Don't call it a comeback.

So where have I been, huh?? Well I think the better question is, where haven't I been? (Answer: outside of my apartment or work.) But before we get into all of that, there's a certain older gentleman with a ten-gallon hat and a penchant for bourbon I think we need to check in with. It's T.G.I. Hagman, bitchez!


As of 5:21am on May 22, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And we, as a people and a nation, are better for it.

So, yes, sorry for my absence this week. I missed you all terribly and I swear I'm back and in mediocre action for good. Although let's just address this comment from yesterday's post, shall we?

Welp. Make sure you thank your anonymous friend, Chris, because you're fired. Thanks for all of your hard work this week, though. If you'd like to take a few 2b1b promotional stickers on your way out to disperse as you see fit, you're more than welcome to. Thanks kido.

Bwahaha, just kidding. You're not fired. I just deeply, deeply resent you.

So! Back to the question I'm sure you're wondering: if I was gone from the blog all week but didn't go anywhere besides my apartment or work, what the hell have I been doing? Well, a few things:

1.) Being uncharacteristically productive. Ah geez. I've been working on a shit-ton of behind-the-scenes stuff this week (for the blog and otherwise). I can't really get into specifics, but I promise everything I've been working on is something that you'll eventually find out about, so W the S out of your V.

Despite how happy I am with all I've accomplished this week, I'm fucking exhausted. I was organizing ink pads at work tonight and one of my co-workers walked by, stopped in her tracks, and with a genuinely concerned look on her face said, "WOW, you look tired." I can't really blame her though; I'd probably do the same thing if I saw myself. Because I pretty much look like Taylor Momsen:

Except instead of expressing my teen angst via metric ton of black eye makeup, I just genuinely look like shit.

I know it's irritating that I can't really tell you what I've been up to, but I can tell you that the 2b1b merch store goes live next week! Yay! You'll be able to buy all the Sorr About the Bags and t-shirts and stickers you want. And I'll be able to afford pants again. WE BOTH WIN! (Or lose?) I arbitrarily chose next Wednesday as the day for the store to open. I was going to consult Tulane Chris about it, but he didn't answer his phone when I called him tonight. He must be too busy sitting a-top his Ivory Tower of Comedy jerking off to your blog comments, or whatever people who are 50 times funnier than I'll ever be do. (Bwaha, just kidding, Chris.) (No. No, I'm not.) But Wednesday is a good day to open the store, right? It'll add some pep to the mid-week slump, huh?? Plus, it'll give you all time to cook something up for our newest blog competition—The 2b1b Merch Store Competition!

Here's the deal: we here at 2birds1blog are pervy degenerates (which hopefully is nothing new to you) so, we want to hear your best sexual misadventure. That's right, we want to hear your juicy, embarrassing, painful, zany and downright unbelievable stories about gettin' up with the get down. Too bashful to open up? Use a pen name; I don't give a shit. You think "McBlogger" is on my driver's license? Well, it is. Now don't you feel stupid?

PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES!
1st Place: Our favorite piece will be published as Thursday's blog post and its author will receive a free Sorr About the Bag tote!

2nd Place: Wins a free sticker or two, I guess, because Lord knows the taste of defeat burns as it goes down.

3rd Place: Wins a photo of Tulane Chris and I standing back-to-back in matching BFF 4LYFE! t-shirts, dramatically torn down the middle and covered in tears.

Submissions are due in my mailbox (meg@2birds1blog.com) Tuesday night (5/25) at 11pm sharp and the winner will be announced on Wednesday's blog. If you'd like some sexual mishap inspiration to get your juices a-flowin', I'll remind you of the time I had sex with someone who was allergic to the fish tranquilizer lining his "stop-coming-so-damn-fast" condom. Because that happened. And Tulane Chris (who finally called me back from the Sister Mary Be-Subtle Home for the Developmentally Disabled where he now works in penance) would like to refer to the time he finished having sex with someone and the guy rolled over, sighed heavily and said, "that was the second-best sex I've ever had." Because that also happened. Happy writing!

2.) I've been irritating myself. Seriously. That's the other thing I've been doing. All this time shut-in in my apartment being productive has taught me one thing and one thing only: I am the most irritating person on the face of the planet. I don't know how anyone hangs out with me. Real world examples:

- I met Ex Co-Blogger Chris for lunch on Tuesday and aside from rambling nonsensically a lot and just generally being cracked-out from not interacting with people in a while, I at one point picked up my empty cup of soda, reached across the table and obnoxiously shook it back and forth (thereby clanking the ice around) directly in Chris' face. Repeatedly. Being an old pro at How To Handle Meg at Her Most Obnoxious, Chris looked me in the eye and said, "stop" sternly, as if he were reprimanding a dog. And it worked. I put my cup down and only then did it sink in what I had been doing. It was like I was sipping my soda, blacked out and came-to with an empty cup of ice in my hand and an ashamed look on my face. I was like, "Wait...was I just shaking my ice in your face?? Wow. Sorry about that." Why he always forgives me is beyond me.

