Drinking Game Friday is totally roofus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm dog sitting!"

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

I'm too sick to blog. But I puked this up just for you.

Ugh, I'm sick. But not with my normal explosive tonsillitis/Tiny Tim/Satine a la Moulin Rouge/my own fault for not getting my tonsils out sickness. Although this is still my fault. As per usual...

Saturday night I went out a-boozin', as the young kids do. I made the very conscious decision to get drunk. I had the time, I had the money and I couldn't remember the last time I was good and drunk. "Oh man, I'm going to get drunk tonight and I am excited!" I exclaimed to Alex as I stood in line at Subway, waiting to get a delicious sandwhich. "Ooo! Let's do that!" Alex replied. HURRAY! We had a plan.

So I went home, ate my meager six-inch tuna on wheat and thought, "Welp, that's all the food I'll need for the rest of the afternoon/evening/night/my entire life. Guess I'll go drink the equivalent of the Indian Ocean in beer now." And drink the Indian Ocean in beer I did.

As Alex and I were leaving the last bar on Andrew's Birthday Bar Crawl 2009, we stopped at Ben's Chili Bowl to get food. That's where things get a little hazy. I remember 1.) not wearing any shoes (which in retrospect makes me want to curl up and die); 2.) not much else. I faintly recall it being hard to get a cab and thinking "man, these chili cheese fries are going to be delicious, but they are hot." And that's all she wrote.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was Co-Blogger Chris, who was in town for the weekend and had made plans to get brunch with me that morning. I let it go to voicemail as I clawed the walls in an effort to make them stop spinning. (When I get hungover, I get hung-the-fuck-over. I'm never like, "Ooo! I've got a bit of a headache! Tee-hee!" It's always slightly traumatic. I'm specifically thinking of a morning after 4th of July a few years ago spent lying on my parent's kitchen floor, rolling around on the cold tiles, crying my face off. My parents sat disinterested at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, kicking me gently every now and then to make sure I was still alive.)

After the room stopped spinning a little bit, I sat up and surveyed my situation:
1.) I was completely naked. This is bizarre because unlike Boss #1, I despise sleeping naked.
2.) My clothes from the night before were nowhere in sight.
3.) Curled up on the pillow next to me was two (count 'em, two) orders of half-eaten cheese fries.
4.) Being a tosser and turner, there was cheese virtually everywhere. All over my sheets, pillows face, chest, arms...dignity.
5.) I tossed back the covers and discovered a rogue pair of tweezers and a bottle of club soda in bed with me.

Given these clues, I've deduced that after leaving Ben's Chili Bowl, I came home, made violent yet passionate love to two orders of cheese fries, tweezed my eyebrows, sipped some club soda and passed out.

A few minutes later, Co-Blogger Chris was a-knockin' on my door. I answered looking like the hot-morning-after-cheese-show that I was. He seemed worried. I hopped back in bed, fully expecting him to follow. Instead he opted to sit in a chair. Three feet away from me. "...You're not getting into bed with me because of the cheese, aren't you?" [Chris looks around awkwardly,] "....Yeah..." Sigh. "And please go wash your face. I can't take you seriously with all that cheese everywhere." Double sigh.

So it's Monday now. I think I'm still full from my midnight cheese raping. I feel like I'm going to vom at any given second. Still. This is so painful.

I remember a time when I would wake up on Sunday mornings and be like, "OH MAN, who's this dude in my bed??" And now it's "OH MAN, who are these cheese fries in my bed."

Humbling 2.0