How to get an A in PR

They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right? Well, that's exactly what I'm trying to do with this whole "getting fired" thing. Sure the entire experience was mildly traumatizing and has me spinning upside down on a pole three nights a week at Camelot (Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. Ask for Fallon O'Carrington.) but I think it may have been the kick in the ass I need to get more serious about my writing and finding a way to make this here rickety old blog my bread and butter. Unfortunately to do this you need to be far more communications savvy than I actually am. If you need someone to come over and watch reality TV with you, crack a few mildly humorous jokes and eventually give you a really half-assed hand job; I'm your girl. If you need someone to market your blog to potential sponsors, advertisers and media people in a professional and confident manner; I am not your girl. Either way; sucks to be me.

I can't market this blog to save my life. Wanna know a little fun fact I never told you about? I had a very casual meeting with MTV in December. They like my writing, bless their hearts. Then they had to go and actually talk to me in person. MISTAKE #1, YOU GUYS. Mistake #1. Why? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because when they asked me what my five year plan was I rambled about exercising more and getting a pug while struggling to find a way a to make my arm placement look natural? How about that? Sigh.

If I really do just want to sit here all day writing love letters to you fine people (which I do), I need to find a way to confidently talk about my blog without de-railing 13 seconds in and concluding with, "NEVER MIND IT'S STUPID I MOSTLY JUST TALK ABOUT MY BOWEL MOVEMENTS AND HOW AWKWARD I AM I'VE JUST WASTED YOUR TIME SO G2G KILL MYSELF NOW BYE." How did this happen? I was a communications minor, for Christ's sake! And isn't AU's SOC supposed to be like, really good or some shit? That's when I remember the absolute show that was COMM-301 (Public Relations) and suddenly my complete and utter communication ineptitude makes a a lot more sense.

I took PR my last semester at college and it was destined to be a hot mess from the start. First of all, it was a block class. May god smite you all in the American University registrar's office for your intense love of block scheduling! For those of you not in the know, block scheduling is when instead of having a class twice a week, you only have it once a week, but it's two and a half hours long. Look guy, that is a tall fucking order. I can't even concentrate on a date for that long and that has the possibility of ending in sex. To make matters worse, it was my second back-to-back block class of the day. Right before PR, I had a two and a half hour Postmodern Art History class. And yowzahs. What a Wednesday. I was sufficiently chock full o' bullshit by the end of that semester.

What really didn't help my already dwindling attention span was the fact that I took this class with College Roommate Danielle. In retrospect, what a grossly horrible idea that was. Danielle and I have the combined maturity of Romper Room. We once stole a life-size cardboard cut out of LeBron James from Mazza Galleria based solely on the absurdity that is this commercial:

Locking us in a class full of comm nerds for two and a half hours was like giving a couple of 12-year-old boys with severe ADHD a handful of pixie sticks, a box of fireworks and a match and saying, "Have at it." Was it entertaining? God yes. Did we learn anything? God no.

I did love our professor, however. He was an adjunct professor by the name of Tim Wild* who works at a major PR firm downtown. I'm utilizing an asterisk there because that's obviously in no way his real name. (Sorry. A girl as lazy as me can only handle so many lawsuits at once.) We were 100% obsessed with Tim Wild. Like, perhaps inappropriately so. And I'd like to think he loved us right back! To this day we're his only two friends on Facebook and it warms my little heart. Every now and then Facebook suggests I "reconnect" with Tim Wild and I'm like, "IF ONLY!!!1"

Professor Wild—who we (very much to his face) called (and not because he told us to) Timmy—had just moved to DC from Houston where he was the head of PR for a major rodeo arena. I'd say about an hour and 45 minutes of every class was spent listening to Timmy's wacky tales of rodeo life. Lord knows they had absolutely nothing to do with PR, but Christ I'm glad I know about 'em.

Just like how I couldn't concentrate in therapy because my therapist looked like a tall Verne "Mini-Me" Troyer, I couldn't concentrate in PR because Timmy Wild looks just like Peter Griffin from Family Guy. Seriously. The resemblance is uncanny in the most distracting way possible and made everything he said that much more hilarious. Not like Timmy needed any help in the humor department. If an hour and 45 minutes of class was dedicated to rodeo stories, the other 45 minutes were dedicated to his hee-larious and long-winded tangents. A lecture with Timmy would start out being about the value of press ethics and morph into a 30-minute rant about what a bitch Ashley Judd was when she stood up Timmy's radio show in college to go to a sorority event. Seriously, that's one of the few things I retained from that class. Ashley Judd went to college with Professor Timmy Wild and stood up his radio show. What a bitch. How do you write a press release? Fuck if I know.

