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.

A quick thank you (& happy birthday Becca!) (& happy belated birthday Helena!)

Hi. You have a more substantial Tulane Chris post coming your way later this morning, don't worry. I just wanted to hop on and say a quick thank you to Lara.

My finances have been understandably tight since getting fired, but in the past few months, shit's gone from "touch-and-go" to "considering moving back in with my parents". I haven't really discussed how bad things are with anyone (including my parents) because money is awkward, but just to give you an idea of what things are currently like, I'll let you in on two things:

1.) I swear to god, I just applied to be a Ghosts of Georgetown tour guide. A job which requires period costume. (Although for 100 bucks a pop plus tips, I'll gladly segway around Georgetown in a hoop skirt and a sombrero and be honored to do it.)

2.) Earlier tonight I couldn't figure out how to wrap my sister's oddly shaped birthday present and the double-sided tape wouldn't work because it's too humid, so I burst into tears. That's how I dealt with that situation. By crying and crying and crying. And we're not talking like a few errant tears here and there either; I'm talkin' like openly weeping on the floor in a sea of wrapping paper and dirty laundry. There was a surprising amount of rolling around involved too, which in retrospect was probably a poor decision considering I had a pair of scissors floating around...

The unexpected death of my computer a few weeks ago really put me in a horrible position. (It turns out that blogging without a computer is kind of hard. LOLZ! HOW KNEW?!) But that's where Lara swooped in and saved the day. Lara's leaving DC in a few weeks to go to grad school at Parsons (also the reason why I've been saying up late at night listening to The Cure and cutting recently) so she got a new computer and sold me her old one with CS3 tonight for super cheaps. Although I spent literally every single treehouse dollar that the merch store made buying it (must.....not.........explode.............), I know she could have sold it for considerably more on Craigslist or ebay, but didn't because we're homegirls and she wanted to help me out. Also, she came home early from a bar on Friday night to re-format the merch files I lost on my computer. I mean, Christ. Talk about above and beyond. I guess this means I have to officially forgive her for getting drunk and hitting on my dad. Ugh. Fine. I forgive you Lara. You're welcome.

So snaps to Lara for essentially saving the blog. I would have been pretty darn fucked if I had to buy a new computer, you guys, let's not lie. Plus, lord knows Lara is a fellow struggling artist slash grad student (a whole other level of poor I wouldn't dream of exploring) so I appreciate her bowing out of some money just to help a friend out.

In conclusion: I will suck your dick for ten-dollars and Lara is my hero.

If you steal my Halloween costume idea, I will cut you. (And other helpful pieces of advice.)

So I've pretty much felt like crap all week, but kudos to me for being a "responsible" "young" "adult" and actually going to the doctor yesterday. And guess what I ended up being prescribed? 350 milligrams of T.G.I. HAGMAN!



As of 4:34am on May 14, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Hagman: take with food or milk. Or bourbon.

Oh, and to answer your questions from last week: I saw Cella last Saturday afternoon and to my knowledge, she's still alive and kickin'. Well, I think kickin' is a gross overstatement, but we watched half an episode of Tough Love Couples on VH1 while Becky got ready and she seemed content enough. In other dog related news! I've totally decided what Ichabod my Rasta Pug and I are going to be for Halloween:



I'm going to do my makeup so it looks like I've been beat up and my knees have been bashed in, then I'm going to staple fake dollar bills to the costume above and Icky's going to be a LOAN SHARK! And I'm his victim! GET IT?! DO YOU GET IT?!?! A-TEE-HEE-HEE-HAHAHAHAHA OHHHHHHHHHHyyyyyyyyep. I'm coordinating my Halloween costume with my dog's. In May. And I don't have a dog. Unfortunate: The other white meat.

Speaking of being unfortunate and taking measures to change that, I would like to take this time to give a huge, huge, HUGE thank you to the wonderful Lara. Yeah, she got drunk on "Ruby Relaxers" and shamelessly hit on my dad in a parking lot one time, but she also came over after a long day at work last night, only to spend another four hours working with me on blog merch store stuff. And by "working with me" I mean she coded and figured out the confusing technical stuff while I taped my left hand into a "Shocker Splint" using drafting tape, tried to type and subsequently laughed at myself slightly too hard.

I mean, if that's not true friendship; I don't know what is. You, madam, have my blessing to drunkenly hit on my dad any day of the week. God bless you, Lara. God bless you and your sloppy Ruby Tuesday lovin' heart.

