LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG

Christ on a croissant. Allow me to share with you a text I got from Allison this afternoon while I was at work:

No Post Monday. Your father and I aren't mad. We're disappointed.

Sigh. Now allow me to share with you a gchat conversation two readers from Texas had and sent me:

Kate: it drives me nuts that meg never posts on mondays anymore
and EVERY tuesday is like LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG
and im like
.... that doesn't make up for it, meg.
that. doesnt. make. up. for. it.
Sent at 3:24 PM on Monday
Sarah: I KNOW
its annoying
its like I NEED THIS
it's not a game at this desk
Kate: hahaha
Sarah: what is she doing mondays if shes unemployed?
Kate: she works retail
and she drinks sunday nights
so she barely has time to put on pants mondays when she wakes up at 10am for her 11am shift
ugh, meg.
i feel like i know you
and yet, i dont.
Sarah: its so creepy yet so necessary
maybe we should send her this convo

And then they did. And I'M SORRY, YOU GUYS! I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how much No Post Mondays stress me out. I kept remembering that I didn't post anything this morning at work today and feeling all guilty and stressed out like I forgot my kid at daycare or something. Which is absurd because this is just a blog. But, you know, it's more to me and I feel guilty.

I don't even have a good excuse for not blogging yesterday. I got home from work Sunday night and like the responsible young blogger I am (or strive to be), I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, a very much alive and somewhat kickin' Cella and Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know... with every intention of writing a Q&A post for Monday morning. And then I passed out AN single page in. I woke up five hours later at 2:30 in the morning curled up in a ball on the couch, pantsless, TV still on, spooning my laptop with mascara all over my face. It was pretty much the closest I've come to having sex since I made consensual love to a box of Thin Mints last Thursday.

Despite being half asleep and in the midst of nap afterglow (nafterglow, if you will,) I vowed that I would get something—anything—up on the blog to avoid yet another No Post Monday. So I made a list of everything that's going on in my life at the moment. And the list went as such:

- I had a really satisfying salad for dinner last night.

And that concluded the list. I'm not kidding. I very seriously wrote that sentence, blanked on anything else to write and thought, "Welp! That's the ballgame. This is my life. Aaaaaaaand hells bell's it's depressing. Good night and god speed."

But I refuse to believe that that's the only noteworthy thing in my life right now. That I had a satisfying salad for dinner. (Although it's worth noting that it really was a satisfying salad. So much so that I had again for dinner tonight. And some soup. Because it was a rainy, lazy, cozy soup kind of a day. OH MY FUCKING GOD, DO YOU SEE?! DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) No! I'm not letting this happen. I will not talk about depression, or soup, or salad, or soup and salad combo meals, or anything else that will make me sound like a living, breathing Cathy comic. Today I'm going to talk about other things. This, my friends, IS WHAT'S GOING ON.


- UM. Reagan, a 2b1b reader from Houston sent me this tank top the other day:


Oh I'm sorry, Reagan. Did I just go gay for you? Yep. Sure did. So, what are you doing this weekend? ME!? Hehehehe, oh MY! You bring the flannel; I'll bring the power tools.

(Side note: I really want to add a merch store to the blog, specifically because I want to create an official "sorr about the bag" tote bag and proudly sport it around town on a daily basis. If anyone knows anything about how to set up a merch store on a blog, hit a bitch up: meg@2birds1blog.com. Especially because if I get a store up and running, it might solve my next problem...)

- I need $500 and Adderall. Fast. I realize this couldn't sound sketchier if a one-armed Russian drug dealing sailor was involved, but I swear both are for legit purposes. I think I may have solved my laptop problem! Lara's going off to grad school in the fall (THAT'S RIGHT! My design protégé got accepted into Parson's web design masters program, DID YOURS?! Oh. He did? Well. Good for him. He should talk to Lara because she's talented and easy on the eyes. Oh, and he's newly single? Welp. I'm mighty glad we had this conversation.) and needs to get a new computer before she goes. She dropped by the store tonight and informed me that she's going to sell her old (sexy) laptop (which just got a new battery and comes with CS3!) for $500 and I shotgunned that thing so fast my name tag spun. Unfortunately Lara wasn't quite as excited. She kind of awkwardly looked at the ground, shifted her eyes back and forth and asked, "Uhhh...Meg...no offense, but do you have $500?" Well, no, not in the technical sense, but I sure as shit can find a way to get it!

So, what am I good at? Drinking, making charmingly awkward conversation and occasionally baking things. Thus, for a nominal fee, I will come to your apartment with a bottle of wine and bake you something. Perhaps a poon cake. It's kind of my specialty. What's the nominal fee? In the words of the church, "give what you can." And then a few bucks more because things are touch and go. Come on! It's like a bake sale that comes to you! It's a lazy man's wet dream! Invite some friends over! We'll make it a night! (PS: those friends should also give what they can. God bless.)

Oh, and the Adderall is just because I have ADD and need it, but can't afford to go see a psychiatrist anymore. Poverty is mighty inconveniencing. I'm rationing out my remaining anit-depressants like meat in wartime.

Now, I don't know how "legal" this is, but I have a request. Is the request to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house? No. No, it's not. But it's also not not to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house, if you catch my drift. And if say a spare painkiller found it's way in there too? Well, I certainly wouldn't be mad. THAAAANX!

- Becca recently asked me to start thinking about what kind of bridesmaid dress I would want to wear in her wedding. She's pretty sure she wants her bridal party to be in gray, but since I'm the Maid of Honor, mine gets to be a little bit different. When she told me this, I obviously heard, "you can wear whatever you want," and immediately knew the perfect dress—the dress that Alexis Carrington/Colby/Dexter/Rowan wears to Steven and Sammy Jo's engagement party in the season 2 episode appropriately titled, "The Party."

when Becca was over the other week, I decided it was a good time to inform her that I had found the perfect Maid of Honor dress for her wedding. "Awesome! Let's see it!" she said. So I juiced up the old DVD player, popped in "The Party" and paused it on the following still:


She seemed to not think it was an option. Although, to be fair, I failed to mention that the mink stole and gold seashell clutch are optional. That might make a difference.

