I'm fairly certain I watched a woman discover a mole with irregular borders on the metro last night...

And it's fucking with my mind.

So, I went to The Container Store in Tenleytown yesterday to get an August-August calendar/organizer as part of my Meg's-getting-her-shit-together-which-really-just-means-she-naps-slightly-less-and-does-a-crunch-every-now-and-then-when-she's-not-too-high-and/or-watching-Hoarders-on-Netflix...thing...that I'm doing, and I took the metro back to Dupont at around 5:30pm. First and foremost: mistake. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Because (and I'm fully aware of how obnoxious this is going to sound) I completely forgot how God-awful the metro is during rush hour. My psychiatrist asked me last week if I ever worry about running out of material for the blog, and I said no, because if I do, I just have to take the metro somewhere during rush hour and we're back in business. Although I said that as a joke to move the conversation along because at that point I would have shaved my upper-thighs with a cheese grater if it meant we could stop talking about my "career" and move on to the part where he throws a few bottles of pills at me and says, "See you in six months", I still think it's a valid point. Because last night, three noteworthy things happened to me in the span of one metro ride:

1.) The title of this post, which we'll come back to.

2.) While I was waiting for my train on the Tenleytown platform, this goddamn frizzy-haired mouth-breather of a woman waddled up and, despite having ample room to stand next to me, she stood right in front of me. Like, her back was separated from my front by a matter of a few erotic inches. I can understand this happening when the platform is packed and it's like, well where else do you want me to go, guy?, but, again, I had at least five-feet of space on either side of me. I could have comfortably grapevined in either direction and in no way had to alter the size of my jazz movements. I don't know why she chose to stand directly in front of me, but all I could think was that this was the physical manifestation of those assholes on the The Price is Right who wait until everyone else has bid, and then bid one-dollar more than the highest bidder. Those people are the fucking worst. Because how hard is it to come up with the retail price of some asinine home product out of thin air? Pretty goddamn hard. How hard is it to tack a dollar onto that amount, turn around, and throw your arms up in victory at your fellow Arizona State Sigma Chi's in the audience? Not that hard. But they always win! And it's like, what's a bro in the desert going to do with a Jaclyn Smith Heritage dinette set? You just know he's going to sell it on eBay to buy tickets to a Jack Johnson concert or some shit, when it really should have gone to the Latina woman at the end of the row with a hutch to do it some justice, God bless her. So, then, not only was I pissed off that there was an asshole standing in front of me, I was also becoming increasingly more agitated thinking about the unspoken moral code and bidding strategies of The Price is Right's contestant's row, and I was just standing there silently fuming to the point where thank God the train came, because I was 30-seconds away from shoving a bottle of Garlique down that bitch's throat and smashing her head in with a grandfather clock. Had I had any of the necessary tools.

3.) Things were even more infuriating going from Dupont to Tenley. I know I'm a writer and I just applied to a bunch of fancy MFA programs and I should take my "craft" seriously and blah blah blah, but I truly struggle with describing seating on the metro, so I'm just going to draw the situation I found myself in instead:

OK? Get it? So my objective was to get from the aisle to the free seat on the far side of the two-seater, kitty-corner to the handicap seats. You know? Look, if you're still confused, just fucking call me. I don't have the talent or the gumption to tackle describing seating arrangements right now. Let's just leave it at that.

So, Seat #1 was occupied by this horrible girl who looked like a Hill staffer (my apologies if you are a Hill staffer, I'm just trying to paint a picture), sitting there with her perfect posture in her sensible flats and khaki pants and low bun, reading what I can only assume was Eat, Love, Pray on her Kindle. For those of you unfamiliar with the DC metro system, the L set-up illustrated above is a tight squeeze for all parties involved. Therefore, when someone is seated in Seat #1 and the seat next to them frees up, it's common courtesy to scooch over to make it easier for the next rider to sit down. Hill Staffer, however, did not scooch at all. Instead, she ignored me when I asked her to move over or swing her legs out into the aisle so I could get by. She just flat-out ignored me. And it's not like she was lost in the whimsical world of books and didn't realize that I was trying to sit next to her; she clearly locked eyes with me when I asked her to move and just chose not to. So then I had to do these Cirque Du Soleil-like acrobatics to climb over her and everyone else and squeeze myself into the seat next to her, which was as tiring as it was infuriating. But here's the best part: she did it again when I had to get off the train. As we approached Dupont, I said, "Excuse me, this is my stop", and she glanced up at me, glanced back down, and didn't do a goddamn thing. It was mind-boggling. But, I figured if it was a lap dance she wanted, then it was a lap dance she was going to get—I climbed over, straddled, and grinded that skinny bitch like it was the last dance of the night and I was $20 short of making my meth habit. She didn't have a dick, but I was still going to get it hard. I was grinding with that kind of tenacity. Because be an ass to me once, shame on you; be an ass to me twice, I'm going to get you fucking pregnant.