And while we're on the topic, I know for a fact that the merch store is going to be a success. Wanna know why? Oh, I don't know; perhaps you should check out the 4-digit PayPal verification code on my bank statement that I had to reference to confirm our account:



Yep. #0069. When I saw that, I immediately turned to Lara and was like, "OH MY FUCKING LORD—IT'S A SIGN!!!!!" and seriously felt a lot better about this little venture. I mean, of all the 4-digit random combinations that could have been assigned to me, I got 0069?! Have you ever met me? I laughed-out-loud in my elevator today when I read a sign telling residents to be careful on the roof because scaffolding has been erected. And you know why? Because erected. The only way I remember the code to the door at work is because it's my area code + 69. And likewise, the only way I remember the CVC code on the back of my credit card is because it's 690. And 2b1b's randomly generated PayPal confirmation code is 0069?...Yeah. I'm going to make a fucking babillion dollars. THNX IN ADVANCE!

Man, I'm in a good mood. I feel like giving back to the community or some shit. Let's answer this week's Queer Abby questions, shall we? If you're new, Queer Abby is our weekly advice column where your most burning questions are answered first well by my lesbian publicist, Amy, and then poorly by me. We're like the Hall & Oates of advice. (Got a question, Maneater? Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!)

Hi Queer Abby.

This may be a question better suited for Savage Love but since my man reads Savage Love I will ask you.

Is it weird that my man asks me to talk dirty to him about the first time I did it (with specific detail). The size, the tightness etc? I once revealed that my first boyfriend was extremely well-hung and now said man is fixated. It is hard enough to talk dirty but actually sharing real-life experiences in the heat of the moment is rully, rully hard ( and not in a good way)! Most of the time I just make shit up because A) it was a long time ago; B) I've smoked a lot of dope since then and my memory ain't what is used to be C) I sometimes wonder if my mind's eye embellished the 1st boyfriend's endowment, which brings me to D) thinking about 1st boyfriend makes me fantasize about going back to investigate and that ain't nothing but bad luck and trouble.

Peace

Is it weird…? Personally, I’d say yes. Objectively, I’ll say no. I don’t get it at all. I can’t imagine anything I want to hear about less than my partners’ former lovers. But to each his/her own—this doesn’t seem to be an unhealthy or generally disrespectful fetish. (I mean, compared to Name Withheld from last week, you’re lucky he’s being honest and comes to you with what he wants.)

If it’s something you really aren’t comfortable with (like it makes you feel totally violated or like your violating your ex’s privacy), you should definitely tell him that, unequivocally, and he should respect it. If it’s just not something you particularly enjoy, then my inclination is to say keep an open mind about it and even try to entertain it from time to time, because that’s what we do to please our partners, right? But moreover, figure out what it is exactly that gets him so worked up about it so you can experiment with other ways to fulfill this particular interest of his that may be more comfortable for you. Like figure out what it is exactly that gets him so worked up about it to see if you can talk dirty to him about someone/something other than an actual ex. Or maybe watching a particular type of porn together would do the trick. Get me? But it sounds to me like he might have a virgin or cuckolding fetish, so you might want to start there.

1.) Cuckold is never not the most fun word in the English language. I want to join a cuckolding support group for the soul purpose of creating the user name, "Cuckold_Doodle_Do0." And part of me prays that it's taken so I can be "Cuckold_Doodle_Do0_69." So there's that

2.) Hmmm...this is an interesting one. When you think about it, losing your virginity is the quintessential "losing one's innocence" moment, right? So maybe your boyfriend just really gets off on the idea of you transforming from a pure, good girl into a bad, bad, dirty girl; the kind of girl who loses her virginity to someone with a big 'ole dick. I mean, isn't that essentially why guys dig the whole naughty schoolgirl thing? Good girl gone bad and all of that? Rihanna, can I get an amen? This is just sort of an...extreme version of that. And by extreme, I mean your boyfriend probably likes smooth little boys.

3.) Just kidding.

4.) Although, I don't know; he might.

5.) But mostly I'm just fucking with you.

6.) To piggy-back off what Amy said, this situation isn't just weird because he wants to hear about you having sex with someone else for the first time, it's weird because he wants to hear about you having sex for the first time period. Because I can't think of any story less erotic than the story of losing my virginity. A ham sandwich soaked in lighter fluid is sexier than when I lost my virginity. I highly doubt anyone would be able to keep it up during that story. Because it would go a little something like this:

Fictitious Boyfriend: Baby, it would be so hot to hear about how you lost your virginity right now...

