2 Birds Investigates: Epimedium

When Chris was here helping me reassure the blog that everyone gets their period and they can go back to school and none of the boys would be able to tell, we decided it would behoove us to get a few investigations done. The problem was—as it always is—we didn’t have money to investigate anything cool like acupuncture, belly dancing, or paying my Comcast bill. With ten-dollars and a coupon for a free deck pressure washing between us, Chris had an idea:

“You know when you’re at the gas station and there are all those pills by the cash register like, ‘STAY UP LATER!!! STUDY HARDER!!! FUCK YOUR WIFE LONGER!!!’?”

Yes…

“Well, I think we should both take a shit-ton of the fuck your wife longers and just see what happens.” And with that, 2 Birds Investigates: Boner Pills was born.

After discovering that the only natural aphrodisiac my CVS sells is a 15-ounce can of Bartlett Pears in heavy syrup, we got lazy and turned to sweet Lady Internet to solve the problem for us. After 30-minutes of searching drugstore.com for a product that we only had the vaguest concept of (Chris what exactly should I be looking for? “You know…like all-natural do-her pills.” What, like ExtenZe…? “Meh. Maybe.”), I stumbled upon Desire-X Horny Goat Weed:

PLINKO!

According to the bottle, “This exotic formula contains Horny Goat Weed, a natural ingredient that has been used for centuries. Horny Goat Weed stimulates sexual desire in both men and women, and has a long history as a top aid for erectile function in men. Also included are other powerful sexual energizers like Maca, known as Peruvian Ginseng and used by ancient Incas as an aphrodisiac. This complete formula combines recognized natural ingredients that have been shown to promote desire and performance.”

According to Wikipedia, Horny Goat Weed (aka Rowdy Lamb Herb, Barrenwort, Bishop’s Hat, Fairy Wings, or 淫羊藿) is a hardy perennial in the Epimedium genus of flowering plants, endemic to southern China and other parts of the mysterious Orient. Its garden use is as a beautiful ground cover plant. Its human use is to treatment erectile dysfunction and osteoporosis. (One way or another, it firms you right up. ZZZZZZZING!!!!) Given that it works on both men and women and was on sale for $7.69, we ordered a bottle and laid out our plan: we’d both take a few big ‘ole handfuls, sit next to each other on the couch, sip some Prosecco and see where the night took us. We then spent six hours arguing that if we did do it, and I did get Megnant, what would we name it— Julia Sugarbaker or Pilgor? (~*TEAM PILGOR!!1!*~)

A few days later, our Horny Goat Weed arrived (thank Christ for discreet packaging) and as the sun intentionally brushed the skyline with its breast as it set, we got ready to get busy.

Step 1: Make yourself beautiful

I asked Chris which of the following erotic lingerie scenarios would get him in the mood:

- Schoolgirl, preppy

- Schoolgirl, badass

- Sweet ‘n sensual

- Bored housewife

Without hesitation, he requested Schoolgirl, badass. I took this into consideration and didn’t “disregard it”, per se, but did make the executive decision to go with B-level call girl from 1988. Mostly because it felt like a backcombing night.

(Sidenote: It’s worth mentioning that I got this negligee from Victoria’s Secret when I was 17 because I was like, I’M IN COLLEGE! I NEED SOMETHING SEXY TO WEAR WHEN I HAVE ALL OF THE…SEX! Clearly my idea of “sexy lingerie” was based on the erotic power of mesh and all four Revenge of the Nerds.)

Chris then proceeded to use his tongue scraper and put on a fresh coat of Old Spice. It’s the thought that counts.

Step 2: Set the scene

Chris decided it was only polite to buy me dinner first, which meant he microwaved two of my frozen burritos, set the table, lit a single candle, and relied on the Toni Braxton Pandora station to add a sensual note to the proceedings.

Yes, those are martini glasses filled with half a bottle’s worth of Horny Goat Weed. My boo is classy as shit.

