Ooof. This is a lot for a Tuesday Morning.

Hi-oh. Results from yesterday's K. Griff giveaway will be up later today, because I posted late yesterday and I want to make sure you fine people get a fair 24-hour window of opportunity to enter. And because it's currently 3 o'clock in the morning and my highly scientific way of picking a winner this week involves calling Dan and asking him to pick a number between 1 and 200, and he might deactivate our friendship if I call and wake him up right now all, "HEY BUDDY!!!! PICK A NUMBER, HUH?!!?" So I'll let him slumber and have his sweet Kathy Griffin dreams while I give you guys some half-assed advice. Because it's Queer Abby time, baby! A day late, yes, but much like your period, better a day late than never. AM RIGHT, LADIES?! AM I RIGHT?!?! Haha ohhhhhhh, I don't have sex and we both know it. Tears. Tears of a clown.

Queer Abby,

In 2006, I was working full-time in San Francisco at a start up company, and nannying part-time for my bosses daughter part-time. I’ve since moved back to the East Coast and have loosely kept in touch with my old boss and her, now 10-year-old, daughter via random emails. She’s a pretty influential lady who could definitely help me with jobs and recommendations down the line, so I'd like to stay on her good side, but she can be fairly manipulative and she takes advantage of people, especially in terms of pushing her kids off on others. For example, last summer they planned to come for a long weekend to see me and stay with a friend in Great Falls, but it turned into me taking the daughter all over the city while her mother lounged poolside with her friend. A day of sightseeing turned into a sleep over and all day the next day as well, cooking various meals, going out to dinner, etc.... As soon as I knew it I had babysat for a full 48 hours and the mother had a lovely vacation - all under the pretense of "WE are coming to see you!"

I got over it, moved on etc. until just recently when she wrote saying they wanted to come to town again in late August. I responded immediately, clearly and in the nicest way possible, to explain that I would be in the middle of moving and that Sunday was the only day I'd be in town and off work for 2 weeks, but I'd save some time to see the daughter. I said I'd come TO THEM, because my place will be in an uproar. She responded to me via email, “[My daughter] wants to spend maximum time with you and I am sure will "help" you with packing and moving. We'll figure it out. Perhaps I can have my friend's driver bring her to you for the day and you can come back with her for dinner and swimming toward evening?" I haven’t responded to her... I do not want her child hanging around all day with nothing to do but stare at a room full of boxes. She constantly complained and hated doing fun things like museums and boating last time, so this pretty much guarantees a day of complaining and misery on her part while I try to pack.

I know its just a day, but the fact that she’s once again planning on using me as a free form of babysitting so she can have a nice, quiet, kid-free weekend while I’m in the throngs of moving in the dead august heat REALLY PISSES ME OFF. If she'd at least just drop the bullshit and be honest with me about her motives that would be different. And dammit, I just want to be heard and respected by this woman. So, how do I get the point across (to someone who clearly is determined to have me entertain her kid), that I will not be having her daughter over to my apartment all day, without upsetting anyone? And, am I totally over reacting, and being a giant bitchy brat? Do I need to stand my ground, or suck it up and shut up?

Help!

Your frustration is warranted—she sucks. Definitely stand you’re ground. She’s being entirely manipulative and self-centered (at both your expense and her daughter’s), and she’ll continue to take advantage of you as long as she knows she can. So, don’t be this woman’s doormat just because one day you might need her to help you out with something. There’s no guarantee you’ll ever need to call in that favor, and if you do, there’s no guarantee she’ll be willing and able to deliver. And even if she could, that doesn’t give her license to treat you like shit and insist you do things for her instead of asking.

Write her back and say, “Yea I understand that, and that’s why I wish it was a better weekend for me, but I just don’t think that’ll work this time. I have friends and family helping me move things all day Sunday and I’ll be in and out, so I wouldn’t be able to watch her. Not to mention, I’d hate for her to have spend her vacation (and a hot August day) in an apartment that probably won’t have power or AC, especially since I won’t be able to entertain her at all. All the same, I’d like to see you guys so I’m sure I can take a break to come see you that evening...” And if she still pushes the subject, just don’t respond. Until she’s shown that what you say matters to her at all, there’s no point in saying anything else to her.