Meg: Blokay! Well, I was wasted on Bailey's; I really wish I had re-evaluated ingesting so much cream-based liquor on a night when that much repetitive motion was involved; we were on a twin bed; my best friend was passed out on a couch less than two feet away—a fact I was too drunk to realize at the time; the condom broke and I was convinced I was pregnant for a good two weeks after even though neither of us came because it was that bad.

Fictitious Boyfriend: ....................[rolls over] Night.

So I'm either really impressed with you for having a not-awkward first time story, or I'm really impressed with him and his ability to get off to anything even remotely sexier than sandpaper. Either way, a tip of the hat to somebody.


______________

Queer Abby,

My boss is an.....er, well, idiot. I know I sound like a pretentious graduate of some fancy private school like American University or Tulane, but I went to a modest state school in the Midwest and have fairly low standards for most people when it comes to etiquette, intelligence, conforming to social norms, etc...

If I didn't like my job, I'd just quit because of my boss. But since I like my job, however, I want to make this work. That's where you come in....

"What makes him so awful?", you ask. Well, the biggest thing is that he blows up for no reason at all. For example, if you suggest that we should cut the budget for office supplies, he may reply with "PERFECT! HOW ABOUT WE DON'T BUY ANY MORE OFFICE SUPPLIES AT ALL BECAUSE *insert your name here* THINKS THAT WE DON'T NEED ANY MORE!"

Really, dude? Blowing up about office supplies? It makes for a volatile work environment and is generally just plain uncomfortable. Besides, he often abuses the English language. Most recently were the words "asphyxiate", "lunacy" and "algebraic". (Why's he using these words? Your guess is as good as mine.)

My reaction is to just make snide remarks, hinting that I am superior to him in every way and am far more attractive. But no, I resist (usually).

Please help.

Anonymous

First thought: ‘Wait asphyxiate, lunacy and algebraic aren’t words?’

Second thought: You needn't tell him; he clearly knows that you're far superior and infinitely more attractive than him (and probably better in bed because I'm guessing he has a small wenis). I’m gonna venture a guess that that is why he feels the need to publicly patronize you when you're being perfectly logical. So, you're not doing yourself any favors in those instances you point it out.

Your best bet is to do exactly the opposite. Flatter him when you can (without sounding condescending). When you listen/speak to him, act like you truly think you have so much to learn from him. Ask about his opinions and vast experience in your field. And try to work honing your upwards management skills—for example, next time you have a suggestion/idea/solution, make him think it was his idea. And otherwise, one good way to do that is just to keep a low profile where he's concerned. The less you say the less he has to rip on you for.

Generally speaking, I tend to think there’s a very stark generational divide in the workforce right now that’s creating some really "interesting" power struggles. In my experience, the elder generation thinks the younger has an undue sense of entitlement, and they respond by acting like the douche bag frat boy who has to haze the the pledges to put them in their place and establish his superiority. Don't play into it. Act humble and I bet he'll likely play nicer until one of the two of you are ready or able to move on.

Sorry, just to confirm:

My boss is an.....er, well, idiot. I know I sound like a pretentious graduate of some fancy private school like American University or Tulane, but I went to a modest state school in the Midwest

That's making fun of me and how much I complained about Boss #1 and Boss #2, right? Thought so. Well, then I guess my advice is simply this:



It's not advice per se; it's just a good Dre song. And I specifically like the line, "You tryin' to hide it from your husband but I know he be knowin'/That your pussy's been tampered with/Did you show him the new trick of how you can make it smoke a cancer stick?"

It's just such strong imagery, you know? I mean, it has nothing to do with anything, but that's all you're going to get from me. Soooo, enjoy that.


______________

Dear Queer Abby,

There is this boy I've had my eye on for over a year. We've also been friends for about that long, so it's not like I haven't had any chances, I just puss out every time. He's also not one to take the initiative, so I thought I was safe going abroad last semester. I thought wrong, and it turned out that some girl in one of his classes jumped his bones and is now totally infatuated. A lot of my friends also seemed convinced that he was totally into me (last year at least), and his roommate tells me he doesn’t really take this relationship he’s in seriously. I'm graduating in less than a week and have been torn about just declaring my love to see what happens. I don't really know what that would accomplish since if I got what I wanted I would also be the bitch that broke some girl's heart, but part of my motivation is just to find out if he feels remotely the same way, and I'm getting the feeling that... it isn't worth it. I'm no good at approaching people about these things in a normal situation so the +1 is making this even more difficult. My plan was roughly to get drunk at my grad party this weekend and spill my guts just to see what happened, but I'm pretty sure those situations never end well. What to do!

