IVY HIJINX!

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

You know how when you have something unpleasant or draining ahead of you, you start doing everything in your power to avoid it? Well, unfortunately, I’d already done all the niggling little tasks I had to do while postponing writing my graduate thesis “Laughing at Hitler: Nancy Mitford in an Age of Extremism.” Actual title, and I got a good grade on it. Not only did I get a good grade, I’d been so reluctant to sit my ass down and finish it that I also had a clean refrigerator, resumes uploaded to multiple job websites, an organized recipe file, and my Christmas card list made. So with all that done, all I had to do to distract myself during the tearful orgy of obscure pop culture references that was the writing of It Seemed Like a Good Idea… was obsessively check my email and the Amazon sales rank of The Misanthrope’s Guide to Life, back and forth, over and over, like an epileptic terrier. I’d gotten no email in six hours and Misanthrope’s was persistently hanging out at a “respectable” level and so I was more or less doomed to start working when we got an email with the subject line “Possible Reading/Book Signing at Yale?” If you can imagine, this managed to distract us for a solid hour, for which I’m almost as grateful as I am for the invitation itself.

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

OFFICIAL IVY LEAGUE HIJINX SCORECARD -

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

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.

On 'Dallas', on Cupid, on Donder, on Blitzen!

All of my emotions about the new Dallas can be summed up in one single noise: it's a mixture of a long, disappointed sigh; the grunt of a pregnant woman in the throes of her final push; and the Bill Lumbergh "Yyyyyyyyyyyeahhh....", all made with a facial expression that screams, "Oh, shit—I just locked my keys in my car, didn't I?" That is how I feel about the remake of Dallas.

I understand that if anyone should be happy about the new Dallas, it should be me. The original Dallas is one of my all-time favorite shows, Larry Hagman is my personal Lord and savior, and if anyone loves trashy night time TV more than me, I'd like to meet them. (So I can destroy and sex them.) (NOT IN THAT ORDER.) However, I would like to take this time to officially state that I am not on board with Dallas 2.0. I actually got drunk and wrote a really long post about why not when Larry Hagman agreed to join the cast, but it was uncomfortably serious and kind of embarrassing for us all, so I ended up scrapping it and going outside to breathe this "fresh air" that everyone speaks so highly of. Here is what I will say, briefly:

1.) So much of why I love 70's/80's soap operas is because of the fashion: big hair; nude pumps; spangly, spangly gowns; my beloved gold lamé; tight, high-waisted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans; pantyhose!; nylon and lycra and pearls—oh my! It's borderline pornographic. But squeeze a meh-list actress fresh off a run on Desperate Housewives into a Herver Leger bandage dress, give her a spray tan and I'm sorry, but I'm not poppin' wood. You feelin' me?

2.) I want to remember JR Ewing as a s-s-sex machine, not a s-s-stroke victim, thank you.

Nip/Tuck. You assholes.

3.) My concern is and always will be for Larry Hagman's health. I'm actually CEO of a non-profit called "Focus on the Hagman". We sponsor T.G.I. Hagman's across the country, run uncomfortable Super Bowl ads and make it rain with pairs of TOMS. It's all very exciting. But we, as an organization, are not comfortable with the attention Larry Hagman is inevitably going to get from Dallas 2.0. Because on some small level, I truly believe that the Grim Reaper got distracted the day he was supposed to collect LH because he had to pick up more mulch at Home Depot or some shit and oops—it's 2011 and Larry Hagman's still alive! I'm nervous he's going to curl up on the couch one night with a bowl of kettle corn and a Zima, turn on TNT and be like, "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK..." and that will be the end of that. I didn't invent the rainy day; I just own a Hagman-shaped umbrella.

