State of the Tulane Chris: Part I

Well, that sucked.

I had some blood drawn in December when I changed doctors, and about a week later the nurse called to tell me everything was “fine.” Well, last week I thought, “You know… college. I’d like to make sure my liver is working,” so I called to ask for a printout of the lab results, and everything is not “fine.” I’m not dying, but…

-     HOMEBOY IS TOO FAT. My blood is apparent the vampire equivalent of a Mallowmar. It doesn’t so much “flow” as “ooze.” My general cholesterol level is low, but it’s essentially all bad cholesterol – and guess who’s coming for dinner? Diabetes. It’s not here yet, but it’s got my address and is getting directions from Google Maps. It texted metabolic syndrome to see if it wanted to come too but hasn’t heard back.

-     HOMEBOY HAS AWFUL HEREDITY. Apparently I carry three out of four genes “associated with sudden ischemic heart disease,” or as I like to call it, “heart-gonna-explode-pox.” I also have a gene that means I can’t take popular cholesterol-lowering drug Plavix, because it might kill me.

-     HOMEBOY IS DEFICIENT. In Vitamin D and “omega-3 oils.” No wonder my bones snap in a stiff wind and my hair is dull and lifeless.

And this is just the shit I can understand. Silver lining is that my liver seems to be tootling along just fine, turning its homework in on time and getting eight hours of sleep at night.

Now, here are my emotions about the above:

-     GRANTED, I’m too fat. I did not think I had been NEARLY fat enough for NEARLY long enough that my pancreas felt it had to sit me down for “the talk.” I don’t think this is fair.

-     I have a guardian angel. About four years ago, I was so poor I almost took part in a clinical trial for Plavix. This involved taking enormous doses of Plavix and eating oranges “to see if it would still work.” I got strep throat the day before and couldn’t do it. This, you know, might have killed me. (I’m exaggerating, but not by a lot.) I like to imagine my guardian angel – I’d say it was Rue McClanahan because she apparently likes me (MORE ON THAT NEXT WEEK!), but she was still alive – floating to the hospital, touching her wand gently to a pile of medical waste, floating back over my sleeping form, and then scratching the hell out of my tonsils with her infectious wand.  (I also clearly like to merge the concepts of guardian angels and fairy godmothers.)

-     Sometime this week, my mother, uncle, and aunt will all get letters from me warning them not to take Plavix. I wrote these on postcards because I think if I amuse the postal workers they’ll be more likely to bring me my mail on time.

-     To remedy my “severe” omega-3 deficit, I’ve started taking fish oil. This results in three or four sardine-flavored burps each day. Since I can no longer have sweets, I’ve decided to try to think of the fish burps as a new dessert concept. It is not working.

-     I’m mad as a Goddamn hornet. Why the hell didn’t the doctor think this was worth telling me? It’s not like it takes much time to say “Lose thirty pounds YESTERDAY and occasionally make eye contact with a multivitamin.” I want to write a furious letter, but I’m afraid they’ll then want me to come back in and retake the bloodwork, and I want to have a few months to do better before being confronted with more red-bordered numbers.

-     I have a new game called “Diabetes Is Watching.” I’ve created a personality and work history for diabetes so I can think of it as a person I’m avoiding through good judgment rather than a fatal metabolic disease I’ll develop if I keep frying ice cream. Here are the text messages I sent Butter Legs about my new enemy diabetes last night:

Diabetes: it’s watching.

Diabetes: it knows the last four digits of your social security number.

Diabetes: it just made eye contact with you from across the bar and tipped its Kahlua Mudslide in a little salute while raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.

Diabetes: it has one IMDB credit – the prisoner early in “Silence of the Lambs” who sexually harasses Jodie Foster.

Diabetes: it thinks your screenplay is a weak attempt to be the next Todd Solondz.*

Diabetes: it saw a typo on your resume and didn’t tell you.

Diabetes: IT KNOWS WHAT YOU ATE LAST SUMMER

Diabetes: the honey badger of metabolic disorders.

Diabetes: it donated forty-five dollars to the Santorum for President campaign in your name.

Diabetes: it can tell you’re not a virgin.

You know what’s going to suck? Diet and exercise. I’d almost rather die, but I have so much TV to watch. If “Roseanne” isn’t a reason to stay alive I do not know what is.

*UM DID YOU KNOW THERE’S A SEQUEL TO “WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE” CALLED “PALINDROMES” THAT BEGINS AT DAWN WEINER’S FUNERAL AND IS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL ABOUT ABORTION? I learned this recently.

Yesterday afternoon was extremely eventful:

1.) A homeless woman on a D2 bus explained both sides of the Occupy Wall Street protests to me and while getting into this conversation was in no way my idea, I'm not trying to front like it wasn't extremely helpful.

2.) I was taking the D2 from McPherson Square to Connecticut and 20th and get my eyebrows threaded, but I was so caught up in this woman's surprisingly coherent and helpful explanation of the protests that I completely missed my stop and had to get off at Connecticut and S. While hoofing it back to the other side of the circle, I totally crossed paths with THE HOT DILF-Y WAITER FROM SETTE. For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter (and I don't know why you wouldn't, as I clearly tweet about ~*BoYz, bOyZ, BOyZ!!!*~), I have a bit of a thing for one of the waiters at Sette Osteria. It's not creepy, it's not desperate, I just want to have semi-rough sex with him and I'm relying solely on the power of the Internet to make it happen. It's normal. Steve Jobs is dead. It's 2011—anything's possible.