Flash forward to yesterday when Ex Co-Blogger Eddie sent me a link to a dress that she said I should buy because a.) it looks like Dynasty threw up all over it and b.) it would make my boobs look good:


Oh, I'M sorry. Is that not just a modest version of my dream Dynasty dress?! IT'S PERFECT! I mean, gray is sophisticated and elegant and all, but gold lamé? Gold lamé is like surviving a heinous car crash, plunging into a vat of ice-cold water or getting kicked in the groin—it reminds you that you're alive. If there's any fabric more appropriate for a wedding, I'd like to know what it is. Soooo...fingers crossed she goes for that.

- What does it say about me that I legitimately almost peed my pants laughing the first time I saw this video?

And keep in mind that a large part of the near urination factor was due to the kid's blood-curdling screams. Not to mention the fact that right it can get any funnier, a rogue donkey scampers across the shot. I mean, this is pretty much what dreams are made of. I've very seriously had this video open in it's own tab for like, four days straight now and I can't imagine living in a world where I close it. Hell should be nice...

- I was having dinner with my parents last weekend and we somehow started talking about Project Runway. During this conversation, my dad informed me that it is his ultimate dream for me to go on Project Runway and make it to the final 3. Not because I want, or have ever wanted to be a fashion designer, mind you, but because that means my dad would get to meet and subsequently hug Tim Gunn during the home visit episode. "I don't know," my dad explained, "A hug from Tim Gunn seems like it would be so cathartic. Like everything would be OK. He just seems like such a nice guy!"

...From now on, whenever people get weirded out by the fact that I have tattoos dedicated to my parents, this is the moment I'm going to refer them to. I just feel like it might clear things up a bit.

- In case you didn't know, I'm on the Twitter. Fellow Twitter user and 2b1b reader @toastedzen tweeted me the following this past Friday night:

toastedzen @2birds1blog I would give just about anything to hang out with you. Hell, to DATE you. I am in love!

"Well that's awfully nice of you, sir," I thought to myself, before tweeting "done and DONE!" back for good measure.

The next morning, he tweeted this:

toastedzen @2birds1blog FYI I have no idea how much sake I had put back before I wrote that. Just in case, you know if it doesn't work out between us.

To which I joked, "what?? so we're NOT dating?!" And this is what I got back:

toastedzen @2birds1blog its not you, its me. really. umm... I just think we should be free to see other people. but we can still be friends.

OK, let me just get this straight: I'm getting dumped by fake boyfriends, these days? Before even meeting me? Is this really how far I've fallen? I'm not mad, mind you. I'm just asking. Clarifying, really. Because when you discover my lifeless body hanging from a shower rod, I don't want there to be any confusion as to what happened. I don't want any lingering theories out there that perhaps old Meg McBlogger David Carradine-ed herself. It was intentional. So we're all on the same page here? Good. Moving on.

- AH! WEIRD! So after writing that last thought, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and on my way back, grabbed the most recent issue of Cosmopolitan Becky has and brought it back to bed. I opened to the horoscope section and read mine:

Aries
The forecast: As Uranus makes its agitating debut in your sign, you're bound to unleash your grumpiness on all the wrong people. Sign up for a bad-mood-busting kickboxing class, pronto.

Work mode: Cashing in. Moneymaking Mercury settles past-due payments, and you'll enjoy a post-tax windfall.

Love life: A three-way planetary lineup could send hot prospects to singles. Meanwhile, the coupled-up Ram will finally start showing off her man at company events.

Power Day: 27th

First and foremost: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Uranus.

Secondly: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Three-way.

But come on! As much of a giant pile of horse shit that Cosmo is, that's a pretty creepy horoscope, right?? I'm grumpy and taking it out on the wrong people (you, via No Post Mondays) but my money problems will soon be solved (thanks to my new poon cake chef on-the-go business!) Thanks Cosmo! I never thought I'd say this, but you made me feel better about life. And don't worry, I won't forget to play with his balls.

Adventures in Cella-Sitting

First and foremost, I'm terribly sorry that I mistakenly said Journey sang Livin' On a Prayer in Tuesday's blog post instead of Bon Jovi. I actually meant to reference Journey's Don't Stop Believin' in the first place, so my mistake all around. I went back and changed it, so please stop emailing me. Seriously. I mean, I love hearing from you guys, but I've never experienced such an influx of angry emails in all of my days of blogging. And it was because I mixed up my frat boy songs with -in' in it. Telling...

So, I'm dog-sitting Cella Hurst again for a total of 10 days and between me, you and the Pooper-Scooper—I'm shitting bricks. (BAHAHA! See what did there?!) Cella's the best; don't get me wrong. It's just that...well...how do I put this delicately? She's kind of got "one paw in the grave," if you know what I mean. She's part pit bull, part grim reaper, if you catch my drift. She's a fafillion fuckin' years old and is about to drop dead at any given second, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. Wiiiiink! Nuuuudge!

I started dog-sitting for Cella last summer and I'd be a whore and a liar if I said I wasn't worried that she'd up and die on me, even back then. I decided to keep my concerns to myself though because I didn't want to disrespect or upset Becky. I told myself that I was just being paranoid and pushed the idea of her dying on my watch out of my mind completely. But then Becca found out that I was going to be Cella-sitting for a 10 day period and blatantly sent me an email being like, "PSHHHH, that dog is going to die on you. You should probably be prepared for that now. Just sayin'." (And just to clarify, Becca is not the same person as Becky. I get that question a lot. There are two Rebecca's: Becca is my sister and Becky is our friend. Kind of like how there's Co-Blogger Chris and Tulane Chris. Except Tulane Chris is now the Co-Blogger and Co-Blogger Chris is now Ex Co-Blogger Chris, not to be confused with Ex Co-Blogger Eddie. That's easy enough, right? And people say this blog is confusing...)

Although Becca was just echoing my own fears, I made the executive decision not to listen to her and assume she was just fucking with me because quite frankly, if the roles were reversed I'd do the exact same thing to her. We're sisters, not saints. (Please tell me why I just wrote that, immediately realized it was the catchphrase for Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami and wanted to punch myself in the face.) (I'm in Miami, trick.)

...And then I got an email from Becky last week with a few last minute reminders about staying in her apartment. They were all pretty typical things you'd expect to hear from someone leaving their apartment to you before they're unreachable in Europe for a while, like who to call if I lock myself out, where to find the trash room, how to turn the AC on, the name and number of the building manager—oh, and an entire section on what to do in case Cella dies. And oh. my. squaw. I am freaking out.

