I'm fairly certain I watched a woman discover a mole with irregular borders on the metro last night...

And it's fucking with my mind.

So, I went to The Container Store in Tenleytown yesterday to get an August-August calendar/organizer as part of my Meg's-getting-her-shit-together-which-really-just-means-she-naps-slightly-less-and-does-a-crunch-every-now-and-then-when-she's-not-too-high-and/or-watching-Hoarders-on-Netflix...thing...that I'm doing, and I took the metro back to Dupont at around 5:30pm. First and foremost: mistake. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Because (and I'm fully aware of how obnoxious this is going to sound) I completely forgot how God-awful the metro is during rush hour. My psychiatrist asked me last week if I ever worry about running out of material for the blog, and I said no, because if I do, I just have to take the metro somewhere during rush hour and we're back in business. Although I said that as a joke to move the conversation along because at that point I would have shaved my upper-thighs with a cheese grater if it meant we could stop talking about my "career" and move on to the part where he throws a few bottles of pills at me and says, "See you in six months", I still think it's a valid point. Because last night, three noteworthy things happened to me in the span of one metro ride:

1.) The title of this post, which we'll come back to.

2.) While I was waiting for my train on the Tenleytown platform, this goddamn frizzy-haired mouth-breather of a woman waddled up and, despite having ample room to stand next to me, she stood right in front of me. Like, her back was separated from my front by a matter of a few erotic inches. I can understand this happening when the platform is packed and it's like, well where else do you want me to go, guy?, but, again, I had at least five-feet of space on either side of me. I could have comfortably grapevined in either direction and in no way had to alter the size of my jazz movements. I don't know why she chose to stand directly in front of me, but all I could think was that this was the physical manifestation of those assholes on the The Price is Right who wait until everyone else has bid, and then bid one-dollar more than the highest bidder. Those people are the fucking worst. Because how hard is it to come up with the retail price of some asinine home product out of thin air? Pretty goddamn hard. How hard is it to tack a dollar onto that amount, turn around, and throw your arms up in victory at your fellow Arizona State Sigma Chi's in the audience? Not that hard. But they always win! And it's like, what's a bro in the desert going to do with a Jaclyn Smith Heritage dinette set? You just know he's going to sell it on eBay to buy tickets to a Jack Johnson concert or some shit, when it really should have gone to the Latina woman at the end of the row with a hutch to do it some justice, God bless her. So, then, not only was I pissed off that there was an asshole standing in front of me, I was also becoming increasingly more agitated thinking about the unspoken moral code and bidding strategies of The Price is Right's contestant's row, and I was just standing there silently fuming to the point where thank God the train came, because I was 30-seconds away from shoving a bottle of Garlique down that bitch's throat and smashing her head in with a grandfather clock. Had I had any of the necessary tools.

3.) Things were even more infuriating going from Dupont to Tenley. I know I'm a writer and I just applied to a bunch of fancy MFA programs and I should take my "craft" seriously and blah blah blah, but I truly struggle with describing seating on the metro, so I'm just going to draw the situation I found myself in instead:

OK? Get it? So my objective was to get from the aisle to the free seat on the far side of the two-seater, kitty-corner to the handicap seats. You know? Look, if you're still confused, just fucking call me. I don't have the talent or the gumption to tackle describing seating arrangements right now. Let's just leave it at that.

So, Seat #1 was occupied by this horrible girl who looked like a Hill staffer (my apologies if you are a Hill staffer, I'm just trying to paint a picture), sitting there with her perfect posture in her sensible flats and khaki pants and low bun, reading what I can only assume was Eat, Love, Pray on her Kindle. For those of you unfamiliar with the DC metro system, the L set-up illustrated above is a tight squeeze for all parties involved. Therefore, when someone is seated in Seat #1 and the seat next to them frees up, it's common courtesy to scooch over to make it easier for the next rider to sit down. Hill Staffer, however, did not scooch at all. Instead, she ignored me when I asked her to move over or swing her legs out into the aisle so I could get by. She just flat-out ignored me. And it's not like she was lost in the whimsical world of books and didn't realize that I was trying to sit next to her; she clearly locked eyes with me when I asked her to move and just chose not to. So then I had to do these Cirque Du Soleil-like acrobatics to climb over her and everyone else and squeeze myself into the seat next to her, which was as tiring as it was infuriating. But here's the best part: she did it again when I had to get off the train. As we approached Dupont, I said, "Excuse me, this is my stop", and she glanced up at me, glanced back down, and didn't do a goddamn thing. It was mind-boggling. But, I figured if it was a lap dance she wanted, then it was a lap dance she was going to get—I climbed over, straddled, and grinded that skinny bitch like it was the last dance of the night and I was $20 short of making my meth habit. She didn't have a dick, but I was still going to get it hard. I was grinding with that kind of tenacity. Because be an ass to me once, shame on you; be an ass to me twice, I'm going to get you fucking pregnant.

But back to 1.) I'm fairly certain I saw a woman discover a mole with irregular borders. I was sitting in my awkward little corner seat, fuming and absentmindedly watching the woman sitting in the handicap seat nearest to me switch her heavy coat for a light cardigan. She was an older woman, probably in her late 50's, and looked normal enough. The entire situation wasn't that interesting until she starting folding up the sleeves of said cardigan. She folded up her left sleeve with no issue, but then three folds up the right, she (and I) noticed something on her forearm. She looked at it quizzically and leaned in closer to inspect it. She licked her thumb and rubbed it, but it didn't budge. Now I'm just a simple blogger/graphic designer/unemployed Matt Paxton enthusiast, but that was 100% a mole with irregular borders. I've seen enough ZOINKS! DEEZ 'AINT RIGHT! mole posters at various dermatologist's office to know what one looks like and that, madam, zoinks—dat don't look right. 