But back to 1.) I'm fairly certain I saw a woman discover a mole with irregular borders. I was sitting in my awkward little corner seat, fuming and absentmindedly watching the woman sitting in the handicap seat nearest to me switch her heavy coat for a light cardigan. She was an older woman, probably in her late 50's, and looked normal enough. The entire situation wasn't that interesting until she starting folding up the sleeves of said cardigan. She folded up her left sleeve with no issue, but then three folds up the right, she (and I) noticed something on her forearm. She looked at it quizzically and leaned in closer to inspect it. She licked her thumb and rubbed it, but it didn't budge. Now I'm just a simple blogger/graphic designer/unemployed Matt Paxton enthusiast, but that was 100% a mole with irregular borders. I've seen enough ZOINKS! DEEZ 'AINT RIGHT! mole posters at various dermatologist's office to know what one looks like and that, madam, zoinks—dat don't look right. 

The woman looked concerned for about a fraction of a second, shrugged, and then rolled both of her sleeves down. At this point, I honestly didn't know if I should have said something or not. Because on one hand, I'm not a doctor, it's none of my business and what the fuck do I know? But on the other—IT WAS A MOLE WITH IRREGULAR BORDERS. She needs to go to the dermatologist and get it checked out immediately. Need a dermatologist? Marisa Braun at Braun Dermatology Associates on F and 21st. I'm obsessed. I have an oddly specific balance of $10.87, but feel free to tell her Meg sent you. This woman just looked like she had a nice family at home and you always hear stories about people who don't get little things like this checked out and six months later it's metastasized into Stage 4 cancer and it's this big, traumatic life lesson about the importance of yearly full body mole scans. I mean, despite venturing into the sun only occasionally to get a $5 footlong, I convince myself that I have skin cancer at least three times a year. I rarely go to the dermatologist and get it checked out, mind you; I mostly just ask everyone I interact with to look at it and tell me if they think it looks weird. I've made quite a few happy hours awkward this way, but, hell, it's cheaper than a co-pay. Thank God I'm not a man because I can just see myself 40 years from now being someone's Uncle Mort who shows up to dinner all, "My left testicle is inflamed, but feh."

So, now I'm completely invested in this woman's livelihood. I didn't end up saying anything to her and I'm convinced that she's going to die and it's going to be my fault. I've actually considered putting the following missed connection on Craigslist:

Kind-Looking Older Woman in Smart Cardigan (Redline towards Shady Grove)

YES, THAT MOLE DID HAVE IRREGULAR BORDERS. I was the surly-looking 20-something with giant hooters sitting kitty-corner to you on the metro last night, and as someone who took biology in college instead of the considerably easier "Ocean Studies", it is my expert opinion that you need to get that mole checked out as soon as humanly possible. If the only thing that's stopping you is someone to go with you and hold your hand, here—take mine. We're going to get through this. TOGETHER.

(Email me back with "SKIN TAG" in the subject line so I know you're not a bot.)

But, you know, that's "weird". So, on the off chance that you, ma'am, are a 2birds1blog reader, I truly believe that your mole has irregular borders. I've done some light Googling, I've done the comparison, and I think it would behoove you to get it checked out. And if you're not a 2birds1blog reader, as I assume you're not because you had kind eyes and I just talked about hate-fucking a stranger because they were slightly rude to me on the metro—I'm sorry I killed you. 

FULL. BODY. MOLE SCANS. PEOPLE.

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: The Tiny Ginger-Bitch Edition

Ooof. Two YKWRMF? features in two weeks, huh? What isn't ruffling my feathers these days? (UH, ANSWER: my sexy, new two-man band with Helena—Joe Biden & The BFDs. Helena's on keyboard, I'm on bass and lead vocals. It's no big deal. Except that it is in every possible way and it's all that I'm living for right now. Although I don't know if "gigging" is going to be a realistic option for us. As far as I know Helena doesn't play the anything and while I've done some mean community musical theater in my day, the extent of my bass experience begins and ends with getting one for my 20th birthday (I was going through a heavy Doobie Brothers phase at the time and was really into, quote the many emails I sent my dad in April 2005, their "sick bass lines"), posing with it in the mirror, and attempting to play it once when I took a shower at the height of having mono, subsequently thought I was going to die, curled up on the floor, and just strummed it for a while until I felt alive enough to put some pants on. So if we do gig, it might involve partial nudity and a whole lot of "What a Fool Believes". And you know what? You're welcome.)

