State of the Meg — June, 2010

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

State of the Meg — June

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But enough about me, how are you?

Dear Queer Abby: (I like that rhyme sequence)

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

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

S.W.

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

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

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

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

Dear Queer Abby,



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

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

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

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



Thank you!



Sincerely,

We Miss Our Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steps for Going to Your Dock:

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Reflections while watching a DVD: A Tulane Chris Production

First of all, why I hate Memphis. EVERYTHING, except granted good ribs.

- You have to drive through SO MUCH MISSISSIPPI to get there from New Orleans.

- I have never been so lost in my entire life. We went to the airport twice trying to get back to the hotel.

- Black people at Kroger. I didn’t mind them at all. What I minded was Giant Camel giggling like a loon, poking me in the ribs every thirty seconds, and saying, “Chris. You’re the only white person here. Chris. Look. Look at your arm. Now look at anyone else in the store. You’re the only white person here.” HE TELLS THIS STORY. As an anecdote. As though it had a plotline.

- Graceland, oh my God. I was told you could just go in and look at the grounds and the grave, without taking the mansion tour. WRONG. You have to wait in a line of about 200 people to pay $40 to take a bus across the street, and you must stay with the group. I hate staying with the Goddamn group. Graceland was the point of going through Memphis instead of Atlanta and was just a total wash.

- The worst men’s room ever. On our way out, we stopped at a gas station for a standard road trip drink-and-pee. There was a metal plate protecting the lock ON THE GATE, and it took about three minutes to contort everything to open the GATE to get to the men’s room. It was so filthy. The water in the urinal was black, and the less said about the commode, the better. I used the drain in the floor.

Second, I had no idea I had so many feelings about DVDs/movies/Netflix until I started planning this post.

Reflections while watching a DVD: A Tulane Chris Production

• Netflix knows I’m gay. I had a conversation about this months ago with Ex-Co-Bloggeuse Eddie, and it’s only gotten worse. Netflix is cannier than a thrice-divorced aunt, and they can peg you for a homo from fifty yards. They start out casual and low-pressure. “Chris, based on your taste preferences, we think you’d enjoy The Golden Girls: Season 5.” Well, DUH. Add The Golden Girls, and then “Chris, based on your preferences, we think you’d like Ellen: Season 4.” Okay, great. And then “Based on your apparent homoseuxality, we think you’d like Brazilian Boy-Toys Number 6: A Lot Of Hispanic Guys Going At Each Other.” And… granted, but I don’t like Netflix being that perceptive. And for all their sneakiness, they have the sensitivity and aesthetics of a mai tai-drunk fag hag on the prowl. Their recommendations quickly take on the same shrill tone as “Do you want to go shopping? It’ll be FABULOUS!” Netflix has recommended to me about seventeen hundred “light-hearted” gay romantic “comedies” with this plot: Nice guy wants more than just sex. BUT HOW DO YOU FIND THAT in the WACKY GAY SUBCULTURE of [New York or Los Angeles]? Gym rats playing out Protestant morality plays in the Western world’s two least livable cities sounds like a pitch for a satire, but isn’t.

• Since Netflix knows all and sees all, who do I think I’m kidding? I have a short attention span and an infantile sense of humor. I like to watch goofball sitcoms and movies that follow this rubric: (Zombies/giant insects/an unseen evil) attack (townsfolk/villagers) while creating a terrible mess. As intelligent and urbane as I like to pretend I am, I don’t have the attention span for examinations of the human spirit. Viscera, sure; spirit takes too long. Yet I still add all these Herzegovinan historical epics to my queue so I’ll seem “worldly,” and then one of two things happens: I either keep bumping up Designing Women to avoid them, or I forget and actually get Mishtenka, billed as “a Communist Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” I proceed to put it on while I wash dishes, send it back, and claim to have seen it.