I know this is absolutely nothing to complain about, but I haven't really had a lot of experience with death in my life, nevertheless dead bodies. (KNOCK ON ALL SORTS OF MOTHERFUCKING WOOD. IF I WAKE UP WITH A HORSE HEAD IN MY BED, I'M GONNA BE PISSED.) Sure I've had grandparents die, but one set was cremated and the other was Jewish so there was no reason to have a viewing. Plus I didn't even go to any of their funerals, so I feel like that separated me from the reality of death even more. (I'm not an asshole, I swear. My grandma Catherine died before I was born; my grandpa Bern's ashes are still kickin' it in a closet in my parent's house alongside the ashes of three dead cats and a poodle; I couldn't go to my grandpa Walter's funeral because it was in Long Island and I had school and I couldn't go to my grandma Betty's because, again, it was in Long Island and I was heinously sick with mono. I swear I'm not a terrible person. Well, I might be, but I certainly didn't skip all of those funerals out of choice.)

I've never even seen a dead pet's body. None of our cats died in the house; we had them all put to sleep in the end and Christ knows I wasn't emotionally strong enough to be there for that. (Actually, that's a lie. My cat Nellie died unexpectedly from Corona Disease—THE SILENT KITTY KILLER—and, ironically, it happened when we were on a family vacation and Rachel was taking care of her and my parent's house. I don't want to say "I always blamed her"...and yet, I just did. But I'm sorry, Rachel. I totally get it now. I get it.)

Come to think of it, I've never even seen a pet fish's dead body. I had a fish named Firecracker for an unprecedented six years and one day I came home from school (the first day of fifth grade, to be exact) and my dad was like, "HEY SPORT! [yes my dad is Marshall Darling in this flashback] Did you have a good day at school?" and I was all, "Yeah! I like really like my teacher and the class!" and he was like, "Well, at least you have that. Because your fish is dead. WAMP, WAMP!" I demanded to see Firecracker so I could take him out to the backyard and give him a proper burial, but my dad was like, "Ooooo...really? You're still into that scene? I kind of thought you had outgrown wanting to do that so I chucked him before I put the trash out." This plagues me to this day. Firecracker deserved better than that. He deserved better...

My point here is that I've never seen anything larger than a squirrel dead and I think I would completely lose my shit if I had to see or handle Cella's dead body. I mean, she's a grown-ass dog. She's large. Precious large. I can't imagine seeing something that large dead. It's just so fucking spooky to think about. I realize that this is probably unhealthy and I've honestly tried to take action to get over this. My dad frequently goes to Tennessee on business, so after I got fired and suddenly had a lot of free time on my hands, I proposed I go with him on his next trip and we swing by the UT Body Farm on our way home so I could see a dead body. I genuinely thought he was going to be all about this idea. If there's anything my dad loves more than me (and Becca) it's kooky adventures! Alas, he gave me a courtesy laugh and walked away. When I pressed the point, he flat-out said no and walked away again. I'm still reeling from the disappointment.

I tried again when I stayed with Eileen for my mini-cation in NYC a few weeks ago and it also failed spectacularly. Eileen is a nurse at New York Presbyterian Hospital and lives next door in the residences, so when we woke up Saturday morning and she asked what I wanted to do, I immediately answered: "MORGUE! LET'S GO NEXT DOOR TO THE MORGUE SO I CAN SEE A DEAD BODY I WANT TO SEE A DEAD BODY SO LET'S DO IT! MORGUE!" Eileen calmly tried to explain to me that you can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body, but I (rightfully) called shenanigans. She's a nurse; of course she can go to the morgue anytime she wants. She then refined her argument to I can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body because I'm not a nurse. Dedicated to the morbid cause and up for the challenge, I concocted a wacky Saved By The Bell-style scheme where I borrow a pair of her scrubs, put on a surgical mask, clip my SmartTrip to my shirt to serve as a makeshift hospital ID and follow her lead, but she seemed oddly pre-occupied with not wanting to loser her job. Pshh. Pussy. Losing your job is not the end of the world. You just get a retail job and babysit half-dead dogs all day, duh. Grow a pair.

So now I'm stuck here with the ticking time bomb that is poor little Cella until next Wednesday and every day that she doesn't die is a bigger surprise than the last. What freaks me out more than the thought of being in the same room as something dead is the conundrum of what I'm actually supposed to do with her body. Becky left me instructions in case of the worst, yes, but all she specified was what to throw out, what to keep and that what I do with the body is up to me; I can bury it, cremate it, give it to science—whatevs. While I love Cella dearly, I barely had enough money to cover the 5-dollar footlong I had for lunch, nevertheless cremation charges. This leaves burial, of course, but where the fuck am I supposed to bury a dog in Washington, D.C.? The idea of me scampering around the greater Dupont area lugging a dead pit-lab and a shovel behind me looking for a peaceful grassy knoll is slightly absurd, so I decided that GOD FORBID the worst happen, I need a game plan. And I think I've concocted one that's pretty damn air-tight.

It's a 4-man job and I think each party involved is about 52% on board with it. Considering that's over half, I think we're off to a good start. I like those figures.

Step 1 is Cella dying. And again, I honestly stress GOD FORBID. She's a sweet baby angel and it would break Becky's heart, so I seriously hope it doesn't happen. But let's just say that it does, Step 2 is to call Ex Co-Blogger Chris and ask him to come over. I really see myself in more of a directorial role throughout this entire process, so Step 3 is to direct Chris to physically pick Cella up and wrap her body in something—in my mind it's an oriental rug because if I'm being honest, I find that visual highly comical, but in reality it would probably be a blanket. Step 4 is to call Alex and ask him to drive his SUV over. Step 5 is to direct Chris and Alex to pick Cella up and put her in the back of Alex's car. Step 6 is drive to the hardware store in Eastern Market and purchase a sturdy shovel. Step 7 is to drive over to the house of the only person I know in the city who has a backyard—Helena. Step 8 is to knock on Helena's door and motion towards the oriental rug and/or blanket. Step 9 is for Helena to open the door and direct us to the backyard, before making a nice pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. I had originally planned for Step 10 to be a round-robin rock/paper/scissor tournament to see who has to dig the grave, but upon hearing Step 9, Chris said he'd, quote, "do anything for free lemonade," so Step 10 is for Chris to dig a ditch deep enough so Cella won't resurface when it rains, while the rest of us sip lemonade and watch his muscles glisten and gleam in the sun. Step 11 is to direct Chris and Alex to gently lower Cella into the grave. Step 12 is to direct Chris to pile the dirt on, bless Cella's heart. Step 13 is for us to go around in a circle and say a few kind words about the life and times of Cella Hurst before I play Danny Boy on the fife I got sophomore year when I went to Colonial Williamsburg with my parents for Fall Break while the sun sets. Step 14? Heal.