The woman looked concerned for about a fraction of a second, shrugged, and then rolled both of her sleeves down. At this point, I honestly didn't know if I should have said something or not. Because on one hand, I'm not a doctor, it's none of my business and what the fuck do I know? But on the other—IT WAS A MOLE WITH IRREGULAR BORDERS. She needs to go to the dermatologist and get it checked out immediately. Need a dermatologist? Marisa Braun at Braun Dermatology Associates on F and 21st. I'm obsessed. I have an oddly specific balance of $10.87, but feel free to tell her Meg sent you. This woman just looked like she had a nice family at home and you always hear stories about people who don't get little things like this checked out and six months later it's metastasized into Stage 4 cancer and it's this big, traumatic life lesson about the importance of yearly full body mole scans. I mean, despite venturing into the sun only occasionally to get a $5 footlong, I convince myself that I have skin cancer at least three times a year. I rarely go to the dermatologist and get it checked out, mind you; I mostly just ask everyone I interact with to look at it and tell me if they think it looks weird. I've made quite a few happy hours awkward this way, but, hell, it's cheaper than a co-pay. Thank God I'm not a man because I can just see myself 40 years from now being someone's Uncle Mort who shows up to dinner all, "My left testicle is inflamed, but feh."

So, now I'm completely invested in this woman's livelihood. I didn't end up saying anything to her and I'm convinced that she's going to die and it's going to be my fault. I've actually considered putting the following missed connection on Craigslist:

Kind-Looking Older Woman in Smart Cardigan (Redline towards Shady Grove)

YES, THAT MOLE DID HAVE IRREGULAR BORDERS. I was the surly-looking 20-something with giant hooters sitting kitty-corner to you on the metro last night, and as someone who took biology in college instead of the considerably easier "Ocean Studies", it is my expert opinion that you need to get that mole checked out as soon as humanly possible. If the only thing that's stopping you is someone to go with you and hold your hand, here—take mine. We're going to get through this. TOGETHER.

(Email me back with "SKIN TAG" in the subject line so I know you're not a bot.)

But, you know, that's "weird". So, on the off chance that you, ma'am, are a 2birds1blog reader, I truly believe that your mole has irregular borders. I've done some light Googling, I've done the comparison, and I think it would behoove you to get it checked out. And if you're not a 2birds1blog reader, as I assume you're not because you had kind eyes and I just talked about hate-fucking a stranger because they were slightly rude to me on the metro—I'm sorry I killed you. 

FULL. BODY. MOLE SCANS. PEOPLE.

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries:

- First and foremost, I didn't forget about last Thursday's cracked out promise to do a "Spit in Porn" entry; it'll go up tomorrow. I need one more day to gather my thoughts on the subject matter. Because I have a lot of them. But like, a lot of them. To the point where the thought of organizing them into a cohesive blog entry is completely overwhelming. Thus, I've decided I shall spend all day today in a dark corner of a quiet coffee shop, pair of bifocals perched slightly below the bridge of my nose, brow furrowed while I flip through old leather-bound books on human sexuality, biology and...spit..., feverishly taking notes and yelling at the waitress for interrupting my train of thought to do something as pedestrian as clear my cup away, a-thank you. Because tomorrow's entry isn't going to be just your run-of-the-mill blog post—it's going to be my opus.


- Only 10% of me is shocked that my opus involves spitting on genitals.


- Based on my interest in "Nip/Tuck" and Louis C.K. stand-up, Netflix has recommended that I watch Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico.

That dog better be in Mexico to get cheap botox or because he deeply resents his children; anything less and Netflix and I are going to need to have words.


- There is no other music in the world that toes the line between "jolly" and "I'm going to kill myself tonight" like Christmas music. While I was waiting for Teresa to come over and drink wine and Christmas-ify my apartment with me last night, I put on my Pandora Christmas music station and started tidying up a bit. At first it was playing swingin' Michael Buble "Holly Jolly Christmas" type stuff, but somewhere along the line it slowly progressed into like, recently orphaned children singing through their tears about Christmas trees and songs comprised of a single, haunting bell echoing through the night that forgot you. I didn't even notice the progression happening; one minute I was making my bed and the next I was curled up in it, hysterically crying and wailing, "I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!" into a pillow.


- That being said, the Christmas spirit has arrived in the old Meg McBlogger residence!




My Christmas tree is kind of anorexic. And fake. And casting spooky shadows on my wall in that picture. And up until a few hours ago was covered in Luna bar wrappers and old US magazines in the crack between my bed and the wall—or my Shame Hole, as I call it. And by Luna Bars, I obviously mean empty ice cream cartons. And it's now standing on an old H&M pashmina covering a Jäger cooler. Basically my Christmas tree is the antithesis of Alex's fancy-pants real person Christmas tree:
Whatevs. Mine's got moxie.


- Speaking of Teresa, I never thought I'd say this to anything but the mirror as I gaze at my Thrillhouse tattoo (which, for the record, I do quite often), but this is probably the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen:
If Maryland pride is gay, then I'm the Old Line State's Bruce Vilanche.


