Sk8r Bois & Pplz Rev0lushN

I don't even want to talk about the fact that I had to work an 11-hour day on Friday. But I did. So that's out there. BUT considering that ungodly kernel of truth, I 100% percent lost track of time this weekend, and with Monday being a holiday (which I did not have to work, thank the good lord on high), I almost forgot about Kell on Earth. I got all caught up in the Olympics, and then my DVR informed me I had to either: stop watching the Olympics or cancel recording either Kell on Earth or Hoarders. Considering Kell on Earth is my anti-drug drug and Hoarders keeps me from ferreting away used tissues and vintage medical equipment, the choice was clear. Obviously I was going to watch Kell on Earth (so I could save Hoarders for a day when my apartment gets a little left of messy as inspiration to throw shit away) and I was not disappointed. To the minions!

Well, first and foremost, Hottie Timtern Tim had FAR TOO LITTLE face time this episode. Alfred Hitchcock got more face time in his movies than Tim got in this episode and that is not ok. First,

he gets summoned to do some menial task, and you hear someone (I presume it was Emily because she was getting a lot of face time this episode) yell "INTERN!" at which I yelled back "HIS NAME IS TIM, BITCH!"

Next, he's hiding out in the wild

and gets yelled at for bringing a banana leaf plant in place of a palm tree. Because we're suppose to know the difference? He's an fashion intern, not a horticulturist. Cut the guy some slack.

I did notice that in each instance of being summoned, he did some dramatic Phil of the Future double take (which my cell phone screen caps really fail to capture) which only made him more adorable. Sigh.

Blanyway, Stephanie V is an idiot, and there's really no two ways around that. I'm getting powerful tired of watching her not know how to use a spreadsheet, then apologize profusely. While it's great that she's being accountable for her mistakes, it's not so great that everything she's asked to do ends up wrong. At one point, she tells the camera "Everyone likes me except for Emily," which a) is not true, because I certainly don't like you and that, my children, is why we don't use blanket statements and b) it's not that Emily doesn't like you, it's that you are legitimately handicapable when it comes to performing your job correctly and I'd be fed up with you too. There are only so many ways that I can tell you Steph V doesn't know her ass from her elbow, so I'm just going to end it there and pray that she is one of the two people Bravo promised me will be getting fired next week.

Like I said earlier, Emily got a lot of face time this episode, which was a nice change of pace, though she's rocking a severe bang in alot of her confessionals that for some reason makes me think of that movie Orphan. [Editor's note: OH HEY GUYS! CHECK OUT MY NEW BLUNT-CUT BANGS I GOT LAST FRIDAY! Oh...Awkward...] Regardless, Emily was handling the Nicolas Petrou show (more on that wackness in a bit), and this made me realize she is literally a giantess. Or everyone else is around her is a Lilliputian. Regardless, she is one tall glass of bitch. And aside from handling her scandal at the Petrou show, she really just bitched out Steph V all episode. I mean, more power to her. One thing though that I cannot get behind, was this outfit:

Something about the semi-homemade jean shorts made me vaguely nauseous. Or maybe it was her walking home in the dead of night through graffitied streets yammering away on speakerphone. If she had passed under my window, she'd have gotten a bottle of Jack Daniels straight to the back of the head. (Lies, I'd never waste liquor like that.) I think she was complaining about how she has no personal time because of her job, but then she walked into her ballin' apartment in Williamsburg and any shred of sympathy I felt for the girl took a nosedive off of her riverside view balcony.

Oh fun fact: Ava is going to school! So that's cute. Also, Kelly and Ava went for a little stroll around the neighborhood and ended up on the It's a Small World ride at Disney when they ran into their old dog on the streets of Tribeca. Long story short, Kell gave their dog, Cocoa, to their nanny's daughter on Staten Island and two lesbian painters who live 4 blocks away from Kelly later adopted it. And Cocoa was owned by Kelly, who was in the Hills with Lauren Conrad, who played herself in Epic Movie with Crispin Glover, who was in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle with Demi Moore, who was in A Few Good Men with Kevin Bacon.

It's time for fashion.

The Nicolas Petrou show was, in a word, bizarre. According to the designer everything is super wearable...if you're a ninja trying to blend into a Magic Eye art exhibit. His collection consisted of patterned body condoms...oh and there were clothes involved too, if you could take your eyes off the Jabbawockeez costuming for a hot minute. Kelly seemed to like it...or at least she liked the models. For sers, Kelly had a 2 minute monologue about how it's so unfair that she's a 45-year-old troll and has to work with these 19-year-old skater boy models. I could not for the life of me work in a parody to Avril Lavigne's Sk8r Boi in which Kelly plays a prominent role, but if you can, feel free to leave it in the comments. [Editor's note: ON IT:

He was a boy
She's Kell Cutrone
Can I make it any more obvious?
His balls haven't dropped
She likes statutory prey
What more can I say?
He wanted her
To take off his mask
An eyelash was all up in that ocular-ass
She picked it out
And zipped him back up
Looks like Mama Wolf has another young pup

He was a Sk8r Boi
She said come back later, boy
I'm gonna clean my caftans on your washboard gut
He was like, "K, sounds good bro.
Wear something from the Agent Provocateur show,"
This song is getting long
I should have put it behind an HTML cut

God damnit. That was considerably harder than I thought it would be. Back to Chris.]

Anywhoodle, after the show the designer got all snarky with Emily about Women's Wear Daily and she mentally backhanded him for being flippant. Then she stalked out of the showroom in either: J-Woww inspired heavily bleached jeans OR B.Spear's inspired lace applique jeans. Either way, ugly.

The second fashion show was the Agent Provocateur show, which should have made this episode NC-17. During casting, K.Cut tells the models if they have a problem with "nipples, boobies, bras and ass" that they better pack up and go home now. SHE WAS NOT KIDDING. Agent Provocateur's fashion show was just barely considered decent. My personal favorite outfit, which I didn't take a picture of because I wasn't sure how I'd explain it to my bf if he saw it on my phone, was a white "bra" that basically just cupped the models boobs complete with white pasties covering the nipples. I think there may have been a string attaching the pasties? I'm not 100% sure. I was equal parts transfixed and aroused. Also, you know you watch too much television when you recognize two of the models in casting as previous contestants on ANTM (Lisa from cycle 9 and Megg from cycle 7). I embarrass even myself.