Our classmates were just as ridiculous as our beloved Timmy. I'm more than aware I'm about to alienate a large portion of readers when I say this, but I can not stand overzealous comm majors. I get it. You're really good with people. You like to mingle. And network. You have a blackberry yet can't legally drink at a bar yet. You're very important; got it. Now stop reminding me every single chance you get. No one gives a shit about your internship or what local NBC news anchor you met over the weekend. Christ. Being a comm minor, I had to deal with overzealous comm majors frequently, but I had never experienced such an overwhelmingly high concentration of them in once class like I did in PR. Danielle and I immediately found and befriended the only two other slackers in the class (that's out of a class of 35...) and we made a pact that we'd always work together in the far too frequent "real world scenario" group exercises. One chick was a stoner who sold hula hoops on the quad and the other was quite possibly the most Bro-tastic frat boy to ever exist at AU, who fell off a porch and broke his leg a week into the semester and rarely showed up. We were like the Geneva Convention of slack assery. We'd be given a task like figure out what we'd do if we were the PR people for NIH and Avian Flu broke out or something like that and while every other group would present these polished press releases that they had already gotten published on the wire just for funzies, Timmy would call on our group and be like, "Well, well, well...what did you four geniuses cook up today?" We'd then awkwardly shuffle papers back and forth and look at each other expectantly until Danielle inevitably got up, shifted her eyes back and forth, slowly said "Synergy" and sat back down. Then Timmy would be like "OH, YOU GUYS!" and move on. Every single time. God I loved that man.

I've given it some honest-to-god thought, and I can say I only remember learning four concrete lessons in that class (besides the fact that Ashley Judd is a bitch and will stand you up if you have a radio show), which I will gladly share with you now.

#1. Professor Wild had a little saying that he told us often, but not nearly often enough. It was Timmy's mantra when he did PR for the rodeo. What was it? "Send in the retards." I'm not saying it's right, I'm not saying I agree with it, I'm just saying that that was Timmy's go-to motto when things got rough. "If something goes wrong, and I mean like really, really wrong," Professor Wild told us, "I always say this little phrase we had at the rodeo—send in the retards." [Pause for Danielle and I to shoot awake and give each other synchronized looks that clearly communicate "DID HE JUST SAY THAT?!", glance around the room, notice that nobody is sharing our reaction, proceed to urinate pants, move on.] "You see, whenever something really unfavorable or embarrassing happened at the rodeo that put us in a bad light, we'd host a day for the mentally disabled or a local elementary school or something. Because you see class, sometimes the best thing to do in a crisis situation is to admit fault and work to shift the focus from the negative back to the positive. So, send in the retards!"

This lesson, to this day, is one of the most absurdly ridiculous things I have ever heard in my entire life. Not because it's heinously inappropriate, not because it came from the real life manifestation of Peter Griffin, but mostly because it came out of the mouth of a man paid buku dollars for his expertise in how to appropriately address the public. Uh-mazing irony.

#2. One day the PR Director for some ocean conserving non-profit...thing came in to give our class a presentation on how to handle a last minute catastrophe. The title of his presentation had "catastrophe" in it, so I figured it had to be interesting, right? Wrong. This was the most boring two hours of my entire life and I still resent that man for taking them away from me. The PR Director was this thin waif of a blonde gentleman wearing a queer little seashell tie, who needed a stern lesson in how to tell a story. Allow me to compress an hour of his story into one sentence: his non-profit led an expedition into a sunken battleship from the Civil War and they made a startling discovery. He would not shut up about this alleged startling discovery. The build-up was insane. For a solid 15 minutes he was like, "What we found on that ship changed everything for everyone. TIME STOOD STILL. Worlds collided. Men were made and broken in a single moment. Dreams were shattered. Lives destroyed. Friends became foe. It was the most intense moment of my entire professional career and the lives of 100 men and women relied on my next move." BLOKAY! WE GET IT! SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TELL US WHAT HAPPENED ALREADY, YOU LITTLE TWIT! Finally he told us what happened: they found human skeletal remains. On the sunken battle ship. From a war. Yes, a battle ship used in war. That sank. Somebody died. That was the big controversial catastrophe.

Danielle raised her hand, "Uh, I think I'm a little confused here. Why is it so shocking that you found skeletal remains on a sunken battle ship from 1863?" The PR director laughed at her like she had just asked, "Was there scary octopuses on there, mister?!"

"I don't think you get it, young lady. We found human remains on a battle ship from the Civil War. People are still awfully sensitive about that. Especially in the south!"

"Yeah..." Danielle continued, "But it's a sunken battleship. How could you not think you'd find human remains?"

"Well! As it turns out, we did! I looked in the communications guide for the expedition and there was a whole chapter on how to handle finding human remains! So we were fine! Moral of the story: always be prepared."