- Directly after lunch, I went to the bank set up an account for the merch store, which a nice young Bank of America employee helped me do.

"Hmm..." said the employee as he looked at the computer screen, "I'm trying to find a way to set up your account so you don't have to pay a monthly fee."

"Well, I certainly appreciate that," I said back to him.

"No problem. Man, it's too bad you're not in school anymore because students get free checking."

And before I knew it, the following had flown out of my mouth: "Well, [scoffs] one might say that I'm a student in the school of life." A STUDENT. IN THE SCHOOL. OF LIFE. I swear to god, I don't even recognize myself anymore. After I said it, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened my eyes back up and said, "I am so sorry that I just said that." He was like, "Ha ha...yeah...that's cool. Just keep a balance of $700 and you won't have to pay a monthly fee, OK?" And fine. Because shit—I would have paid him $700 to never mention what happened again.

- I was at work the other day explaining to a customer the difference between the two textures of white paper we sell: luxe and superfine. Luxe has a bit of a texture to it, whereas superfine is completely smooth. This person, bless their heart, could not grasp that concept. So I pulled examples of both, held one in either hand and was like, "This is textured, so it's luxe. [Holds out other hand] This is smooth, so it's superfine. Luxe. [Holds out other hand] Superfine. Luxe. [Holds other hand out] Superfine. KETCHUP. [Holds other hand out] CATSUP. KETCHUP. [Holds other hand out] CATSUP."

Now why did I do that? Not everything in life has to be a Simpsons reference, Meg. You already have one tattooed onto your person, isn't that enough? The customer was like, "WAIT, WHEN DID KETCHUP COME INTO PLAY? I THOUGHT YOU SAID THAT ONE WAS CALLED LUXE?!?!" And that's when I actually thought to myself, "God, this would be so much easier if I could embed the following video into this conversation:"


And really? Is that how far I've fallen? That I can't hold conversations with other human beings without needing to embed a video in order for them to understand me?

- Later that day, the hottest guy evs came in and started sniffing around the section of the store where I was working and he was wearing a UPenn t-shirt. Um, hello—Ex Co-Blogger Eddie just graduated from UPenn! I've spent many an debaucherous weekend at UPenn! I've contributed to UPenn blogs! UPenn graduated on Monday! It was like God plucked the man of my dreams from the heavens, wrapped him up in an ice-breaker bow and delivered him directly to my groin. But instead of going over and saying something (which, you know, is also part of my job) I ran and hid behind the place card rack. I hid. I'm like a 12-year-old boy who can't talk to his crush because he has an embarrassing boner. Except my boner is my personality. I know this might be hard to believe, but once upon a time I actually had game. I used to like, meet guys and go on dates and have sex. Now I just fantasize about one day being able to embed video into conversations. I might as well just turn in my Fallopian tubes and call it a day.

- I found a rubber stamp at work today in the half-off section that said "DON'T ASK!" in script. For the hottest of hot seconds, I was like, "HA HA, wouldn't it be funny if I stamped that on a card and wrote 'DON'T TELL!' underneath and sent it out to all of my gay friends as a goof?!" UM. Hi. No. That would not be funny. That would be mailing a nice little reminder of their struggle for equality directly into their homes. As a "goof." That would be like me mailing a card with a stamp of an oven on it to my mom and being like, "GET IT?!?! OVENS! LIKE WHAT THE NAZIS COOKED THE JEWS IN! GET IT, MOM?!?!?!" Sigh...God I'm irritating.

So that's what I've been doing for the past week. Working hard on 9,000 projects and irritating the sin out of myself. Ugh. I don't want to talk about myself anymore. Because I'm the worst. Let's get some other people in the mix, shall we? It's time for Queer Abby—our weekly advice column where Amy responds to your questions with legit advice and I ramble about Christ knows what! (QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com)

Queer Abby,

I have been close friends with a guy (we'll call him Jim) for about a year now. We hang out pretty regularly, once or twice a week, and email at work all the time. A couple weeks ago I ended a 3 year relationship with someone else. Today I was going through my emails and realized that Jim's lingo has changed a little bit. Instead of saying things like "Wanna hang out tonight?" and "Last night was frickin' bitchin'" he's saying things like "I'd like to spend some time with you" and "I really enjoyed our night out last night". Also, over the course of the last couple weeks, he has bought me dinner twice, paid for a movie and bought me quite a bit of drinks. Now, it's not unusual for us to buy each other things or pay for meals, but its usually not that frequent. He hasn't tried to kiss me or anything obvious, but knowing him, I can say that not getting any action doesn't necessarily mean anything either.

So here's my question: Am I accidentally dating Jim?

And the follow-up question: How do I end this without pointing it out, potentially making it awkward and ruining a good friendship?

Sincerely, Accidental Dude Dater

Well ADD, you’re definitely not dating. That requires mutual intent and some exchange of fluids.

