The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.

From the archives: The 2b1b 4th of July Drinking Game

July 2nd, 2009

Ah, Fourth of July weekend: drunk and full of patriotism. Show me someone who doesn't love Fourth of July weekend and I will show you a terrorist.

Early stages of Bronchitis be damned, I will be going to Philadelphia this weekend to visit Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and Tulane Chris. And we are going to party—American style! We're going to run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps and Eddie is going to play the Rocky theme on the kazoo! And we're going to streak through empty UPenn dorm halls! And we're going to finger the Liberty Bell's crack because that's quite possibly the funniest thing I can think of! All things American. All things involving alcohol. All things I can't wait for.

Guess what else we'll be doing! We'll be playing this week's drinking game—The Fourth of July Drinking Game!


(That image doesn't really have anything to do with the Fourth of July per se, but I think I love it more than I love any living human being. So there it shall stay.)

Rules:
Drink When:
- Somebody refers to the Fourth of July as "America's Birthday" or wishes America a happy birthday
- For every piece of shamelessly star-spangled clothing you see (drink twice if it's from Old Navy)
- For every hot dog you eat
- For every sparkler you light
- 9/11 is mentioned
- Uncle Rod has a 'Nam flashback at the fireworks show
- The Bill Pullman rally speech from Independence Day is quoted
- "Now that Obama is in office, I can finally say I'm proud to be an American" (or some variation of)
- Fireworks? Is that too easy? No. No, it's not.
- MINI FLAGSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

OK, now I'm going to tell a story about mini flags. That was a rough transition. I'm not going to lie, I've been drinking all night and just took a lot of cough medicine. I'm not really at the height of my game right now. Where was I? MINI FLAGS. Yes. So at school the day after 9/11, we were all gathered into the theater/multi-purpose room to watch a televised National Five Minutes of Silence. During the broadcast, they showed people at different locations across the country observing the five minutes of silence. At one point, they slowly panned in on this guy who had a mini flag shoved in the back of his shirt, resting on his left shoulder. The guy was all deep in thought, clearly having a meaningful moment, but then quickly jerked his head to the left and blatantly poked himself in the eye with the mini flag. It was one of those stupid things that's funny, but not that funny. But then I realized my friend Ali sitting next to me saw it and was trying not to laugh, which made it that much more funnier to me. So then I was trying not to laugh, which was making Ali have to laugh, which was making me have to laugh, and it was a big fucking mess. Because we knew that we could not laugh because sweet god, it was the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. Which of course made it even harder not to laugh. And honestly, five minutes is a really fucking long time when you're bruising internal organs you're trying so hard not to laugh. We couldn't do it, you guys. We laughed. We laughed during the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. It was so embarrassing. But we weren't laughing at 9/11, we were laughing at the A-fuck who poked himself in the eye with his mini flag on National TV. It was so shameful. Anyway, to this day when I see mini American flags, that's all I can think about.

OK, well I'm a horrible person and now you all know. I hope you guys have a great weekend though! Thank you so much for reading, telling your friends, facebooking, Twittering and all that jazz. Next week we'll have another Meghan McCain rant, the answer to what happened when my boss took me on a mysterious joyride and other such shenanigans, so check back Monday! Kthnxbye!

Middle School: Maybe It Wasn't As Bad As We All Remember

Full disclosure: I’m a little drunk, a little pissed off, pretty sad, and avoiding writing a paper about Roman sexuality. Skipping the “drunk” and “pissed off” as my natural state, I’m still sad because Rue McClanahan died. I feel like each Golden Girl death hits me harder. Estelle Getty was suffering and I could be glad she was at peace. Bea Arthur was so sudden it was more shock than grief, and I had friends around me to comfort me. Now Rue McClanahan is gone, so soon on the heels of Dixie Carter, and I am alone and drunk in my crappy Philadelphia apartment. I may not survive Betty White’s passing, and I’m gonna level with you: I don’t really want to.

I literally could not finish Meg’s middle school playlist. I was awash in feelings by about the fifth song, although “Your Woman” is a college memories song for me so that kind of tipped the scales. Some day when I’m reeeaaaal drunk and think I can slip it by Meg, I’ll put together a “Tulane Chris Feelings Playlist.” (Mostly Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen, except every third song is “Walkin’ On Sunshine.”)