Sincerely,

Anonymous (sorry, I’m no good at coming up with clever pseudonyms)

Far as I can figure, it isn’t worth it. Whether he likes/liked you is irrelevant at this point. All you have to work with is the situation as it is right now, which is that he’s with someone else. So, you have to assume he wants to be. And yes, you’re right; it would be a dick move to disrespect/disregard his relationship with the other girl by making a play for him, whether by pouncing, pursuing or just professing your love. And if either of you are leaving after graduation, the most that would come of it is a drunk hook-up, so it’s not worth playing your hand or fucking that other girl over,

And if you’re both staying put after graduation, what’s the rush?

In either case, your best bet is to remain friends with him, and I don’t mean the kind of friend that flirts, tries to undermine his relationship or even just pines for him and waits in the wings, I mean like a for real friend. If his roommate is right, it’s only a matter of time before the wheels fall off of his current relationship. (Let that happen in it's own time and course. I promise, you don't want to be the reason) And at that point, if you’re still interested, don’t wait around to make your move until the opportunity is lost again—write me immediately and I’ll tell you how to work it.

William Henry Thoreau once said, "Fight the feeling, leave it alone; cuz if it ain't love it just ain't enough to leave a happy home." And although I'm no expert on transcendentalism (although I do dabble,) I'm pretty sure what he was trying to say was, "It's probably not worth it, so keep it in your pants unless you want to be the ho who breaks up a couple and gets bad dating karma FOREVS." Although Tori and Dean kind of broke up each other's previous marriages and they're doing fine. Except they're not and it completely stresses me out. Because if Jill Zarin and Bethenny Frankel don't reconcile and Tori and Dean get divorced, IS ANYTHING REAL IN THIS CRAZY WORLD?! Why I give reality TV and anonymous blog comments so much power over my life is beyond me.

What was I giving you advice about? Oh, yes. The My Best Friend's Wedding-esque situation. I mean, does it really matter what Amy and I say? All three of us know that you're just going to get wasted and profess your love to him this weekend anyway. Because if even .05% of you is thinking it over, the second a drop of Mount Gay Vanilla Rum and Diet Coke hits your lips, you'll be in a corner with him all, "I'VE WANTED TO TELL YOU SSSSSSOMETHING FOR SOOOOOOO LONG! [stumble, stumble]" I know it. You know it. Jill Zarin knows it. Ginger Zarin knows it. Bobby's tinted "I'm wearing these despite the fact that it's 9pm and I'm indoors" sunglasses know it. It's gonna happen. So my advice to you is to look smokin' and enjoy venting about the DRAMZ the next day at brunch. Oh, and happy graduation!


And a happy graduation to all you graduates out there! Ex Co-Blogger Eddie graduates from UPenn Monday morning, so a big mozel tov to her! Way to get a degree that allows you to sign the papers which make it legal for me to get a pug, despite my building's no-dog rule. Such a selfless act of friendship. Best dudes forever Abe, best dudes forever.

And speaking of best dudes, thank you, dear reader, for reading this here blog, forwarding it to your friends, following us on Twitter, joining our Facebook page and blah blah social networking blah. We appreciate it a lot and hope you have a great weekend. We'll see you right back here, bright and early Monday morning! Buh-bye.

LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG

Christ on a croissant. Allow me to share with you a text I got from Allison this afternoon while I was at work:

No Post Monday. Your father and I aren't mad. We're disappointed.

Sigh. Now allow me to share with you a gchat conversation two readers from Texas had and sent me:

Kate: it drives me nuts that meg never posts on mondays anymore
and EVERY tuesday is like LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG
and im like
.... that doesn't make up for it, meg.
that. doesnt. make. up. for. it.
Sent at 3:24 PM on Monday
Sarah: I KNOW
its annoying
its like I NEED THIS
it's not a game at this desk
Kate: hahaha
Sarah: what is she doing mondays if shes unemployed?
Kate: she works retail
and she drinks sunday nights
so she barely has time to put on pants mondays when she wakes up at 10am for her 11am shift
ugh, meg.
i feel like i know you
and yet, i dont.
Sarah: its so creepy yet so necessary
maybe we should send her this convo

And then they did. And I'M SORRY, YOU GUYS! I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how much No Post Mondays stress me out. I kept remembering that I didn't post anything this morning at work today and feeling all guilty and stressed out like I forgot my kid at daycare or something. Which is absurd because this is just a blog. But, you know, it's more to me and I feel guilty.