But no episode of Kell would be complete without drama!

And was there ever dram. This episode was all about the recession in the fashion industry, as both Nicolas Petrou and the Agent Provocateur show were on a shoestring budget. Everyone's trying to cut costs here and there, and Petrou went the route of stiffing People's Rev their money, claiming that the show was bungled. OH. SNAP. Kelly decides to keep his images from his show AND she updated her facebook status to let everyone know what an a-hole he is. So you know this means war. Or court. Or both?

As far as Agent Provocateur is concerned, I don't know how it happened (because I was exchanging giggly text message with Meg about Tim) but PR lost the original location for the show. So they scrambled last minute and wound up at the SoHo Grant hotel. But of course the rep for AP was in desperate need of a Xanax during the planning for the show. And "everything was wrong" and "no one cared about how the show would look". The last person who can be complaining about how something looks is a woman rocking a stringy mullet and cargo pants. Once PR tranq'd the AP rep, all was well and good and Tim the Intern hid behind a banana leaf planet getting a boner.

DVR buster! My God, this was the most worthless 30 seconds of time every recorded to television. Emily got fed up with some girl smacking her gum. So the girl went downstairs! Isn't that wacky?! However, it did give us this gift:

Hint: That poncho better be under my Christmas tree this year.

SO. Next week, two people are getting fired. And my money is on Steph V. Christ, it had better be her and not two random interns. And it had definitely not be Tim. In any event, thanks for reading!

Happy President's Day!

Let's play a little game called, "How Well Do You Know Meg McBlogger?!"

Question 1: What do I love more than tacky animated gifs?
Answer? President's Day.


Question 2: Who is my favorite president?
Answer? 14th President of the United States, Franklin Pierce.


Question 3: Why is he my favorite president?
Answer? He had a faux hawk and a sword:



Question 4: Anyone with a faux hawk and a sword can __________?
Answer? Put it in me.


Question 5: By "it," what do I mean?
Answer? Not his sword.


Question 6: How did I spend my Valentine's Day?
Answer? Overeating take-out from The Cheesecake Factory, snuggling with the old Facebook ball and chain a.k.a. Talia, and watching The Time Traveler's Wife.


Question 7: What activity would have yielded the same result as watching that movie?
Answer? Beating myself in the heart with barbed wire.


Question 8: That being said, Eric Bana + sword ÷ faux hawk = what?
Answer? Lady Boner.


Question 9: Do I have today off of work?
Answer? Ummm...that's unclear at this point.


Question 10: Should I clear that up?
Answer? No, not necessarily.


Question 11: Why not?
Answer? Because clearing that up could result in me concretely knowing I have to go to work.


Question 12: Which would cockblock what activity that I'll be doing today?
Answer? Wedding dress shopping with Becca.


Question 13: For my wedding, or hers?
Answer? Uh, hi. Hers. The most meaningful relationship I have right now with someone from the opposite sex is with Bob Costas and his tantalizing sports announcing skills.


Question 14: That's sad.
Answer? I know.


Question 15: Do you think they'll have champagne at the bridal appointments?
Answer? I certainly hope so.


Question 16: What time do I have to be at Chevy Chase Bridal this morning?
Answer? 11am.


Question 17: Are those "my hours?"
Answer? No.


Question 18: Did my sister send me a text message specifically asking me not to be late?
Answer? Yes.


Question 19: Did I find that text message patronizing?
Answer? Yes.


Question 20: Do I blame her for sending it?
Answer? Sigh...No.


Question 21: What is my apartment like right now?
Answer? Freezing cold.


Question 22: How would I normally resolve this problem?
Answer? By calling Alex and whining until he either comes over and turns on the heat for me OR verbally amps me up like a hype man until I get up and do it myself.


Question 23: Why can't I do that right now?
Answer? Because he's in Mexico.


Question 24: With or without me?
Answer? Without.


Question 25: Which makes him _____.
Answer? GAY.


Question 26: Given that uncalled for last answer, I'm clearly just ______.
Answer? ...Jealous.


Question 27: What did Alex do President's Day before last?
Answer? He came to visit me in Brooklyn and got a vicious case of food poisoning when I got us lost in Sunset Park and hired a town car to take us to the nearest Burger King.


Question 28: When he finally started to feel a little better on Sunday, what did he order when Co-Blogger Chris and I took him out to lunch?
Answer? Ahi Tuna.


Question 29: What kind of a decision was that?
Answer? A unique one.


Question 30: More unique than hiring a town car to whisk you out of the ghetto and to the nearest Burger King?
Answer? I'd say so.


Question 31: So in summary, what does President's Day always make me think of?
Answer? Swords, faux hawks, hamburgers and Alex writhing around a futon in his boxers.


Question 32: Which makes it what?
Answer? The BEST. HOLIDAY. EVER.

Tips for assimilating back into society

UGHHHHHHHHHHHH AND AN INCONVENIENCED SIGH. Welp. Here I am. Back in this dump show of an office after seven glorious days of being curled up in my bed with nary a worry or pair of pants in sight for miles. I knew the dream couldn't last forever, but that doesn't mean I'm not bitter about it.

HOWEVER! I have three items of good news:

1.) It's T.G.I. Hagman. And how bad can life really be when it's T.G.I.-fuckin'-Hagman, am I right or am I right??



As of 1:16pm on Friday, February 12, 2010, Larry Hagman is...............alive! God is good all of the time, and all of the time, God is good.

2.) I got the following email the other day from 2b reader Aline:

Hi Meg,
I was reading gawker, and it said something about omegle.com. I'm not usually up for chatting with strangers, but I was bored, and 'tis the snowpocalypse (read: there is nothing better to do), so why not?

Anyway, the first person signed in, said "I'm sad" and left.

The second person, signed in and only said "2birds1blog.com. Read it." and then they left (Convo log below). I think that you should get all of your readers to do that. Hi-Larious. Well that's it. I'm headed out into the snow to go to CVS :( Hope you get to feeling better!

Cheers,
Aline

___

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: hi

You: hi!

Stranger: 2birds1blog.com. Read it.

You: Really? I already do-isn't it funny?

Your conversational partner has disconnected.