I hate to admit defeat. I once turned in an entire semester of classwork in four days after the semester ended. (Result: B-minus and a bachelor’s.) When someone broke up with me via text message, I referred to it as a “setback.” (Result: he tearfully asked me back.) I drove my next-to-last car until it stopped on the highway. (Result: I lost my job because I couldn’t get to work without the car and wound up washing dishes in an Arab café until I couldn’t stand it any more and faked a back injury so I could quit without having to confront anyone.) Refusing to admit defeat doesn’t always work, but at least your tombstone will read “he tried.” When King Milan of Serbia was assassinated, he survived being shot and stabbed, so they tried to throw him off the balcony. He grabbed the rail and only let go when they cut off his fingers. That’s what I call hanging in there. (Get it? He was hanging there!)

So was middle school that bad? Well, yes, obviously. I was oily and smelled weird. I could still have blended in with my peers if I’d tried, but I had a “colorful” (read: weird) personality and did things like faked a British accent for a semester. I wasn’t new, so it wasn’t like I had a prayer of successfully pretending to be the Duke of Pigshit-on-Thames, I was just weird. I was in the school orchestra (upright bass, of all things) and wore Jncos. On purpose. (I would kill to be able to go back in time and not give those to Goodwill.) I also had a “medical issue” during seventh grade so I just kind of… wasn’t there for most of it.

But, see, I hate to admit defeat. Were those three years of my life really as humiliating and pointless as they seemed? Surely not. Surely I learned something. I just sat here for three minutes trying to think of things I learned in middle school and literally I think I only learned a few words of Spanish, how to read bass clef, and that I didn’t like girls the way everyone else seemed to. I was in an “experimental” math program where we “taught each other,” which means that me and the other “smart kids” who went to that school all think x – sin(x) = DICKS LOL.

So what did I get? What was the silver lining? Here’s what I’ve come up with:

MTV played music videos back then: I am an incredibly nervous person, which isn’t surprising considering my genetics and upbringing. Some Scots all married each other, then the English chased them away. They went to the South and all married each other until the Yankees drove them away. They went to West Texas and married each other until the highways were built and my mother could move away. (My dad is the same story but Irish.) I have the same overbred qualities as a prize-winning whippet: same even, pointy face; same bony front legs and strong back legs; same bursts of energy between frequent naps; same constant nervousness. Because of this nervousness, I have to have ambient noise on all the time. The TV or the radio or the fan or an air-raid siren or something has to be on, because if it’s too quiet it makes me more nervous. MTV used to be perfect for this. Music videos would play and you could kind of look at them without having to watch them, but there was always sound. Then a VJ would cut in and say something boring in a pleasant TV voice, then more music. It was balm.

You Were Still Kind of Blind to Your Parents’ Failings: On some level I understood that my home life was unhealthy, but as long as one of my parents bought me and my friends pizza and would let us rent R-rated movies, I did NOT care.

Porn Was A Lot More Low-Tech and Thus You Were More Grateful: Everyone born between 1982 and 1987 remembers clicking on the thumbnail and waaaaaaiiiiiiting…. And here a stripe, there a stripe, and graaaaaadually…. I appreciated that one image more when it arrived than the THOUSANDS of HOURS of pornography I could theoretically download in the next twenty minutes. The other kind of porn our generation had was pausing an R-rated movie just right. You remember. “Okay…. Now!M” Damn. Rewind it like 5 seconds. Okayyyyyy….. Now! Damn.”

It’s Not Like You Had to Pay the Gas Bill: Admit. You didn’t generally have to give a fuck about bills.

Puberty Metabolism: Every single day in middle school, I had either: a chicken burger, fries, and Hawaiian Punch, or a bag of Andy Capp Cheez Fries, Reese’s Cups, and Hawaiian Punch and yet I was thin until I moved to New Zealand in my twenties and spent most of a year eating only curry and beer.

It’s Not Like It Counts: If something sucked in middle school you could just say, “Well, this isn’t real life. I’m not a grown-up yet. It’s okay. I’ll still grow up and do great things.” I am 25 years old. I have a credit score. Things I do count.

I look back on the advantages of middle school I’ve tried to accumulate and I see that it’s mainly inbreeding, immaturity, and masturbation. Well, whatever. Having someone else pay the bills while you jack off sounds like a damn fine deal to me.

