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

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 about me would be interesting. And no, I do not have a Tumblr account. I made one over the summer when I was bored, posted five pictures, and immediately deleted my account because I felt really self-conscious and wasn’t sure if I was doing it right. That being said, I will list seven facts 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 this post on Saturday night because I didn’t feel well enough to go out and wanted to get some work done. I took an Adderall and it…complicated things. Because apparently I either don’t take my Adderall and never finish a blog post because I write a little, get distracted by something shiny, write a little, PLASTIC BAG! PLASTIC BAG! PLASTIC BAG!, write a little, I NEED TO KNOW WHAT EVERY MEMBER OF THE WU TANG CLAN IS DOING RIGHT NOW! and end up with this huge archive of half-finished blog posts I hate, OR I take my Adderall and write a fucking college thesis about something inane like my favorite soup. This post ended up being the latter, so I’ve decided to break it up into three days. I’m going to post facts 1-4 today, 5 tomorrow, and 6-7 on Wednesday. The exciting thing is it’s already written (and 30 pages…What? I don’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 part of 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 on buying it, you should totally use the money you would have spent on it to download our second book, Brainwashing for Beginners. Two books for the price of one! HO HO (w)HO (loves you? Adams Media. Not me. This makes me extremely nervous because I’m afraid we’re going to take massive royalty hits and even though our royalties are only like 85 cents between us, that’s almost an apple pie on the Dollar Menu. We’re losing pies upon pies upon pies here, people. But then again, as of Saturday night we were #25 in free downloads and A Tale of Two Cities was #26. I feel like it’s a genuine accomplishment to be able to say that you’ve fragged Charles Dickens' ass. Especially in December.)

7 Things You Didn’t Know 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 ended up going to Embassy Tattoo in Adams Morgan, which I cannot recommend highly enough. I’ve gotten other tattoos in DC at Jinx Proof and Fatty’s, and my best experience 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’s guy, but he was really hot, just moved here, and has shoulder length blonde hair. I kept trying to make small talk and flirt with him, but it was hard because I was also concentrating on keeping my leg muscles from involuntarily twitching and/or not vomiting everywhere. It was a delicate dance.Dan ended up getting a tattoo of a tree on his right shoulder blade because he’s a hip kid from Portland and I got this little ditty on my right foot in honor of the fightingest squad in the fightingest company in the third-fightingest battalion in the army—The Flying Hellfish.

(Such a shitty picture. And yes, this is my second Simpsons tattoo. And no, despite Chris’ constant mocking, I am not embarrassed.)
If you’re reading this and are my mom’s friend, hair colorist, or a neighbor (and I know you all are), please don’t tell her. If you’re reading this and are my aunt’s assistant (Kaitlin…), please don’t tell my aunt, who will obviously tell my mom. And if you’re reading this and are my sister, please don’t tell your husband who will yell at me and/or make fun of me (probably and) in front of mom at Hanukkah dinner, thereby ruining this year’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 to grad school. But I’m only applying to three. And all three are in the top 10 non-fiction writing MFA programs in the country. So I’m applying to grad school, but will probably not be going to grad school.

3.) I want red hair again so badly, but I can’t afford the upkeep. (Pot, yogurt, eyebrow threading. Tattoos. Replacement phones. Diamonds are a Meg’s best friend.)

Sidenote: While searching through my Facebook photos for pictures of me with red hair, I stumbled upon this vintage ’06 picture of Talia and me at a party at Anna’s house over summer break. We both had (and very much have) a crush on Anna’s dad, so we snuck up 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 and using a box of Franzia as my beatbox. I’d like to say I’ve moved on from that phase of my life, but then I remember that less than two months ago, I pulled a stomach muscle vomiting old school Four Loko and broke my hand drunkenly stumbling around Ren Fest within a week of each other. I haven’t really “grown as a person” in the past five years, per se.

4.) In 2003, I accidentally 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, it was still a really hard transition for me. Being the wacky MiSaNtHrOpE!~ that I am, I was really anxious about having to make all new friends, and I chose to deal with that anxiety by driving up to Frostburg (a small state school in Western Maryland where Talia and Teresa went) every weekend instead of staying and trying to make it work at AU. As an older and wiser Meggles with slightly more social skills, I acknowledge what a poor decision that was. Thankfully I had friends at AU like Helena, Ex-Co Blogger Eddie and Ashleigh who sat me down one night in November and were like, “HEY ASPIES—MAYBE STAY A WEEKEND?” and I was like, “Ooo. Yes. Good call.” My college experience obviously improved significantly after I started staying there on weekends, but I still wouldn’t trade my honorary semester (or other weekend visits) at Frostburg for anything in the world. Because that shit was fun. Frostburg State knows how to party in a way that makes me wonder how anyone graduates from there at all. I’d arrive on Friday nights and leave Sunday morning with a hoarse voice, sore throat, 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 in question and went straight to Talia’s dorm to pregame. She gave me the rundown for the night’s plans and said that at some point, she had promised that we’d make a courtesy stop at a friend’s sorority’s rush party. “Uh, can I get in even though I don’t go here?” I asked. “Meh. Just put down my dorm number when you sign it. It won’t matter.” (I also said my major was mathematics with a minor in geography, because if you’re going to go for a lie, I say go hard.) We got to the party an hour later and as I started to pour myself a tall glass of trashcan jungle juice (because that’s how a Frostburg rush party rolls. As the owner of Hat, does it really surprise that I felt at home there?), Talia had to run out and tend to some drama that I can’t remember the details of, perhaps because I was drinking alcohol out of a trash receptacle by the ladleful at the time.

