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 CosmopolitanBecky 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.
BONUS ROUND! As of 3:21 am on April 23, 2010, Cella Hurst is...alive!DOUBLE WIN!
- I had the most absurd and vivid dream the other night and I'm going to share it with you because it was somewhat inspired by a blog comment. So! The other night I was walking home from work and I started thinking about how nice it is outside and how I can't believe the pool opens next month, and oh, speaking of pools, man I wish I owned a confederate flag bikini. And then I remembered the following blog comment:
Because really, what an awesome call. My sister and I used to watch Shag all the time when we younger and I can't believe I forgot about it. (But you bet your balls that shit shot to the top of my Netflix queue faster than you can say "Myrtle Beach".)
Then that night I dreamt that I let a Hollywood producer and director double-team me so I could get Bridget Fonda's role in the 2010 remake of Shag. True story. And even weirder, the double-teaming happened in my parent's shower and the director kept knocking shampoo bottles over and I distinctly remember being like, "GAHHH, you have to stop knocking those bottles over! My parents are gonna know we were in here!!!!1"
So...That's one way to get a confederate flag bikini, I guess? Although truth be told, I don't even know if I got the part in the end. I'd like to think I did. And also, call me crazy, but a remake of Shag doesn't sound like a horrible idea. I know, I know; they're remaking everything these days and it's kind of bullcorn, but I'd totally be all about a Shag remake. Specifically if I got to write it and play Bridget Fonda's part. Oh my god, what if I wrote it while wearing a confederate flag bikini? WHAT IF I DO ALL OF MY WRITING WHILE WEARING A CONFEDERATE FLAG BIKINI?! It would kind of be like Homer's chili boots, but it would be my writing bikini. I feel like I meant for this entire last paragraph to stay in my head but it didn't. Awkward...
- A homeless woman almost made me cry tonight. And not for obvious oh, poverty is so sad! reasons. More so because she was mean. I mean, she wasn't that mean; I've just been in a really fragile emotional state recently. I don't know what's going on with me. My depression fascinates me—it ebbs and flows without reason or rhyme. For all intents and purposes, I should be pretty happy right now. It's the spring, I like my job, I'm not stuck in the ghost factory with my evil bosses anymore, I have a bunch of fun trips coming up, I've got great friends, great family and a roof over my head in one of the best cities in the world—life is good. And yet, I'd say that I spent an estimated 85% of the past week curled up, fully clothed, in the fetal position in my bath tub singing The Rainbow Connection to myself.
I'm pretty sure this has to do with my birthday last week. I hate to seem predictable, but I don't like birthdays. I'm sure I sound like a total fucking killjoy because I feel like I'm always bitching about whatever holiday it is and how I don't like it, but I just don't like how holidays cause an unnecessary amount of reflection. I don't like reflecting. Because, hi, I'm a little bit crazy so when I reflect, I tend to just think about all of the things I haven't accomplished and end up feeling really empty and disappointed in myself. And birthdays and New Year's Eve tend to be when I'm the hardest on myself.
So I lock the door, put on a wife beater and my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, blast Gwen Stefani's What You Waiting For? and go white girl, go white girl, go! dance around my apartment for a while to psych myself up for all of the things that I will make happen this year. I will, I will, I will! Starting right now! I'm going to write that book! I'm going to try harder to put myself out there and meet a dude! I'm going to find a way to monetize the blog! I'm going to succeed! But ooooo.........there's a Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood marathon on. And my left foot hurts. And I can't find my bra. Welp! Better just sleep for 14 hours straight so I don't have to think about anything anymore. NIGHT!
And this frustrates me. Seriously. I just want to get a long pokin' stick and be like, "Hey, you. JAB, JAB. Stop that. Go do something." JAB. But I just can't get my shit together. And it's very frustrating.