It was either no post (again) or a tripped out NyQuil post. Today, you get the latter.

WHO DAT say they gonna beat my immune system?? Ah yes, this cold. And it has done so successfully. So...sucks to be me. (By the way, in that last sentence, I spelled the word "taken" as "tacken" and couldn't understand why blogger was telling me it was spelled incorrectly for quite some time.) It's currently Sunday night, I just gathered up every ounce of strength I have to take a shower and I'm now lying in bed wearing an American Apparel Afrika patterned dress that I bought and never wore once because it's an American Apparel Afrika patterned dress and a pair of bona fide granny panties because I don't have any clean clothes left. Currently I'm building adrenaline to email my bosses and ask them if our office is open tomorrow; an act I feel torn about. On one hand, our building is primarily DOJ, so if the federal government is closed, the building closes. And the federal government is indeed closed tomorrow. But, I haven't been contacted by Boss #1 or Boss #2 yet...which could mean they're just not that into me a.k.a. I have to work tomorrow OR that they forgot I existed over the weekend. Considering when I called out sick last Friday Boss #2 said, and I quote, "Oh yeah, you don't have to come in today. I thought about emailing you that last night. Guess I should have," I'm apt to think it's the latter. So here I go. I'm going to email them to ask if we're open tomorrow. IS THAT TOO FORWARD? Do I care? No. Ok. Here I go. Another shot of NyQuil for courage. BOOM. Sent.

Oh god. I'm nervous.

So. I promised you the details of last week's conference this morning. Yeah. I'm not going to lie to you, I really did take a Christ ton of NyQuil about 20 minutes ago and writing this post is going to be unique. Normally my personal mantra is "I don't fuck with the Quils" because they make me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack and/or learn to fly, but I've reached that point of being sick where I'm physically tired of being tired but I can't sleep anymore because all I've been doing is sleeping, so now I'm just kind of writhing around in bed obsessively checking twitter every ten seconds to hear news of the outside world. So I thought I'd give The Quil another go. But I can't just not give you the details of the conference because I promised them last week like and I feel an incredible amount of pressure to deliver on that promise, NOT TO MENTION make it amazingly well-written ever since that mind-fuck of an anonymous comment said I never write anymore and even when I do it's not funny and my blog is full of empty promises. So deliver I shall! But I'm slightly worried I'm going to pass out before I finish this post. So now it's DOUBLE the pressure. This is competitive blogging at it's best—me vs. the manifestation of all of my insecurities in one anonymous blog comment vs. the clock VS. MYSELF. And we all know that I have the grace and composure of a fat kid slipping in a communal shower under pressure, so this post is going to be written in an unedited stream of consciousness style. And if you have a problem with that, well then you can go hang out with some other blog. Like LookAtThisFuckingHipster. They got a book deal. Clearly they're doing something right. Go ruin their day with your e-Meekness. (I swear I'm going to let go of that comment in like two days, I promise. EXCEPT ALL OF MY PROMISES ARE EMPTY APPARENTLY, SO WHO KNOWS?!?!!?)

I keep wasting precious blogging time by refreshing my work e-mail. Stop that. There was no need to type that. I'm wasting time again. Oh my god, just tell the story. SO! Last Monday morning I rolled into work assuring myself that the conference probably wasn't going to be as bad as I was expecting. I mean nothing's ever really as bad as you think it's going to be right? Well, wrong. Not 30 minutes after arriving at work (at 6:30, mind you) shenanigans were under way. As previously mentioned, the conference was full of gross, old, dirty VPs from corporate who individually breeze in and out of the office all the time but had never been there en masse before. Apparently when they get together, they like to play adorable pranks on each other. And that's cool, because I get that. Alex and I have a long-running joke of stealing each other's iphones and putting a picture of a cat penis as the wallpaper. Shit gets goofy sometimes; I get it. However, I don't really want to be involved with their shenanigans. Especially at 7 o'clock in the morning. It's an inside joke between the VPs that I make terrible coffee. Which actually doesn't offend me at all. I'm not a Starbuck's barista and between me and you, I haven't washed that coffee maker since the early days of '09, so I'd be more concerned if they did like my coffee. First thing Monday morning after I begrudgingly made a pot of coffee, Head VP of Sales came up to me all giggles and grins and hands me a cup of coffee. "HEHEHEHEE! MEGHAN! After we go into our meeting, come in, interrupt and say that you made this cup of coffee especially for Frank [VP of Government Sales.]" "Uhhh...why?" I asked. "I put four heaping tablespoons of raw coffee grinds and a shot of soy sauce I found in the fridge in there!"