I thought I was going to shoot myself in the fucking face. An hour and a half build-up for that. I guess I learned three things here: 1.) The south is still deeply sensitive about the Civil War; 2.) Always be prepared; 3.) Storytelling is not an art form for everyone.

3.) For our final project, we had to design a professional PR plan for the business of our choice. A girl we called "Southern Girl" did her project on a new home development in her home state of Oklahoma. Southern Girl was 16 different kinds of insufferable. She looked like Jenna Bush, dressed like Barbara Bush, Sr. had an obnoxiously large Louis Vuitton bag that she was forever fishing shit out of, had a deep southern accent and despite being dumb as a box of hair thought she was the tits. Southern Girl delivered her PR presentation like a slick big-city lawyer type. She wore a business suit! She had a laser pointer! She walked slowly around the room with her fingers interlaced like Mr. Burns and nodded her head a lot! It was, for lack of better words, fucking obnoxious. Then she got to the portion of her presentation where she talked about what kind of homes would be located on the development: log cabins.

"But these aren't just any log cabins," Southern Girl explained, "These log cabins are made from jen-you-wine spruce trees grown right here in the great state of Oklahoma. Our craftsmen shave these trees down by hand for a finish that is out of this world. Our hand smoothed logs will be like nothing you have ever seen and nothing you've ever touched before. Nobody has logs smoother than ours! You can't help yourself but reach out and touch our hand smoothed logs as you walk by. You just gotta feel our hand smoothed logs once to know what kind of quality this development will house. I got a sample here; feel free to come up and rub our hand smoothed logs for yourself."

I thought I was going to pee my pants if she said "hand smoothed log" one more time. Because: penis. Penis, penis, penis. It was one of those situations I frequently find myself in where I'm internally laughing about something because I'm a child and then I realize that someone else, in this case Danielle, is also trying not to laugh and the situation becomes that much more impossible. Lesson learned: "hand smoothed log" is never not the funniest thing to come out of the mouth of a homely girl in a business suit.

4.) This last lesson was learned immediately after Southern Girl finished her presentation. The next person to present was this Meeky girl who was clearly really nervous and struggling to get through her presentation. Her voice was trembling and she was saying "uh" and "um" a lot and talking on the fly, versus Southern Girl and her well rehearsed script. I understand that when you're talking off of the top of your head, you don't phrase things exactly the way you mean to. I get that. However, this girl accidentally said the most magical thing. She delivered a good point about how the best way to publicize an event for her business was to inundate the internet, radio and television with advertisements. Then, probably due to nerves, she kept rambling and said the following sentence:

"We need to advertise in as many places as possible. Because, you know, sometimes you just have to come [pauses] in their faces.........[longer pause].................................................................with information."

Danielle and I 100% lost our shit. All the "hand smoothed log" laughter we had been suppressing came pouring out and then some. Tears were streaming down our faces; we were physically grabbing each other for support. By the time we had regained composure, we looked around the room and realized that we were the only people laughing. Frankly, any embarrassment I should have been feeling was canceled out by how confused I was that nobody else in a class of 35 people thought the wholesome looking Meek saying "Sometimes you just have to come in their faces," was the funniest thing uttered in the history of human speech. Every time Danielle says it to me, it's like I'm hearing it for the first time. I am literally cackling in the darkness of my apartment, alone, as I write this right now. If I close my eyes I can still see her saying it. I remember everything about what she was wearing that day and where I was sitting in relation to where she was sitting and just everything. It was like falling in love for the first time.

So final lesson learned: sometimes you just have to come [pause] in their faces.

...And yes I did get an A in this class. God bless you, American University. Welp! I'll be telling potential advertisers to fuck off and die if anyone needs me! L8r!

TALOL: Ren Fest Edition

OK. I need to tell you something. I can do this. Just do it like a band-aid Meg, just do it like a band-aid...Here we go...I went to The Maryland Renaissance Festival over the weekend. WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! DON'T GO! Here me out:
 
a.) I didn't go in costume. (Obviously.)
b.) It was Becca's idea. And my sister could be like, "I'm going to skip stones down by the river" and I'd be all, "COOL!!!!! CAN I COME?!?!" Although she didn't really have to spend much time convincing me to go. She had me at "whimsical hair braiding."
c.) Delicious fried foods on sticks.
d.) Endless beer.
e.) There was a two-headed turtle freak show. I mean. Please.
f.) It was the Olympic Games of people watching. A visual all-you-can-eat buffet of sexually active Theater Geeks and weirdos! To which I say, yes and please!

I would be a whore and a liar if I said it wasn't awesome. Maybe the best part of my entire Summer. Yeah, I know, strong statement. But I mean, honestly! It was a free pass to get drunk at 10 o'clock in the morning and observe Meeks in their natural habitat! And they were corseted and chain-mailed Meeks, none-the-less! I had a digital camera, a liver full of Sam Adams Oktoberfest and zero inhibitions. It. Was. Awesome.