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

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

Now, truth be told, I’m actually pretty OK at parties where I don’t know anybody. I’m pretty OK at parties in general. Breaking the ice and being charming in a large crowd scenario isn’t my problem; it’s one-on-one conversations that get me. I have absolutely no problem going up to a huge group of people I don’t know and being like, “Hey, I’m Meg! What’s up?”, but put me on a first date in an intimate setting and suddenly I’m talking too much about my uncomfortably thought out “Theory on Ex-Fatties” or how I’m starting a letter writing campaign to have sex with Steve Buscemi and two weeks later I wonder why nobody ever fucking calls me back. But…yes. I’m normally pretty good at 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, would never see any of these people again, and in no way cared about getting into their sorority gave me a freedom to be myself that I have yet to experience again, frankly. After Talia left, I walked up to a blond “sister” standing nearby 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 on airs 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.” [Frost was the community service dorm that both Talia and Teresa were placed in, I’m fairly 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 in on the weekend to play with their Bunsen burners and beakers, but then again it’s also close to the dining hall and I’m borderline sexually attracted to waffles, 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 group of girls on my floor that I instantly clicked with. But I guess that’s why I also want to join a sorority—I want to to make that small group grow, you know?” [I may 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 meet someone!” Kristen came over and we were introduced.

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

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

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

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

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

 Later that night as Talia, Teresa and I hunt out in Talia’s room recapping the night, her friend from the sorority walked in looking extremely 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 party meeting, and at least a half an hour of that was spent with girls arguing over who would get to be your Big.”

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

“Yes. Seriously. It seriously took a half an hour of arguing over ‘Meg with the black hair from Frost Hall’ before I realized that that was you and had to tell them you don’t go to school 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 wasted those peoples’ time, the experience also ended up being a really good life lesson for me about what happens you stop giving a shit about what other people think of you. I wish I were joking when I say that one of my social mantras is still: “Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. Love like you've never been hurt and rush like you don’t go to school there.”

You’re welcome.

2 Birds Investigate: A Failure

When Tulane Chris signed on to be my new second bird, he brought with him some really good ideas about how we could make the blog better. One of my favorites was a new feature called "2 Birds Investigates.” In this feature, we’d get together every month, investigate something wacky and write about it on the blog. Think: "2 Birds Investigate a Star Wars Convention!"; "2 Birds Investigate a Sex Party!"; "2 Birds Go to Orlando and Stalk Kevin Yang!" Needless to say, I was in. Really any feature containing the words "convention", "sex", "Kevin Yang" and "stalk" in the pitch is already successful in my mind.

We've done two Investigations thus far and while I think our second try was pretty good (and will be up soon), our first attempt was an absolute, 100% bona fide failure. Like, got out on the ice and fell on its ass before the music even began, failure. And then once it was down, it got its period. And started to cry. And then started to hysterically cry. And then its ex-boyfriend walked in, saw it rolling around in its icy, tear-soaked period blood and shook his head slowly at it in disappointment. And for some reason, he’s also sipping an old school Cherry Coke and wearing cowboy garb while doing this. I wonder why I associate that image with ice rinks? I think it has something to do with The Cutting Edge…? But my point in more concise and less crass terms is that it didn’t work.

Now, who's to blame for this failure, you may ask? As leader of the blog, will I be the one to step up and take responsibility? Well, let me answer your question with a series of questions: will I take responsibility for buying the wrong kind of tampons last month? Will I take responsibility for losing my job? Will I take responsibility for making Dr. Reuben cry tears on par with those shed whilst hate fucking a trannie? (ALLEGEDLY. I do not know for certain that Dr. Reuben has hate fucked a transgendered person. I can only make a seriously educated guess.) The answers to these, my questions three (Jesus Christ…why do I blog this late?) are no. No, I won't. But I will admit that I had a small role in all of the above, specifically our first Investigation failure.

We decided to conduct the Investigation the last weekend in June when Tulane Chris was in town for the traumatic Blog Panel and I was house sitting for my parents. You’d think finding something to investigate would have been easy; we had endless resources at our fingertips—a car, a full tank of gas, a big house in the suburbs, Evie, and the greater Washington, D.C. metro area as a whole. However, what we didn't have was money. At all. I'm pretty sure our final budget was $15, the bodies God gave us, and two active imaginations. But Chris and I figured we're both highly creative and intelligent(ish) (personally) people. Surely between the two of us, $15 and whole lot of ADHD medication, we could think of something groundbreaking and provocative to investigate, right? Well, we did: MSG. The Inaugural 2 Birds Investigates was on...MSG.

