2 Birds Investigate: A Failure

When Tulane Chris signed on to be my new second bird, he brought with him some really good ideas about how we could make the blog better. One of my favorites was a new feature called "2 Birds Investigates.” In this feature, we’d get together every month, investigate something wacky and write about it on the blog. Think: "2 Birds Investigate a Star Wars Convention!"; "2 Birds Investigate a Sex Party!"; "2 Birds Go to Orlando and Stalk Kevin Yang!" Needless to say, I was in. Really any feature containing the words "convention", "sex", "Kevin Yang" and "stalk" in the pitch is already successful in my mind.

We've done two Investigations thus far and while I think our second try was pretty good (and will be up soon), our first attempt was an absolute, 100% bona fide failure. Like, got out on the ice and fell on its ass before the music even began, failure. And then once it was down, it got its period. And started to cry. And then started to hysterically cry. And then its ex-boyfriend walked in, saw it rolling around in its icy, tear-soaked period blood and shook his head slowly at it in disappointment. And for some reason, he’s also sipping an old school Cherry Coke and wearing cowboy garb while doing this. I wonder why I associate that image with ice rinks? I think it has something to do with The Cutting Edge…? But my point in more concise and less crass terms is that it didn’t work.

Now, who's to blame for this failure, you may ask? As leader of the blog, will I be the one to step up and take responsibility? Well, let me answer your question with a series of questions: will I take responsibility for buying the wrong kind of tampons last month? Will I take responsibility for losing my job? Will I take responsibility for making Dr. Reuben cry tears on par with those shed whilst hate fucking a trannie? (ALLEGEDLY. I do not know for certain that Dr. Reuben has hate fucked a transgendered person. I can only make a seriously educated guess.) The answers to these, my questions three (Jesus Christ…why do I blog this late?) are no. No, I won't. But I will admit that I had a small role in all of the above, specifically our first Investigation failure.

We decided to conduct the Investigation the last weekend in June when Tulane Chris was in town for the traumatic Blog Panel and I was house sitting for my parents. You’d think finding something to investigate would have been easy; we had endless resources at our fingertips—a car, a full tank of gas, a big house in the suburbs, Evie, and the greater Washington, D.C. metro area as a whole. However, what we didn't have was money. At all. I'm pretty sure our final budget was $15, the bodies God gave us, and two active imaginations. But Chris and I figured we're both highly creative and intelligent(ish) (personally) people. Surely between the two of us, $15 and whole lot of ADHD medication, we could think of something groundbreaking and provocative to investigate, right? Well, we did: MSG. The Inaugural 2 Birds Investigates was on...MSG.

Looking back, I can see where we thought this would be a good idea: MSG is cheap, mysterious, kind of dangerous, cheap, readily available, questionably sexy?, and most importantly, cheap. Our plan was to buy some MSG and do a taste test with the food in my parent's house to see if it really does makes food taste better. Would it be delicious? Probably. Would it rock the blogosphere to its very core? Definitely.

Unfortunately, we had a few things working against us:

- We were actually pretty busy that weekend, so the entire thing felt kind of rushed. (And yes, that was the weekend I made Chris wait 45 minutes to get lunch because Evie and I were having an “intense cuddle session,” thank you.)

- My parents had been out of the country for two weeks at that point, so there wasn’t any food in the house.

- We couldn’t really afford to buy any more food with the limited money we had between us. (Although, full disclosure: we spent most of our blog funds the night before on steaks and Ultimate Mai Tais at our Ironic T.G.I. Friday’s Business Dinner.) (And at said dinner, I went in first while Chris waited in the car so he could come in later and do the old, “Ms. McBlogger?” “Yes! Chris, I take it. [Hearty handshake] Please, have a seat.” to make it extra official.) (…Although, I think it kind of came off as an awkward blind date more than anything else.) (And no, neither of us went to business school, but I assume that’s what you learn to do there, right? Kogod, baby. Kogod.)

- I was an absolute shit show the night of the Investigation, so my heart really wasn’t into it. Now, I will obviously take full responsibility for this one, but I’d like the opportunity to explain myself.

