Are You There God? It's Me, Meggles.

I've been 26 for a little over a month now and I still find it upsetting. I know every year when my birthday rolls around, I'm all, "OMG HAHA I FEEL SO OLD, LOLOL!!", but this is the first year that I actually mean it. Because I am waaaaay too immature to be as old as 26 feels. My peers are getting married and it's not because they're white trash or in the military—because it's age appropriate. I think about where I am now at 26 versus where my friends are, and I feel like I should be living in my parent's basement playing World of Warcraft all day, still trying to touch my first boob. I'm just so fuckin' behind.

My dad once told me that getting older is weird because in his mind, he's been the 18-year-old version of himself for the past 45 years. I get that, on an obviously much smaller scale. In my mind, I've been the 22-year-old version of myself for the past four years. I look at recently tagged photos of myself on Facebook and can't believe that's what I look like. In my mind and in the mirror, I'm always 2007 Meg. And aesthetically speaking, 2007 was a good year for me. I was always either in class or working in the design lab, so I only ate like a meager piece of turkey and a hand full of Bugles everyday, plus 20 cups of coffee a Klonopin or two before class to shift me back to neutral. I was so fucking thin. So fucking unhealthy, and so fucking thin. Also, New York hadn't happened and my entire life hadn't fallen apart yet, so my body chemistry still had a few more years before it would be raped and pillaged by antidepressants. Now I look at pictures of myself and think I just look like a tired and puffy version of the old me. It's depressing. Which is ironic. But mostly depressing.

While I can always get more sleep and wean myself off my meds (which I've started doing! 360mg to 27.5! Sure, the Prince of Darkness occasionally tells me to burn things and cut myself, but guess who can fit into those skinny jeans again, GIRLFRIEND???), I can't change how I feel. And despite having the maturity of a HOOF ARTED? t-shirt, I find myself feeling old more and more these days. Here are some recent examples:

- I saw that Lara was on gchat the other night and I knew she had just come back from her big end of year...grad school...art...instillation...thing, so I checked her status to see how it went. Upon reading something to the effect of, "I think I just kicked ass!", my 100% honest to God reaction was to say, out loud, to no one in particular, as I was alone: "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC!!!" in full Austin Powers voice. The absurdity of what I had just done startled me. It was like a bat had flown in the window. I jumped, my eyes went wide in horror, I made a little "meep!" noise—I couldn't believe what had just happened. I was, and frankly still am, so confused where that came from and why my body's natural reaction upon learning good news was to bust out a 14-year-old pop culture reference. The only way it could have been better is if I had said, "YEAH BABY, VeRy ShhhhhhhhAgAdELiC-A-ZIGGA-ZIG-AHHH I DON'T KNOW IF YOU HEARD BUT THEY CLONED A SHEEP AND THE ENGLISH PATIENT JUST WON BEST PICTURE AT THE OSCARS THESE THINGS ARE INCREDIBLY RELEVANT HALE-BOPP!!!!"

- At 2:56 this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from tweeting the following: "WHAT?? Was anyone else not aware that Vincent Prince hosted "Mystery!" before Diana Rigg?!"

And you know how I knew that? Because I was watching old episodes of "Mystery!" at 2:56 this morning.

- I had dinner with my family this past Tuesday night and it somehow came up that I had just written and abandoned a blog post about how I spent an entire night looking at a map of the United States on googlemaps, being continually blown away by the discrepancies between where I thought everything was and where it actually is. At the end of my little schpiel (which included the observation, "The Mississippi River? It's long. It's like, fucking long, you guys. It goes from Minnesota to the gulf of Mexico. How do you even begin to wrap your mind around something that?"), my mom looked at me, made a little joint-to-mouth-I'm-smoking-a-doobie hand motion and laughed. And the thing is, I wish. I wish I could chalk spending an entire evening alone in my apartment being mind-boggled by a map of the United States up to drug use, but I can't. Because truthfully, I can't think of anything more in character than to be home alone, on what is quite possibly a Saturday night, laying in bed, drinking back-to-back bottles of soda water from my beloved Soda Stream, watching "Twin Peaks" reruns on Netflix, and musing to myself that Bermuda is quote, "way the fuck out there". That, my friends, is the Meghan Rowland experience. Once upon a time it involved Jägermeister and questionable decisions, now it involves hydration and a geography lesson. Obama's president. Bin Laden's dead. Progress.

- As you may or may not know, my sister owns my apartment and used to live here before she moved in with her now husband. In our building, the sweetest little old Ethiopian woman works the front desk on Saturday mornings, and every time I see her, we have an extremely uncomfortable conversation about my sister. Every. Saturday. Morning. When I moved in after Becca moved out, it was always, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister engaged yet?" After she got engaged it became, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister married yet?" And now that she's married, it's, "Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?" Ooof. Rebeccca is not pregnant. Nor does she want to be for at least a few more years, which means that I have at least a few more years of enduring this conversation.

"Nope, ha ha, Becca's not pregnant yet."

"Why not?"

"Ha ha, I'm not sure? Definitely one day though." [JAB, JAB, JABs the up button for the elevator]

"What does her husband say?"

"He mostly just talks about football and artisan beers." [JAB, JAB, JAB]

This past Saturday, however, things got personal.

"Hello May-gahn. Is your sister pregnant yet?"

"Nope, not yet."

"Well, I guess they did just get married. Are you getting married anytime soon?"

"Ha ha, no, I'm five years younger than Becca, so I've got some time. I'm not even dating someone right now. I'll probably get married when she gets pregnant, off in the distant future, ha ha."

And that's when the sweet smile on her face disappeared completely and she—hand to God—crossed her arms and slowly shook her head at me in disapproval. Right. Because damn those harpy Rowland sisters! Sitting up there in 401, flinging their fertile eggs off of tiny little spoons and onto the streets, defiant in the face of certain spinsterdom, despite one blatantly being married and the other being...choosy. When will they learn? WHEN WILL THEY LEARN?!