Today I was feeling particularly frustrated with myself and as I was walking home from work tonight, a semi-loose cannon looking homeless woman approached me and said, "Excuse me, miss! Excuse me!" I'm terribly sorry, but I was not going to stop and talk to her. I don't know if that makes me a horrible person, but a.) I'm fucking broke b.) it was late and c.) I was in Georgetown and if Kal Penn can't take a late night stroll there without getting mugged, I'm sure as shit fucked. So I kept walking and said, "I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry." To which the woman screamed, "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, YA DUMB BITCH. I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS." Subscribing to the I Am Rubber And You Are Glue theory of life, I ignored her and kept walking, which prompted her to forcefully bark at me, "FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID-ASS CUNT."
Now, if I got upset every time a random homeless person yelled something nonsensical or hostile at me, I would have packed up my weekend hair and moved back to the suburbs years ago. Dealing with crazy people is part of the charm of living in a city and I wouldn't have it any other way. That being said, after the word "cunt" finished escaping this woman's lips, honest-to-god tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to turn around and be like, "MADAM! TONIGHT IS NOT A GOOD NIGHT! I WOULD LIKE TO USE MY 'GET OUT OF BEING YELLED AT BY A HOMELESS PERSON, FREE CARD' NOW BECAUSE I RECENTLY TURNED 25 AND I FEEL FUCKING OLD AND LIKE I HAVEN'T ACCOMPLISHED ANYTHING IN LIFE AND I FEEL ALONE AND UNLOVABLE AND YOU NEED TO NOT CALL ME A STUPID BITCH OR A CUNT RIGHT NOW AND WALK AWAY BECAUSEI. HAVE. EMOTIONS!!!!1
But instead I went to Trader Joe's and got string cheese and beer. Because the path that involves not getting shanked by a homeless woman and dairy is always the path of least resistance.
- On a positive note, the mirrors in Becky's apartment are the most flattering mirrors I have ever seen in my entire life. I wish I was kidding when I say that I spent the better part of this afternoon strutting around her apartment, gazing at myself and being like, "My god you're attractive." Then I got to work, washed my hands and looked up into their mirror and was like, "GAH—PUT IT AWAY! PUT IT AWAY!" Sooooo, the moral of the story is I'm never leaving Becky's apartment. Ever. Hope she's cool with that.
- This blog post is so emo I could vomit everywhere. Let's take a break from me and listen to other people's problems for a while!
Queer Abbey,
I recently hooked up with a long time crush. It was hot. I want more. He's a tad younger and all electronic forms of communication between us are new as we do not run in the same social circle/ see or speak to each other often. Tell me how to play it. Make me look good here.
Sincerely, -Cannuck who likes to.....go for dinner. What did you think I was going to say???
Dear Hungry Cannuck,
I know very little about the two of you and your situation, but generally speaking, keep it casual. I find that any combination of random, funny and alcohol is usually fail-safe.
For example, I might text/email/facebook message him and say: Did you know 4/20 falls on a Tuesday this year?
Sub questions: Did you know Tonic has 50¢ tacos every Tuesday night?
Um, the universe clearly has a plan for us and I think it would be foolish (and maybe even dangerous) to resist.
Of course, if 4/20 means nothing to you or you don’t think he’s into that kind of thing, I’ve found that smuggling a six pack into a movie theater for something like Hot Tub Time Machine is a perfect, no-pressure, non-date date. It just depends on what you’re both in to.
Bottom line, plan something fun/ridiculous (based on what you’re both in to) and invite him to join. It’s your call whether to make it a group thing or just the two of you; either way pitch it like you are going to do it regardless and he’s welcome to join in. If he’s interested in hanging out you’ll know-- boys don’t play hard to get. So if he doesn’t bite, don’t push it. Leave it alone until you either randomly run into each other again or something else fun comes up that you can casually invite him to (after at least a few weeks have passed). And if he does want to hang out, then I’m 84% positive that you two will hook up again as long as you still want to.
I have a few thoughts on this one:
1.) I feel like I'm on glue because I had to read that question like 9,000 times to figure out what that person was asking.