Step 3: Cover all bases

Step 4: Down half a bottle of Horny Goat Weed capsules

Make sure to cheers first!

Step 5: Enjoy your frozen burrito

Step 6: Put on a good old fashioned skin flick

For somewhat obvious reasons, we had a hard time thinking of porn that would appeal to both of us. We decided to meet in the middle and go with the Switzerland of erotica: a special edition DVD of Vivid’s highlights of ’94. It was that or each use our own laptops with headphones, or as I call it, “Monday”.

Results

Well…it wasn’t exactly what we were expecting. I don’t think either of us got that horny. Chris did reach out and grab my left breast at one point, but it was halfhearted and nothing new. We really did give it the old college try, though. We watched porn for well over an hour sitting uncomfortably close to each other, but at the end of an hour, all we had was a page of snarky notes:

- “I see London, I see France, I see crushed velvet underpants!”

- “Is that a gal or a surfer”  (This question arose several times)

- “This sounds like the transitional scene music in a black sit-com”

- “Don’t you think she looks like Cloris Leachman??” (She did)

- THAT ACTOR HAS A MOLE WITH IRREGULAR BORDERS

As the scene shifted to a pizza parlor where things were not where they seemed, we noticed we were laughing hard, even for viewers of 90’s porn, and that another burrito sounded awesome. I changed into my pajamas and we turned off the porn to find that Role Models was ending and was about to play again in five minutes. This news was way too exciting. As I crammed yet another chip/carrot/blob of hummus into my mouth, I locked eyes with Chris and we came to a startling discovery: we were totally stoned. It was a surprise, but frankly we had no objections. Being stoned, we naturally had a series of stoned ideas. Most of these were about hugs, but I also decided to see what would happen if you tried to smoke Horny Goat Weed.

The answer is you burn it and then inhale a mouthful of hot plant dust, then make a series of hilarious faces as you wipe your face on the strap of your sports bra.

As the evening went on, I ate a lot of cheese and thought too much about my own mortality, and Chris peacefully read The Hunger Games curled up on the couch. All in all, it was probably more fulfilling than actually having intercourse. ~*TEAM PEETA!!!1!*~

Mail Bag

Wow, hi Meggles!

I started this email a LONNNNNG time ago and got stuck so it has been sitting in my draft box.

Soooo...I figured I should just send it. I had made it originally for you to answer on days you had writers block, because I love when you just answer people's questions.

Sooo...yeah. There ya go.

Hope all is well! Still reading strong!

<3 jen

Let's do this, Sanchez.

1. Marry Fuck Kill:

Dr. Reuben

Larry Hagman

John McCain

Ooo, GOOD ONE. I've been thinking about this all weekend, and here's my final answer: I'd marry Larry Hagman and we'd live a long, happy life together, thank you; fuck Dr. Reuben because I've always wondered what making love to a Jiffy Bag-covered penis would feel like; and I'd kill John McCain because that son of a bitch never hugged me and/or his daughter is society's longest active queef.

2. When do you actually sleep, Meg?

5-11:00am. Ish.

3. Have you tried wiping standing up yet?

Yes. Everyday for the past 23 years.

4. Would you be upset if Tulane Chris began dating Bobby Flay?

I would feel hurt, betrayed, confused, tickled, aroused, livid, and hurt. In that order.

5. What Would Meg Do?

Oh, God. Meg would take a nap and avoid the situation entirely, then regret it later when it's too late. WWMD? is not a lifestyle I recommend.

6. If your life were a movie, who would play you?

I mean, that's really nice and all, but truthfully, it would probably be a cross between Gabourey Sidibe and Charles Grodin.

7. Have you ever been in a threesome? Do you have plans to be?

I was once an active, and some say uncomfortably competitive, participant in a threeway hookup, but I've never taken it to the next level. (<--- Please know I just re-wrote that sentence so it didn't include the word "penetration".) I don't have any threesomes planned at the moment, but if Hunter's Dean of Admissions and Anthony Bourdain are up for it, I wouldn't say no. (<--- Please know, I just took out an "I'd have no reservations!" joke.) (Or "joke", if you will.)