Looking back, I can see where we thought this would be a good idea: MSG is cheap, mysterious, kind of dangerous, cheap, readily available, questionably sexy?, and most importantly, cheap. Our plan was to buy some MSG and do a taste test with the food in my parent's house to see if it really does makes food taste better. Would it be delicious? Probably. Would it rock the blogosphere to its very core? Definitely.

Unfortunately, we had a few things working against us:

- We were actually pretty busy that weekend, so the entire thing felt kind of rushed. (And yes, that was the weekend I made Chris wait 45 minutes to get lunch because Evie and I were having an “intense cuddle session,” thank you.)

- My parents had been out of the country for two weeks at that point, so there wasn’t any food in the house.

- We couldn’t really afford to buy any more food with the limited money we had between us. (Although, full disclosure: we spent most of our blog funds the night before on steaks and Ultimate Mai Tais at our Ironic T.G.I. Friday’s Business Dinner.) (And at said dinner, I went in first while Chris waited in the car so he could come in later and do the old, “Ms. McBlogger?” “Yes! Chris, I take it. [Hearty handshake] Please, have a seat.” to make it extra official.) (…Although, I think it kind of came off as an awkward blind date more than anything else.) (And no, neither of us went to business school, but I assume that’s what you learn to do there, right? Kogod, baby. Kogod.)

- I was an absolute shit show the night of the Investigation, so my heart really wasn’t into it. Now, I will obviously take full responsibility for this one, but I’d like the opportunity to explain myself.

Our plan was to do the Investigation Saturday night after Anna’s Goodbye BBQ. I know you’re thinking that I probably got “wasted” at the party and that’s why I was in such a state later that night, but surprisingly, that’s not what happened. I drank responsibly. I just didn’t eat responsibly. I have a problem. Because of the fact that there’s never any food in my apartment and at any given moment, I'm lying in bed wishing Subway would do pro bono work, when I’m in an all-you-can-eat food situation, I tend to stock up like a squirrel preparing for winter. I don’t know why I do it and I regret it every time. And it’s not even like I take the food with me; I just cram Swedish meatballs into my mouth two at a time all, “NO TIME FOR CHEWING!!! I HAVE TO PRESERVE MY ENERGY—OLD MAN WINTER APPROACHES!!!!1” So when I got to Anna’s house and saw the delicious spread, I was just genuinely excited to see that much free food and felt like I had to make the most of it. (Christ…)

I pretty much ate everything in sight. And if you know me, you know that food and I don’t get along too well. The doctors are 99% sure my GI tract is held up with toothpicks and duct tape, soooo maybe I should have shifted down a gear. Especially when you consider that the following exchange between Chris and me actually happened:

TC: Hey, it’s almost midnight and we have work to do; I think we should go soon.

M: OK. I’m just gonna get another hot dog and a Bloody Mary, and then we’ll go.

That’s correct. I chased dinner with brunch. Whatever you’re thinking about me right now; it’s completely justified. Needless to say, by the time we had said our goodbyes and got to my car, things were feeling a little unique.

“Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

“Well, that sucks because we still need to get MSG and food to do the taste test with. I’m thinking we’ll get a few cans of Chef Boyardee, some pudding, a few—“

“STOP IT. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I NEED YOU TO STOP TALKING ABOUT FOOD.”

“Uhh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you do realize that we have to go home and eat more, right?”

It’s at this point that tears welled up in my eyes and I actually broke a sweat. The thought of putting any more food in my body was unbearable, but I knew this was our last chance to get the Investigation done and it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test. (Side note: it’s a sobering moment when you realize that the phrase, “it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test,” is applicable to your life.)

“Well, I need to go home and lay down for a while, so let’s get this over with.”

Now, this entire weekend, Chris promised me that MSG would be easy to find, based solely on the fact that his grandmother sent him some when he moved to Philadelphia. In actuality, MSG is not easy to find. Somewhere in the backroom of five major grocery stores in the greater Montgomery County, MD area, there exists an obscene amount of security footage of me and Tulane Chris in various condiment aisles at 12:30 in the morning; Chris leisurely looking for Accent and me doubled-over in pain, alternating between moaning, doing Lamaze breathing and telling boxes of Bisquick to stop judging me, “you sick sons of bitches.”

By the time we got to Shopper’s Food Warehouse, things were touch-and-go at best. I genuinely couldn’t tell if I was about to vomit, shit my pants, burst into tears, or all of the above. (Another side note: I’m currently writing this at a coffee shop and the guy sitting across from me keeps makin’ eyes at me. I can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he knew that I’m writing about the time I couldn’t tell if I was going to vomit, shit my pants or burst into tears?) (Please say he’d be turned on, please say he’d be turned on...)

“Chris, I can’t go in with you. I can’t do another one. If I see any more cans of discounted food, I’m seriously going to lose control of something and it’s not going to be pretty. “

“Alright, well stay in the car and digest; I’ll go look.” The minute Chris slammed the car door, I unbuttoned my pants, slid them down, put my seat all the way back until I was horizontal, blasted the AC and started whimpering ever-so softly. A few minutes later, my phone rang.

“Good news—they have MSG!”

“Oh. ‘Awesome’…”

“What food should I get to put it in?”

“Chris, I really don’t care.”