• Widescreen? Really? Widescreen itself doesn’t bother me, but people who insist on it do. Granted, I’m a bigger Philistine than Goliath, but I refuse to believe it makes any difference. I lump these people in with other people I believe are lying: people who claim to like Jackson Pollock, people who claim not to like pornography, and people who claim that they like to drive stick shifts.

• Das Boot, my most recent “Oops I meant to get Ghostbusters,” is three and a half hours long. Fuck me. No movie needs to be that long. If someone tried to tell you a story that lasted three hours, you’d call the police and start reading the news on your phone, but if some German auteur with dots in his name does it, he gets called “subversive.” I also hate when cultural artifacts like TV shows or movies are called “subversive.” They never are. Cannibalism is subversive. Arson is subversive. Mass entertainment is the opposite of subversive. I don’t care how many jokes about Republicans are in it, if Disney, Viacom, or Exxon gets a penny from it, it’s not fucking subversive.

• The remote is the same color as the carpet, and the frustration this has caused has probably shaved a measurable amount of time off my life.

• DVD extras have gotten as out of hand as the Gosselins. Why does Soccer Dog need a Romanian language track? Cast bios for Night of the Living Dead? Who cares if “featured corpse” bought a Honda dealership? And, my favorite to hate, commentaries. I don’t care, I don’t care, and I don’t care. They never have the extra I want, which is a bloopers reel. Vivien Leigh calling Clark Gable a motherfucker. Adrien Brody just a little too drunk to make it through the scene. Robert Downey Jr. way too drunk to get through the scene. Bea Arthur punching a boom mike operator in the mouth. Jane Fonda falling into the mud. That’s an extra. Woody Allen trying to explain why his impotence led him to make boring movies? PASS.

• I think one of the clearest indicators that the world is in decline is the shift in the meaning of “piracy.” Circle the situation that is badass: Gold-hungry marauders in the pay of a queen blasting away the defenses of a Spanish settlement and looting it – OR – downloading Three Men and a Baby from BitTorrent. This makes me wonder what petty crime will be called “terrorism” in three hundred years. My money’s on prank calls.

In closing, this week’s “Sorr about the bag":

“When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, ‘What will I be?’

‘Will I be pretty, or will I be rich?’

Here’s what she said to me:

‘Sorr about the bag.’”

Celebrity Death Watch 2010

I don't know about you but personally, I'm glad Baby New Year ('09 Remix) finally kicked the bucket and the '10 Extended Remix is in full effect. 2009 was a rough year; sure the economy was/is absolute shit, but more pressingly, SO MANY PEOPLE died in 2009!! And not just random schmos to flesh out the Oscar In Memoriam package (like the Grip in The Fly), but big names. Natasha Richardson! Farrah Fawcett! Patrick Swayze! Ed McMahon! Billy Mays! Michael Jackson!! Bea Arthur!! And once we all started breathing a little easier in December, Brittany Murphy ups and dies on us last minute. 2009 took as much as it could before it went softly into the night. Which makes me worried about what 2010 has in store for us.

A large part of my shock regarding the death of everyone above comes from my complete unpreparedness for their deaths. As a Boy Scout (for a week and a half), I should have known to be prepared. But how is that possible when you didn't even know Billy Mays was a cokehead! Or that Farrah Fawcett had colon cancer! But I refuse to let 2010 get a jump on me and start picking off celebs like a carnival game. Which is why I'm getting a headstart on the Grim Reaper and have created the following list of people who are likely to buy the farm in the coming year. (Ed. note: Casey Johnson, though I still really have no idea who she is, had to go ruin my foresight by dying while I was writing this last night. Alternatively, thank you, Casey, for making this post that much more relevant.)

1. Dick Clark. Sad, but true. Since his stroke back in 2004, he's been only peripherally on the New Year's Eve scene. Frankly, I'm surprised he wasn't the last to go at the end of December '09, slowly counting down to his own demise. #inappropriate He may have only just turned 80, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear that Seacrest has become the new permanent host of the Rockin' New Year's Eve special (and that Seacrest mastermined Dick Clark's death from day one).

