Copping a Squat vs. The Go-Girl: A lesson in Recessionomics

2b1b reader @pdconnell tweeted me a link yesterday to a product called the "Go-Girl." What is a Go-Girl, you may ask?

"Simply put, GoGirl is the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms. It’s a female urination device (sometimes called a FUD) that allows you to urinate while standing up. It’s neat. It’s discreet. It’s hygienic.

GoGirl is easy to use. Just lower your panties, and put GoGirl against your body, forming a seal. Aim and, well, pee. Pretty simple, huh?"

I'm sorry, but I just can't get behind the Go-Girl. I don't find it Tinge-worthy, but I'm fired up nonetheless.

First let me state for the record that I have nothing against female urination devices. Because I get it. God do I get it. The Go-Girl's website says it targets athletes, outdoorsy girls, travelers, road trippers and busy moms. They forgot a large portion of their audience: The Lazy Girl. I'm not going to lie, sometimes when I'm sitting at my desk and I've downed 3-5 cups of coffee, I just don't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom. There it is. The truth. How many times have I gchatted Co-Blogger Chris and whined about how I wish I were wearing a diaper? Too many times. That's how many. In high school, my friend Jen and I invented a little product we called "Urban Diapers For the Busy Girl-on-the-Go." And by "invented," I clearly mean we just wished it were socially acceptable for capable, yet lazy 18-year-old girls to wear adult diapers, but who's keeping score? So given my distaste for getting up to go to the john, you'd think I'd be all about the Go-Girl.

You would be wrong. Here's my problem with the Go-Girl: it's trying to make a ho into a housewife. It's essentially just a fancy way to cop a squat, and that seems exorbitantly unnecessary to me. Lord knows I'm willing to spend my money on tons of shit I don't need, but urination accessories? That's where I draw the line. Let's not pretend we're not going through a Recession right now. When you're considering workin' at the local strip club to make rent every month, I think you're officially not too good to cop a squat.

However, the Go-Girl people say their product is superior to copping a squat because it allows you to "avoid the usual contortions." Excuse me? Exactly what contortions are you performing when copping a squat? This isn't Cirque du Soleil; you're literally just bending your knees and lowering your ass to the ground. I feel like that sounds way less challenging than finding a way to discreetly shove a cup down my pants to pee in.

And why do we need to class up copping a squat in the first place? Sure it's rull country, but it gets the job done in a pinch. I'm not saying if I were given the option of using a toilet or copping a squat, I'd go with the squat; I'm just saying if it aint broke, don't fix it.

It might just be the Jew in me talking, but here's what it all boils down to for me:

Free


$18.99+s&h

(And by the way, why is that last Go-Girl picture is the scariest image I've ever seen in my entire life?)

The Go-Girl people actually address the issue of frugality on their website by suggesting that instead of throwing away your used Go-Girl, you put it in the dishwasher and reuse it. Now, I fully understand that urine is sterile and dishwashers can kill bacteria and blah blah blah, but if you have me over to your house and serve me a meal on a plate that shared real estate in the dishwasher with your piss-cup, I shall excuse myself from the table, pee on your child and/or most priceless possession and promptly exit your home.

Score:
Go-Girl: 0
Copping a Squat: 1

Don't make me confiscate your vagina.

It's been a while since something has boggled my mind on par with The Snuggie, The Tinge or The Peekaru. For a minute, I thought my rants and ravings had actually made a difference in this topsy-turvy, mixed-up world. But I thought wrong. For there exists a television show that is so off-the-charts, batshit crazy to me, I am right back at square fucked. The show is on the Discovery Health channel. And it is called, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.

The title is pretty self explanatory, but in case there's any lingering confusion, "I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant is a compelling documentary special that explores the fascinating and utterly surprising phenomenon of women who were completely unaware that they were pregnant...until they went into labor!"

I am literally so overwhelmed with confusion, embarrassment and sheer mind-boggledness that I'm going to delineate the points I want to make to in order to keep myself on track. Because at any point, I might just throw in the towel on society, move to the Mojave dessert and kick it with the lizards. For lizards don't wear backwards robes and masturbate with razor blades.