I feel slightly better knowing that I have such a well-thought-out and foolproof plan, but I'm still anxious. But, only 7 more days to go...7 more days.

Stay strong, little friend!

Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Reuben

The theme of this week for me (besides Poverty-Stricken Depression and I'm So Fucking Old) has been: Am I Crazy or Are You? Because sometimes it's just genuinely difficult to tell the difference and if you're not careful, you can end up looking like a real asshole in the end. Like the time Becca and I thought her fiance was crazy for wiping his ass sitting down, until she wrote a blog post about it and we found out that we're the weirdos for doing it standing up and everyone, including our parents who potty-trained us, were shocked and horrified by our actions. Like, had we known that we were the odd men out, we probably wouldn't have made such a big stink about it. (Bathroom pun, intended!)

I went out to dinner with Becky Tuesday night at Big Hunt (Scott the Long-Bearded bartender was working but not Waiter Crush. Sigh. 1 out of 2 aint bad.) and I had AICOAY? moment after AICOAY? moment after AICOAY? moment. Specifically about the following statements:

1.) Renee Zellweger was married to Kenny Chesney.
2.) She filed for divorce citing fraud after four months of marriage.
3.) Bees sleep at night.
4.) Ken Paves is not Mexican.

Ok, I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't think any of the above were true and kind of thought Becky was crazy for inferring otherwise. Which in turn made Becky think I was crazy. Upon further Google inspection, it turns out that Becky was correct and I am indeed the crazy one. To which I say, wha?? Each of those facts blows my mind slightly more than the last. HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING TO ME?! I'm a reasonably intelligent and hip to the know young lady! This is like the narwhal debacle all over again.

This AICOAY? nonsense is really messing with my ability to properly mock Dr. Reuben and his bat-shit crazy "medical" advice. I cracked open Everything You Wanted to Know... last night to pick out some adequately nonsensical advice to make fun of and every time I found a passage I liked, I stopped and started second guessing myself about which one of us is the crazy one. Because maybe shoving a coat hanger up your pee hole is normal and I've just never lived? Maybe? I don't know. And I'm not willing to try (plus I only have plastic hangers...), I'm just saying that everything I thought was right is wrong, black is white and I don't know which way is up anymore. It's like that Twilight Zone episode with the planet where the pig people are attractive and the chick who played Ellie May Clampett is the busted one. AND I'M THE ELLIE MAY CLAMPETT! Get me out of here!

So here are some Q&As that I thought were unreasonable, but I could be wrong. Perhaps we're all supposed to spend our days duct taping bubble wrap around our dicks and indulging in coke douches. In which case, thank god I have a CVS Extra Care card.

How big is the normal penis?
That is the question of the century. Every male, virtually from the moment he is aware of this marvelous organ, is plagued by this question. Rarely does one encounter a gentleman who is satisfied with the size of his phallus. Even those endowed with obviously outsized organs year for more—"It could be just a little bit longer..."

This preoccupation with size leads to some unusual behavior. Whenever two nude men encounter each other for the first time, in a public shower, a country club locker room, a YMCA swimming pool, their eyes go first to each other's penises. Rapidly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, they measure the organ, compare ti with their own, then continue with the matter at hand. Even in public washrooms, standing at the urinal, eyes dart swiftly to organs, the mental micrometer steps off the distance and makes the comparative calculation. In more than one private club the management has thoughtfully installed large magnifying mirrors over the urinals so that each gentleman who avails himself of their facilities can feast his eyes on the reflection of a phallus which would do credit to a bull elephant.

Unfortunately these penile Olympics are a no-win proposition. Those who spy larger organs than their own are chagrined: their fears are confirmed. A man whose penis is the longest in the locker room that day receives scan consolation. With each new contest he will be up against new and unmeasured competition.

Perhaps one of the reasons behind this forlorn quest is the enormous disparity between the penises of father and child. At the age of three or four the parent's phallus seems immense by comparison. Not until many years later at puberty does the son's organ begin to catch up. By then the damage is done. Most men are never really sure that their penis has finally caught up to daddy's.

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Now, I am apt to think a lot of that answer is a dish of roasted bullshit with a side of crazy sauce. I highly doubt there are or have ever been magnifying mirrors above urinals to make your junk look bigger...but when we get down to brass tacks; I don't know. How could I? I don't really hang out in men's bathroom's that often and just because I've never heard otherwise doesn't necessarily make it false. AM I CRAZY, OR IS DOC REUBEN?

Likewise, re: this statement:

Most men are never really sure that their penis has finally caught up to daddy's.

First of all, sir, did you really have to say "daddy's"? Couldn't you have said "their father's?" Don't verbally molest your readers if you don't have to. That's my motto. (And you're welcome.) But more to the point: what?! Men are constantly measuring the size of their dicks to their fathers?? When have they seen their father's dicks to begin with? OR IS THAT NORMAL? Oh my god, I'm so confused. Right after I read this last night, Alex called and the following awkward exchange went down:

Meg: ALEX.
Alex: Hey! I had fun tonight at—
Meg: WHATEVER, HAVE YOU EVER MEASURED THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS AGAINST YOUR FATHER'S AND FELT INADEQUATE?!
Alex: [Makes a series of disguised and horrified noises] Jesus, god, no! This is like the time you asked if my mom taught me to jerk off.
Meg: And much like that time, it's a Doc Reuben thing.

I asked Andrew as well, who was equally horrified, so I'm thinking I'm the sane one and Dr. Reuben is the crazy one. But really, who knows?! That's only two people out of the entire world! I JUST DON'T KNOW. All I know for sure is that I am absolutely starting a funk band and naming it "Penile Olympics." And we'll be going on tour with Dr. Rebuen & The Blanket Statements.


Do all women have these changes at the menopause?
Irene was noticing the general changes from estrogen starvation. Weight gain, shifting in fat deposits, increased wrinkling of the skin, and dryness of the hair are annoying. There are worse things to come:

"But this is the reason I'm here, doctor. In the last few months I've started growing hair on my face. And my voice is getting deeper. But that's not all..."