2.) Tonic has 50¢ tacos every Tuesday night? Seriously? What are the chances that this "slightly younger hook-up" you're referring to is me? Because if you asked me out to a high-taco night, I'd pretty much give it up to you in the cab on the way over.
3.) This question seemed sort of time sensitive...I hope I didn't ruin your game by postponing last week's Queer Abby because of my birthday. But if so, check it out—my birthday ruined bothof our weeks! TWINSIES!!!
______________
Queer Abby,
I hate my job. I truly do. I know that there is absolutely, 100% nothing unique to my situation ... soooo many people dislike where they work. I have a degree in journalism and am looking for a career in an advertising/PR firm. Well, thanks to the economy, media jobs are horrendously scarce and after months of searching after college, I had to settle on the first offer I was given - a graphic designer in the publishing industry. It's not glamorous, I promise. A year later I applied for and was given a job in the marketing department of the same company. I thought it was a huge step in the right direction to be in an ad agency, but I was wrong. I just make lists of who is appearing in what advertisement. Like most people in my department, I'm grossly over-qualified for the work (and my yearly income is below the national poverty line). I wouldn't mind that so much if the work was rewarding in the least bit. I work for a fast-growing company that introduces new products and services without telling anyone how to go about fulfilling them. We don't have time to get used to the changes before even more are introduced. There is no breathing room. People are being fired and hired constantly. I reach out for help and guidance just to get empty promises of, "We're looking into this" or "Someone will help you figure this out". I'm so overwhelmed and sick of staring at my computer screen for 8 hours a day, doing monotonous, paint-by-number work. I come home grumpy and tired. I've been looking for other work for over a year now and have little results. I don't know what to do. I'm so thankful to even have a job, and it makes me feel guilty for complaining ... I just need to figure out a solution to preserve my sanity.
Sorry that was long-winded, Courtney A.
Good news, Courtney! You’re completely allowed to hate your job even during a recession. And you’re right, you are in good company. So, here’s what you should do: start a blog that’s dedicated to ripping on the culture at your office and the ass-hats you work with. As long as you remain anonymous, you should totally be fine…oh wait.[Smart ass...]
Really though, I know so many people in this boat that I think it deserves a real answer. Over the last year, if you’ve just been searching a lot and applying occasionally because you’re not seeing much you love, you need to be less picky right now. The immediate goal is to get yourself out of the bad/uninspiring/unsatisfying situation, where you currently spend most of your waking hours. If you’re miserable and you’re not learning there anymore, almost any move will help you preserve your sanity and broaden your skill-set with transferable, if not directly relatable experience. You're exceptionally lucky that you at least know the direction you want to go in—that’s more than most people in their 20’s can say. But, for now, you don’t have to find the perfect job and you don’t have to stop the job hunt once you move on to something new.
If you’ve been pushing tons of resumes out with no luck, it’s possible your resume or cover letters could use some work. It’s worth paying someone to look over it with you, seriously. Let me know if you decide to go this route and I can put you in contact with some people I know who are great at this and very reasonably priced. You might also think about scheduling some informational interviews. It’s great way to network, get face time with people in your field and learn whether a company/job will get you where you want to be. Be shameless in asking for them, most people love talking about themselves (except Carolyn Hax apparently…she doesn’t know it, but we’re in a fight)
I'm torn. Part of me wants to take you in my arms, hug you and rock gently because I know the pain of what you're going through all too well. The other part wants to flick you in the tit as hard as I can because the unglamorous first job you "settled" for after college was the job I worked my ass off to get. But because you clearly read my blog, I'm going to go with the hug. So there. This is me hugging you. And rocking, ever-so-gently. Hugs!
Yeah man. I agree with Amy. It sucks, but you totally have the right to be like, "this sucks." I mean, I pretty much just had my period all over today's blog, so I'm obviously pro-whining. It's cathartic. Don't apologize or feel guilty for it. But like Amy said, you know what you want to do, so now it's just a matter of getting your inner poking stick out and jabbing yourself hard enough to go get it. In the mean time, you are more than welcome to watch Tori and Dean and binge drink the pain away with me any time.