I go out to dinner with my parents every other week or so and we typically either go to James Hoban's or Sette. This means that I see hot DILF-y waiter quite frequently, and very much in a context where I'm stuffing fried seafood into my face and sitting directly next to my father. Which is uncomfortable, to say the least. What's even more odd to me is that we're always there when he's working, yet he's never our actual waiter. (Which actually might be a good thing because I'd probably end up being like, "Oh, I'll just have a small salad and I don't have HPV, thanks!") (Although, in this day and age, I can't help but feel like that's quite the dowry...)

When I saw HDW across the street, so many things went through my mind in a fraction of a second. In order: "Shit. That guy's hot." —> "Why does he look so familiar...?" —> "Christ, did we hook up?" —> "HA HA! It's the hot DILF-y waiter from Sette!" —> "God, why did you insist on not showering today and wearing that dress with the salad dressing stain near the crotch because 'who's looking that closely?'" —> "I should tweet this." —> "No, loser, don't tweet this." —> "Blog this!"

This means that as I locked eyes with HDW, my face did the following Superbowl Shuffle of awkwardness: slight smile, single raise of eyebrow —> pug-like head tilt and extremely country "HUH??" facial expression —> heart drops into asshole, might vomit --> laughs out loud like an insane person —> hangs head in shame and moves purse over crotch —> eyes light up —> head goes back down —> TO THE BLOGMOBILE! 

But in a fraction of a second. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And my vagina on my Twitter.

3.) Later as I was walking down 19th street, a hot (yet significantly less Piven-esque) guy starting walking towards me in the opposite direction and we kind of gave each other the old once-over. As I started to go up the steps to Dupont Threading, he stopped me. 

"Excuse me," he said, as we obviously fell in love and I became pregnant with his seed, "But I've always wanted to know—what's threading?"

"Oh. Uh. It's an Indian method of—deep, deep sigh—hair removal." He then did the little you take care now! hand wave and said, "Hair removal. Got it," and walked away. Quickly. I don't know. It was humbling.

4.) This didn't happen yesterday, but speaking of constantly falling in love on the street, I was en route to a party on Q street last Friday night and got stuck walking behind a group of bro-looking guys who were probably in their early 30's. It was one of those irritating situations where you're awkwardly walking at the same rate as the person (or people) in front of you, but it's been a few blocks so you're starting to feel like a stalker, but if you speed up and pass them you know you won't be able to keep that rate up and you're just going to end up falling back behind them and appear even creepier...yes? No? Only me? Still boycotting Fitness First for their towel policy? Yes. Anyway, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation they were having about Hank Williams, Jr. and one of them brought up how he just wrote a new song to address the whole Obama/Nazi comment scandal. "Oh, really?" one of them asked sarcastically, "What was it, [sings] ARE YOU READY FOR SOME NEGROS?!" It took everything in my power not to laugh-out-loud, and in retrospect, I really wished I had. Because a.) you know if there's anything I love more than a bro in his early 30's, it's a receding hairline. And if there's anything I love more than a receding hairline, it's a lisp. And b.) I just appreciate anybody who has the chutzpah to sing a joke of that magnitude on a crowded street on a Friday night without any apologies. I was extremely tempted to write a Craigslist missed connection but decided not to when I realized it would essentially be: "YOU WERE THE GUY SINGING ABOUT NEGROS ON Q STREET FRIDAY NIGHT, I WAS THE BIG-TITTED GIRL BEHIND YOU WHO DIDN'T HAVE THE STAMINA TO WALK SLIGHTLY FASTER AND PASS YOU. WAS IT JUST ME, OR DID I FEEL A CONNECTION?!?!" Sigh. The one that got away...

5.) At a certain point yesterday afternoon I got really nauseous and my lower back started to hurt, so I obviously convinced myself that my kidneys were shutting down and completely freaked myself out. I'm fairly certain that I just had a bad cheesesteak, but I wouldn't say I'm out of the woods yet.

So...that was my Wednesday afternoon. What adventures will today hold?? I shudder to think.

2 Birds Investigate: A Failure

When Tulane Chris signed on to be my new second bird, he brought with him some really good ideas about how we could make the blog better. One of my favorites was a new feature called "2 Birds Investigates.” In this feature, we’d get together every month, investigate something wacky and write about it on the blog. Think: "2 Birds Investigate a Star Wars Convention!"; "2 Birds Investigate a Sex Party!"; "2 Birds Go to Orlando and Stalk Kevin Yang!" Needless to say, I was in. Really any feature containing the words "convention", "sex", "Kevin Yang" and "stalk" in the pitch is already successful in my mind.

We've done two Investigations thus far and while I think our second try was pretty good (and will be up soon), our first attempt was an absolute, 100% bona fide failure. Like, got out on the ice and fell on its ass before the music even began, failure. And then once it was down, it got its period. And started to cry. And then started to hysterically cry. And then its ex-boyfriend walked in, saw it rolling around in its icy, tear-soaked period blood and shook his head slowly at it in disappointment. And for some reason, he’s also sipping an old school Cherry Coke and wearing cowboy garb while doing this. I wonder why I associate that image with ice rinks? I think it has something to do with The Cutting Edge…? But my point in more concise and less crass terms is that it didn’t work.