I don’t care how much influence someone has, you shouldn’t make a practice of letting people treat you poorly. While sometimes you do have to suck it up and pander to people even though they’re assholes, you should know exactly what you’re looking to get out of it so you can determine whether or not it’s worth it. If that person is uniquely able to provide exactly the opportunities you’re looking for, that’s one thing. But, otherwise, there are plenty of influential people out there; preserve relationships with the ones who respect you, your time and what you have to say. They’re far more likely to help you out in the end anyway.

HAHAHAHA. Wow. That woman has a pair of testicles on her bigger than my breasts. (There. That was to appease yesterday's comment from "Greater Than Stan" asking for less diarrhea talk and more book talk. And you're welcome, sir.) This question has got me all kinds of fired up for reasons that I will gladly share with you now:

1.) I can't stop imagining this woman as Boss #1, who was neither influential nor powerful, but was an asshole.

2.) This woman is clearly rich and I clearly do soft-shoe in Metro Center twice a week to afford my Netflix account.

3.) I hate children. 10-years-old? Foul. Keep the run-off from your sloppy life decisions to yourself, lady.

4.) A driver is involved. Where are we, Kuwait?

5.) As if the concept of nannying isn't vile enough, she wants you to do it for free? And while moving?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! Unless this woman is Anna Wintour and she's agreed to lick you out and give you a sterling recommendation at your next job, I say FUCK. THAT. NOISE. Because there's kissing ass, and there's getting fucked in the ass. You, friend, are currently experiencing the latter. And hurts, don't it?

What I need you to do is watch episode 7 of Kell On Earth entitled "Tough Times" immediately and take notes when Kelly breaks it down for you why she doesn't give free advice anymore to anyone, not even her closest friends (George Wayne. Asshole.) Then I need you to stop washing your hair for a week, put on a caftan, ikat table cloth, and/or oversized white Hanes Her Way t-shirt and leggin's, CHANNEL THE CUTRONE and tell this woman that she can keep her blueberry-pancake-covered nightmare to herself. You need someone to help you move who can carry more than 10 pounds and menstruates, thanks just the same. Or what Amy said. Depending on how badly you still want that recommendation.

Dear Queer Abby,

So, basically, today I found out that my great uncle is a pedophile. I'm a well-endowed-in-more-areas-than-I-should-be sixteen year old, so it wasn't anything to do with direct experience, or my little sister (thank god). It's due to several incidents with his grandchildren--my cousins--two boys age three and four. He didn't hurt them, but he was touching them in an overtly sexual way, and god knows where that will lead.

It's basically torn my aunt and her husband apart. When he confronted her about possible danger to their sons, she started on the defensive, acting as if it was all his imagination and there was no danger whatsoever (which was bullshit, I saw what he was doing. It's was at Johann's birthday party, for fuck's sake).

This is screaming, raging defensive I'm talking about here, and it got to the point where it was blatantly obvious that she'd had bad experiences with her father as a child. So now my uncle-in-law is being torn apart, she's gone into trauma and has started bitching about him with her best friend, and nothing is happening for the kid's safety. Nothing. They get left at their grandfather's house while their dad's at work and their mum's having coffee with her friends.

Now, while I know that I should just "let the responsible adults sort it out," I love my cousins. And the adults aren't exactly being responsible. So my question boils down to I don't know what to do. I'm one of very few people who knows about this, I'm too young to be taken seriously, and I don't know who to talk to. This is not the way shit is supposed to happen.

Sincerely,

J.M

Dear J.M.,

Where are your parents in all of this? I hate saying this (please take it in context) but you are too young to deal with this by yourself. No one your age should ever be (or even feel) responsible for handling a situation like this. So, if you want to be taken seriously, you have to approach this with honesty and the maturity to know you need to recruit help.

First, you should document it. Write a letter that includes the following:

· A description of what you saw (try to leave your anger and your judgment out of it).

· An honest account of how uncomfortable what you saw, and the situation you’re in now, made/makes you feel.

· Thoughtful suggestions about what you think should happen about it (without making it sound like an ultimatum). For example, the kids need to not be left alone with him, other relatives with kids need to be notified of the situation, someone needs to talk to/report your great uncle, etc… whatever you would like to see happen.