All the same, you’re right—pointing it out would likely embarrass him and definitely change the dynamic between the two of you. So for now, you just need be super mindful and make sure you’re not perpetuating it in anyway. I suspect that after a 3-year relationship, you’re probably trying to fill a lot of time you’re not used to having by yourself. While he’s no doubt willing to stand in, make sure you’re not placing any of your need for companionship and attention on him. (Not placing any blame, just ensuring you’re meeting due diligence.)

Try to avoid spending more time with him than normal or entertaining any flirtation so that you’re not sending the wrong signals. By extension, stop doing anything that doesn’t send the clear message that he may as well be your brother because nothing is going to happen (assuming that’s a deal-breaker for you...shudder) For example, don’t let him pay for you—either go dutch or as he’s paying for whatever, say something like “Thanks, I’ll pay for the .” You might even try talking about other guys or setting him up with other girls.

Now, after you’ve done all of that, if his pursuits continue or escalate, then you’ll either have to stop hanging out with him or have The Conversation. Yes, it will be awkward, but it will be his own fault for leaving you with no other options.

Yeah. I don't think going haflsies on a corndog is really going to help anything if he's that hung up on you. I know this because I've been him. Well, I've been in a situation where I was hanging out one-on-one with a person of the opposite sex who sometimes picked up the tab and shit was kind of flirty but it wasn't going anywhere physical. Which obviously should have been a red flag that I needed to get a life, but when you're into someone, you're not really looking for flags. After months of being all WAIT, HE PAID FOR THAT MOVIE TICKET—DOES THAT MEAN HE'S READY TO MEET MY MOM?!??!?! I got fed up of non-dating and was like, "Hi, I have a crush on you. You trying to make this happen or what?" And he was like, "No, thank you." And now we're not friends anymore. (Hit play for full effect.)

It sucked, but I mean, at least I finally knew where I stood. So the way I see it, either this non-dating will continue and mozel tov to you, or he's going to say something and/or make a move, it's going to make things awkward and that will probably be the end of your friendship. Or at least the end of the way your friendship is now.

xoxo,



______________

Queer Abby,

I have been dating my boyfriend for the better part of three years. We'll both be graduating from college in May. He'll be moving to NYC for a year-long service position, while I'll be moving back home to Minnesota to live with my parents and work full-time. We've discussed the pros and cons of a long-distance relationship, but haven't arrived at any consensus. I'm convinced we could have a very good future together, but I'm hesitant to conduct our relationship over the phone for the next 1-2 years. Any suggestions.

Gratefully,
Dominic D.

Dear Dominic D.

When I was your age, I would have hated me for saying this…but since I’m not, I know it’s the right answer and I’m hoping it’s slightly less annoying since it’s not coming from one of your parents: You’re way too young to be trying to swing a transcontinental relationship for 2 years. And, if I’m hearing you right, you don’t even know what will happen after that 1-2 years.

LDRs are really hard even if you know you’ll definitely be together at some point before long. But add to it the uncertainty, the fact that both of you will change immeasurably over the next 2 years, and the fact that he’s going to live in Gay Boy Mecca…even if the temptation doesn’t tear you apart, the mistrust alone could.

It does sound like you guys are being very communicative and mature about it though, and I’m not saying a future together is out of the question. But the best way eff that up in the meantime is by placing unrealistic expectation on one another. So, unless you’re both so committed to a future together that you’ll start making decisions that will enable it now (which I’m not advocating either), then you really should let it breathe.

At very least, agree to see other people. You can stay in touch if you both feel you can do so honestly and comfortably. You can even hook up if you’re in the same city and neither of you are otherwise involved (these parameters are up to you two to discuss). But a year or two of being open to other options will either a) reinforce that you guys have a great future together or b) prove that there are better things out there. Either way, you’re better for knowing.

Pfft. I am the wrong girl to ask that question. I always think LTRs can work, but I think that's mostly because I've never been in one. They can't be that hard, can they? I mean the chick on L.A. Ink who looks like a cackling clown's dying nightmare was in a successful LTR with a guy who lived in Ireland? RIGHT??

I was seeing someone who I was really into when I decided to leave New York in 2008 and it was a weird because we hadn't been seeing each other long enough for me to stay for him AT ALL, but we had been dating long enough to warrant a conversation being like, "Well this sucks. This was going really well." We still talk and every now and then I'm like, "Man. I really liked that guy. A casual LTR wouldn't be that hard, would it?" I mean, he's just so damn cute. It's not fair. He looks like Seth Meyers' doppelganger to the point where it's slightly disturbing and off-putting.

I can't watch SNL without having hot and heavy flashbacks. (And I am not complaining)

So what I'm trying to say is I don't have any advice for you. Your situations sucks. I'm 0 for 2 tonight. But at least I have plans to jerk it and while watching Weekend Update clips on Hulu later?


______________

Queer Abby,

I haven't ever submitted anything to an advice columnist, but I'm a huge fan of 2b1b and since it was as easy as an e-mail, I thought I'd give it a shot.