Remember last week when I said that there are two things I can talk about forever—spit in porn and the moral reprehensibility of TLC's 19 Kids and Counting? Well, I lied. There are three things I can talk about forever, and although this past weekend was all about helping my sister, I think I spent the majority of it talking about the third. I talked about it on the party bus to the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it at the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it in the salon getting ready with the bridal party, I talked about it at the actual wedding... But Lord knows Becca wasn't mad! You know why? Because she agrees with me! In fact, I have yet to meet a single person who doesn't agree with the following statement: You know what ruffles my feathers? The Food Network's Throwdown! with Bobby Flay.

I've never said that to someone and had them been like, "Oh, really? Bobby Flay seems like a really great guy and that show is just great." It's always, "Ugh, Bobby Flay is a douchebag and that show sucks." And you know what? Good! Because I think that just reflects what high-caliber people I surround myself with on a daily basis. Much like how my Thrillhouse tattoo is a litmus test of whether or not I'd like to continue having a conversation with you, your opinion of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is indicative of whether you fucking suck or not. Because I don't care if you're Cillian Murphy's twin brother with a genetic disorder that makes your dick ejaculate candy corn and rent money; if you like Throwdown! with Bobby Flay, we're done here.

If you've never seen Throwdown! with Bobby Flay before, you are sincerely a better person for it. But for the sake of clarity, here's an excerpt from the show's Wikipedia page:

Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is a Food Network television program in which celebrity chef Bobby Flay challenges cooks renowned for a specific dish or type of cooking to a cook-off of their signature dish. At the beginning of each show, Flay receives – via bicycle messenger – a package detailing the chef he is to compete against as well as the dish. Examples of opponents include a skilled chili maker or a famous wedding cake designer. After practicing and preparing the item in question, Flay shows up for a surprise competition (or "Throwdown"). During the competition, both chefs prepare their particular version of the dish, and both are then evaluated by local judges to determine a winner.

Well, thank you, Wikipedia. That was very eloquent. But here's how Throwdown! with Bobby Flay really works: 

First and foremost, per my sister, the show should actually just be called: FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY! And every week on FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!, Bobby Flay leaves New York to go to Small-Town America where he finds an old woman who, as the Nazis were dragging her out of her family's cottage in Soskut, managed to grab the stock-splattered recipe card for her grandmother's famous goulash in her young, trembling fingers and clutch it tightly to her breast for the remainder of the war, so someday it could be passed down to her children, and her children's children, and her children's children's children, to keep those simple country days around her grandmother's hearth alive. And once he finds her, Bobby Flay turns to the camera, lets out a sinister laugh, holds up a fake moustache to his cold, pale lip, and knocks on her door to inform her that she and her goulash recipe are going to be featured on a new Food Network show about Hungarian Family Cooking. Filled with excitement and pride, the old woman then tells everyone she meets from the pharmacist to the paperboy that she and her goulash—her world famous goulash!—are going to be on a show on the Food Network and that they must come over to watch the taping and have a bowl. A week later, it's the big day. As the old woman stands over the giant pot of boiling noodles, gently fingering the delicate gold filigree on the broach affixed to her freshly pressed blouse and thinking of her bubby, Bobby Flay bursts through the wall like a carrot-flavored Kool-Aid guy, shouts, "FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!" and repeatedly rapes her until her friends and family admit that his goulash is better than hers is, or will ever be, and she was a senile, old whore for thinking otherwise. And that is what Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is.

Sort of.

And aside from the blatant grandma-raping and disrespect for Holocaust survivors, it irritates me on the following levels:

1.) Every single time I watch this show, I find myself wondering the same thing—how small is your penis, Bobby Flay? How small is your penis that you feel the need to be on a television show where you travel around the country, reminding chefs who don't have 10 restaurants, nine books, seven TV shows, and a weekly Sirius XM radio show that you're better than them? How small are we talking here? Less than three inches? I mean, does it function at all? Because judging from the mom and pop chefs you force into competing with you, my guess is not.