8. What would you do with $1,000,000?

#1: Buy a membership to Sports Club/LA

#2: Pay off my student loans

#3: Pay back my parents all the money I've borrowed from them over the years

#4: Pay back Chris the $57 I owe him

#5: Pay my bills

#6: PAY COMCAST TO PUBLICLY SUCK MY DICK

#7: Buy Chris and I matching red velor track suits with our initials embroidered on the left breast, so we can wear them: a.) all the time and b.) in a picture where we're standing back-to-back with our arms crossed, glass of whiskey in one hand and mischievous grins on our faces, which will from there on out be used as our official headshot. (This has been an actual goal of ours for almost a year now.)

#8: Buy a new laptop because this one is almost dead and the S, L, F8, and Control buttons are broken. It's exhausting.

#9: Adopt a pug

#10: Buy a couch

#11: Buy an office chair

#12: Bribe the recruiters at my temp agency to actually find me some work

#13: Buy equipment for the podcast Chris and I want to do

#14: Get a tattoo of Homer's bifocals on my ass

#15: Buy a night of hot, passionate lovemaking with Nick Hawk from Showtime's Gigolos (whose rates are surprisingly reasonable, by the way...)

#16: Buy myself a bike, because Lord knows that infuriating situation hasn't been resolved yet

#17: Visit my friends on the west coast and in the middle east

#18: Buy a really, really nice knife set

#19: Buy Evie a...Nope. That cat has literally anything she could ever want and/or need. And I'm jealous of her.

#20: Donate the rest to Howard University, so Becca and I can finally go to Howard homecoming

9. Would you ever go on Fear Factor?

Absolutely not, because if there's anything I hate more than confronting my fears, it's Joe Rogen.

10. Diane invites you over for dinner. When you walk in the house, Jeremy Piven is sitting at the table, helping himself to some potatoes. Describe what happens next.

First, I'd take a moment to pause and let it all just wash over me. Then, like a horny C-level magician, I'd haphazardly yank the table cloth off the table, sending plates, artisan bread, and salad forks flying everywhere. Then, I'd hop up on the table, make the international "suck it" motion across my crotch, rip open my shirt, and crawl towards The Piv while whipping my hair around and eating the odd biscuit, like a hungry hungry Tawny Kitaen. Now in front of Piven, I'd choke him with his own necktie, slap him in the face, slap myself in the face, and lick gravy off his receding hairline until neither of us can take it anymore, and I climb into his lap and make dirty, forceful love to him, right there in front of God, my parents, and everyone.

That's the short answer. The long one involves a few erotic venn diagrams and a lot more swears.

11. Good looking or rich?

Neither; personality. HA HA! Just kidding. Rich. I really want a membership to Sports Club/LA. Do you know how happy access to a lap pool would make me? Also, sometimes I pleasure myself to their group exercise schedule. Like most of my porn, it's sad and extremely effective.

12. Would you rather have invisibility powers or read minds?

Invisibility. That way I could work out at Sports Club/LA without a membership and NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW!

13. Did Sophie make the right choice?

You mean the choice to whore out herself and her blog for a membership to Sports Club/LA? Yes. Yes, I do. And speaking of whoring myself out (which, again, I would absolutely do), the following is an exchange I had with my mom last night while discussing my current financial situation:

Me: You know what? Fuck it. I'm just going to whore myself out in the streets for top dollar.

Mom, in the most heartfelt tone I have ever heard her speak in: Oh, sweetheart. Nickles and pennies aren't going to help us now.

...You know what? Well played, Diane Rowland. Well played.