A FURRY! I couldn't even contain my excitement.




(That's what she said.)



Raver Furry. He had "pierced ears" and punk pants. I just...I can't.


Screw Gym-Crush Kyle. This is my new imaginary boyfriend.




At ye olde Cod-Piecery.


It must suck to work on your dragon costume all year and then show up on opening day in 95-degree weather with no breeze and immediately regret that decision.


I didn't know they had Real Dolls in the Renaissance...






I kind of hope I get reincarnated into the wench who gets to spend the end of her summer wandering around Ren Fest shouting, "SWEET NUTS! WHO WANTS A TASTE OF MY SWEET NUTS?!"


Heaving bosoms you guys. Heaving bosoms and bees all over the fuckin' place.


What is it with Meeks and leather horse art?




A beeswax candle of a dolphin. Because of course it is.








TWO TURTLES IN ONE?! The only thing that could be cuter is if they both raped a shoe.






Seriously...cod pieces and heaving bosoms as far as the eye could see.




Mmm...Oktoberfest, fried foods and Meek-hunting.





Uh, HBO Real Sex on Pony Play anyone?!


"THE KING IS AT O'SHUCK'S!!!" - Becca


I was peer-pressured into buying red nymph ears. Here they are. I don't know. In my defense when I bought these I had reached a point where body was comprised of equal parts beer to sweat and I probably would have done anything anyone told me to do. Plus they opened the door to endless "is the maiden horny??" jokes from gentle sirs passing by.




Faire ye well, indeed.

...Don't judge me.

SUCK IT, NERDS!

OMG I fucking hate nerds.

If I could live my life all over again, I would be a jock in high school and a frat boy in college, specifically so I could shove nerds into lockers and give them wedgies and all of that.

Let me explain where this is coming from. Everyday from 9-5 I am surrounded by the worst nerds on the planet. People who got beat up in high school, but still decided to pursue the path of nerdery into college, where they failed with the opposite sex repeatedly BUT STILL decided to go on and get a degree in higher education in being a nerd. And so now they all come here to do their science experiments and circle jerk about how smart they are. I can freely admit that I had a brief foray into nerddom growing up, but I managed to major in biology without hiking my pants up to my nipples, slapping on a pocket protector, and jerking off to articles in Science magazine. But being the odd man out here (read: the only non-loser) I am in the minority, and the nerds are picking on me daily.

The people I work with cannot comprehend standard social graces. If you aren't a beaker or a bacteria, they have no idea how to interact with you. And so instead of being polite humans, they are routinely condescending, derogatory, or just outright rude.

Let me give you an example. Six months ago, I was asked to ship some stuff to Australia (which is a whole lot harder than you'd expect. Damn you, terrorists, for making my job more difficult), and I needed to ask someone in the lab for help. So I had to ask this douchebag nerd, and he agreed to help. I find out, six months later, that the shipment never went through. So I email around to find out what the problem was: the recipient tells me its the shipping company's fault, the shipping company tells me it was an internal issue, I email Dr. Douchebag to find out what's wrong. He catches me at the end of the day and tells me that he never received the samples to be shipped from our boss, but he made it seem like it was my fault. He also said that "It's a shame, because the shipping company was great to work with, but it was embarrassing that I never got those samples."

What the fuck are you guilting me about that for? I can't make our boss do something any faster than you can. And if that's really what was wrong, then why did our boss ask me what the holdup was on the shipment? Don't think you're pulling a fast one on me because I'm not as smart as you because I don't have a Ph.D. I have a P.H.D. which is way better. A pretty huge dick. I also have a personality, and the ability to make friends with things larger than bacteria. You might make more money than me right now, but you're also 35 and had to buy your wife from Russia (Seriously, this guy is a FOB from Ireland and his wife's name is Olga...draw your own conclusions). So why don't you take your shitty attitude, put it in a test tube, and shove it up your ass. But you're probably already going to have your mail order bride do that for you when you get home tonight anyway.

We here at 2birds are very much against the Meeks and nerds of the world. Please help us to end their individual reigns of terror. For every new person that friends us on Facebook, Meg will give a Meek a swirlie. For every new person who follows us on Twitter @2birds1blog @misterlizlemon, I will break a nerd's glasses. And for every person you pass this blog along to, Meg and I will both shove a Meek/nerd into a locker.

Oh, BTW

You can check out my recent interview with Washingtonian.com here. The only comment it's gotten so far is this (in response to me saying that DC is dangerously close to Virginia):

DC is "dangerously close to Virginia"? For others that proximity would be a strong point--or one of them.
It was originally the result of a compromise between the Federalist Alexander Hamilton, with New York associations, and the Virginian Jefferson.

Well thanks Meek. Thanks for taking my cool moment and making it all about you.