- How could you honestly not know you were pregnant? Every woman has the same story: "Well there I was, fuckin' my boyfriend sans condom, as per usual, and didn't get my period for nine months straight. I didn't think nothin' bout it cause I had been jumping on my cousin's trampoline a lot that summer and she told me that could cause me to skip mah period. Then I gained a whole mess of weight, but I thought it was just because they opened a Chipotle across from my office. And yeah, a giant fetus tried to crawl it's way out of my cooter, but I thought I was just having gas pains from all that Chipotle. OH, L0LZ!!!!" At what point during those nine months did you not connect the dots between the whole fucking without a condom thing and your lack of a period? Because yes, anemia, stress, increased bicycle riding, trampoline jumping and wearing of tight hot pants are all somewhat valid reasons one might miss a period, but I would think the raw dick shooting sperm square into your vagina might be the #1 suspect.

- The show's website describes this as a "phenomenon." A PHENOMENON. Aurora Borealis; that is a phenomenon. Gravitation is a phenomenon. Arctic cyclones are a phenomenon. Hillbillies having unprotected sex and not realizing they're knocked up? That is stupidity. There is a slight difference between the two.

- My favorite moment of any given episode is when the women recall going into labor. At this point, they all still have no idea they're pregnant and assume it's either bad menstrual cramping or gas. I get that. If I had a swizzle stick for a brain, I'd probably assume I had gas as well. The best, however, is when they don't realize they're pregnant UNTIL THE BABY CROWNS. Yes. It literally takes a human head exiting their vagina to turn on the light bulb that says, "Oh wait! I might be pregnant! This explains those arid nine months after I had unprotected sex, the weight gain, the back pain, the swollen ankles and the past eight hours of excruciating abdominal cramps! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!"

- How do these children not come out with a few extra legs or an arm in the middle of their forehead? You know these women are smoking packs of Marlboro Lights and enjoying a Busch Light or twelve at night. Shit, I cringe at the thought of what I inhale and drink in a nine month period. If I were to unknowingly have a baby today, it would come out looking like a god damn Cubist painting. I don't know why these women always look so happy to see their perfectly healthy surprise babies. I would take one good look at mine and think it was the work of the devil for surviving that 9-month pickling.

Maybe the reason I'm so mind-boggled by all of this is because I am the anti-IDKIWP. I'm the kind of girl who shakes a guys hand and runs to CVS to get a liter of Gatorade and a pregnancy test. Seriously. Every single time I have sex with someone, I convince myself I'm pregnant. Even after I get my period. And use condoms. And take birth control. It's completely unhealthy. I should go to Costco and buy pregnancy tests in bulk and save myself a lot of time and money. But frankly, I would rather single handedly keep Clear Blue in business than be the woman who assumes she's got gas until she pisses out a baby at work.

Plus, if your period goes missing, wouldn't you rather take a simple test and know you're not pregnant for sure, for sure? No matter how hardcore you convince yourself you have a super light flow because of all that line dancing you did, it's got to linger somewhere in the back of your mind that you might be pregnant. That suspense would kill me. Last May I convinced myself I was pregnant. Normally I would just jog to the local convenience store, pick up a pregnancy test and get some reassurance for my neurotic little mind, but I was in Tuscany on a family vacation. And let me tell you, I couldn't find a single pregnancy test in that whole god-fearing countryside. There I was in the most gorgeous place I'd ever been, staying in a villa surrounded by my family, but I couldn't enjoy one minute of it because I was so preoccupied wondering if I was pregnant. I honest-to-God had a dream about wire hangers one night.

Finally, we took a day trip to Florence. I figured plenty of American college students study abroad there, so there had to be at least one pharmacy who carried pregnancy tests. I snuck away from my family and headed for the first pharmacy I saw. Now, keep in mind I don't speak a lick of Italian. After wandering the store for 20 minutes I had two boxes in my hand: one was an enema and one was a pregnancy test. The problem was, I wasn't 100% sure which one was which. In the end, I decided to get them both, just to be sure. As I walked back to find my family with my newly purchased Italian enema and pregnancy test, I got my period.

I still have the enema and pregnancy test in my bathroom to remind myself what a fucking idiot I am. Best. Souvenir. Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait...Kelly Bensimon is a what now?

When I get stressed out or overwhelmed by life, I Wikipedia things. Wikipedia-ing is a very therapeutic act for me, I don't really know how to explain it. Looking for a little Zen this morning, I decided to Wikipedia The Real Housewives of New York City. The following, from Kelly Bensimon's bio, caught my eye:





...Wait...what now? Kelly Bensimon is an aspiring carpet cleaner? Why is that the funniest sentence I've ever read in my entire life? Specifically that she's not just a carpet cleaner, she's an aspiring carpet cleaner.