Our plan was to do the Investigation Saturday night after Anna’s Goodbye BBQ. I know you’re thinking that I probably got “wasted” at the party and that’s why I was in such a state later that night, but surprisingly, that’s not what happened. I drank responsibly. I just didn’t eat responsibly. I have a problem. Because of the fact that there’s never any food in my apartment and at any given moment, I'm lying in bed wishing Subway would do pro bono work, when I’m in an all-you-can-eat food situation, I tend to stock up like a squirrel preparing for winter. I don’t know why I do it and I regret it every time. And it’s not even like I take the food with me; I just cram Swedish meatballs into my mouth two at a time all, “NO TIME FOR CHEWING!!! I HAVE TO PRESERVE MY ENERGY—OLD MAN WINTER APPROACHES!!!!1” So when I got to Anna’s house and saw the delicious spread, I was just genuinely excited to see that much free food and felt like I had to make the most of it. (Christ…)

I pretty much ate everything in sight. And if you know me, you know that food and I don’t get along too well. The doctors are 99% sure my GI tract is held up with toothpicks and duct tape, soooo maybe I should have shifted down a gear. Especially when you consider that the following exchange between Chris and me actually happened:

TC: Hey, it’s almost midnight and we have work to do; I think we should go soon.

M: OK. I’m just gonna get another hot dog and a Bloody Mary, and then we’ll go.

That’s correct. I chased dinner with brunch. Whatever you’re thinking about me right now; it’s completely justified. Needless to say, by the time we had said our goodbyes and got to my car, things were feeling a little unique.

“Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

“Well, that sucks because we still need to get MSG and food to do the taste test with. I’m thinking we’ll get a few cans of Chef Boyardee, some pudding, a few—“

“STOP IT. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I NEED YOU TO STOP TALKING ABOUT FOOD.”

“Uhh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you do realize that we have to go home and eat more, right?”

It’s at this point that tears welled up in my eyes and I actually broke a sweat. The thought of putting any more food in my body was unbearable, but I knew this was our last chance to get the Investigation done and it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test. (Side note: it’s a sobering moment when you realize that the phrase, “it really was my fault for fellating an open buffet the night of our MSG taste test,” is applicable to your life.)

“Well, I need to go home and lay down for a while, so let’s get this over with.”

Now, this entire weekend, Chris promised me that MSG would be easy to find, based solely on the fact that his grandmother sent him some when he moved to Philadelphia. In actuality, MSG is not easy to find. Somewhere in the backroom of five major grocery stores in the greater Montgomery County, MD area, there exists an obscene amount of security footage of me and Tulane Chris in various condiment aisles at 12:30 in the morning; Chris leisurely looking for Accent and me doubled-over in pain, alternating between moaning, doing Lamaze breathing and telling boxes of Bisquick to stop judging me, “you sick sons of bitches.”

By the time we got to Shopper’s Food Warehouse, things were touch-and-go at best. I genuinely couldn’t tell if I was about to vomit, shit my pants, burst into tears, or all of the above. (Another side note: I’m currently writing this at a coffee shop and the guy sitting across from me keeps makin’ eyes at me. I can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he knew that I’m writing about the time I couldn’t tell if I was going to vomit, shit my pants or burst into tears?) (Please say he’d be turned on, please say he’d be turned on...)

“Chris, I can’t go in with you. I can’t do another one. If I see any more cans of discounted food, I’m seriously going to lose control of something and it’s not going to be pretty. “

“Alright, well stay in the car and digest; I’ll go look.” The minute Chris slammed the car door, I unbuttoned my pants, slid them down, put my seat all the way back until I was horizontal, blasted the AC and started whimpering ever-so softly. A few minutes later, my phone rang.

“Good news—they have MSG!”

“Oh. ‘Awesome’…”

“What food should I get to put it in?”

“Chris, I really don’t care.”

“Well, I’m doing this for you. What’s light and easy to digest?”

“I will pay you $40 in cash if you use your discretion and not have a conversation with me right now about what is and isn’t easy to digest.”

“Meg, we both know you’re not good for that. Do you like butterscotch pudding?”

“CHRIS, PLEASE?!?!?!”

“Alright, fine, fine. “ I hung up, closed my eyes and hugged myself tighter. When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, I was surprised to see a man standing in front of my car staring back at me with a concerned look in his eyes.