- Speaking of my apartment, I love it, but I despise my couch. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, it's six-years-old, I left a straightening iron on one of the arms once in 2008 and melted the shit out of it, it's pilling, slip covers never fit on it properly, blah blah blah—it's a piece of shit and I want a new one. That being said, are you aware of how expensive couches are?! It's absurd! Even if I go down to Sticks 'n Stuff and get a shitty sofa that some Persian guy just came all over, it'll still cost me like 300-bucks. I can't get over it. So now, I'm obsessed with couches. Things like, "Well, that's a handsome couch!" fly out of my mouth when I go to friends of friends' house parties. I want to talk "couch shop" wherever I go. "Where'd you get your couch?" "How much did it cost?" "Is she a convertible or a British two-seater?" "Mind if I take 'er for a test sit?"

A few weeks ago, I found myself watching an episode of "The Price is Right" at the gym on mute. When it came time for the showcase showdown, per usual, one option was the "flashy" showcase with a motorboat and a jet ski and a week in Tampa or some shit, while the other was a modest living room set. In this particular episode, the first showcase presented was the living room. As the contestant stood there trying to decide if she was going to bid or pass, I put myself in her shoes and thought, "Are you fucking kidding me?? It's not even an option—take the living room! The couch is huge, you get free carpeting, and you can always just sell the hutch on ebay or something. God, I would kill for that couch. What idiot would actually pick the speedboat? It's so impractical. I can't even imagine how much money it would cost to store or dock at a marina, not to mention tax and insurance." And I can honestly say that that moment is the oldest I have ever felt in my entire life. Because when I was a little Meglet staying home from school, eatin' Kix and watching "The Price is Right", I lived for seeing those doors fly open and hearing Rod Roddy shout, "—and a NEW CAAAAAAAAAR!!!" Nothing was as exciting as that. Nothing. I always wondered who those suckers were that wanted a living room set over twin Harley Davidson motorcycles and a trip to Baltimore. And now, at 26-years-old, I am that sucker.

...I'm going back to staring at a map of the U.S. now, because Michigan's mind-boggling little top hat that in no way touches Michigan is easier to digest than my life at this point. Good day to you and go Wolverines.

$1,699. How many make out sessions is that?

Ok, so I'm having some money issues. I'm having a fiscal moment, if you will. The extreme delay of yesterday's post proved that I really need to man-up and find a way to get myself a new laptop. I can't operate to the best of my ability on this abacus, bless it's pre-Colonial heart. A few kind souls have suggested that I get a PayPal account and put up a donate button on the blog, but I just genuinely don't feel comfortable doing that. Let's not pretend I don't communicate with you people all day and know you like the back of my hand; you're just as broke as I am, if not more. I don't want your money. I just want your votes. That's right, I need you to vote 2birds1blog for another competition. IT'S IRRITATING AND SELF-SERVING, I KNOW! But follow my logic:

2b1b gets featured on a "Best Of" list or wins a competition —> more readers and more publicity —> odds increase that the blog will land in the lap of someone who can pay me —> money —> purchase new laptop/able to pay Comcast bill/buy Adobe Creative Suite/buy podcasting tools —> more blog posts, website upgrade, weekly podcast (2birds1podcast WILL happen this year, god damnit. It has to. Creating it was my New Year's Resolution. Oh shit, am I not supposed to say what my New Year's Resolution was? Are resolutions like birthday wishes? Did I just ruin everything? Damnit...) = YOU ARE A HAPPY LITTLE CAMPER ENTERTAINED IN YOUR CUBICLE ALL DAY! So really, your happiness is my end game here. I'm just thinking of you, baby.

So if you could be a lamb and go here (Washingtonian magazine's Best of Washington 2010), scroll down to the bottom and fill in 2birds1blog for #52: Best Blogger, I would appreciate it immensely. I swear it'll take two shakes and you'll be automatically entered to win tickets to the Best Of party and dinner for two at one of Washingtonian's 100 Very Best Restaurants. Which is actually pretty cool. It's like Washingtonian bribed you for me! That was awfully nice of them. I'll still go into the woods tomorrow and ask the Jäger Deer if we can do another giveaway Friday though. Just in case dinner and a cocktail party is too classy to get you to vote; Jäger and I got you covered.

Oh! And speaking of me and Jäger and my money woes! You know what is incredibly irritating? I got a copy of my letter of termination in the mail the other week (after I left it on my desk while trying not to pee my pants the day I got fired) and one of the official reasons I got fired was: "Working for other companies while employed by us including Jager."


That fucking gets my goat for so many reasons. Reasons that I will share with you now:

1.) That is the most bullshit reason to fire someone I have ever heard in my entire life. I mean, the entire firing was kind of bullshit, of course, but that specifically is the most bullshittiest reason of them all. I wasn't allowed to work for another company while working for them? Oh, REALLY? I don't remember signing anything. I call shenanigans. Also, do you know how many people in this world have second jobs? A shit ton. You can't fire someone for having a second job. And if you want someone to just work for you, you need to pay them more than 32 cotton swabs a year with no benefits, for Christ's sake.

2.) I never had a second job! I worked for them and only them. Granted, I didn't work very hard, but that's not what's being argued here. That was argued about two lines down.

3.) It's Jäger, not Jager. If you're going to take the time to draft an adorable little professional-looking letter of termination, at least take the time to find the umlaut. It just shows that you give a fuck. And I assume they do give a fuck or else they wouldn't have slaughtered an entire forest printing out the blog to slam on my desk for dramatic effect, fired me or threatened legal action in the first place. Insert —> Symbol —> ä. God, I even have to show them how to fire me correctly. That office must be a mess without me.

4.) Most importantly: I DON'T WORK FOR JÄGER! That's the entire fucking problem! I have worked my ass off trying to show Jäger what an asset our community would be to them and I haven't seen a single penny as a result of it. So the fact that I got fired for being on their payroll makes me want to fill a swimming pool with the resulting irony and drown myself in it. Now, I realize I could possibly solve my fiscal problems by suing them for wrongful termination, but alas—I'm not white trash and my answer to everything isn't to sue everyone. In the immortal words of Destiny's Child: "My momma taught me better than that."