Sir. I am not the Dax Shepard to your Ashton Kutcher. It is not my job to help you punk an honest to god 78-year-old man with a rancid cup of coffee at 7 o'clock in the morning. The problem, however, is that VP of Sales is Boss #1 and Boss #2's boss, so what he says pretty much goes. "Do......do......I don't.....Do I have to?" I stammered awkwardly. "THIS IS GOING TO BE A RIOT!!!!!!" VP of Sales said as he handed me the cup of coffee and scampered into the board room.

I awkwardly waited a few minutes and opened the door to the conference room. The room fell silent and 25 people looked up at me. "Meghan, can we help you?" VP of Sales, at the head podium, asked. "Yeah....I ah. I made this cup of coffee. [Sigh] And I made it especially for Frank. I guess." "Well aren't you a sweetheart!" Frank said as I ushered the coffee over to him. "Yeah. No problem." I stood there as Frank took his first sip, ready for him to spit it across the table and VP of Sales to let him in on the joke. But something even more awkward happened instead: he liked it. "Mmm, thanks again!" Frank said. I looked up at VPoS, expecting him burst into laughter, but instead, he looked back at me and matter-of-factly said, "Thank you Meghan, that will be all." HE LET THAT POOR OLD MAN DRINK THE ENTIRE CUP OF RANCID SOY GROUND WATER! I felt awful. I wanted to throw myself across the table in slow motion while shouting, "NOOOOOOOO" and whap the cup out of Frank's hand before he took another sip, but knowing where my paycheck comes from, I just said "Oh...ok" and walked out of the room like a little bitch.

An hour later, the boardroom adjourned for a quick break and Frank came up to my desk to thank me again for the coffee. Suddenly VPoS came up, grabbed Frank by the shoulders and said, "You know what was in that coffee right??" "No..." Frank said suspiciously. VPoS broke out into a fit of laughter and said, "Meghan put coffee grounds and soy sauce in there Frank! AND YOU LIKED IT!" Frank looked around, laughed a little, looked at me and said, "Meghan, did you really do that?" It was at this moment that my heart broke into 10,000 distinct little pieces. I looked up at VPoS with pleading eyes waiting for him to fess up, but he just continued cackling like a jackass. "I...I.........VPoS made me!!!!" I said pointing directly to VPoS' face. Yep. I sold that bitch out. And by bitch, I mean the man who signs my paychecks. Was it "the smartest decision"? Probably not. Do I value my job enough to take the fall for poisoning the coffee of a 78-year-old man with an Asian condiment? Definitely not. "Oh Meghan, you killjoy!" VPoS said. "We're just having some fun with you Frank! Come on, let's go get more coffee—but keep Meghan away from the soy sauce. A-HAHAHA!" The two then proceeded to walk away arm-in-arm, Frank glaring at me the entire way.

And that was Monday morning at 9 o'clock in the morning. MONDAY. MORNING. I decided then and there that the only solution to the week of problems lying ahead of me was to get fired. I put something up on my gchat status to that effect, which caught my mom's eye and in response she sent me an email that essentially said, "AWWWWW, HELL NAW." In that moment, that just wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. I felt incredibly frustrated and trapped and what I didn't need was an email saying "BLALRIGHT! Just blew up the opening of the cave! Shit's blocked with a boulder! Six more weeks of winter! BYEEEEE!" Thus, I sent her back an equally obnoxious email. Which she responded in kind with. And we're still not talking. Which is incredibly irritating and inconvenient when you're having a god awful week and you think you're coming down with a cold and you don't know if you refrigerate chicken sausage or put it in the freezer. Because what's a mom for if not times like those?

I feel like the best way to adequately discuss the heinousness of the rest of the week is to introduce you to a few of the cast of characters I was working with:

- VPoSales. I believe you remember his work from the Oriental Java Express episode. Perhaps enough said.