Then you need to give the letter to your parents or some other adult you trust in the family. They should step in—even if they don’t think your aunt and uncle’s situation is any of their business, they should recognize that the way you feel is. I suspect they’re going to appreciate that you brought this to them, and they should reinforce that behavior by taking you seriously and doing something about it. If this really isn’t an option, or nothing happens as a result, write me again and we’ll go from there.

Honestly though, you’re only responsibility here is to tell someone about the problem; it’s not to fix it. Ultimately, the father should be taking care of it, regardless of how the mother responds. And it’s possible that if he feels validated by either you or someone else in the family, he’ll take more definitive action.

Yowzers. Becca happened to be over when I read this week's Queer Abby questions and she had to explain to me how you're related to all of these people like 19 times in a row. Seriously. I feel like I just took a test for Autism. I asked her to walk me through your email and substitute our family members for yours (so I could put ourselves in your shoes,) but coming from the world's most microscopic family, we ran out of family members like 5 seconds in and she had to start bringing dead pets and fictional family members into the mix and suddenly it was like, "OK, Fictional Great Uncle Gary is molesting Evie. Nope. Nope, this is not working," and we gave up.

But despite having failed our little Autism test (or passed, depending which way you look at it,) we do have advice—step 1: tell your parents. Because you should give them the opportunity to handle this situation correctly before you bring in outside help.

Which leads us to step 2: tell a guidance counselor or a teacher you trust immediately. Every single member of your family is biased in this situation one way or the other because they know your Great Uncle and have already made up their minds about him. Whether they've always thought he was kind of creepy or could never imagine him doing something like that—they've got an opinion and it's going to cloud their judgement and make it hard for them to see or accept the truth. You need to bring in a non-objective third party who doesn't have any emotional attachment to this situation or the people in it and who's only concern is figuring out what's going on and removing anyone who might be in danger from it. And there are people who's job it is do just that. This is not your job; it's theirs. It's literally what they get paid to do every single day. You turn it over to them and they'll know how to handle it from A-Z. It will have serious consequences yes, but hopefully, you'll save your cousins from a lifetime of unthinkable pain and suffering. Because to quote my sage of a sister, "Child Molestation: shit fucks you up." Truer words were never spoken, madam. Truer words were never spoken.

I'm not really quite sure what else to tell you because this question falls outside my normal realm of PEOPLE DUMP ME ALL THE TIME TOO! and Oh, raspberries! GROWING UP IS THE PITS!...Hang in there, kido.

Queer Abby,

Short backstory: I've been "involved" with an older (I'm early 20s, he's early 30s), recently separated (only a few months, after a 5 year marriage) guy for the past few months. We both agreed, from the start, that it would never turn into an actual relationship, and things were going great: great conversations, great sex, beating the DC heat together, sending dirty emails back and forth to get us through boring work days, etc.

The problem is, he's on a bit of an emotional roller coaster. Understandably. And I've barely made it past 5 months in a relationship, much less 5 years in a marriage, so try as I might, I can't even fathom what he's going through now. He's always insisted that what we have is good for him, and since I enjoy the time we spend together so much, I've never worried too much that us being involved is a bad idea.

Then, for reasons I'm still not quite certain of, I listened to a friend's recommendation that I read "Eat, Pray, Love." While I find the author rather annoying and am as un-enthused by it as I expected to be, I can't get one line out of my brain: "Going through a divorce is like being in a serious car accident every day for two years." (Something along those lines -- not putting in a direct quote a) because I don't have the book handy and b) because I don't want Meg McBlogger to get served by another author.) (Ed. note: Thanks!)

So, my question: is it a terrible idea for me to be riding shot gun for some of those car accidents? While he hasn't brought me in too much emotionally, I can't help but wonder if I'm just a distraction for him - possibly one that makes some of those car accidents even worse in the long run? While I'm not looking for a relationship and neither is he, I can't help but wonder if this whole situation is just a messy, bad idea?

Sincerely,

Should I get out of the car?

Yea, I’ve never read it, but something about eat, pray, love annoys the fuck out of me too. What is that?