So. I already work and write. I can't do freelance design because I don't have the necessary design programs on my abacus. There has to be an additional way to get $1,699 fast. Here are my ideas thus far:

- Hooking. OK, HEAR ME OUT! Blow jobs? Hand jobs? Ugh, no thank you. I barely do that for love, nevertheless money. I'd consider having sex for money. At least with sex I get something in return. But sex for money with strangers? 'Eh...it's a bit much. I'd totally make out with someone for money and maybe have sex with them if they're attractive and we get along. I'm pretty sure that's just called "hooking up with someone," but either way, I'm into it. You could just take the money you'd spend buying me drinks and hand it directly over to me in cold hard cash. And shit—if there's a connection between us, there's always the chance I might blow you! A black man is President; anything's possible! So what I'm trying to say is, option #1: become a make out hooker.

- Before you suggest it, stripping is out. I can barely do 30 minutes on the elliptical, I'm not physically grinding a pole all night for all the tea in China.

- Also selling my eggs is out. I looked into it. You have to do five months of daily hormone injection shots first. Uh, no thanks. Sometimes when I'm at my parents house, I'll stick one of my mom's disposable insulin pen needles in my arm to get attention and I seriously have to psych myself up for like a solid five minutes first to do it. Then once I do it my mom's never impressed because she has to do it in her stomach, so I try to stick it in my stomach and puss out every single time and then get yelled at for wasting another needle without even injecting myself with it. Oh well. At least I get the maternal attention I so desperately crave. (This isn't an adorable Meglet story, by the way. The last time I did this was in February. Yeah, I'm 25. What of it?)

- Sell my plasma. You can get $36 a trip for selling plasma x the twice a week donation cap = $72 a week x 4 weeks = $288 a month; $1,699 ÷ $288 = 5.8 months. Psh, that's actually not that good. Plus I'd have to pass a drug test which is just laughable. Sigh. I just really wish I had sperm. I'd hit up every single fertility clinic on the eastern seaboard and jizz my way to MacBook Pro victory. But plasma's a start, I guess.

- This next idea is Helena's and I think it's fucking genius: Stay at Helena's house or, ideally, house sit for someone loaded and rent out my apartment. I'm not going to lie to you, my studio is fucking sweet and I'll pimp her out to the highest bidder. I mean, hi, I was at the Cherry Blossom Festival last Friday; this town is fucking packed to it's Dockers wearing balls with tourists this time of year. Why stay at a cold, informal hotel when you can stay in someone's sweet and incredibly well decorated (if I may say so myself. My friend Jenna also once described it as a "museum of cool." HER WORDS, NOT MINE.) studio?? We're talkin' luxury bathroom, full kitchen, a bed nicknamed "Operation Max Comfort" because I have designed it specifically to be the most comfortable place on the fucking planet, fully stocked bar AND refrigerated Jäger machine, cable, DVD player, wi-fi, rooftop pool with amazing view, security and most importantly, located AN single block away from Dupont Circle and the metro. I mean, please. I don't think I'm asking for a lot when I say I want $150/night. Splitting it between four people to make it cheaper? I don't give a shit as long as I get my money. Put two in the bed, one on the couch and bring an air mattress. There, I just solved that for you. And you're welcome. (As are tips.)

The only problem with this, of course, is the moral and ethical questions it raises as this is technically my sister's apartment. Technically, meaning that she out-right owns it. 100%. But Becca knows what a wile, shifty little character I am, right? She finds it charming! Right?...RIGHT?!

- Get a development deal for my own reality show. I'm actually not sure if having your own reality show pays monetarily, but it certainly pays in product placement. People throw free shit at those reality ho-bags all the time hoping it'll show up on TV and I will gladly use anything Apple throws my way. Perhaps a new 15" MacBook Pro? Oh, hey thanks! Just what I needed! Getting a reality show can't be that hard, right? It seems like everybody has their own reality show these days. (Side note: remember when Nick Hogan was shopping around a reality show about getting out of prison and he wanted to call it Real Ality? That never fails to make me laugh-out-loud every single time I think about it. It's like Old Faithful.) Plus, nobody can seem to make a reality show about living in DC that doesn't either get canceled before it even airs (Blonde Charity Mafia—R.I.P.) or make people want to stick freshly sharpened pencils directly into their eyeballs. (Real World DC. You tried. You tried real hard.) I've got this, right?

Although Helena raised the good point of what would they show when I watch TV all day? My idea:


- Find an eccentric millionaire to fund my blog, buy me all of my technological needs and in turn become the Patron Saint of 2birds1blog. I'm over finding corporate sponsorship. OVER IT, I say. Corporations aren't hip to the fact that blogs are a good investment and nuts to them for it. Thus, I just need to find a good-old fashioned patron of the arts to keep us afloat. A patron of the boner-joke arts, true, but that's an art. Right?

Oh my god I'm so fucking screwed. This is never going to happen, is it? But like, ever. Like in the greater scheme of things. I'm so depressed. I'll be passing out fliers about my make out services in the greater Dupont/K Street area if you need me.

Winner winner, chicken dinner

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

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

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

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

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

I poofed my hair for this?

Today is going to be a grab bag of a post. Because I'm so fucking hungover. Probably going to vomit. Hope nobody's in the bathroom when I do. Hurts to make sentence structure. Want hug. But not too hard. Or will vomit.

- First things first: remember last Friday when I jokingly asked somebody to make me a ringtone of The Situation whispering "That's a lot of pickles" from Jersey Shore? Well reader Candace M. actually did. BOOM! So, thank you Candace. Give me your address and I'll send you my first born child.

- Re: my job—I got an email this morning from Boss #1 and #2 saying that we need to sit down and have "a talk" this afternoon. This does not bode well for me. I'd go into how I called my mom crying and how my stomach feels like a 300-pound man is breakdancing inside of it, but where's the humor in that?