- If all goes well this year with HannuClaus, I will soon be making the switch from a duvet to a comforter. I'm kind of bummed about it though, because truthfully I find duvets more comfortable than comforters. My problem with duvets, however, is that I'm an incredibly active sleeper and as I toss and turn all night, the duvet separates and gets pushed down to the bottom of the cover and I somehow manage to tangle myself in the entire apparatus and all of a sudden I'm having nightmares about being in a straitjacket and feh. I feel like it has to just be easier to get a comforter. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep because the ratio of duvet to cover is off.


Speaking of my odd little bed neurosis, there was a solid month in 2004 when my sister's best friend, Rachel, would sign into AIM for the sole purpose of featuring a new "Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day" on her profile. I completely forgot about this little gem until it was a featured EMMFOD: 

Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day: When Meghan was a little girl, her parents used to have to safety pin her pillow to the center of the bed.

Uh, A.) that's incredibly true and although safety pins aren't in the mix anymore, the odds of me being able to sleep if my pillow is off-center is still slim-to-none; B.) That being said, just the fact that safety pins were even involved in my bed time growing up makes me feel so Aspie's I'm shocked there isn't a social worker reading this over my shoulder as I type.


- You know what I've come to realize? If God forbid I ever run out of things to write about, all I need to do to get more material is simply go down into the metro. I don't even necessarily have to take it anywhere! I just need to physically enter the human cesspool that is the Washington, D.C. metro system and within 30 seconds, I guarantee you I'll have a story about how society is crumbling in upon itself and I want to set 98% of everyone I see on fire. Case and point:


I had the great displeasure of taking the metro to my parent's house during the peak of evening rush hour the other night. I entered the metro from Dupont south and from the top of the descending escalator I could see that the platform was packed everywhere except for the far end. "HUZZAH!" I thought to myself. Still reeling from Ren Fest. Apparently. "That's the side where the train pulls in; the first few cars are normally pretty empty anyway. I'll stand there!"


I slowly worked my way through the crowd and eventually arrived at the opposite end of the platform. As I stood there waiting for the next train, I felt very content with my situation as I had about five feet on either side of me free of Other Person. Which is exactly when an older woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. Let me repeat that: Bitch stood DIRECTLY. IN FRONT. OF. ME. She had more than enough room to stand next to me, but she chose to stand in front of me. And you know what pissed me off most about that situation? It wasn't that she was poaching my prime platform real estate; it wasn't that her person was about three inches away from mine and very clearly invading my privacy bubble; it wasn't that she was going to board the train before me although I got there first—it was that what she did was the equivalent of the people on "The Price is Right" who graduate from Contestant's Row by bidding one-dollar more than the highest bidder. You people are the fucking scum of the earth and if I'm sure of anything in this world, it's that there's a Hell and there's a special place for you in it. In my mind, here's the pecking order of Hell:

1.) Hilter

2.) Pol Pot

3.) An army of child molesters

4.) "The Price is Right" —and one, Bob! bidders

5.) Osama bin Laden

That's right, —and one, Bob! bidders come before Osama bin Laden. You people are collectively worse than the mastermind of 9/11. I am genuinely shocked that murders haven't been committed as a result of someone betting one-dollar more than the highest bidder, winning, and going on to play Plinko. Because Lord knows I'd kill you! I'd kill you, pry that fucking bedroom set from the Ashley group out of your cold, dead hands, and dance on your grave! And you can say, "Oh, that's just the way you play the game. Those people are being smart," but I completely reject that. You know why? Because there's a little thing called dignity in sport. I mean, we'd all win a few more football games if we went around shaking members of the opposing team, but nobody would actually do that because there's no dignity in that win. If you're going to walk into "The Price is Right" studios, come correct—know the prices of shit. Go to Safeway and do some recon; it's not that hard. A bottle of Garlique is $15.99. There. Have some god damn respect for yourself. Don't just wait until the fine Americans who actually did their homework place their bids and then bid one-dollar more. It's disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them, it's disrespectful to Bob Barker and his Beauties, and it makes a mockery out of what is undeniably the finest game show of the 20th century.

And that's why I hate the metro.

State of the Meg — May, 2010

So, not to be that guy in your office who talks about the weather and says asinine things like, "woahhhh, can you believe it's May already?!", but, woahhhh, can you believe it's May already?! That's crazy. I feel like just yesterday it was Snowpocalypse and I was stuck in my apartment binge eating packages of pre-cooked sausage and drinking straight from a bottle of Manischewtiz wine I found hidden behind my DVD collection, covered in an inch of dust. Now it's 90-degrees outside and May. That's nuts. Time flies when you're not stuck in a cubicle. And it's May 4th. That means we're 4 days overdue for May's State of the Meg. BLASPHEMY! Thus, I present that State of the Meg to you now.

State of the Meg — May, 2010

- Sweet & Sour Chicken. Why do I do this to myself? I always see Sweet & Sour Chicken on the menu at Mei Wah and think to myself, "Well I like chicken. And I appreciate the east-meets-west juxtaposition of sweet and sour flavors in my mouth at the same time. I should order Sweet & Sour Chicken!" And then I do and it gets here and I see what it looks like and remember that I don't like at all and it ruins my night. Much like this night. It's all fried and you have to add the queer sauce with the peppers and the cherries yourself and feh...if I wanted to cook, I wouldn't have ordered in, now would I? I should have gotten Sliced Pork in Plum Sauce. I regret this decision. So, I guess that's the first order of business.