Anyway, yea, you are a distraction… and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It doesn’t have to mean he’s using you or doesn’t care about you, but this close in to a divorce/separation, he’s definitely still going through some stuff and there are obvious limits to his emotional availability. So, without intention or potential for depth and longevity in this relationship, I don’t really know how else you’d qualify it other than as a distraction from being single… and again, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, as long as you’re not expecting more.

So, I would caution you against being involved with this guy if you were looking for something more sustainable in the long-term. However, if you both really are just fine with being here-for-now (and you don’t mind potentially having to deal with some of this guy’s emotional baggage), then I wouldn’t worry about it too much. The only way I really see it going super sour is if either of you end up developing hopes or expectations for the relationship that aren’t mutual, or if one of you is ready to hit the brakes (for whatever reason) and the other isn’t. And if you’re worried that either of those scenarios is approaching, then you should listen to yourself and deal with it because you’re probably right…

Otherwise, you just need to make sure you’re not fooling yourself into thinking this is an arrangement that works when, in reality, you’ll be hurt if it doesn’t progress into a Relationship or you think he’s more invested than you (and that goes for both of you). The way you prevent that is just to make sure you’re being honest with yourself and communicative with one another.

I only have one word for you: SHOPGIRL. WACH IT. CALL ME. 301-936-1212. WE'LL CRY TOGETHER.

Actually that's just the number for the local weather, but I do recommend you watch and/or read Shopgirl as soon as humanly possible. In case you haven't exposed yourself to the prosaic soul-raping that is Shopgirl, it a.) speaks to me in a way that's nauseating and I can only watch it once a year because when I do, I cry hysterically. But like, alone in my apartment, gasping for air, just kind of making noises at this point, crying; and b.) is about a 20-something girl named Mirabelle.

"Mirabelle Buttersfield moved from Vermont hoping to begin her life. And now she is stranded in the vast openness of LA. She keeps working to make connections, but the pile of near misses is starting to overwhelm her. What Mirabelle needs is an omniscient voice to illuminate and spotlight her and to inform everyone that this one has value, this one standing behind the counter in the glove department and to find her counterpart and bring him to her."

BEAUTIFUL. I could vomit. I could vomit everywhere. Anyway, Mirabelle starts a relationship similar to yours with an older, divorced man named Ray Porter, and it's fun and sexy and good, but in order to maintain that breeziness, Ray keeps Mirabelle at an emotional distance. In the beginning Mirabelle is fine with it because pshh, whatevs, who's trying to get married? But over time, the distance wears on her because she realizes that what she wants (and deserves) is to be completely loved, not just half of a low-maintenance relationship. The culminating moment:

Mirabelle: Ray, why don't you love me? Are you just biding your time with me?
Ray Porter: I thought you understood.
Mirabelle: So, I can either hurt now or hurt later. So...Now.

POETRY! GOD DAMN POETRY! So I guess what I'm trying to say is you need ask yourself what you really want: a fun, breezy relationship or something more? And I don't know you or your Ray Porter; he could want both, you perhaps want neither, but my point is having unrealistic expectations about the relationship you're getting into only breeds a world of pain. So in the vain of Mirabelle Buttersfield, be honest about the relationship now so you don't hurt later.

Oh god. Let's do one more quote because I'm a sick son of a bitch.

"Some nights alone he thinks of her. And some nights alone, she thinks of him. Some nights these thoughts occur at the same moment. And Ray and Mirabelle are connected without ever knowing it. But Mirabelle, now feeling the warmth of her first reciprocal love...has broken away from him."

Vomit. More.

"As Ray Porter watches Mirabelle walk away he feels a loss. How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her? Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that... well... it was life."

OK, I'm done. I can't. I just physically can't anymore. Good day to you all. Got a question? Email QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com and I'll quote really sad movies and cry for the rest of the night. It's really fun and helpful for both of us, I promise!

As promised.

Sigh. As I mentioned earlier, something painfully embarrassing happened to me at work the other day. And with all painfully embarrassing things that happen to me, I need to discuss it here on the blog so I get it out of my system and can move on with my life. So more painfully embarrassing things can happen to me.