I. LOVE. IT. Mostly because that stranger wasn't me and it makes me excited when people besides myself pimp out the blog like a small Mexican boy with chicle on the 'nets. So to whoever is going on ohmegle.com to promote the blog, I have a gift for you. And that gift is in my pants and rhymes with "schot schmex."

3.) According to an unconfirmed rumor circulating via Laura, Luke and The Tranny from More to Love BROKE UP!!!!!1 Initially I was heart-broken when I heard this because if two people could ever make it in this crazy, mixed-up world, it was them. BUT! This does open the door for a More to Love 2. And you know I'm crossing my fingers that it's called, More to Love 2: Back for Seconds.

So there. Life is good. And as bitter as I am that I have to be back in this shanty town, I am slightly psyched to not be holed up in my apartment anymore. Cabin Fever was starting to set in big time and things were getting..."unique." But slowly, DC is digging itself out it's snow coffin and getting back to real life (until next week's Snowpocalypse, that is.) I thought instead of giving you a drinking game this week, I'd be helpful and share with all of you cracked-out snowy Washingtonians a few tips I've found helpful for assimilating back into society. Enjoy.

5 Tips For Assimilating Back Into Society After The Snowpocalypse

1.) Listening in on other people's conversions is not appropriate because they are not on TV.
Surprising! I know. Halfway through dinner at James Hoban's the other night, Helena realized she had zoned out and was awkwardly staring at the people sitting next to us and blatantly listening to their conversation. Apparently in a post-Snowpocalypto society, this is not "appropriate," as other people do not exist solely for our own entertainment. Don't worry, I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it too, but together we can get through this.

2.) A two year old box of Zattaran's Dirty Rice, a bag of confectioner's sugar and a Black and Mild does not a meal make.
Nothing makes you think outside of the culinary box like being confined to the contents of your own dusty kitchen for days on end. I never have food in my apartment to begin with, so this past week has been particularly interesting for me. One time Anna unexpectedly crashed at my place for a weekend in college and she compared the experience to living in Communist Russia. While I was working on a paper one night, she started to complain that she was starving. I promised we'd order food as soon as I was done, but hours later when I was still writing and she was still starving, she ventured into my kitchen to see what she could find. Five minutes later, she returned and put the following on my desk: a box of Goldfish crackers, a jar of cloves and AN single Busch Light. "This is literally all you have in your kitchen," she said weakly. With a shaking little hand, she slowly put the jar of cloves on top of the box of Goldfish, cracked open the Busch Light, pointed to it and asked, ".....Cook it for me?" Shortly after, I gave in and we ordered out.

In the past week, I have consumed every single Goldfish cracker and every random Holiday spice hidden in my kitchen. I ate vintage pizza from 1994. I drank a bottle of Manischewitz wine I found behind a bunch of DVD's, covered in an inch of dust. I don't remember what "vegetables" taste like.

I'm genuinely nervous about the weight I'm going to gain this weekend because I don't know how to handle all of the food options that are now open to me. I hoofed it to Baja Fresh yesterday, patiently waited in line and proceeded to ask them to take the contents of their kitchen, put it in one of those sour cream gun dispensers and inject it directly into my stomach. Just because the option was open to me. And they did. And it was wonderful.

3.) Chugging from a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan's at 11am while wearing loose fitting clothing is called being homeless.
If this were Snowpocalypse: you'd be drunk by now.

4.) Your life is not a Bravo reality TV show, so stop narrating it to the wall when you're on the john.
Something tells me this might only be applicable to me...so I will move on.

5.) Jokes that were funny when stuck in your house and incredibly cracked out might not translate to the real world.
My prime example of this is Seanvote.

Over the course of Snowpocalypse, I played a lot of Words With Friends (iphone Srabble app. Username: Meg4lYfe. No big deal.) with Helena's boyfriend, Jonathan. At one point, he was absolutely destroying me. Like, embarrassingly so. I needed to pull out a big gun, but the letters were not on my side. Round after round, I played words like "AN," 'HI" and "AT" while thinking, "If only SEANVOTE were a real word, I could turn this fucking game around right here and right now!" Helena then pointed out that that's the benefit of real scrabble: if you're convincing enough, any word can be a real word. Thus, we set out to make Seanvote "happen." We decided Seanvote is a substitute for the word "shit" and can have both positive and negative connotations. For example, "Dude, that band is the fucking seanvote." Or, "Fuck that guy. He's just a worthless pile of seanvote." Or, "Oh man, pull over, I gotta take the biggest seanvote."

Believe it or not, this was incredibly funny to us at the time. So much so that when we met up with Jenna and Laura for drinks last night, we shamelessly continued to substitute it for the word "shit" until it caught on. And I don't know if it was because Jenna and Laura were just as cracked out as we were or if it was because there was alcohol involved, but it totally did:


So, really, I amend this tip to: Jokes that were funny when stuck in your house and cracked out might not translate to the real world. Unless it's the word SEANVOTE. In which case you should totally spread it around like wild fire.

Welp, that's gonna do it for us here this week! WAIT, NEVER MIND. I just checked my email and got this amazing Winter Olympics Drinking Game from 2b reader Veronica, written by her friend Chelsea. And frankly, it's too good not to share. So I bid you adieu and leave you with Chelsea's Winter Olympics Drinking Game! As always, thank you so much for reading and spreading the 2b1b word. Hope you don't have a seanvotty weekend (bahaha...see what I did there?!) and we'll see you back here Monday morning when hopefully I'm less cracked out, have done something more blog-worthy than napped pantsless and have regained my sense of humor. Buh-bye!


Rules:
- Drink when a figure skater is shown
- Drink twice if it's Johnny Weir
- Finish your drink if he's referred to as "controversial"
- Finish your drink whenever someone triumphs over adversity
- Drink when "the native people" perform a traditional dance
- Drink when someone mentions the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team
- Drink twice if a member of the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team is shown
- Drink when you see a mountie
- Drink when someone says "aboot"
- Drink when someone mentions the Jamaican Bobsled Team
- Finish your drink if the Jamaican Bobsled Team is there
- Finish your drink when the country you are representing enters the arena
- Drink when someone says "curling"
- Drink when someone says "luge"
- Drink when someone is referred to as a "gold medal favorite"
- Drink whenever someone says, "I'm just happy to be here"
- Do a shot if someone is "not expected to place well but just here for the experience,"(see above re: Jamaican Bobsled Team)
- Do a shot when the US Team enters the arena
- Do a shot when the torch is lit

I haven't left my apartment in an honest-to-god week. I. AM. CRACKED. OUT

A sardonic blog written by 2 gays and a Jew who thinks she's black. You'd think we'd be more PC.