2.) I find the level of trickery involved in this show to be insulting and cruel. Per Wikipedia:

Each show includes a mini-biography about the chef who is to be challenged, shown before the challenge takes place. The content for the biography is actually collected as part of an elaborate ruse or setup, where the chef or cook is told that they are going to be featured on a fictitious Food Network show. As part of the show, the featured chef (and their associated restaurant, if any) hosts a small party, which is then unexpectedly "crashed" by Bobby Flay. Upon Flay's arrival, he reveals the true nature of the show, and the "Throwdown" is initiated.

I just don't understand what's stopping him from calling ahead of time and being like, "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay. I heard you make a mean lasagna—let's do a Throwdown."? Why does there have to be an element of surprise? I mean, these are people's signature dishes made from recipes passed down from generation to generation; it's not like they're going to perfect or change it in the week leading up to the Throwdown. Thus, I have two theories on why Bobby needs it:

a.) Because if they were aware ahead of time that they'll be going head-to-head with Bobby Flay in a cooking challenge, the show would just be Iron Chef America, which already exists and already sucks. Plus, the chefs Flay goes head-to-head with on Throwdown! are nowhere near as accomplished as those on Iron Chef America, so basically Bobby Flay tricks small-town successful chefs into being on Iron Chef vs. Homely Chef: Bobby's Gonna Sleep Gooooood Tonight, which is cruel and brings us directly back to point number one.

b.) He gets off on how starstruck everyone gets when he crashes the party. And I hate it. It's the worst part of the entire show. The small-town chef is hard at work making his specialty and you can tell he's shitting himself because he's pretended so many times in the kitchen that he was on his own Food Network show and now he really is and everyone is so proud of him, and all of a sudden Bobby Flay walks in all, "Heard someone was making fettuccine! Ha ha, yes, yes, it's me, Bobby Flay. Very exciting, I know. But seriously, let's all just calm down." Just once I want Bobby Flay to walk in and have the other chef be like, "Are you serious? I have to cook with that asshole?" Like, if Chelsea Handler were to kick in my front door right now and be like, "Meg, I'm a better female comedy writer than you are," I don't think I'd get all teary-eyed and profusely thank her for coming. I'd be like, "Hi, I'm not wearing any pants and your obsession with little people genuinely weirds me out. Please leave." I mean, seeing famous people is cool and all, but so is not being the grown man who got the shakes upon being in the same room as Bobby Flay.

3.) Bobby Flay's professional advantages are laughably unfair:

In the Food Network's test kitchen, Flay and his two sous-chefs (Stephanie Banyas and Miriam Garron) experiment and prepare the particular dish, often opting for a variant of the dish. The format of the show does not edit or disguise Flay's lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge. He often makes use of New York City-area experts to teach him basic techniques.

Seriously? His "lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge"? He's a fucking Iron Chef; shouldn't he be able to handle cooking a bundt cake without needing to raise Julia Child from the dead and slowly feed her Giada De Laurentiis' brains until she gives up her ace-in-the-hole recipes?

4.) He's a total asshole to both of his assistants and you can tell they totally want to jump his bones. They do that girl thing where they pretend to get all pissy and put a hand on one of their hips and say, "BOB-BAYYYY" while trying not to smile and squirt on the camera. I get that chefs are kind of assholes in general and I'm not not saying that I've had a fantasy where Gordon Ramsay puts a bag over my head and hits it from behind while calling me his little piggy, but seriously ladies? Bobby Flay? This may sound antifeminist, but my sugartits really belong in the kitchen it's sexy when a guy's an asshole to you because he's powerful and confident, not because he's worried that if he got into a culinary dick-measuring contest with your grandma, he'd come up three inches short.

5.) He just adds Chipotle flavoring to everything. I mean, for fuck's sake.

6.) There are eight seasons of this horseshit! EIGHT! Which means we live in a world where Clone High got cancelled after one season to make room for Punk'd; Arrested Development got cancelled after three; Undeclared after one; and Party Down after two, but we, as a people and a Nation, agreed that we needed EIGHT seasons of FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY?? Fuck George W. Bush; we should be embarrassed when we go abroad because of that.

7.) His daughter and I share an April 16th birthday, which just makes me wish I had been aborted.

8.) I swear to God, there's an episode of Throwdown! that starts with The Flay sitting around one of his restaurants, nonchalantly autographing a giant pile of his BBQ books, sipping wine, and listening to jaunty jazz music for a solid ten seconds before he's finally interrupted by the bike messenger with that week's challenge. And I was just about to say, "what kind of an asshole has the balls to insert that disgusting a level of self-promotion in an already impressively egotistical show," but...you know, Bobby Flay.