Irene began to sound embarrassed.

"I can't even have relations with my husband anymore."

"Why is that? What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to describe it. My—my—it just isn't—can't even—"

She was gritting her teeth.

Patient questioning by the doctor revealed Irene was trying to tell him her vagina was shrinking. The atrophy had progressed to the point where the vaginal opening would no longer admit her husband's penis. Irene's sexual desire had vanished more than a year before and intercourse was a monthly event. One the most recent occasion, it was as if the vagina had vanished.

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WHAT IN THE SICK FUCK?!!??!!?!?!? Your vagina VANISHES during menopause?! Are you fucking kidding me?! There is no way that is true. None. 100%. I refuse to believe it. I'm willing to go along the hot flashes and the facial hair and the boob sagging, but I refuse to believe that your vagina packs up it's bags and heads to a time-share in Boca for the rest of it's life.

...That being said, who knows?? It could be true. My first reaction after reading that was to call my mom and straight-up ask her, but a.) I just don't want to know anything about the size of my mom's vagina b.) Ew c.) God d.) It was 12:30 at night at the time and I didn't want to wake her up with questions about menopause and gettin' it on. Because hasn't she already been through enough?


Why not? [re: Menopause doesn't have to be the end of a woman's useful life.]
Because she has been castrated by Father Time is no reason for a modern woman to give up the battle. She has many weapons at her disposal, if she will only use them. If she is determined and if her doctor is skillful, they can virtually turn back the clock.

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Castrated. By. Father. Time. I believe Dr. Rebuen is in the wrong field. Because this shit is sheer poetry.


Are there some women like that? [re: Women who do not masturbate]
Yes, and many suffer intensely as a result. There is a condition which plagues middle-aged women, especially those who live alone. it is called pruritus vulvae, a medical way of saying itching of the vulva, and a ferocious itch it is. These women have a constant compulsion to scratch their sexual appendages to relieve the itching, burning, tingling sensations they have there.

------------------------------

...So what you're trying to say is that it is your medical opinion that if a woman doesn't masturbate, she'll get a vicious case of crotch-rot? I mean...this book has been re-printed over 30 times. It is 100% possible that indeed if I don't use it, I'm going to lose it. To a "ferocious itch." Before it falls off completely when I hit menopause. And my husband won't want to put his always-in-the-shadow-of-Daddy's-dick in me anymore, even if he could.

In addition to my request to be buried in my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, I would also like to request someone take me out back and put me down like Old Yeller when I reach 50. And I thank you.

Viva La Lillard!

Can we please talk about Mathew Lillard? Day 1 of Funemployment and that's pretty much all I want to do: discuss Matthew Lillard. Mateo. La Lillard, if you will. Matthew Lillard is very much an odd fascination of mine. In my mind, Matthew Lillard exists in a Bio-101 style terrarium made out of an empty Pepsi bottle filled with potting soil and worms where he perpetually wears an oversized v-neck sweater and a thumb ring. Because that's all I think of when I think of Mathew Lillard: an oversized V-neck sweater, a thumb ring and lots of physical animation. It's like he's a Never-Nude, but an Always-in-90's-Garb. Sometimes I like to imagine him in a various situations—grocery shopping; at movie premiers; working out at the gym; in the shower; at his own wedding—but always in an oversized v-neck sweater and thumb ring. And this, for some ungodly reason, is just endlessly funny to me. I can't explain it. It's like how I can't not laugh when I think about the fact that Asher Roth loves college. And just like the fact that Asher Roth loves college, I think it about it way too often to be deemed normal.

I was out at Big Hunt with Becky Friday night, having drinks and catching up, as you do, when we for some reason started discussing random actors that nobody thinks of anymore and how odd it is that they still exist. Becky's example? "Like...like, I don't know—Mathew Lillard."

The second she finished saying "—illard", I 100% Aspied out. I choked on my beer and my eyes bugged out of my head like I was in a god damn Warner Brother's cartoon. I'm pretty sure Becky already thinks I'm significantly bizarre, so I don't think it helped anything that when I finally regained my composure, I slammed my hands on the table, looked her dead in the eyes and in a voice 10 octaves lower than normal said:

I. THINK. ABOUT. MATHEW LILLARD. CONSTANTLY.

Becky stared at me as if I...well, frankly as if I had just said that I think about Matthew Lillard "constantly." I tried to explain the origin of my Lillard obsession, but I really have no idea where it came from. It's not like I was a huge fan of his growing up. I mean, Scream is a classic, obviously, and SLC Punk is awesome, sure, but I wouldn't say he delivered an obsession-worthy performance in either. I honestly think my fixation with Matthew Lillard started one night in college when Alex, Helena and I watched Scream and found ourselves sitting in the darkness giggling back and forth like a couple of 12-year-olds going, "HAHA......Matthew Lillard," over and over again. That's it. That's all it took. The concept of Matthew Lillard is just that funny for some reason. I'm apt to blame it on the oversized v-neck sweater/thumb ring situation, of course, but we'll never really know why for sure. All that matters is an obsession was born. We even wanted to make t-shirts that said "VIVA LA LILLARD!" that summer, a plan I'm still upset never came to fruition.

Things only got more Lillard-tastic a year later when College Roommate Danielle and I went to a party at the Rugby House one Saturday night. I should mention that this was just a bizarre night in general. Have you ever had one of those nights where there's a really weird and ominous vibe in the air and you know something's up, but you don't know what? Well, that was this night. Later, of course we'd find out that this was the night when the Rugby House would get busted by the cops and all us (just barely) under 21 party-goers would get sold down the river to keep the cops from exploring the house, as there was a metric ton of opium and cocaine in the next room, but! That's a much different story for a much different day.

Now, in college we hung out at the Rugby House quite a lot. It was our party spot. Or, as much of a "party spot" as you can have at AU, I guess. A bunch of our friends, including Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, lived there and we pretty much always knew or knew of everyone at their parties. This night in question, however, the most random fucking people on god's green earth were in attendance—including Matthew Lillard's Doppelganger.