UPDATE!

OK SO! Team Hug John McCain 2009 is actually a force to be reckoned with and probably the most successful team I've ever been on (and Lord knows I played a lot of competitive T-ball in my day.) On one hand I'm impressed with the team's effort to support my juvenile antics, but on the other, I'm depressed because this means people are just as bored at work as I am. I hoped better for you.

All in all, team HJMcC'09 showed some nice hustle out there, but I'm giving MVP to a staffer in McCain's office who emailed me and has since been named my official Senatorial Hug Consultant. According to Staffer, a Team HJMcC'09 victory might be more difficult than anticipated because the J McC doesn't hand out hugs like lollipops. Apparently, there exist only three documented J McC hugs: 1.) w/ Joe Lieberman, 2.) w/ George W. Bush and 3.) w/ an intern who awkwardly turned a side-hug into a full-frontal hug (which is so impressive I'm not even mad.)

But we're not giving up, team! We can still come back! Staffer has concocted a genius plan where I'll sneak into an intern photo-op and get an official John McCain side-hug. Staffer's probably going to call me the day-of, so my plan is to shout "MCCAIN POWER!", punch my boss in the face, run to Capitol Hill and then fold in like melted butter amongst the interns until go-time. In case you were wondering if I have a frame ready for the official photo, I don't, but I always imagined it looking like this:

My birthday is April 16th. Just an FYI.

In other news, remember that asshole bartender from Axis with the lisp who didn't do a god-damn thing when a white cap started to go all Chris Brown on me and Anna? Well it turns out he was in the same fraternity at GW as my friend Dave! This originally confused the hell out of me because Dave is cool as shit whereas Lispy is about as cool as a Meek on her period, but then Dave informed me that Lispy was generally recognized as a giant douche bag even back then. Apparently his pledge nickname was something disgusting like "Let it Bleed," because one night he was bangin' a chick doggy-style (I know! I was surprised someone would willingly have sex with him too!) when he missed and rammed it in her ass resulting in some...unpleasantness. First of all, what sort of whack-a-mole game are you playing with your dick that you missed her vagina entirely and landed completely up her ass? I don't have a dick, but if I did I don't think I'd be all willy-nilly ramming it into whatever hole I land in if I did. Secondly, I know this happened before the run-in at the bar, but I'm still going to make the following statement and stand by it: if you're a jerk to me or my friends, God will punish you by saturating your dick in anus blood. There. I said it. The choice is yours.

6 reasons you should want to live in DC

DCist recently reported that 25% of Americans would like to live in DC. To that I say, aaahhh-psshhkawww?! Only 25%? You know my love for DC burns like chlamydia, so obviously I'm not satisfied with 25%. Now, I could sit here all day and talk to you about our cherry blossoms and the energy of precious freedom and democracy, but you've probably felt and seen all of this on your eighth grade class trip, and clearly that did jackshit to sway you.

So allow me to point out some things about DC that you may not know in an effort to convince 100% of you that Washington, DC is the greatest place to be:

We have:
1.) Ugly People!

DC is referred to as "Hollywood for ugly people," and politics as "show business for ugly people," for a reason. Because we're not the prettiest bell at the ball. Actually we're not even at the ball. We're at home eating an entire sheet cake with a spoon, wearing a self-heating acne mask, crying to our mother's, wondering why no one sees our special inner-beauty. But that's good news for you, out-of-towner! Come here and watch your self-esteem fly through the roof as your "mediocre" good looks suddenly skyrocket to supermodel steamy-sex-bomb status. You're going to get so much ass you'll have to retire your genitals in an ice bucket for at least an hour each week. And that's exciting!

2.) Black People!

To answer your question, yes, yes I am a blatant self-hating white person. But the better question is, why aren't you? Black people do everything better—food, music, dancing, religion, presidents—everything! Thus, I am honored to live in a city that is 55% African American and only 39% White. This statistic has also earned DC the nickname "Chocolate City." Becca and Rachel for quite some time were considering making t-shirts that said, "White Chocolate." After weighing the pros and cons, I think they decided the inevitable beatings weren't worth the irony. I, however, am still unsure about that.

3.) Readily Available Drugs!

Some out-of-towners think that just because an overwhelming amount of the population in DC works for the government or a non-profit, there must be drug testing posts at the corner of every major intersection in the city. Well, guess what? You're fine, you can cross the street without having to pee in a cup. We're not all narcs! We know how to have a good time! Shit, I'm at work writing this post and cookin' up some heroin as we speak! Don't worry about the city's straight-edge factor, I know a guy. And that guy knows a guy who has a membership at Costco. We'll get you an eighth and a 46-pack of cranberry juice in one felt swoop.

4.) Homosexuals!