- FYI: A 2b1b merchandise store is absolutely going to happen in the near-future, so get excited for that! I've already designed the sorr about the bag-bag and two different logos for shirts, hoodies, mugs, et al. Now I just need to find out which online store situation will yield me the most money because that's kind of where my head's at these days. I actually told someone yesterday that I was quote, "hurting for a fiscal squirting." I've never wanted to hop into a Delorean and gun it to 88 so badly in my entire life.

- I had drinks with Billy after work tonight. His leg hair seems to have grown back nicely.

- I made an important life decision that might shock you: I don't want a pug anymore. BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT, HEAR MY REASONING. I still love pugs and would kill a hooker to stare at one in person for five seconds, it's just that they have so many health problems and I really am hurting for a fiscal squirting broke these days. Perhaps getting a dog that's going to have 9 billion health problems over the course of it's life isn't the best decision in the world? Plus, puggies hate the heat. And have you been outside recently? It's like walking around in Joy Behar's bra all day. As much as I want to stab my mom and Ex Co-Blogger Eddie in the eye with a tuning fork every time they lecture me on why getting a pug is a horrible idea, I'm starting to think that perhaps they have a point. I don't want to get a puggy and have him die prematurely due to a heat related illness because I can only afford to take him to the free pug clinic on New York Ave. (Side note: new life goal—open a free pug clinic on New York Ave.)

- Instead, I'm all about getting a Shiba Inu! I actually wanted to get a Shiba Inu way before I ever wanted to get a pug. When I was 14, I had an after school job at a bookstore near my high school and one day a woman came in with a dog that looked like a straight-up fox. Now, as we all know from the embarrassing (yet not embarrassing at all because I dare you to hug him and not fall in love) fact that I sleep curled up with a giant stuffed fox named Jason, I love foxes. So I obviously freaked out about how ungodly adorable this little dog was and the owner told me that he was a Shiba Inu. Years later when Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I lived in Brooklyn, we discovered that one of our neighbors had a Shiba Inu and I was pretty much physically incapable of not peeing my pants and shrieking "AWWW, FOX DOG!!!!!!!!" every time I saw him walking around the 'hood. It then became my dream to get a little Shiba Inu and name him Steve The Fox Dog. This dream was put on hold, however, when I decided that I wanted to get Ichabod the Rasta Pug instead. But when you think about it, Steve The Fox Dog would probably be much more conducive to living in a warm city with a broke-ass ho for an owner than a pug, right? So, new goal: July 2010. Steve The Fox Dog and Meghan McBlogger. Ghetto Superstars. Coming to a district near you.


- Something embarrassing happened to me Saturday night. Well, that's obviously a lie—many embarrassing things happened to me Saturday night, but three things happened that are specifically worth noting:

1.) Before going to Anna & Talia's party, I cut my shin shaving in the shower (alliterations!) and it would not clot for the life of me. Seriously. Like, I've gotten little nicks on my legs that have taken a while to clot before, but this was on a whole other level. This was some Romanov shit right there. It bled when I was in the shower, through doing my make-up, through doing my hair, through getting dressed, through pregaming, through the metro ride from Dupont to Grosvenor, through the cab ride to Anna and Talia's house and probably like five minutes into the party. I mean, what the fuck is that? It was a tiny-ass cut. But it was bleeding profusely. And because it was bleeding profusely, I had to carry my quote, "blood rag" on the metro to occasionally dab with so blood wouldn't trickle down my leg and make me look like a 12-year-old girl getting her period for the first time.

As I was standing on the metro chatting with Ex Co-Blogger Chris and Alex and trying not to lose consciousness, an attractive guy wearing an ironic neon 90's hat got on with his bike and stood in front of me. A few minutes into the ride, I glanced down and noticed that a significant amount of blood had accumulated on my shin and it was time to give it a good old-fashioned dab with my blood rag. However, I didn't really want Irono-90's Guy to see this going down, so I did an oh-so-suave little, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO, don't mind me! whistle and kicked my right leg over my left so I could discreetly bend down and dab it. Unfortunately, not being an oh-so-suave person to begin with, I blatantly kicked the guy's bike and drew way more attention to myself than I would have had I just bent down and dabbed it like a normal person. It also didn't help that after this happened, I loudly moaned, "GOD DAMNIT! I HATE BEING ME! ALL DAY. EVERY DAY." Sigh.

2.) This isn't really so much an embarrassing moment as it is an embarrassing observation. The drink of choice at Saturday night's party was gin bucket. A gin bucket is pretty much exactly what it sounds like—a giant bucket full of gin, various fruits and ice that you shoot into your mouth (or have shot into your mouth) via turkey baster.

...My jaw muscles still honest-to-god hurt from holding my mouth open to have gin bucket squirted down my throat. I don't know if that's a reflection of how much I drank or how out of shape my jaw muscles are, but I do know that I'm embarrassed for myself. This embarrassment is second only to when you give head for the first time after not hooking up for a while and your entire neck and jaw muscles kill for like a week afterward. Yes? No? Just me? Blokay, sitting back down. And then getting right back up to go to the gym. Or give more head. Probably neither, if I'm being honest.