I don't even have a good excuse for not blogging yesterday. I got home from work Sunday night and like the responsible young blogger I am (or strive to be), I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, a very much alive and somewhat kickin' Cella and Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know... with every intention of writing a Q&A post for Monday morning. And then I passed out AN single page in. I woke up five hours later at 2:30 in the morning curled up in a ball on the couch, pantsless, TV still on, spooning my laptop with mascara all over my face. It was pretty much the closest I've come to having sex since I made consensual love to a box of Thin Mints last Thursday.

Despite being half asleep and in the midst of nap afterglow (nafterglow, if you will,) I vowed that I would get something—anything—up on the blog to avoid yet another No Post Monday. So I made a list of everything that's going on in my life at the moment. And the list went as such:

- I had a really satisfying salad for dinner last night.

And that concluded the list. I'm not kidding. I very seriously wrote that sentence, blanked on anything else to write and thought, "Welp! That's the ballgame. This is my life. Aaaaaaaand hells bell's it's depressing. Good night and god speed."

But I refuse to believe that that's the only noteworthy thing in my life right now. That I had a satisfying salad for dinner. (Although it's worth noting that it really was a satisfying salad. So much so that I had again for dinner tonight. And some soup. Because it was a rainy, lazy, cozy soup kind of a day. OH MY FUCKING GOD, DO YOU SEE?! DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) No! I'm not letting this happen. I will not talk about depression, or soup, or salad, or soup and salad combo meals, or anything else that will make me sound like a living, breathing Cathy comic. Today I'm going to talk about other things. This, my friends, IS WHAT'S GOING ON.


- UM. Reagan, a 2b1b reader from Houston sent me this tank top the other day:


Oh I'm sorry, Reagan. Did I just go gay for you? Yep. Sure did. So, what are you doing this weekend? ME!? Hehehehe, oh MY! You bring the flannel; I'll bring the power tools.

(Side note: I really want to add a merch store to the blog, specifically because I want to create an official "sorr about the bag" tote bag and proudly sport it around town on a daily basis. If anyone knows anything about how to set up a merch store on a blog, hit a bitch up: meg@2birds1blog.com. Especially because if I get a store up and running, it might solve my next problem...)

- I need $500 and Adderall. Fast. I realize this couldn't sound sketchier if a one-armed Russian drug dealing sailor was involved, but I swear both are for legit purposes. I think I may have solved my laptop problem! Lara's going off to grad school in the fall (THAT'S RIGHT! My design protégé got accepted into Parson's web design masters program, DID YOURS?! Oh. He did? Well. Good for him. He should talk to Lara because she's talented and easy on the eyes. Oh, and he's newly single? Welp. I'm mighty glad we had this conversation.) and needs to get a new computer before she goes. She dropped by the store tonight and informed me that she's going to sell her old (sexy) laptop (which just got a new battery and comes with CS3!) for $500 and I shotgunned that thing so fast my name tag spun. Unfortunately Lara wasn't quite as excited. She kind of awkwardly looked at the ground, shifted her eyes back and forth and asked, "Uhhh...Meg...no offense, but do you have $500?" Well, no, not in the technical sense, but I sure as shit can find a way to get it!

So, what am I good at? Drinking, making charmingly awkward conversation and occasionally baking things. Thus, for a nominal fee, I will come to your apartment with a bottle of wine and bake you something. Perhaps a poon cake. It's kind of my specialty. What's the nominal fee? In the words of the church, "give what you can." And then a few bucks more because things are touch and go. Come on! It's like a bake sale that comes to you! It's a lazy man's wet dream! Invite some friends over! We'll make it a night! (PS: those friends should also give what they can. God bless.)

Oh, and the Adderall is just because I have ADD and need it, but can't afford to go see a psychiatrist anymore. Poverty is mighty inconveniencing. I'm rationing out my remaining anit-depressants like meat in wartime.

Now, I don't know how "legal" this is, but I have a request. Is the request to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house? No. No, it's not. But it's also not not to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house, if you catch my drift. And if say a spare painkiller found it's way in there too? Well, I certainly wouldn't be mad. THAAAANX!