I'm slightly confused though...is Kelly Bensimon really an aspiring carpet cleaner? And what exactly does that mean? My first theory was that maybe she's coming out with a special line of Kelly Bensimon Carpet Cleaner. Lord knows those bitches are hawking everything else under the sun, it wouldn't be that odd for one of them to have their own brand of carpet cleanser. However, a google search for "Kelly Bensimon" and "carpet cleaner" yielded nothing helpful.

So then I moved on to Urban Dictionary.

Carpet Cleaner:
From "Dick McPlenty:" While banging a girl doggy style, tie her arms behind her back, lift up her hips, and run around the room pushing her face first across the carpet. Not recommended with large women.
i.e. she shur is one helluva good carpet cleaner

I'm going to choose to go with Dick McPlenty on this one and believe that Kelly Bensimon enjoys having her arms tied behind her back as she's gettin' hit from behind and pushed around the room like a vacuum cleaner. In the most amateur way possible.



God bless Wikipedia.

BONUS!

Just because the gang here at 2b1b loves you so much (and by you, I clearly mean drinking) we thought we'd give you a bonus DGF. In honor of this weekend being Pride, I give you Tulane Chris' Gay Pride Drinking Game!


You can bypass all the following rules and just sip when you see a shirtless man. This is a variation called "Suicide by Alcohol Poisoning."

Drink when:
- You ask yourself "Is this person a lesbian or a thirteen-year-old boy?"

- A gay parent brings their kid to Make A Statement about how Gay People Are Good Parents and then has to shepherd them away from booze and almost-naked leather daddies all day.

- Some company puts a rainbow and their logo on a banner/cup/keychain/little twinky guy to make you think that Budweiser/ Ikea / Chili's / Amalgamated Consolidated cares about gays.

(- Throw a Molotov cocktail for each company that does this in lieu of offering partner benefits.)

- You hear a couple bickering about if one of them is checking other people out.

- You catch yourself wondering about the logistics of being a tranny or drag queen - where do you find size 14 chartreuse heels, is it expensive to have wigs washed and styled, etc.

- The entertainment lineup goes like this:
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Loretta Swit
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band

- Every time you hear a fag hag say something about loving gay men.

- Drink twice if she's homely. (She will be.)

- Every time someone bitches about how some OTHER city's pride is SO much better / worse than the one here.

- Every time you notice that some guy shaved his whole body three days ago, so now he has chest stubble.

- Drink in honor of the little twinks who went on "Pride diets" and starved themselves for six days, started drinking at 7 am, and were asleep in their own vomit by 8:30.

- Drink for every reference to Proposition 8, twice if you don't even LIVE in California, and three times for every crappy pun like "Prop H8."

- DRINK BECAUSE LIZA WON A TONY

- Drink when there's a grudging reference to AIDS, which though a serious issue is a total buzzkill.

If you're living in a major American city, enjoy your incredibly fagalicious weekend!

TGIDF!

Gimme a D! D! (You got your D! You got your D!)
Gimme an R! R! (You got your R! You got your R!)
Gimme an I! I! (You got your I! You got your I!)
Gimme an N! N! (You got your N! You go your N!)

...Ok, fuck that. I'm just irritating myself at this point, so I'll stop. The moral of the story is it's Drinking Game Friday and I am PSYCHED! Like psyched enough to start a cheer, psyched. (But not psyched enough to finish that cheer. I mean, I love DGF, but I'm not in love with it.)

I would like to share with you a series of emails that Alex and I exchanged yesterday. Please keep in mind that we both went to an extremely expensive college and graduated with honors. Thank you.

From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: none
I love the phrase "put the moves on." As in, did he put the moves on you?

From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: none
I would literally allow my stapler to put the moves on me.

From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: re: none
HAHAHAHA! I'm so putting the moves on you the next time I see you.

From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: none


From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: none
o0o00OOOoo0o0o0o...That stapler is getting fresh with you, sir.

From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: My stapler is already involved


From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: My stapler is already involved


From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: SPENT


Via gchat

Alex: I was just lol-ing and everyone in my office kept asking me what was up
but I couldn't tell them
"oh my friend meg and I are exchanging semi-erotic pictures of staplers"
me: HAHAHA!
why not? it's completely normal.
alex, do you ever stop and think, "i went to college....for this?"
Alex: that's a point of pride
$40,000 a year
for this.

Oh office antics. They get us through the work day and keep us sane, bless their heart. Anna and I used to have "Fax Fridays" where we would try to out-fax each other something ridiculous. One time I simply scanned my middle finger and faxed it over to her. In Congress. ...