______________
Dear Queer Abby,
I recently was broken up with by a boyfriend. We were in a serious relationship for four years and were living together. I kind of had thought he was going to be... it. But, obviously not. Although I am glad that dirty fuck and I are over, I have also had a lot of issues maintaining my self-esteem and self-respect since the whole ordeal. Is there anything that I can do? I thought about trying out girls, but I can barely handle the idea of my own vagina much less another persons!
I guess what I actually really want to know is whether it is crazy to feel like every member of the opposite sex is completely uninterested in me. I mean, is my ex just under the impression that I am some monstrosity of a woman?! Are all men?! Because, I am interested in all of them. Well, except that dirty fuck. And only the attractive ones. That are funny. And, that are tall, and can carry an intelligent conversation, if needed.
Thank you, Margot
Dear Margot:
A) I’m so sorry your relationship with your vagina is on the rocks.
B) I’m so relieved I don’t have to talk you out of that whole “trying out girls” thing.
C) Everything you’re thinking and feeling is 100% normal. I’m assuming for the past 4 years, you’ve taken your ex’s opinion of you pretty seriously. If you could just turn that off, I would be worried about you. But it will definitely become less and less important in how you see yourself.
D) His opinion (whatever it may be) does not reflect that of ANYONE else, and every member of the opposite sex is not totally disinterested in you. BUT people can sense it when someone is desperately seeking affirmation and approval from others because they feel like shit about themselves, so don’t. Concentrate on doing things that legitimately make you feel good about yourself like working out, traveling, taking on a cool project, buying stuff, learning stuff, or whatever else is your jam. And don’t worry about jumping right back into dating. You’re so much more likely to end up with someone who is good for you when you respect yourself and have a clear sense of who you are, what you want and what you deserve. It can take a minute to get there after a break-up.
E) I recently read somewhere that attractive, funny, tall, guys who can carry intelligent conversations on queue flock to women who love their va jay jays and are temporarily unavailable by choice. Don’t ask me why, it’s just science.
OK, this isn't advice at all, but one time freshman year of college, I was talking to my friend Jill on AIM about this very subject and we were being like, "Bahh, boys suck! I feel like shit about myself! Why can't I find a good guy?" blah, blah, blah and I said, "Sometimes I wish I were a lesbian. And then I remember how much I like dick and it seems like a bad idea." Jill thought this was really funny, so she put me saying it as her away message, which as we all recall was quite an honor in the world of AIM, so I felt pretty good about myself. That is until her mom sent her a message telling her how crass it was and asking her to take it down. I was so fucking embarrassed. And what's even more embarrassing is that her mom reads this blog. As do many other of my friend's moms, my mom and my mom's friends. Which I've decided to embrace. HI LADIES! SEND MARGOT GOOD ENERGY!
Got a question for Queer Abby? Email QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com! Amy will give you super sound advice and then I'll ramble incoherently about god knows what and make you feel better about your life in comparison. QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!
Things are feeling oddly WOOO! SAD-TURNED-EMPOWERED SINGLE LADY! in here today. Thus, I leave you with Ex Co-Blogger Eddie's brief but potent First Wives Club Drinking Game!
[To be played with a bottle of Andre fine California Sparkling Wine.]
Take a sip of your drink (out of the bottle)… - When a character takes a sip of their drink (alcoholic)
- When the word lesbian is used or lesbianism is referenced
- When someone says something to the effect of “this is the 90’s!”
- For every character on screen who is wearing pearls.
Shout l'chaim and drink...
- When Bar Mitzvahs or studying Hebrew is discussed/occurs (this was turned into when Judaism is mentioned…which turned into when a person who is Jewish is on the screen.) In conclusion drink when you see Bette Midler.
As per always, thank you so much for reading and especially for passing the blog on to your friends, family and co-workers. Should you feel so moved, you can always follow us on Twitterand join ourFacebook page as well. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here bright and early Monday morning! Later!
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 firedand 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 forStep 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.
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.)
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