Now, who's to blame for this failure, you may ask? As leader of the blog, will I be the one to step up and take responsibility? Well, let me answer your question with a series of questions: will I take responsibility for buying the wrong kind of tampons last month? Will I take responsibility for losing my job? Will I take responsibility for making Dr. Reuben cry tears on par with those shed whilst hate fucking a trannie? (ALLEGEDLY. I do not know for certain that Dr. Reuben has hate fucked a transgendered person. I can only make a seriously educated guess.) The answers to these, my questions three (Jesus Christ…why do I blog this late?) are no. No, I won't. But I will admit that I had a small role in all of the above, specifically our first Investigation failure.

We decided to conduct the Investigation the last weekend in June when Tulane Chris was in town for the traumatic Blog Panel and I was house sitting for my parents. You’d think finding something to investigate would have been easy; we had endless resources at our fingertips—a car, a full tank of gas, a big house in the suburbs, Evie, and the greater Washington, D.C. metro area as a whole. However, what we didn't have was money. At all. I'm pretty sure our final budget was $15, the bodies God gave us, and two active imaginations. But Chris and I figured we're both highly creative and intelligent(ish) (personally) people. Surely between the two of us, $15 and whole lot of ADHD medication, we could think of something groundbreaking and provocative to investigate, right? Well, we did: MSG. The Inaugural 2 Birds Investigates was on...MSG.

Looking back, I can see where we thought this would be a good idea: MSG is cheap, mysterious, kind of dangerous, cheap, readily available, questionably sexy?, and most importantly, cheap. Our plan was to buy some MSG and do a taste test with the food in my parent's house to see if it really does makes food taste better. Would it be delicious? Probably. Would it rock the blogosphere to its very core? Definitely.

Unfortunately, we had a few things working against us:

- We were actually pretty busy that weekend, so the entire thing felt kind of rushed. (And yes, that was the weekend I made Chris wait 45 minutes to get lunch because Evie and I were having an “intense cuddle session,” thank you.)

- My parents had been out of the country for two weeks at that point, so there wasn’t any food in the house.

- We couldn’t really afford to buy any more food with the limited money we had between us. (Although, full disclosure: we spent most of our blog funds the night before on steaks and Ultimate Mai Tais at our Ironic T.G.I. Friday’s Business Dinner.) (And at said dinner, I went in first while Chris waited in the car so he could come in later and do the old, “Ms. McBlogger?” “Yes! Chris, I take it. [Hearty handshake] Please, have a seat.” to make it extra official.) (…Although, I think it kind of came off as an awkward blind date more than anything else.) (And no, neither of us went to business school, but I assume that’s what you learn to do there, right? Kogod, baby. Kogod.)

- I was an absolute shit show the night of the Investigation, so my heart really wasn’t into it. Now, I will obviously take full responsibility for this one, but I’d like the opportunity to explain myself.

Our plan was to do the Investigation Saturday night after Anna’s Goodbye BBQ. I know you’re thinking that I probably got “wasted” at the party and that’s why I was in such a state later that night, but surprisingly, that’s not what happened. I drank responsibly. I just didn’t eat responsibly. I have a problem. Because of the fact that there’s never any food in my apartment and at any given moment, I'm lying in bed wishing Subway would do pro bono work, when I’m in an all-you-can-eat food situation, I tend to stock up like a squirrel preparing for winter. I don’t know why I do it and I regret it every time. And it’s not even like I take the food with me; I just cram Swedish meatballs into my mouth two at a time all, “NO TIME FOR CHEWING!!! I HAVE TO PRESERVE MY ENERGY—OLD MAN WINTER APPROACHES!!!!1” So when I got to Anna’s house and saw the delicious spread, I was just genuinely excited to see that much free food and felt like I had to make the most of it. (Christ…)

I pretty much ate everything in sight. And if you know me, you know that food and I don’t get along too well. The doctors are 99% sure my GI tract is held up with toothpicks and duct tape, soooo maybe I should have shifted down a gear. Especially when you consider that the following exchange between Chris and me actually happened:

TC: Hey, it’s almost midnight and we have work to do; I think we should go soon.

M: OK. I’m just gonna get another hot dog and a Bloody Mary, and then we’ll go.

That’s correct. I chased dinner with brunch. Whatever you’re thinking about me right now; it’s completely justified. Needless to say, by the time we had said our goodbyes and got to my car, things were feeling a little unique.

“Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

“Well, that sucks because we still need to get MSG and food to do the taste test with. I’m thinking we’ll get a few cans of Chef Boyardee, some pudding, a few—“

“STOP IT. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I NEED YOU TO STOP TALKING ABOUT FOOD.”

“Uhh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you do realize that we have to go home and eat more, right?”

It’s at this point that tears welled up in my eyes and I actually broke a sweat. The thought of putting any more food in my body was unbearable, but I knew this was our last chance to get the Investigation done and it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test. (Side note: it’s a sobering moment when you realize that the phrase, “it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test,” is applicable to your life.)

“Well, I need to go home and lay down for a while, so let’s get this over with.”

Now, this entire weekend, Chris promised me that MSG would be easy to find, based solely on the fact that his grandmother sent him some when he moved to Philadelphia. In actuality, MSG is not easy to find. Somewhere in the backroom of five major grocery stores in the greater Montgomery County, MD area, there exists an obscene amount of security footage of me and Tulane Chris in various condiment aisles at 12:30 in the morning; Chris leisurely looking for Accent and me doubled-over in pain, alternating between moaning, doing Lamaze breathing and telling boxes of Bisquick to stop judging me, “you sick sons of bitches.”