2. Bob Barker. Like Ed McMahon, Bob Barker is 86 years old. He has also apparently had bouts of skin cancer due to his frequent tanning. I would be devastated if Bob Barker dies this year, but I think the balls of our nation's pets would rejoice.

3. Clint Eastwood. This is not based on any conclusive evidence other than the fact that he was on the cover of my GQ Men of the Year edition, and it took me a full minute to realize I wasn't staring at a grizzled orangutan. His skin looks like a pair of cowboy boots, which I guess is only fitting. Apparently he's nothing but healthy, but good gravy, does that man look old!

4. Rue McLanahan. God forbid. I mean, we're down to our last two Golden Girls, but heart problems at the end of last year make me unreasonably nervous about losing Miss Blanche Devereaux. There isn't enough cheesecake in the world.

5. Amy Winehouse. Would anyone be surprised? Didn't think so.

6. John Travolta. Scientologists are just itching to get him out of the fold one way or another. An accomplished pilot? More like a convenient accident.

7. Phyllis Diller. Bitch is 92 years old. I think that about says it all.

8. Lindsay Lohan. Because it's not physically possible to be that skinny, do that much coke, and live to tell the tale. (see: Heath Ledger, Brittany Murphy)

9. Leslie Nielsen. Not based on hard evidence, but the man has had a pretty impressive career, so he might as well go out on a high note. Once you downgrade from Airplane! to Scary Movie 3, it might be time to move on before you end up in Meet the Spartans 2.

10. Spiedi. If only..amirite?!

11. Tonya Harding. I bet you haven't thought about T. Hards since the 1994 Olympics. Unless you've caught one of those "Worst Celebrity Sex Tapes" specials that airs her honeymoon video with Jeff Gillooly. Either way, she's apparently fallen into a routine of domestic violence, alcohol, and car accidents. Adding to that, she recently set a new land speed record for a vintage gas coupe (thank you Wikipedia). Ten to one odds she tries to recreate that on the highway whilst intoxicated.

12. Larry Flynt. Hef would have made the list, but considering all the sex he's getting, I imagine his heart is stronger than an ox. Flynt on the other hand is kind of obese/sweaty looking. Exactly what you'd imagine the founder of the sleazier Playboy to look like.

13. Maya Angelou. I kind of love Maya Angelou, for no real reason, having read nothing she's written. I think it stems from an episode of Sesame Street she was on once when I was little. Anyway, her death is highly unlikely, as writing poetry is not a high impact profession. Neither is narrating movies about the Big Bang. Also, black women age so gracefully/well that you could tell me she's 52 and I'd believe you. But I'm just trying to prepare myself for any freak accident that could take Maya out of our lives.

14. Angela Lansbury. If you had asked me, I would have said she was already dead. Because for far longer than I care to admit, I confused her with Agatha Christie. That whole Murder, She Wrote series really screwed up my perception for mystery authors/actresses. Regardless, she's old.

15. Michael Douglas. Catherine Zeta-Jones has got to be tired of lugging around that sack of skin, right?

16. Madonna. As we all learned at the VMAs, she and Michael Jackson led very similar lives. Therefore, it only makes sense that they would have very similar deaths. (Yea right, with all the yoga and Kaballah, Madonna will be making bad music long into the 2000s. Cher on the other hand....)

Like I said, maybe I am wildly speculating here. But as Casey Johnson just proved, you can never predict these things. I'd rather have some expectations in my head so that when Tim Allen mysteriously drops dead tomorrow, I won't be nearly as torn up as I was when Heath Ledger passed.

(Ed. note: Don't worry, folks, Meg is just sick. Hopefully she'll be feeling better in no time.)

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- Asher Roth's existence is so unbelievably funny to me.