@@~*~*sNoW dAy!!!!!!!!!!!1*~*~@@

Again.

Stuck in my apartment. Watching 5 billion episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker and/or Real Housewives of Orange County and/or basically anything on Bravo. Again.

But! It beats the hell out of hanging out with ghosts all day at the ulcer factory, so don't mind if I do and don't mind if I do. Helena and I had an old school giggly snow sleep over last night (well, old school plus a lot of alcohol and Andy Cohen. Both things that would have enriched my childhood tremendously) and we're going to continue today with more alcohol and a shit ton of Golden Girls. It's like senior year Spring Break all over again!

In other news, Co-Blogger Chris texted me last night to let me know he got an anonymous comment on yesterday's post calling him an unfunny and offensive idiot. Now, I don't want to say I was "excited" to hear this news because that sounds so cruel and heartless...but it was nice to hear that I'm not the only offensively unfunny one around here. So I thought today while I'm enjoying my giggly snow day off, why not bust out a Tulane Chris post and see if we can go 3 for 3, huh?! If you feel offended by today's Tulane Chris post in the slightest, you should totally feel free to let him know. And anonymously! (You're welcome, T. Chris. You, are welcome.)

Say what you will about race, I don’t think it’s fair that white men don’t have a coming-of-age ritual. Jews have bar and bat mitzvahs, Mexican girls have quinceaneras, jungle tribes have terrifying rituals involving poisonous insects. Bantus, Aborigines, Maori, what-have-you, they all get to do something fun to break up the oily monotony of puberty, but I had no such thing. The privileged white male rite of passage is porbably “First Drunken Smash-Up” or ceremonially asking for money for an abortion (I think chivalry demands that the man pay,) but I didn’t start drinking until I lived somewhere where I could usually walk home, and if one of my sexual partners got pregnant the abortion would easily be covered with the proceeds of the Barbara Walters interview. As a Catholic, I could have taken part in Confirmation, but – somehow – the idea of a year of night classes with very earnest and devout teenagers, all leading up to a bishop rubbing even more oil into my forehead than was already present failed to draw me in. Fortunately, this “recession” (none yet dare say “collapse,” but everyone seems to have stopped pretending it will get better) has taken adolescence and given it a good hard yank, so that asking one’s parents for money and sobbing about not knowing what to do with one’s life can now be expected to continue well into one’s thirties. I fully expect to need help paying for my first bifocals. Since I’m clearly not yet an adult, now will I be one for several years, I am probably developmentally at bar mitzvah / quinceanera / bullet ant age, so I decided that I was just going to have a ritual and come of age my own damn self.

I can’t afford a white dress. The only Hebrew sentence I know that isn’t related to ordering food is “Anashim, hen dvarim,” which means “Women are things,” and is probably too short to be a Torah reading. A lot of the tribal things have to do with days of crippling, searing pain, which I didn’t feel like doing. The only affordable, practical option I had was trying to find my spirit animal, so I tried to adapt the procedure to my circumstances. Instead of mescaline, I mashed up two thirds of a Xanax in the bottom of a glass and filled it with “Comrade Blotto” vodka and Diet Coke. Instead of wandering in the desert, I put in a DVD of “Cybill,” and just let it all… wash… over me.

A knock. On the TV, Cybill and Maryanne pointed at the door and nodded. I went to the door nervous, but excited. Was my spirit animal an owl? A Boston terrier? A monkey in a little hat? Oh, I wanted a monkey in a little hat. I would name him General Firecracker, and he would learn to play the accordion, and we would go to Paris on a steamship…

Knock knock knock. Oh, yeah. I opened the door to find a very small old woman in a Bedazzled sweater, stretch pants and white tennis shoes, with a giant purse over one arm. She gave my hand a firm shake and said, “How ya doin’, kid. Chaya Goldfarb, spirit animal.” She walked past me into the apartment, rummaging in her bag. I hoped she would come out with some mystical artifact, but she pulled out a flask and waggled it at me. “Wanna snort?”

“Are you my spirit animal?”

“Yeah, kid. Turns out there ain’t much call for 90-year-old Jewish broads in skin flicks, and I gotta pay the bills somehow.”

“I thought spirit animals were supposed to be coyotes or owls or, uh, little monkeys.”

“Listen, kid. You get the spirit animal that makes sense to you, that your brain is set up to understand. What do you know from coyotes? Bupkes.”

“Oh. Huh. Well, do you have any words of wisdom for me on this, my coming of age?”

“You’ll be twenty-five in two weeks. I got news for ya, kid, you’ve been of age for years. Let me turn on my soap and I’ll see if anything comes to mind.”

So, we sat on the sofa and watched some show with a name like Dangerous Desires. She spent the first half taking nips out of her flask and criticizing the characters – “We didn’t act like that in my day. Sure, everyone slutted around, but we didn’t act so trashy” – and then dozed off. The show ended and I nudged her with my elbow.

“What? Oh, right. Spirit animal. Uh… how about this. We all have many paths before us. If none is the right one, then neither is any one the wrong one.”

“Are you kidding? That’s shitty advice. Should I move back to New Orleans? Should I go to Tasmania? Am I going to make it as a writer? What? Come on!”

“Why not? Do ‘em all, kid. You got another fifteen years. Do what feels right.”

“Fifteen! What do you know?”

“No worries, kid.” She patted my cheek. “Think how much time you’ll save not worrying about your retirement.”

“Not worrying because when I’m thirty-nine I’ll win the lottery, or because when I’m thirty-nine I’ll be eaten by zoo animals?”

But she had gone. Fifteen years. That was humbling. I needed to hurry if I was going to make my great contribution to the world. A great book. One that opened the mysteries of life and let their majesty pour forth… Oh, hot damn! A Designing Women marathon!