- Instead let's talk about what a bust J-Woww and Pauly D's appearance at McFadden's last night was. What the fuck was up with that, you guys? Dan, Andrew V (not Andrew of The Great Juno Debate fame) and I got Gudio/Guidetted up (seriously, check out Andrew's Pauly D hair. It was a work of art,) drained my Jäger tap and headed over to the bar at about 10:30ish. First of all, there was a line to get in. STEEERIKE ONE! I have a theory that any establishment with a line, cover charge, or raffled happy hours is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. So, basically speaking, my theory is that McFadden's is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. HOWEVER! You don't get the opportunity to fist pump with J-Woww and Pauly D everyday and I'd do just about anything for a good story (or a free t-shirt,) so we got in line. Then we found out that the cover charge was $40. STEEERIKE TWO! 40 fucking dollars?! Are you kidding me?! I was ambivalent when I thought it was five! I don't think I'd pay 40 dollars to get into a burning house to pull a family member out, nevertheless gawk at two reality TV stars across a crowded Bro bar. We briefly considered pulling a "I'm somewhat-borderline-almost-kind-of-just-a-little-bit-of-a bloglebrity. Wanna knock a zero off for me?" but I think the only person impressed by that is my mom ("impressed"..."upsest"...semantics) and it probably wouldn't pull that much weight with the bouncer. Plus he point-blank told us we were asking him too many questions and to go away. That was also a nice little clue. Suddenly cameras started going off in front of the entrance, as J-Woww and Pauly D had shown up and were doing a TV interview with Christ only knows who on the saddest little cat fashion show of a red carpet I have ever seen. I took a picture with my digital camera but it wasn't nearly interesting enough to justify searching through my closet to find the USB cord to upload it onto here. Sorry about that. After a few minutes the dynamic duo went inside and we decided to take advantage of the line of people and promote the blog. And when I say "we" promoted the blog, I mean Andrew V and Dan promoted the blog while I awkwardly lurked by the trashcans playing with my hair because self promotion makes me heinously uncomfortable. And then we ran out of stickers. And started sobering up. STEEERIKE THREE! We were outta there. We hopped in a cab and went over to Big Hunt (where our ironic Guido outfits were no longer obviously ironic) and drank our dissapointment away.

Final summation: Jersey Shore night at McFadden's was a total bust and in no way worth the 10 dollars I spent on the powder blue cheetah print hoodie and matching bra strap headband I wore to it.


(Turn up sound!)

Welp! Off to go have my meeting with The Axis of Evil. I'm going to channel my idol, Kelly Cutrone, and utilize some of her many words of wisdom: "Be brave and always tell the truth. And don't take any shit" and considering what's probably about to happen, I will specifically be utilizing: "If you have to cry, go outside." Will do Ms. Cutrone. Will do.

Results of our Home for the Holidays Competition!

First and foremost, thank you so much to everyone who sent stories in for our little competition! Co-Blogger Chris and I read them and loled our pants off. And once our pants were off, we made love for seven whole hours. That's how much your stories moved us. They made Chris temporarily straight and me temporarily more tolerant of Gingers. Behold your glory. But of course there can only be one winner, so congratulations to...Nate Hinners!

Just kidding, that's not Nate Hinners. That's Nate Dowse, UW-Patville mechanical engineering major and All-City Swim Champ, who's picture comes up when you do a google image search for Nate Hinners. And while I'm sure Nate Dowse is a totally nice guy, one hell of a swimmer and a maven with a wrench, he's not the winner of the Jäger Tap Dispenser—Nate Hinners is. So congratulations Nate! We loved your story and it will run in all of it's awkward glory tomorrow! Enjoy the tap dispenser and take a (few) shot(s) for us.

(And for the record, yes, that really is me on the right. Told you my boobs were big.)

Honorable Mentions (in no particular order):

Toria Johnson.
"When I was twenty, I met my first lesbian. Wait, what? I know what you're thinking. Was this girl living under a rock? I'd really love to say yes, because that would make me feel better about myself. Except...I lived in Bellevue. Which is essentially Seattle. And Seattle regularly hosts things like naked bicycle races. It's not exactly hetero-palooza. But whatever you guys, I am an embarrassingly oblivious person. So when I say that Louise was my first-ever lesbian acquaintance, what I really mean is that this is the first person who was explicitly labeled as a lesbian. But I can pretty confidently say I would have clocked her even without the debrief, because she spent 76% of her time hitting on my grandmother..."
Toria, you had me at "lesbian" and "enema."


Emily Clark
"...So to recap: we're at dinner having discussions and reminiscences of early marriage and how all the married folks met each other. The newly engaged couple start telling HILARIOUS (not) stories of how they just moved in together and it's so crazy learning all these things that you didn't know about the other person like zomg did you know Frank uses q-tips to clean his nostrils every morning upon waking??? etc. etc. Everyone chuckles and my mother turns towards me and says "Don't worry honey, you'll learn all about this when you move in with your husb--- I MEAN PARTNER." (caps/italics/bold added by me but seriously that's what it sounded like in my head). This, of course, halts ALL conversation, every head whips in my direction because HOLY SHIT, SHE'S GAY?!?! Whereupon I practically shit myself trying to swallow the food I had in my mouth and say Haha it'll be a husband fyi just in case you are all wondering ha ha ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

fffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

And, uh, there you have it. A long-winded telling of how my mom informed me that I was a lesbian in front of my family and 10 odd neighbor-folk. "
True or false...your mother and my mother go to I Think My Daughter is a Lesbian Anonymous (ITMDLA) meetings together?

Emily Shepard
"...I dated a guy about nine months ago (coincidental number, no this is not a story of how I have a lovechild.) We were not super serious. We were never bf/gf. And it lasted about 6 months total. I broke it off because I thought neither of us cared enough to try any harder at it, and I was done. Have we got an image in our head of how this 'relationship' was? Good..."
You just perfectly described 78% of every relationship I've had in 24 years of life. Tip of the hat to you, Ms. Shepard.

Lilly T.
"First, I have to warn you that this is a story that is disparaging of someone who is dead. So, reading it may secure you a place in hell. I don't know for sure, but I suspect it."
(Honorary win for best introduction ever.)

Holly Phillips
"...The year after, I got gymnastics Barbie for Christmas—a gift I specifically asked for. When I opened it, I was super pumped! I mean, her joints were like all crazy and crap. But my excitement was quickly deflated when my grandpa immediately asked, “Holly, why did you get the black one?” I guess you should know my grandparents are typical southern conservatives—they mean well, but in the end it doesn’t always work out. When I was accepted to Louisiana State University, my grandmother merely said, “Were there a lot of blackies there?” She refers to homosexuals as, “the gays” and thinks I’m a lesbian after I laughed at something Ellen Degeneres said..."