By the time we got to Shopper’s Food Warehouse, things were touch-and-go at best. I genuinely couldn’t tell if I was about to vomit, shit my pants, burst into tears, or all of the above. (Another side note: I’m currently writing this at a coffee shop and the guy sitting across from me keeps makin’ eyes at me. I can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he knew that I’m writing about the time I couldn’t tell if I was going to vomit, shit my pants or burst into tears?) (Please say he’d be turned on, please say he’d be turned on...)

“Chris, I can’t go in with you. I can’t do another one. If I see any more cans of discounted food, I’m seriously going to lose control of something and it’s not going to be pretty. “

“Alright, well stay in the car and digest; I’ll go look.” The minute Chris slammed the car door, I unbuttoned my pants, slid them down, put my seat all the way back until I was horizontal, blasted the AC and started whimpering ever-so softly. A few minutes later, my phone rang.

“Good news—they have MSG!”

“Oh. ‘Awesome’…”

“What food should I get to put it in?”

“Chris, I really don’t care.”

“Well, I’m doing this for you. What’s light and easy to digest?”

“I will pay you $40 in cash if you use your discretion and not have a conversation with me right now about what is and isn’t easy to digest.”

“Meg, we both know you’re not good for that. Do you like butterscotch pudding?”

“CHRIS, PLEASE?!?!?!”

“Alright, fine, fine. “ I hung up, closed my eyes and hugged myself tighter. When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, I was surprised to see a man standing in front of my car staring back at me with a concerned look in his eyes.

“What’s this asshole’s problem?” I thought to myself. As I was lying in my car. At 12:45 in the morning. With my pants pulled down around my thighs. Hugging myself and whimpering. And that’s when it clicked—this man might be under the impression that I maybe was just a liiiiiiiittle bit…raped. My hand instantly flew to the electronic seat adjuster, which returned me to an up-right seated position at the painfully slow rate of .00002 mph, all while I shifted my eyes back and forth (desperately trying to avoid eye contact,) and shimmied back into my pants.

Thankfully Chris returned shortly thereafter, because nothing would shock me less than if the following landed in the local paper’s police blotter:

Police were called Saturday night when a man mistakenly thought Sherwood graduate, Meghan McBlogger, had been raped in the Shopper’s Food Warehouse shopping center. Upon further investigation, Ms. McBlogger had just eaten too much at a local bon voyage party and was emotionally preparing herself an upcoming MSG taste test for her blog. No charges were filed.

When we finally made it back to the house, my parents were home.

“Hi honey! Hi Chris! How is everything? How was the blog panel?”

“Well, the moderator asked Chris if he felt emasculated because his vagina has a yeast infection, I ate a small horse tonight, I feel like I’m going to die and now we need to eat some shit with MSG in it for the blog.”

“Well. Good to see not much has changed while we were gone.”

We kicked my parents out of the kitchen and spent the next 20 minutes or so conducting The Investigation. Here’s a play-by-play:

We got MSG.

We got 2 cans of Chef Boyardee instant ravioli and put MSG in one and not the other.

We did the same with leftover mashed potatoes from Chicken Out:

Butterscotch pudding:

And beer:

Then we tried to see if we could taste a difference between the two. I think “we” could taste a difference in the mashed potatoes and pudding, a little bit in the ravioli and not at all in the beer. And I say “we” because those are technically just Chris’ findings; I agreed with everything he said each round because at that point I would have told him I tasted Fascist unicorn feces it meant I could stop eating food and go to bed.

Finally, we were done and I could stop eating and go to bed. And the clouds parted, trumpets played and angels wept, for it was the happiest moment of them all. And then Chris left the next morning and we never talked about The Investigation again.

Sooooo, that’s what happened during our first “2 Birds Investigates”. Final summation: MSG—It maybe makes your food taste better, I guess?

Yep. Washington D.C.’s #1 blog. You’re welcome.

Fat Kids

First: I’m so thrilled to be contributing to this blog. Meg is the funniest person I know, and I’m excited to get to work with her. I’ve also had really positive experiences with the few readers I’ve interacted with, which is a step up from the blog I used to co-write, which got death threats. (From one French-Canadian Orthodox Jew, so not like ACTUAL KILLING but still.) Co-Blogger Chris will be a hard act to follow, so if I fuck up I’ll start blogging in green and we can alllll pretend…

Second: Meg and I totally hooked up once. On Oscar nominee Abigail Breslin’s brother’s sofa. She’s good.

Third: I’m so pleased that my “sorr about the bag” thing worked. I think about “sorr about the bag” most days. My faves:

Meg pity-fucks a butter-face guy, but takes the usual butter-face precaution. She is sorr about the bag.

Meg gets a job tending a mountain hotel for the winter. As madness sets in, Co-Blogger Chris inspects her manuscript, only to find that it reads:

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

SORR ABOUT THE BAG

Meg vomits in a friend’s purse. “Uh… sorr about the bag?”

It even got the point where when I’d play video games and the characters would say their little pre-recorded taunts, I would respond “sorr about the bag” – aloud, to myself.

“If you seek to destroy the power of Apocalypse, X-Men, you must first defeat the Scarlet Witch!”

“SORR ABOUT THE BAG, WANDA”

The telegram was surprisingly expensive but totally worth it. Let’s make “sorr about the bag” the new “SIKE!” (“Psych?” I’ve never been sure…)

Fourth: Fat kids. I wanted to have this big amazing well-done “Ready or not… here comes Tulane Chris” post, so I half-wrote one about my funeral and one about what I would do if I were a TV executive. Neither of them quite worked, and I was worried I’d lost my touch, when I realized something,

I never told you about the fat kids.