Recrap Tuesday: MAKEOVER, MAKEOVER! MAKEOVER, MAKEOVER! MAKEOVER, MAKEOVER, MAKEOVER (YEA YEA YEA!) FOR YOU AND MEEEEEEEE!

I've got a confession to make. I cannot sit down and think about the title "Kell on Earth" without immediately breaking into Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven is a Place on Earth." Is it because the last two words of both titles is the same? Is it because I have a penchant for 80's pop music and public relations? It's all of that and more. To the minions!

This episode Stephanie Voorhees saw a lot of action. Stephanie V is that girl you knew in high school/college/post-college who has the perfect life. She's pretty, she's smart, her family's loaded, she's athletic. Her biggest problem was not being able to find her car keys that one time, only to realize they were in her jacket pocket all along. So when Steph V comes across something she doesn't understand or doesn't have the time for, she breaks. That's basically what happened this episode: Steph V gets a task that would be difficult if she were a toddler, Steph V fumbles the task, Steph V doesn't know how to handle making a mistake. A short list of things Steph V can't do: make phone calls, check voicemails, stamp envelopes, label bags, prepare gift bags, not wear yellow, get sympathy from Kelly.

Stephanie Skinner on the other hand, knows how to do everything, which causes her to overwork, freak out, and just be generally monotone and miserable. She did, however, take two hours off from work in the weirdest scene ever. She and Andrew (Andrew S, I think? Whichever one is short, tan, lispy, and tired) waltz into some random salon and Andrew starts dying Spitter's hair like he owns the place. Not one word is said to a proprietor. All we know is that Andrew once worked in salon in LA. I wasn't aware that working in one salon gave you license to cut/dye/wash hair in any salon in our fair nation. Anyway, Spitter goes from this:

to this

i.e. not much improvement.

Andrew M. flew under the radar this episode, dialogue-wise. I started to get a little nervous that he trotted out all the crazy in episode one. Sir, you did not disappoint. And I hope you have stock in Hot Topic and a mesh company, because otherwise you are missing out on a prime money-making venture, considering how you single handedly keep both of those businesses in the black.

First he wore a tasteful asymmetrical number (which he may have borrowed from Spitter in the above picture. Or vice versa. I don't know their lives.)

Then, he donned an otherwise normal white button up shirt, that he put his Andrew flair on by taking the Afghan my nana knit for a funeral gift, cutting a hole in the top and calling it a sweater.

Finally, and this was my personal favorite, this...thing? It looks like a figure skater had sex with a Medieval Knight wearing a football jersey.

I would be lying if I said I didn't cheer out loud when he came on screen wearing this. I appreciate that he has the sense to tame the mesh portion of the top before it hits his nipples and shit starts getting inappropriate for work.

Andrew adds so much to my daily life. I should write him a thank you letter.

Finally, we meet Intern Tim. The only intern who has gotten hardcore face time so far. Which is fair, because I'd do something hardcore to his face if given the chance. [Editor's note: OH SHIT!] He looks like any other bro in the fashion business (i.e. out of place) until he speaks in his amazing Irish accent. Which makes him even more out of place, but I stopped caring about most things while Tim was talking. I think he was a business major? And wanted to get into PR? For all I know, the world ended in the 30 seconds Tim was speaking directly to me. (I didn't have the presence of mind to snap a picture, because I was 100% transfixed by his accent. And I'm not even sorry about it.)

I do know that Kelly spoke to Tim's mother on the phone, because if there's one thing Kelly loves more than lighting incense and sage, it's getting involved in her employee's personal lives.

Minor: There is a cute clip of Ava getting dressed for school, where Kelly picks out these cute little girl, first-day-of-school dresses, but Ava decides to put on what I called an "urban mumu" in my dress that looked like it was printed with a picture of Jesus and had a hood.

Let's get down to fashion:

The much talked about Chado Ralph Rucci (Shallow Far Tooshy?) pre-show was a borderline disaster, due to the botched seating assignments from last week. (More on that in a minute.) The fashion show itself was kind of cool (but seriously lacking in the fringe entrance department). I didn't really take much notice of the clothing, because there was nothing so terrible or jarring that it caught my eye. All nice clothing, but I guess that's to be expected from a couture designer?

The second fashion of the episode was the Genetic Denim presentation, which I thought was really interesting and had no idea stuff like that happened. The design of the showroom was really cool, even though the designer blatantly ripped off Lady Gaga's Bad Romance video for the design of the Rain Room. It was sort of like a fun house of fashion, but with less carnies and more half naked models. Except the designer explained he wanted the show to be an auto-erotic experience and I thought "Why have a show when you can just stay home and masturbate for the same result? Duh. It is a recession after all." And if I never hear the word jeggings again, it will be too soon. A girl I work with wears jeggings, but honestly, I thought it was just an Asian thing, not something that was big in fashion right now. Who knew nerds were so fashion forward?

So the dramz of this episode:

Like I said before the Chateau Rafucci pre-show was horrendous because of the seating assignment list issues from last episode. Try as they might to remedy the situation, the People's Rev team couldn't hold up to the stream of party crashers, invitation usurpers and seat stealers. (There is a special place in Hell for these people who make up their own rules.) I understand their concern about the seating, though. How else will Kelly be able to figure out who is going to die when she has a Final Destination style premonition of some horrible accident at the Ralph Rucci show? It makes sense.

Blanyway, due to the aforementioned people who make up their own rules, (at one point, Kelly had to kick this man out of a seat he didn't belong in, while being very polite and saying "I'm sorry but you have to move." And the man replied with, "You should be sorry." NO. SIR. THAT'S NOT YOUR SEAT.), the seating for the show was a disaster. Something must have been said after Kelly dramatically signaled to the cameraman to stop filming. So instead of us finding out what went wrong, we get a slow fade to black which really ruins the dramatic arc of this storyline. We do know, however, that Ralph Rooch is big old diva, and he flipped his shit and had Kelly fired the next day.

The dramz does not stop there. No, the Genetic Denim had it's share of problems too. First, the interns were supposed to prepare gift bags for the press attending the Genetic Denim show. Someone's brill idea was to write the labels left-handed in Black sharpie on gigantic leftover shopping bags from T.J. Maxx. I blame Steph V, because there's no way my boy Tim was at fault here. Kelly kirks out and sends the interns away. But when they come back to redo the task, they do it the exact same way. Kelly has a Joan Crawford/Mommy Dearest moment (No more black Sharpies EVER!!!!) and folds a pair of jeans in tissue paper. (This drama was never fully resolved, as I don't believe K. Cutrone really re-did all the bags herself.)