“Well, I’m doing this for you. What’s light and easy to digest?”

“I will pay you $40 in cash if you use your discretion and not have a conversation with me right now about what is and isn’t easy to digest.”

“Meg, we both know you’re not good for that. Do you like butterscotch pudding?”

“CHRIS, PLEASE?!?!?!”

“Alright, fine, fine. “ I hung up, closed my eyes and hugged myself tighter. When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, I was surprised to see a man standing in front of my car staring back at me with a concerned look in his eyes.

“What’s this asshole’s problem?” I thought to myself. As I was lying in my car. At 12:45 in the morning. With my pants pulled down around my thighs. Hugging myself and whimpering. And that’s when it clicked—this man might be under the impression that I maybe was just a liiiiiiiittle bit…raped. My hand instantly flew to the electronic seat adjuster, which returned me to an up-right seated position at the painfully slow rate of .00002 mph, all while I shifted my eyes back and forth (desperately trying to avoid eye contact,) and shimmied back into my pants.

Thankfully Chris returned shortly thereafter, because nothing would shock me less than if the following landed in the local paper’s police blotter:

Police were called Saturday night when a man mistakenly thought Sherwood graduate, Meghan McBlogger, had been raped in the Shopper’s Food Warehouse shopping center. Upon further investigation, Ms. McBlogger had just eaten too much at a local bon voyage party and was emotionally preparing herself an upcoming MSG taste test for her blog. No charges were filed.

When we finally made it back to the house, my parents were home.

“Hi honey! Hi Chris! How is everything? How was the blog panel?”

“Well, the moderator asked Chris if he felt emasculated because his vagina has a yeast infection, I ate a small horse tonight, I feel like I’m going to die and now we need to eat some shit with MSG in it for the blog.”

“Well. Good to see not much has changed while we were gone.”

We kicked my parents out of the kitchen and spent the next 20 minutes or so conducting The Investigation. Here’s a play-by-play:

We got MSG.

We got 2 cans of Chef Boyardee instant ravioli and put MSG in one and not the other.

We did the same with leftover mashed potatoes from Chicken Out:

Butterscotch pudding:

And beer:

Then we tried to see if we could taste a difference between the two. I think “we” could taste a difference in the mashed potatoes and pudding, a little bit in the ravioli and not at all in the beer. And I say “we” because those are technically just Chris’ findings; I agreed with everything he said each round because at that point I would have told him I tasted Fascist unicorn feces it meant I could stop eating food and go to bed.

Finally, we were done and I could stop eating and go to bed. And the clouds parted, trumpets played and angels wept, for it was the happiest moment of them all. And then Chris left the next morning and we never talked about The Investigation again.

Sooooo, that’s what happened during our first “2 Birds Investigates”. Final summation: MSG—It maybe makes your food taste better, I guess?

Yep. Washington D.C.’s #1 blog. You’re welcome.

State of the Meg — June, 2010

Yep. Feel that? Tender breasts. Abdominal cramping. Skin breaking out. Emotions running high. It must be that time of the month. State of the Meg time, that is!

State of the Meg — June

- I guess the most relevant thing in my life right now is that I'm incredibly sorry for that foul period introduction. It seemed like a good idea when I was in the shower a few minutes ago trying to think of an intro, but now that I'm seeing it in pixels it's just kind of crass and uncalled for. Sorry about that. At least I self-edited the polycistic ovarion syndrome follow-up I wrote while conditioning?

- I realized during my lunch break last Sunday that I had forgotten my cell phone in the hectic rush that is me trying to get to work on time at the completely reasonable hour of 11 o'clock in the morning. When I got home later that night and turned on my phone, I was like, "oh gawd how embarrassing! Eight hours away from my phone. I bet I'm going to have like, a babillion missed calls and a faffillion text messages. Everyone must be so worried about where I've been. I hope nobody put an amber alert out for me." My phone finally finished turning on. And nothing. No calls, no texts, no emails, no blog emails, nothing. I didn't even get spam mail. I mean, is it even mathematically possible for two email accounts to go eight hours without receiving a single Cyalis offer?! Apparently yes. When you're me. It was a humbling moment.

When I turned on my cell phone this afternoon during my lunch break, I was expecting the same cricket symphony but was instead greeted with an alarming number of text messages, voicemails and emails. "Yep," I thought, "Almost the weekend. [Scoffs] I'm not surprised. So in demand." But then I checked said text messages, voicemails and emails and discovered that it wasn't anyone trying to hang out with me, it was everyone calling to make sure I wasn't dangling from my shower rod in the wake of Rue McClanahan's death. Damnit. Humbling moment #2. WITH A SIDE OF TRAGEDY!!!!!!!!1

To answer everyone's question, no I'm not dangling from my shower rod, but I've certainly been better. I mean, Rue! Of Maude, Golden Girls and Golden Palace fame! The holy trinity of 70's/80's woman-of-a-certain-age sitcoms! I feel like Bea Arthur's died all over again and Lord knows that's a hurt I never wanted to feel twice. Oh and may god strike you down if you mention the B-W word to me. I refuse to even entertain the thought of that candle ever burning out.