Now, for me, fat kid is a state of mind. It is possible – just – to be fat, and a child, without being a fat kid. It is also possible – easily – to be an adult fat kid. (Full disclosure: in high school, I had junior year third period “Theatrical Design,” also called “dick around on the stage and paint AN prop.” We started bringing food to class – not like “oh here are some Ritz” but like RIBS – and I started calling it “fat class” and it became a tradition. I will, however, point out that I was the slenderest person in the class at the time.) Wherever broken dreams and empty Sno-Ball wrappers lay thick on the ground… there are fat kids. Wherever the smell of desperate sweat mixes with the heady tang of Cheez Curls, there are fat kids. Wherever a homosexual vegetarian in the tenth grade wearing short-shorts leaves a pint of ice cream on the counter for an hours and then drinks it before putting together THE most elaborate Christmas decorations in our entire town… there they are. (I absolutely went to high school with this kid.)

Anyway. Last summer, my boyfriend, hereafter known as Giant Camel, and I drove from central Texas to Philadelphia. It was a wonderful trip, blah blah, I love New Orleans and my boyfriend and seeing new places, whatever. The funny parts happened in Tennessee. Memphis was a nightmare, so we r-r-r-raced across long lean Tennessee to get to the highlight of the trip.

Dollywood.

Dollywood is wonderful. You don’t have to love Dolly to enjoy it, but if you love Dolly it’s the best thing in the world. It was the Tennessee sales-tax holiday so everyone else was at the outlet mall, so the park was thinly populated. Blah blah, one of the most nearly perfect days of my life, happiness isn’t funny.

So.

We get to the head of the rollercoaster line, and we see that the park people are having trouble closing the safety bar on this woman. At one point they actually – yes – lift her fat to try to get the bar to close under it. I could never do something like that. I would honestly rather die than say, “Ma’am? Let me just pick up your fat here, and we’ll try to get this bar down to your pubic bone.” I could lift the fat, but I could never say that. Anyway, she had to get off and wait for her friends to ride.

They made her wait in a little corral.

She couldn’t go back through the line and apparently didn’t want to leave without her party, so they shooed her back to a little area to the side with a chain across it, put her in, and rechained it so she wouldn’t get run over by the rollercoaster. This corral is in FULL VIEW OF ALL RIDERS, and when we finished our ride and got off there were three people in it. Three.

So, more Dollywood, and then we leave. As we go across the parking lot, a car passes in front of us, and in the back seat is literally the largest child I’ve ever seen. He’s slumped in the seat, bulging over the seatbelt, breathing shallowly. It was like watching a python digest a sumo wrestler.I have no idea what they did at the park, because I’m not sure this kid could walk, and I’m absolutely sure he was too big for the rollercoaster. Maybe that was why? A good dose of Corral Time and he’ll stop putting chocolate syrup in his Yoo-Hoo?

It was too hot to eat all day so we stop at the Ryan’s on our way back. Those of you who missed the greasy joys of a Southern upbringing may not know about Ryan’s. It’s basically Golden Corral, but not as fancy. If you’re too tired to dress up enough for Golden Corral, you go to Ryan’s.

Now, I am an eater from way back. I was dipping popcorn shrimp in honey mustard when I saw this, and I was still shocked. A family at a table near us had gotten up to leave, but one little girl was still at the table. I heard a shriek, and I turned to see this girl, red-faced, tears leaking out of her little screwed-up eyes, holding onto the table with both hands for dear life and hissing “I’m. Not. READY! I’m. Still. HUNGRY!” Everyone was staring. Everyone at the all-you-can-eat buffet in the Deep South was staring at this little girl’s gluttony tantrum. We had our choice of three kinds of pork, three gravies, and full access to a dessert bar, there was a bucket of ranch dressing in the room, and this eight-year-old girl was putting all us button-straining Confederate eaters to shame.

Ending posts is clearly my weak spot, as attested by the Terry Cooper “and then he bought a motorcycle” ending, which is true but lacks any and all dramatic tension. If this were a short story, I could make up a future for this girl, full of curly fries and boyfriends with beautiful brown eyes who say things like “I like a soft woman” and get employee discounts at Sonic. If this were CNN, I could end this post with some vague, not particularly helpful “tips” for making children marginally less overweight, i.e. “Take the refrigerator out of your child’s bedroom, or stock it with healthy snacks like chicken stock and raw yams.” And if I were giving a report to Ryan’s stockholders, I could just draw little pigs at a trough throwing cash in the air. As it is, I’ll just ask that, next time you enjoy a delicious meal, take a bite for the little girl at Ryan’s. She’ll thank you for it.

Recrap Wednesdays: Zebras and Man Boobs and Arbitrary Decisions! Oh my!

That's how this episode opens. A close-up of waffles being drenched in butter and syrup. Lest we forget these hogs are fatties who like to eat. Thank you Fox. Thank you for that gentle reminder. I just...I just don't know if I can do it anymore. And I mean the universal IT. I'm just not feelin' it this morning. Ted Kennedy's dead, Hello Cupcake ran out of free cupcakes and closed right before we got there last night, I have still yet to figure out how to change the light bulb behind the bar's back splash, my new haircut isn't conducive to the god-awful heat and humidity...some days it's like, what's the point, you know? And then I look into Krazyface Kristian's eyes and I see a beacon of hope. Because as long as we can laugh, we can go on to face another day, right? Right. And considering in this episode K.Face Krissy compares her body dancing the salsa to "two pigs fighting under a blanket," perhaps I can even go on for another week.