But the big issue at hand was at the Genetic Denim show, where a model in the Rain Room just outright keels over like a domino. For some completely ridiculous reason, the cameraman did not get this on film (like season 2 of Survivor when that guy fell into the fire, but there is no videographic evidence of it), which leads me to believe this cameraman got fired that same day. However, I imagine it looked something like this:
http://www.gifsoup.com/view/168830/faint.html
Anyway, 911 is called, but the firemen that show up are NOT the ones from the calendar, so Kelly asks them to stand somewhere dark and away from the pretties. Likewise, those pesky flashing lights on the ambulance are totally ruining the serene atmosphere of the show, so could we please shut them off? Also, don't use your siren as you drive away, because the zen in this show is really fragile. And could you please change out of that garish outfit you call a uniform before you set foot inside my fashion sanctuary? In short, Kelly holds it down at the fashion show, for realsies, and the designer is satisfied. Even with fainting models.

DVR buster: For some reason, Kelly was handing out Swarovski crystal like they were Mentos, and some id fashion editor straight up swallows his because "he thought it was a pill." A) Does Kelly regularly hand out pills to people? B) Did that man look down at his hand and say, "That sure is one sparkly pill! This will be a trip!" before swallowing it? C) I just. don't. understand.

In summary, this episode was heavy on the drama and light on the Intern Tim. If we could switch that up next week, I'd really appreciate that. Or if we want to stay heavy on the drama, can we give Intern Tim his own show. Or I'll give Intern Tim his own show. In my pants. HIOOOOOOOO

It was either no post (again) or a tripped out NyQuil post. Today, you get the latter.

WHO DAT say they gonna beat my immune system?? Ah yes, this cold. And it has done so successfully. So...sucks to be me. (By the way, in that last sentence, I spelled the word "taken" as "tacken" and couldn't understand why blogger was telling me it was spelled incorrectly for quite some time.) It's currently Sunday night, I just gathered up every ounce of strength I have to take a shower and I'm now lying in bed wearing an American Apparel Afrika patterned dress that I bought and never wore once because it's an American Apparel Afrika patterned dress and a pair of bona fide granny panties because I don't have any clean clothes left. Currently I'm building adrenaline to email my bosses and ask them if our office is open tomorrow; an act I feel torn about. On one hand, our building is primarily DOJ, so if the federal government is closed, the building closes. And the federal government is indeed closed tomorrow. But, I haven't been contacted by Boss #1 or Boss #2 yet...which could mean they're just not that into me a.k.a. I have to work tomorrow OR that they forgot I existed over the weekend. Considering when I called out sick last Friday Boss #2 said, and I quote, "Oh yeah, you don't have to come in today. I thought about emailing you that last night. Guess I should have," I'm apt to think it's the latter. So here I go. I'm going to email them to ask if we're open tomorrow. IS THAT TOO FORWARD? Do I care? No. Ok. Here I go. Another shot of NyQuil for courage. BOOM. Sent.

Oh god. I'm nervous.

So. I promised you the details of last week's conference this morning. Yeah. I'm not going to lie to you, I really did take a Christ ton of NyQuil about 20 minutes ago and writing this post is going to be unique. Normally my personal mantra is "I don't fuck with the Quils" because they make me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack and/or learn to fly, but I've reached that point of being sick where I'm physically tired of being tired but I can't sleep anymore because all I've been doing is sleeping, so now I'm just kind of writhing around in bed obsessively checking twitter every ten seconds to hear news of the outside world. So I thought I'd give The Quil another go. But I can't just not give you the details of the conference because I promised them last week like and I feel an incredible amount of pressure to deliver on that promise, NOT TO MENTION make it amazingly well-written ever since that mind-fuck of an anonymous comment said I never write anymore and even when I do it's not funny and my blog is full of empty promises. So deliver I shall! But I'm slightly worried I'm going to pass out before I finish this post. So now it's DOUBLE the pressure. This is competitive blogging at it's best—me vs. the manifestation of all of my insecurities in one anonymous blog comment vs. the clock VS. MYSELF. And we all know that I have the grace and composure of a fat kid slipping in a communal shower under pressure, so this post is going to be written in an unedited stream of consciousness style. And if you have a problem with that, well then you can go hang out with some other blog. Like LookAtThisFuckingHipster. They got a book deal. Clearly they're doing something right. Go ruin their day with your e-Meekness. (I swear I'm going to let go of that comment in like two days, I promise. EXCEPT ALL OF MY PROMISES ARE EMPTY APPARENTLY, SO WHO KNOWS?!?!!?)

I keep wasting precious blogging time by refreshing my work e-mail. Stop that. There was no need to type that. I'm wasting time again. Oh my god, just tell the story. SO! Last Monday morning I rolled into work assuring myself that the conference probably wasn't going to be as bad as I was expecting. I mean nothing's ever really as bad as you think it's going to be right? Well, wrong. Not 30 minutes after arriving at work (at 6:30, mind you) shenanigans were under way. As previously mentioned, the conference was full of gross, old, dirty VPs from corporate who individually breeze in and out of the office all the time but had never been there en masse before. Apparently when they get together, they like to play adorable pranks on each other. And that's cool, because I get that. Alex and I have a long-running joke of stealing each other's iphones and putting a picture of a cat penis as the wallpaper. Shit gets goofy sometimes; I get it. However, I don't really want to be involved with their shenanigans. Especially at 7 o'clock in the morning. It's an inside joke between the VPs that I make terrible coffee. Which actually doesn't offend me at all. I'm not a Starbuck's barista and between me and you, I haven't washed that coffee maker since the early days of '09, so I'd be more concerned if they did like my coffee. First thing Monday morning after I begrudgingly made a pot of coffee, Head VP of Sales came up to me all giggles and grins and hands me a cup of coffee. "HEHEHEHEE! MEGHAN! After we go into our meeting, come in, interrupt and say that you made this cup of coffee especially for Frank [VP of Government Sales.]" "Uhhh...why?" I asked. "I put four heaping tablespoons of raw coffee grinds and a shot of soy sauce I found in the fridge in there!"