Back-story: Every single job that I've ever had has been a total...whatever the female version of a "sausage fest" is. (I can't come up with anything that doesn't make me a.) want to vomit or b.) sound extraordinarily gay, i.e. lady fest.) (Update: I just googled "what is the opposite of a sausage fest?" and the consensus seems to be either a "taco fest" or a "fish market". And now I want to slice wrists.) In high school I worked for a small woman-owned book store; my first job out of college was working for Soap Opera Digest (which was 99.9% homely women and .1% token gay guy with his dead dog's name tattooed on his forearm;) and my most recent job was, of course, working for the menopausal Macgyver of tampons that was Boss #1 and Boss #2. Now I'm back working the retail job I had in college, and in turn, I'm experiencing the same problem I had there during my first tenure—it's a total dude-tease.

I feel like there's this myth about working in retail that hot guys are in and out of your store all day and you help them and make them laugh and there's a spark and they ask you when your shift ends and you're like, "um, not soon enough?" and you both giggle and meet up for drinks at Garrett's afterwards and you fall in love and everything is wonderful and you have this adorable story about how you met and when he gives his speech at the rehearsal dinner he's like, "I went into her store that day because I needed envelopes—who knew I'd leave with a wife?" (Not like I've thought about it before...) I probably got this idea because I feel like customers were always asking out Helena when she worked at the Barnes & Noble across the street. Although to be fair, the discrepancy between our Georgetown retail experiences may have something to do with the fact that Helena's a petite blonde with sparkling blue eyes and I look like I should be an ironic cartoon about a girl who hates life that only comes on The Cartoon Network Network after midnight, but still. Despite our store's all-female staff, I was looking forward to hot guys coming in and having lots of flirting opportunities with them.

And to be fair, they do. Hot guys come into the store all the time. Unfortunately, they come in with their equally hot girlfriends to pick out wedding invitations. And it's such a fucking tease, you guys. Such a tease. Last week this hot guy came in looking for stationary and I took like, 20 minutes to explain all of our paper options and helped him put together a nice combination of flat cards and envelopes and at the end he was like, "This is awesome. My wife is really going to like this." Really asshole? You couldn't have mentioned that this was for your wife a little earlier? And wear a ring, hippie. I just wasted my special reserve top-shelf customer service on you. Had I known you were married, I probably would have just pointed to the back of the store and been like, "Meh. It's all on that wall somewhere." Gawd.

My point being, you can imagine my excitement last week when an extremely attractive guy came in all covered in sweat, fresh from a run, asking if we had biodegradable envelopes he could use to pick up his dog's crap. Now I'm going to stop myself there—yes, he was looking for biodegradable envelopes to pick up his dog's crap. Yes, I just found out that my friends refer to not recycling as "Meg McBloggering". But with facial scruff like that and forearms like those, I'd chain myself to a tree and throw used tampons at BP gas pumps any day of the week if he asked.

Besides being painfully handsome, this gentleman had a few other things going for him: he was sans significant other, he wasn't wearing a wedding ring, he was in our store for a reason other than celebrating the love he'd found, and he was only a tiny blip on my gaydar. And in a city like Washington, D.C., I will take those odds and I will run with them.

Truthfully we had nothing that could really work for what he needed, but I wanted a chance to lay on the old Meg McBlogger charm, so I showed him our glassine and eco-white envelopes to buy myself some facetime. Unfortunately what I didn't factor into this situation was that "Meg McBlogger charm" is an oxy-moron and I was so excited that a hot, potentially single guy had wandered my way, I lost any social skills that I at any point ever had. (And mind you, I wasn't starting with much.)

But how could you blame me?! I've been waiting four months for this mythical creature to wander into the store and there he was! AND HE HAD A DOG! AND EMOTIONS ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT! Slightly obnoxious emotions, yes, but EMOTIONS nonetheless! If Nessie wandered over to a group of Loch Ness Monster Hunters and was like, "Hi! Here I am! Want some pictures, because I came with headshots!", you wouldn't expect them to be like, "Oh. Sure. Yeah. Good to see you. Leave them on the top of that pile over there, will you? Kay, take it easy." and go on with their day like nothing happened, would you? WOULD YOU?! No. So I'm sure you can understand what happened next.