My younger brother just started dating someone whom I am NOT a fan of. It's only been a few months, and it's not like she refuses to recycle, hates puppies, picks her nose (in public), or anything else totally despicable, I just can't put my finger on why I don't dig her. I just don't think she's a "good fit" for my brother. Anyway, I've decided to not try and "get over it" (as any good therapist would probably suggest), instead - I've decided that I should try and secretly sabotage the relationship before it gets too serious. And I'd rather do it in a way that doesn't involve me ending up looking like the asshole. Any suggestions?

Birdie M.

PS - no need to come back with "is anyone really going to be good enough for your little brother, etc." Yes, someone will be, I'm sure. I'm not looking for creme de la creme here, just a better version

Dear BM (your choice, not mine):

I can understand why this would be difficult for you to plan since everyone in your life has loved everyone you’ve ever dated... But that’s what I’m here for!

Ok, so here’s what you should do: Sit him down and say, “Brother, I’m not a huge fan. I think you can find someone better.” OR, if you think he’ll need you to spell it out for him a liiiittle more, just say “Brother, I care about you a lot but I think you’re an idiot, and I don’t trust you to make good decisions. Sooooo, I thought you might need me to tell you to let this one go... Don’t get me wrong, I want you to be happy. But don’t you think it’s a little selfish of you not to consider my happiness too?” You choose!

OR, better yet, you could just print out that last statement word for word and ask him to read it to you (sans “Brother” of course). If nothing else, that would be a great way to test the statement’s effectiveness! If it doesn’t work on you, then you’ll know for sure just to go straight to Plan B-- telling The Girlfriend your brother LOVES women with hairy arm pits.

Yeah. What Amy's trying to tell you is don't try to sabotage your brother's relationship and I'm going to have to agree with her.

I'm going to tell you a little story: When my sister started dating her now fiance, we didn't quite mesh well together. I don't think he understood that besides being Becca's little sister, I'm also one of her BFFs. So when he treated me like Becca's Token Little Sister instead of like any of her other friends, I got really uncomfortable and shut down (which really didn't help us get to know each other.) But as they got more serious, I got more serious about making sure that he got to know the real me instead of the BeCcA's LiL Sis me and as time went on, I came out of my Little Sister shell more and more and we started to become friends. And now they're getting married and he treats her like a fucking princess! I mean, can you imagine if I tried to sabotage their relationship a year ago because I didn't think we meshed perfectly? Who gives a shit if we didn't mesh? He's not dating me, he's dating her. Plus, once I changed my attitude, it turns out we mesh just fine!

I know I'm sounding slightly Smug Puggish, but dude, really. This person makes your brother happy for a reason. You either need to find it or simmer down.


OK, that was rough advice on my part for all 3, but if it makes you advice-seekers feel any better, I'm currently lying on my back with my laptop on my stomach and after I finished writing that last paragraph, I lifted the laptop in the air to pull the covers up and in doing so completely knocked the computer out of my hand and onto my face. So there's that.

Welp, that's going to do it for us here at the old 2b1b! Thank you to Tulane "People Like Me Better Than Meg" Chris for picking up my slack this week and thank you fine people for reading, forwarding to your friends, following us on Twitter, joining our facebook page and sending in your merch store competition stories! (meg@2birds1blog.com!) Have a relaxing weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning! L8rs.

My take on a 2 Birds, 1 Blog tradition

Thoughts I Couldn’t Flesh Out into Full Entries, with an Emphasis on Retardation:

The Ku Klux Klan - A bunch of adults, out in the woods, dressed in fancy robes, calling each other “wizard” and “dragon.” They have a weird, hard-to-pronounce name, get fancier robes and insignia if they advance in the ranks, and fight vast, imagined conspiracies constructed by other races with weird powers. Is there any significant difference between this and a role-playing game carried too far?

“I want to burn that church.”

“Roll for it.”

“Aw, fuck.”

“Too bad, Claude. You just get to tell your co-workers that you think Wanda Sykes is weird-looking.”

How do they threaten people? “Beware the vengeance of the Klu Kux… shit. The Ku Klux Klax. DAMMIT.”

Fetishes – It suddenly occurred to me what an enormous financial outlay fetish gear must be, especially if you want quality goods. This must put people in the awkward position of having to borrow someone else’s until they decide it’s worth the investment. Also: furry costumes have be either machine washable or brought to the cleaners. What in the world do you say? “Oh, I entertain at kids’ parties. So, yeah, there’s a protein stain on the… there are a lot of protein stains, actually.”

Bus manners, crustacean department – I’ve been trying to insert this into a post for weeks and it just won’t fit anywhere. Months ago, I was on the trolley to go to work, and a man sat down across from me with a to-go box full of steamed peel-and-eat shrimp. He proceeded to eat them, tail and all, without peeling them, just a-crunching away. Even their little scratchy legs. I texted this to Meg and she refused to believe me, and I don’t blame her.

Bus manners, silent judgment department – My new game is called “White trash or retarded?” You get on the bus, and there’s a large woman wearing dirty canvas shoes, a Tigger t-shirt, and sweat pants. Her hair is unwashed, she’s staring into space, and eating cheetos with her mouth open. When the bus gets to her stop, she wipes her hands on her pants, leaving orange tracks, and tosses the empty package aside as she goes. Nature or nurture? Faulty genes, or careless upbringing? White trash or retarded?