Sir. I am not the Dax Shepard to your Ashton Kutcher. It is not my job to help you punk an honest to god 78-year-old man with a rancid cup of coffee at 7 o'clock in the morning. The problem, however, is that VP of Sales is Boss #1 and Boss #2's boss, so what he says pretty much goes. "Do......do......I don't.....Do I have to?" I stammered awkwardly. "THIS IS GOING TO BE A RIOT!!!!!!" VP of Sales said as he handed me the cup of coffee and scampered into the board room.

I awkwardly waited a few minutes and opened the door to the conference room. The room fell silent and 25 people looked up at me. "Meghan, can we help you?" VP of Sales, at the head podium, asked. "Yeah....I ah. I made this cup of coffee. [Sigh] And I made it especially for Frank. I guess." "Well aren't you a sweetheart!" Frank said as I ushered the coffee over to him. "Yeah. No problem." I stood there as Frank took his first sip, ready for him to spit it across the table and VP of Sales to let him in on the joke. But something even more awkward happened instead: he liked it. "Mmm, thanks again!" Frank said. I looked up at VPoS, expecting him burst into laughter, but instead, he looked back at me and matter-of-factly said, "Thank you Meghan, that will be all." HE LET THAT POOR OLD MAN DRINK THE ENTIRE CUP OF RANCID SOY GROUND WATER! I felt awful. I wanted to throw myself across the table in slow motion while shouting, "NOOOOOOOO" and whap the cup out of Frank's hand before he took another sip, but knowing where my paycheck comes from, I just said "Oh...ok" and walked out of the room like a little bitch.

An hour later, the boardroom adjourned for a quick break and Frank came up to my desk to thank me again for the coffee. Suddenly VPoS came up, grabbed Frank by the shoulders and said, "You know what was in that coffee right??" "No..." Frank said suspiciously. VPoS broke out into a fit of laughter and said, "Meghan put coffee grounds and soy sauce in there Frank! AND YOU LIKED IT!" Frank looked around, laughed a little, looked at me and said, "Meghan, did you really do that?" It was at this moment that my heart broke into 10,000 distinct little pieces. I looked up at VPoS with pleading eyes waiting for him to fess up, but he just continued cackling like a jackass. "I...I.........VPoS made me!!!!" I said pointing directly to VPoS' face. Yep. I sold that bitch out. And by bitch, I mean the man who signs my paychecks. Was it "the smartest decision"? Probably not. Do I value my job enough to take the fall for poisoning the coffee of a 78-year-old man with an Asian condiment? Definitely not. "Oh Meghan, you killjoy!" VPoS said. "We're just having some fun with you Frank! Come on, let's go get more coffee—but keep Meghan away from the soy sauce. A-HAHAHA!" The two then proceeded to walk away arm-in-arm, Frank glaring at me the entire way.

And that was Monday morning at 9 o'clock in the morning. MONDAY. MORNING. I decided then and there that the only solution to the week of problems lying ahead of me was to get fired. I put something up on my gchat status to that effect, which caught my mom's eye and in response she sent me an email that essentially said, "AWWWWW, HELL NAW." In that moment, that just wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. I felt incredibly frustrated and trapped and what I didn't need was an email saying "BLALRIGHT! Just blew up the opening of the cave! Shit's blocked with a boulder! Six more weeks of winter! BYEEEEE!" Thus, I sent her back an equally obnoxious email. Which she responded in kind with. And we're still not talking. Which is incredibly irritating and inconvenient when you're having a god awful week and you think you're coming down with a cold and you don't know if you refrigerate chicken sausage or put it in the freezer. Because what's a mom for if not times like those?

I feel like the best way to adequately discuss the heinousness of the rest of the week is to introduce you to a few of the cast of characters I was working with:

- VPoSales. I believe you remember his work from the Oriental Java Express episode. Perhaps enough said.

- Frank. VPoS seriously did irrevocable damage to my relationship with Frank. Frank used to love me. But like...grossly love me. I hate to be That Guy who's like "Oh my gawd, my co-worker's keep hitting on me, life is so HARD when you're this attractive," but I think Frank lovin' him some Meg McBlogger had little to do with my mediocre looks and more to do with the fact that he's an old business man and I'm a young woman with giant tits. I could have a bag over my head and a stutter and I think he'd still want a hand full. Prior to The Coffee Incident, Frank exclusively referred to me as "Pretty," which I was kind of into only because the Indian woman who threads my eyebrows on L street's name actually is Pretty, so it made me feel kind of exotic and talented in hair removal. Every time Frank walked by me, he would extend his long Mr. Burns-esque forefinger, bring it to the top of my head and rub it back and forth in what I called a "finger noogie" while asking "And how's Pretty doing today?" Pretty is pretty impressed at how such a small part of your body could make me feel so entirely molested, sir. And how are you?

But after Monday's Coffee Incident, he never gave me a finger noogie or called me Pretty again. This could actually be chalked up to a small win on my part, except that The Incident had some negative ramifications as well. Prior to the incident, Frank and I had a nice little unspoken agreement: I'd let him call my Pretty and occasionally grab my ass as long as he didn't tell my bosses that I was rarely on time and did as much work as a tranquilized lemur. I kind of liked this dynamic. It felt sort of delightfully retro and Mad Men-ish. But when I was 10 minutes late Tuesday morning, Frank 100% ratted me out to Boss #1. I was shocked. I had been a half an hour late before and he'd patiently wait outside for me but I'm ten minutes late after giving him one little botched cup of coffee and he sends out a press release?? I think not! You can kiss this mediocre ass goodbye, sir.

(By the way, I foresee receiving emails from you kind-hearted readers being like, "Oh silly Meg! You should have gone to HR the second anyone was inappropriate!" To that, I remind you that I work every day with a man called Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker. Political Correctness isn't exactly in this company's mission statement.)