Our episode opens with waffles, of course, but then moves on to the arbitrary handing out of the first date. Honestly, everything about this show is so random. There's no reason or rhyme to who gets to go on which date or who gets more face time with Luke or anything. I mean, is a good old-fashioned hot dog eating contest too much to ask for? Anyway, the Gods that be decide Mandy and Kristian will be going on the first date with Luke to learn how to salsa dance. Obviously Kristian shits her pants with excitement because she's clinically insane and has a little Luke Conley Real Doll that she lugs around the house having tea parties and practice make out sessions with. Not really. Well who knows, I wouldn't put it past her.

Mandy irritates me for two reasons: 1.) She has Huckleberry Hound eyes:

and 2.) She's blatantly not overweight! If there were a convention for completely normal body types, she would be a keynote speaker. I just don't get how she's classified as "overweight." Unless "overweight" you mean "needs a supportive bra." Then I get it.

Each girl gets a mini salsa dancing lesson and then some alone time with Luke. Luke chooses to get his alone time with Kristian out of the way first and I get it. It's like ripping a band-aid off. However, this decision sends Mandy into a tailspin of emotion. Because remember, fat people have emotions. And a penchant for waffles. Waffles and emotions. And no date to prom. Proving once and for all that he's a giant creepy weirdo, Luke makes out with Kristian during their alone time—RIGHT AS MANDY ROUNDS THE CORNER! She totally sees the whole thing, runs to the bathroom and cries her face off.

Now, I can understand seeing that and being like "what puh fuck?!" but I don't understand her decision to run away and cry. Because she wastes her entire alone time with Luke having him coddle her and be like, "You're special, you're beautiful, make outs mean nothing, blickity blah blah blah" instead of utilizing that time to actually make out with him herself. I mean come on! What is this amateur hour?! I hate to bring everything back to Rock of Love, and yet I don't hate to at all because that show was genius. Many, many a time, a girl would round the corner to find Bret and a Token Ho making out and instead of being a Needy Nellie about it, she would handle it like a pro. Which make senses because that girl probably was a professional, but still! If Lacey from Rock of Love taught me anything it's that when you see your man making out with another girl on a group date, you walk over confidentaly, say something like, "Oooh, looks like we're having fun over here, mind if I cut in?" which he won't, because what's better than making out with one girl? Two girls. So the girl he was making out will get up (not before saying something catty, probably involving the phrase "sloppy seconds,") walk way and that's your cue to sit down and pick up where she left off. The beauty of this is that you're make out session will be fresh in his mind whereas hers is but a distant memory. BAM! That's how you whore yourself out on national television! Always ask yourself: WWROLD?

The next day Malissa is arbitrarily picked for an alone date. They go on a helicopter ride to a vineyard and go wine tasting. The date pretty much follows the same boring and creepy arc established in every other episode:
couple sits somewhere beautiful -> marvel at how beautiful the scenery is -> Oh PS you look beautiful too -> but I'm fat! -> but you're still beautiful! -> make out -> uncorking wine/champagne bottle ejaculation joke.

Luke's date with Malissa does have the added bonus of a botched tandem bicycle ride, however. They go on the queerest bicycle ride ever. As they ride through the vineyard, they pass a herd of zebras. Honest to god zebras.

The fuck? I've been to Napa Valley and I did not see one zebra the entire time. And things even more mystical and coked out when they BREAK THE BIKE. Their overweight bodies break the tandem bicycle. Personally, I don't believe it. I think the producers tampered with it beforehand because yes, Luke and Malissa aren't exactly the Olsen Twins, but they are in no way offensively overweight enough to break a Huffy in half. I refuse to believe it.

When Malissa comes back from the date, she tells the rest of the girls in the house that she thinks she's in love with Luke. And bring out the waffles and Aunt Jemima because this causes a HAIL STORM of emotion. Kristian goes crazy because (she's crazy and) she's been in love with Luke since her first casting video. Kirstian in her confessional pops a vein in her eye as she shouts, "WELL HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU LOVE HIM? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU LOVE HIM?" Umm, I don't know psychopath. Probably the same reason you're in love with him after only a handful of group dates: because it's a competition and winning things is super fun. Then Heather starts crying because (fat people have emotions and) she's not in love with Luke yet and feels behind. "What's wrong with me?" she sobs, "Why am I not feeling this?" To which Laura and I both shouted at the television in perfect synchronization: "BECAUSE YOU'RE NORMAL!!!!!!" Which is why it's better to watch this show with a friend or a spotter.

The next day, Luke takes Anna, Heather and The Tranny on a group date to the beach. It's awkward...Luke complains later in his confessional that he's sick of the girls relying on him to direct the conversation all of the time. Yeah. Us too. Because Luke decides to direct the conversation towards man boobs and suntan lotion. Really makes a girl miss the awkward silence. During Luke's one-on-one time with Heather, she tells him that she's starting to get jealous of the other girls and this does not make Luke happy. Luke thought Heather would have more confidence in their connection and this insecurity is a real turn-off. Which is kind of odd considering Luke has a raging insecurity fetish. I thought he'd be coming in his pants during this conversation, but no. Luke Conley: you surprise me.