Unpopular prejudices – Most of the retarded people I’ve ever met have been mean and hateful and spiteful and vicious. There’s this weird myth that they’re sweet little angels who teach everyone about love, tolerance, and guardian angels, but I’ve never seen this in action. I blame the Hallmark Channel and all those movies about Families Overcoming Obstacles Through Faith. And when a retarded person is mean to you, what can you do? Push them into the mud? No, because then if someone sees you, you’re being mean to a retarded person, a sweet little angel.

But sometimes they find love – My father used to work at Area Junior College, and like all public servants, had to deal with his share of lunatics. One such was a woman named Victoria Cross, who would take random classes and then show up at the professor’s office hours and just talk about whatever came into her head. She had a retarded husband named Charles, and when they were both somewhere this is how she introduced him: “Hi, I’m Victoria Cross, and this is my husband Charles. He’s mentally retarded.” Just like that. It makes me wish she’d been my mother, just to see how she’d introduce me: “Hi, I’m Victoria Cross and this is my son, Tulane Chris. He can roll his tongue.”

Last retardation note – One day, my mother said to me, “You know, I always thought my first child would be retarded,” and then kept on talking about something else. I am her first child.

On deserts – I would rather go to Iraq than Burning Man. According to my most beloved source, “something I read somewhere once,” the founder of Burning Man bounds around all day asking people what color their urine is. I’d rather be shot at.

On vast governmental conspiracies – I think the Democrats and Republicans are in cahoots. (Yes, cahoots.) Remember the health care debate? People kept just saying words, louder and louder: Families, Americans, working families, working Americans, fairness, responsibility, families, Americans, Constitution. I think the goal is to run us all so ragged we won’t protest when they start making Soylent Green out of us, and it’s working. Sarah Palin is dangerous not because she might get elected, but because she might never be and just keep campaigning, endlessly, like the Ghost of Elections Past, and drive everyone completely insane.

Anne Heche - I hate Anne Heche. I hate every single thing about her. Her face is too pointed in some places and too soft in others, and she always has one of those scraggle-mop “piecy” haircuts. She looks like a mean little songbird, the kind that kills other birds’ eggs or impales beetles on thorns. Her acting is about on the same level as a corpse being made to twitch with an electrode. She wrote a “how I survived child abuse” book, which appalls me on a number of levels. One, she wrote a “how I survived child abuse” book. Who buys those? If you were an abused child, why compare notes, and if you weren’t, thank your lucky stars and move on. Several people, who I’m inclined to believe, also challenged the truth of her account. I can’t imagine anyone would challenge someone’s child abuse story unless they knew otherwise for sure. She also has that shifty look on her face that just makes her look dishonest. She made an ass out of Ellen, which I won’t forgive. Your first is usually embarrassing. God knows, all of mine were. Ellen had the misfortune of already being famous (and in her thirties) when she had her first, and so everyone had to watch her droll and lick and grope her way over Evil Sparrow like a dog with a badly coifed bone. ANYONE who actually cared about Ellen would have slapped her hand away and insisted she behave, but not Anne Friggin’ Heche. And then what does she do? Pulls out that grand old song and dance, “I’m Not a Lesbian, I Just Have Daddy Issues and Want Attention.” (It’s to the tune of “And the Band Played On.” You have to hurry a little, but it works.) Anne Heche only ever managed to be the poor man’s Jenna Elfman, who is herself the poor man’s Tea Leoni. I hope someone puts a rattlesnake in her purse.

The Metric System – I don’t like the size of any metric unit. Liters are fine for beverages, but they’re too small for anything else. Alcohol, ice cream, and potting soil come in gallons, dammit. Centimeters will make online interactions even less tolerable – imagine when someone tries to interest you in a “throbbing nineteen centimeters.” Kilometers don’t impress anyone: “The car broke down and I had to walk five miles” vs. “The car broke down and I had to walk eight kilometers.” Eight kilometers is farther (I think) but since everyone already thinks of kilometers as ladies’ miles, no one will care. It’s like smoking a pack of Virginia Slims or a twelve-pack of Zima. Yes, technically, it’s a good amount, but it’s measured in lame units.

Putting the HA in oral HAygiene...nope. That didn't work.

(Note to self: Stop writing blog titles at 6 o'clock in the morning when I haven't been to sleep yet. I don't even know what day it is anymore...But I do know that I can feel my T-cells and I'm stealing Internet from a neighbor named "TheSituation." ANYWAY! Hi, just to reiterate quickly: GREEN = TULANE CHRIS. Not Ex Co-Blogger Chris. From now on. Are we cool? Cool. See you all tomorrow.)

I always operate in a weird time place when I write for this blog. Since my internet access is occasional at best, I write at home in the middle of the night when I have energy, wait until I have two or three post, and then when I’m at the office I email them to Meg to place as she sees fit. So, when I say “today, I went to the dentist and it ruined my entire day,” I mean Monday, May 17th was ruined, so hopefully by the time you read this I’ll be over the dentist and pissed off about something else.