Danielle and I became obsessed with this kid. We had no idea where he came from or if he even went to our school at all. It was a freezing cold night in December and all of a sudden this kid sauntered into the party without a coat or friend to his name, just lookin' to hang. And as his name suggests, he looked just like Matthew Lillard. He was tall, lanky, had sandy blonde hair and sharp features and I shit you not, was wearing a green v-neck sweater, a bona fide silver thumb ring and (BONUS ROUND!) had a single silver hoop dangling in his left ear. He was a specimen. Danielle and I cornered him in the kitchen and berated him with questions. Things were going fine until I asked him if he was aware that he looks exactly like Matthew Lillard.

"Who's Matthew Lillard?" he asked.

"You know, Matthew Lillard!" I explained. "The guy from Scream and SLC Punk and She's All That. He's like the international That Guy."

It was as if I told him he looked like if Hilter and Joan Rivers had a pig-baby. His mood immediately became 98% less jovial and he stared at me with hatred in his eyes.

"You honestly shouldn't be offended," I said, "It's a compliment! We love Mathew Lillard! VIVA LA LILLARD!

He paused for a moment, legitimately told me to go fuck myself and vanished for the rest of the party. I was so confused. Last time I checked Matthew Lillard was a 90's movie legend who got his stomach licked by Taylor Vaughan. Cool out, kid and take a compliment where you can get 'em. You are wearing an earring, after all.

A few hours later, we all found ourselves sitting Indian-style on the disguising Rugby House floor as Montgomery County's finest issued us underage drinking citations, a charge that would later be expunged from everyone else's records after 24 hours of community service but due to "complications" landed me with three years unsupervised probation and is forever ingrained in the MCPD computer system. What were these complications? Uh, being Meghan McBlogger. Obviously. But again, that's another story for another day. After receiving my citation, I stood in the driveway hugging myself for warmth as I waited for Danielle and wondered how the hell we were going to get home. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Matthew Lillard's Doppelganger reappeared, sprinted past me, stopped in the middle of the street, turned back around and with two raised fists of glory in the air shouted, "I AM OUTTA HERE, YOU BITCHES!!!!! GOODNIGHT!!!!" and continued to run off into oblivion.

".......Did Matthew Lillard's Doppleganger just scamper off into the woods like a mythical forest creature?" Danielle asked as she walked up behind me holding her citation.

"I.........think so?" I said, somewhat trepidatiously.

"Yeah. It's clearly time to go." And with that we started the long journey home.

To this day I have no idea who that kid was or how he found himself at a Rugby Party in the middle of the woods in Bethesda, Maryland. I just know I think Christ every single day that he did. He enriched the legend that is Sleepy Matthew Lillard exponentially and I am eternally grateful.

Becky really got me thinking about Matthew Lillard again on Friday night, specifically about how I don't really know much about his career as of late. I mean, what exactly did he do after Scooby Doo, right? The answer? He played Lloyd B'Gosh in four minute short in 2009 about Osh Kosh B'Gosh titled Osh Kosh B'Gosh: Under the Overall. Because if anything ever needed to be purchased, framed and hung directly over my bed, it is the movie poster for that. You know that form of OCD, Objectum-Sexuality Disorder, where people fall in love with inanimate objects like the Golden Gate Bridge or Eiffel Tower? Welp, I have it and I am officially in love with and very sexually attracted to that movie title. We are getting married. It'll be a small ceremony with family and friends. You're all invited. Mozel tov to us.

In addition to starring in my husband, Matthew Lillard also entered a Dungeons and Dragons tournament in 2005 against members of the Quest Club Gaming Organization at the Magic Castle in Hollywood. And even better, it's on youtbe. I leave you now with a clip and ask you an important question—have you thought about your local Matthew Lillard lately? Viva la Lillard!

Winner winner, chicken dinner

I had a very precise and scientific way of picking the winner of yesterday's Jäger giveaway. While out a-boozin' with Becky last night, I asked her to pick a number between 1 and 188. She chose 10.

Meg: Really, 10? Why 10?
Becky: 'Eh. It's the number of beers I plan on drinking tonight.
Meg: .....Well played.

So congratulations to 10th commenter........Amanda!

You are the winner of the coveted Jäger cooler SLASH shot dispenser. Shoot me an email (meg@2birds1blog.com), I'll forward it to the Jäger deer and he'll scamper through the woods, find a cooler and drag it over to your place. And to answer your question, no, you may not borrow my parents. Those supportive bitches are mine. ALL MINE! Well, and Becca's, I suppose. Technically. They're ours. ALL OURS!

Thanks so much to everyone else who voted and left a comment! Continue to have a wonderful weekend! K. Love you. Mean it. Bye.

A sobering Drinking Game Friday

Today I've got some good news and I've got bad news. Which would you like first? Bad news? Bad news first so we can end the week on a high note? Mmm hmm. Yep. I like the way you think. Let's do it.

Bad news: I'm pregnant.

Bahahahaha. Just kidding slash I wish. Maternity leave sounds awesome right about now.

The bad news is that I legally died of embarrassment last night. Yep. I'm dead. Dead as disco. And I will spend the rest of eternity haunting this blog and Co-Blogger Chris in a Ghost Dad style plot line. (PS: I like how I just chose not to haunt Chris in an erotic Ghost kind of way, but rather in a kooky, Bill Cosby-at-the-door-with-pudding kind of way. And you're welcome, Chris.)

Remember that whole my-ex-hook-up-was-my-nurse-when-I-had-explosive-infectious-diarrhea-in-the-hospital thing that was so traumatizing it gave me emotional hepatitis? You know, that old chestnut? No? Well get yourself acquainted here. Are we all on the same page now? We all up-to-date on bowel movements? "Good." So Ex-Hook-Up Nurse sent me a message on Facebook yesterday afternoon basically being like, "MEGGLES! Sort of a random way to see you a few weeks ago. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. It's illegal. Blah blah blah. It was good to see you. We should hang out soon. Yada yada yada." First of all: fuck. That message made me relive the entire experience all over again and guhhhhhhhhhhh...it burned. After I finished reading, I literally just writhed around my office chair, scratching my face and audibly moaning for a solid three minutes straight. It was horrible. Because writing about that experience here on the blog was my way to exorcise the embarrassment, let go and move on. And I had successfully done so!...Until that message, that is. I decided the best way to move on (again) would be to pick myself up, put the pants I had just writhed out of back on, embrace the embarrassment and laugh it off. Because that's what I do best, right?