As we discussed his dog, what we sell and what exactly it was that he was looking for, I don't want to say that I was shaking, but let's just say that I had been more still before. That and when I get nervous, I tend to talk a lot and really fast. So basically what I'm trying to say is he probably thought I had just made love to a giant vile of crack cocaine. We decided that the closest thing we had to what he was looking for was our glassine envelopes, but they didn't fit the bill perfectly. I then suggested that if he were in the mood for a lovely drive, he should check out "Bark", an eco-friendly pet store in Olney, Maryland, which I only know about because that's where I'm from. (And by the way, I'm still 100% shocked that I didn't suggest we swing by on our way to have brunch with my parents because I think it's high time they finally met. Shocked and a little proud.)

He was really fixated on our glassine envelopes, however, and kept stressing that they'd be perfect if they were a little wider so he could stick his hand in to pick up his dog's crap. We actually do have wider glassine envelopes, but unfortunately the flap on those are on the long side and not on top, so it wouldn't really be that conducive to shoving your hand in.

Now, what I meant to say to him at this point was, "Yeah. These [meaning the wider envelopes with the opening along the long side] won't work because you need the hand jab thingy at the top. [Makes jabbing motion in the air like you're sliding your hand into a bag that eggrolls come in when you get chinese]"

However, what I actually said was: "Yeah. These won't work. You need a hand job. [Repetitively jabs hand in the air, back and forth.]

YOU NEED. A. HAND. JOB.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?!!?!?! It's like I could see the words that I was trying to say on a chalkboard, and then I could see the key words falling off and what's left moving together to suddenly make the most molestery sentence on the face of the planet.

I was looking down at the stack of envelopes when I said this, and when I realized what had just happened, I swear to god, my head shot up and I just stared ahead for a few seconds like a deer caught in headlights. Then, my eyes darted over and met his and we had the following conversation without ever having to say a word:

Him: Did...you just say—

Me: YES. YES I DID. I'M SO SORRY.

Him: Like a hand jo—

Me: PLEASE STOP. DON'T SAY IT OUT LOUD. PLEASE JUST DON'T SAY IT.

Him: Do you really think I need a—

Me: NO. I THINK YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING JUST FINE. I'M SO SORRY.

Him: So you have thought about me getting a—

Me: I WILL PAY YOU CASH MONEY TO PLEASE JUST MOVE ON AND GO BACK TO TALKING ABOUT YOUR ECO DOG.

"Yeah...I think I'm going to try a Chinese restaurant. Thanks for your help though."

And just like that, he walked out of my life and I spent the remaining two hours of my shift having random outbursts of, "HAND JOB. I said he needed a HAND JOB," while my co-workers shamelessly laughed at me.

And to think, I gave someone advice this week on how to not be socially awkward. Sigh...I clearly owe that person one helluva hand job.

And for the record, I swallow. Why start a job if you're not going to finish it, AM I RIGHT?

Before we get to today's post, a happy Fibromyalgia Awareness Day to one and all! My mom has Fibromyalgia—a really shitty chronic-pain syndrome for which there's no cure—and it's a total fucking drag on her. So, you know, be aware. I SUPPORT YOU, MOM! I support you in the same blog post entitled, "For the record, I swallow. Why start a job if you're not going to finish it, AM I RIGHT?" I am...something to be proud of. Hugs!

--------------------------------------------

Greetings from the guest bedroom in my parent's house! Or as I call it, "the raped carnage of what used to be my childhood room, now decorated in Ikea furniture, soft pastels and broken dreams." But what's in a name? I have a doctor's appointment at the ass-crack of dawn (read: 9:15) tomorrow (read: today) morning and there's no way in hell I'd make it if I couldn't roll out of bed and directly into my mom's car with a sippy cup full of coffee waiting for me, so here I am. 25 years young. Don't judge me.