Mail Bag

Dear Meg,

I am a huge fan of yours, [Oh, stop!] and many a time have found myself giggling hysterically in my cubicle, the classroom, my room by myself, on the phone as I attempt to read your blog posts aloud to my friends, family, and whoever else will listen. My all time favorite: My New Pink Button. Funniest thing I've ever read. My second favorite: Sorr bout the bag. This has been incorporated into my everyday speech, and I have as much as possible to tried to infiltrate everyone else's speech with this phrase as well, including my new boyfriend (we'll call him DJ)

SO, last night, my boyfriend and I decided to attempt to use a female condom. I don't know if you've ever used one, but they're REALLY REALLY AWKWARD. (you should do a 2b1b investigates, and maybe you can get pot-smoking fish tranquilizer guy to participate). Basically, once you insert it, the end hangs out like a floppy vacuum attachment, which, we decided, should have INSERT HERE written on it in (flashing) letters. Having recently converted DJ into a 2b1b fan, he took one look, goes "sorr bout the bag!!" and starts giggling hysterically. At which point i also started giggling hysterically, he lost his erection, and we ended up just laying there and quoting you and NOT having sex.

So, thanks for ruining our sex life!
-GJ

You, my new friend, are more than welcome. Because if I'm not gettin' any, nobody's gettin' any. Except the exact opposite of that is true. Meaning everyone's gettin' some and I'm not. Which I suppose isn't the "exact opposite" as much as it's just depressing.

I've never used a female condom before, but that's only because I didn't know they existed until about, oh, an hour ago. Now that I do know, I will never look at a Ziploc bag or my vagina the same way again. Which is unfortunate because I make a lot of to-go sandwiches and bathe with my eyes open. So, thank you.

As far as taking one out for a test spin (vomit), the last time I saw 'ole Fish Dick was when I was running away from his parent's house/numbed phallus, so that's out. I used to have an "eff buddy", but things got complicated at Ren Fest, which is a Statement with a capital S. Chris would probably have sex with me, but he'd probably also spend the entire time making obscure historical references and talking about how much he loves my mom, which is exhausting when he's next to me, nevertheless inside of me. If you're reading this and think you're up for having sex with me while I wear a female condom—that sounds extremely uncomfortable. So, let's not do that.

OK, time out. I obviously just googled "How to insert a female condom" because in my mind the answer was: WITCHCRAFT!, but instead found this highly educational and entertaining student video from Binghamton University. 

I love it for the following reasons:

1.) DOROTHY. You sassy, salty old broad, you.

2.) Dorothy's extremely soothing voice and/or the fact that I genuinely can't tell if she's foreign or just has extremely poor diction

3.) Dorothy's no-nonsense belted sweater

4.) The comical cricket noises at 00:50

5.) "Soft tubular sheath"

6.) Dorothy's makeshift female condom made out of an empty water bottle and coffee stirrers

7.) Every time they mention "the lips", I gag and want to die a little. That's not really a reason why I love this, but I thought it was worth noting.

8.) The quick cut to Dorothy at 3:10 where she talks about the benefits of female condoms while tossing condoms into a basket like she just don't give a fuck

9.) Heather's vajayjay caught on fire from using both a male and female condom

10.) Dorothy's deadpanned salty nut joke at 4:00

11.) It has a pre-planned blooper, and it involves a stunt!

12.) Special Guest Matt is pretty goddamn attractive

Christ. I just typed "Binghamton University Matt R.E.A.C.H." into Google because I'm insanely creepy like that AND/OR I'M A ROMANTIC, and everything that comes up is about Matthew Potel, a Binghamton senior who fell to his death last October while reaching to help fellow students cross a dangerous ravine in the Adirondacks. 'Eh.............. Soooooo, to recap, in the span of one blog post I've managed to: ruin a happy couple's sex life, overinform you about the goings-on (or lack of goings-on) of my vagina, offend Chris (probably), fall in love with a college student, bring you all down with a tragedy, and use the phrase "'ole Fish Dick". 

I believe my work is here is done.