“What’s this asshole’s problem?” I thought to myself. As I was lying in my car. At 12:45 in the morning. With my pants pulled down around my thighs. Hugging myself and whimpering. And that’s when it clicked—this man might be under the impression that I maybe was just a liiiiiiiittle bit…raped. My hand instantly flew to the electronic seat adjuster, which returned me to an up-right seated position at the painfully slow rate of .00002 mph, all while I shifted my eyes back and forth (desperately trying to avoid eye contact,) and shimmied back into my pants.

Thankfully Chris returned shortly thereafter, because nothing would shock me less than if the following landed in the local paper’s police blotter:

Police were called Saturday night when a man mistakenly thought Sherwood graduate, Meghan McBlogger, had been raped in the Shopper’s Food Warehouse shopping center. Upon further investigation, Ms. McBlogger had just eaten too much at a local bon voyage party and was emotionally preparing herself an upcoming MSG taste test for her blog. No charges were filed.

When we finally made it back to the house, my parents were home.

“Hi honey! Hi Chris! How is everything? How was the blog panel?”

“Well, the moderator asked Chris if he felt emasculated because his vagina has a yeast infection, I ate a small horse tonight, I feel like I’m going to die and now we need to eat some shit with MSG in it for the blog.”

“Well. Good to see not much has changed while we were gone.”

We kicked my parents out of the kitchen and spent the next 20 minutes or so conducting The Investigation. Here’s a play-by-play:

We got MSG.

We got 2 cans of Chef Boyardee instant ravioli and put MSG in one and not the other.

We did the same with leftover mashed potatoes from Chicken Out:

Butterscotch pudding:

And beer:

Then we tried to see if we could taste a difference between the two. I think “we” could taste a difference in the mashed potatoes and pudding, a little bit in the ravioli and not at all in the beer. And I say “we” because those are technically just Chris’ findings; I agreed with everything he said each round because at that point I would have told him I tasted Fascist unicorn feces it meant I could stop eating food and go to bed.

Finally, we were done and I could stop eating and go to bed. And the clouds parted, trumpets played and angels wept, for it was the happiest moment of them all. And then Chris left the next morning and we never talked about The Investigation again.

Sooooo, that’s what happened during our first “2 Birds Investigates”. Final summation: MSG—It maybe makes your food taste better, I guess?

Yep. Washington D.C.’s #1 blog. You’re welcome.

Embarrassing. Emphasis on the ASS.

First and foremost, I know Co-Blogger Chris already thanked everyone yesterday for coming out Saturday night, but I just wanted to say it again: thank you so much to everyone who came out to Jäger Ball! The turnout was completely overwhelming (in the best way ever, of course) and we had so much fun meeting you all. Chris and I woke up in bed Sunday morning looking like black-and-white photo negatives of each other: I was oddly still in my outfit from the night before and Chris was oddly not wearing anything at all. We let out a mutual hungover grumble, gave each other a once over and agreed—It was definitely that kind of a night.

I have to say, Jäger Ball was especially meaningful to me because it was one night in my life where I just felt 100%...good. I'm used to life turning me sideways, stuffing a sock in my mouth and making me it's bitch, so a night where I got nothing but positive feedback (minus the guy who told me I was "a 7 or 8," which initially was exciting because huzzah! I made it over the mid-point! but then I heard people were telling Co-Blogger Chris he could be a Ralph Lauren model and my 7 or 8 seemed somewhat less impressive...) was a new and unique experience. I walked to work yesterday morning with an extra bounce in my step—the bounce of a winner.

And then I got to work. Where I was immediately knocked down a peg or two where I belong. And ohhhhh was it humbling...

First, let me give you some back-story. Last week Boss #1 got it in her pretty little head that something was wrong with me. I have no idea why. Absolutely nothing was wrong with me. I mean, I don't exactly love being here but I don't think I was being any more surly than usual. Boss #1, however, wouldn't give up. Something was wrong with me and she was going to figure out what it was. It drives her absolutely crazy that she can't break through my tough, enigmatic outer shell. And by "tough, enigmatic outer shell," I mean I don't volunteer graphic information about my menstrual cycle, sex life or bowel movements on a daily basis and this makes me "stand-offish."