In among the tampon samples and letters from my grandmother, our mail regularly includes something called the Money Mailer, which is an overly optimistic name for an envelope full of coupons. The coupons are seldom tempting. Aside from the discount Botox I mentioned before, the coupons fall into three classes:

Our Already Low Prices – Not a coupon, but a flyer, usually for an Asian restaurant of the Empress’ Jade Garden Gate variety.

We Know You Won’t Use It – Coupons for tiny savings that most people will feel uncomfortable using. 85 cents off an oil change if you wear red on a Tuesday, etc.

…What? – Coupons for actual saving on bizarre products. An alarming percentage of these are for cosmetic procedures, especially “free evaluations.” A coupon good for one “being called ugly.” PASS.

There’s also always a coupon for Johnny Rocket’s, which I won’t visit on principle. They make those poor waiters croon. Anyway, in among this crap last time, there was also a coupon for a discounted dental cleaning. Well, yee-ha. Ordinarily I would never, ever do such a thing, but I needed my teeth cleaned. Besides, the flyer said “Holistic/Natural Dentistry,” so I thought maybe they were hippie dentists and I’d get a blog post out of it.

The front window of the dentist’s office had a carousel horse in it, and I almost turned around and went home. I don’t agree with making doctors’ offices nice for children. You sit around in a nice, cozy room, looking at fish and reading Highlights for Kids (as a child I assumed there was a Highlights for Adults and was very eager to graduate to it), and get all calm. Then, the nurse gets you and takes you back and gives you a shot or whatever, and it’s a total shock. You know how if you put fish immediately in the tank they die from the temperature shock, so you have to put them in the tank still in the bag from the store and let them acclimate? Waiting rooms should be ominous so they serve the same function as the bag and it’s not as traumatic.

I went in anyway, and got my forms. Those forms are so invasive. I don’t think they need to know my work phone number. Are they going to call in for me if I die? “This is Dr. Scrivello’s office. Chris won’t be in, ever again. We’re supposed to tell…Brendan? Brandon? Brenda, maybe? that he loves him, we thought maybe that was a work thing?” I also don’t think they need to know if I have any mental illness. If I’m sane enough to make an appointment and show up, that should be good enough for them.

I give them my forms and get called, and I go on back to the room. The first thing I see is a chart of What Might Happen if You Don’t Brush Enough. One of the options is “Surgery” and features a big old picture of an incised gum, bleeding away, just as big as life. WHY? I’m already here. I don’t need to be frightened into coming to the dentist. If they stood outside with a sandwich board and flyers, like Jehovah’s Witnesses at the bus stop, it would make a certain amount of sense – it would be awful, but it would make sense.

The hygienist tried to make small talk with me about hockey, which was a dud. For me, hockey is the low-scoring boredom of soccer, but with dressed and padded Canadian men instead of shorts-clad Brazilian men. Fail. The dentist tried to make small talk with me on account of we both have red hair, which was a dud. “Oh, you sunburn easily too?”

Prodding and scolding commenced. Yes, I know I have four years’ worth of plaque built up, which has a lot to do with not having had dental insurance for four years. Who the hell did you think would show up at the dentist’s office with a coupon? So, after showing me another diagram about what happens to your teeth, they upsold me into getting something called a “gross debridement,” which annoyed me. I’m an adult. If you need to scrape crap out of my gums with a sharp hook that squirts water, tell me. I can take it, and I think $300 should buy me a little straight talk. I would much rather hear “water-hook crap-scrape” than “gross debridement,” which my friend Kathryn said “sounded like a wedding night mishap.”

So, the hygienist is scraping away with bolt cutters and chain mail and all those damn tools, and I’m watching a generic action movie on a TV they’ve thoughtfully placed where the patients can see it. It was one of those nineties movies where Nicolas Cage is a retired dyslexic air marshal turned senator who gets caught up in a conspiracy and It Turns Out The President Is Involved, and there’s a shootout near a national monument. Shit’s blowing up, people are running…

“Does that hurt?”

“Mrrg.” Yes, it hurts, you’re scraping crap out of my gums with a hook that shoots water, but get it over with so the crap will be out of my gums.

“Yeah, this is a little inflamed. See, it’s bleeding,” and she SHOWS ME THE BLOODY HOOK.

“Mrrg.” Thank God her other hand was still in my mouth so all I could do was grunt, because I don’t know what I would have said. I’ve seen blood and I’ve seen hooks, I could have done the math myself. Surgeons don’t do this. You don’t go in for a follow-up and they slap your gall bladder on the counter like a steak on a grill and say, “Yeah, this was pretty fucked up. Here, feel this cyst.”

So, in the wake of Bloodhook, I start remembering a scary story I’d read in a collection literally two days before. A man went to the dentist who numbed his face and kept doing stuff, and eventually it turns out it wasn’t the dentist but a lunatic who horribly disfigured him while he couldn’t feel it.

“…Mrrg?”