So, I wrote back:

"Ugh, of course when I see you again after all this time I'm in the hospital for fucking explosive diarrhea and look like shit warmed over. Jesus Christ....I was 16 distinct different kinds of embarrassed. But! Yes, I agree we should be friends again. Any time you want to hang when I've actually showered and aren't in the hospital dying, that would be cool. - M"

"Kudos to me!" I thought as I pat myself on the back for confronting the situation head on. Now we could both have a good laugh about it and move on with our lives. All was well in the world.

...Until a few hours later when I got this message back:

"Actually I had no idea what you were there for. I didnt look."

.................GOD DAMNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHY?! WHY DID I HAVE TO "EMBRACE THE EMBARRASSMENT"?! AND WHY DIDN'T THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH LOOK AT MY CHART?! I would have! But then again, I'm a piece of shit. Ugh. So I unnecessarily told him that I had infectious diarrhea. I guess that's what I get for underestimating people. So fuck me. But not really because I was hospitalized with diarrhea and who wants to fuck that girl? Not me. And I am her.

But! I have good news. The good news is that today is Friday, which means it's time for the most magical part of any week—T.G.I. Hagman!



As of 12:09pm on January 19, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! AND GOOD! Good. More Hagman for me and you!

Now normally this is where I'd give you your Friday drinking game, but in honor of Alex and I recently starting our month off from drinking, there will be no drinking game this week. Yep, that's right. An entire month with no alcohol...And I have no idea what we're thinking either. Well, I do actually. Both of our doctors explicitly told us we need to cut back on drinking and Becky and Andrew are always taking a detox month here and there and they seem to have their shit together. Plus Becca and her fiance did it in January! I mean, I feel like it might be good to give the old liver a break once in a while...right? Especially since Alex and I wake up 3/7 mornings like this:



God I'm going to miss that homeless woman...

So, I guess your drinking game this weekend is to just slam a few extra back for me and Alex. Pour one out for your fallen homies, if you will. Thanks. We appreciate it. And we appreciate you reading the blog! But if you really want to see us appreciative, you should totally follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and forward us to a friend or two! Man that would be nice. I mean, I don't get anything out of it, but you would. KARMA. Sexy, sexy karma. Welp! I'm gonna go join a prayer circle or something equally sobering. Have yourself a fantastic weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning. (Awkward sober) kisses!

My new favorite game EVZ

So, 2010 is turning out to be a real titty twister of a year for old yours truly. Which, of course, is an upsetting statement as we're only 19 days in. Only 346 more days to go! Haha........hah.

It all started at the stroke of midnight on January first when my stomach packed up it's bags, turned off the lights, triple checked that the coffee maker was turned off and made it's painful exit through various awkward and embarrassing parts of my body. After that I fell into an oddly deep depression and now I might be getting fired. I know I worry about getting fired a lot, but I'm filing this time under the For Realz For Realz account. I've envisioned myself getting fired from this job literally hundreds of times and 99.9% of those times involve one of my bosses casually asking if I know what a "2birds1blog is," me grabbing a box, packing up my things and leaving quietly. Shockingly, the trouble I'm currently in has nothing to do with the blog. I'd give you the details but it's nothing I didn't manically vent to Becky about last night over five Stellas, and I think even she got bored. (Sidenote: did you know that Becky got custody of the fish from The Real World DC house? In addition to already having Lily Hearst's dog? Becky's like the TMZ of pets and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed.) The moral of the story is that my bosses, as per usual, didn't communicate to me something that they wanted done, thus I didn't do it, and now they're in trouble with corporate and I'm afraid I might be on the chopping block. Ugh...and this really isn't helping the ulcer. Or the depression.

But! Instead of piling on the eyeliner, sharpening my razor and blasting Please, Please, Please Let Me Get Want I Want on repeat (all things sadly in character,) I'm going to share with you something that I find hee-larious. I think this might be one of those things that only me and Tulane Chris find funny due to our mutual inappropriate senses of humor, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume you'll appreciate it too.

So I was g-chatting with Tulane Chris the other day and not doing whatever it was Boss #1 never asked me to do when Chris started talking about an irritating friend he had in college. (No, not Terry Cooper.) Apparently one time this friend casually asked over cocktails, "So, who here has been sexually abused?" which Chris pointed out is the "WORST TEN FINGERS QUESTION EVER." This was, and still is, the funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. If you've never heard of The Ten Fingers Game before (clearly you didn't go to summer camp...) it's when you and a group of people get in a circle, hold out ten fingers and go around making "Never have I ever..." statements. If you've done something that someone else says they've never done, you put down a finger. First person to put down all ten fingers wins. Or loses. Or drinks. Or is a slut or something. Normally the statements are really asinine and light like, "Never have I ever broken a bone" or "Never have I ever been to Montreal," but if you're playing with close friends, it can be fun to purposely call someone out and say something like, "Never have I ever given a hand job in a public park" and look directly at the friend who has and giggle and LOLZ. However, it's a horse of an entirely different shade of hilarious if you're like, "Never have I ever...been sexually abused" and look directly at your friend who has been as she hangs her head in shame and slowly retracts a shaking finger. Chris and I then spent the rest of the afternoon imagining this game in increasingly innapropriate contexts until we created the following list. (Mine are in red and Chris' are in purple. Which has a very star-spangled effect that adds a nice little patriotic flair to the game.)

Meg & Tulane Chris' List of Grossly Inappropriate Never Have I Ever Statements:

- Never have I ever shown anyone on the doll...

- Never have I ever been a cutter in middle school because I had low self-esteem and no father figure to reinforce my value

- Never have I ever cared for you, Darla

- Never have I ever had to go to family counseling

- Never have I ever had to participate in my parents' Christian Marriage Therapy exercises

- Never have I ever been fingered at a Christian youth group overnight lock in

- Never have I ever given birth in the bathroom at prom, murdered the baby, and gone on with my evening

- Never have I ever gotten fisted and had to go onto a teen advice website to ask if I'm still technically a virgin

- Never have I ever done it "for him"

- Never had I ever had to call the cops when daddy "corrected" mommy one too many times

- Never have I ever not known I was pregnant

- Never have I ever been related to someone on Intervention

- Never have I ever been warned that this will be the last intervention

- Never have I ever uncovered buried memories

- Never have I ever slept with my therapist

- Never have I ever asked my mom if my boyfriend could move into our basement because things are getting kind of rough at home

- Never have I ever shaken a baby

- Never have I ever considered "clowning" an actual career

- Never have I ever had my tuition check for clown school bounce

- Never have I ever prayed on it

- Never have I ever attended a prayer service in which I held my hands palm-forward at chest level, closed my eyes, and swayed