- Becca recently asked me to start thinking about what kind of bridesmaid dress I would want to wear in her wedding. She's pretty sure she wants her bridal party to be in gray, but since I'm the Maid of Honor, mine gets to be a little bit different. When she told me this, I obviously heard, "you can wear whatever you want," and immediately knew the perfect dress—the dress that Alexis Carrington/Colby/Dexter/Rowan wears to Steven and Sammy Jo's engagement party in the season 2 episode appropriately titled, "The Party."

when Becca was over the other week, I decided it was a good time to inform her that I had found the perfect Maid of Honor dress for her wedding. "Awesome! Let's see it!" she said. So I juiced up the old DVD player, popped in "The Party" and paused it on the following still:


She seemed to not think it was an option. Although, to be fair, I failed to mention that the mink stole and gold seashell clutch are optional. That might make a difference.

Flash forward to yesterday when Ex Co-Blogger Eddie sent me a link to a dress that she said I should buy because a.) it looks like Dynasty threw up all over it and b.) it would make my boobs look good:


Oh, I'M sorry. Is that not just a modest version of my dream Dynasty dress?! IT'S PERFECT! I mean, gray is sophisticated and elegant and all, but gold lamé? Gold lamé is like surviving a heinous car crash, plunging into a vat of ice-cold water or getting kicked in the groin—it reminds you that you're alive. If there's any fabric more appropriate for a wedding, I'd like to know what it is. Soooo...fingers crossed she goes for that.

- What does it say about me that I legitimately almost peed my pants laughing the first time I saw this video?

And keep in mind that a large part of the near urination factor was due to the kid's blood-curdling screams. Not to mention the fact that right it can get any funnier, a rogue donkey scampers across the shot. I mean, this is pretty much what dreams are made of. I've very seriously had this video open in it's own tab for like, four days straight now and I can't imagine living in a world where I close it. Hell should be nice...

- I was having dinner with my parents last weekend and we somehow started talking about Project Runway. During this conversation, my dad informed me that it is his ultimate dream for me to go on Project Runway and make it to the final 3. Not because I want, or have ever wanted to be a fashion designer, mind you, but because that means my dad would get to meet and subsequently hug Tim Gunn during the home visit episode. "I don't know," my dad explained, "A hug from Tim Gunn seems like it would be so cathartic. Like everything would be OK. He just seems like such a nice guy!"

...From now on, whenever people get weirded out by the fact that I have tattoos dedicated to my parents, this is the moment I'm going to refer them to. I just feel like it might clear things up a bit.

- In case you didn't know, I'm on the Twitter. Fellow Twitter user and 2b1b reader @toastedzen tweeted me the following this past Friday night:

toastedzen @2birds1blog I would give just about anything to hang out with you. Hell, to DATE you. I am in love!

"Well that's awfully nice of you, sir," I thought to myself, before tweeting "done and DONE!" back for good measure.

The next morning, he tweeted this:

toastedzen @2birds1blog FYI I have no idea how much sake I had put back before I wrote that. Just in case, you know if it doesn't work out between us.

To which I joked, "what?? so we're NOT dating?!" And this is what I got back:

toastedzen @2birds1blog its not you, its me. really. umm... I just think we should be free to see other people. but we can still be friends.

OK, let me just get this straight: I'm getting dumped by fake boyfriends, these days? Before even meeting me? Is this really how far I've fallen? I'm not mad, mind you. I'm just asking. Clarifying, really. Because when you discover my lifeless body hanging from a shower rod, I don't want there to be any confusion as to what happened. I don't want any lingering theories out there that perhaps old Meg McBlogger David Carradine-ed herself. It was intentional. So we're all on the same page here? Good. Moving on.

- AH! WEIRD! So after writing that last thought, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and on my way back, grabbed the most recent issue of Cosmopolitan Becky has and brought it back to bed. I opened to the horoscope section and read mine:

Aries
The forecast: As Uranus makes its agitating debut in your sign, you're bound to unleash your grumpiness on all the wrong people. Sign up for a bad-mood-busting kickboxing class, pronto.

Work mode: Cashing in. Moneymaking Mercury settles past-due payments, and you'll enjoy a post-tax windfall.

Love life: A three-way planetary lineup could send hot prospects to singles. Meanwhile, the coupled-up Ram will finally start showing off her man at company events.

Power Day: 27th

First and foremost: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Uranus.

Secondly: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Three-way.

But come on! As much of a giant pile of horse shit that Cosmo is, that's a pretty creepy horoscope, right?? I'm grumpy and taking it out on the wrong people (you, via No Post Mondays) but my money problems will soon be solved (thanks to my new poon cake chef on-the-go business!) Thanks Cosmo! I never thought I'd say this, but you made me feel better about life. And don't worry, I won't forget to play with his balls.