Oh my fucking god. If it weren't currently 11:58 at night and I wasn't really dedicated to getting this blog post written, I would absolutely curl up on the couch with a bottle of wine, a box of dried pasta and the episode of Golden Girls where Big Daddy dies and just ball my fucking eyes out. But I can't! Must. Stay. Strong. For you. (Side note: why did I honestly just stop typing, look wistfully off in the distance, think to myself, "at least she's finally reunited with George," and feel a certain sense of closure? It's a television show, Meg. It's not real.) (IT WAS REAL TO ME!) (I refuse to have an inner monologue parenthesis fight with myself right now re: the impact of Golden Girls on my life.) (Yeah. Because you know it was heavy.) (...I know. Hold me?) (Done.)

- My first thought when I heard about the untimely passing of Madam McClanahan was "what the fuck?!" Which is exactly what I said. Out loud. Walking down M street. Alone. My second thought, obviously, was, "HAGMAN!" And man, if there were ever a time for a Larry Hagmandeadoralive.com app, that would have been it. Unfortunately one doesn't exist (...yet?) so this week's T.G.I. Hagman is going to have to suffice.

As of 4:53am on June 4, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Tie a yellow ribbon Hagman. Tie a yellow ribbon...

- And speaking of June 4th, happy birthday Mom! You, madam, are the cat's pajamas.

- So sit down, we need to talk about something. I'm going on vacation this month and will thus be gone from the blog for a week. Come on. We all knew this day would come. I can't stay cooped up in this swampy hellhole of a city all summer like last year, too depressed to blog about anything besides emotions, food and boob sweat. (Although blogging about all three is still highly inevitable.)

I'll be in Ireland with my parents, sister, sister's fiance and Alex from June 11-June 19 and then in Dallas for College Roommate Danielle's wedding from June 19-21. That's 9 days, but only 6 of them are blogging days and I'll only not be blogging for 4, so it's really not that bad, I swear. Plus old Tulane Chris will be here holding down the fort with his southern charm and blatant lack of tolerance for the handicapable. And when isn't that enjoyable, you know? So there's that. We'll all live. Unless I die on one of the plane rides or get alcohol poisoning from drinking the entirety of the Jameson's factory tour, in which case I would like Larry Hagman to sing Ave Maria at my funeral. You are all invited. See you there!

- OK. Ooof. Sit down again. There's something else we need to talk about. [Say it quick Meg. Like a band-aid.] So-the-merch-will-be-arriving-from-the-printers-when-I'm-in-Ireland-so-you're-all-going-to-have-to-wait-until-I-get-back-to-get-your-shit-even-though-you-ordered-it-last-week-and-it's-kind-of-an-absurd-amount-of-time-to-wait-for-a-canvas-tote-bag-I-know-but-I-don't-know-what-to-tell-you-besides-I'm-sorry. Phew. Wow. I feel much better.

You have no idea the amount of anxiety and guilt I feel about this. In retrospect I should have waited until I was back from Ireland to put the store up, but I was an eager beaver to get it going (ha ha...beaver) and was all "wait three weeks to open the store? PSHHH, three weeks from now we'll all have flying cars and summer houses on the moon! Who'll need blog merchandise?" Damn you Meg. Damn you and your irrational thinking.

I will, however, share with you this depressingly true story from my own life: I went over to Dan and Andrew not of the Great Juno Debate Fame's new apartment in Columbia Heights last weekend, got slightly drunker than I meant to, got in a cab to go home and when the Jamaican cabbie asked, "so, how are you doing tonight?" I, by the truest definition of the word, UNLOADED on this poor, poor Rastafarian. I was like, "I OPENED THIS BLOG STORE AND I DID IT TOO SOON AND NOW PEOPLE ARE GOING TO HAVE TO WAIT FOR THEIR STUFF BECAUSE I'M GOING ON VACATION AND I THINK IT MAKES ME LOOK LIKE AN ASSHOLE AND I'M GOING TO LOSE MY READERSHIP AND THEN WHERE WILL I BE AND I'M KEEP GETTING HEART PALPITATIONS ABOUT IT!" To which, the Rastafarian sighed, shook his head and said, "What's gonna happen is gonna happen. So just let it happen. It's all you can do." In my drunken and over-emotional state, that was like, the most meaningful thing I had ever heard in my entire life. I was like, "You're right. Because what can I do?" [Rastafarian cabbie nodds.] "Can you please take me to Pizza Boli's instead of my apartment?" [Rastafarian cabbie nodds again.]

And then I went home, watched Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood on-demand, binge ate pizza, vomited and passed out. True. Fucking. Story.

So yes, I really am sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience with this first order. You all get meaningful hand-written notes. Yay!

- I learned three things this past weekend that blew my mind (when I wasn't bonding with cab drivers and vomiting over blog issues):

1.) IF YOU CUT AN EARTHWORM IN HALF, BOTH HALVES WILL LIVE!!!!!!!!!!!1 What in the fuckity fuck fuck?!!?!?!?!?!!1!!1foneone This still blows my mind. It's like the Narwhal Debacle all over again, however, because apparently this fact is also common knowledge. For a smart girl, I really am dumb as a box of hair. No offense. To myself. (None taken.)