But do you know the part that really kills me? He'll always win. Maybe not on the show, but in the Throwdown of Life that is Meg McBlogger vs. Bobby Flay, Flay wins every time. Because despite the fact that I think this show is an epic shit-stain on the underwear of Humanity, I watch it every single time it's on. I can't know that it's on and not watch it. And it doesn't make any sense, I know! If I hate it this much, I just should not watch it! BUT I CAN'T! I PHYSICALLY CAN'T!

And that's when I realized that I'm Throwdown! with Bobby Flay's Mike. If you're active in the 2birds1blog comments, you know that Mike is our resident reader who vocally hates us, yet insists on not only coming back to read us every single day, but be an active member of the 2b1b community. And up until now, I never got Mike. I always thought, "Nobody's strapping you down in a seat, putting hooks in your eyes and forcing you to read our free blog, A Clockwork Orange style, Mike. If we piss you off that much, just stop reading." BUT I GET IT NOW:

Meg McBlogger is to Throwdown! with Bobby Flay

as

Mike is to Meg McBlogger

Which of course begs the question: what does Mike think of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay?

Logic dictates that he should like it, and yet, for some reason, I'm dubious. For the first time ever, I look forward to your comments, sir.

(Attn: Helena:

)

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries:

- First and foremost, I didn't forget about last Thursday's cracked out promise to do a "Spit in Porn" entry; it'll go up tomorrow. I need one more day to gather my thoughts on the subject matter. Because I have a lot of them. But like, a lot of them. To the point where the thought of organizing them into a cohesive blog entry is completely overwhelming. Thus, I've decided I shall spend all day today in a dark corner of a quiet coffee shop, pair of bifocals perched slightly below the bridge of my nose, brow furrowed while I flip through old leather-bound books on human sexuality, biology and...spit..., feverishly taking notes and yelling at the waitress for interrupting my train of thought to do something as pedestrian as clear my cup away, a-thank you. Because tomorrow's entry isn't going to be just your run-of-the-mill blog post—it's going to be my opus.


- Only 10% of me is shocked that my opus involves spitting on genitals.


- Based on my interest in "Nip/Tuck" and Louis C.K. stand-up, Netflix has recommended that I watch Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico.

That dog better be in Mexico to get cheap botox or because he deeply resents his children; anything less and Netflix and I are going to need to have words.


- There is no other music in the world that toes the line between "jolly" and "I'm going to kill myself tonight" like Christmas music. While I was waiting for Teresa to come over and drink wine and Christmas-ify my apartment with me last night, I put on my Pandora Christmas music station and started tidying up a bit. At first it was playing swingin' Michael Buble "Holly Jolly Christmas" type stuff, but somewhere along the line it slowly progressed into like, recently orphaned children singing through their tears about Christmas trees and songs comprised of a single, haunting bell echoing through the night that forgot you. I didn't even notice the progression happening; one minute I was making my bed and the next I was curled up in it, hysterically crying and wailing, "I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!" into a pillow.


- That being said, the Christmas spirit has arrived in the old Meg McBlogger residence!




My Christmas tree is kind of anorexic. And fake. And casting spooky shadows on my wall in that picture. And up until a few hours ago was covered in Luna bar wrappers and old US magazines in the crack between my bed and the wall—or my Shame Hole, as I call it. And by Luna Bars, I obviously mean empty ice cream cartons. And it's now standing on an old H&M pashmina covering a Jäger cooler. Basically my Christmas tree is the antithesis of Alex's fancy-pants real person Christmas tree:
Whatevs. Mine's got moxie.


- Speaking of Teresa, I never thought I'd say this to anything but the mirror as I gaze at my Thrillhouse tattoo (which, for the record, I do quite often), but this is probably the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen:
If Maryland pride is gay, then I'm the Old Line State's Bruce Vilanche.


- If all goes well this year with HannuClaus, I will soon be making the switch from a duvet to a comforter. I'm kind of bummed about it though, because truthfully I find duvets more comfortable than comforters. My problem with duvets, however, is that I'm an incredibly active sleeper and as I toss and turn all night, the duvet separates and gets pushed down to the bottom of the cover and I somehow manage to tangle myself in the entire apparatus and all of a sudden I'm having nightmares about being in a straitjacket and feh. I feel like it has to just be easier to get a comforter. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep because the ratio of duvet to cover is off.