She began her probe:

Boss #1: What's going on with you this week, girl?!
Me: Uh, nothing. Why?
B1: You seem depressed.
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine! Sorry!
B1: Don't apologize, just tell me what's going on.
Me: Nothing's going on, I promise. I guess I'm just tired today or something.
B1: It's not just today; it's been for a while now.
Me: Well I genuinely appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] I feel like this is where a normal person would have accepted that nothing's wrong and backed off. I appreciated her concern and if something were really wrong, I probably would have told her at this point. But there was nothing to tell. And I feel like I adequately expressed that. Case closed. Move on. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Did you get in a fight with Russell [the Homophobic Co-Worker] again?
Me: No...we're fine, I guess. Honestly I haven't even seen him in a month of Sundays.
B1: How's your family?
Me: They're great! Everything's fine, really.
B1: ...You're not interviewing, are you?
Me: I'm not interviewing, I swear! You know I love this job. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] It's true that I'm not interviewing, but it is incredibly untrue that I love this job. Mostly I'm not interviewing right now because I couldn't pass a drug test to save my life and my god do I hate cranberry juice. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Are you seeing someone?
Me: Uh...no?
B1: Why not? [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] This is the single most irritating question on the face of the planet that one human being could ask another. Because I don't know why I'm not seeing someone, asshole. Because I hate sex. And my vagina has fangs. Strong, ample fangs that I sharpen nightly and widdle things out of wood with. And I refuse to get them removed because it's unethical and I fear PETA's wrath. That's why I'm not seeing anyone. Christ. [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Uhhh...I really don't know. I'm just not.
B1: OK...well...if you ever need to talk, I'm here.
Me: Well, I appreciate that.

And I did. Although I found her line of questioning irritating, I knew her heart was in the right place and I appreciated her concern. I decided I would attempt to be 5% more perky around the office and figured that would be the end of that. Now, flash forward to yesterday afternoon. There I was, sitting at my desk with a furrowed brow, deep in "concentration" as I filled in a blank spreadsheet with the number "69" over and over again when Boss #1 slithered over...

B1: Hey girl! How you feeling this week?
Me: Great! Great weekend. How are you?
B1: I'm fine, thanks. So after our talk last week I got you something off the Internet that I really think is going to make you feel better! [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] How cute is she?! I mean, she must really appreciate me to want to get me a little present to try to cheer me up! Coming off the love-fest that was Jäger Ball, I felt on top of the world at that moment. Just really appreciated. Plus, I was straight-up giddy thinking about what my little pressie might be. An early Christmas gift? Jewelry? The handbag she knew I'd been coveting? The bar stool she promised me a few weeks ago? Tehehe... [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Awwww...Boss #1! You didn't have to do that! I told you I'm fine!
B1: Well it's just a little something that I think you'll really benefit from. Here! [She reached into her bag, pulled out the gift and set it before me:]


It was a bottle of Natra Pure All-Natural Colon Cure. My boss got me a fucking bottle of laxatives she bought off the Internet. (Now with Green Tea!) And I'm not just saying this for affect, but at that moment, I 100% thought that I was going to burst into tears. Because apparently the vibe I give off to people on a daily basis is that I'm depressed and constipated. DEPRESSED. AND CONSTIPATED. People look at me and think, "Hm. You know what that girl needs? A good cleanse of her colon! That'll perk her right up!"

Me: You got me........a colon cleanser.
B1: I SWEAR BY THIS STUFF! It's got like, corn husk it in or something and you take two a day with a glass of water and I'll tell you what—you'll be a new woman by morning!
Me: You got me........................................a colon cleanser.
B1: You're welcome, girl!

And that was that. That's all it took to knock me down from my post Jäger Ball high and humble the ever-living shit out of me [pun intended!] And you know what the most embarrassing part is? I'm probably going to try it tonight. Because why not? I got it. It's not like I can sell it on ebay and take the money. Who would buy shady Internet laxatives? OH WAIT...Plus I'm just genuinely curious if I will indeed feel like a new woman in the morning. So I'm going to come home, pop on some jammies, turn on NatGeo and shit my brains out.

Yep. Here I am. Right back where I belong.

Chris doesn't have a problem. He has a solution.