...........................Yep. That's it. There's the punchline. I can't really expound on it much more, suffice to say that to me, Asher Roth is like someone getting hit in the groin: universally laugh-out-loud funny, every time. Or, in SAT terms:
Asher Roth: Meg
as
Han's Moleman's Man Getting Hit by Football: Homer:

I've done some soul-searching to figure out what it is about Asher Roth that I find so comical, but I can't figure it out. It's not like I think his "rhymes" are that clever or he's so charming and hilarious in his interviews. I honestly think it's just because he loves college. [Please know that I just cracked my own shit up writing that last sentence. And it's not even funny. It's just simple a fact. Asher Roth loves college. Man gets hit in groin. Lolz^infinity.] After everyone left the Halloween party last weekend, Teresa and I literally sat around my apartment for a good 45-minutes, just drunkenly eating pizza and taking turns saying "Asher Roth loves college" back and forth and cracking up. We're like the Bevis and Butthead of Asher Roth jokes. And again, I use the term "joke" very loosely. And oh my god, and have you ever seen Asher Roth's myspace page?! It's like the Taj Mahal of Yo-Boy. Picking my favorite part would be like picking my favorite star in the heavens. But, I can give you my top-3:
3.) The background picture is a sepia photograph of Asher Roth using his laptop on the John
2.) His PR person's email address is dana@biz3.net
and 1.)
And if you only do one productive thing with your day—call that number. Mr. Roth definitely opens by reminding all of you who got way too high on 420 to "cop" his new album and absolutely closes with the phrase "peace and love yo." You also have the option of forwarding the Asher Roth hot line information to a friend with your personal message. And after a few Kirkland Signature brand Amber Lights last night, that's exactly what I did. Although, when I tried to enter Teresa's number (thanks to my Costco induced buzz) I consistently hit one number off for all 10 digits. So someone with a 351 area code will be getting an interesting message from the Asher Roth hot line this morning with a preamble by Meg McBlogger featuring some uncomfortably out-of-context cancer jokes. And you're welcome.

- I want to do a cover of Asher Roth's "I Love College" and call it "College was Mediocre."

"That paper I wrote last night was awfully wordy, wish I'd had more time to edit
Hit up Subway, watched some Lifetime, skipped my book discussion cuz I ain't read it
Made a terrarium in Bio that was sick, free ice cream in the dining hall so I take a lick
Pass out at a reasonable hour, wake up in time to take a shower
Man, college was mediocre."

- I had dinner with my parents a few nights ago and my mom (being the wonderful human being that she is) slipped me 40-bucks across the table before we left. After thanking her profusely, she looked at me uncomfortably and said, "Just...please buy something healthy with it. Maybe a fruit or a vegetable? It's like when you give money to a homeless person and you know they're just going to end up buying alcohol with it. It's so disheartening." Frankly, I'm not even mad. Because that was a truly humorous and appropriate comparison, and good for her for making it.

- And speaking of getting fucked up, I opened my door last night and found this waiting for me outside:

I am one-part sketched out and three-parts extremely interested.

- Taking mass quantities of anti-depressants is a great thing, because, you know, I don't want to kill myself on a daily basis and such. However, it can also suck. Specifically because I can't cry. I haven't cried in a solid seven months. And sometimes in life you just need a good, cathartic cry. And I don't mean this in like a "OH LOLZ! My life is so perfect I can't even find something to cry about! POOR ME!" kind of way. Because there's plenty of material to cry about—I just physically can't. Which is unbelievably frustrating. I have actually sat myself down with depressing material for the sole purpose of having a good cry more times than I care to count. Because after hours and hours of Trainspotting and Eternal Sunshine and documentaries on blood diamonds, I can't work out a single damn tear. Last Friday, however, I finally cried. So what could have been so traumatic that it could break the seven month cry-seal? Golden Girls. Season 6, episode 9. "Mrs. George Deveraux," featuring Sonny Bono and Lyle Waggoner. I shit you not, that's what did it. Blanche's late husband returns claiming he faked his own death and right when Blanche decides she's ready to take him back in her life, she wakes up—it was all a dream. George is still dead and Blanche is left clutching an empty pillow, looking around her bedroom, alone and confused. I swear to god, my throat closed, my chest tightened and suddenly there was a wet substance streaming down my face. I was crying. And then I remembered the tragedy that was Sonny Bono's passing and started crying harder. And then I remembered that Bea Arthur is totally dead and cried even harder than that. AND THEN I remembered that Rue McClanahan was recently hospitalized and it was all just fucking over. I turned on Rufus Wainwright's version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," took a hot shower and cried my fucking face off. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors be damned. So Mr. Deveraux—this Jäger's for you.