It seems like you can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a gay guy in the well-moisturized face. And that's a good thing! A large gay population = good shopping, good restaurants, shopping partners, drinking partners, a large choice of gay boyfriends for you ladies, large amounts of sex to be had for you gay out-of-towners, and the list goes on! Just don't be that girl from Minnesota in the khakis who keeps falling in love with the "fancy man" in your office only to be heartbroken when after six months of obsessing you find out he's dating the only other attractive guy in your building. Oh and out-of-towner, if this is a major turn-off for you and you're all "sick dude, I don't want to have to look at that shit!", don't worry, I got you covered. Just get in a cab and ask the driver to take you to Third Edition in Georgetown. Get out. Look around. These are your new friends. You'll be fine.

5.) Colleges!

DC is known for being home to the government, but let's not forget it's also home to quite a few number of colleges: American, GW, Georgetown, Catholic, UDC, Trinity, Gallaudet, etc. I know this initially sounds like a turn-off. No one wants to watch a fat sorority girl cry on a curb in front of the bar in a broken tiara screaming, "I JUST ::sniffle, sniffle:: MISS ::sniffle, sniffle:: TRA::hiccup::VIS!!!!" (In which case don't go to Adams Morgan on any given Saturday night.) However, there are some perks to living in a college city. My strongest argument is the Georgetown men's athletic department. Get a trench coat, get a pair of sunglasses, park yourself on M street and watch 'em run by shirtless. OHHHH-YEEAAaAaAa...My weaker argument is that it can be sort of kind of fun to party with college kids. They're so full of hope and wonder and can get shitfaced with you because they their paper isn't due until Tuesday. Also, partying with them distracts you from the fact that you've already graduated and are working an entry-level, dead-end job in a field that you no longer want to work in because you've seen first-hand what a crock of bullshit it is and everyday you show up and pray that hell has frozen over so you don't have to go into the office to use your $130,000 education to staple invoices, put pamphlets into a folder and avoid your co-workers who you fear more and more everyday are what you will turn into in 20 years. What? Am I still typing?

6.) Accents!

We don't have southern accents in DC. Nor do we have the oh-so-god-awful Baltimore accent. Teresa was recently discussing the DC accent with her co-workers in Baltimore and nailed it on the head—we have valley girl accents. We put like three extra syllables into every word and lots of unnecessary U's. (Apparently her co-workers mock Teresa by saying, 'I'm from Day Say. I only know two letters: Day pair-ee-odd, Sayyy, pair-ee-odd.') But our native accent is good news for you, out-of-towner! In the tropical heat of the summer, you'll think you're in LA without any of the added pressures of needing to be thin, stylish or wealthy! What more do you people want?!

Behold! A CYBER MEEK!

Ok, my hippie karma-collecting streak lasted all of one day. I’m sorry oh Higher Power, but it’s just not me. I tried to be calm, positive and forgiving, but how am I expected not to rip people apart with my rapier wit when they so blatantly ask for it? Although I do want to collect good karma and land my dream job, I can’t abandon my position as President of E.M.O. (the End Meeks Offensive) or abandon my War on Social Terrorism. Wherever there is social injustice, I’ll be there. Wherever a co-worker is being passive aggressive, you shall find me. Wherever a Meek is ruining a good person’s day, I will damn well be there to knock the metaphorical books out of their hands and shove them into a metaphorical locker. I don’t care if I’m unemployed for the rest of my life, I will never declare a premature Mission Accomplished on my War on Social Terrorism as long as mean geeks like Anonymous ruin the day of kind and good people like Miss Cleveland Park on the blog DC Nearly Weds.

Yea, that’s right, we have a cyber Meek on our hands. That’s the worst kind. My friend Rachel text messaged me last night that her wedding blog had a hater, and asked what should she do about it. I headed over to her blog to check out the damage expecting some ho to have commented, “HATEZ YO DRE$S” or something and was prepared to reference the T.I. song “Hi Hater” when I saw the comment Rachel was referring to. And by comment, I mean thesis. And one sentence in, I knew it was the work of a Meek. My blood boiled, my fangs descended all "True Blood" style and I sharpened my claws ready to rip this Meek a new one in order to make the world right again. If you were looking forward to the new more positive and family-friendly Meg, you might not want to read on. Sorry Meeky baby, this was long overdue:

Let me just clarify what the Meek got so riled up about: Rachel got a call from a talk show about appearing on a bridal weight loss competition and she posed the question to her blog readers if they thought she should do it or not. The Meek felt the need to weigh in on the matter (pun intended!).

First of all, a simple yes or no really would have sufficed Meek. Christ. I tried to read your response and lost interest after the first sentence:
“Considering our generation's enthusiastic abandonment of personal privacy for overwhelming (and electronic) candor, going on a show and revealing your weight, wedding date, and personal struggle to get fit seems like a logical continuation of the trend.”