3.) When Chris, Alex and I got back to the metro to head home, we were hot, sweaty, tired and covered in gin bucket. When we boarded the train, however, Alex realized that we were on a ghost car (meaning we were the only ones in the compartment) and proceeded to shoot awake, freak out in excitement, race up and down the aisle, provocatively swing from pole to pole and shout, "GHOST CAR!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. I've never seen someone go from near pass-out to 5-year-old-realizing-there's-a-pony-at-his-party-style excited that fast in my entire life. Alex later said of the ghost car, "I don't think I've been that happy in months." And his excitement was contagious! From Grosvenor to Bethesda, the three of us just ran around that car like jackasses, swinging from poles, taking lewd pictures, and shouting, "GHOST CAR!!!!" over and over again. Unfortunately this only lasted a few stops, as a bunch of people got on at Bethesda and we had to sit down in our seats and act like normal human beings again.

However, a bunch of people got off a few stops later at Van Ness and for a second there, I thought we were back in the Ghost Car. I was so excited that I audibly gasped at the thought. Giggling, with eyes as big as saucers and the cheesiest fucking grin on my face, I whipped my head around to see if we were the only people on the train and was instead met eye-to-eye with a drunk girl sitting behind me, tears streaming down her face. No two people have ever looked more directly into each other's eyes in the history of the world. And if you paused that moment, it would seem like I had whipped my head around to look and laugh at this poor girl crying her face off on the metro at 2 o'clock in the morning. But I wasn't! I just thought we were in the Ghost Car again, but how could I explain that to her?

Our eyes still locked, the smile on my face vanished and I awkwardly was like, "GHO—G-G-GHOST...NOPE, NOT A GHOST CAR. SORRY!" turned back around and slumped down into my seat. I started talking to Alex to take the embarrassment edge off and while I was talking to him, he reached down and grabbed my knee like, "dude, check out the girl behind you," which in turn made me laugh, because of the absurdity of what just happened. Which made him laugh. Which made me laugh even more. BUT WE COULDN'T LAUGH because that poor thing was like, curled up in a little ball hysterically crying and it was like the 9/11 mini-flag situation all over again. Because who am I to laugh at her? Crying in public, much like vomiting in public or losing your cell phone, is the great equalizer: we've all done it drunk and have been retrospectively embarrassed by it the next morning. Like I haven't been escorted out of a bar crying to the point where I can't catch my breath about something that the next morning, if not about poached eggs, is of little-to-no importance to me. It happens. And I honestly wasn't laughing at her or her misfortune. I was just SO DAMN EXCITED ABOUT THE GHOST TRAIN! GHOST TRAIN!!!!!!11

- I grossly have to clean my apartment and do laundry. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

- I really like my job, which although not funny, I feel is worth mentioning.

- Speaking of jobs, I have a phone date with Helena's maybe future employer tomorrow because she put me down as a reference. I recently decided that I'm going to tell them that she founded her own white supremacy group and has a nasty little meth habit. Why? Just as a goof.

- And speaking of Helena! I know this is old news by now, but we watched Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire together the other day before work and that shit is FUCKED UP. Like fucked up in the way that we couldn't hug each other goodbye afterward because it was too much physical contact too soon, fucked up. Shudder, shudder. Never again.

- I need summer clothes. And shoes. And Steve The Fox Dog. Hurting 4 Fiscal Squirting '10. Here we are again.

- The guy in my building who's always an asshole made polite small-talk with me the other day in the elevator and even made a joke! BAHAHA! BOOM! It only took 14 months, but I knew I'd break him down like a racial barrier. Meghan McBlogger: like a drug that's not immediately addictive.

- Hmmm...yeah. That's all I got for you. Slow month.

State of the Meg: sore and sour. Zing!

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?

You have no idea how many times I've attempted to write this post. Because Lord knows it needed to be written; I just haven't had the strength or the stamina to be the one to do it. Now I've dissected, studied and successfully attacked some of the most irritating people in our society—Red vests; Playfully Difficult People; Smug Pugs; Backpack Rollers; Meghan McCain—and biting words normally flow right out of my head and onto this blog at an alarming rate. However, every time I sit down and try to analyze those god damn Metro Pole Leaners, I become so overwhelmed with an unprecedented amount of confusion and anger that the only thing I can manage to do is mash my keyboard with clenched fists of rage, attach this picture and call it a post:


But that's not fair. It's not fair to me, it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to Metro Pole Leaners. Because they deserve to have new assholes ripped thoroughly and properly and who am I to deny them that? Sigh. Look. What it all boils down to is this:

 Things that are appropriate to lean on:
- Sturdy walls
- Appropriately high safety railings
- Backs of chairs
- Counter tops
- Friends
- Family
- Bill Withers

 Things that are not appropriate to lean on:
- Plate glass windows
- Things made out of trick wood
- Jenga towers
- Stilt walkers
- A one-legged friend
- Me after a few cocktails
- METRO POLES DURING RUSH HOUR

For the sweet love of all that is holy, you can not lean on the poles in the metro during rush hour. You just. Can't. And the fact that people do everyday—morning and night!—boggles my mind and makes me question everything I've been taught about right and wrong and the definition of voluntary vs. involuntary manslaughter.