Mr. Hagman, are you happy with your bourbon?

Jiminy crickets I'm hungover. It hurts. It burns. I was in desperate need of some advice last night, so I went out to dinner and drinks with one of my favorite, if not more ridiculous people in the world, Lara. Lara is not to be confused with Laura, mind you, who is also one of my favorite people in the world, but that is neither here nor there. I'm sort of oddly dependent on Lara a lot like I am with Helena, except whereas I can't make a life decision without consulting Helena first, I can't make a creative decision without running it up Lara's flagpole first. (Side note: the phrase "running it up Lara's flagpole" sounds like a delightful euphemism for something not entirely Christian and I'm heavily into it. It might even be Dr. Reuben & The Blanket Statements' first breakout hit. Coming to a haunted movie theater near you.)

Lara was a year below me at AU and she moved onto the floor where I lived Sophomore year right after College Roommate Danielle and I moved out and into our apartment. (Did that make sense at all? Re-reading that sentence felt like taking the SATs all over again but I'm too hungover to fix it. Much like the real SATs.) One day early Junior year, I went back to the good old dorms to visit Laura with a U but ended up talking for an hour with this pint-sized, ADD-ridden visual media major who was like, "HI! I'M FROM YORK, PENNSYLVANIA! I LIKE GRAPHIC DESIGN! I'VE SEEN YOU AROUND! I WORK AT HOT TOPIC! PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME! ARE YOU JUDGING ME? I LIKE YOUR SHOES! I THINK YOU'RE JUDGING ME! I'M GONNA QUIT MY JOB SOON! DO YOU WANNA SEE MY T-SQUARE?!" I was like, holy jackpot. Not only are you my new best friend, you're my new assistant. I design AmLit, AU's literary magazine. Now you do too. No, you don't have an option. Here are your keys. Be in the office tomorrow at 9pm sharp with a bag of chick-fil-a and a semi-positive attitude.

And just like that, Lara became AmLit's new design assistant and one of my biffly-biffly^max, as we spent the next two glorious years holed up together in either the office or the design lab, giving each other design advice, emotional support and a lot of Adderall. All-nighter, after all-nighter, after all-nighter. You don't forget a person after an experience like that. It changes you. Like 'Nam.

Lara and I were quite the team. Although equally awkward and inappropriate, she had mad technical skillz and I could conceptualize like a motherfucker. Together we were unstoppable. It got to the point Senior year where I relied on her advice about pretty much everything. Design related or otherwise. I distinctly remember running over to her apartment at 8 o'clock on a Saturday morning a few days after getting a new tattoo, banging on her door until she answered and being like, "HOLY CHRIST ON A CROSS MY TATTOO IS ODDLY INFLAMED I THINK IT'S CANCER I SHOULDN'T HAVE GOTTEN IT DONE IN MIAMI PEOPLE DO STUPID THINGS ON SPRING BREAK THE GUY DIDN'T SPEAK ENGLISH I'M GOING TO DIE MY MOM WAS RIGHT YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!!!!!1" She picked up my wrist, stared at it briefly through bleary eyes, dropped it and deadpanned:

"Meg. That's a bug bite."

I looked down. "Oh!......Yep. Yep, it sure is.......Well, I guess that explains why it itches, huh?!" Slams door.

So last night when I needed some creative advice, I knew Lara was the right person to go to. However, as with most advice sessions involving me and alcohol, I got drunker than I meant to, became emotional and rambled for slightly too long about how I'll never become successful because I get aspie-anxious talking to people on the phone. This would all be par for the course, except that whereas I drank an entire Liberman mop bucket of Racer 5, Lara had AN beer because she had to go home and pack for her 4am flight to SXSW this morning. Damn her. Damn her for so many reasons.

That being said, I think it's virtually impossible for me to feel like a lushy ho in front of Lara. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. For you see, one time in college I drove Lara and I to Penn Camera on Rockville Pike to get some supplies and things went a little awry. Not being the brightest flash in the camera store (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!) I locked my keys in the car and we had to wait an hour or so until my dad could leave work to bring me the spare. Both being in that early stage of 21 where it's still exhilarating to be able to go into any drinking establishment and legally order whatever you want, we decided to kill time by going to the bar at the Ruby Tuesday's and orderin' us up a couple of Ruby Relaxers. It was about two sips into my Relaxer when I realized that drinking a giant novelty rum drink half an hour before my dad comes to hand deliver me the keys might not be the best idea, so I slid my Relaxer down the sticky bar and told Lara it was all hers.