- Frank. VPoS seriously did irrevocable damage to my relationship with Frank. Frank used to love me. But like...grossly love me. I hate to be That Guy who's like "Oh my gawd, my co-worker's keep hitting on me, life is so HARD when you're this attractive," but I think Frank lovin' him some Meg McBlogger had little to do with my mediocre looks and more to do with the fact that he's an old business man and I'm a young woman with giant tits. I could have a bag over my head and a stutter and I think he'd still want a hand full. Prior to The Coffee Incident, Frank exclusively referred to me as "Pretty," which I was kind of into only because the Indian woman who threads my eyebrows on L street's name actually is Pretty, so it made me feel kind of exotic and talented in hair removal. Every time Frank walked by me, he would extend his long Mr. Burns-esque forefinger, bring it to the top of my head and rub it back and forth in what I called a "finger noogie" while asking "And how's Pretty doing today?" Pretty is pretty impressed at how such a small part of your body could make me feel so entirely molested, sir. And how are you?

But after Monday's Coffee Incident, he never gave me a finger noogie or called me Pretty again. This could actually be chalked up to a small win on my part, except that The Incident had some negative ramifications as well. Prior to the incident, Frank and I had a nice little unspoken agreement: I'd let him call my Pretty and occasionally grab my ass as long as he didn't tell my bosses that I was rarely on time and did as much work as a tranquilized lemur. I kind of liked this dynamic. It felt sort of delightfully retro and Mad Men-ish. But when I was 10 minutes late Tuesday morning, Frank 100% ratted me out to Boss #1. I was shocked. I had been a half an hour late before and he'd patiently wait outside for me but I'm ten minutes late after giving him one little botched cup of coffee and he sends out a press release?? I think not! You can kiss this mediocre ass goodbye, sir.

(By the way, I foresee receiving emails from you kind-hearted readers being like, "Oh silly Meg! You should have gone to HR the second anyone was inappropriate!" To that, I remind you that I work every day with a man called Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker. Political Correctness isn't exactly in this company's mission statement.)

- Matt Hill. Ugh. Jesus. Matt is the VP of Marketing and he makes me so ungodly uncomfortable I don't even know where to begin. Whenever Matt's in town, I always have iced-tea and cookies on hand because it feels like an episode of To Catch a Predator could go down at any given moment. I feel like Matt could be attractive, but he's got one of those wispy facial hair situations going on where you don't know if it's hair or dirt or a shadow of a broken dream and the only thing that you are sure of is that you're incredibly creeped out. Here's a perfect Mike story that happened at some point during the week (the days started to blend together after a while...) while I was sitting in on a meeting. I was sitting across from Mike during said meeting and towards the end, I could tell he was fiddling with something under the table. As the meeting adjourned, Mike pulled his hand out from under the table and tossed a screw from under the table at me and said (and I am in NO WAY making this up,) "There. Now I can say I've screwed you," before dramatically walking away.

Now, not only is this irritating because being sexually harassed in the workplace is always irritating, it's irritating because that screw served a purpose; namely, to hold the fucking table together. So now not only do I have to dedicate time from my busy schedule to emotionally heal from the trauma of that sentence, I also have to add "put screw back in conference table" to my agenda for the day. So thanks a lot for making my job harder, asshole.

- Young Kid. Shit if I know what his name was. I don't think we were ever formally introduced and I still don't know what his position in the company is. He's probably my age and not too horrible to look at. However, I lost interest in him completely after he came up to me and asked, "Do you know if there's an available bathroom nearby?" This question like, knocked my fucking socks off because it's the queerest way ask, "Where's the bathroom?" that I have ever heard of. Which is exactly what I told him. And I don't think he appreciated it. "Wait. Did you just ask where the bathroom was?" I asked after staring at him blankly for 20 seconds. "Um. Yeah..." he replied. "Oh. Wow. That was probably the weirdest way someone has ever asked me where the bathroom was in the history of ushering people to the bathroom. I'm almost impressed" "Oh," he deadpanned, "Well, Meghan. Where is the bathroom, then?" "......Pass the elevators and to the right." Honestly, there's a certain beauty in meeting someone, not liking them and having them not like you right back and then moving on. It's like reading the last page of a book first; it feels so wrong and yet cuts out some unnecessary effort.

