mom and dad―point taken.
Score: Meg: 0 Parents: 1
- Allison and I want to start a Christian folk-rock band and call it "Thunder Cunt." I can objectively say this is the sixth best idea I've ever had.
- I just had an epiphany. Every time I watch More to Love, I can't help notice that there aren't any minorities on the show. I mean, Kristian is a little ambiguously tan and The Tranny is Israeli, but I don't know if that would fly past the Reverend Jackson. A tan chick and an Israeli tranny = weakest Rainbow Coalition ever. Anyway, in doing More to Love research yesterday, I stumbled upon a bunch of M2L reject audition interviews. They were sad and priceless and LOLz-worthy and I was going to post them today so we could all point and laugh, but then I saw this one:
And that's when I realized, there aren't any black women on the show because black women are too confident. Being heavier in other cultures isn't a huge deal (pun intended,) so they don't have the broken spirit of the over-weight white woman. And this show is all about exploiting that broken spirit for entertainment purposes. How fucked up is that? Imagine how different the show would be if there was a sassy black chick in the mix. Luke would be all, "I know Prom was a very special event that most of us missed out on―" and this chick would interrupt all "BITCH PLEASE! Not only was I there sweeping the floor with it, I was the entertainment:"
Really though. I think Fox should have to legally change the name of More to Love to Homely, Unfortunate White Women in a Dating Situation.
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