Now, let me tell you something about a Ruby Tuesday's Ruby Relaxer: potent. Potent, potent, potent. Seriously, after two sips I was like, "Wow, I have to drive. Enough." One whole Ruby Relaxer is a lot of drink. It's served in a giant goblet able to comfortably accommodate a small gerbil doing laps, so after two Ruby Relaxers, Lara was sufficiently tanked. On a Wednesday. At 3pm in the afternoon. Waiting for my dad to come get us. Bless her heart. She was slurring all over the place and her giggling was reverberating off the walls. To make matters worse, there was a group of very large and very scary thugs sitting down the bar from us who had clearly just ducked out of work early to get a drink and work out some personal issues they were having. Unfortunately things were less being worked out and more quickly escalating into a near fist-fight. So just to recap, at this point I'm in a Ruby Tuesday's on Rockville Pike with a shit-faced Lara sloshing around to my left and the entire cast of The Wire about to break out into a less graceful version of Michael Jackson's Beat It video to my right. That's when I saw my dad in the parking lot.

To give you some background, it's a bit of a thing amongst my friends that my dad is a handsome gentleman. I want to say he didn't do some light L.L. Bean modeling, yet why lie? I'm told that Mr. McBlogger is a silver fox, but being his daughter and not from dat dem der mountains, I don't really want to expand on that. (And by the way, I realize I'm opening myself up to a ton of "your dad" jokes on today's comment thread, but I ask you "friends" of mine to behave yourselves and remember that not only is Mrs. McBlogger is a dignified lady, she's also a dedicated 2b1b reader. Thank you. Assholes.)

Up until this point, Lara had only ever seen pictures of my dad and in her very inebriated state, she was incredibly excited to meet him in person.

"Hey my dad's here, let's close out and go," I said.

"Ohhhhhhhhh my gawd. YOUR DAD. I can see him across the parking lot. He's such a silver fox," Laura woozily slurred.

"Yeaaaah, gross......Ok, well, enough of that. Let's go."

I walked Laura out to the parking lot, gave my dad and a hug and thanked him for coming. "AHEM," Laura coughed.

"Oh, sorry! Dad, this is my good friend Lara from school. Lara does design with me and we work on AmLit together."

"Oh, well it's nice to finally meet you Lara! We've heard a lot about you," my dad said as he shook her hand.

To this day, I am haunted by the memory of what happened next. I can still so vividly see Lara's limp little wrist shaking my dad's hand, her glassy eyes fixed on his and her mouth open like she was a bulimic in line at an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet. And then, she said it.

"Missshter McBlogger, are you happy with your wife?"

I swear to everything that is good and holy, that is what Lara said upon meeting my father for the first time. Quote, "are you happy with your wife?" I have no idea what happened next. I think I blacked out because the next thing I remember is my dad giving me the AAA card I left at home and telling me to drive safely. I think I spent the entire drive back to campus shouting "LARA" in various tones and frequencies. To this day I'm not sure if my dad heard it. If he did, I think he took the very McBlogger way out of pretending like it never happened and moving right along. Still, that doesn't mean I didn't hear it. Shudder, shudder.

So that is why I don't feel embarrassed this morning about drinking my weight in beer last night and rambling to a sober Lara about my shortcomings on the phone. Because she tried to stepmom me in a parking lot after one too many Ruby Relaxers. Christ.

BUT! Speaking of drunken friends! It's time to check in with the drunkest of them all. That's right! It's America's favorite fictional holiday—T.G.I. Hagman!

As of March 12, 2010 at 9:50am, Larry Hagman is........alive! And thank Jah.

Welp, I hope you all have a glorious weekend a-boozin' with friends that are near and dear to you. Before you go, would you mind doing me a favor? Would you be a lamb and go here, scroll down to the third category of "People and Places," click "34 more", write in 2birds1blog for Best Local Blog/Blogger and submit it? And if you've already done that: a.) bless your heart and b.) why not vote my broke ass getting fired for Best Local Scandal (a few items down from Best Local Blog/Blogger)? Maybe get a few friends or loved ones to do the same? Perhaps hire a hobo to do so if you have none of the above? Thanks! Polls close Monday, so it's time to hustle. As always, we appreciate all you do to keep us going and totes LYLAS! Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning. Buh-bye.