You would think that after 24 years on this planet, one-third of which I have been sipping on sizzyrup, I would have learned my limits.

You would be wrong. You would be very wrong. What I have learned is that the minute I start drinking, my limits turn their phones off and go on an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, I’m sorry that I’m about to repeat myself, but my past weekend can be best summed up by the song “Just Dance”. After having a little bit way, way too much, I lost both my keys and my phone. I woke up on Long Island at 9 AM on a Friday, and called out of work so that I could break into my apartment via the fire escape.

I think that’s a classy birthday celebration. But not something I care to repeat ever. So I’m going to lay out a few lessons that I learned over the weekend, for my own benefit, but also so that you, my innocent readers, can learn from my mistakes.

Lesson #1: Drinking to Get Drunk = How to Lose your Dignity in 10 Drinks (or Less)
I should have been alerted to the fact that this night was headed for disaster when my friend asked “What do you want?” and my response was “Something strong.” Dear readers, should you ever be drinking with me and I say I want something strong, please slap whatever beverage I am currently consuming to the floor, regardless of party fouling and point me to the exit. The last time I ordered “something strong” I drank three Long Island iced teas in 2 hours, and hit on my friend’s straight brother. Shamelessly. This is not to say I’m not successful in my mission to get royally fucked up. But I might be the perfect example of being too successful.

Lesson #2: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Drink
Having gone to a school with a pretty good reputation for getting our drink on, I can handle my alcohol. But in a night when the alcohol consumed ranges from grain alcohol to rubbing alcohol, even the most seasoned of drinker’s is likely to black out and wake up tied to a school desk with fuzzy bunny ears on your head. In the night in question, I believe I drank every hard liquor under the sun, including a frozen margarita at some point. No wonder I woke up an hour and a half away from my apartment.

Lesson #3: When the Going Gets Drunken, the Drunken Turn Their Phones Off
If you’ve read this blog, you may know that I am quite a fan of drunk texts. I love sending them, I love receiving them. I don’t necessarily enjoy reliving my night through them, but at the time, they are fun times. However, drunk calls are a horse of a different color. Sure, some drunk calls are innocuous enough, like if you’re calling your friend to ask “Where the fuck are you, slut?” But it’s never a good idea to call a friend when your body realizes alcohol is a depressant. I’m going to invent a phone breathalyzer that will determine whether or not you are too drunk to be on the phone. While you’re busy breathily complaining about the state of your shambleshow of a life, your phone will be busy picking up the scent of Jack Daniels on your breath and S. it D., shut it down. Because sexually transmitted crazy mouth is not the only kind of crazy mouth you can contract. (Could Liz Lemon dictate more of my life? I don’t think so.)

Lesson #4: Whatever You Do, Don’t Wear Layers While Drinking
This may be a bit obscure for some of you. The reason I say this here is that I had the misfortune of wearing a jacket while I was out the other night. And I put my keys in said jacket. Then my jacket vanished. However, I would be lying if I said I’ve never also lost a shirt because I thought a Coyote Ugly style striptease was a good idea. Had I not worn an undershirt, I probably would have been more reluctant to take that layer off. To all of the female readers, I do not know how you can get smashed and somehow keep track of your bag/clutch/assorted other accouterments. Adding these things to your attire sounds like a recipe for a drunken misfortune to me. (On a related note, this past St. Patrick’s Day, I watched as some drunk girl ran literally right out of her shoes, and then left them behind, running barefoot on the filthiest street in existence. She now has herpes.)

On the whole, I’m a more or less responsible member of society. Every other life lesson I was supposed to learn is in there someone. Say please and thank you. Eat your vegetables. Pay your bills on time. I think it would be in the best interest of society at large if someone were to write a children’s book about responsible drinking. Get us all while we were young. If only Oscar the Grouch spent the better portion of his night drinking at Cooper’s, then wound up in bed with Snuffy, or if Curious George got curious with the Man in the Yellow Hat’s “special drinks” and spent the next day curious about the inside of the toilet, then maybe I would have learned these lessons earlier.

On the bright side, I’m not dead. And if I’m not mistaken, a wise sage once said “Just dance, gonna be ok, dada doo doo.” Dada doo doo, indeed.