Holy SAT prep course, cool out. When someone has to break out the Nerd-English-English-Nerd dictionary to translate your comment, you might just want to not comment at all. Because to me it all just sounds like “blah blah blahblahblahblahnerdtalk” and I don’t even know whether or not you support Rachel. I just know you irritate me.

Next, you would comment anonymously. I honestly have no problem with people posting anonymous comments here on 2b1b (and I encourage it!), unless you're trying to start shit with me, as you were trying to do with Rachel. If you’re starting shit, reach your hand down your pants, grab your nutsack, and leave your name. Because you’re a Meek, you probably have a totally unfortunate nerd name like Beatrice Gaymeister, but it’s the Internet. The Internet was made for nerds like you and you can create a fake little username like 2Smart4U to post under so people can respond while not knowing your real identity (so we don’t snap your glasses in half in real life.)

You point out and judge the shit out of Rachel for losing her privacy via her blog and theoretical appearance on this TV show. Look nerd, not all people are civilians by day and super heroes by night; life isn’t one big comic book. Rachel doesn’t have anything to hide; she’s networking because that’s what socially capable people do. She’s already injected herself into the public sphere by creating a blog, so I don’t think her life will crumble if she’s even more accessible via a TV appearance. She’s putting a small part of her life out there so other people can relate and give her feedback, try not to piss your khaki-pleated-pants at the concept.

Meeky goes on…
“Often people see being on television as its own end. Why? The ironically anonymous commenter above me wrote, "you are so hot...so work your stuff on national tv!" Why? So more people will know you are hot? For average individuals who have nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television, nor anything to gain besides some gifts you would get anyway from your registry, the only point of being on television is an indulgent narcissism. If you are a narcissist, or an extreme materialist, then television is the way to go.”

See now I understand why you posted this under “Anonymous.” Because if you ever said that to Rachel in my presence in real life, I would give you the hardest backhanded bitch slap of your life. You would fly out of your sensible penny-loafers. Meek, you are socially retarded. I’m not kidding, if the chick who posted this comment is reading my blog right now, I want you to go to the bathroom, look at yourself in the mirror and say (out loud,) “I am a social retard. I am the problem. I have no right giving someone a solution.” I’m serious. You had to be home schooled because people in normal society know that it’s not polite to refer to a stranger as “an average individual” with “nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television” and call them an indulgent, materialist narcissist. What the fuck is wrong with you? If I could reach into my computer and give you an atomic wedgie, I would.

Then you go on for a few days about the health risks of shows like “The Biggest Loser” and how 20 pounds is a lot of weight to lose and blah blah blah blah. I’m sure you had some scientific and psychologically sound points there but after reading a few lines, I got a bloody nose and re-grew my virginity from absorbing your Meek-ness.

“…if you are the type of person who would go on television to find a man and get married (a la "The Bachelorette"), then go on television to lose weight. If you value your private life, your health, and your future more than fame and material goods, then you should stay away.

Besides, you should be focused on getting married and not with your next scheduled appearance on television.”

WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU? Rachel just wants to lose weight, have fun and win some door prizes! Why? Because she’s a super cute fun girl! It’s not a big deal! She’s not getting a televised gyno-exam or puking her DNA all over your television screen with her Social Security number tattooed on her forehead, so don’t worry that she’s putting her “private life, health and future” in jeopardy. Christ! I would go on, but I've run out of insults and I think this spanking has been bad enough. Now get out of here with your TI-83 calculator and bad attitude and learn how to interact with people.

Workin' 9 to 5...what a way to live

[Before today's post, I want to give a huge HAPPY BIRTHDAY shout out to quite possibly the most entertaining person I know, my BFF^max 4lyfe, Jill! You may remember Jill's work from when we got beat up together on Roosevelt Island. "Best friends who get slugged together, hug together." I love you Jaikey!]

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Well, my dream of an endless summer has finally come to an end. I'm a design tempstitute. Game over. Dream shattered. End of an era. Time to grow up.
Score:
Real World: 1
Meg: 0


Sigh...Bright and early Monday morning, I re-joined society as a productive, eager, young professional. I woke up freezing cold in the dark at 6 am, almost fell asleep and drown in the shower, fought rush hour traffic, belligerently shouted “SO ARE WE JUST GOING TO HAVE A CIRCLE JERK OR ARE WE GOING TO ACTUALLY FUCKING DRIVE?!” at a little old lady in a Neon, arrived at my tempstitute job 15 minutes late and cracked at least four “Hey, it’s Monday! What do you expect? LOLZ!” jokes. Ah, it feels good to be back in the real world!