2.) GERALD FORD IS DEAD. Crazy. Apparently he died on December 26, 2006. Where was I? (Answer: Probably listening to a lot of Gwen Stefani's "Luxurioius" and sleeping.)

3.) Gerald Ford—quite the college football stud, HUH?!

He can be the wide receiver to my tight end any day of the week. If he were alive, that is. (R.I.P.)

- Father's Day is coming up this month and I have an idea for a card that I want to make my dad but I can't decide if it's hilarious or grossly inappropriate. It's definitely one of them though.

So we have this Father's Day greeting card at work that says "Dear dad, thank you for..." and then there's a list of things to check off if applicable like, "teaching me how to ride a bike", "looking under my bed for monsters", "moving me to college" blah blah, emotional blah. Well, I thought, what if I made a card with an illustration of an ominous-looking door, cracked slightly open and underneath it in really nice script it says, "Dear Dad, thank you for not creeping into my bedroom at night when I was growing up."

THOUGHTS? COMMENTS? CONCERNS? OFFENSIVE? It's just that sometimes when I'm watching Intervention, I seriously think to myself, "thank Christ I wasn't molested as a kid, because that shit jacks you up for goods." I mean, god forbid we as a society get to the point where we need to go out of our way to thank our parents for not molesting us, but, you know, sometimes it's nice to acknowledge what people don't do as well as what they do, right? Plus if it's a hit I can make a line of spin-off cards for Uncles, babysitters and abstract friends of the family! EVERYBODY WINS! Unless you were molested as a kid. In which case pretend like I didn't write this entire last paragraph. Thnx.

- Speaking of work—shock!—something embarrassing happened the other day. I have a filthy mouth that's really not conducive to working in retail. I've been trying really hard to clean up my act at work and have successfully replaced "ah shit" with "woops", "fuck" with "fudge", "damnit" with "darn" etc. The one expletive I can't seem to purge from my vocabulary, however, is "Jesus Christ." Jesus Christ isn't really an expletive, I know, but I feel badly taking the Lord's name in vain around customers, even if he isn't my Lord. I don't want to ruin some wholesome bride's day by dropping a spool of ribbon and shouting, "CHRIST ON A WHOLE GRAIN CROISSANT!" So I'm trying, I really am.

The other day I was helping a bride and her mom put together some save the date cards when I accidentally flipped an entire tub of embossing powder over, spilling it all over the floor. Realizing what I had just done, I opened my mouth to exclaim, "JESUS" and got as far as "JE" before I realized I should stop because it's inappropriate. My brain then quickly scanned for, found and subsequently said the only other word starting with J-E that I could think of: Jews. I knocked over a tub of embossing powder and angrily shouted, "JEWS!"

Then realizing that what I had just said was far more offensive than taking the Lord's name in vain, I felt the need to justify that it was OK for me to angrily exclaim "Jews" because "my mom is Jewish. So I guess I'm technically Jewish. But I wouldn't really define myself as 'Jewish.' NOT LIKE THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH JEWS! Or Jewish people, rather. I guess I think of myself more as spiritual. I'm so sorry...ANYWAY, let's look at an A2 card, huh??"

How I'm allowed to talk to strangers all day is beyond me.

- I got a day planner in an effort to stop going to work on days I have off and missing days when I'm supposed to blog. ~*REsPoNsIbLe PuRcHaSe '10!*~

- I'm totally in a fight with Mei Wah. When I got home from work tonight, all I wanted to do was order in Chinese, drink some wine, watch my life-partner Cat Deeley on So You Think You Can Dance and assemble Becca's bachelorette invitations. Nothing in the world could be more relaxing or zen than that situation.

I called Mei Wah to place my order and the person who answered told me it was probably going to be an hour before my food would be delivered, which was fine with me. I told her what I wanted, gave her my phone number and confirmed my address. "That's where you live?" she asked, "That's like 5 blocks away. Why don't you just come in and pick it up instead of waiting an hour to have it delivered?" "Oh, it's fine," I replied, "I really don't mind waiting, thanks."

Now that should have been the end of it, right? NO! She totally pushed the point and was like, "that doesn't make any sense. It's 20 minutes instead of an hour. And I can't even promise you it'll be there in an hour." "Yeah, I know," I said. It's fine though." "No, no, no, you should just come in and pick it up. You live five minutes away!"

I'm aware that I live five minutes away, thank you very much. I'm also aware that I'm not wearing any pants and am watching Jeopardy. And I'd rather light my genitals on fire than have any part of that equation to change.

"Really, it's fine," I said. And it's at that point that the woman on the phone literally laughed-out-loud at me. Like a full-fledged LOL. So, feeling substantially like a lazy a-hole, I caved and said I'd come in. And then I put on pants and did. Sigh. I can't believe I compromised my lazy pantless values for a measly order of pork in plum sauce. Mei Wah: never again.

- That's a lie. They have really good steamed dumplings.

- I should probably mention that I plan on falling in love in Ireland and not returning to the states. I think his name is going to be Patrick. He's from just outside Galway. He has a pug named O'Hoolihan. I'm pretty excited about our future together. I'm also putting a lot of eggs in this happiness basket. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do if this doesn't happen...