- I'd like to leave you all with a friendly public service announcement: if your company has a graphic designer (or a "graphics person" or "graphic artist," as you probably call them), don't make them design stuff for your kid's school. Just don't do it. I know it makes sense because they work for you and you want to look like the #1 Class Mom, but please, don't make them do that. It's so unbelievably offensive. Because we didn't coke ourselves out and stay awake for days on end and memorize the subtle differences between 500 typefaces to design the logo for your son's football phone tree. It's like asking your dentist friend to pick a piece the lettuce out of your teeth after lunch. So please, for me, don't do it. Thank you.

Drinking Game Friday's Heart is True, It's a Pal and a Confidant

I know what you're all thinking. It's Friday, you want to get your weekend started early, so you're going to cozy up to 2birds1blog, hulu, and a bottle of scotch. Well, kudos to you, I like your moxie. And we at 2b1b wish we could share in your alcoholism spirit. Unfortunately for us, I personally am getting all sorts of effed in the A with work, which includes me coming into work on Sunday. Meg frantically Gchatted me with the cryptic "I may or may not be getting fired. Please post a DGF. Kgtgbye!" not more than five minutes ago.

Luckily for us, we have amazing fans/readers. (Yes, I'm talking to you specifically. By the way, you look great today! That outfit really accentuates your intelligent personality!) Kelli-Ann, a reader from the Bronx, who is not a creepy fan (we hope), could sense our collective distress and sent us the following Drinking Game. I'm fairly confident she's not a creeper, because she sends this DGF about The Golden Girls which she thought we might be a fan.

To which I reply: Might? Hell yes, I'm a fan, and I'm not ashamed to admit it! After a long day of work, WeTV plays a 2 hour marathon of this shit and I eat it like candy. (But it's obviously butterscotch candy in some cutesy porcelain dish that's been sitting there since the Carter administration.)

Without further ado, I present to you Kelli-Ann's Golden Girls Drinking Game:

The Golden Girls Drinking Game

Drink when:
- Dorothy makes fun of or hits Rose
- Dorothy being knocked up in high school is mentioned
- Blanche's sex life is mentioned
- Sophia pictures Sicily
-- Drink twice if you can guess the year
- A visitor arrives
-- Drink twice if it is Stan
--- Drink thrice if the door is slammed in his face
- Rose uses a Scandinavian word
- Sophia makes a sarcastic comment
- One of the ladies gets a date
- Blanche lies about her age
- Blanche tells the story of her first time
- Sophia's purse is shown
- Sophia comes up with a money making scheme
- They have a late night discussion
-- Drink twice when they get the cheesecake
--- Drink three times if the conversation is about sex
- Blanche makes a comment on how beautiful she is
-- Drink twice if she uses a southern style metaphor
- Blanche refers to her perky bosom
- The ladies fall for the same man

I would like to add Drink once everytime Rose mentions St. Olaf. But with all of the above rules, that might put you over the edge into alcohol poisoning.

Well, I can say for both Meg and I that we have the best blog fans on the entire internet. So just keep doing what you do, whether that's following Meg or myself on Twitter, becoming a fan on the old FB, sending emails (including lifesaving DGFs), sharing us with your friends, and especially for reading. As always, thanks for reading, and see you back here on Monday.