I was having dinner tonight with Jill, Anna, Talia and Ruby and we gots-to-talking about my recent post about middle school and specifically Anna gots-to-talking about how she had no idea middle school was so hard for me and how sad it made her. I assured her that save for the occasional whiff of chamomile tea, Clinique "Happy", Stridex pads and Noxema, I rarely—if ever—think about middle school and I swear to Jah I've totally moved on and let go. In fact, that blog post was my way of demonstrating to myself that yes, although wholly traumatic and on par with being Boss #1's tampon five days a month, every month, I can look back on the experience, laugh and know that I'm a better person because of it. CUE HUG! (I swear it was a platonic hug, mom.) (Slash, I don't know. She might have grabbed my ass, who can remember?) (But it was a platonic ass-grabbing.) (DAMNIT! TODAY IS YOUR DAY! I'm sorry. I'll stop with my faux-lesbianism.) (I heart dudes. DIRTY STYLE.) (http://www.nfra.net/default.htm)

We then spent the night drinking wine and reminiscing about wacky high school times and when a party at a certain young man's house was brought up, I suddenly stopped laughing, got quiet and slumped down in my chair. Everyone else went on about what a crazy party he threw and how the cops came and everyone ran and groins were electrocuted trying to climb over the electric fence encircling his house and LOLZ! OH, HIGH SCHOOL! But, eeeeeeeeesh...didn't he die a few years ago?

I couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Um, remember my blog post about middle school?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Well...there was a story I was going to write about because it exemplifies the god-awfulness that was my middle school experience better than any other story I could ever tell, but I didn't think it was appropriate because it involved said party host. And, you know, he tragically died and whatnot."

They pressed me to hear it, so I got out the reserve bottle of Embarrassing Middle School story that I'd been saving—a vintage '96—uncorked it, poured them each a tall glass and by god, they savored it until the very last drop.

"You have to tell that story," they told me.

"I can't tell that story! It makes the kid look like an asshole! And he died!" Jill then made the completely valid point that even assholes die and Ruby suggested I pop in the fail-safe "SCH—" prefix before his name and just go with it. Which sounds like a pretty air-tight plan to me, frankly. So, without further ado, I give you the all-around tragic story of Meg McBlogger and Schmonny Schmuntes. RIP.

Picture it: The year was 1996. The setting? Mrs. Batista's second period 6th grade social studies class at Farhqueer Middle School. It was a breezy and warm May morning and Little Meglet sat at her desk in her powder blue Airwalk sneakers, aqua-marine board shorts and neon yellow Joe Boxer baby tee with nary a training bra to her name (despite the ample need for one), all lost in a thought, as Little Meglets often are. (And if I were a betting woman, I'd bet dollars to donuts that thought pertained to American Girl Dolls and if 11-years-old is too old to brush their hair on a nightly basis—answer: yes—but I'm not and that's not the point. So, let's move on. And in the first-person.)

Mrs. Batista's 6th grade social studies class was made up of about four tables, accommodating approximately six students each, lined up in rows around the class. As fate would have it, Schmonny Schmuntes sat across from me at my table.

One day I was zoning out, half listening to Mrs. Batista and half thinking, "if I had a horse, what would I name him?" or some equally homely, when Schmonny Schmuntes tapped me on the arm and said, "Hey."

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Do you spit or do you swallow?" Hand to god, that's what he asked me.

And I'm going to remind you again that it was 1996. I was 11-years-old. I had no fucking clue what the internet was, nevertheless what it meant to spit or swallow. I just knew that it was probably not Kosher and defiantly going to make me look like a jackass in the end.

"Uhhhh...what?" I asked.

"I said, do you spit or do you swallow?"

I gave him a half-laugh like, HAHAHA, YEP, I'M TOTALLY IN ON THIS JOKE! I JUST CHOOSE NOT TO ANSWER BECAUSE I HAVE FREE-WILL AND IT'S WHAT SEPARATES US FROM THE ANIMALS! OK, BACK TO LEARNING ABOUT NATIVE AMERICANS AND THEIR CRAZY MAIZE! GOOD DAY TO YOU, SIR! and went back to doodling in my notebook.

"HEY! I asked you a question. So you better answer me. Do you spit or do you swallow?"

My eyes darted from him to the clock and seeing that I was struggling, Schmeather Schnaughton aka Schmessica Schmith's best friend and partner in (white trash) (what—who said that?!) crime, of all people, came to my defense and said, "You're disgusting, Schmonny! Leave her alone, she obviously doesn't know what you're talking about!"