I think that's pretty much all that's new with me. State of the Meg: EXCITED FOR IRELAND/DALLAS, sorr about the (delayed) bag and psyched that I was never molested. BOOM.

But enough about me, how are you?

Dear Queer Abby: (I like that rhyme sequence)

So. I am a red-blooded female, and like most on earth I have needs that must be tended to...sexual needs. I do have sex in real life sometimes, not a lot, but occasionally. Usually when drunk. Don't judge me. I also have a friend that lives far away with whom I partake in what the kids are calling "sexting" these days. Well, does it count as sexting if it's not via cell phone? is it just gchatexting? Oops. Either way. It happens from time to time, and it's always excellent. The most fun being in that A) I am not getting any diseases and B) I can say stuff I would never actually do in reality. So let's say things get kind of explicit sometimes. Things I would never EVER want anyone else to read.

Anyway, my problem is this: I used to have a Blackberry Pearl, it was a huge piece of shit so I got an iPhone instead (booyeah) and ended up giving the Blackberry to my biffly biffly^max (thanks for that one, Meg) when her phone broke. Aren't I a nice person? Damn. (This is going somewhere, I swear) She doesn't ever use the email feature but I guess she opened it by accident today and my email has been attached to the phone since it belonged to me. Apparently she stumbled upon last night's questionable gchat when trying to log out (I don't think she was snooping...even if she was, I don't care, I didn't think I had anything to hide.......shit). She texted me to awkwardly let me know about reading what she did, and I died about 10 thousand times, the things that were said are MUCH too filthy to be repeated. I don't even like thinking about it. Oh my god. I am turning into a big ball of cringe as we speak. Ahhhhhhh fuckity shit fucker. OK, anyway, she is not going to disown me as a friend, in fact she has mostly just made fun of me like any good friend would ("call me later you dirty little slut"..ugh) and I know I am being a total loser about this BUT I JUST WANT TO KNOW HOW I CAN LOOK HER IN THE EYE EVER AGAIN?!?!?! What the fuck do I do now?????? Help please. Thank you.

S.W.

Awww man, this might be the ONLY time I would EVER advocate lying (unless it’s to your parents, the police or your boss/teacher). I’m guessing it’s too late for this now, but I totally would’ve just said something like, “oh, that was just this inside joke between me and ____ to see who could be raunchiest without…” and then make up some ridiculous rules that would make your friend be like “that’s funny as all get out… wish I had thought of it,” and maybe even “I wanna play too” so then you could’ve been getting some virtual action from coast to coast. Oh well, an opportunity missed…C’est la vie.

At this point though, I think you just have to deal. I mean, you gave her a fucking blackberry; if she can’t get past this (and by ‘get past’ I mean laugh hardily, mercilessly make jokes at your expense, and never let you live it down, BUT still love you anyway) then she’s lame and you need to find funnier friends. So yea, you just have to bite the bullet and make hanging out happen sooner rather than later (otherwise it just gets weirder) and crack some jokes at your own expense so it’s not this Big, Kinky Elephant in the room forever. In the meantime, try to chill out and force yourself to laugh about it every time you start to wince, because ultimately, while it feels horrible now, it will make for a great story later. And beside that, I’m sure Meg has some horrifically awkward and embarrassing story along the same lines that would make you feel 50%-75% better about your situation…

I don't, but mostly because I'm confused. I don't really get why this is so embarrassing. (Which is saying something, considering how I get embarrassed like middle school boys get boners.) I mean, you said this girl is your biffly-biffly^maxpower, right? Well, what are biffly-biffly^maxpowers for if not knowing about your sex life? (And I include sexting in that.) Talking about sex with your friends is a national pastime. It's why Brunch is holy. So you sext. So what? Who doesn't? That's not embarrassing. I sext all the time. I sext at dinner parties and everyone knows it. It's gotten to the point where I pull out my phone and everyone's like, "Ooo, who ya sextin'?" Sometimes when I get tired I tell Alex to take over. I'm not kidding, it's happened on multiple occasions. Plus he's just better at it than I am. I go back and read what he wrote and am like, "WOW. That's going to be interesting to deliver in person."

My point being, we live in the future, go-go boots, rocket ships, meals in pill form, Soilent Green is people, blah blah blah and sexting is part of the cultural/sexual landscape now. Embrace it, don't be embarrassed of it. Treat it like any other part of your sex life that you'd share with your friends. If Laura or Helena or Anna saw an X-rated convo that I was having, yeah I'd be embarrassed to a certain extent, but I'd probably move on quickly and be like, "OH YEA. Dude. That was a steamy convo. That boy is a minx." And then we'd giggle and knowing my friends, they'd want all the dirty details. Because that's what friends are for. Unless they're giant prudes, in which case, why be friends with them in the first place? Trust me, there are many, many, many things to be embarrassed about; your friends knowing about your sex life is not one of them.

Dear Queer Abby,



A little over a year ago my friend, let's call her J, started dating a girl, L. A lot of people were totally against this new relationship because L was quite a bit older than J and in a position of authority over her. However, I decided to be supportive. I believed that L made my friend happy and I thought she was nice enough.