Speaking of my odd little bed neurosis, there was a solid month in 2004 when my sister's best friend, Rachel, would sign into AIM for the sole purpose of featuring a new "Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day" on her profile. I completely forgot about this little gem until it was a featured EMMFOD: 

Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day: When Meghan was a little girl, her parents used to have to safety pin her pillow to the center of the bed.

Uh, A.) that's incredibly true and although safety pins aren't in the mix anymore, the odds of me being able to sleep if my pillow is off-center is still slim-to-none; B.) That being said, just the fact that safety pins were even involved in my bed time growing up makes me feel so Aspie's I'm shocked there isn't a social worker reading this over my shoulder as I type.


- You know what I've come to realize? If God forbid I ever run out of things to write about, all I need to do to get more material is simply go down into the metro. I don't even necessarily have to take it anywhere! I just need to physically enter the human cesspool that is the Washington, D.C. metro system and within 30 seconds, I guarantee you I'll have a story about how society is crumbling in upon itself and I want to set 98% of everyone I see on fire. Case and point:


I had the great displeasure of taking the metro to my parent's house during the peak of evening rush hour the other night. I entered the metro from Dupont south and from the top of the descending escalator I could see that the platform was packed everywhere except for the far end. "HUZZAH!" I thought to myself. Still reeling from Ren Fest. Apparently. "That's the side where the train pulls in; the first few cars are normally pretty empty anyway. I'll stand there!"


I slowly worked my way through the crowd and eventually arrived at the opposite end of the platform. As I stood there waiting for the next train, I felt very content with my situation as I had about five feet on either side of me free of Other Person. Which is exactly when an older woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. Let me repeat that: Bitch stood DIRECTLY. IN FRONT. OF. ME. She had more than enough room to stand next to me, but she chose to stand in front of me. And you know what pissed me off most about that situation? It wasn't that she was poaching my prime platform real estate; it wasn't that her person was about three inches away from mine and very clearly invading my privacy bubble; it wasn't that she was going to board the train before me although I got there first—it was that what she did was the equivalent of the people on "The Price is Right" who graduate from Contestant's Row by bidding one-dollar more than the highest bidder. You people are the fucking scum of the earth and if I'm sure of anything in this world, it's that there's a Hell and there's a special place for you in it. In my mind, here's the pecking order of Hell:

1.) Hilter

2.) Pol Pot

3.) An army of child molesters

4.) "The Price is Right" —and one, Bob! bidders

5.) Osama bin Laden

That's right, —and one, Bob! bidders come before Osama bin Laden. You people are collectively worse than the mastermind of 9/11. I am genuinely shocked that murders haven't been committed as a result of someone betting one-dollar more than the highest bidder, winning, and going on to play Plinko. Because Lord knows I'd kill you! I'd kill you, pry that fucking bedroom set from the Ashley group out of your cold, dead hands, and dance on your grave! And you can say, "Oh, that's just the way you play the game. Those people are being smart," but I completely reject that. You know why? Because there's a little thing called dignity in sport. I mean, we'd all win a few more football games if we went around shaking members of the opposing team, but nobody would actually do that because there's no dignity in that win. If you're going to walk into "The Price is Right" studios, come correct—know the prices of shit. Go to Safeway and do some recon; it's not that hard. A bottle of Garlique is $15.99. There. Have some god damn respect for yourself. Don't just wait until the fine Americans who actually did their homework place their bids and then bid one-dollar more. It's disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them, it's disrespectful to Bob Barker and his Beauties, and it makes a mockery out of what is undeniably the finest game show of the 20th century.

And that's why I hate the metro.

My Rosh Hashanah Rant

Three things:

1.) I've been procrastinating writing this blog entry by watching military documentaries for the past four hours (don't ask) (don't tell) (HAHA!) (but not really, that's a sad policy) (but god I'm clever) and OOF. If I decide to join the Marines, it's your responsibility to remind me that I find socializing in humid weather taxing and recently quit a Jillian Michaels On Demand home workout after three minutes to order Greek and watch shit on Hulu. Thank you.

2.) I hate doing this, but I need you to do me a favor and vote for us for Express Night Out's Best Blog. To do so, just click here, scroll down almost to the very bottom, click 2birds1blog for "best blog (non food)" and hit vote. Done. Then perhaps ask a friend to do the same. Promise them sexual favors and delicious spiced meats for doing so. Then when they're done voting and want to cash-in on your promises, simply say "PSYCH!", pat them on the back once and walk away. What will I give you for doing this? Sexual favors and delicious spiced meats. PSYCH! And now I'm walking away. See how easy that was?