- Never have I ever attended a state school

- Never have I ever really, really, really loved a woman

- Never have I ever avoided my Uncle for sexual reasons

- Never have I ever found time to be with my Uncle for sexual reasons

- Never have I ever bred dogs

- Never have I ever bred pygmy horses

- Never have I ever attended a cancer survivor support group

- Never have I ever had a job where I had to wear a pin with my name printed on it, made from a label maker

- Never have I ever had to show someone on a map where my native country is

- Never have I ever referred to camping in my trailer as "The Wilderness"

- ONCE have I ever interviewed for an office job and been hired as a dishwasher

- ONCE have I ever had sex with someone with a hearing aid, not known and then regretted it after finding out based solely on the fact that it's technically a disability

- ONCE have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Drew Barrymore

- Never have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Dr. Drew



...Yes? No? Just funny to me and Chris? Do not past go? Do not collect $100? Go directly to hell? K. Thought so. I'm gonna go get fired now.

Drinking Game Friday is totally roofus

Happy Drinking Game Friday everyone! I had planned to spend this DGF at home in my bed, far, far away from this office hell hole, but my request for a day off was Denied with a capital D. Why? Because a contractor is stopping by this morning to pick up a key. That's it. That's the entire reason I'm in the office today. To slide a manila envelope across my desk, smile and say, "you take care now." Why I can't just leave the key with our concierge at the front desk is beyond me, but as far as depressing aspects of my life go, I've got bigger fish to fry.

Yesterday I realized something: I have a problem. And if I've learned anything from Intervention, it's that admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery, so here it goes. Deep breath. I, Meghan C. McBlogger am a giant fucking loser. There. I said it. Out loud. (Sort of.) I feel better. (Not really.)

Yesterday, Tricia, from our Baltimore office, stopped by the studio to drop off a bunch of contracts. I genuinely like Tricia. I mean, I'm not about to sneak out of work to get friendship bracelets with her, but as far as co-workers go, she's completely tolerable. Yesterday was the first time I've seen Tricia since the New York trip debacle, so we decided to go to Starbucks, get ourselves a cup of coffee and catch-up. I heard all about her vacation to Jamaica, her kids, her husband, their new shitty GPS system and such and such, until it was her turn to ask about me.

"So what's new with you? How's your summer been?"

This is a very simple question. However, all I could do in response was to stare at Tricia blankly, synapses a-firin', searching for something—anything—worth sharing. Which was an incredibly difficult task considering the following is what's new with me:

- I went to Ren Fest last weekend!
This seriously almost came flying out of my mouth with a little too much excitement for my liking until what's left of the cool little Meglet within screamed, "STOP!!!! DO NOT let yourself be that guy who tells her co-workers about Ren Fest. No matter how fall we've fallen, I can not let you hit this rock-bottom. There is nothing I won't do to help you get better, but I will not love you to death!"

- I got a haircut!
The woman has eyes. She can see this. She didn't compliment you. Fish for compliments at a different swimmin' hole.

- I'm making a conscious effort to improve my posture!
This is true. And a lot more difficult than I thought.

- I dreamt I was in an episode of Step-by-Step the other night!
I was emptying the dishwasher and Frank was mad at me because he couldn't take the kids shoe shopping until I finished and I was going too slowly.

- My mom got me a single-serving coffee maker because I'm sick of my french press!
God I'm white.

- I'm breaking out like a 12-year-old and my boobs hurt, so I hope I get my period soon!
This really is the most relevant thing happening in my life right now, but I decided to keep it to myself, as period stories are more Boss #1's thing.

- I just discovered I get the National Geographic channel and it's changed my life!
Really though. NatGeo and Discovery Health are pretty much all I watch now. I watched a two-hour show about the Black Death followed by a documentary about polygamist CULTS back-to-back the other night. Best channel EVER.

- I'm tired!
I mean, that's kind of what's always "going on" with me at any given moment. It's not really newsworthy or specifically applicable to Summer.

I decided that none of these were acceptable or interesting enough to share with Tricia, so after an uncomfortably long silence, I decided to go with:

"I'm dog sitting!"

"Oh. Cool." But she said "cool" like just I told her I bought a crisp new pair of jean shorts.

"Umm, but the dog is a Hearst!"
"What?"
"The dog. She's a Hearst. Like the family."

This is true. Lily Hearst—niece of Patty Hearst, cousin of Lydia Hearst—rescued Cella from a life of pit-bull fights and doggy abuse and eventually gave her to my friend Becky, for whom I am dog-sitting. Which is all good and fun, but it was then that I realized that I had just name-dropped a fucking dog. That's how lame I am. I name-drop dogs. And my life is so boring, name-dropping dogs is the only thing worth mentioning.

"Oh...well, that's cool."
"Yeah. [Awkwardly shifts eyes] It's been a really boring summer."

So I'm a boring loser. Who name-drops dogs. And I don't know how to remedy it. I think I might just embrace it and go with god. And speaking of embracing one's inner loser, it's time for this week's drinking game—The Never Been Kissed Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- Anyone says "Josie Grossie"
- Josie corrects someone's grammar
- Molly Shannon alludes that she is a slut
- Aldys divulges one of her life aspirations (i.e. potter, painter, candlestick maker)
- Anyone says "Northwestern"
- Anyone says "roofus"
- Anyone says "prom"
- There's a flashback
- Someone makes friends with a whole table of rastafari. Not just one, a whole table.
- "Yikes bikes." Mainly because after seeing this movie it became a very important phrase in my daily vernacular.
- The Denominators wear their sweatshirts
- Someone refers to Aldys as "Alpo"
- Sam and Josie have a teacher/student inappropriate conversation
- My favorite Anita line: "Sex. Yes well Sex. What do you say about sex really. You like a guy... you do it with him... sometimes he calls, sometimes he doesn't!"
- Anyone gets their first kiss

As per usual, thank you so much for reading, twittering, forwarding, emailing, facebooking and voting here, here and especially here. (Yea man, someone nominated us for a third category! You should vote! I mean, you already went through the hassle of creating an account, so the hard and part is over! KTHNX!) Hope you have a great long weekend! Cella, Chris and I will see you back here Monday morning!


(Cella Hearst, doglebrity. I know her. No big deal.)