- IT Guy. IT guy was my fucking JAM. I loved him. He was seriously the one person throughout the entire week who was nice to me and I'll never forget him for it. As his name implies, IT Guy is an IT Guy sent from Iowa to make sure things at the conference ran smoothly. I mean, what is there to say about IT Guy really? He's a portly gentleman, about 50-years-young who's ass broke two of our swivel chairs without a hint of remorse or embarrassment, which is the most hardcore thing I've seen in quite some time. Every morning we'd get coffee, sit at my desk and talk about macs vs. PCs and the details of his recent divorce, which I was more than up to. (So just to reiterate, when cornered by a fat person in IT who wanted to break chairs and talk about computer platforms and their divorce lawyer, I thought to myself, "Now this is a conversation that I can really sink my teeth into!" That's how dire times were.) IT Guy also warmed my heart when at a certain point he turned to me and asked, "So exactly how far away from The White House are we right now?" "Um, we are currently two blocks away," I answered. His little IT eyes widened and he said in the most heartfelt way, "Gosh. It just must be so cool to live somewhere so historic and important every single day of your life." I don't know dude. It touched me. And not in a Frank or Matt kind of way. I feel like everyone in this city (myself included) is busy being ironically detached and too cool or too connected and important to stop and be like, "Yeah. Shits kind of cool here." I literally opened my mouth to say "Meh, it gets old," realized what a giant schmuck I was about to sound like and instead said, "You know what? Yes. It is really, really cool, IT Guy." I felt good about myself until 2.2 hours later when I was back to thinking, "God, I hate this fucking city." But isn't that just the DC way?

[Ok. So that's as far as I made it last night. And I did get a snow day today! So, Becky, I will be coming over to your place to play with you and Cella shortly because if I have to hang out with myself for one more hour, I am going to go crazy.]

- Cris. Notice I'm spelling that as Cris and not Chris, as Cris was the only other female in the group. She's from the Midwest and was incredibly stuck up and demanding. I mean, I get that I was everyone's bitch for the week, but if you're going to send me out into the freezing cold at 7 o'clock in the morning to "fetch" name tags, it wouldn't kill you to say please. I thought people from the Midwest were supposed to be all nice and shit? At one point, Cris came up to me and asked if we could use a projector and move the conference to a smaller area of the studio that had better acoustics because someone in the group has a hearing problem. I set off to look for the projector and shortly discovered that Boss #1 was using it on a job site that day, so sucks to be you. I walked up to Cris, who was standing around with Young Kid, IT Guy and a few other random people and delivered this news. "BUT. BUT. BUT WE NEED THAT PROJECTOR." "Yeah. Well. Boss #1 has it so it looks like you'll have to stick with the conference room." "BUT WE NEED IT." "Tough titties ma'am. Let's all just speak slightly louder and move on." At this point IT Guy turned to me and said in a booming voice, "It's just that someone in the group has a hearing problem and it would make it easier for him if we could relocate." "SHHHHHH SHHH SHSH SHSH SH!!!!!" Cris hissed at IT Guy, "He's standing RIGHT behind us! That was so RUDE!" You could cut the tension with a knife. Everyone sort of stared at eachother awkwardly and I could tell that IT Guy was incredibly embarassed. It was clearly time for old Meg McBlogger to save the day:

"WELP! Good thing he's got a hearing problem. AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT?!" I said.

Why I thought that I, of all people, could make an awkward situation less awkward is beyond me, but I maintain that that was an incredibly funny joke. Cris, however, did not agree with me. "That was innapropriate, Meghan" she said in her obnoxious little Midwestern accent. I awkwardly shifted my eyes around and then proceeded to literally slink away back to my desk. Like, if you look up "slink away" in the dictionary, you will see an illustration of me awkwardly walking backwards and not making eye contact with anyone and trying really, really hard to dissapear.

So that, in a nutshell, was my week. It sort of blew. And then I immediatly got sick. WAMP, WAMP. But! I can only interpret how incredibly shitty (pun inteded!) the beginning of this year has been to mean that the rest of my year is going to be recockulously awesome. Right? RIGHT??!?! Because you can't just get repeatedly kicked in the groin for 12 months in a row. Right? RIGHT??!?! Right. Good. Well I'm off to do laundry and seek out people who aren't myself. If you're in DC, you should totally bring me a non-perishable item because, frankly, I'm out of food and too lazy to ski my way to Trader Joe's. KTHNX!