Actually, we'll do a giveaway next week, but I need you to tell me what you want first. 2b1b shit? Jäger shit? Some random shit I find laying around my apartment? A comical picture of me from middle school? I'm open, so vote, come back, leave a comment telling me what you'd like and we'll do it next week. (Another reason I probably shouldn't join the Marines: I'm too lazy to think of my own blog giveaways.) Oh, and since I know there's nothing the 2b1b Army loves more than helping me only to fuck someone else over (bless your hearts), we're up against our blog nemesis, The Prince of Petworth. BOOM. Revenge and a giveaway; what more could you want? XOXOXOXO.

3.) I got an email earlier tonight from a reader asking if I was ever going to write about my issue with Rosh Hashanah. And YEP. Sure will. Right now. That's all it takes; one single person asking for it. Because I will rant about Rosh Hashanah to literally anyone who will listen. And frankly, actually listening is a non-issue. Sometimes I line up my Larry Hagman action figures and walk around my apartment just bitching and moaning and making points with animated hand gestures. And now, despite it actually not being that funny or interesting, you fine people will get that pleasure too. So, here we go.

Diane McBlogger: God I love that woman. My mom is one of my all-time favorite people and I love her very dearly. HOWEVER, she is the reason why Rosh Hashanah season gets my modest, ankle-length skirt in a twist.

As I've discussed, we McBloggers are an interfaith family. My mom is Jewish, my dad is Catholic and my sister and I lost interest at the beginning of this sentence. My entire life, our family has only celebrated four religious holidays: Easter, Passover, Hanukkah and Christmas. That's it. That's the ballgame. And I use the term "celebrate" loosely because I really mean we get drunk, watch "Mystery Science Theater 3000" and eat a brisket.

Now, my mom's interest in Judaism comes and goes. And you know what? That's fine. Mozel tov to you and yours. If one day you feel like being a Super Jew and the next you want to host a pig roast with Jesus and Rush Limbaugh—good for you. I pray to Kelly Cutrone, who am I to judge? What I don't appreciate, however, is when her feigning interest in religion affects my life and my schedule. Because if you're going to make the conscious decision to raise your kids all, "Ohhhh, here's a pupu platter of religions! Take want you want and leave what you don't! There is no right and wrong! Come as you are and leave as you were; we're not trying to change you, just educate you," and all that hippie bruhaha, I think it's hypocritical to force me to participate years later just because all of a sudden it's important to you. And yet that's exactly what happened in September of 2006.

I was a Senior in college in September of '06 and much to my chagrin, I was forced to take web design. If you couldn't already tell from how primitive this blog is despite my background in graphic design, I loathe web design. I think it's boring, confusing, and involves wayyyy too much thinking for my liking. Which is exactly why I chose to be a print design major. But our department head, in all of his infinite wisdom and glory, decided to make my graduating print design class take web design so we would be more "marketable" after graduation. Asshole.

Web Design was basically a semester long project where we had to design two versions of a website for a local band; one using HTML, JavaScript, CSS blah blah technical blah and one using Flash. (SPOILER! I didn't do it. My friend Stephanie did mine for me and I say a little prayer for her and her health every night because Christ knows I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. The extent of my coding knowledge is mostly Live Journal based and is limited to bold, italics, underlines, strike outs and my pièce de résistance:

SCROLLING MARQUEES!!!!1

Pretty much all of us outsourced our websites, which looking back made sense at the time, but now that I'm paying off my student loans in one-liners and handjobs, I kind of want to set myself on fire.)

Flash forward to a phone call I got from my mom the first week of September:

D: Meg, I need you to come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner next Tuesday night.

M: Rosh-a-what-now?

D: Rosh Hashanah.

M: Oh. No offense, but...why?

D: Because Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and it's important that you're here for it.

Let's time out right there: no it's not. I mean, yes, Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, but it really didn't matter if I was home for it or not. The Jews managed to survive 5,771 Rosh Hashanahs with out me up until that point, I'm sure one more wouldn't have brought on any plagues or frog showers. That being said, who was I to turn down free brisket and facetime with Evie? So, I agreed to go.

Unfortunately, part of my web design project was to create a photo gallery of our band with original photography from live shows. And when was my band's next show before our photo galleries were due? You guessed it: Rosh Hashanah. I figured my mom would be cool about it though because, you know, we had been to Disney Land more times than we'd even discussed Rosh Hashanah and school comes first, right? Wrong.