The Job:
+ I face a window that overlooks a pretty sweet view directly in the Reagan flight pattern and it’s turned me into a house cat. When I'm looking at my computer screen, the second I see something shiny fly in the sky, my eyes widened, my neck dramatically snaps up and I stare out of the window like I’ve never seen an airplane before in my entire life. I’m bringing catnip and yarn tomorrow.
- NO INTERNET. I've never been stabbed in the heart before, but after hearing this, I think I have a pretty good idea of what it feels like. But on the bright side I solved the mystery of what people did all day before the Internet—they stared at airplanes like house cats.
+ I have two giant ridiculously high-tech computer monitors. There is absolutely no need for this gratuitous display of technology, but I did enjoy pretending I was the captain of a space ship in the year 2095 all day.
- My desk-mate is a born-again Christian who makes constant references to Harry Potter. Of course she is.

…Finally we come to the most exciting part of my tempstitute job…

I was sitting at my workstation this afternoon, deep in concentration, when suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up and I got the chills. I shrugged it off and went on with my work, reassuring myself it was probably nothing. Then, I heard a woman approach my desk-mate and talk about how rude it was that a co-worker took a personal day after a death in the family. A wave of anxiety and anger rushed over me as this woman droned on and on about her "irresponsible" grieving co-worker and how when someone has "cancer of the everything, what else do you expect to happen?" I finally swiveled around and came face-to-face with the culprit. Ladies and gentleman, this woman was none other than the office Meek!

I don’t know why I was so surprised to see her in all of her camel-toe hugging, khaki pants wearing, braless and abrasive glory because as I’ve discussed, every office has one. If you’re unfamiliar with Meeks and my stance on them, I recommend you read this immediately. To summarize, a “Meek” is a mean geek and they bring out the inner-jock in me. I’m the proud President of EMO (the End Meeks Offensive). If you’re not with us, you’re against us. And if you’re against us, I’ll knock the books out of your hand and shove you in a locker.

Did you ever wonder what a leather painting of horses would look like mounted on an acid-washed jean jacket from 1992? Welp, thank God the Meek owns one and it was brisk out yesterday!


I want one for Christmukkah. Thank you advance.

PART DEUX!

Well Apparently the MTA is a 2 Bird 1 Blog reader. Ever since my last post, I’ve been seeing the English version of the Man Clinging to the Outside of the Train PSA poster everywhere.



Now normally I would go into a rant about how I don’t want to live in a world where I have to work everyday at this god-awful job with bitchy old women who remember where they hid during the attacks of the French and Indian War, only to have tax dollars stolen from my paycheck to pay for pointless PSAs like this. However, 2B1B reader Lovely Laura has been doing her research and found this little gem: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/17/nyregion/17surfing.html

This New York Times article says that a homeless man died in 2007 when he clung to the side of a subway car and was “shorn from it’s side” when going through a tunnel. Shorn from it’s side. That is poetry. According to this article there was a surge of “Subway Surfing” in the 90’s. At its peak (almost 20 years ago) an estimated 12 people died each year of clinging to the side of subway cars. Well suck me sideways! 12 people. In the 90’s. Please! Take my tax dollars to fix this problem! And while you’re at it, make more PSA posters reminding passengers that breathing will keep you alive and blinking will keep your eyes moist. Siiiighhhh…these posters are crushing my soul.

In other continuing news, as acting President of E.M.O. (the End Meek Offensive,) I’ve been making progress studying The Meek. I’ve learned that The Meek is one of the hardest working animals in the forest. Seriously. The Meek is consistently doing work. Now don’t get me wrong, I have a good work ethic (she says as she updates her blog/gchats/ignores her office email/listens to her ipod while half of the art department is out). I get a lot done in the day and I work a long day, but I have to layer my hard work with some solid assin’ around. So if I layout a particularly hard section of the magazine, I’ll wikipedia Saved By The Bell and make snowflakes out of the pages of my 401K informational catalogue until I’ve mellowed out. Then and only then, I will go back to work. Not the Meek. The Meek takes a continual approach to work, going from one task to the other. In instances when The Meek doesn’t have any work to do, The Meek turns to our magazine’s website to study as much as the creature can about our brand. If the drought continues past 15 minutes, The Meek seeks work from her supervisor. I must find out what super DNA strand The Meek carries that makes her able to work continuously. If I don’t have my assin’ around time, my brain would melt and I would ride the subway home clinging to the exterior (see what I did there?). Maybe the kerchief that The Meek always wears is the secret to her productivity? She got a new one:



Look in The Meek’s eyes. Look at her looking at me with a look of arrogance and disgust. Does the Meek think she’s better than me just because she works diligently in her cubicle, decorated only with 5 different dictionaries and blank walls, whereas I’m frequently seen making snowflakes out of important documents in my cubicle adorned with a giant Gossip Girl poster?

Whatever Meek. You and your birthing hips can get in line to kiss my ass. Right behind the MTA’s PSA department.

Sha la la!
Patsy