“Actually, your teeth look pretty good.” She clearly thought I did not deserve to have teeth that looked good. She finished up, and tried to sell me mouthwash and a waterpik.

“This mouthwash is herbal. Do you like herbs?”

Do I like herbs? If I said no, I sounded like a liar – who really has a beef with herbs? – but if I said yes I’d be out $40 for Chervil/Tarragon Mouthwash. I mumbled something, and looked at the paper she was handing me, which was about how nutrition affects the teeth and gums, with a checklist of what nutrients you might need. They didn’t check any off for me, but I noticed that one option you could check was “Colon Cleanse.” Oh, I’m sorry. You think it’s possible that I am so constipated, so full of feces that it’s affecting my oral health? (This, of course, reminded me of Meg’s Colon Cleanse gift.) Is this the default assumption now? “Honestly, Tulane Chris, we don’t know what the problem is. Why don’t you go home and defecate as much as you can and see if that clears it up?” Is this just going to be happening from now on? IS the pharmacist going to stop giving me ADHD medicine and give me FiberCon instead, because “no one can concentrate with an uncleansed colon?” If I travel abroad, before reentry will I have to wait a day at the airport and cleanse my colon of any potential enemies, foreign or domestic? Are they going to redo all the old “Popeye” cartoons now, so that instead of spinach making his muscles grow it makes him have regular, satisfying, evil-thwarting bowel movements?

I went out to the front, where the dentist said, “How did your cleaning go?” I said, “Oh, it was just fine,” like an android, and then the dentist and hygienist proceeded to talk about “pocketing” and schedule me for a follow-up, which is the ultimate humiliation. Nice people don’t have to go to follow-ups at the dentist because they brush and floss and pray and sweep and cleanse their colons. I felt like I disgusted them.

Anyway. I’d love to write more but I have to brush, floss, and rinse my teeth. Then I’m going to turn off my cell phone, lock the door, and take a double dose of Colon Cleanse. By tomorrow, all my troubles will be far away – or at least in the Schuylkill River.

Announcement, some general notes and a phone call from Dad.

HEAR YE. We found a way to make the purchase of a “Sorr about the” bag even more tempting. A portion of the profits from the sale of each bag will go to starving children in Africa.

SIKE. We’re really going to set aide an amount of the profits to fund a new blog feature, “2 Birds Investigates.” Meg and Chris will be going undercover to bring you, dear reader, the scoop on some of the Eastern Seaboard’s wackiest gatherings and subcultures, filtered through a lens of snark and ethanol. Monster truck rallies! Star Trek conventions! Maybe a bondage club? We’ll be going where you never wanted to go, but always wanted a friend to go and report back. So the more bags you buy, the more hijinks we’ll get into. Coming soon.

Also, I want to say thank you to everyone who has made me feel welcome to the blog. I appreciate it. I also want to explain that I’d like to comment and interact with our readers more than I do, but I don’t have internet access at home, so I can’t do as much as I’d like. I do read and enjoy your comments, but it’s usually far enough after the fact that I doubt anyone’s still following the thread. I also have access to the chris@2birds1blog.com email now, so… you know, holla. [Editor's note: Also, clearly, Tulane Chris will now be blogging in Ex Co-Blogger Chris Green instead of purple. Is it because I'm too lazy to think of a joke that corresponds with "Meg blogs in red, Chris blogs in purple?" Yes. Yes, it is. And while we're on the subject of Tulane Chris being welcomed on the blog, miscommunication between the two of us was the reason for yesterday's No Post Monday. So kindly direct some of your hate towards him. Perhaps at chris@2birds1blog.com. K, BAI!!!!1]

Several people commented asking about the origin of Giant Camel’s nickname. He looks like a camel (light brown, big brown eyes, sad mouth), is four inches taller than me, and wears a size 16 shoe. It’s not even a story, although I now plan to invent one.

I did have a few closing remarks about the Kotex post. To the commenter who said that a tampon fits neatly in a cleavage: I’m sure it does, but Kotex’s words were “stuff a few.” Stuff. A few. I’m still seeing Hilda Clump grabbing a fistful and putting them all in one cup. It reminds me of the conversation my mother and grandmother apparently had prior to my mother going on her honeymoon in Mexico:

Grandmother: “Put your money somewhere safe, they have pickpockets. I hide mine in my bosom.”

Mom: “Oh, I put mine in my sock.”

Grandmother: “Your sock is not as safe as my bosom.”

Yet somehow, whenever I say I feel “safe as Grandmother’s bosom,” I get looks. As far as Diva Cups go, they don’t alarm me. I know a woman who uses one and swears by it. My first reaction was “that must save money,” and my next thoughts were the usual ones men have confronted with complex vaginal logistics, as in “So it just stays up there? What if she laughs really hard or has an orgasm, does it fly across the room?” We don’t have an instinct for these things, which must be why a friend emailed me a news article about a woman stealing a flash drive by hiding it in her vagina, “nature’s purse.” I would have been worried about moisture damaging it and, you know, explaining myself, but I guess she was in a hurry.