Now, that was a good out. That was an out I could have been proud of. An out to tell my grandkids about. I should have taken it. Schmeather Schnaughton was pretty much the most popular girl in our grade and if she told Schmonny to back off, he had to back off. But, desperately wanting to seem like I knew what they were talking about, I jumped in and said, "No, no. I mean, I know what you're talking about, I just don't want to answer you."

"See!" Schmonny told Schmeather, "She knows what I'm talking about! So let her answer! Do you spit or do you swallow?"

I looked at Heather for help and she kind of looked back at me like, "Alright hot-tits; enlighten us." I had to make a choice. Did I spit or did I swallow? And this was a difficult choice, mind you, as I obviously had no earthly idea what the fuck we were talking about. I thought back to a few girls in my neighborhood and how they sometimes spat on the sidewalk after smoking cigarettes and looked really badass doing it, so I haphazardly made my choice.

"I, uh...I spit," I said with a wince.

"OHHHHH, HAHAHAHAH! SHE SPITS! WHAT A SLUT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHA SHE SPITS!" Schmonny said as he literally extended a chubby little finger and pointed and laughed at me. I turned lobster-red and wanted to crawl out of my skin and die. Schmeather yelled at him for being gross again and he eventually stopped, but the damage had been done. Meg McBlogger spits.

But it gets worse...

That night at dinner when my parents asked me and Becca how our days at school were, still not knowing the fuck anyone was talking about, I said, "Ugh, this kid Schmonny Schmuntes would not leave me alone today in social studies! He kept asking me if I spit or swallow!"

A 16-year-old Becca dropped her fork and shook her head slowly in mortification (not so much for what happened that day at school, but mostly I think for having just said "spit or swallow" in front of my parents in reference to my 11-year-old self) and my mom shrieked, "OH MY GOD! THAT'S DISGUSTING! He can't ask you that! That's foul! Do you even know what that means?!"

"Yeah...I mean, no, yeah, he can't ask me that, I mean it was totally gross, like who asks that, you know?!" I stammered, still not know what in the sick fuck I was supposed to be spitting or swallowing.

But it gets even worse...

A few days later, I was sitting in social studies across from Schmonny, painfully moderating the swallowing of my saliva just to be safe when Mr. Lawson, our school's resident crack-smoking, odd-as-fuck guidance counselor sauntered in and told Mrs. Batista—in front of the entire class, mind you—that he needed to see Meghan McBlogger and Schmonny Schmuntes in his office right now. Yes, that's right: my mom called and told the god damn guidance counselor what happened.

So all three of us—me, Mr. Lawson and Schmonny Schmuntes—proceeded to sit down and spend the next half an hour discussing all of the grossly in-depth reasons why it was so inappropriate was for Schmonny to ask me if I spit or swallow. And that was an eye-opener, to say the least. Then Mr. Lawson asked Schmonny Schmuntes how he'd like it if someone asked his sister if she spits or swallows and no, he wouldn't like that at all. So with that, he was forced to turn to me, look me in the eyes and say, "Meghan McBlogger, I am very sorry that I repeatedly asked you if you spit or swallow. It was inappropriate and I will never do it again." And then we were forced to shake hands. We were forced to shake fucking hands.

But it still gets worse...

Schmonny Schmuntes' punishment wasn't just to picture his sister choking on a hot load of cum, apologize and shake my hand. No, Mr. Lawson went on to inform Schmonny that because of his behavior, he wasn't allowed to go on the big end-of-the-year 6th grade class field trip to the water park; he'd have to stay in the library and study. And let me tell you something: that trip was a big fucking deal. And the fact that a popular kid like Schmonny couldn't go? That was an even bigger fucking deal. And the fact that he couldn't go because he got in trouble for repeatedly asking me if I spit or swallowed? Biggest fucking deal. And a deal that didn't really help me be "cool" or win any "friends" either.

And then he died in a car accident in 2003.

And while the entire community mourned because it was obviously a tragedy, .0000002% of me couldn't help but feel slightly vindicated that the person who caused me so much anxiety over my cum handling technique at the tender age of 5-seconds-old, had died. And for the babillionth time, yes, I am aware that I'm a horrible person.

And now you know.

FIN.