Andrea Koebbe
"...It began one Christmas evening when I was 15. The presents had been unwrapped, the food eaten, and my family and I sat around the room in almost silence whilst the realization that though we only see each other twice a year, Christmas and Easter, we still have nothing to say to each other slowly crept into my mind. Enter my mother. After putting away the leftovers she sat down and said, “I was watching this show the other day and it said it’s the aphrodisiac in turkey that makes everyone so sleepy. That’s why you are all so lethargic and quiet.”'
God, if only. That would justify why I eat so much turkey quite nicely.

"Wannabe McBlogger"
"...Well, either I drank far more than I should have or the weed was a lot better than I thought because the next thing I know, I'm staring at the empty seat at the table and ask...."Where's Bruno Seabass???!!!1" Where's.Bruno.Seabass. The whole table turns and stares at me with the expression just screaming "what in the fuckity fuck fuck?!!?!"

Me: You know, that huge black guy (please note, all 4 people sitting at the table were the whitest whities in Whitieville)

Them: umm...who!?

Me: BRUNO SEABASS!!! YOU KNOW! THE HUGE BLACK GUY?!?!?!?!?!!!! He was sitting right there!!!!

I even created a themesong for him...

Seeeaaaaabass du du dududu

Smoke some grass du du dududu

Kick some ass du du dudududu

...and so on....

Yup. I was hallucinating. In front of my boyfriend's mother. The first time I met her. I think I blacked out after that because I'm not sure how I talked my way out of it. All I know is that 6 years later I was married to that boy. His mother and sister-in-law STILL ask me where Bruno Seabass is. And a little piece of me dies every time they do."
I loved this story. Not to mention the points garnered for the pen name and for citing the classic Nokia game, Snake.

Mike Spurill
"...3) Holiday Party 2005: My good friends Ian and Colin were throwing a Christmas party which I was super excited about. They always had plenty of booze and were good company. The party turned out to be a hodge poge of Marys all shoved into a small two bedroom apartment taking turns lip syncing "Defying Gravity" and talking about who ever wasn't in ear shot. So overall it was a success. I should probably preface this story by saying that I am kind of the drunk mother of the group which usually translates into really aggressive cock blocking. About a half a bottle of vodka into Holiday Party 2005 I became uncomfortably irritated with one of the other gays. It's no secret that gays sometimes have a problem with any word that ends in the letter 's' and that we move our wrist fast enough to keep every light in New York on for a solid hour. This guy didn't talk a whole lot but when he did it was nothing short of un nerving. If Macy Gray had a stroke and then was asked to sing at the Grammys only days later out of sheer pity (and if she was ever asked to sing at the Grammys it would be out of sheer pity anyway) that is what this kid would sound like FUCKING AWFUL. Three quaters a bottle of vodka into Holiday Party 2005 we decided to go to the bar. It was about this time that I noticed Gay Macy Grays stroked out self was pawing at my good friend Ian. I could tell that Ian was getting frustrated and somewhat uncomfortable and I totally understood. Then I noticed that this kid had something in his hair. I am not usually a nice person I am a self described 'hater' but it was the Holidays and I thought I would help the kid out. So I walked over and said " HEY KID! YOU HAVE SOMETHING IN YOUR HAIR COME HERE!" He looked at me perplexed and terrified as I reached for the side of his head. My friend Colin happened to look over and shouted "NO!!!" I reached for the side of his ear and proceeded to pull what looked to be a string. It was then that Gay Gray began to honk....not scream HONK. As it turns out this kid was actually deaf and I had just yanked out some tube and a hearing aid. Everybody looked at me like I was the only Jew in the room. Everybody was shocked and I have to admit that I did feel mildly bad about the whole thing. I felt like I had just sucker punched Helen Keller's great, great, great, great, great nephew or something. A few people helped him get everything situated and everyone began to play it off ....awkward."
In the words of the great Rachel Zoe: I die.

Anna Fulmer

"...Wife: You know who she (me) looks like? Honey back me up, who does she look like?

Boss: I dont know babe, who?

Wife: Trevor, come on, who does she look like

Trevor: I dont know...

Wife: LIKE CONSUELA!! TREVOR, YOUR HELP, THE ONE WHO MADE US THE ENCHILADAS AT YOUR PARENTS HOUSE!!! RIGHT???

Full disclosure, I'm half Spanish, am pretty tan in the summer, and have dark hair and eyes. However, I in no way look like Trevor's 65 year old, grey-haired, squat, Mexican housekeeper."

Christine O'Brien
"...I then proceeded to tell my entire extended family about my friend Landon who had just been released from max security prison (after 4 days due to overcrowding in the regular jail) for serving alcohol to minors. I later told my mother that I had slept with this boy freshman year, in a handicapped bathroom, though I didn't find out about this fact until literally years later, when he tried to reignite the fire. Also, I used to cheat on my high school boyfriend with Landon's roommate, Alex. My mother was, how do I say this...not impressed."
I appreciate that my note on Christine's piece simply says: "Sex in a handicap bathroom. Christine, you are a girl after my own heart."

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

Thanks again to everyone who submitted, thank you to jagershop.com for contributing the tap and make sure to check out the blog tomorrow for Nate's full story! <3

FAQ re: Jäger Ball

So Jäger Ball, huh?
I know, right?!

When is that again?
This Saturday night!

Where?
Town Tavern.

Oh, you mean Town, the popular homosexual dance club?
No. Although that's a fine establishment. But I mean Town Tavern in Adams Morgan. 2323 18th Street.

Oh that place is the tits. What time is this happening?
8-11pm.

Oh, so I can roll up at 10:45 and be fashionably late?
Ooof. Yeah. No. You should really come on time so you can take full advantage of the super-fun drink specials that will be going on between those hours. And so I don't have a heart attack at 8 when I think nobody's coming.

Yeah...but there's nothing cool about being prompt.
Normally I'd 100% agree with that statement, but what if just for Saturday night we pretend that being prompt is the coolest thing since hula hoops and crystal pepsi?