For those of you who don't live in a major metropolitan city with it's own subway system and have no idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain. A subway (conversely called a metro, T, El etc.) is a system of transportation in which people are shot through a tunnel underground at high speeds. Having taken high school physics and shown up the day when Newton's First and Second Laws of Motion were explained, the metro car designers were savvy enough to install poles for people to grab onto in an effort to not go flying about and topple all over each other. Now I will give you this: it is genuinely more comfortable to lean against said pole than to just hold on to it with your hand. TRUE STATEMENT, yes. However, during rush hour, commuters are jammed into cars like cattle and there isn't enough room to keep your butt virginity, nevertheless enjoy little luxuries like leaning against the pole. Because when you do that, you render the entire pole useless from ass to neck for your fellow riders. And that, in a nutshell, makes you a piece of shit.

Case and point—check out this guy who graced my morning commute a few weeks ago at approximately 8:45 in the morning:


I mean, I feel like I could just post that picture and call it a day. It does all the work for me. The pole is quite literally being cradled betwixt this man's ass cheeks. Where in the name of Christ was I supposed to grab to steady myself? His ankles? The nape of his neck? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was on a third date, no thank you. Of course everyone around me was in the same predicament, so now not only are we all butt-fucking each other, we're also playing a massive game of human pick-up-sticks with arms going every which way, desperately trying to grab onto anything to steady ourselves. Unfortunately for me, by the time I realized Pole Fucker wasn't going to give up his precious pole real estate, it was too late and there was nothing left for me to grab. Suddenly I was in Lionel Richie's Dancin' on the Ceiling video and I had one foot on the wall, both hands on the ceiling and one leg wrapped around a total stranger, just praying to any and every god that will listen for the metro conductor to ease her into the next station and not jam on the brakes, sending me flying into an Asian man's lap.

Here's what really irritates me about Metro Pole Leaners: you could not find a more irritating, intrusive and inconvenient way to communicate to your fellow man that you just don't give a fuck. That's what MPL's are saying, by the way—"I don't give a fuck." And let me tell you something: in civilized society at 8:45 in the morning, crammed into a tiny tin can being shot through a tube at 40mph, genitals-to-ass and ass-to-genitals— you should give a fuck. I have very little hope left for society and even I feel like that's not too much to ask. I mean, you might as well whip your dick out and do pirouettes while pissing. Because that would communicate the exact same level of Dont-Give-a-Fuck to each and every individual in a 360-degree radius just as well.

I seriously show the above picture off to everybody and anybody who'll look at it like I'm a proud new mother. I am that desperate for someone to explain it to me. I was just showing it to my sister last Sunday at brunch when she brought up the point that most Metro Pole Leaners tend to be tourists who don't know any better. I personally think she's giving MPL's way too much credit because a.) I have experienced many an Executive Metro Pole Leaner in my day and b.) New York is just as touristy and I feel like when I lived there I never experienced this problem. You would have to be fucking suicidal to lean against a subway pole during rush hour in New York. This begs the question—is this yet another commuting problem unique to DC? Are we that much a city of nerds that we can't even get the courage to ask MPL's to ackrite?

It's a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. Because yes, I think we, as a city, are way too easy on MPL's. However, it's been my experience that even if you do point out to an MPL what they're doing, they still don't give a fuck. In fact, when I ask an MPL to move, 100% of the time (and I am in no way inflating that number just to get my point across) they get offended, as if I'm intruding on their space. In their minds, that's their pole and you have no business tryin' to get all up on it. MPL's are a strictly Pole Monogamous people. And that in and of itself is more mind boggling than the fact that they're on the pole to begin with! Because the metro is a mode of PUBLIC transportation. PUBLIC! Meaning for the people! You don't pay rent, asshole! GAHHHHH IT'S JUST SO FUCKING INFURIATING!!!!!1

Which is why I feel no remorse in having sucker-punched an MPL in the back of the head and urge you to do the same. Well, maybe don't punch them, but certainly don't be afraid to stand up for yourself when encountering an MPL! And if they give you shit (and they will give you shit) don't back down! Odds are everyone around you is thinking the exact same thing as you and if Jerry Seinfeld's career taught us anything it's that people have a soft-spot in their hearts for people who say what you're thinking. They'll have your back, don't worry. And even if they don't, I do. FIST PUMP OUT!

First ever Smug Pug Award!

This past Sunday morning I was laying in my bed, wishing I had some coffee and perhaps a helper monkey and reading DCist, when I came across this article by Kriston Capps:

We Apologize for the Fact that you Still Can't Get Up There

Unsuck DC Metro looks back in time at a novel proposal ever so briefly considered by WMATA, one that never loses its commonsensical appeal: Screw the broken escalators, let's have stairs! A look at the minutes from the 2006 Customer Service, Operations and Safety Committee meeting finds that Metro could save some $1.2 million in annual operating expenses by replacing escalators with stairs -- you know, turning the escalators off -- at some 14 Metro stations. Stations with three or more escalators were only to see one set of escalators turned into stairs (but why?), while stations with those 12 kilometer-long escalators like Tenleytown would be unaffected (but why not?).

It's my understanding that the disabled and the elderly are advised to take Metro's elevators and to plot their Metro routes by elevator availability whenever using Metro. So the argument that strikes me as the obvious case against stairs is mitigated. On the other hand, stairs promote health and would save the Metro system money. On the other other hand, it seems that at any given time there are a fixed number of Metro escalators that are (broken) stairs anyway.

Would stairs slow ridership? Would tourists make moving onto and off of station platforms even more difficult if they were responsible for their own locomotion? Would this happen on a large scale? My guess: Like all healthy, cost-saving measures, the change would be both positive and super annoying.