There's only one show that adequately displays the art and craft of office antics. That's right! Iron your khakis, reload your stapler and practice your best courtesy laugh—it's time for The Office Drinking Game! (American version)


Rules:
Drink When:
- Anyone says "Dunder Mifflin"
- Anyone says "That's what she said"
- Anyone says "question" before asking a question
- Anyone says "Vance Refrigeration"
- Pam says "This is Pam"
- Pam says "Okay"
- Dwight says he's "assistant regional manager"
- Michael says "comedy" or "comedian"
- Michael says "Orfice"
- Kelly mentions a celebrity
- Andy calls Jim "Big Tuna "
- Jim looks into the camera when not doing an interview
- Andy and Dwight fight/argue/try to get on Michael's good side
- Dwight's Bubble Head Doll is seen.
- A Dundie is seen.
- Angela and Dwight have a conversation with their backs to each other
- Jim plays a prank on Dwight
- The party planning committee has a meeting
- Meredith's alcoholism is implied or expressed

As per always, thank you so much for reading, passing the blog along, joining our facebook page, following us on twitter and harassing me to get off my fat ass and oink my way to the gym. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning. Loveyoumeanitbyeeee!

Meg & Chris Play MASH

Ah, yes. Here we are. Just another glorious day in the office. But today isn't just any other day, today is Co-Blogger Chris' birthday! He's graced this earth for 24 glorious years now, and good for him for making it this far (because Lord knows I remember a New Years Eve when a belligerently drunk Chris wiggled his way out of my talons and disappeared down a dark Brooklyn street and I thought, "Welp, that's the end of that kid. Guess we'll find him floating in the East River sometime in the next week or so.")

I thought it might be fun to play a good old fashioned game of MASH with Chris to see what year #24 has in store. (Plus we're both bored as fuck and MASH is L0LZ, but that goes without saying. Also, true or false: I frequently play MASH solo using this website?......True.)

CHRIS' FUTURE

M A S H

Job:
Doctor
Psychologist
Scientist
Payless Sales Associate

# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
0
1
2
489,628,300

# of Condescending Bosses You Have:
0
0, but your co-workers are assholes
1
489,628,300

Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:
Matt
Corinne
Meg
Ramona from The Real Housewives of New York City

Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:
Amazing
Satisfying
Exhausting
Questionable

# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:
6
8
10
0

# of AIDS scares:
0
1
2
69

Husband:
Matt
Jake Gyllenhaal
Cat Deeley
Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire

# of Kids:
2
3
4
1/2

Car:
Prius
Lexus
Jeep
Segway

Chris:
You will become a scientist, a job which you had to write 489,628,300 cover letters to get. At your job, you have 0 condescending bosses, but all of your coworkers are assholes. You spend your days talking with me on gchat, it takes you 6 beers to get drunk and you have an exhausting sex life. You have 1 AIDS scare before you quit dipping your wick in anything that moves and settle down in a nice little shack with your husband—Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire. Together, you have half a child whom you shuttle around in a nice American made Jeep. FIN.

And for good Measure...

MEG'S FUTURE

M A S H

Job:
Trophy Wife
Mattress Tester
Graphic Designer
Fluffer

# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
0
1

2
68 and 1 headshot

# of Condesending Bosses You Have:
0

0, but he's a sexual harrasser
1
3 and none of them know your name and treat you like a slave

Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:

Chris
Alex
Anna
Every awkward hookup you've ever had

Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:

AWESOME
Colorful
Satisfying
Perverse

# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:

5
6
8
1 sip of O'Douls

# of AIDS scares:
0
1
2

0 but you have the clap

Husband:
Cat Deeley
Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista
Michael Showalter
Craig T. Nelson

# of Kids:
1
2
3
18 and a real loose vagina

Car:
Jeep
Lexus
Prius
Huffy

Meg:
After trolling for several years on craigslist, you finally managed to land your dream job as a trophy wife after sending out only 2 cover letters. This job has all the perks including a mansion which you call home, 2 beautiful children, and your loving husband Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista. You have 0 condescending bosses, but he is a sexual harasser, but it's cool because he's your husby. When you aren't being inappropriately groped, you spend all day on gchat chatting with every awkward hookup you've ever had and unfortunately, HCCB only lets you drive a huffy when you leave the house. After 8 beers, you start to feel a bit tipsy, so you and HCCB go up to the bedroom for some of your satisfying sex life, which was marred only slightly by 2 AIDS scares throughout your life.

My MASH life is infinately better than my real life will ever be. (Minus the AIDS scares.)