Fair enough.
Ok, thanks.

Tell me more about these drink specials you speak of.
$3 domestic bottles! $3 mixed rails! $8 domestic pitchers!

Oh shit, that's legit.
I know right? I had myself at the p-word.

Pussy?
Ah, no...pitchers.

Speaking of pu—
Please just call it the p-word.

Speaking of "the p-word," me and my friends will only come to Jäger Ball if we have a shot at gettin' some. Do you have hot, single friends we can hit on?
Oh my god, yes.

Single guys and single gals?
Yep!

And gay guys?
Totes! And single ladies who love single ladies! Whatever you're shopping for—I got it. I'm like the Costco of sexual experiences.

Do you regularly whore out your friends to complete strangers on the Internet?
More than you'd think.

That's exciting!
Oh totally. I predict at least two pregnancies as a result of Jäger Ball. Shotgun Godmother.

Here's the thing: I have a work function earlier that night that I should really make an appearance at, so I'll try to stop by, but I'm not making any promises.
Wow...and I thought we were getting along so well. Look, I don't need your attitude. We've all got work functions to go to. We all have to make appearances at various things that night. But you do what you have to do to get yourself to Jäger Ball. My parents have to go out to dinner with work associatas earlier that night. Do you know what they're doing? Bringing their work associates to Jäger Ball. That's how a professional does it. Take note, son.

Oh shit! Will Evie be there?
No, she's under 21.

Oh so you have to be 21?
I mean, it's a bar.

But my 19-year-old sister is an avid reader of your blog and was looking forward to hanging. That's sort of fucked up.
Well then, your sister should get herself one hell of a fake ID or meet me at the park with a 40 afterwards and we'll hang.

How will I know who you are?
I'll be in an elegant, yet discreet half-mask carrying a single red rose, looking coy in the corner. HAHA. Just kidding. I'm the mediocre-looking pale chick with black hair and huge hooters handing out LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog Jäger Ball stickers. Can't miss me.

How will I know who other 2b1b characters are?
Um, mingle? Slash 2birds people will be wearing name tags.

Wait, let me get this straight. Not only are you whoring your friends out, you're also putting name tags on them?
Yeah...I don't know why they're friends with me either.

So will Co-Blogger Chris be there?
Yep! And Tulane Chris, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, Becca, Alex, Helena, Andrew, Anna, Jill, Talia, Laura, etc. etc. etc!

Look Meg, I'm going to level with you.
What's up?

I live in DC. I read your blog. I want to go to Jäger Ball because it sounds like the most fun any human being will have in the history of having fun, but I think the idea of going to a blog meet-up is a little lame. I just don't want to be That Guy.
I get that. And I'd probably feel the same way if I were in your shoes. However, I'd like to think my friends and I are cool people and we just want to hang. What if you think of this less as a "blog meet-up" and more like a party your friend is throwing?

Yeah, but that's the other thing—I don't actually know you. I feel like a giant creep-show rolling up and being like, "Uh hi, I read your blog. Let's rage."
Why? It was my idea. I want to meet you and say thanks for taking time out of your day to read my blog! If you're creepy then I'm creepy. And I'll admit I'm a lot of things, but creepy isn't one of them.

You sure?
Positive. Seriously. Not creepy.

So should I just like, go up and talk to you?
I mean, that would certainly help me out. You know I'm a little bit Aspie's. Although hopefully by then I'll have a fair bit of Jäger in me and should be uncharacteristically outgoing.

Ok, another thing I have to be completely honest with you about...
Hit me.

When I read your blog, I have this image in my mind of what you're like. I'm afraid meeting you is going to ruin that image and my 2birds1blog experience will never be the same.
Yeah. I mean, the odds are fairly good that I'm not going to be 100% exactly like what you're imagining, so I guess to a certain extent, yeah, that's totes going to happen. I don't think it has to be a big deal though. Maybe just readjust your mental image slightly? It'll be ok. I'll just shove some free shit in your face and you'll be happy as a clam.

So you're outing your real identity for a night, huh?
Ugh. Yes.

Aren't you afraid this is going to lead to you losing your job?
Yes. Yes, I am.

Well...are you taking any preventative measures so you don't?
No. No, I'm not.

Wow. You're really banking on Jäger eventually sponsoring you, aren't you?
Yes.

I don't know if that's the best ide—
Shhh...Don't talk about it.

So, I'm still not 100% convinced I should come.
Jesus...

Besides drink specials, what can you offer me?
Um, did I mention the free LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog Jäger Ball stickers that we'll be handing out?!

Yeah. You did. Besides those.
Um, amazing games of beer pong and flip cup? A team of Jägerettes just rarin' to load you up with free shit? And depending if I can get a mic and/or bullhorn, we might play a round of 2birds1blog trvia for your chance to win really, really cool shit!

Bullhorn...?
Please just go with it.

Ok. I'm convinced. I'm in.
Awesome!

One more thing...
Yes.

I went to high school with you and while I know you well enough to be your facebook friend, I haven't said word-one to you since graduation. Would it be weird if I showed up?
Oh my god, no. Seriously. I can only think of two people from high school I wouldn't be completely psyched to see—Dana P. and Jessica P. of The Grudge fame. So unless you're either one of them (and I'm assuming you're not since you read my blog) I'd love to see you!

Um, I am Dana P. and/or Jessica P.
Oh....................hey.

Don't you think it's a little pathetic that you haven't let go of something that happened in middle/high school?
Not really.

And is it really necessary to write about it on your little blog here?
You had your chance to make it right. You just chose not to. Unique decision. Now suffer.

LOLZ. Just kidding. I'm neither Dana P. or Jessica P.
GOOD. Because I was about to e-shank you.

So, I officially can't come to Jäger Ball, but my friends and I are having a satellite party.
That's awesome! Make sure to take pictures and send them to me!

Cool. How do I get at you?
meg@2birds1blog.com

Do you actually check that?
I mean, I sit here staring at the computer with absolutely nothing to do all day, what else am I supposed to do?

Is that why you follow people back on Twitter at such an embarrassingly fast rate?
.........Yes.

Ok, well this was fun.
Right?!