Yesterday afternoon was extremely eventful:

1.) A homeless woman on a D2 bus explained both sides of the Occupy Wall Street protests to me and while getting into this conversation was in no way my idea, I'm not trying to front like it wasn't extremely helpful.

2.) I was taking the D2 from McPherson Square to Connecticut and 20th and get my eyebrows threaded, but I was so caught up in this woman's surprisingly coherent and helpful explanation of the protests that I completely missed my stop and had to get off at Connecticut and S. While hoofing it back to the other side of the circle, I totally crossed paths with THE HOT DILF-Y WAITER FROM SETTE. For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter (and I don't know why you wouldn't, as I clearly tweet about ~*BoYz, bOyZ, BOyZ!!!*~), I have a bit of a thing for one of the waiters at Sette Osteria. It's not creepy, it's not desperate, I just want to have semi-rough sex with him and I'm relying solely on the power of the Internet to make it happen. It's normal. Steve Jobs is dead. It's 2011—anything's possible.

I go out to dinner with my parents every other week or so and we typically either go to James Hoban's or Sette. This means that I see hot DILF-y waiter quite frequently, and very much in a context where I'm stuffing fried seafood into my face and sitting directly next to my father. Which is uncomfortable, to say the least. What's even more odd to me is that we're always there when he's working, yet he's never our actual waiter. (Which actually might be a good thing because I'd probably end up being like, "Oh, I'll just have a small salad and I don't have HPV, thanks!") (Although, in this day and age, I can't help but feel like that's quite the dowry...)

When I saw HDW across the street, so many things went through my mind in a fraction of a second. In order: "Shit. That guy's hot." —> "Why does he look so familiar...?" —> "Christ, did we hook up?" —> "HA HA! It's the hot DILF-y waiter from Sette!" —> "God, why did you insist on not showering today and wearing that dress with the salad dressing stain near the crotch because 'who's looking that closely?'" —> "I should tweet this." —> "No, loser, don't tweet this." —> "Blog this!"

This means that as I locked eyes with HDW, my face did the following Superbowl Shuffle of awkwardness: slight smile, single raise of eyebrow —> pug-like head tilt and extremely country "HUH??" facial expression —> heart drops into asshole, might vomit --> laughs out loud like an insane person —> hangs head in shame and moves purse over crotch —> eyes light up —> head goes back down —> TO THE BLOGMOBILE! 

But in a fraction of a second. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And my vagina on my Twitter.

3.) Later as I was walking down 19th street, a hot (yet significantly less Piven-esque) guy starting walking towards me in the opposite direction and we kind of gave each other the old once-over. As I started to go up the steps to Dupont Threading, he stopped me. 

"Excuse me," he said, as we obviously fell in love and I became pregnant with his seed, "But I've always wanted to know—what's threading?"

"Oh. Uh. It's an Indian method of—deep, deep sigh—hair removal." He then did the little you take care now! hand wave and said, "Hair removal. Got it," and walked away. Quickly. I don't know. It was humbling.

4.) This didn't happen yesterday, but speaking of constantly falling in love on the street, I was en route to a party on Q street last Friday night and got stuck walking behind a group of bro-looking guys who were probably in their early 30's. It was one of those irritating situations where you're awkwardly walking at the same rate as the person (or people) in front of you, but it's been a few blocks so you're starting to feel like a stalker, but if you speed up and pass them you know you won't be able to keep that rate up and you're just going to end up falling back behind them and appear even creepier...yes? No? Only me? Still boycotting Fitness First for their towel policy? Yes. Anyway, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation they were having about Hank Williams, Jr. and one of them brought up how he just wrote a new song to address the whole Obama/Nazi comment scandal. "Oh, really?" one of them asked sarcastically, "What was it, [sings] ARE YOU READY FOR SOME NEGROS?!" It took everything in my power not to laugh-out-loud, and in retrospect, I really wished I had. Because a.) you know if there's anything I love more than a bro in his early 30's, it's a receding hairline. And if there's anything I love more than a receding hairline, it's a lisp. And b.) I just appreciate anybody who has the chutzpah to sing a joke of that magnitude on a crowded street on a Friday night without any apologies. I was extremely tempted to write a Craigslist missed connection but decided not to when I realized it would essentially be: "YOU WERE THE GUY SINGING ABOUT NEGROS ON Q STREET FRIDAY NIGHT, I WAS THE BIG-TITTED GIRL BEHIND YOU WHO DIDN'T HAVE THE STAMINA TO WALK SLIGHTLY FASTER AND PASS YOU. WAS IT JUST ME, OR DID I FEEL A CONNECTION?!?!" Sigh. The one that got away...