Onward and downward. I have had a shitty two weeks. A family problem came up, not a “I’m-calling-in-to-work-so-I-can-go-to-Atlantic-City” family problem but a real one. Giant Camel is gone for the summer. Finals. You know the drill. Anyway, yesterday I updated my Netflix to the five-at-a-time shut-in Super Saver plan that allows me to get a whole season of “Designing Women” at once, bought some candy, and settled in for a good, old-fashioned sulk. Then Dad called and fixed everything.

Phone rings. “The Munsters” theme song (I love my ringtone so much that sometimes I miss calls intentionally so I can hear it.)

Me: Hi.

Dad: Hey, bud. (He never calls me “bud” except when he answers the phone. It’s a thing.)

[Five minutes of generic catching up.]

Dad: So, I have news. It’s weirder than when Grandpa wanted to get married.

Me: Married to the schizophrenic, or when he tried to elope to Virginia?

Dad: Both.

Me: Oh, God, Stepsister’s not getting married, is she?

Dad: Not even close. Not even the same ballpark. Stepmother swabbed my cheek and sent it to Ancestry.com.

Me: What?

Dad: Ancestry.com has a program where you send in a cheek swab and they get DNA and try to match you with other people in their database.

Me: You just let her swab your cheek and mail it to the internet? They might clone you into killbots or organ donors. Also, why’s she so grabby with your DNA? She has a family.

Dad: She did all hers. Besides, it’s some Y-chromosome thing only men can do.

Me: Like driving and word problems?

Dad: Kind of. Anyway, this kid in Missouri popped up as a 1st-generation male-line match. I call him my “love cousin.”

Me: Don’t… don’t call anyone your love cousin.

Dad: This kid is your generation. His father was born in 1955 in Oklahoma, and was adopted by this woman, the kid’s grandmother, and they don’t know anything about his birth family. So the assumption is that this guy was fathered by someone in my father’s family, one of the three brothers. I think I know who, since it’s polite to assume it’s not one of the two ministers.

Me: Oh. Well. Uh.

Dad: The kid was very polite on the phone. He seemed to know it was going to be awkward. Here’s the punchline, though. He said his father is “very dark-skinned.”

Me: We have black cousins.

Dad: Well, I don’t know. Your cousin John is dark-skinned.

Me: No, John tans. He’s not “very dark-skinned.” We have black cousins.

Dad: Well, maybe. I’m going to ask for pictures. I’m sending them ones of me and my Dad so they can see do we look alike.

SO THERE YOU HAVE IT. My great-uncle had an… “adventure” and now I have black cousins, just like those Jefferson descendents. Here’s the best part about it: that kid is probably typing on his blog right now, “I have white cousins.” I have no idea what the etiquette for this situation is. Should we invite them down? They’re family, apparently, but we’ve never met them, so it seems kind of… abrupt to just have them down for the weekend. On the other hand, they’re our cousins, so we should. Also, no lie: I kiiiiiiiind of hope they invite us up to Missouri for a trip to Branson, America’s Ozark Wonderland. I imagine Branson as Dollywood without the grace and glory that is Dolly. Eager families pushing past each other to fill up at the buffet in time to catch a The Band cover band called “A Band” is not my idea of a great time, but my God, I would have blog material for a month. Also, does anyone remember “The Patty Duke Show” about the identical cousins, both played by a pre-drugs, pre-Lord, pre-moving-to-Idaho Patty Duke? It’s a long shot, but WHAT IF THIS KID LOOKS JUST LIKE ME? Think of the crazy stunts we could pull!

Also… what if he’s hot? I figured it out. We’re half-second-cousins (I think.) It’s not that related. We have two out of sixteen great-great-grandparents the same (I think), which is further apart than most Hapsburg or Kennedy marriages. I’m just keeping an open mind, is all. And it’s not like we’d accidentally make kids with flippers and tails. God, this just turned into a Jeff Foxworthy moment. “If you go on Ancestry.com to get dates, you might be a redneck.”

But what if they’re awful? What if they try to convert us to some weird, recent religion that Chinese people do in the park? What if they’re in a really shitty father-son Sublime tribute band? (Why are those the first two potential problems that come to mind?) How do you get rid of long-lost, ethnic family members if they suck? “It’s not the long-lost thing…and, uh, it’s not the race thing… it’s just… I’m sorry, we just can’t stand you. You clean your ears with your keys, and then clean your keys on your pants, and I’m fairly sure you peed in the houseplants. Here’s your ‘Sorr about the’ bag and a box of Thin Mints. I need you to go.”

So now it’s your turn. You knew what to do about widescreen DVDs, menstruation, and parasites as allergy relief. I turn the debate over to the loyal 2Birds Army. What do I do? What do I say? What do I wear?

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

Hi Queer Abby.

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

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

Peace

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

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

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

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

3.) Just kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


______________

Queer Abby,

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

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

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

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

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

Please help.

Anonymous

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

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

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

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

Sorry, just to confirm:

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

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



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

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


______________

Dear Queer Abby,

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

Sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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