The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Mandy utilizes this time to have a heart-to-heart with Luke about how she used to have an eating disorder. Wamp, wamp...Things continue down Awkward Avenue when Kristian tells Luke that she's in love with him. In three different languages. And then in English. Just so there's no lingering confusion. Luke says he's "touched." Now, ideally when you tell someone that you love them, you want to hear it back. Luke saying that he was touched was very kind of him, but sort of a red flag to Kristian that homeboy is not so much in love with her back. Instead of picking up on that flag, Kristian floats back to the other girls, cries and gushes about how in love she is and how he tooooootalllllyyyyy loves her too. This causes The Tranny to reach into her boxers, grab her balls by the scruff and find Luke to tell him that she's "not comfortable developing feelings for the man that Kristian loves, so maybe she shouldn't be in the picture." OOOO! TRANNY TIME! Luke tells Tranny not to pay attention to anything the other girls are saying in the house (read: "WOAH WOAH WOAH, Kristian said what now?! I love her like I love a sturdy dining room table or ample closet space!") and follow her heart. Well played Tranny...well played indeed.

At elimination, Luke chooses Anna first, which is bizarre and shocking because she's gotten the least face and also has Huckleberry Hound eyes. Again, arbitrary decisions 2009. In the end it comes down to Kristian, Heather or The Tranny. This is the same point when Teresa and Dave showed up at my place to find me and Laura clutching each other on the couch screaming "IT'S GOT TO BE HEATHER!!!" over and over again at the TV. BUT! HE PICKS THE TRANNY and sends home Krazyface Kristian and Homegirl Heather! OIJF293F09J2FOIFfijwoei! Arbitrary, horrible decisions that make no sense. After sending the girls off, Luke runs after Kristian because "she needs a little more explanation and a little more time with me." I wish he hadn't done that, because then we get to see her break down in Luke's arms and it feels border-line inappropriate to watch. She does that cry where you can't catch your breath and your.words.are.all.short.and.choppy.like.this and snot's uncontrollably flying out of your nose...we weren't meant to see that. Poor little bird. I almost feel badly for exclusively referring to her as Krazyface Kristian. Almost...

Cry Count: 9...... +50 for Kristian's breakdown. So, 59.

Next week: The four remaining ladies go on their last one-on-one date with Luke and SURPRISE! Their families are there!

Recrap Wednesday: Homely, Unfortunate People in a Dating Situation

Ever since More to Love debuted, I've incorporated into my weekly schedule what I call "Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays." On Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays, I go to the gym, come home, do my nails, give myself a facial, pluck my eyebrows, watch More to Love, and for one night and one night only, allow myself to feel really, really good about myself. Last night I broke tradition. When I got home from work, I didn't go to the gym. Instead, I took a home pregnancy test because I'm a psychopath and the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon scared the ever-living shit out of me:

(FYI: generic brand pregnancy tests are 50% off at the CVS downtown on 14th street. I'm just sayin'...)

As it turns out, I am not carrying the son of God. However, any feelings of relief derived from finding out that I'm not pregnant were immediately canceled out by the realization that this just means I've gained weight. Beer bellies aren't as easy to abort as babies. Or at least they're more expensive.

And speaking of gaining weight! Last night's third episode of More to Love was rich. Rich like the chocolate fountains from which our ladies guzzle. Laura joined me in watching this week's episode and I must say, it was great watching the show with a friend. It was like sharing a really good, juicy, dirty secret with someone that you've been dying to get off your chest and then you do and you have someone to be like, "I KNOW, CRAZY RIGHT?!!??!!" with. It was cathartic.

The beginning of episode three established two things: 1.) Kristian is in love with Luke in a Psychopants McGee kind of way and 2.) I'm 99.9% sure there's a tranny in the house. Moving on...

This week was Fatty Prom 2009! HUZZAH! Luke arrives at the house and tells the girls he understands they were left out of things in high school because of their weight and he wants to be the man to make that up to them. "I think prom is a very special event that most of us missed out on," he says, "So...WILL YOU ALL GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?" BLOKAY, let's stop right there before this crazy train gets any further down the tracks. First of all, hey Luke―you're a bit of a Presumptuous Patrick for assuming that just because these gals are overweight, they must have missed out things in high school like prom, aren't ya? Because prom isn't like a pair of hot pants; you don't have to be super skinny to get in. I would venture that at least five of these ladies had the time of their lives at prom. I mean, shit! Malissa used to be a skinny, bitchy, blond chick! You know she was suckin' dick for coke all night and having the time of her life doing it!

After promposing, Luke gives each girl a box containing a gown for them to wear. And let me tell you: spangly, spangly two-by-four, can't get through the ballroom door. Although to be fair my prom dress was mildly to moderately spangly as well, so I guess I shouldn't hate. But then again I was 17, and what's being 17 for if not wearing spangles and spray tanning the outline of a Playboy bunny sticker onto your pelvis? (However, those spangles dim a bit when they're on a 24-year-old woman hurling herself at a Harland Williams sound-alike on nationally televised reality dating competition.)

So our gals get glammed up and head off to Fatty Prom 2009! Of course because absolutely none of them have an ounce of game, they all cry on Luke's shoulder and tell him the heartbreaking tale of why they never made it to prom. Some weren't asked. Some just went with friends. Some managed to bribe a date. Some went to the Waffle House on I-95 and drown their sorrows in a bottomless order of Chicken-Fried Steak washed down with a boat of gravy. Either way, Luke promises to give each girl the Prom of her dreams. Which doesn't sit right with me. Because who at the age of 20-something is still dreaming about the Prom of their dreams? As you get older, don't you realize that there's something better waiting for you than Prom? Let it go, boo. Let it go.

