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.

Putting the "HA" in "hard sell". (Or not, as the case may be.)

I just got a box of our new book, Brainwashing for Beginners, and I only have one thing to say about it: poor, poor Brainwashing. It never stood a chance. It's the Jan Brady to The Misanthrope's Guide to Life's Marsha. Which isn't to say it's bad. It's actually really, really funny. I know this because I just read it for the first time. I don't know why, but I was completely prepared to crack it open and be like, "Oh God, this is B-level material...This is so embarrassing." But it's not at all. I might even like it better than Misanthrope's. YEAH, I SAID IT. And I'm 98% sure I meant it. I think I expected it to suck because the actual process of writing it sucked. When I think back to writing it, all I can think of is computers breaking and strep throat and needing extensions on deadlines and feeling like failures for needing said extensions and that sty I randomly developed halfway through the project (?) and the earthquake in Japan I'm sure our writing somehow caused and the 5,500 words it ended up being over and bleh, whereas writing Misanthrope's was like a great big pizza party. If I could summarize writing each book in a single youtube clip, they would be the following:

Writing Misanthrope's Guide to Life:


Writing Brainwashing for Beginners:


But now that we're five months removed from the entire situation, I feel like I can finally appreciate the finished product. And I do. And I feel badly that I didn't before. And I want to take its little hand in mine and tell it, "I'm sorry I didn't say 'I love you' enough when you were growing up. Because I did. I was just too busy fighting my own demons to tell you and it was my fault. MY FAULT. So please accept this gift Mr. VanVonderen is offering you today because there's a room here full of people who love you like crazy, but we feel like we're losin' ya here and I just want my little girl back." I don't know. I've been watching a fair amount of Intervention on Netflix recently and I'm not offering any apologies for it. When Candy Finnigan cries......weoifjwf. I have no words. It hits me in the gut. Knocks the wind right out of me. And she always does! Especially when children are involved because you know she was adopted and probably relates to their feeling of abandonment. How did we get here? What was I talking about? RIGHT, the book is actually good and you should buy it.

Truth be told, I feel really uncomfortable trying to sell this book to you because we're still so blatantly trying to sell the first, but at the same time, I do think it's a worthy purchase. Like our first book, it's an excellent bathroom read. I got an email from a reader the other day saying just that and hoping it didn't offend me, and honestly? I 100% get it and I'm right there with you. Although I kind of feel like an asshole keeping a copy of my own book in my bathroom because I'm worried people will interpret it as me being all, "What? OH, THAT? Mmmmyes, I wrote a book. Two in fact! Well actually three, but who's counting? Bwahaha. Mmmmyes. Tea?" (I don't know why I'm trying to serve people tea in the bathroom...) But it's not the case. Both books are just really easy to jump into and no matter where you land, you're guaranteed a laugh. I keep finding myself in the bathroom flipping through Misanthrope's to pass the time and like, 25 minutes later I'll still be sitting on the John reading it. Which is absurd because a.) I co-wrote it, so I've obviously read it before, b.) that's a genuinely long time to be in the bathroom, and c.) there's just something so shameful about laughing at your own material with your pants down around your ankles. You just feel so exposed.

To give you a little more information on the book, Brainwashing is essentially our guide to manipulating people into doing what you want in everyday situations. It's the next level in Meg and Chris' School of Sociopathy and Witchcraft. Minus the Witchcraft. The book is comprised of 101 objectives (ranging from Get Upgraded to First Class to Convince Your New Husband You're a Virgin), which are broken down into ten chapters: Making Work Work For You (Manipulation Around the Office); Be The Mary, Not the Rhoda (Toward More Obedient Friends); Pavlov's Girlfriend (Sex and Relationships in a Brave New World); How to Get a 4.0 at Symbionese State University (Mind Control at School); George Orwell, Obstetrician (Making a Mark on Your Child's Tabula Rasa); Free Drumsticks and Cheap Gas (Everyday Hypnosis); 72 Virgins, 99 Luftballoons, and Access to the Buffet (Brainwashing During Wartime); I'm Not Not God (Cults for Dummies); Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another? (Stockholm Syndrome and You); and 10.) Bluejeans and Coca-Cola (Deprogramming). Each objective then has 2-3 brainwashing techniques for how to accomplish it.

Like I said, I was all nervous when I started to read it, but then I saw that we refer to Nick Nolte as "Father Time's readheaded stepchild" within the first three sentences of the book and immediately felt better. I also forgot how incredibly Garry Shandling heavy it is and I am not mad about it. Not only is he the object of our dedication, we also have an entire objective based on the idea of trying to get the fictional murder-mystery series The Garry Shandling Mysteries back on the air. (Jeremy Piven is obviously his Watson-like sidekick.) I remember when we got the first round of edits back on the manuscript, there were two notes next to this objective. The first was from the copy editor saying, "I checked—this is not a real show," and the second was our editor's response: "Not yet." Matthew Glazer. You get us. You get us so well and I love you for it.

I'm also still shocked that they let us keep objective #23 in: Get Your Friend to Experiment with You Sexually. I wrote this, without exaggeration, an hour before our second extension was up, and I did it as like a, "Well, they're obviously going to make us take this out, but fuck it—it's something", and I can't tell you how much I respect Adams Media for letting it stay in. Especially since the third brainwashing technique is to "Tape Scissors All Over Your Walls and Hope She Gets the Hint". I mean...to you, sir. To Adams Media. I feel like the book actually benefits from the fact that we wrote the majority of it in an incredibly cracked-out, Hail Mary, what the fuck are we doing? state of mind. It gets weird. It feels like us.

So, if you have the money, I suggest you buy Brainwashing for Beginners. And if you already did, I hope you enjoy it. And if you're Garry Shandling, I hope you really, really enjoy it. And if you're Jeremy Piven, I hope you know how much I really, really, really enjoy you. Every night. To this picture:

And sometimes, when I want to feel like we're actively conversing, to this picture:

But mostly, when I want to laugh and imagine what it's like having you on top of me in sweatpants and a backwards cap, to this clip:


...This entire blog post has been a fucking disaster and I don't know how to end it in a way that isn't "Welp! I'm gonna go masturbate to Jeremy Piven now!", so I say we just embrace it. One more for the road:

God yes.

The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.