"Hmm. That was an impressive level of smuggery," I mused to my invisible helper monkey. But I shrugged it off and moved on to the next article, also by Kriston Capps:

You Kids Get Off My Lot

"College kids with cars pay a parking premium if they keep their wheels on campus," reports the Washington Post, in the best news I've heard all day. It's expensive, and colleges intend to keep it that way. George Washington University students, for example, must pay $550 per semester for a parking decal and Georgetown students pay even more -- $656 per semester -- to park at satellite lots in Rosslyn; other Metro area schools must pay similarly high fees to keep a car at school. This seems wholly reasonable for schools located in an urban environment that is well served by public transportation. College campuses, too, are designed to offer students many (if not all) the services they require in one place, from health clinics to computer software stores. Granted, out-of-state students might ought need to go home once in a while -- but where in the U.S. can you not fly for $600 round-trip once a semester? If anything, it seems that students -- who, I'm sure we can all agree, don't really do anything with those cars but cause trouble -- aren't paying enough to park their jalopies in the District.

And holy Jimminy James Christ if that is not the most self-satisfied piece of yowzah I have ever read in my entire life. Not to be mean or anything. You know I fear blog wars like I fear Meeks, D&D nights, leather horse art and...Ren Fest? (Damnit!) But both of these articles express a truly impressive and infuriating level of smug. What crawled up your tawt asshole, K-Dawg? Why are you trying to make me hoof it up stairs and utilize public transportation? I hate the public. I don't want to transport with them. And that's my choice!

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's examine the first article, shall we?

Upon first glance, I was totally on Kriston's side. I think we can all agree that the metro is about as reliable as a molestery uncle and needs to be fixed, but turning off the escalators? Really? Why? So we can replace the 1.2 million dollars Metro will save from cutting operating expenses with the new 1.2 million dollar "Oh-my-God-I'm-Having-a-Fucking-Heart-Attack" Fund? Metro escalators aren't like malls escalators―they go hundreds of feet below street level. That's steep. Like, really steep. Like, challenging to walk up them, steep. And I consider myself to be a relatively fit person. I go to the gym roughly 4-5 days a week but I still gasp for air like I just finished the Iron Man Challenge after walking a broken set of Dupont escalator stairs. And honestly, I don't think replacing the escalator system with stairs is a horrible idea. New York's MTA stairs are pretty effective, but they're a platform-stairs-platform-stairs set-up that makes jogging up and down them pretty effortless. The average Washingtonian can't jauntily jog up and down a steep, stopped metro escalator.

And I will gladly be the fat kid who says out loud that I would rather move out of this city than have to wheeze my way up and down stopped metro stairs day in and day out just because Kriston Capps think it would make the city healthier. Because who are you, Ms. Mr. Capps, to decide how to make people healthier? You're like that office manager who only stocks the fridge with water because soda rots your teeth and wastes calories. I'm a grown-ass woman. Let me make my own health choices. If you health-rape me, I will blow my whistle.

I guess we're all supposed to ascertain from Kriston's article that she he can run up and down stopped metro stairs with grace and ease. Well good for fucking you. Guess what? I can do the electric slide at double speed and rock the fucking wheels off any bar mitzvah. And good for fucking me! We all excel in different physical arenas. Should I propose that we get healthier and save on transportation expenses by forgoing the metro completely and electric sliding our way to work? Uh, Boogie-oogie-oogie-fuck-no! Sure I'd love it if that were the case, but not everybody else would. And part of living in a civilized society and being a good person is thinking about others and not being so god-damn impressed with yourself. Oogie-Oogie.

Next Article:

Guess what? I went to a DC school and had a car. All four years. And it helped me out exponentially. Frankly, I don't even understand how this made it into DCist in the first place. This isn't so much news as what sounds like a whiny rant from someone who didn't have a car in college.

I can't decide which part of this article I find the most smug and offensive, so let's just go through point by point, shall we?

"This seems wholly reasonable for schools located in an urban environment that is well served by public transportation."
- Only GW is really a self-sustaining urban campus. AU is in the middle of bumble-fuck nowhere Spring Valley and Georgetown is in...well...Georgetown, where there isn't a metro. It just takes shit longer to get done in these parts of town. And didn't we just go over how unreliable the metro is? Junior year, for example, I took 18 credits and had an internship AND a job (OH SHIT! IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING SMUG-OFF!) I had to zip my ass from AU all over town and life would have been considerably more difficult if I had to rely on public transportation (and this wasn't even factoring in hypothetical steep-stair-hiking time!) Shit was just easier with a car and I'm really grateful that I had one. Does that make me less of a person?...Not really. It kind of just makes me a mediocre person with a car.

"College campuses, too, are designed to offer students many (if not all) the services they require in one place, from health clinics to computer software stores. Granted, out-of-state students might ought need to go home once in a while -- but where in the U.S. can you not fly for $600 round-trip once a semester?"
- You just sound fucking crazy right now. College campuses aren't Utopian little societies where you only leave once a semester to fly home. Which also sound a little cultish to me, frankly. Reasons I left campus via car: to visit my parents more than once a semester because I like them, buy art supplies besides the one piece of poster board and glue stick the bookstore carried, go to my internship, go to my job, take friends to run errands not accessible via metro or metrobus, weekend road trips, weekly traditional California Tortilla night, go to the doctor (I'm terribly sorry I don't trust my person to the campus provided student health center where the answer to everything is pregnancy or spinal meningitis,) and that's just naming a few. And I don't think these are terribly frivolous or ludicrous reasons to leave campus either. I mean college isn't the Army, I'm pretty sure you're allowed to leave any time you want...