[Ring, ring!] D: Hello?

M: Hey, it's Meg.

D: Hi honey, what's up?

M: Listen, I've got some bad news—I can't come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner anymore. The photo gallery for my band's website is due soon and I need to go to their show at the Black Cat that night to take pictures. Sorry!

D: Well, I'm sorry too. Because you have to come home for dinner.

M: What? Wait, seriously?

D: Yes. Seriously.

M: But, why?

D: Because it's Rosh Hashanah.

M: So?? I don't even know what that is! This is like you telling me I have to come home for Fluggityfark.

D: Meghan, you know what Rosh Hashanah is. We celebrate it every year.

M: WHAT?! We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah in my entire 22 years of my being on this Earth. EVER.

D: Meghan, we always celebrate Rosh Hashanah. You're just not remembering and I'm not having this conversation with you anymore. It's important to me that you be there and that's final.

Now, time the fuck out right there. This still boggles my mind. We had seriously never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't believe she told me otherwise to try to get me to come. Because had my mom just been like, "Hey-o feelin' kind of Jewy, it's important to me that you come home so we can celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a family," that would have been one thing. But to try to implant these false memories in my mind of Rosh Hashanahs past to guilt me into coming is just so manipulative and ultimately, well, Jewish.

And then the truth came out:

M: This is absurd. We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't go because I have something to do for school. They're not going to have another show until after my gallery is due and if I don't get those pictures, I'm going to be totally fucked.

D: Well, I'm sorry, but I already told your sister she didn't have to go because she got tickets to see Mos Def that night and at least one of you has to be there.

...Allow me repeat that: I had to go because Rebecca was going to a MOS. DEF. CONCERT. My already shitty project in the class that I was struggling the most in was now in serious jeopardy because Rebecca felt it necessary to go to a fucking MOS. DEF. CONCERT. I'm aware that older siblings sometimes get preferential treatment, but at that point I was 22 and she was 27; we were grown-ass adults. To let her go to a god damn Mos Def concert and not let me do something for school was just lunacy and borderline reckless. Plus, who gave a shit if neither of us were there?? Who was going to judge?? The only people at that dinner were my parents, my aunt, the cat and a bottle of red. Which part of that cast would have been like, "Ohhhh, the McBlogger girls didn't show up for Rosh Hashanah dinner. What values, these kids!" (Evie, obviously, but still.)

I brought this up to Becca when she was over for dinner the other week and her only response was, "Oh. Hah. Yeah. That was a good show," then went right back to chopping something.

WHAT?!!?!?!? For all the trouble it caused me, that had better have been the best god damn show she's seen in her entire life. Mos Def himself should have showered her in Cristal and performed a one-man rendition of his guest episode of "House" in Latin before sexing up her and everyone else in the audience. "That was a good show." Christ.

In the end, I obviously went to dinner, I'm sure it was delicious, my website sucked, I got a C in the class, and according to Mos Def's Twitter, he just saw Salt and has to say that that ending was the worst he's seen yet, which is saying something because he watched The Last Airbender. SO, GOOD. We're all comedians and we're all winners.

And you know what the most infuriating part of this entire situation is? OUR FAMILY NEVER CELEBRATED ROSH HASHANAH AGAIN!!!1 After all of that! I didn't even know it was Rosh Hashanah season until Chris proposed we do a post about our Rosh Hashanah New Year's resolutions the other week and I freaked out. I was like, "WAIT, IS IT ROSH HASHANAH?" "...Yes." "AND MY MOM ISN'T HAVING A DINNER?!" "Uh...I guess not?" [Drops phone, falls to knees, raises fists in the air] "GOD DAMN YOU, MOS DEF!!!!!!"

So, I've decided that from now on, I am forcing my family to observe Rosh Hashanah, whether we're feeling Jewish that year or not. Just based on principle. Because if it was magically important that year (when I was BUSY) (with something ACADEMIC), it should be important EVERY year. Diane McBlogger should personally provide me with a free hot meal, at her residence, transportation fees covered and Rebecca's presence mandatory. And at said dinner, we will listen to local DC band Deleted Scenes' EP on repeat, pass around my grades from that ill-fated semester and each family member must look me dead in the eye, apologize, give me three compliments—in alphabetical order—and at least two of them have to be based on my physical appearance and have nothing to do with my personality or "wonderful" sense of humor.

Happy fucking New Year.