4.) My biggest argument is this: remember that scene in Practical Magic when Sandra Bullock freaks out and demands that Stockard Channing and Dianne Wiest bring back her dead husband, but they won't do it because "even if we did bring him back, it wouldn't be Michael. It would be something else. Something dark and unnatural,"? Well, that's exactly what this new Dallas is going to be—something dark and unnatural that just shouldn't be. Don't believe me? Knock, knock. Who's there? Melrose. Melrose who? MELROSE PLACE WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR ASHLEE SIMPSON. That's fucking who. And 90210! I mean, why don't we just dig up the body of George Washington, throw him on a vibrating bed with Brittany Snow, smear a used menstrual pad down your TV screen and call it the new Love, American Style while we're at it? Christ.

Which is why up until now, I decided to adopt the same strategy my dad used when he got his draft lottery number and ignore the entire situation until it just kind of goes away on its own. It worked for him, so why shouldn't it work for me, right? (And yes, this is my 'Nam.) But then TNT gave the show the green light and now it's happening for realz for realz and I can't ignore it anymore. My inbox, Twitter, and Facebook were all bombarded last week with people linking me to the TNT story and asking if I was psyched. This made me start to doubt myself. Maybe I'm overreacting and should embrace the show? Gah, but it feels so wrong! I need answers. I need someone to guide me. I need the one who turned me into the Hagmanite I am today. My sire—Original Co-Blogger Eddie. Oh, wise one! Show me the ways of the Old World! (Or, this is some shit, right?)

"MY FEELINGS ON DALLAS", by Original Co-Blogger Eddie

1.) Holy shit. When I picked the Dallas as the topic for my senior history thesis I did it because I wanted to watch lots of TV. Like Pigman in PCU. I found out that watching TV is hard, and I ended up with lots of useless knowledge about a TV show very few people under the age of 27 knew about. Our age group knew that some dude named JR got shot and all the adults wanted to know WHO SHOT JR. BUT NOW I FEEL LIKE I WAS RELEVANT, I was saying and observing important things about America and pop culture. I want to thank the remake for allowing me to feel like the history degree I earned has some value. (Aside from talking to people's moms/the older ladies at work. People's moms and older ladies at work LOVE talking about Dallas.)

2.) I'm scared Larry Hagman will die now because this cursed him in some way. JOCK died during the show's run; who's to say that will not also happen to JR?

3.) Rumor has it Victoria Principal isn't coming back as Pam because she CHANGED HER FACE SO DRASTICALLY to look young that she now looks like a monster pretending to be Victoria Principal. So no Pam on the new show, which is sad because she made moments like this in a disco so awesome.

HELLO A WHITE TURTLENECK, WHITE PAINTS AND A FUR TO A DISCO, that will not happen in the new show. She is sexy and yet very covered up...

This leads me to my next feeling:

4.) I also worry that the world of the Ewing family on Southfork belongs at a time and place. Maybe, just maybe, those characters need to stay in 1978-1991. You can't go back to the past, but thanks to DVD's and books, you can revisit at your leisure. A TV show like Dallas is intimately bound to the time frame it was created and consumed. Sure, it was an over the top prime time soap, but it still was an important piece of TV trash. I'm scared that this remake will tarnish the memory of one of the most influential pieces of television ever created and exported outside of the United States. Dallas changed the look of the 1980's, and changed television, but it was also influenced by that era. Giving JR a computer, information about GREEN JOBS and putting him on Facebook will alter the TV show. I like that TV shows don't change, that I can re-watch them and they stay the same even if the time period is different. Like little time capsules where someone playing Miss Texas could have HORRID teeth and drink when she is knocked up and it's only "maybe bad for the child." This remake will not be the Dallas I love, it will be something very different with the same actors playing semi familiar parts. This remake has the possibility of being a hallow memory of what Dallas was and never will be again, and that makes me very sad.

Chances are I have many more feelings and thoughts and lucky for me I have a whole year to process them. It's been sometime since I watched Dallas, I needed a big break (for obvious reasons) and I have no doubt re-watching the DVD's will stir up emotions I didn't even know I had.

OK, so it's some shit. Good to know we're on the same page.

Well, here we are. I finally shared my Dallas emotions. I feel naked. I feel vulnerable. I feel exposed. I also feel like it goes without saying that none of this is going to stop me from watching it and recapping it for the blog. BUT I'M NOT GONNA LIKE IT.

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.