- Matt Hill. Ugh. Jesus. Matt is the VP of Marketing and he makes me so ungodly uncomfortable I don't even know where to begin. Whenever Matt's in town, I always have iced-tea and cookies on hand because it feels like an episode of To Catch a Predator could go down at any given moment. I feel like Matt could be attractive, but he's got one of those wispy facial hair situations going on where you don't know if it's hair or dirt or a shadow of a broken dream and the only thing that you are sure of is that you're incredibly creeped out. Here's a perfect Mike story that happened at some point during the week (the days started to blend together after a while...) while I was sitting in on a meeting. I was sitting across from Mike during said meeting and towards the end, I could tell he was fiddling with something under the table. As the meeting adjourned, Mike pulled his hand out from under the table and tossed a screw from under the table at me and said (and I am in NO WAY making this up,) "There. Now I can say I've screwed you," before dramatically walking away.

Now, not only is this irritating because being sexually harassed in the workplace is always irritating, it's irritating because that screw served a purpose; namely, to hold the fucking table together. So now not only do I have to dedicate time from my busy schedule to emotionally heal from the trauma of that sentence, I also have to add "put screw back in conference table" to my agenda for the day. So thanks a lot for making my job harder, asshole.

- Young Kid. Shit if I know what his name was. I don't think we were ever formally introduced and I still don't know what his position in the company is. He's probably my age and not too horrible to look at. However, I lost interest in him completely after he came up to me and asked, "Do you know if there's an available bathroom nearby?" This question like, knocked my fucking socks off because it's the queerest way ask, "Where's the bathroom?" that I have ever heard of. Which is exactly what I told him. And I don't think he appreciated it. "Wait. Did you just ask where the bathroom was?" I asked after staring at him blankly for 20 seconds. "Um. Yeah..." he replied. "Oh. Wow. That was probably the weirdest way someone has ever asked me where the bathroom was in the history of ushering people to the bathroom. I'm almost impressed" "Oh," he deadpanned, "Well, Meghan. Where is the bathroom, then?" "......Pass the elevators and to the right." Honestly, there's a certain beauty in meeting someone, not liking them and having them not like you right back and then moving on. It's like reading the last page of a book first; it feels so wrong and yet cuts out some unnecessary effort.

- IT Guy. IT guy was my fucking JAM. I loved him. He was seriously the one person throughout the entire week who was nice to me and I'll never forget him for it. As his name implies, IT Guy is an IT Guy sent from Iowa to make sure things at the conference ran smoothly. I mean, what is there to say about IT Guy really? He's a portly gentleman, about 50-years-young who's ass broke two of our swivel chairs without a hint of remorse or embarrassment, which is the most hardcore thing I've seen in quite some time. Every morning we'd get coffee, sit at my desk and talk about macs vs. PCs and the details of his recent divorce, which I was more than up to. (So just to reiterate, when cornered by a fat person in IT who wanted to break chairs and talk about computer platforms and their divorce lawyer, I thought to myself, "Now this is a conversation that I can really sink my teeth into!" That's how dire times were.) IT Guy also warmed my heart when at a certain point he turned to me and asked, "So exactly how far away from The White House are we right now?" "Um, we are currently two blocks away," I answered. His little IT eyes widened and he said in the most heartfelt way, "Gosh. It just must be so cool to live somewhere so historic and important every single day of your life." I don't know dude. It touched me. And not in a Frank or Matt kind of way. I feel like everyone in this city (myself included) is busy being ironically detached and too cool or too connected and important to stop and be like, "Yeah. Shits kind of cool here." I literally opened my mouth to say "Meh, it gets old," realized what a giant schmuck I was about to sound like and instead said, "You know what? Yes. It is really, really cool, IT Guy." I felt good about myself until 2.2 hours later when I was back to thinking, "God, I hate this fucking city." But isn't that just the DC way?

[Ok. So that's as far as I made it last night. And I did get a snow day today! So, Becky, I will be coming over to your place to play with you and Cella shortly because if I have to hang out with myself for one more hour, I am going to go crazy.]

- Cris. Notice I'm spelling that as Cris and not Chris, as Cris was the only other female in the group. She's from the Midwest and was incredibly stuck up and demanding. I mean, I get that I was everyone's bitch for the week, but if you're going to send me out into the freezing cold at 7 o'clock in the morning to "fetch" name tags, it wouldn't kill you to say please. I thought people from the Midwest were supposed to be all nice and shit? At one point, Cris came up to me and asked if we could use a projector and move the conference to a smaller area of the studio that had better acoustics because someone in the group has a hearing problem. I set off to look for the projector and shortly discovered that Boss #1 was using it on a job site that day, so sucks to be you. I walked up to Cris, who was standing around with Young Kid, IT Guy and a few other random people and delivered this news. "BUT. BUT. BUT WE NEED THAT PROJECTOR." "Yeah. Well. Boss #1 has it so it looks like you'll have to stick with the conference room." "BUT WE NEED IT." "Tough titties ma'am. Let's all just speak slightly louder and move on." At this point IT Guy turned to me and said in a booming voice, "It's just that someone in the group has a hearing problem and it would make it easier for him if we could relocate." "SHHHHHH SHHH SHSH SHSH SH!!!!!" Cris hissed at IT Guy, "He's standing RIGHT behind us! That was so RUDE!" You could cut the tension with a knife. Everyone sort of stared at eachother awkwardly and I could tell that IT Guy was incredibly embarassed. It was clearly time for old Meg McBlogger to save the day:

"WELP! Good thing he's got a hearing problem. AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT?!" I said.

Why I thought that I, of all people, could make an awkward situation less awkward is beyond me, but I maintain that that was an incredibly funny joke. Cris, however, did not agree with me. "That was innapropriate, Meghan" she said in her obnoxious little Midwestern accent. I awkwardly shifted my eyes around and then proceeded to literally slink away back to my desk. Like, if you look up "slink away" in the dictionary, you will see an illustration of me awkwardly walking backwards and not making eye contact with anyone and trying really, really hard to dissapear.

So that, in a nutshell, was my week. It sort of blew. And then I immediatly got sick. WAMP, WAMP. But! I can only interpret how incredibly shitty (pun inteded!) the beginning of this year has been to mean that the rest of my year is going to be recockulously awesome. Right? RIGHT??!?! Because you can't just get repeatedly kicked in the groin for 12 months in a row. Right? RIGHT??!?! Right. Good. Well I'm off to do laundry and seek out people who aren't myself. If you're in DC, you should totally bring me a non-perishable item because, frankly, I'm out of food and too lazy to ski my way to Trader Joe's. KTHNX!