Remind me again why you're doing this whole Jäger Ball nonsense?
Because we need a sponsor to keep the blog going and growing. We have some pretty cool ideas about where to take this place in the future, but we can't really make that happen without some help. That's where Jäger comes in. They've got the money and we've got the livers. I say we make an even trade. We just have to show them that we're a force to be reckoned with. Give them the old "Suzy Soro Treatment," if you will. Plus, we just love you guys and want to party with you! Is that so wrong?

Nope. See you Saturday!
<3

Drinking Game Friday (sort of) has got CHARISMA!

As is becoming a Drinking Game Friday tradition around here, I'd like to start out today's post by apologizing to our Twitter followers for the obnoxious spam messages you may have received from me last night. My account was hacked. Again. I, as a human being, have a cold and my Twitter account has a virus. EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART! What kills me the most is that "I" sent a spam-tastic DM to our most important contact at Jäger and now she has the spam virus. So, great. I'm sure we'll totally get that Jäger deal now that I gave their PR director Twitter scabies. Super. I don't even know how this keeps happening. I don't click on any shady links and my password isn't "password123" (...anymore.) Shouldn't they be targeting more lucrative people like Kim Kardashian or something? UGH, I'm so pissed. If Suzy Soro is behind this—im'ma fly to Hollywood and cut a bitch personally. In conclusion: I apologize to our Twitter followers and if you don't follow us on Twitter, you should because I'll give you all sorts of fancy online diseases!

Speaking of downers: Co-Blogger Chris and I will be taking the rest of the week off to go back home and stuff our faces with turkey, play with our respective parent's cats and do some general lolling about in the spirit of our Native American brothers. I'll be making a casserole for Thanksgiving dinner this year and given what an obvious shit show that will be, I've decided to live Tweet the entire process. (@2birds1blog! Sure I'll give you Twitter AIDS, but I'll also give you a few LOLZ in the process!)

I am so unbelievably excited about this week's drinking game! It's taken Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I years to perfect it. You see, back in the day when Eddie and I we were both awkward (well, more awkward than usual) freshman at AU, what bonded us as insta-biffles was our mutual love of crappy pop-culture. One of the biggest "OHMYGAWD, ME TOOO!!!!1" moments in our friendship came when we discovered that we both have the same favorite Thanksgiving movie—Son-in-Law. Son-in-Law is the ideal major motion picture: it has action, comedy, romance, Pauly Shore, Tiffany-Amber Thiessan (post Saved by the Bell; pre dropping of the Amber) and ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES! This past Saturday night, Eddie and I sat down with our laptops, signed onto g-chat, poured ourselves a mighty drink and from 140 miles apart, tested this week's drinking game. (God bless technology.) (And yes I did say Saturday night. She was going out after and I was nursing my cold. DON'T JUDGE US!) It is a privilege and an honor to present you with (the very potent) Meg & Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie's Ultimate Son-in-Law Drinking Game!


You can drink whatever you want for the majority of the movie (we both went with Bacardi and Coke Zero) but there's a specific part of the movie where you're really going to need to utilize a delicious and refreshing Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. So, have that on deck.

Rules
Drink When:
- The "EEEE-EEEEEEE, EEEEE-eeeee!" music plays
- Walter says, "DAMNIT ZACK!"
- Walter says, "Oh shit."
- Walter calls Crawl by the wrong name (i.e. Crotch or Crap)
- Crawl says "Beck-kuhhhh"
- Anyone says "buuuuuu-dddddddy"
- Anyone says "charisma"
- Anyone says "mingling"
- Anyone besides Pauly Shore talks in that bro-kennnn syll-a-bleeee style of talk-iiiiiing that became so synonymous with the nine-tiessssss
- STEVEN TYLER PJ'S! STEVEN TYLER PJ'S!
- There's a totally meta reference to another Pauly Shore movie
- Rebecca's butterfly tattoo is shown or referenced
- ANYONE ROLLERBLADES (drink twice if Rollerblading solves an everyday problem like filling troughs with animal feed)
- Animals are widdled or a widdled animal is shown (this rule gets you surprisingly fucked up)
- Boobs are referred to as "cones"
- God knows what is referred to as "nugs"
- You can easily see one of Rebecca's outfits being in any given Urban Outfitters right now
- You see naked butt
- There is an uncomfortably open dialogue between Crawl/Rebecca/Walter/Connie about Walter & Connie's sex life (i.e.: "I'm not going to lie to you Mrs. Warner; you're giving me a total semi right now" or "Becca, check out the wood I created for your dad!" or when Becca tells her mom that she could hear them have sex last night and everyone is like HAHAHA, yeah.)
- "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" plays
- The following exchange goes down:
Walter: DAMNIT! What's that kid's name?!
Theo: SOMETIMES HE ANSWERS TO ASSHOLE!

And just for me and Eddie, chug your Bartles & Jaymes when:
Crawl: [sees Walter Sr. widdling on the porch] Oh, my God, it's Bartles or Jaymes. Dude, which one are you?! [I don't know why we thought this scene was so hilarious at the time, but it's became this huge inside joke in our friendship. One of my favorite HAHA—college! pictures is of Eddie in a giant purple sweater deep-throating an empty Bartles & Jaymes bottle at her Wet Hot American Summer themed 21st birthday party. It encapsulates the entire college experience into one concise photograph. Ah, Memories!]

And now I leave you with today's Everything You Ever Wanted to Know... question and answer. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! Unless you're not in the States...in which case, have a great rest of the week at work! Ha ha...awkward. We love you guys and don't forget about Jäger Ball NEXT SATURDAY NIGHT! AH, HOLY SHIT! We'll see you Monday! Buh-bye!