5.) At a certain point yesterday afternoon I got really nauseous and my lower back started to hurt, so I obviously convinced myself that my kidneys were shutting down and completely freaked myself out. I'm fairly certain that I just had a bad cheesesteak, but I wouldn't say I'm out of the woods yet.

So...that was my Wednesday afternoon. What adventures will today hold?? I shudder to think.

I've reached An Age...

So… I’m gonna be twenty-seven in two months. This leads me to two points: I’m going to a Gwar concert the day after my birthday and I’m incredibly excited, and I’ve reached An Age. Let me explain An Age. One of my favorite lines I ever wrote was in a blog entry about how my mother is gloomy, and I “quoted” her as saying of the aging process, “you’re lucky to have a week between acne and gout.” I was absurdly pleased with myself for this phrase, so it sucks to be An Age now and realize it’s not true. I’m clearly Getting Older, but my acne is still hanging around, like the last party guest who’s still on the couch at three AM, opening the last bottle of wine and telling you about how the price of gold “is only going to up from here.” I actually bought a blackhead extractor today, you know, so I can dig oxidized oil out of my face. 

Aside from my face, which still has the fresh inflamed bloom of a sixteen-year-old’s, I’m getting older. I’ve been logging these “I Feel Old Moments” and putting them in a Word document titled “Blog About This if the New Goddamn Book Ever Gets Done,” so – now that the new Goddamn book is done – here’s a chronicle of my increasingly headlong dash to the grave. I can only hope that there’s some kind of obscure relationship between my career getting better and my turning into a decrepit old man: I’m perfectly content to be a head in a jar with Danielle Steel-level sales figures. 

- I wrenched my shoulder the other week while scratching my back. The implication is that there are parts of my body that I simply can’t pay attention to anymore because they’re now “too distant,” despite being part of my body. The historian in me thinks about how this is like the Roman Empire abandoning Britain in 410 because it was too expensive to defend. The paranoid in me imagines being attacked at ankle level by a Yorkshire terrier and being unable to do anything about it because it’s too short to reach. 

- I was walking to work the other day and passed a sex store. I thought, “Oh, wouldn’t it be funny to skip work and go in there and poke around?” Then I thought, “That sounds infinitely, infinitely more stressful than just going and teaching kids about the SAT. I don’t want to pretend not to be shocked so the cashier won’t come over and try to guide me gently through the process of selecting a toy that really works the clitoris.” Three years ago I would have gone in and giggled at all the things people put in their butts. (Butts! Tee hee!) Now even thinking about other people’s sex lives makes me very, very tired. 

- A corollary to this: some people are apparently trying to force watersports into the porn mainstream. Not only does this annoy me because “back in my day” that was a fringe behavior, it annoys me that I’ve told at least three people, at length, about how annoyed I am about this. I’m turning into one of those people who rants about declining standards. 

- I’m paying attention to the presidential primaries, which arguably many of the candidates aren’t doing. 

- I can clearly remember staying up late to watch “Aeon Flux” the cartoon on MTV because I was about to be a teenager, and teenagers did cool things like watch weird cartoons with titties on MTV. Now people outgrow MTV by about eight years old and try to lose their virginities by twelve because teenagers aren’t virgins, how lame. 