Fast forward a year and a half. They are still together and all of J's friends have gone from slightly disapproving to down right hating L. She is unbelievably rude to all of J's friends, guilts her into staying home all the time and won't let her do anything by herself. When we invite both of them to do something L simply refuses. When she does grace us with her presence, she ignores everyone in the room and sulks in the corner. I tried to kill her with kindness and she was having none of it, so I eventually gave up.

About 6 months ago my girlfriend and I moved away. Figuring that we were 3000 miles away, didn't have to deal with L any more, and couldn't do anything about the problem anyway, we were ready to let our of all negative feelings go and keep in touch with J as best as possible. Unfortunately, the issue has recently reared it's ugly head. My girlfriend and I are planning a trip back to our former stomping grounds for late this summer. We want to spend as much time with J as possible, but we'd prefer to spend as little time as possible (if none at all) around her girlfriend. We recognize that J is not blameless in this situation, by we still don't know what to do with them.

So, our questions are these: how do we 
 a. breach the subject of seeing J alone 
 b. deal with her girlfriend if we do have to see her and 
 c. in the long term, how do we keep their relationship from destroying our friendship with J?



Thank you!



Sincerely,

We Miss Our Friend

a) I would be subtle, at most, about seeing J alone. I’m guessing she knows her friends (including you two) aren’t big fans of L, so you needn’t tell her again. If she plans to include L despite how you guys feel about her, that’s her decision. Now, whether or not you guys still want to participate if L is going to be around is your decision. That’s the only thing you have control over. Sometimes you may decide it’s worth putting up with L so you can spend time with J, and sometimes you may opt to forgo hanging out because you don’t want to have to deal with L. Neither decision is wrong. You’re just working with what you’ve been given and balancing your needs with those of your friend, and J should be doing the same... That said, if you can improve your odds a little bit by scheduling things when L probably can’t make it (like lunch dates during the week or something), well there’s nothing wrong with that.

b) If you decide to hang out with them both, do so with an open mind and try to be friendly. However, that doesn’t mean you have to let L treat you guys like shit. If she starts to be rude or disrespectful toward you, call her on it. Don’t be overly abrasive or public about it; be firm and mature. You want L to know you won’t tolerate being treated poorly, but you don’t want to come out looking lake the asshole in the situation. And if she keeps on being a dick, then leave. Again, you’re working with what you’ve been given. There’s no fault in that.

c) Piggy-backing on a) and b), if J knows how you feel about L but still insists on including her, AND all the while L is consistently being a dick even though you’ve made it clear you won’t stand for that, then you won’t be letting their relationship destroy your friendship with J—they will. All you can do is know your limits and be the best friend you can, given the situation. If you and your GF have to take a step back because it does you more harm than good to be as close with J as you (and she) would like, maybe that will serve as a wake up call for her. If not, wait it out as best you can and make sure she knows you’re there if/when her situation changes.

Jesus Jews Jews for Jesus, not liking a friend's significant other is the fucking worst. It's awkward for all parties involved and nobody wins. You know what I never get? Why does the significant other always want to come? I don't like you, you don't like me, why ruin both of our nights? Just take one for the team and stay home, asshole.

Anywhoo, I think taking Amy's advice is the mature decision and I bet your friend won't invite her girlfriend since you guys are only in town for a little bit. But if she does end up coming, if it were me? I'd go to my dock.

"Going to my dock" is a coping method I've developed over the years to deal with all of the a-hole significant others, mutual friends, professors, classmates, bosses, co-workers, family members etc. that I've had to deal with in order to keep the peace. And the thing is, at least for me, it really works. One day College Roommate Danielle sat me down and asked how I was able to tolerate a certain horrible satellite friend we had. I told her I just go to my dock.

Steps for Going to Your Dock:

1.) Mentally check out 100%. I mean, really, just peace the fuck out. Like almost to the point of mediation. Pick a point on the face of the person you're supposedly talking to and just stare while you empty your mind.

2.) Put yourself on auto-pilot. This step takes some time to master. You need to seem interested in what the other person/people is/are saying, but not just in terms of having an interested look on your face. You need to acknowledge what they're saying via a loop of well placed stock phrases like, "uh huh", "oh yea?", "hahaha!", "good lord", "please" and "I know."

3.) Once you're on autopilot, play Ottis Redding's 1968 hit "(Sittin' on the) Dock of the Bay" in your head.


4.) Enjoy the mental vacation you've just created for yourself.

After that conversation, Danielle always liked to try to guess when I was at my dock. We'd be at a party talking to someone we didn't like and when they left she'd be like, "WERE YOU JUST AT YOUR DOCK?! You were so at your dock. Were you??" But the thing is, if done properly, one should never be able to tell if you're at your dock or not. Mostly because if they can tell, you kind of seem like a giant asshole. So, you know, be careful of that.

Got a question for Queer Abby? Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!

Welp! That's going to do it for us here at 2b1b. Thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, buying super sexy merch from the store, following us on Twitter, joining our Facebook page, commenting, emailing and just supporting us in general. Have a great weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning! Later.

(For a damn good Rue cry, go to 7:20. Sniff, sniff!)