"Granted, out-of-state students might ought need to go home once in a while -- but where in the U.S. can you not fly for $600 round-trip once a semester?"
- Again, who are you to dictate how many times people leave campus to see their parents or friends? Hi, AU (bless it's heart) was boring as fuck-all, sometimes it was necessary to leave. And that was my prerogative. I had the means, I had the desire, so I left. Again, does this make me a bad person? ...Again, not really.

"I'm sure we can all agree, students don't really do anything with those cars but cause trouble."
- What 1950's American Graffiti movie are you living in?! I worked in Georgetown for two years and never once saw drags of GU kids hot-rodding down M street in their Thunderbirds, a-blastin' their rock 'n' roll music, drinkin' their caffeinated colas and shaking their hips all provocative and un-Christian-like. Mostly I just saw a lot of Vineyard Vines tote bags and popped collars.

"If anything, it seems students...aren't paying enough to park their jalopies in the District."
- You sound pleasant.

The ultimate irony here, of course, is that I'm being smug about not being smug and in the end who gives a shit, but still! K. Capps pissed me off with her his award-winning level of smug. So I'm going to give her him an award!

Congratuatlions Kriston Capps, you are the first winner of the 2birds1blog's Smug Pug Award!

Thank you for enriching our community with your extreme sense of self-satisfaction. I recommend you watch the South Park episode entitled "Smug Alert!" and mentally replace Mr. Broflovski with yourself. Given my aversion to steep stairs, I will also allow you to replace Cartman with me.

You know what ruffles my feathers?

I really shouldn't be complaining about my commute to work. My "commute" (if you can even call it that) involves walking out of my apartment, pivoting my body slightly to the right and walking one and a half blocks to the metro, where I ride the red line two stops to Metro Center, exit, walk one single block and arrive at my office. When I lived in the boonies of Brooklyn, it took me well over an hour during rush hour to get to the office, which was considerably more taxing than the actual work I was doing once I arrived there. So I shouldn't really have anything to complain about, right?

Wrong my friend! Oh so so wrong. My most hated group of individuals, nerds, have found a way to make my easy, breezy, beautiful commute irritating. They would.

People with rolling briefcases are Nazis incarnate. There, I said it. I feel better. What the fuck is up with you people?! Do you realize that during the hustle and bustle of rush hour, the streets, metros and metro escalators are already crowded? Why do you feel it necessary to double the amount of space you would normally take up with a rolling briefcase? It's like you people are just giant bubbles of inconvenience floating around my morning commute. I'm going to wear a giant hoop skirt and walk with arm crutches during rush hour and act inconvenienced when you bump into me, just so you know how it feels.

I've also noticed that there's a correlation between people who opt for rolling briefcases and intelligence. Specifically that they lack it. If you know that you're surrounded by people rushing around to get somewhere on time, why would you think it's a good idea to drag your briefcase behind you? If the strap to someone's messenger bag broke, do you think that person would just drag it behind them by the broken strap like a petulant child? No, because that would make them a complete asshole. So what makes you think you can essentially do the same thing, pop a few wheels on it and call it socially acceptable?

I want to get the email addresses of all the people in the world with rolling briefcases and send them the following memo:
To: The nerd population of the world who uses a rolling briefcase
From: Meg
Subject: Suggestion
Message: Hey assholes! I have a friendly little suggestion for you. If you insist on using a rolling briefcase while commuting, you can't suddenly just stop walking without looking to see if there's someone behind you who might run into your fucking nerdmobile if you stop short. You're the ones who brought wheels into the equation, so follow traffic laws. I would never do 85 on the highway and then slam on my breaks to find the nutrigrain bar in my trunk.
Thanks,
Meg

There's so much bitchery in this city about the stand left, walk right rule, but I've personally only had a few encounters with it. However, I almost trip and break an ankle on at least three rolling briefcases a morning, no exaggeration. I thought I was going to snap like a twig this morning and start punting people's briefcases onto the third rail. The highlight of rolling-retardation came the other morning when an individual a few people ahead of me went up the escalator with his rolling briefcase behind him and then stopped at the top of the escalator to get something out of his bag, causing the long line of commuters behind him to topple over like dominoes. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? This is why New York has stairs. And speaking of New York, I would like to say from experience that this rolling briefcase conundrum is a problem unique to DC. New York might be overpopulated, but those bastards know how to commute. They let people exit the train before getting on, they move to the center of the car and they can hustle up and down the stairs with ease. Come on DC, I'd like to think we don't suck so hard we need to have our escalator privileges taken away...

Now, I can already hear the rolling briefcase nerds breaking out their calculators and carrying the one, ready to point out that rolling briefcases actually relieve vertical lumbar pain caused by the disproportionate ratio of an individual's height to briefcase weight and nerd speak, nerd speak, nerd speak. Here's what I have to say to that: suck it up. I booked it from Metro Center to Georgetown yesterday in six-inch stilettos and didn't complain once. And when I got to my destination, guess what I did? I bench pressed 280 lbs and karate-chopped a board in half with my head. AND WHAT, NERD?!