- I look at the teenagers I teach SAT to and think about how they have their whole lives in front of them. I look at teenagers on the street and wonder why they have to be so fucking loud and weird. 

- Did I buy women’s laxative because it was half the price of gender-neutral laxative, and because I didn’t have anything to prove to the check-out guy at K-Mart? Did I take them one day when I was in a bad mood because I thought maybe “a good clean-out” would cheer me up? Did it work? Yes, yes, YES. 

- When Meg and I were getting cabin fever and frustrated with the new book, I didn’t fantasize about going out and getting wasted and making out with a dumb guy in a bar bathroom.* I fantasized about getting wasted and watching a BBC Mystery! special. 

- I can’t spell a fucking thing anymore, which I’m going to go ahead and chalk up to senility. I used to be a champion speller in elementary school; yesterday I wrote “bicycle” as “bicicycle” because I couldn’t remember if it was an I or a Y and then I just got carried away in the moment… 

*Are you with me on this? If you’re going to make out with a stranger it’s somehow more fun if they’re dumb as a post. I guess it’s because you know you have their full attention. 

The best part about all this Feeling Old business is that it’s freeing. I don’t care about being cool anymore, and increasingly I don’t even care if I look presentable when I leave the house. I used to wonder how 60-year-old men could walk around in jean shorts, black socks, and psedo-Birkenstocks. Now I realize it’s because it’s hot, they don’t want to get little chafe injuries on their feet from the straps, and because they’re sixty, dammit. Anyone who cares how you look while getting a half-price senior breakfast at Denny’s is not your friend.

Random Whatnot and...Stuff

1.) I really need to try harder with my blog post titles.

2.) UH, no big deal, but the "Soap" theme song is officially my new ringtone, courtesy of old fallin'-off-the-bed-'n-jackin'-up-her-back Ushma.

No voiceover. Strings. 15 seconds of pure magic on a loop. If I was an asshole about not answering my phone before, I'm on a whole other level now. All I do is lay around my apartment with my head in my hands, kicking my little legs back and forth in the air, just waiting for someone to call so I can not pick up and do the "Drop It Like It's Hot" .gif dance. I seriously considered tweeting my number so it would happen more often and I'm still not convinced it's not not a bad idea...

3.) OK, working part-time at the Pleasure Palace: BEST IDEA EVZ or WORST IDEA EVZ?!

PRO: I could walk to work

CON: ...

PRO: I'm an old pro at the retail game

CON: Retail money blows

PRO: Yeah, but it's better than nothing

CON: That's valid

PRO: Blog fodder out the ying-yang

CON: Yeah, but no taking pictures of people, and no naming names

PRO: Well, fucking obviously

CON: Oh, I'M sorry, I'm not the one who got fired for blogging last year

PRO: Yeah you are. Technically.

CON: Point taken

PRO: The hours are perfect

CON: Porn shop smell kind of gives me a headache

PRO: Breathe through your nose

CON: Everything might be covered in a thin layer of question mark

PRO: You finished your Gardasil series in 2009

CON: Did you know that cervical cancer can be caused by a virus?

PRO: Be one less. Tell a friend.

CON: Actually, now they're saying that shit is kind of dangerous

PRO: Well, fuck me

CON: Get back to pro/con-ing the job

PRO: Sorry

CON: Walking home from Georgetown to Dupont at 12:30 in the morning sounds slightly dangerous

PRO: So ride your bike. It's about to be the Spring! Perfect, crisp night-riding weather!

CON: That's actually a pretty good idea. OH, WAIT A MINUTE...

PRO: The ultimate trump card in the McBlogger Family Bike War of 2007—Present would be getting raped while walking home from work

CON: I mean, that's true...but I'd also have to get raped...

PRO: Yeah, but you'd really prove a point

CON: Well, I do like doing that

PRO: Then it's settled

CON: 'Eh...you have to apply in person

PRO: That seems kind of confrontational

CON: HAHA, I know, right??