Dr. Reuben's Question and Answer of the Day:

If a girl is pregnant, wouldn't she be better off without one of these abortionists?
Sometimes it doesn't make any difference. A self-induced abortion can be just as dangerous. The traditional do-it-yourself method hasn't changed in the past ten thousand years. The primitive tribes in Africa use the same technique as the most up-to-date swinger in Greenwich Village. Only the instrument is different. The disconsolate African housewife uses her abortion stick. It may be an intricately carved family heirloom or just a sharpened branch she pulled from a tree. It doesn't matter because she only needs it for a moment.
She squats in front of her hut, pushes aside her bark-cloth skirt, and slides the stick into her vagina. She then guides it more or less carefully through the cervix and into the uterine cavity. Then she pushes it around vigorously, pulls it out and hopes for the best.
Eight thousand miles away her light-skinned sister is sprawled on her queen-sized bed. She brushes aside her expensive nylon underwear, spreads her carefully shaved and powdered legs and with the aid of her cherished magnifying mirror guides her abortion stick toward its final goal. Only she uses a coat hanger.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Why the thought of me getting married is laugh-out-loud funny

Let's talk about Helena. As I've mentioned before, Helena is my biffles. My "biffly-biffly^maxpower," if you will. I like Helena a lot. She's super fun and snarky and slightly mean and easy on the eyes—pretty much the embodiment of everything I look for in a friend. But more than that, I just feel like Helena knows what's up in life. And her opinion is extremely important to me. Before making any decision, major or minor, I consult Helena. And what she says goes. I've been practicing this method of decision-making for five years now and it hasn't led me astray once. Actually, that's a blatant lie. One time Helena and I were shopping at Pacific Sunwear (which is highly out-of-character and comical to think about now) and I asked her if I should buy an ironic John Deere Trucker baby-tee. Without missing a beat, she said yes. So I bought it, wore it and immediately regretted it. Later she confessed that she only told me to buy it because she thought it would be "hilarious." But you know what? She was right, yet again. Because it was hilarious. I'm willing to own up when I look like a douchebag, and guess what? I looked like a giant douchebag. So in conclusion: Helena is always right and I'd trust her with my life.

Now let's talk about marriage. Marriage freaks me out. Well, that's a lie. Marriage at this point in my life freaks me out. I've always associated marriage with two groups of people: grown-ups and white trash. Being neither of those things (John Deere Trucker tee aside,) I have absolutely no plans of getting married in the foreseeable future. I mean, I'm only 24; I've got wild oats to sew! I want to dip my wick in anything that moves! (...I apologize.) I want to have a bullshit job with no responsibilities! I want to throw big Jäger parties and come to work hungover! That's pretty much where my priorities lie right now. And I've always thought that that was OK. Sure, pretty much everyone else I know is in a serious relationship and going to grad school or law school and moving on to the next step in their life, but I've always felt confident about where I am. But that changed last week when Helena casually mentioned that she and her boyfriend have discussed marriage. Like in a it's-probably-going-to-happen-sooner-than-later kind of way. After she said that, I could feel my heart drop into my butt and I had a very quiet, but very real Total Life Freak Out.

Don't get me wrong—I love Helena and I love her boyfriend and I love them together! It's just that if Helena gives getting married at this stage of our lives the green light, that makes it officially acceptable. And if it's officially acceptable, that means it's not just for grown-ups and white trash anymore; it's for people like you and me. Because we are those grown-ups. And that scares the shit out of me.

The idea of me getting married is laughable. Like literally laugh-out-loud, Family Matters level funny. I can see myself in a relationship, sure, but marriage? Fuck no. Because getting married is a big fucking deal. You are, in the most literal sense, marrying your life to another person's and saying that not only am I responsible for my life, I am now responsible for yours. Just typing that statement made me want to vomit. Because I can barely take care of my own life. I went on Facebook for the first time in 9 billion years the other day and saw that my best friend from elementary school is now married with a child. And not a baby! Like a walking, talking, thinking, feeling, straight-up little child. That shit is bananas. I wouldn't trust myself with a hot plate, nevertheless a child. But there she is. Adorable and alive and kickin'. Is that where I should be? Should I be retiring my abnormally busty frat boy lifestyle, get a Netflix account and settle down? Normally I would say no, of course not, Meg. You're only 24 and you have the emotional maturity of an ashtray. But now that Helena's gone and given marriage her stamp of approval, I'm starting to think yes, that is where I should be. But I'm really not. What's wrong with me?

Welp, I can actually tell you exactly what's wrong with me. Via this list. The list of Reasons Why the Thought of Me Getting Married is Laugh-Out-Loud Funny:
1.) The following is a photograph of the inside of my refrigerator:

You will see that it contains a lot of beer, a dozen eggs that might be hatching into chickens as we speak and a Ziploc bag of spaghetti my mom gave me in early October. Hope you're hungry, baby.

2.) Gummy fangs. It's not just an on-running blog joke; it's also what's for dinner.

3.) Sometimes I honest-to-god hibernate. Like a bear. If I've had a particularly rough Saturday night, I'll just sleep through Sunday, waking only to eat gummy fangs before going right back to bed until Monday morning. Soooo...there's that.

4.) I will do anything to avoid doing laundry. For example, I realized this morning that I'm out of clean shirts, so I am currently wearing a backwards Patron t-shirt with a cardigan thrown over it. And guess what? I probably won't do laundry again tonight.

5.) I have a very Me vs. My Body mindset that isn't very conducive to a life partnership. The following is a real conversation Co-Blogger Chris and I had this weekend:
Me: Ugh, these migraines won't away. I think I'm going to have to give up and go to a doctor.
Chris: Uhh..."give up," Meg? I don't think that's called "giving up," I think that's called being responsible for your well-being.

...Point taken. I hope my future husband never comes to me sick or I'll treat him like a level of Donkey Kong.

6.) Sometimes I play this game called "How Long?" The object is to see how long you can go without paying your cable bill and having it shut off.

7.) I am never, ever wearing pants.

8.) The second room isn't for a baby. It's for the Jäger cooler and my brand new shot dispenser.


9.) When something goes wrong, my immediate reaction is still to call my mom. And if she's not home, I have a history of leaving long voice mails of me making whiny noises. No words. Just whiny noises. For upwards of three minutes at a time.

10.) I still sleep with a stuffed animal. His name is Jason. Let's not pretend like I haven't discussed his existence before. Let's also not pretend that everyone who comes over and hugs him doesn't immediately understand why he's in my life.

Sigh... Guess I'll be buying "fruits" and "vegetables" if you need me. Thanks a lot, Helena.