Back at Fatty Prom 2009, each girl gets some face-time with Luke in the form of a slow dance. Luke has to teach each girl how to slow dance, because, you know, obviously fat people have never danced in their entire life. They exist on a plane parallel to the movie Footloose where if they try to dance, John Lithgow suddenly appears and hits them about the head with a Bible and shoves a chicken wing in their mouth. I swear to god at one point Luke is shuffling a a chick back and forth and she looks down and shrieks, "Look at me! I'M DANCING!!!" What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you?? You're fat, not paralyzed! It was at this point in the show that Laura slowly looked over at me with wide eyes and said, "I don't think these people have been rejected because of their weight. I mean, if you can shop at Macy's, it might be your personality." No truer words have ever been spoken.

Later, Emme saunters in and throws a curve ball into the evening: Luke's two best friends from college (Chase and Sam) are there! And Chase and Sam are tasked with picking a Prom Queen, who will then go on an individual date with Luke. Ah, Chase and Sam. One is the only black person in a seven-mile radius and the other has a beard and fo-hawk as big as his heart. God bless them.

After some awkward chit-chat and slow dancing, Chase and Sam pick Danielle as Prom Queen. Everyone is shocked and horrified. Specifically Luke, who as he so kindly puts it, "wouldn't ever put Danielle at the top of his list." I couldn't help but wonder if Chase and Sam chose Danielle as Prom Queen just to fuck around with their bro. But I can't let myself think that. Because it's too depressing to think that even on the show designed to make fat girls feel wanted and sexy, Danielle is still asked out as a joke.

However, Danielle isn't exactly doing herself any favors. Her one-on-one date with Luke can be nutshelled using only three words: a, fucking & catastrophe. But because I'm a sick individual, allow me to elaborate. First D-meister wouldn't shut her trap in the limo. She talked about everything and anything and nothing interesting. At one point, the following sentence actually came out of her mouth: "one time my dad dressed in drag at Sea World and that was like, AWESOME memories." (God I'm so jealous I can't say that.)

And speaking of Sea World, Luke takes Danielle to a seafood restaurant. Which is awkward because she doesn't eat seafood. WAMP, WAMP! However she does drink and, of course, eat dessert. So she proceeds to get drunk and deep throat a chocolate covered banana rolled in nuts. No, but really:

After performing sexual acts on a banana that are illegal in six states, Danielle and Luke take a romantic gondola ride. And by romantic, I mean informative and awkward. Curled up in Luke's manly man arms, she confesses that she's never been asked on a second date and is (drum roll please,) a virgin. Danielle. HELP ME HELP YOU HELP YOURSELF! For you see, a date is like a job interview. I wouldn't go into a job interview and say, "HI! My name is Meg McBlogger and I like to do as little work as humanly possible while still getting paid! Oh and I'm never on-time, steal office supplies, order personal things on the company's Peapod account and will talk shit about you on my blog! KBYE!" Because on a job interview, as on a date, you're trying to make yourself look as appealing as possible. I'm not saying to lie about yourself, I'm just saying maybe don't let your Unfortunate Flag fly quite so high. This miiiight increase your chances of getting a second date slightly.

The next day, Luke decides that he still feels so badly about Heather getting sick on their first group date, he invites her on an individual date. And let me tell you, we could all learn a thing or two from Heather about how to act on a date. Because I say god DAMN, she knocked that shit outta the park! I am now the proud captain of Team Heather, because that girl has got some GAME. Not only is she just adorable, but on the date she was breezy, engaging, funny, intelligent, didn't tell him that she can't touch a man without soiling herself, was genuine and SHE initiated the kiss. Madam...hats off to you. That is how you date.

The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Kristian gets rull, rull creepy. She corners Luke and tells him that she's never experienced anything like this in her entire life and that he's the most amazing man she can think of "since she's been dreaming of princes and princesses and...I think I'm falling in love with you." Krazyface continues in her confessional to say that this is her "one chance at true love." To which I just want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say: 1.) You've never experienced anything like this? You just met him. Just because someone is nice to you for once does not true love make. 2.) You are just a baby child. Of course you haven't experienced love yet. Calm down and stop trying to rush it. 3.) You sound fucking crazy right now 4.) This is not your one shot at love. I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that your vagina will not fall off after the show ends. Christ.

In the end, Luke has to eliminate four (count 'em!) four girls. His last pick comes down to Bonnie, Danielle or Kristian. Of course Luke should choose Bonnie because she loves skewered meats, compared bitch-face Christina to the smelly kid next to you in elementary school, and most importantly, hid a doddle of Luke in her cleavage and made him pick it out during the pre-elimination mixer. But, life isn't fair and he picks Krazyface Kristian. But Bonnie has the best attitude about being eliminated ever! She kind of shurgs, looks into the camera and says, "Oh wellz, I would have scared the crap out of his mom," and goes on her way. Oh Bonnie. Laura and I decided you can sit at our lunch table any day of the week. Welcome.

Final Cry Count: 10

Next week: Lauren calls out Kristian for being emotionally unstable in front of Luke! We have our first possible below the belt hookup! Luke dramatically tells Heather he needs to tell her something he's been holding back! GASP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!