PRO: You really do need a job though

CON: I don't know what all this you nonsense is. There's no "I" in "we".

PRO: That's not how that phrase goes

CON: This is so exhausting

FINAL SUMMATION: I don't know. Should I apply??

4.) Speaking of porn, I spent this past weekend at Chris' place in Philly and his floor was saturated in nudie mags. It was so incredibly distracting. And not in like a "Ooo0o0o0o! This is so hot, I can't concentrate on my work!" kind of way, but more in a "Ow, that looks like it hurts, why is she so shiny?" kind of way. (Side note: if you ever want to derail a Meg/Chris writing session, give us porn, Silly Putty, and/or a YouTube video of Maya Angelou reciting "Phenomenal Woman" and we'll be DUNZO.) There is absolutely nothing sexy to me about still pornographic images. I mean, they're fascinating, yes, but not sexy. Mostly they just make me appreciate being a lady, because if I ever had to donate sperm in a clinic that only had adult magazines, I'd be fah-fah-fucked. I'd have to ask the nurse to come back in after an unproductive 30 minutes and be like, "Um, here's your Barely Legal back. I'll just take a copy of The Atlantic or something because I'm pretty sure I could work something out to that...Thanks."

Here are my two favorite images from the shag carpet of XXX literature that is Chris' floor (Oh! NSFW! Kind of. The floating Evie heads of censorship were 100% Chris' idea, but you're welcome nonetheless.):

I can't stop masturbating to this image and it has nothing to do with the penetration and everything to do with that tattoo. It's like a lasagna of irony: on first layer, nothing says "I'm proud of my Jewish heritage and this for my Bubby who survived in the Holocaust" like a fucking Star of David tattoo. It's like putting "I love the Torah! BUT TAKE THAT, LEVITICUS 19:28!" forever on your person. On the second layer, porn stars with religious tattoos are just such fucking buzzkills. If I'm trying to get off to you doing some girl from behind, the last thing I need is a giant Star of David being repeatedly thrust in my face and reminding me that I keep meaning to google when Passover starts this year. (April 19th.) And finally on the tertiary layer, it's around his belly-button. Let me repeat that: the Star of David is around his belly-button. I mean...I don't know what the literary equivalent of a slow clap is, but I'd like to do that. Right now. Clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap, clap, clap, clap. Well done, sir. Well done.

I wish I could have scanned this page to get the detail on her face, but Chris wanted it to frame or laminate and carry around in his wallet and I guess I have to respect that. I'm pretty sure we're going to make this the Official Pornographic Image of 2birds1blog because neither of us can get over how perfectly that face shouts, "TAKE THE PICTURE. I SAID, TAKE THE GOD DAMN PICTURE. I JUST SCRATCHED MYSELF AND I'M NOT DOING THIS AGAIN, SO TAKE THE GOD DAMN PICTURE" through gritted teeth. A++++

5.) I know I'm embarrassingly late to the party, but "Anacostia—The Web Series" is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me. I don't even remember what life was like before it. Per series creator Anthony Anderson, "I wanted to create a show that was along the lines of 'Dallas' and 'Knots Landing' with a bit of a 'Sex And The City' flair” A "Dallas"-esque show set in Anacostia? I mean...really. Why didn't I know about this until now? My new life goal is to get a walk-on role in season 3. I'm well aware that I'm a white girl from Northwest, which is sort of the antithesis of everything the show is about, but I'd be more than willing to play "Lost AU Freshman doing FSE in Congress Heights #1" and just wander around aimlessly in the background of a shot in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Mr. Anderson, I look forward to you contacting my agent (chris@2birds1blog.com). And Mr. Wil Lash, I look forward to you asking me out on a date and creating a wonderful life together. I don't know if you heard, but I finished my Gardasil series in 2009. Wink! (meg@2birds1blog.com).